sanismri

You know better than to respond; it's been beaten into you like the very aspect of respect, lingering like the jewels from your ears, just enough to weigh you down. So, you shiver, knees pressed together under the keyboard, hardly any strength left in your socked feet to push the sustaining pedal to the floor. Still, he leans against the action frame, breathing slowly, dress shirt unbuttoned just enough for his plaid tie to hang, forgotten about and loose after a long morning of tea and cigarettes.

The windows are open, letting in the whisper of mid-August in racing breezes and the overwhelmingly sticky humidity that clings to the lace curtains, weighing them down, then blowing them clean. You swallow against the whistle as it flows through the room, fingers pressing the keys into the instrument with the delicacy you know you can give — for some reason, your mind just isn't connecting to the music today. You're distracted, painfully so.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," you whisper, unsure where you stand, slowing down on the keys as you start the exercise over, breath piquing a bit hotter this time around. Your heart sinks when he shifts, soft leather shoes rubbing together as he stands up straight.

"Start over." He demands, and it's simple enough — not friendly or as gracious as he's been all week. In fact, Mr. Higuruma is quite tense. You can see it in the hard veins in his forearm, shifting as he clutches the baton in his grip. He's standing over the keys now, looking down over your shoulder, dark hair falling from its gelled back grip. You can hear him swallow behind you, and how his lips part when he slides his dark-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose.

You don't want to start over; the shake in your fingers is growing unbearable now that he's staring you down like prey. Your core is trembling, panties as humid as the August summer outside of those windows, as you press the beginning notes. At first, he nods you through it, letting you set your own time, though you're shaking like a leaf. His fingers flex and itch at the baton, squinting under his dark-framed glasses when you finally hit that first sour note halfway through the scale.

"That's the fifth one." He corrects — fast and sharp, he whips the hard wood baton over your trembling fingers, withdrawing as you yelp. Snatching your knuckles away from the keys, you can feel the humiliation of the tears as they start to burn. You swallow them back with a whimper, "The fifth time you have gotten this scale wrong. Will you continue to waste my time, or will you have some respect?"

"I jus— I didn't s-sleep well last night." Lie. A fucking lie. You couldn't sleep at all. Still, you would never tell him that it's because of the obvious — you stayed up, a shaking hand between your thighs as you massaged your clit to images of his huge hands scaling the keys just hours prior. He does something to you, and it's unsaid and so primal that you can't focus on anything else… ever. Not while you're with him alone like this, watching as he slumps into his study at night with his nose in a book, totally ignoring your existence until you're at his stool, back as straight as a pin.

You only have a week before your audition for the post-grad art program of your dreams — a shiny little headway to get your foot in the industry, so you can play to thousands and have a comfortable life in a city you can't afford yet. Your parents need this for you; it's why they're paying for this excursion—an academic bootcamp, Mr. Higuruma coined it as. It's only the two of you in this secluded beachside manor, soaked by Summer and the caw of seagulls, and you were starting to feel it.

You wonder if he notices — when you circle your hips against the authentic leather, desperate for the pressure your underwear gives when you move just right. It feeds on the singing pain in your reddened knuckles, bruised over just slightly from the two slaps you earned yesterday. Since he started this new avenue of punishment, you've been falling deeper and deeper, and you're not sure you want to know why.

As you ponder it, gulping softly as you start over, the lapse of attention makes you hit the wrong key. Mr. Higuruma tenses as soon as it hits. "Six." He deadpans, moving the baton to his right hand. He smacks it over your knuckles, again — harder this time. So hard that the burning in your eyes turns into welling tears. Your hands shake with nerves and pain — skin bloomed red.

"I-I-I—

"Don't speak, just start over."

"Ye-yes, sir…"

So, one more time — you roll through the first six notes in cascading ease, swallowing down thickness every few seconds, now that you're thinking too hard about it. You know that if he didn't hover, you'd be able to nail out this scale and the four others he had you memorize with your eyes closed. But, the second he shifts — crossing his socked ankles against his corduroy trousers, you tense, and your finger slips over a flat. Your heart drops.

Before he can scar your knuckles again, you turn to look up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, heart racing as his dark gaze flickers down to you like he's a robot. You go to stand up, to run for cover, and blame it on your time of the month, if not the severe lack of sleep, but something stops you. It's his dark glare, burning like embers, and stunning you still and silent.

A few moments tick by — he stares at you, and you stare right back up at him, heart in your ass, core buzzing, and touch-starved. You swallow… again.

"Seven." He recites like it's the date of your reckoning. You wish it truly was, maybe then, you'd be free of the silent, easy wrath he hands out in avoidance and disapproving glares. You know that when he doesn't hit you, he's serious. It's the final nail in your coffin.

You don't speak — don't even attempt to apologize, because it wouldn't work. The crook in his brow tells you enough, but you're blind to it. You can't even blink.

"Stand up for me," He purrs, voice so low and calculated that it feels like he's actually okay with you and with this nonsense that he's ridding his afternoon to.

So, you don't make him wait. Your knees tremble as you stand, the bench creaking against the wooden floor as you keep balance with two hands pressed to the base of the keyboard. Your small skirt rides up, sticking to the perspiration on the back of your thighs. Unbeknownst to you, and much to your dismay, as you stand, a wet spot right where your core sat shines in the natural light, staining his chair and staining any sort of pride you once thought you had.

You don't notice, but Mr. Higuruma does.

Oh, he notices right away.

He doesn't speak… No, he lets the tension marinate and twist into the air, carried by the wind like the old dust particles that you have to blink from your eyes. Mr. Higuruma flickers to your shaking hands, still lounging easily on the side of the baby grand, shaking his head softly.

"Looks like you made a mess." He finally whispers, lips rolling under his teeth as he stands up straight. Like you're being interrogated, you keep your hands where he can see them, holding your breath as your stomach falls through your ass, lips parted as you start to hyperventilate at the ghost of him.

You go to turn around — to try and see if you were wrong, praying your body betrayed you with blood instead of arousal, but as you go to investigate the scene, Mr. Higuruma stops you.

"Did you… have an accident?"

"N-No—

"Hm," He mutters, head cocked to the side as he lowers the baton to your dark skirt, teasing the end of it against the flowing fabric. You gasp as soon as you feel it, knees rocking together as another flood of warmth kisses your thighs — bleeding through your panties. "Then, are you… aroused?"

The word hits like a gut-punch. You can't believe such obscenities could slip from his lips so easily, like he's reciting a prayer to you. "What?"

Mr. Higuruma chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up before completely fading by the wayside like he was never amused. "Don't sound so shocked… Look at the mess you've made."

As you go to dip your head and rake over the damning evidence to your mind-numbing desire, he stops you… again. This time, it's the delicate trace of his baton sneaking under your skirt, just enough to get leverage to show you off. He smiles, bending his neck so he can watch your tight, lace panties peek into view.

You're naked for him — on fire, and too nervous to beg for the touch you know you need to get your head back in the game. Something comes over you. It's a need, not just a want. "Please…"

Mr. Higuruma hums again, pursing his lips as he crosses behind you. His footfalls are calculated and precise, clicking against hard flooring and stopping right at the bench, keeping you two apart. You swallow again, then let your head hang between your shoulders, as you've finally been overcome.

"Is this why you have been so distracted today?" He offers, using the polished tip of his shoe to drag the bench away. It scrapes against the floor with a vengeance, filling your head with hot air, and Mr. Higuruma's with restlessness.

You want to lie and blame it on the weather — it's fucking hot, but not hot enough to leave a pool of slick on his leather. Your tutor is not stupid and has certainly faced a few aching women in his days. You think it's the glasses, or maybe the hunched demeanor that carries so much wisdom that you could spend hours farming and chipping away at it, yet still not crack the surface of his overwhelming ease.

"Poor baby…" He scrunches his face in a little sniff, cheeks hollowing as his dark gaze plots on your taut ass, showing itself just under the crumpled fabric. He knows you're bound to attest, so he beats you to it — with a smack of the baton against your upper thighs. You jump, a hand flying up to cover the whining moan that dares tumble from your lips.

You know how wrong this is, and how your relationship with him will never be the same, but you're willing to risk it all. Your eyes slip shut, heart pounding as the sharp pain on your thighs mellows out into something… satisfying. It's impossible to bite down a smile, but you have to.

"Hm?" He tries again, pushing his glasses further over his crooked nose, lips twitching and pursing around his inner thoughts as the baton reaches further up your skirt. He catches the fabric on the very end, teasing it and himself as the baton lifts it up slowly — so slow, he's starting to drive himself crazy. "If I help you with your little… problem, surely we can get today's lesson plan finished within the hour, right?" He's not asking, hardly giving you a choice. You can either nod and feel him in a way so intimate that you'd be damned for the rest of your life, or you can shyly turn away and pretend like this never happened.

You chose the former.

"I'll d-do my best."

"Good girl," he offers as a testament to his quickly dwindling patience. Like you're welcoming him into open arms, he closes the space between the two of you, getting a better angle to push his baton up your skirt. It pokes between your thighs, forcing you to bend at the hips, hands fumbling over the keys. A sour note punches from the piano, and you jump, making him chase that sweet heat between your thighs.

"Ah, ah…" He clicks, breath hot against your ear as his back presses into you. He's tall and so brooding, making you feel tiny, yet so powerful to have garnered his attention like this. You can't help but let a smile grace your features, especially when he gets so close that you can feel the hardened bulge against his brown pants, digging against his belt, and pressing into the back of your thigh. "Hands off the keys. Put them over the fall board, now."

"Yes, sir." You whisper, nerves fizzled out by the excitement pooling in your veins. The feeling of being wanted is like a drug, and being wanted by him is the high. Always someone so casually domineering — someone you're terrified of disappointing, wants you.

Scratch that — he needs you.

Mr. Higuruma makes it no stranger, but he's quick to keep himself in line, even as sweat begins to bead at his dark brows. His gaze flickers up as your shaking hands plant in the spot he ordered you to place them, nodding with a satisfied hum. He takes a handful of steps back, then it feels like you're exposed to the entire world, even though you're fully clothed.

