Chapter Text
Power in the Heian court was a silken thing – exquisitely soft to the touch, yet capable of a strength that could bind and break. No one understood this delicate balance better than the Fujiwara clan, who had woven themselves so thoroughly into the fabric of both imperial politics and the jujutsu world that they had become indistinguishable from power itself.
For generations, Fujiwara daughters had birthed emperors, graced the imperial consorts, and shaped the destiny of the nation. In the sunlit world of courtly intrigue, the Fujiwaras ruled through expertly arranged marriages and whispers as light as falling cherry blossoms. While lesser nobles bickered over titles and jostled for position, the Fujiwaras simply… owned everything that mattered.
But their greatest power lay not in the gilded cage of the court, but in the shadowed realm of jujutsu sorcery. The Fujiwara clan’s sorcerers were unmatched in their skill, their techniques the most refined, their cursed tools the most powerful. Their supremacy had become so ingrained, so absolute, that the very idea of a challenge to their authority seemed as ludicrous as suggesting the sun might reverse its course across the heavens.
This elegant arrangement might have persisted indefinitely had it not been for the inconvenient interruption of Ryomen Sukuna. A brutish upstart who had popped up from absolutely nowhere – and wasn’t that just the height of rudeness? – to wreak havoc across the lands. While his considerable power was offensive enough to the sensibilities of the court, it was his flagrant disregard for the established social order that proved utterly unforgivable. The jujutsu world quickly crowned him the King of Curses, though “King of Making the Fujiwara Clan Exceedingly Uncomfortable” might have been more accurate.
The Fujiwaras, naturally, did what any self-respecting noble family would do. The Celestial Squad – the clan’s elite force of jujutsu assassins – had been dispatched to remove this unseemly problem. The result? Well, perhaps it was best not to dwell on the rather spectacular failure that had ensued. Suffice it to say that the squad’s remains had been returned to the family, quite inconsiderately, in many lacquered boxes. One hardly knew where to put them all.
What followed this unfortunate incident was one of the most mortifying episodes in the otherwise illustrious Fujiwara history. Suddenly, the clan found itself engaging in an activity entirely foreign to their nature: public backpedaling. They declared the Celestial Squad had acted independently, on their own initiative (a lie so transparent it would have made a court politician blush). As if that humiliation were not enough, they then proceeded to shower the demon with lavish gifts. The finest silks, the rarest gems, delicacies fit to tempt even the Buddha from his meditations – all offered with trembling hands and strained smiles. Each gift conveyed the same desperate plea: We acknowledge your power, please, we beseech you, spare us your wrath.
Alas, Sukuna was not a creature to be appeased by mere trinkets, no matter how extravagant. His demand was one that caused even the most venerable Fujiwara elders to choke on their morning tea: the Fujiwara princess of the main bloodline – renowned as the unparalleled beauty of Heian-kyo, the pride and joy of the entire Fujiwara clan.
Faced with the unenviable choice between sacrificing their most prized daughter or facing the very real possibility of annihilation at the hands of an irate King of Curses, the Fujiwara elders, after much hand-wringing, arrived at what they deemed a perfectly logical solution. The princess, accompanied by a suitable retinue, was to be dispatched to Hida Province with all possible haste, precisely as the demon had dictated. It simply wouldn’t do to keep a King waiting, after all.
This delightful piece of news was delivered to you one crisp autumn morning, as you reclined in your favored perch – a comfortable wooden bench near the window. There, you indulged in such appropriately ladylike pursuits as watching the vibrant maple leaves drift lazily earthward, sipping delicately at your tea, and perusing poetry of somewhat questionable merit. The morning had been progressing quite pleasantly until Elder Yoshifusa’s arrival cast a distinct shadow over your peaceful sanctuary.
Yoshifusa appeared in your chambers looking as though he had swallowed something foul. Perhaps he had. His countenance bore the kind of grimness usually reserved for announcing plagues, natural disasters, or tax increases, all equally dreadful prospects.
“The Elders take no pleasure in this decision, but circumstances leave us with no alternative, my great lady,” Yoshifusa announced, his expression set in what he believed to be an attitude of grave dignity. “Surely, you must understand our position.”
