𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 ﾐ 𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚊𝚗𝚊

𝖎𝖎𝖎

a/n: sorry y'all its gonna be finals week so this is short and i'm gonna dip for a bit.

𝖄OU WAKE AT DAWN.

Your eyes are heavy. The woman from yesterday peers in, her face sheepish. "Good morning to you, my lady." You start at the greeting, but do not show your surprise to her.

"Good morning to you as well."

"Are you feeling better today?" You nod slowly, and her smile grows in approval. Then, it falls. Your lips—still smeared with pigments—pull down into a frown of confusion. "Our lord requests you." You frown even deeper. Already? It has only been a night since he last asked of you and he had been more than happy to kick you out of his chambers last time. However, to refuse him is death. A piece of emotion is sharply tugged from the knot of it that sits in your stomach: resentment. It is sharp and painful, so it is more like a blade than a string.

"Let me get ready and I will be there," you say slowly. "By the way, what is your name?"

"Oh," she smiles sheepishly. "I never gave it to you, did I? My apologies. Akame."

"Akame." You test the name, the way it feels, on your tongue. It is not bad, slightly foreign sounding, however. Then again, the high court names often sound foreign to you. "Thank you, for your kindness," you say to her earnestly.

"Of course. It is what is expected of me. Feel free to use anything while getting ready." Your smile freezes on your face, and you chastise yourself for still being naive. Of course she was comforting you to be perceived as kind. Not because she actually wanted to. (Had she wanted to?) It is what is expected of her.

"Still," you say. "Thank you."

You focus on making yourself presentable. In this room, there are plenty of things: combs, several shades of pigment, blush, powders. You look at them hesitantly. There are no personal belongings in here. Does someone even stay here?

You know that Akame has asked you to use the things here, but still feels odd to do so. The pigments, at least, look new. You crack open a container and dab the contents on your lips, giving your lips a pouty look that Sukuna—and the majority of the higher-ups—apparently appreciate. You tear a brush through your hair, the handle worn.

This is infuriating. You wish to do nothing but rot on the mats, but does Sukuna not have other concubines? Are Chiyo and Akame concubines? Or the remnants of the previous family's court? You cannot even recall who used to rule over Kyoto; it feels like an eternity since he has ascended to power. You wince as the bristles of the brush catch on a knot. You throw the comb down at your feet, angry tears burning on your face. (Haven't you cried enough? It's pathetic.) 

Fucking bastard. You hate him. You hate him so much. (You fear him and you loathe him and you want nothing more for him to die.) You grip your shoulder, scowling, your chest heaving with shaky breaths. Get it together. Get it together, or he will kill you. And so, you reach down and pick up the brush, raking it harshly through your hair. 

(When it catches on knots, you do not wince.)

You hurry, arranging your hair into a presentable style and standing up, refusing to stay still. If you do, you will process, and you cannot do that right now. After your time with him, you will have plenty of time to sob and scream and go mad. Right now, however, you must repress it, just like how you have always been doing. Your footsteps are muted as you walk out of the room. There is enough on your plate, emotionally, and you do not wish to add a serving of Sukuna's wrath with it.

You barely avoid bumping into other women. When you realize that you, in fact, cannot walk all the way to the imperial palace without directions, you sigh loudly and turn around. Your walk of shame back to the tall building is quiet, and you eventually find someone willing to give you directions.

Armed with said directions, you walk back to the imperial palace. Surely, he'll be angry because it has been a good five minutes since he has called for you. You walk briskly through the palace, feeling the looks of the court heavy on your skin. It is expected. You are a new face, and new faces are rare in Sukuna's court. They all know that you are about to have your entire internal system rearranged by him, so they do not murmur as you walk by.

It is not fair, you think bitterly.

Here, the high court watches you like a fox. (The only thing watching your family is the vulture.) Sukuna enjoys this pristine court to rule for him while he simply goes out and kills and loots and pillages simply for his enjoyment. For his joy that he is strong. Truly unfair. You push the thoughts aside, because now is not really the time, and walk up the infuriating stairs. There are four sets, and by the third, your legs burn. You scowl and persist.

That's all you can really do at this point.

Scowl and persist, scowl and persist, on and on until he tires of you and kills you. 

You stop at the wooden door, hesitating to slide it open. It will be fine. You shall hold back your resentment of him and it shall be fine. The door creaks as you slide it open, bit by bit.

It shall be fine.

Ryōmen Sukuna stands, his face unreadable.

"It took you quite a bit of time to get here, brat. Sit down." You obediently sit on the bed, tewing silently, and he walks until he is right in front of you. The string of jade beads around his neck hangs in your face as he leans in, and your heart pounds wildly. His finger traces the curve of your jawline, and it is the knowledge that you loathe it that makes him grin. His sharp canines show and you swallow nervously.

You really loathe this man. And although you wish to say something, you also wish to stay alive. Hence, you shut up and sit there, letting hands that are stained with so much blood  touch you. You try hiding your disdain. When he realizes it, however, he pushes you down onto the bed, pinning you against the stack of mats. The warmth of his body angers you further, and you cannot stop your brow from pinching as his tongue drags along the length of your neck and his lips move to your ear. He bites the lobe harshly, and you gasp at the sharp stab of pain, turning away. He grabs your jaw.

"Speak your mind, whore," he rumbles into your ear. "Tell me."