"The way you reacted when I hit you…" He starts like you're the lesson he's invested in. Mr. Higuruma likes the idea of studying you — he has let himself ponder on it before. He likes the way you hold yourself, and he's endlessly respectful of your talent and hard work. He just doesn't know what has gotten into you, but he thinks he knows, now. "Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

"It hurt."

"Oh, yes, I know." You can hear his lips form the words, sticky and wet in his mouth, before offering them to you. "But that is not what I asked… Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

You're on fire, sizzling like a sinner in front of a congregation as you squeeze your eyes shut. You know you can't hide it anymore — he has the proof painted on leather, and a prize just inches away. It feels like a crime when you nod, slowly at first, letting your own body come to terms with this anxious new feeling that kinda reminds you of soul-sucking arousal.

"Please do it again." You whisper, trying on your own need for size. It sits in the air for a second, twisting and turning like invisible notes when you fondle your keyboard.

"Where?"

"M-my… m-m, m—m-my—

"Your…" He starts like he always has the tendency to, the baton snaking back between your thighs, catching your skirt as he traces the seam of your panties against the gathered flesh. He steps back, and it's sudden, but not enough to make you want. Just as you go to turn around, the baton withdraws, then a painfully piercing slap falls across your ass, making you jump with a surprised yelp. "Ass? Or… what about," he pauses again, his tongue running over his top lip as the baton trails down your thighs, swatting at your thighs until you peel them apart. "That messy snatch between your thighs? D'you think she wants it?"

Mr. Higuruma's words kill. They're lewd and unfamiliar in his professional tone of voice, but fuck, you're dripping down your thighs. It's like you're being electrocuted as the poking end of his stick presses against your sticky folds. It's a deep, overwhelming feeling that you can't think about, or else you'd be digging a grave.

"Hm? Yes or no?"

"Y-yes, that." You squeak, face so tight and tense from holding your breath like you're drowning.

"Say it."

"M-my—

He slaps you, raining that stick over the sensitive meat on your thighs. You jump and startle, rising to your tiptoes, running away from his hold, only for him to step closer, forcing a knee between your thighs to pry them open. He's so close, so hot with his head tucked against your shoulder, glasses fogged with how wet you are. "That clammy little thing?" He moans, placing that first kiss right at the base of your jaw, grinding haphazardly into your leg. "Tell me… that it's mine."

"It's yours! I'm all yours," You whine, hips bucking back into him. Mr. Higuruma tosses his baton over the keyboard, finding more use in his hands when he reaches for his belt and pulls it off with a fervor usually so lost on him.

Wet bodies, sticking together with perspiration — it's uncomfortable. The air reeks of sex and heat against weathered wood, ripe with seawater. Your tutor doesn't give you grace, let alone any form of mercy or understanding, as he grunts in your ear. "That pussy is mine. Say it."

"My pussy is yours. M—Mr. Higu—guruma."

"Oh…" He pushes you deeper into the keys, guiding your knee up and over the board. The pressure gives weight to scattered, jumbled piano notes, startling you further as they pierce the air. "Oh, yes, she is. Always has been, just didn't know it yet." He grunts, loosening his tie just enough to pop those next few buttons on his shirt free. His chest, soft with tufts of dark hair, comes into view, and your mouth goes dry as you regard him with a hurried peek over your shoulder.

You tremble and twitch, fingers bearing claws into the polished wood of the piano, leg squivering and hips aching at the uncomfortable stretch — leaving it all on the line for him to take, focusing air in and out of your lungs manually. When he touches you with thick fingertips, he starts at the soft fabric of your underwear, not giving you space to react as he tugs them off in a few, steady tugs. You gasp, peeking behind you again, just to turn around and whine when you see his reflection.

Bloodshot eyes — low and heavy under his glasses. It looks like he's slept a combined two hours in the last twenty days, but something about it feels so right. The blush that's spanning across his freckled chest, rising and falling angrily as your sopping cunt leaves a trail from your soaked panties, all the way to his nose.

Bringing the fabric to his face, Mr. Higuruma doesn't falter for a second. He takes a lungful of your essence, groaning deep in his chest as the sinful smell of your arousal seeps down his sinuses and onto his tongue. He's swallowing down traces of you, mouth watering as he breathes you in like he's trying to suffocate in it.

You press your forehead to the cool piano, trying to steady your breath so you don't faint from nerves and want. It's hard enough to stand as-is when you have a hold on your mind, but now it's so much worse. You feel like you're losing your mind.

"Come on, please, I can take it."

"You've been holding back on me." He grunts in response, biting down on your panties so he can keep one hand pressed into your hips, and the other back to his trousers, shoving his buckle out of the way, yanking the gold-plated zipper to its ruin. "Is it distraction? Am I not challenging you thoroughly?" He grunts against closed teeth, the cotton muffling his words.

He picks the worst times to try and make conversation, because you're losing your mind — foaming at the mouth and writhing in your spot as he yanks his pants down. You want so badly to turn around and watch as he pulls his cock from the tight confines he's kept it in for what feels like hours, but you hold back.

Mr. Higuruma tenses and hisses when the scratching friction of his underwear rubs just right, head tossing back as he fishes in the luxe, sweat-wicking fabric. He needs it for these long, summer days, and certainly needs it when a single look at your pleated skirts and dark stockings makes him dribble just softly — like he's a teenager, staining his briefs.

Now, he's staring at his outlet, sucking spit back into his mouth when his parted lips linger open too long. Your cunt is his for the taking, pulsating, wet, and so fucking warm it feels like you're on fire. He's deaf to your pitchy whines and moans, but not blind to the way you wiggle your ass back into him, demanding the situation like you weren't the one who threw him into this head-first. If only you weren't so… distracting.

"N-no, I just… I just — Mm…"

"You just, what?" He pushes, breath rolling into tiny little hicks as his heavy length, standing straight and tall for you, falls into his palm. His whimpering makes you whimper, then roll your neck, desperate to get a fleeting gaze at his flushed cheeks — the way your body has made such a mess of his careful mind.

When your eyes fall on his, glasses foggy and slipping from his nose, you bite your lip to stifle back a heady moan. Instead, you push your ass back into him, telling Mr. Higuruma with as few words as possible to just do it. You're waiting so patiently, and all you need is him.

Wordlessly, Mr. Higuruma nods as he pulls your panties from between his teeth, giving them another passing sniff before letting them fall at his feet. Your fate feels like it's being sealed in heated touches and cruel slaps, but you'd rather die than withdraw now.

"I just want you…"

"There you go, girl…" He eases into you like he's treading in high water — desperate, yet unyieldingly slow. It takes all his strength and every ounce of willpower he has not to give you all of him in one go, but your cunt sucks up the tip like it's starving. Little did he know, you've just been waiting for this.

Your heart sinks, knees slipping against the keys, making them erupt in a sour chord all over the situation. Little broken, determined grunts of air fall from your lips, silently begging him for more — more touch, more attention, and more of him. He makes you wait for it, his hand kneading circles into your soft ass as if it's any comfort.

Where he lacks in length, he surely fills out in girth — splittingly so. Mind-numbingly slow. You can't believe your body can take it, still fluttering and open for more as his hips push slowly. "O-oh, it's big,"

Mr. Higuruma can hear you sucking him in — your slick creating a sort of vacuum around the shaft of his cock as he feeds it to you. He's mystified, so taken that when his glasses fall again, he doesn't push them up in time, and they fall right from his face and onto your back, bouncing and toppling somewhere under the baby grand. You gasp in surprise at the sudden coolness, whining when the jump in your demeanor makes his thick cock hit just a bit harder — too deep for comfort, and surely not what you're used to.

"If you focus on one thing today," He groans, head tossing back as his world falls into a blur. He brings a hand up to his face, rubbing his palm over his bloodshot eyes to try to bring himself down. "At least focus on making all of it fit inside of you."

"It's so—

"This was our deal, hm?" His top lip twitches, bearing his shining, coffee-stained teeth. He bucks his hips just an inch, reveling in the biting, uncomfortable moan that falls from your throat. As soon as you steady yourself, peeking back to nod at him, Mr. Higuruma gives it to you.

One slick, punishing thrust renders you into a dumb pile of your past self, thighs screaming and cunt pulsating against his thick length. You whine and cry, tears dripping down in the innards of the piano, marking this existence forever, even when you step away from him and the instrument for bigger, better things.

"So tight…" He adds, sucking in a breath before grabbing and slapping at your left cheek, watching as his pale cock disappears and pulses inside of you. Your gummy walls clamp over him, and he's absolutely fucking taken — halfway in love, and so enamored with your affection that he doesn't know what to say, or how to even think.

Mr. Higuruma just knows one single thing — he has to ruin you.

He's drunk off of it — manic and unsteady as he shuffles handfuls of your ass, tongue peeking from his lips as he concentrates on the early-set ejaculation that's made its home in his stomach.

He's gotta push it back… for you, he pushes it back, and lets his free hand wander up your back, then around your neck, reminding you that you're here, and so is he. This isn't a dream, and he needs to hear your pleading moans — your broken, needy whispers, right in his ear like it's a gospel. Still, he really takes his time rolling his hips, getting you into it, before wrapping his big hand around your neck, forcing you to bow upwards.

"P-ple—

"No," He beats you clean, thumb digging hard into your jugular. You wince and seeth against the touch, your own hand flying up to aid his direction, trying to peel him away. The leverage he gets from your uncomfortable, revealing position is just enough to send him forward. He rolls his neck like he's ready to play a concerto, not to fuck you into submission.

Mr. Higuruma fucks you like he's mad. He rolls his hips, snapping them into you with a strength you didn't know he had. It's supernatural and hard, blurring with motion like his fast fingers over the keyboard your toes are digging into. Every time you shift, after every one of his merciless thrusts, you play a note — a jumbled mess of noise and sound, stacked atop your cries and his well-timed grunts.

You lead, he carries. You cry, he smirks.

He shoves your head back into the frame, smushing your cheek against the streaking spit on the enamel. It takes your makeup off in filthy smudges — making a mess of the face he's seen under the brightest lights and darkest circumstances. After this, here and now, it's safe to say that Mr. Huguruma knows you as no man does.