You took a languid sip of tea, maintaining your comfortable sprawl because really, what was the point of proper posture when one was being sold off to a demon?
“No alternative?” You mused, swirling the tea in your cup with elegant disinterest. “How fascinating. And pray tell, what became of our most cherished traditions? The ones where men fight their own battles and die their own noble deaths, as nature intended? It seems we have deviated from that path.”
Yoshifusa’s shoulders tightened at your tone, though he managed – with admirable restraint – not to comment on it. “We did, in fact, attempt to engage him in battle,” he offered, by way of explanation, a touch defensively.
A laugh bubbled up from your throat. “Oh, did you now? Curious. I seem to recall not a single one of you dared venture within a province’s distance of him. You simply sent others to perish in your stead and then washed your hands of the whole affair with remarkable efficiency. A commendable strategy, to be sure.”
A flare of cursed energy rippled through the room – ah, you’d struck a nerve, it seemed. Still, Yoshifusa clung to his dignity. “Princess, I did not come here to debate clan strategy,” he said, his voice tight. “This is merely a courtesy notification. The decision stands, regardless of your... opinions on the matter.”
“How very thoughtful of you,” you replied, your smile all moonlight and razor edges.
“This is your duty as a Fujiwara princess,” he pressed on, radiating a positive aura of moral certainty. Oh, the righteousness of old men. “The clan has provided you with every luxury, every comfort imaginable. You have never known want in your life. Surely it is not unreasonable to expect some small measure of reciprocation, for the greater good of our family.”
“A valid point indeed,” you agreed sagely. “Do enlighten me further with your wisdom, Elder.”
Yoshifusa glanced around the empty room and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if fearing the King of Curses might be lurking behind one of your decorative screens. “Your task, my lady, is to keep Sukuna... amenable. Entertained, by whatever means necessary. The clan would benefit greatly from his favor.” He paused, eyes darting about once more. “However... should an opportunity present itself, you are to eliminate him. You may very well be our only hope.”
“As you wish, Elder Yoshifusa,” you nodded, bestowing another brilliant smile upon him.
Your ready acquiescence clearly unsettled Yoshifusa – Fujiwaras being constitutionally suspicious creatures, and for good reason. He frowned but thought better of pursuing the matter further.
“The clan shall never forget your noble sacrifice, Princess,” he intoned solemnly, bowing low in a display of respect he likely did not feel.
The moment he straightened, you flicked your wrist. The remaining tea in your cup described a perfect arc through the air before decorating his shocked face in a rather fetching pattern of droplets.
“That’s for Uro,” you explained, your smile never wavering though your eyes had gone as cold and unforgiving as midwinter frost. “Now, unless you’d like a more thorough demonstration of what she might have experienced, I suggest you remove yourself from my sight.”
Yoshifusa’s face performed an impressive series of color changes before he managed to swallow his fury and a good deal of his pride along with it. He retreated with as much dignity as a tea-soaked elder could muster, which, it must be said, was not much at all.
And thus began your grand adventure – if by “adventure” one meant being unceremoniously stuffed into an ornate carriage bound for Hida Province the very next morning. You didn’t even have time to bid farewell to your favorite koi fish, who would undoubtedly be devastated by your absence. Or perhaps they’d simply continue their blissful circles, oblivious to the drama unfolding beyond their pond – lucky creatures.
The journey proved long and arduous, but you found yourself relishing this rare glimpse of life beyond the suffocating embrace of the Fujiwara estate. You couldn’t recall your last taste of freedom – possibly because there hadn’t been one. The capital revealed itself through the tiny carriage window like an elaborately illustrated scroll, except this one moved and breathed and smelled of humanity – a home you barely knew and would likely never see again.
The streets bustled with life in all its messy, glorious forms: merchants hawking their wares, children darting between the legs of adults, monks serenely making their way through the chaos. As your procession passed, people bowed their heads respectfully, children waved with unbridled enthusiasm, and some even dared to offer flowers and sweets, which your attendants collected with appropriate ceremony. You returned their warmth with real smiles – more genuine affection than you’d shown your entire clan in all your years of existence. Even the mountain paths later in the journey proved more tolerable company than the Fujiwara elders. At least the mountains were honest in their dangers, unlike the honey-coated poison that passed for conversation in the clan’s halls.