"More…" You manage to crack, breath knocked from your throat every time his hips snap forward. His heavy cock pushes right at that half-angle, deep enough for you to really fucking feel it. It's driving you crazy, and all you want to do is see his face. You want to see if you're killing him the way he's killing you, right now. "W-wanna seeeeee,"

"Needy thing." He bites, clamping both hands on your hips as he screws you into the piano. With every deep thrust, he's feeding you his entire length, then leaving you dry. Your cunt isn't used to it, and it certainly isn't used to his tone, because you swear that's what does it. You wish you were more alert, but when you cum, it's with a strength you didn't even know you had.

For the first time, ever, you cry his name. Not his professional surname dripped with respect and knowing, but his motherly name stripped down to the bone. "Ah— fuck, Hiromi!"

"Who?" He clamps, one eye open in a craze as he grabs and flips you around. The hard piano digs into your soft flesh — the feeling of his cock bending and twisting inside of you, making you see white. Hiromi blinks at you again, your shirt hanging off your limbs, and your body weak and gelatinous as you whine and arch your back against the keyboard.

It's the only name that comes to mind in your post-orgasmic haze, but it's choppy and unsure. You whisper, trying to control your fuzzy fingers to get lost in his dark, greying hair gathered so close that you can taste it. "M-Mr. Higuruma…"

"That's right," He nods, leaning down for just a second, resting his clammy forehead against your clothed collarbone. In that fleeting moment, he bites at the collar of your button-up, nudging his nose under the fabric, smelling the sweet ghost of your perfume against the soft skin of your collarbone.

"It's Mr. Higuruma to you,"

you hold out for a few more minutes, jaw clenched, but the constant pressure is too good. eventually your hips start moving on their own, small, reluctant rolls that turn into slow, needy grinds. you hate how quickly you give in, but the way his thigh feels against your soaked pussy is addictive.

“that’s my girl,” he whispers smugly, one hand slipping under your hoodie to palm your breast while the other keeps guiding your movements.

you’re grinding properly now, dragging your clit along his leg in steady circles, trying desperately to stay quiet. your shorts are getting soaked, the wet patch growing on his sweats with every roll of your hips. satoru’s cock is rock hard against your ass, twitching every time you press down.

you don’t notice how, suddenly, your friend in the passenger seat turns around, eyebrows furrowed.

“hey, you okay back there?” her concerned face would’ve made your heart melt if you weren’t humping satoru’s thigh under you. “your face is super red and you look kinda hot, you getting carsick or something?”

your heart jumps, whole body freezing mid-grind, still flushed and breathing heavier than you should be.

well fuck.

before you can answer, satoru jumps in smoothly, voice casual and unbothered.

“yeah she’s good.” you feel his thump caress the skin under your breast. “she gets motion sickness really easily on these winding roads.” he says. “plus she wore that hoodie even though i told her it’s warm in the car. stubborn as hell.”

he gives your thigh a little squeeze under the hoodie, like he’s comforting you. you let out a weak chuckle, playing along even though your pussy is still throbbing against his thigh.

“yeah… i’m fine,” you manage, voice a little strained. “just warm. that’s all.” you drag the last part, turning to the side which is enough to give him a glare.

your friend nods and turns back around, satisfied. the second the whole attention is gone, satoru’s hand slides between your legs from the front, pressing two fingers against your clit through your soaked shorts while you keep grinding.

“close call,” he murmurs, amused. “now be a good girl and finish what you started.”

you’re too worked up to fight anymore. you ride his thigh harder, hips rolling desperately, chasing that tight coil of pleasure building fast in your stomach. satoru keeps rubbing your clit in tight circles, lips pressed to your shoulder to hide his own heavy breathing.

when you cum, it hits you hard. your thighs shake around his leg as you bite down on your lip to stay silent, pussy clenching and soaking his thigh completely. your whole body trembles in his lap while he holds you down, making sure you ride every wave.

after a long moment, satoru kisses the side of your neck softly, voice low and satisfied.

“good girl… look at the mess you made on me.”

you stay slumped against his chest, still breathing hard, knowing this stupid friends-with-benefits thing is getting way too dangerous.

The Heian era was a time of blood and gold.

Sorcerers carved their names into history with blades and curses, while lords and emperors hid behind paper screens and whispered prayers. In the shadow of those fragile thrones walked Ryomen Sukuna. With four arms, four eyes, tattoos like black flames across his skin, and a second mouth that laughed at every scream it tasted.

They called him the King of Curses. Calamity.

Everything except what he truly was to you.

Yours.

You were no trembling village girl offered as tribute. Your name already carried weight among the clans. Starfire chains, your inherited technique, could bind even the strongest cursed spirits, wrapping them in burning light until they shattered like glass. Clans had tried to marry you off for alliances. You had burned every proposal scroll in front of their envoys.

Then came the day the great Ryomen Sukuna arrived at the borders of your clan’s territory, not to conquer, but to see the sorcerer who had single-handedly sealed a special-grade curse that had been terrorizing three provinces.

You met him in the open courtyard under a blood-red sunset.

He towered over every warrior present. Two arms crossed over his broad chest, the other two resting lazily on the hilts of his cleavers. His lower eyes watched the trembling guards while the upper pair fixed solely on you. The mouth on his abdomen grinned with too many teeth.

You walked forward without hesitation, bare feet silent on the stone, your crimson robes whispering against the ground. Your hair was long then, falling to your waist in loose waves, adorned with a simple gold circlet that caught the dying light.

Sukuna’s voice rolled like distant thunder. “So this is the little star who thinks she can chain what I would devour.”

You stopped only a few paces away and looked up at all four eyes, all that raw power without flinching.

“I don’t think,” you answered, voice clear and steady. “I do. And I choose who I stand beside.”

A low chuckle escaped both mouths. The guards around you shifted, hands tightening on weapons they knew would be useless.

Sukuna leaned down slightly, one massive hand reaching out. Clawed fingers stopped just short of your chin, as if testing whether you would retreat.

You didn’t.

Instead, you stepped into his reach and tilted your head so his fingertips brushed your jaw.

“I choose you, Ryomen Sukuna,” you said softly, but loud enough for every witness to hear. “Not because the world fears you. Because I don’t. Because something in you looks… bored. And I want to see what happens when you’re not.”

Silence fell across the courtyard like a blade.

Then Sukuna laughed. A full, rolling sound that vibrated through the air and made several lesser sorcerers drop to their knees. He straightened, but his hand did not leave your face. Instead, his thumb traced your lower lip with surprising care.

“Bold,” he murmured. “Foolish. Intriguing.” His lower eyes narrowed with dark amusement. “Very well, little star. Come with me. We’ll see how long that fire lasts before it burns out.”

You smiled. “It won’t.”

That night you left your clan’s compound without looking back. No forced marriage, no chains, no fear. You walked beside him willingly, your hand resting lightly on one of his lower arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The first time he took you to his domain. A ruined temple he had claimed as his own, the air tasted of incense and old blood. He watched you explore the halls with four unblinking eyes.

You stopped in front of the great throne of carved bone and gold, then turned to face him.

“Everyone says you destroy everything you touch,” you said quietly.

Sukuna’s grin was sharp. “They’re usually right.”

You crossed the distance between you, robes sliding from your shoulders until they pooled at your feet. Naked, unafraid, you looked up at the King of Curses and traced the black markings that ran across his chest with gentle fingers.

“Then touch me,” you whispered. “And let’s see what happens.”

Four hands descended on you at once.

Two pinned your wrists above your head against the cold stone wall. One gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. The last cupped the back of your neck, tilting your head so he could claim your mouth in a kiss that tasted of smoke and iron and something dangerously close to hunger.

He was not gentle. Sukuna had never needed to be.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the wall. The mouth on his stomach opened, teeth grazing your collarbone while his main mouth bit down on your shoulder, drawing a sharp gasp from you.

“You’re smaller than you look when you’re burning things,” he growled against your skin, voice rough with want. One of his hands slid between your thighs, fingers teasing until you were trembling. “But you feel just as fierce.”

When he finally pushed inside you—thick, hot, unrelenting—you moaned his name like a challenge. He fucked you against the wall with deep, powerful strokes, four arms holding you exactly where he wanted you, the second mouth licking and sucking at your breasts until you cried out.

You came hard, nails raking down his back, starfire flickering at your fingertips and leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.

Sukuna followed with a low groan that vibrated through both his mouths, spilling deep inside you as if marking territory no one else would ever claim.

Afterward, he did not let you go.

He carried you to the furs piled near his throne and laid you down, surprisingly careful. Two arms wrapped around you, the other two resting possessively over your waist and thigh. For the first time anyone had ever seen, the King of Curses looked… at ease.

You traced the tattoos on his chest with lazy fingers.

“I told you,” you murmured sleepily. “My fire doesn’t burn out.”

Sukuna’s lower eyes closed. The upper pair watched you with something dangerously close to fondness.

“We’ll see, little queen,” he rumbled. “We’ll see.”

Outside the temple, the world already whispered in fear.

The monster had taken a bride.

And she had chosen him back.

The months that followed your choice blurred into a rhythm of violence and intimacy that no one else in the Heian world could have understood.

You rode beside Sukuna on campaigns that turned rivers red. While lesser sorcerers hid behind barriers and chanted protective sutras, you stood at his right hand on the battlefield. Your starfire chains lashed out alongside his cleavers, binding groups of enemies so he could carve through them with leisurely precision. He never ordered you to stay back. He never treated you like fragile porcelain.

Instead, he watched you fight with open amusement and something darker—pride.

One particular skirmish against a coalition of rival clans remains burned into your memory.

The valley was narrow, hemmed in by steep cliffs. Three hundred warriors and sorcerers had gathered under a false banner of “righteous purification,” thinking numbers and a hastily constructed anti-domain barrier would be enough. Sukuna had laughed when the scouts reported it.

Now the air reeked of smoke and opened bodies.

Sukuna stood at the center of the carnage in his full glory. Four arms moving like separate instruments of death. Two cleavers sang through armor and bone. One hand summoned slashes of cursed energy that bisected men mid-scream. The fourth hand occasionally flicked away arrows as if they were annoying insects.

You fought at his flank, crimson robes stained darker with blood that was not yours. Your chains of starfire whipped through the air, glowing white-hot. They wrapped around a cluster of archers, tightening until their bows snapped and their screams cut short as the flames consumed them from the inside.

A spearman broke through the chaos and lunged at your unprotected side.