Thanks to the Fujiwaras’ obscene wealth and far-reaching connections, it took a mere fortnight to transport you and your absurd retinue to Sukuna’s doorstep. Your entourage rivaled that of an imperial princess – a ludicrous display of pomp that spoke more of the clan’s insecurity than any real concern for your comfort. You had to admire their commitment to overcompensation.
Of course, you hadn’t expected Sukuna himself to be waiting at the gates, twirling a bouquet and spouting poetry. But surely there would be some sort of welcoming committee? A few trembling servants? Perhaps a terrified local official?
How delightfully wrong you were.
Standing before the imposing gates of the King of Curses’ estate was a solitary figure, as still and unwelcoming as a statue carved from ice and spite. Your eyes were immediately drawn to their unusual appearance – silver hair cropped short, framing delicate yet androgynous features, too perfect to be clearly male or female. White robes billowed dramatically in the winter wind, as if nature itself were conspiring to make their appearance as theatrical as possible. Truly, it was all a bit much.
Their frigid gaze flickered from your frankly ridiculous entourage to you, scrutinizing every inch as you approached with the perfect poise drilled into you since birth. Your head attendant supported you as protocol demanded, though you suspected you could have managed the walk perfectly well without having your elbow clutched like a precious tea vessel.
“For someone touted as the greatest beauty of Heian-kyo,” the figure finally spoke. “You look decidedly... average.” Their nose wrinkled in distaste. “Either the standards at the capital must be abysmally low, or your portraits were generously enhanced.”
You offered them your most practiced court smile, the one that suggested butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth – mainly because it would be too terrified to even attempt such a feat.
”Well,” you replied, your tone light as a spring breeze. “Those artists wouldn’t have earned their rather substantial fees if they’d faithfully captured every flaw, now would they? A touch of artistic license is to be expected, surely.”
This casual hostility was child’s play compared to the viper’s nest of the Fujiwara clan. You’d been born a Fujiwara daughter, after all. Venom didn’t just flow through your veins; it called them home. A little frost was hardly going to ruffle your feathers.
The figure’s eyes narrowed, taken aback by your easy charm. They seemed to recalculate their approach and decided to shelve their pointed critique of your clan’s blatant false advertising.
“I am Uraume,” they announced. “I oversee all matters concerning the King of Curses in this estate.” Their gaze swept dismissively over your entourage. “Now that you’ve arrived safely, dismiss your servants. Their services won’t be required here.”
Your head attendant bristled like an offended cat. “This is preposterous! You cannot expect my lady to remain here unattended!” she exclaimed, aghast.
Uraume’s glare could have frozen a whole lake solid. “Was I somehow unclear?” they asked. The temperature seemed to plummet with each word.
“My lady is not some peasant girl you can order about,” the attendant persisted through clenched teeth. “She is a princess of the main Fujiwara bloodline, the highest-ranking nobility of the imperial court. You cannot possibly expect her to live without even a single maid!”
Uraume’s gaze sharpened to a deadly point, and frost began to form everywhere – creeping across the ground, clinging to nearby tree branches, even crystallizing on the hems of your opulent robes. It didn’t take a genius to deduce they were a sorcerer with some sort of ice-based technique. How charmingly on-brand.
“I won’t repeat myself,” Uraume’s voice was calm, but promised violence as surely as storm clouds promised rain. “You will leave these lands immediately. Lord Sukuna shows great mercy in allowing your departure at all. Do not squander his generosity, lest you fail to live long enough to regret your impudence.”
The rest of your retinue cowered in fear. Even the brave head attendant seemed shaken, though her misplaced sense of duty wouldn’t let her back down so easily. As she visibly geared up for an argument that would end with everyone’s brutal demise, you smoothly intervened.
“There’s no cause for concern,” you soothed, placing a reassuring hand on your attendant’s arm. “I’m here as a gesture of goodwill. Let us not create unnecessary friction.” When she hesitated, you offered a gentle smile. “The Elders will understand you performed your duties admirably. Return with the others and inform them I shall write when circumstances permit.”