Before you could react, one of Sukuna’s lower arms shot out, massive hand closing around the man’s head like a vice. With casual strength he crushed the skull and tossed the body aside.

“Careful, little star,” Sukuna called over the din, voice carrying easily. “I’d hate to have to replace you so soon.”

You laughed, it was bright and unafraid. Sending a chain lashing toward a sorcerer who was trying to weave a binding vow. “Then stop talking and keep up, my king.”

His answering grin was feral.

When the last enemy fell, the valley had become a slaughter yard. Crows already circled overhead. Sukuna wiped blood from his cleavers on a fallen banner and turned to you.

You were breathing hard, hair wild, a shallow cut across your forearm already clotting. Without hesitation you stepped over corpses until you stood directly in front of him. Two of his hands settled on your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto a broken stone pillar so you were closer to eye level.

“You enjoyed that,” he observed, lower eyes half-lidded.

“I enjoyed watching you,” you corrected. Your fingers rose, tracing the black markings that ran down the side of his face. The touch was gentle, familiar. No one else alive would have dared. “You move like the world is too slow for you.”

Sukuna’s main mouth curved. The stomach mouth opened slightly, teeth glinting. “Everything is too slow except you.”

He leaned in and kissed you right there among the dead. Deep, claiming, tasting of iron and victory. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. Another slid beneath your robes to rest possessively against the bare skin of your lower back. The kiss was not soft. It never was. It was heat and teeth and the promise that whatever came next, you would face it together.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. Four eyes closed, a rare moment of stillness.

That night you returned to the ruined temple he had claimed as his seat of power.

The great hall was lit only by braziers and moonlight filtering through cracks in the ancient roof. Sukuna dismissed his few remaining followers with a lazy wave. The moment the heavy doors closed, the air between you shifted.

You barely had time to loosen your blood-stained robes before four hands were on you again.

He lifted you onto the wide stone altar that served as his makeshift throne platform. Your back met cool rock as he loomed over you, tattoos stark in the firelight.

“Strip,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

You obeyed slowly, deliberately, enjoying the way all four eyes tracked every inch of revealed skin. When you were bare beneath him, he paused—just watching.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep,” he said quietly. It was as close to a confession as the King of Curses ever came.

Then he descended.

Two hands pinned your wrists above your head. One large palm spread your thighs wide. The fourth hand traced lazy circles on your stomach, claws lightly scraping. His main mouth claimed yours again while the mouth on his abdomen moved lower, hot breath ghosting over your inner thigh before the tongue. Longer and more dexterous than any human’s, licked a slow stripe up your center.

You arched with a sharp cry.

Sukuna chuckled against your lips. “Still so responsive. Even after painting a valley red.”

He didn’t tease for long. The second mouth latched onto your clit, sucking and licking with relentless focus while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right. The stretch burned beautifully. You moaned his name like a prayer and a challenge at the same time.

When you were trembling on the edge, he withdrew.

You whined in protest.

He positioned himself between your spread legs, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance. In this form he was large—almost too much—but your body remembered him, opened for him.

He sank in with one slow, powerful thrust, bottoming out as you gasped.

“Fuck—Ryomen—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice layered. “Say my name while I remind you who you belong to.”

He set a brutal pace. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked your entire body. The altar creaked beneath you. Four hands held you open and pinned, allowing no escape, no mercy. The stomach mouth continued its work, licking at your breasts, teeth grazing nipples until they ached.

You came first. Hard, vision whiting out, starfire flickering uncontrollably at your fingertips and leaving glowing trails across his shoulders that faded slowly.

Sukuna followed with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, marking you from the inside out.

Afterward he did not pull away immediately. He stayed buried within you, arms wrapping around your smaller frame, holding you against his chest as if you were something infinitely precious.

You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you knew by heart.

“They will come for me one day,” you whispered into the quiet. It was not fear but simply fact. “Because they cannot kill you directly.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened fractionally. “Let them try. I will burn the world before I let them take you.”

You pressed a kiss to the mouth on his stomach. It nipped your lip gently in response.

“I know,” you said. “But if they ever succeed… remember this. Remember how I chose you. How I looked at you without fear.”

He was silent for a long moment.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I will not forget.”

The fire in the braziers crackled. Outside, the night wind carried distant screams. Remnants of the day’s work.

Inside the temple, the King of Curses held his queen close, four arms a cage no enemy had yet breached.

But the world was already whispering.

They could not defeat the monster.

So they would target the one thing he refused to lose.

Winter came early that year, cloaking the Heian provinces in frost and silence. The ruined temple you shared with Sukuna felt warmer for it. Braziers burned hotter, furs piled thicker, and the air carried the constant scent of incense mixed with the faint metallic tang of recent blood.

Your days settled into a dangerous rhythm of power and peace.

Mornings often began with strategy. Sukuna would lounge on his throne of bone and gold while you sat cross-legged on the wide stone steps below him, maps of rival territories spread across your lap. Your starfire technique allowed you to sense cursed energy signatures from miles away, so you marked weak points with glowing embers that hovered in the air like tiny stars.

Sukuna listened.

That alone was a miracle. Generals who had served him for decades were cut down for speaking out of turn. You spoke freely, challenging his plans, suggesting subtler approaches when brute force would waste energy.

“You could take the eastern pass without leveling the entire village,” you said one frost-bitten morning, pointing at the map. “Leave the survivors to spread stories. Fear is a better weapon than ash sometimes.”

One of his upper eyes narrowed in amusement. The lower pair watched you with lazy heat. “Since when did my queen become merciful?”

“Not merciful,” you corrected, rising to your feet and stepping between his spread thighs. Two of his hands automatically settled on your hips, claws pricking lightly through your robes. “Strategic. Dead men tell no tales. Terrified men tell exaggerated ones.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and the mouth on his stomach. “You’re getting dangerous, little star.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the black marking on his cheek. “Good. You were getting bored.”

That evening he rewarded your cleverness in the way he knew best.

The temple’s inner sanctum was lit only by moonlight and a single brazier. Sukuna had you on your knees on the thick furs, your upper body draped over a low wooden bench. Your wrists were bound behind your back with one of his spare sashes — not because you couldn’t escape, but because you both enjoyed the illusion of restraint.

He knelt behind you, four hands mapping every inch of your bare skin.

Two palms smoothed up your spine, pressing you down. One hand gripped your hip, holding you steady. The last traced slow circles over the curve of your ass before delivering a sharp, stinging slap that made you gasp.

“Still so responsive,” he murmured, voice rough with approval. “Even when you play at politics all day.”

His fingers slid between your thighs, finding you already wet. He teased your entrance with two thick digits, pumping slowly while the mouth on his abdomen licked a hot stripe up your spine.

You moaned, pushing back against his hand. “Ryomen… stop teasing.”

He laughed darkly. “You forget who gives the orders here.”

But he obeyed anyway, because it was you.

He replaced his fingers with the thick head of his cock, pushing in with one long, relentless thrust until he was seated to the hilt. The stretch was perfect, bordering on too much, and you cried out in pleasure-pain.

Sukuna set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the stone walls. Every thrust drove you harder against the bench. His lower hands kept your hips angled exactly how he wanted, while his upper hands reached forward to cup your breasts, rolling your nipples between clawed fingers.

The second mouth joined in, its tongue flicking teasingly over the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders, occasionally biting down just hard enough to leave marks that would linger for days.

You came first. Walls clenching around him as starfire flickered uncontrollably at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing patterns on the furs beneath you.

Sukuna followed with a low growl that shook the air, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you, hot and endless.

Afterward he untied your wrists and pulled you into his lap, four arms wrapping around you like a living cage. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady, inhuman rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I love you,” you whispered into the quiet. It was the first time you had said the words so plainly.

Sukuna was silent for a long moment. Then one hand stroked through your hair with surprising gentleness.

“You are the only creature I have ever allowed to speak those words and live,” he said finally. “That should be answer enough.”

You smiled against his skin and traced the tattoos over his heart. “It is.”

But peace never lasted long in the Heian era.

The first whispers reached you during a rare journey to a neutral hot spring valley. A place even rival clans respected as temporary ground for negotiation.

You and Sukuna traveled with only a small escort of his most loyal (and terrified) followers. The springs were steaming under a clear winter sky, the water rich with minerals that soothed cursed energy fatigue.

That night, while Sukuna soaked in the largest pool with three arms draped lazily over the rocks, you lingered at the edge, letting the heat seep into your muscles.

A young sorcerer from a minor clan approached under the guise of offering scented oils. His hands shook as he bowed.

“My lady,” he whispered when Sukuna’s eyes were half-closed in apparent relaxation. “There are those who fear what you have become. A queen to the King of Curses… it upsets the balance. Some speak of… removing the attachment. For the good of all sorcerers.”

You turned your head slowly, eyes sharp. “And you bring this message to me?”

The boy swallowed. “As a warning. Leave him. Return to your clan. Or they will make you leave.”

Before you could respond, Sukuna’s voice cut through the steam like a blade.

“Bold of you to threaten my queen in my presence, insect.”

Four eyes opened fully. In an instant the boy was lifted into the air by an invisible slash of cursed energy, dangling helplessly.

You placed a hand on Sukuna’s arm, the one closest to you. “Let him go. He’s just a messenger.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, but he released the boy, who scrambled away into the darkness, sobbing.

You turned back to Sukuna, water lapping at your waist. “They’re starting to realize they can’t kill you directly.”

He reached out with two hands, pulling you through the water until you straddled his lap. The other two arms wrapped around your back, holding you flush against his chest.

“Let them plot,” he growled against your throat. “They will die screaming for their arrogance.”

You kissed him softly, tasting mineral water and restrained violence. “I’m not afraid. But promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If they ever come for me… don’t hesitate because of me. Burn them all.”

Sukuna’s grip tightened possessively. “I would burn the heavens themselves before I let them take you from me.”

You believed him.

But the whispers grew louder in the following weeks.

Messengers arrived with false offers of alliance. Minor clans sent gifts wrapped in protective charms. Once, during a solo scouting mission you insisted on taking alone, you found a letter nailed to a tree with a cursed dagger:

“The monster’s weakness must be excised. For the sake of the world, the star must fall.”

You burned the letter to ash and said nothing to Sukuna when you returned.