You turned to Uraume with calculated deference. “I am permitted correspondence with my family, I presume?”
They inclined their head slightly. “You may write.” Their lips curved into a smile that would have made a demon proud, silently adding what any fool could hear: Assuming you survive long enough to put brush to paper, that is.
Despite the frosty reception, Uraume grudgingly allowed your attendants to deposit your belongings in your designated chambers – tucked away in what felt like the deepest recesses of the sprawling estate. They even permitted you the small mercy of a private farewell with your entourage, though their impatience was palpable. One might think they had more pressing matters to attend to than overseeing the settling in of a mere princess.
As your retinue began their reluctant withdrawal, their faces a mixture of concern and barely concealed relief that they weren’t the ones being left behind, Uraume’s flat voice cut through:
”The estate has ample servants to handle the mundane tasks of cooking, cleaning, and other such menial labor. However, you’d do well to remember that from this moment forward, you’re a princess in name only.”
Their eyes bore into you, hunting for any sign of defiance as they continued. “You’re here to serve Lord Sukuna, just as we all do. The only difference is that you’ll be wearing finer silk while performing your duties. Bear that in mind and behave accordingly. Should you manage to earn my Lord’s favor, you may continue to live in the comfort you’ve grown accustomed to in the capital. But make no mistake – that comfort is a privilege, not a right. It can be revoked at any moment.”
Uraume’s gaze flitted briefly towards the distant wings of the estate, a hint of something unreadable – perhaps amusement, perhaps something darker – in their expression. “There are, as you might expect, other women here, residing in separate quarters. You may converse with them if you wish, but I warn you – do not bring your petty squabbles and jealousies to my Lord’s attention. He has no patience for such trivialities.”
Their voice took on a slightly less hostile edge, though “accommodating” would be a stretch. “If you require anything, inform me directly, and me only. I will see to your needs... within reason. Is that understood?”
You met their gaze steadily, your voice a model of demure acquiescence. “Of course, Uraume. You’re most kind to explain everything so thoroughly. It sets my mind at ease.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Uraume’s features, quickly masked by a thin veneer of reluctant approval. They had expected the vapid histrionics, tearful outbursts, or haughty pronouncements typical of a spoiled princess, not this easy obedience. Pleased with their victory in this little power play, they launched into an extensive litany of house rules, completely oblivious to the fact that your attentive expression was nothing more than a facade.
Inwardly, you were positively giddy. In their eagerness to assert dominance and put you in your place, Uraume had unwittingly done you an enormous favor. Every single member of your “loyal” retinue had been a plant – spies and assassins embedded by the Elders, masquerading as maids and attendants, ready to report on your every move or worse, to betray you at the opportune moment. Now, you were truly alone, blissfully free from their watchful eyes and the consequences of their actions. Sure, you were surrounded by enemies on all sides. But when, in your entire life, had that not been the case? This was simply a change of scenery in the same old game.
Once Uraume had exhausted their reservoir of regulations, they fixed you with a stern look. “Now, go and make yourself presentable,” they ordered crisply, managing to make it sound like both a royal decree and a threat. “Lord Sukuna may return at any moment from his endeavors. You will be ready to receive him properly.”
In other words, get clean, get pretty, and be prepared to service the King of Curses in whichever manner he saw fit, whenever he deigned to return from whatever calamity he was currently inflicting upon this unfortunate countryside.
Your chambers, while spacious, came equipped with only a modest washroom. For a proper bath, you were directed to the estate’s communal facilities. The bathhouse was unexpectedly grand – a cavernous space dominated by a large stone pool that seemed to defy logic. Its steaming waters flowed continuously, as if fed by some hidden hot spring, though knowing the King of Curses’ reputation, it was equally likely to be powered by the blood and tears of his vanquished enemies. One could never be sure with him. Tendrils of vapor curled through the air, lending the space an otherworldly quality that was probably intentional. You imagined Sukuna appreciated a certain level of dramatic flair.
Thanks to the late hour (or perhaps everyone else’s superior survival instincts), you were blessedly alone. The prospect of making small talk with Sukuna’s other “acquisitions” was a challenge you were more than happy to postpone, if not avoid altogether. You methodically undid the knots of your elaborately styled hair, letting the long strands cascade down your back. Layer by layer, you shed the ornate robes that had been your armor in this treacherous life and lowered yourself into the deliciously hot pool.
The heat enveloped you, instantly beginning to work out the tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders since this ill-fated journey began. You set about the task of cleansing yourself. Your movements were efficient despite the absence of your usual army of attendants to scrub your back with fragrant soaps or massage scented oils into your skin. In fact, this small measure of solitude was oddly freeing.
Your thoughts inevitably drifted to your grand plan. Survival, as always, was the paramount concern. Then, once you had gotten what you desired from this demonic arrangement (and hopefully kept all your limbs attached and in their proper places), the rest could follow.
Keeping Sukuna satisfied seemed, on the surface, a straightforward enough task. The Elders had made certain to include in your retinue a cadre of seasoned courtesans – women whose wealth of experience in the bedchamber was matched only by their enthusiasm in imparting said knowledge, whether you wanted to hear it or not. And you often had not.
After many hours and lurid details that you wished to unhear, their thorough crash course in the art of pleasing a man had essentially boiled down to one core principle: let him stick it wherever he wants, whenever he wants, and pretend to enjoy it immensely like your life depends on it – which, in this case, it most assuredly did.
Simple enough, you’d naively thought. After all, how different could the King of Curses truly be from any other man when it came to such base matters? When stripped of their titles and pretensions, all men were essentially the same on the inside. Or more specifically, down there. You’d assumed this arrangement would be akin to being sold off in marriage to any other pompous nobleman – just that this particular gentleman possessed a higher body count and a greater propensity for casual mass murder. It wasn’t a comforting thought, but a manageable one.
Reality, however, was not content to let your moment of self-assurance linger. Miles and miles from the gilded cage of your former home, you were granted not even a heartbeat of blissful ignorance. A sudden surge of cursed energy rippled through the air, setting your nerves alight with primal fear. Your gaze snapped to the bathhouse entrance, and in that instant, all your bravado crumbled to ash.
There, looming in the doorway like the physical manifestation of every nightmare you’d ever had (plus a few you hadn’t gotten around to yet), stood Ryomen Sukuna in all his terrifying glory.
Your heart, which had been merrily racing along with your schemes mere moments ago, now plummeted into the depths of your stomach and took up residence somewhere in the vicinity of your knees. For Sukuna was not merely inhuman – he was living proof of the grotesque creativity of whatever twisted god or malevolent force had shaped him, a masterpiece of the macabre.
He towered over you, easily surpassing seven feet in height, his frame corded with muscles that spoke of strength beyond mortal comprehension. It was as if someone had taken the idealized form of a warrior and then stretched it past the point of reason, creating something that straddled the line between awe-inspiring and utterly horrifying, with a healthy lean toward the latter.
But it was his face that truly cemented the wrongness of his being. The right side was a mangled catastrophe, as if the flesh had been melted and then haphazardly reassembled by a blind sculptor. Four eyes, each glowing with the intensity of fresh-spilled blood, gazed out from this ruin of a visage. They moved independently, taking in every detail of your form with predatory focus.
His haori hung open, revealing a torso that defied all logic and good taste. A gaping maw leered from his stomach, complete with gleaming teeth and a tongue so long it could probably lick its own elbow. If it had elbows. Which it didn’t, because it was a damn mouth on a stomach. Why a mouth? Why there? The questions plagued you, though you suspected the answers would bring little comfort.
Intricate black markings flowed across his skin, tracing patterns that hurt your eyes to follow, somehow both mesmerizing and repellent. And then there were his arms. Arms, you realized with mounting hysteria, of which he possessed four. Each rippled with barely contained power, ending in hands that looked capable of crushing stone to powder with no more effort than it took you to crush a delicate flower.
You blinked, your mind reeling as it struggled to process the nightmare before you. What manner of cruel jest was this? Why had no one seen fit to mention that Sukuna actually looked like… that? The Elders, those conniving bastards, had royally screwed you over this time. You’d been prepared for a demon, yes, but this... this was beyond the pale. Beyond comprehension. Beyond anything remotely acceptable in civilized society.