He noticed anyway.

One night, as you lay tangled together on the furs. Your body still humming from the way he had taken you twice, slow and deep, whispering filthy praise against your skin. Sukuna traced the gold circlet in your hair with one claw.

“You’re hiding something,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You sighed, pressing closer to his warmth. “They’re planning something. Targeting me to hurt you. But I can handle it. I’m not fragile, Ryomen.”

His four arms tightened around you. “You are the only thing I refuse to lose. If they touch you…”

You silenced him with a kiss, then guided one of his hands between your thighs again, distracting him the best way you knew how.

“I know,” you whispered as he rolled you beneath him once more. “Now remind me who I belong to.”

He did. Thoroughly, possessively, until the only sounds in the temple were your shared moans and the crackle of dying braziers.

But in the quiet hours before dawn, when Sukuna’s eyes finally closed in rare rest, you lay awake staring at the ceiling.

You understood the danger.

They couldn’t defeat the King of Curses in open battle.

So they would try to break his heart.

And you had already decided: if it came to that, you would make sure they paid for every second of his pain.

Spring thawed the frost, but the whispers did not melt away. They grew sharper, more coordinated, like blades being honed in secret forges across the provinces.

You felt the shift in the cursed energy of the land itself. Subtle tremors in the web of power that connected every sorcerer and spirit in the Heian era. Your starfire technique made you sensitive to such things; faint resonances of binding vows being woven in hidden mountain shrines, alliances forming between clans that had once been bitter enemies.

Sukuna noticed your distraction during a quiet afternoon in the temple courtyard. Cherry blossoms—somehow surviving in the shadow of his domain—drifted lazily on the breeze. He lounged against a pillar, two arms folded behind his head, the other two idly spinning one of his cleavers like a child’s toy. The mouth on his stomach hummed an old, bloody war chant.

“You’re thinking too loudly, little star,” he rumbled without opening his eyes. “Speak it before I get bored and make you.”

You sat on the edge of the stone fountain, trailing your fingers through the cool water. Droplets glowed faintly where your cursed energy brushed them. “They’re getting bolder. Not attacking you outright, they know better. But messages keep coming. ‘Temporary truces.’ ‘Shared threats from rogue curses.’ All of them mention me by name. ‘The Star Queen must mediate.’ ‘Only she can seal the threat without escalation.’”

Sukuna’s cleaver stopped spinning. All four eyes opened, fixing on you with predatory focus. “Let them send their pretty lies. I’ll decorate the temple steps with their spines.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “If I ignore them, they’ll claim I’m hiding behind you. Weakening your image. If I go…” You let the thought hang.

He sat up slowly, massive frame casting a long shadow over you. One lower hand reached out, claws gentle as they tilted your chin up. “You will not go alone.”

“I know,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “But rushing in with full force gives them the excuse they want. Proof that the King of Curses cannot be negotiated with. That his queen is just a leash.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. The stomach mouth snarled silently. “Since when do we care about their excuses?”

“Since they started targeting the one thing that makes you hesitate,” you answered, voice steady. You rose and stepped between his spread legs, placing both hands on his broad chest, tracing the familiar black tattoos with your thumbs. “I’m not fragile, Ryomen. My chains can bind armies. And I have you. But let me play their game for a little while. Gather information. Make them reveal their hands.”

He stared down at you for a long moment. Four crimson eyes searching your face as if memorizing every detail. Then, with a low growl, he pulled you flush against him. Two arms wrapped around your waist. The other two cupped your face.

“You test my patience more than any enemy ever has,” he muttered against your lips. “If anything feels wrong, anything, you burn the entire negotiation site to glass and return to me.”

“I promise,” you whispered.

“Be careful,” he said, so softly it almost didn’t sound like him. “The world can burn. But not you.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the marking beneath his lower eye. “I’ll come back to you. I always do.”

The next morning, the false alliance message arrived via a trembling envoy from the Fujiwara-adjacent clans.

A rogue special-grade curse has manifested near the northern border, threatening trade routes vital to multiple provinces. Only the Star Queen’s unique sealing technique can contain it without unnecessary bloodshed. We request your mediation under a flag of temporary truce. No weapons. No armies. Neutral ground at the Valley of White Mist.

You read the scroll aloud to Sukuna, who listened with a bored expression that didn’t hide the murderous glint in all four eyes.

“It’s a trap,” he stated flatly.

“Obviously,” you agreed, rolling the scroll. “But if I refuse, they paint me as the tyrant’s consort who dooms innocents. If I go with force, they scream that Sukuna cannot control his queen. Let me go. Take a small escort if it eases you. I’ll assess their strength, then return.”

He didn’t like it. The air grew heavy with his cursed energy, shrine-like pressure making the braziers flicker.

But he trusted you, the only person alive he truly did.

“Take my cleaver,” he said finally, pressing the smaller of his two into your hands. “And this.” He removed the thin gold circlet from your hair, kissed it once, then placed it back. “Come back wearing it. Or I will paint the valley red searching for you.”

You smiled, rising on your toes to kiss him deeply. “I will. Wait for me, my king.”

As you rode out with a handful of his most loyal (and disposable) followers, Sukuna stood at the temple gates, four arms crossed, watching until you disappeared over the horizon.

The Valley of White Mist waited.

And somewhere in the shadows, a hundred sorcerers bound by a desperate collective vow sharpened their techniques, ready to excise the King of Curses’ only weakness.

The journey to the Valley of White Mist took three days on horseback. You rode at the head of the small escort Sukuna had grudgingly allowed. Six of his most hardened retainers, men who had survived enough battles to know when silence was wiser than questions. They kept their distance, eyes darting nervously between the road and the gold circlet still gleaming in your hair.

You felt the shift in cursed energy long before the valley came into view. The air grew thick, heavier, like breathing through wet silk. Your starfire technique hummed beneath your skin in warning, the chains coiled invisibly around your wrists and ankles ready to manifest at a thought. The cleaver Sukuna had given you rested at your hip, its weight a comforting reminder of him.

The valley itself was deceptively beautiful. Thick white mist rolled between ancient cedar trees, glowing faintly under a pale spring sun. A wide clearing had been prepared in the center. Flat ground ringed by stone lanterns that flickered with unnatural blue flame. Representatives from three minor clans and one major Fujiwara offshoot waited there, dressed in formal robes, faces carefully blank.

No obvious weapons. No large army in sight.

You dismounted, crimson robes brushing the dew-wet grass. Your escort stayed mounted behind you, hands hovering near their blades.

The lead negotiator, an older sorcerer with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that betrayed nothing, bowed low.

“Lady Star Queen,” he intoned. “We are grateful you answered our plea. The rogue curse has grown stronger than anticipated. Your unique binding technique is our only hope for a bloodless resolution.”

You studied him calmly, letting your senses expand. Beneath the polite words, the cursed energy in the valley pulsed like a living thing. Layered, synchronized, bound by a complex vow. Not one curse. Many.

“I see,” you said, voice even. “Show me the curse, then. Quickly. My king grows impatient when I am away too long.”

They led you deeper into the mist.

The trap sprang the moment the trees closed behind your escort.

White light erupted from the ground in perfect geometric patterns. A massive collective domain, not quite a full expansion but something worse: a binding cage amplified by a hundred linked sorcerers hidden in the treeline and behind illusion barriers. The mist thickened into opaque walls. Your escort’s screams were cut short as slashes of cursed energy tore through them like paper.

You reacted instantly.

Starfire chains exploded outward in a blazing lattice, burning through the nearest bindings and shattering three stone lanterns. The air filled with the scent of scorched cedar and blood. You moved like you had on a hundred battlefields beside Sukuna—graceful, ruthless, unafraid.

But they had planned for you.

Dozens of sorcerers emerged from the mist, their techniques synchronized into a single overwhelming assault. Binding chains of their own—weaker than yours but multiplied—wrapped around your limbs. Anti-domain stakes drove into the ground, suppressing your output. Spears of condensed cursed energy pierced your side, your shoulder, your thigh.

You didn’t scream.

You laughed instead, low and bitter, as blood soaked the front of your crimson robes.

“So this is it,” you said, voice steady despite the pain. Your chains still lashed out, snapping necks and burning limbs, but they kept coming. “They cannot kill him, so they kill what he loves. Pathetic.”

A particularly strong binding vow slammed into your chest, cracking ribs. You staggered but stayed on your feet, cleaver in hand, slashing through two attackers in one fluid motion. Sukuna’s weapon sang with his residual cursed energy, cutting deeper than any ordinary blade.

Yet the numbers were too great. The cage too tight.

You realized too late how perfectly they had timed it. Far enough from the temple that even Sukuna’s speed might not save you in time, close enough that he would feel every second through the bond of cursed energy that had grown between you over the months.

“They’re trying to break him,” you whispered to yourself as another spear grazed your cheek, drawing a hot line of blood. Your vision blurred at the edges, but your hands never stopped moving. Starfire flared brighter, desperate. “Fools. He will burn the world for this.”

The final blow came from behind. A cursed technique designed to pierce the core, not kill instantly but ensure a slow, agonizing death. It drove through your back and out your chest, just missing your heart but shredding everything vital around it.

You dropped to your knees in the blood-soaked grass.

The mist began to thin as the sorcerers stepped closer, faces triumphant and terrified at once.

You lifted your head, gold circlet still somehow intact, now stained crimson. Your breathing came in shallow, wet gasps, but your eyes glowed bright with starfire even now held no panic. No begging.

Only calm understanding.

In the distance, the sky tore open.

Black shrine gates manifested like jagged teeth against the clouds. Malevolent energy rolled across the valley like a tidal wave. Sukuna had arrived.

He landed in the center of the clearing with earth-shaking force, four arms already in motion. Cleavers flashed. Dismantle and Cleave shredded the air itself. The collective domain shattered like glass under the weight of his true domain expansion, Malevolent Shrine, painting the sky red and black.

But it was too late for the trap.

It was too late for you.

Sukuna’s lower eyes found you instantly. The upper pair widened fractionally. The closest thing to shock the King of Curses had shown in centuries.

He crossed the distance in two strides, dropping to one knee beside you. Two massive hands cradled your face with a gentleness that would have stunned anyone watching. One pressed desperately over the gaping wound in your chest, trying to stem the blood that wouldn’t stop. The fourth gripped your hand so tightly your bones creaked.

The remaining sorcerers tried to flee. They didn’t get far. Invisible slashes turned them into red mist before they could take three steps.

You looked up at him. Four crimson eyes, tattoos stark against his skin, the face you had chosen without fear, and smiled through bloodied lips.

“Ryomen…” Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. Your free hand rose, trembling, to trace the black markings beneath his lower eyes exactly as you always had. The touch was weak but sure. “Even now… you came.”

He snarled, but the sound cracked. “You promised you would return. You lied to me, little star.”

A wet, broken laugh escaped you. “I’m sorry… but they needed to learn. They thought… taking me would break you.” Your fingers slid down to rest over the mouth on his stomach. It opened, teeth gentle against your palm for the first time. “Don’t let them win that way. Remember how I looked at you. How I chose you. Not out of fear… but because you were worth choosing.”

Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth. Your starfire flickered once, twice, then began to fade.

“I would find you again,” you breathed, eyes locking with all four of his. “In any life. Any form. My king… my equal… I lo—”

The light left your eyes.

Your hand slipped from his face and fell limp into the grass.

For one endless second, the valley was silent except for the distant crackle of dying flames.

Then Sukuna roared.

It was not grief in any human sense. It was annihilation given voice.

Malevolent Shrine expanded to its full radius. Shrine gates manifested in endless rows. Every surviving sorcerer in the valley. Every hidden ally, every coward who had planned this was torn apart at the atomic level. The trees turned to ash. The mist evaporated in screams of steam. The ground itself cracked and blackened as if the earth were bleeding.

He destroyed everything.

When the rage finally ebbed into something colder, sharper, Sukuna remained kneeling in the crater that had once been a valley. The gold circlet, somehow untouched amid the devastation, lay beside your body. He picked it up with one bloodied hand, then carefully removed it from your hair and wrapped it around the hilt of his cleaver, tying it with a strip of your torn robe.

He lifted your body with all four arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing.

The King of Curses walked back toward his temple alone, leaving nothing but silence and ruin behind him.

For the first time in his long, bloody existence, Ryomen Sukuna carried something he could not conquer.

Something he could not get back.

Centuries passed like ash on the wind.

The Heian era crumbled into legend. Sorcerers rose and fell. Curses evolved. The world forgot the exact shape of the King of Curses’ wrath, but the scars remained. Craters where mountains once stood, blood-soaked soil that still refused to grow anything pure.

Ryomen Sukuna endured.

He sealed himself away in pieces, scattered across fingers and artifacts, waiting. Plotting. Remembering.

He kept the gold circlet wrapped around the hilt of his favored cleaver. Sometimes, in the long stretches of boredom between hosts, he would run a clawed thumb over the thin band of metal and feel the faint echo of starfire still clinging to it. Your final words haunted the empty spaces inside him.

“I would find you again… In any life. Any form.”

He never spoke them aloud. But they anchored him the way nothing else ever had.

A relatively new graduate from Jujutsu Tech’s hidden curriculum, assigned to the Tokyo branch under Gojo Satoru’s loose supervision. Your cursed energy was unusually potent for someone so young: bright, burning, instinctive. Instructors called it “starfire-adjacent” in hushed tones when they thought you couldn’t hear. You had no memories of the Heian era. No recollection of four arms, black tattoos, or the taste of blood and incense on your tongue.

Yet some things refused to stay buried.

You never flinched in the face of special-grade curses. When others hesitated, you stepped forward as if you belonged at the front line—beside power, not behind it. You fought with a quiet fearlessness that made veterans raise eyebrows. And sometimes, late at night in your small apartment in Shinjuku, you would catch yourself tracing invisible patterns on your own arms—black, looping marks that weren’t there.

Dreams came more frequently now.

Blood-soaked valleys. Gold catching moonlight. A deep, layered voice calling you “little star.” Four crimson eyes watching you with something between hunger and devotion. You always woke with your heart pounding and a strange ache low in your belly, as if your body remembered pleasure your mind had forgotten.

You chalked it up to stress.

Today’s mission was routine on paper: investigate a localized curse outbreak in an abandoned subway station beneath Shibuya. Grade 1 at worst. You were paired with a second-year student who kept glancing at you nervously.

“Stay behind me,” he muttered as you descended the stairs, flashlights cutting through the dark.

You ignored him and moved ahead, chains of glowing starfire already flickering at your fingertips. Your technique had manifested as luminescent binding links that could seal or burn on command. The cursed spirit that lunged at you was fast, but you were faster. One chain whipped out, wrapping its torso and igniting. It shrieked and dissolved into black smoke.

“Show-off,” the student grumbled.

You smirked. “Just efficient.”

The platform was quiet after that. Too quiet.

Then the air changed.

A heavy, ancient cursed energy rolled through the tunnels like smoke from a distant fire. It tasted of iron and old incense. Your pulse quickened for reasons you couldn’t name.

A figure stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the platform.

Pink hair. Dark tattoos crawling across his face, neck, and bare arms. He wore a casual hoodie and pants that looked borrowed, but the energy radiating off him belonged to something far older than any teenager. Two eyes glowed with lazy malice, but you swore… for a split second, you saw the flicker of two more.

He stopped a few meters away, head tilted, studying you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

You raised your chains instinctively, glowing bright. “Identify yourself. Now.”

The boy—no, the thing inside the boy—grinned. It was too sharp, too knowing.

“You’ve gotten smaller,” he said, voice low and rough, carrying an echo that vibrated through your bones. “And your hair’s shorter. I liked it longer. Easier to wrap around my fist.”

Your stomach dropped. The words sounded insane, yet they landed somewhere deep inside you, stirring half-remembered heat.

“Who the hell are you?” you demanded, stepping forward despite your partner’s frantic tugging at your sleeve.

He took one step closer, hands in his pockets, utterly unbothered by the glowing chains pointed at his chest. “You used to look at me without fear. Still do, apparently. Good. Some things don’t change.”

Your partner summoned a weak technique and tried to step between you. “Back off, curse user—”

The pink-haired stranger flicked two fingers. The student flew backward into the wall, unconscious but alive.

Now it was just the two of you under flickering fluorescent lights.

He studied your face again, all four—no, two—eyes narrowing with something dangerously close to fondness. “Still burning bright, little star. Even if you don’t remember why.”

The nickname hit like a physical blow.

Little star.

Your chains faltered for half a second. Memories that weren’t memories flashed. Strong hands on your hips, a second mouth dragging across your skin, the sound of your own voice moaning a name you couldn’t quite recall.

You shook it off and strengthened your stance. “I don’t know you. And if you don’t stop talking like a delusional creep, I’ll seal you right here.”

His grin widened. “You always did threaten me when you were flustered.”

He vanished in a swirl of red mist before you could strike, leaving only the faint scent of blood and incense behind.

Your partner groaned as he came to. “What… what was that?”

You stared at the empty platform, heart hammering. “I have no idea.”

But your body remembered.

And somewhere deep inside the pink-haired vessel, Ryomen Sukuna leaned back in his makeshift throne of consciousness and laughed—low, dark, and triumphant.

The queen had returned.

She just didn’t know it yet.

That night you barely slept.

The dreams were clearer than ever.

A ruined temple. Braziers casting golden light on black tattoos. Four arms holding you close after battle, after pleasure, after everything. A voice rumbling against your ear: “You are the only thing in this rotting world I don’t get bored of.”

You woke gasping, skin flushed, thighs pressed together against an ache you couldn’t explain.

In the mirror, you traced the faint, phantom lines on your arms again.

And for the first time, you whispered to your reflection:

“Who are you… and why do I miss you?”

The encounters didn’t stop.

If anything, they escalated.

Over the next two weeks, the pink-haired curse user—who still hadn’t given you a proper name—became a walking, talking migraine wrapped in tattoos and smug arrogance.

First incident: the convenience store at 2 a.m.

You had dragged yourself there after a long night exorcising low-grade curses near Roppongi. Your hair was messy, your jacket smelled like burnt curse residue, and all you wanted was strawberry milk and something fried. You were reaching for the last onigiri when a familiar voice spoke right behind your ear.

“Still eating like you’re about to march into battle. Some habits never die.”

You spun around so fast the milk carton nearly slipped from your hand.

He was leaning against the ramune fridge, arms crossed. The tattoos stood out stark under the fluorescent lights. Two eyes watched you with lazy amusement, but you swore you could feel the weight of two more.

“You again,” you hissed, keeping your voice low so the sleepy cashier wouldn’t call security. “What is your problem? Personal space exists for a reason.”

He tilted his head, grin widening. “You used to let me closer than this. Much closer. Naked, usually.”

Your face burned. A customer two aisles over dropped their basket.

“Creep,” you snapped, slamming the onigiri into your basket. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Stop following me or I’ll exorcise that smug look off your face.”

He laughed—low, rolling, far too pleased. “There she is. That fire. You threatened me with chains the first time we met too. Ended up wrapped in them for entirely different reasons.”

You marched to the counter, paid, and left without looking back. But the entire walk home you felt eyes on your back, and the phantom scent of blood and incense lingered in the night air.

Second incident: the training grounds at Jujutsu High.

You were sparring with Maki when the air pressure shifted. A figure appeared on the rooftop overlooking the field—lounging against the railing like he owned the school. Pink hair ruffled by the wind. Tattoos visible even from a distance.

Maki paused mid-strike. “Who the hell is that?”

You didn’t answer. You just raised your hand and sent a warning chain of starfire whipping toward the roof.

He caught it.

With one hand.

The glowing link wrapped around his wrist and he tugged playfully, as if testing its strength. “Cute. But you used to bind me with a lot more enthusiasm, little star.”

Maki’s eyes narrowed. “Friend of yours?”

“Absolutely not,” you growled.

Before you could launch a proper attack, he vanished again, leaving only a faint chuckle echoing across the field.

Third incident: your apartment balcony.

You had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around you, when you sensed him. You yanked the sliding door open, starfire already blazing between your fingers.

He was sitting on the railing like it was a throne, four—no, two—arms resting casually. In the dim city light his tattoos looked alive.

“You’ve gotten even smaller when you’re half-naked,” he observed, eyes raking over you slowly. “I approve. Easier to carry.”

“Get the fuck off my balcony!” you shouted, launching a chain that shattered the railing inches from where he sat.

He didn’t even flinch. “Still shy after all this time? You used to ride me on a stone altar while the temple burned around us. Literally.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Heat flooded your face—half embarrassment, half something dangerously warmer. “I’m calling the police.”

He actually laughed out loud, the sound rich and mocking. “The police? Me? The King of Curses reduced to a suspicious individual? How the mighty have fallen.”

Then he disappeared in red mist, still chuckling.

You stood there dripping wet, towel slipping, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

The dreams got worse after that.

Every night you saw fragments: strong hands pinning you down, a second mouth dragging hot and wet across your stomach, four eyes watching you come undone with something like worship. You woke up aching, thighs slick, whispering a name you couldn’t quite remember into your pillow.

By the end of the second week you were done.

You marched into the local police station with your arms crossed and determination in your eyes. The officer behind the desk looked half-asleep.

“I need to report a stalker,” you said firmly.

The officer sighed and pulled out a form. “Description?”

“Male. Early twenties appearance. Pink hair. Face and body covered in black tattoos. Extremely rude. Keeps saying delusional shit like ‘you’ve gotten smaller’ and ‘you used to ride me on an altar.’ He appears out of nowhere like rooftops, my balcony, convenience stores. He’s insane.”

The officer scribbled slowly. “Has he touched you?”

“Not yet. But he keeps implying he has. In detail.”

Just as the officer asked for your contact information, the station door exploded inward with a casual kick.

Every head turned.

There he stood. Pink hair, tattoos, hands in his pockets, looking deeply unimpressed with the entire metropolitan police force. The cursed energy rolling off him made the lights flicker.

The room went dead silent.

You pointed. “That’s him!”

The pink-haired man sighed, the sound of someone who had toppled empires and was now dealing with paperwork. “Really? The police? I annihilate bloodlines and you file a formal complaint?”

One brave officer reached for his gun. “Hands where I can see them!”

The man raised an eyebrow. Two extra spectral arms flickered into existence for half a second—enough to make the entire precinct freeze—then vanished. “She’s my wife. Reincarnated. It’s complicated.” He glanced at the trembling officer holding the form. “You’re going to ignore this, right? Good. Saves me the cleanup.”

He looked straight at you, eyes softening with dark amusement. “Still fighting me at every turn. Adorable. You’ll remember eventually.”

Then he walked out as casually as he had entered, leaving the door hanging off its hinges.

The station erupted into chaos.

You stood there, face burning, fists clenched. “I am not his wife.”

But your voice shook.

And deep down, something ancient and hungry stirred at the word.

That night the dreams returned stronger than ever.

You saw yourself in crimson robes, sitting beside a four-armed king on a throne of bone. You saw four hands on your body—pinning, claiming, worshipping. You heard your own voice moaning “Ryomen” like a prayer.

You woke up gasping, fingers pressed between your thighs, chasing a release that felt centuries overdue.

In the darkness of your room, you whispered to the empty air:

“Who are you… and why does my body remember you better than my mind does?”

Miles away, Ryomen Sukuna smirked in the shared mental space.

“Soon, little star,” he murmured to no one but himself. “You’ll remember. And then I’m dragging you back where you belong.”

The police report accomplished exactly nothing.

No one at the station wanted to touch the case after the pink-haired intruder casually kicked the door off its hinges and called you his wife in front of twenty witnesses. The report was “misplaced.” The officers suddenly developed convenient amnesia. Even the security footage developed mysterious glitches.

You were on your own.

And he knew it.

Sukuna’s approach changed after that day. The casual, taunting appearances gave way to something more intentional. More predatory. He no longer popped up for cheap shocks. He watched. He tested. He closed the distance.

First came the rooftop again, but this time he didn’t stay at a distance.

You were finishing a solo mission near an old shrine on the outskirts of Tokyo, wiping cursed energy residue from your hands, when you felt him behind you. Not the playful flare of cursed energy from before. This was heavier. Closer. Ancient.

You turned slowly.

He stood only a few feet away, pink hair tousled by the night wind, tattoos stark under the moonlight. He looked deceptively relaxed, hands in his pockets, but the aura rolling off him pressed against your skin like a physical weight.

“You stopped running,” he observed, voice lower than usual. Rougher. It slid down your spine like warm velvet dragged over gravel.

“I’m not running,” you replied, summoning a single glowing chain that hovered between you like a warning. “I’m deciding whether to seal you or hear you out. Talk. Who are you really?”

He took one step closer. Then another. You didn’t back away. Something in you refused to.

“I’ve told you pieces,” he said, stopping close enough that you could smell that faint trace of blood and incense again. “You used to sit beside me on battlefields. You used to trace these marks with your fingers while I was still inside you.” One hand lifted slowly, as if giving you time to flinch. When you didn’t, he brushed a thumb along the side of your jaw. “You used to call me yours.”

Your breath hitched. The touch sent sparks through your nerves. Not fear, but recognition. Heat bloomed low in your belly. The phantom memory of four hands holding you open flashed behind your eyes.

You slapped his hand away, but there was no real force behind it. “Stop saying things like that. It’s insane.”

“Is it?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that vibrated against your ear. “Then why does your body remember? Your pulse is racing. Your cursed energy is flaring brighter. You’re not afraid of me. You never were.”

You swallowed hard. He was right. The fear you should have felt was absent. In its place was something far more dangerous. Curiosity, longing, a pull you couldn’t name.

“Back off,” you whispered, but your chains had lowered without you realizing.

He didn’t back off. Instead he stepped even closer until your back met the shrine’s wooden pillar. One hand braced beside your head. The other hovered near your waist, not quite touching.

“You’re starting to dream again, aren’t you?” he asked softly. “Blood. Gold. Me. Not this borrowed face, the real one. Four arms. Four eyes. The mouth that used to taste every inch of you.”

Your knees weakened. A vivid flash hit you: strong hands pinning your wrists, a second mouth licking a hot trail down your stomach, a deep voice growling “Mine” while you came apart beneath him.

You shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, voice breathy.

He chuckled, the sound dark and intimate. “Liar. But that’s all right. I can wait. I’ve waited a thousand years already.”

Then he was gone again, leaving you trembling against the pillar, thighs pressed together, cursed energy flickering uncontrollably around your fingers.

The dreams intensified after that night.

They were no longer fragments. They were memories wearing the skin of dreams.

You saw yourself in a ruined temple, crimson robes pooled at your feet. Four massive hands lifted you onto a stone altar. Black tattoos shifted under firelight as he moved above you—inside you—deep, relentless thrusts that made you cry out his name. “Ryomen—” The second mouth on his abdomen sucked marks into your breasts while the main one bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise. You came screaming, starfire exploding from your hands and painting his skin with temporary glowing brands.

You woke up every night gasping, sheets soaked with sweat and something far more embarrassing. Your fingers would find their way between your thighs before you could stop yourself, chasing the echo of a pleasure that felt centuries old.

Each time he got closer. Each time his voice dropped lower. Each time your resistance frayed a little more.

You stopped reporting him.

You stopped trying to exorcise him on sight.

Instead you started looking for him.

One rainy evening, you found him waiting on the rooftop of your apartment building again. The city lights glittered below like scattered stars. Rain plastered his pink hair to his forehead and made his tattoos glisten.

You stepped out under the downpour without an umbrella, chains dormant at your sides.

“Why me?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain. “Why do you keep coming back?”

He turned to face you fully. For once the smirk was gone. In its place was something rawer. Hungrier.

“Because you chose me when no one else would,” he said simply. “Because you sat at my right hand and never trembled. Because even when they killed you to break me, you looked up at me with those same eyes and told me you’d find me again.”

He took a slow step forward, rain streaming down his face.

“And because this body is only a vessel. When you remember, truly remember, I’ll show you the real me again. The one you loved. The one with four arms that used to hold you like the world could burn and it wouldn’t matter.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Another flash hit you: gold circlet in your hair, four hands on your body, a second mouth growling your name like worship while he spilled deep inside you.

You didn’t run.

You stepped closer instead, until you stood directly in front of him, rain soaking both of you.

“I don’t understand any of this,” you whispered. “But… I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

His hand rose slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing rain from your lower lip.

“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with centuries of waiting. “Because I’m done being patient, little star.”

He leaned in, lips hovering just above yours. You felt the heat of him, the ancient power coiled beneath borrowed skin. Your eyes fluttered half-closed.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Instead he pulled back with visible effort, a dark promise in his eyes.

“Soon. When you see me I won’t stop at almost.”

Then he vanished into red mist, leaving you alone in the rain with trembling legs and a heart that no longer felt like it belonged entirely to this life.

That night the dreams changed again.

This time, when you woke gasping his name “Ryomen” it didn’t feel like a question.

It felt like the beginning of an answer.

You called in sick to Jujutsu High the next morning.

Instead you wandered the rainy streets, hood up, starfire flickering restlessly at your fingertips. Every shadow felt like it might hide him. Every gust of wind carried the faint scent of blood and incense.

He found you near the old shrine where you had first properly confronted him weeks ago.

This time he didn’t hide on the rooftop. He stepped out of the torii gate like he belonged there, pink hair dark with rain, tattoos glistening. He wore no hoodie tonight. Just a simple black shirt that clung to Yuji’s muscled frame and revealed more of the black markings crawling across his skin.

You stopped in the middle of the stone path. Rain poured down around you both.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply walked forward until only an arm’s length separated you.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said quietly. No taunt this time. Just raw observation.

“I haven’t,” you admitted. Your voice shook. “The dreams… they’re not dreams anymore. I see blood. I see gold. I see… you. But not like this.” You gestured at his current form. “Four arms. Four eyes. A mouth that… that used to…” Heat flooded your face.

Sukuna’s expression darkened with hunger. He closed the remaining distance in one step, one hand rising to cradle the back of your neck. The touch was firm, possessive, but he held back—waiting.

“Say the name,” he murmured, voice dropping to that low, layered register that made your knees weak. “The one you whispered in your sleep last night.”

Your lips parted. Rain streamed down your face.

“Ryomen,” you breathed.

Something in him snapped.

He pulled you against him, mouth crashing down on yours in a kiss that tasted of centuries of waiting. It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth and tongue and raw need. One hand fisted in your wet hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. For a moment you swore you felt two extra spectral arms wrap around your back, holding you tighter.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up his chest, nails digging into his shoulders. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing marks on his skin that healed almost instantly.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

“You’re close,” he growled against your lips. “So close to seeing me. The real me.”

You stared up at him, chest heaving. “Show me.”

His eyes flashed. For a heartbeat the vessel cracked. Pink hair darkened, tattoos spread further, two extra arms manifested fully, and four crimson eyes burned down at you.

The sight hit you like lightning.

The rooftop dream. The temple. The valley. The way those four hands had held you. The way those four eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth keeping.

Recognition slammed into you all at once.

You didn’t recoil.

Instead your hands rose, trembling, to cup the sides of his face. Tracing the markings exactly as you had in every memory, every dream, every lifetime.

“It’s you,” you whispered, voice breaking. Tears mixed with rain on your cheeks. “Ryomen Sukuna. My king. I only knew your true form… I didn’t recognize you in this vessel. But it’s you.”

A sound tore from his throat—half growl, half laugh, pure relief and obsession.

He lifted you effortlessly with all four arms now fully manifested, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you against the nearest torii pillar. Rain poured down, but neither of you cared.

“Finally,” he snarled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “My queen. My star. You’re mine again.”

You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, starfire and cursed energy mingling in the air around you.

“I remember,” you gasped as one of his lower hands slid beneath your soaked shirt, claws lightly scraping your skin. “I remember everything. The battles. The nights. The way you held me when the world tried to tear us apart.”

His forehead pressed to yours, four eyes blazing with centuries of devotion and hunger.

“Then let me remind you of the rest,” he growled, voice rough with promise. “Right now.”

The rain continued to fall, washing away the last fragments of your old life.

But in the shelter of four arms and four burning eyes, you had finally come home.

The torii gate groaned under the sudden surge of cursed energy as Sukuna’s true form tore fully through the borrowed vessel.

He was massive again. Towering. The real Ryomen Sukuna you had loved in the Heian era.

And between his hips, where the vessel had hidden it, two thick cocks stood hard and heavy, already leaking at the tips from the sheer force of recognition. The upper one curved slightly, ridged along the underside. The lower sat heavier, thicker at the base, both flushed dark and pulsing with cursed energy that made the air around them shimmer.

You didn’t flinch. You had never flinched from him.

Instead you reached up with both hands, fingers tracing the black markings across his chest exactly as you had done a thousand years ago. Starfire flickered at your fingertips, leaving faint glowing trails that faded almost instantly.

“It’s really you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion and need. “My king. My monster. I only knew this form… I didn’t recognize the boy’s face. But these marks… these eyes… this body that used to ruin me so perfectly.”

A low, guttural sound rumbled from both his mouths. The main one curving into a feral grin, the one on his stomach opening to drag a hot, wet tongue across your collarbone.

“Mine,” he growled, voice layered and rough, echoing with the weight of every lonely century. “You kept me waiting, little star. Centuries of nothing but ash and memory. Now I’m taking back what’s mine.”

Four hands moved at once.

Two pinned your wrists above your head against the rain-slick torii pillar. One gripped your hip, claws shredding through your soaked clothes with casual ease until they fell away in wet ribbons. The last cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could claim your mouth in a bruising kiss.

His tongue—longer, rougher—invaded without mercy, tasting every gasp and whimper. The stomach mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark mark while its tongue flicked over your pulse.

You moaned into the kiss, arching against him. Rain poured down your bare skin, but the heat rolling off his body made you burn. When he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips.

“Ryomen… please,” you breathed. “I remember how you felt. Both of them. I need you.”

His laugh was dark and triumphant. “Greedy little queen. You always were.”

He lifted you effortlessly with the two lower arms, spreading your thighs wide around his waist. The upper two kept your wrists pinned while one hand slid between your legs, thick fingers parting your folds and finding you already dripping—not just from rain.

“So wet for me already,” he rumbled, two fingers pushing inside you without warning, curling hard against that spot that made your vision spark. “This cunt still remembers its king. Clenching like it missed me.”

You cried out, hips rocking desperately against his hand. The stretch was familiar, perfect. Starfire flickered wildly around your fingers, painting glowing patterns across his forearms.

He pumped his fingers faster, scissoring them, stretching you open while the stomach mouth moved lower to latch onto one of your breasts. Sharp teeth grazed your nipple before the tongue soothed the sting, sucking hard until you were trembling.

When you were shaking on the edge, he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the heads of both cocks.

The upper one nudged your entrance first, thick and insistent. The lower pressed just below it, sliding against your clit with every shallow thrust.

“Look at me,” he commanded, all four eyes blazing. “Watch who’s claiming you again.”

You locked eyes with him as he pushed in. Slow, relentless, both cocks stretching you open at once. The burn was exquisite. Your walls fluttered and clenched around the dual invasion, the ridges and thickness dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. He bottomed out with a shared groan, hips flush against yours, both cocks buried to the hilt.

“Fuck—Ryomen—so full—”

“That’s it,” he snarled, voice rough. “Take both of them like the queen you are. This pussy was made for me. Only me.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving. Deep, powerful thrusts that rocked your entire body against the pillar. Rain streamed down your joined bodies, making every slide wetter, filthier. The dual stretch was overwhelming in the best way; every thrust dragged both cocks against your walls, the lower one grinding perfectly against that spot inside while the upper rubbed your clit from the inside with every withdrawal.

Four hands held you exactly where he wanted you—open, pinned, claimed.

The stomach mouth continued its assault on your breasts, licking, sucking, biting until your nipples ached deliciously. His main mouth crashed against yours again, swallowing every moan and scream.

You came first, hard and sudden. walls spasming around both cocks as starfire exploded outward in a brilliant lattice, wrapping around both of you like glowing chains. Your vision whited out, a broken cry of his name tearing from your throat.

Sukuna followed with a guttural roar that shook the shrine grounds. His hips stuttered, burying both cocks as deep as they would go while he spilled inside you. Hot, thick pulses from both lengths, filling you until it leaked out around him despite how tightly you were stretched.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he kept you impaled on both cocks, four arms wrapping fully around your smaller frame as he carried you away from the pillar. He laid you down on the wet grass beneath the torii, still buried deep, covering you with his massive body like a living shield.

Rain continued to fall, but his heat kept you warm.

You reached up, tracing the markings on his face with gentle fingers, tears mixing with rain on your cheeks.

“I remember everything now,” you whispered. “The battles. The nights. The way they tried to break you by taking me. I told you I’d find you again… and I did.”

Sukuna’s forehead pressed to yours, all four eyes half-lidded with something dangerously close to tenderness beneath the raw hunger.

“You kept your promise, little star,” he murmured, voice rough but softer than you had ever heard it. One hand stroked through your wet hair while another rested possessively over your lower stomach, where you could still feel both cocks twitching inside you. “Now you wear my crown again. Rule beside me. The world once tried to separate us. It failed.”

You smiled, pulling him down into another deep kiss.

“Then remind me one more time tonight,” you whispered against his lips, rolling your hips to feel both cocks shift inside you. “Make me scream your name until the whole city hears who I belong to.”

His grin was feral.

“Gladly.”

He started moving again. Slower this time, deep and deliberate, both cocks dragging against every oversensitive inch. Four hands explored every curve, every mark he left behind. The stomach mouth licked the rainwater from your skin while he fucked you through another orgasm, then another, until you were sobbing with pleasure beneath him.

Only when the rain finally began to ease did he spill inside you a second time, both cocks pulsing as he marked you from the inside out.

Afterward he pulled you against his chest with all four arms, the gold circlet. Somehow still with him after all this time, now resting once more in your damp hair.

You traced idle patterns on his skin, fingers following the black tattoos you had memorized lifetimes ago.

“I chose you then,” you said softly. “I choose you again. In this life. In every life.”

Sukuna’s arms tightened around you, possessive and eternal.

“And I will burn every world that tries to take you from me,” he vowed.

The King of Curses and his Queen lay together beneath the clearing sky, two bodies. One ancient and monstrous, one reborn in starfire, finally whole again.

The world had failed once.

It would not get another chance.

“there you go. arch that back like you’re worth something.”

sukuna’s got you restrained in a shiny pair of cuffs, wrists crossed at your back as you work yourself on his cock, whining from how hard it is when you don’t have the stability of your hands. right now, there’s only a $100 bill on the bed — that same bill that he slid between your thighs earlier, and is expecting you to work yourself up to a higher prize.

of course, under his conditions.

your sugar daddy has always been a cruel, old man, but what’s more cruel right now is the obscene stretch of his cock splitting you open.

you’re on fire, face all sweaty and flush, eyes leaking more tears than your needy cunt, taking him in like he never left. the lack of control is overwhelming, but your man is a stickler for perfection — for trust and respect. sensory deprivation is only a tool, and he’s the one holding the screw.

wad of cash in-hand, sukuna stands on his knees, shirtless, thick hair-covered chest catching the shadows of the dull room lights. “all the way… that’s another two hundred.” he throws down another couple of bills, letting them flutter over your back and tumble away.

“it…. ‘s too much.”

“so you tell me often.” he tries to cover the shake in his voice with a hum, but you catch it. your knees go weak, sending you face-first into the sheets. “ach— now you’re down fifty.” sukuna leans over you, huge body covering yours as he snatches your prize right back in his huge fist.

you whine as the new position pushes the rest of his grueling length inside of you, voice gone and shaking as you cry into the mattress, begging with words unsaid and useless little noises that you know he needs to hear.

your body sucks him up like you're made for him, lewd, wet noises creating a song between your heated bodies as he sits back up, grinding into your ass, hands on your hips. "there you are... you just earned it back."

"p-please," you cry, hips absentmindedly bucking back into his hard pelvis, rocking with the weight of his being.

"please, what? who?" he lets you toy with him as he fingers through another stack of two bills, oddly underwhelmed and so focused on the task at hand that he's not even watching the way your eager cunt swallows him up, fluttering and begging for more that he can't give.

"please... sir... need you..."

"like it when you beg." he hums, strong hands on your hips, massaging the flesh as he rocks in and out, slowly, maddeningly.