Sukuna’s lips – the ones on his actual face – curled into a smile that was equal parts amusement and hunger. He was relishing your bewildered expression, drinking in your shock with evident enjoyment. He advanced toward you with the slow, deliberate gait of a predator toying with its helpless prey, allowing fear to ripen and sweeten the kill. Instinctively, you sank deeper into the steaming water, as if its meager depths could offer any protection from the abomination that was Ryomen Sukuna.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Princess,” he drawled. His voice was a deep, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.
All four of those unnerving crimson eyes fixed upon you, pinning you in place as surely as any physical restraint. His smirk widened, revealing teeth that were just a touch too sharp to be human. As though that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the mouth on his stomach mirrored the expression, its obscenely long tongue slithering out to lewdly wet its lips in a gesture of unmistakable anticipation.
“Lord Sukuna,” you managed to force out as an appropriate greeting, by some miracle.
The words came out breathy with terror, but at least you didn’t stutter. A small victory, all things considered – at least you’d maintained some semblance of the dignity expected of your noble status. Not that dignity was likely to save you from a disemboweling, or whatever else this monster might do with you.
Your feeble attempt at composure only heightened Sukuna’s amusement. He closed the remaining distance between you with unhurried steps, each movement a study in predatory grace. As he walked, he began to disrobe, his actions deliberate and teasing, designed to draw out your mounting apprehension. First to go was his haori, giving you an unobstructed view of his monstrous physique. Then came his hakama, sliding down legs that seemed to go on forever and pooling at his feet before being carelessly kicked aside with a dismissive flick of his ankle.
Against every shred of common sense and your own desperate will to avert your eyes, your gaze was drawn inexorably downward. From his warped face, past the expanse of his broad chest, lingering briefly on the nauseating spectacle of his stomach-mouth (which, you could swear, seemed to grin back at you with disconcerting glee), over the sharp jut of his hipbones, and then... oh, sweet merciful heavens above.
You had to stifle a gasp. What fresh hell was this? What new torment had the gods devised?
Where you had expected (dreaded) to find one impressive member, proportionally befitting his massive frame, you instead discovered two.
Yes, you had counted correctly.
Two.
Long, thick, and prominently veined. Impressively proportioned even in their current unexcited state. They hung heavily between his legs, swaying with each step he took. Each was tipped with a bulbous, purplish-red head, the color of bruised plums, and your mind helpfully supplied the information that they were likely to be even larger, harder, and more terrifying when fully aroused. You shuddered involuntarily at the thought, a shiver that had nothing to do with the bathhouse’s temperature.
Of course, you thought with a hysteria that threatened to bubble over into manic laughter. Tall as a mountain, four eyes, four arms, two–fucking–cocks. Why not? At this point, why not, indeed? It all seemed perfectly reasonable in this new reality you’d stumbled into. The world had clearly gone mad, and you, along with it.
The blood drained from your face, leaving you light-headed and faintly nauseous. Your mind raced. How would this even work, logistically speaking? You’d heard the whispers, the rumors that painted Sukuna as a cannibal with a particular fondness for eating those who displeased him. At this rate, judging by the sheer size of him and the equipment he possessed, there was a very real possibility you would be quite literally fucked to death long before you even had to worry about being his next meal. This certainly explained Uraume’s cryptic expression earlier. You probably, truly, wouldn’t survive long enough to pen even a single letter home.
Where were those courtesans and their wealth of carnal knowledge when you truly needed them? Surely they’d encountered such… anatomical anomalies before? Surely they’d had some contingency plan, some esoteric technique for handling a demon with multiple cocks – and, more importantly, surviving the experience?
Sukuna lowered himself into the steaming pool with a grace that belied his massive size, the water barely rippling as he submerged his lower half. Despite the warmth of the bath, a cold dread settled deep in your chest, spreading like icy tendrils through your veins. His intent was undeniable – this would be no simple shared bathing experience, no polite exchange of pleasantries while soaking in the soothing waters. The consuming hunger in his eyes, in all four of them, spoke of far more “interesting” activities to come. Activities you weren’t sure you wished to participate in.
He was so, so close now. You could already feel the heat radiating off him, taste the intoxicating power that clung to his skin. It was too much – too bizarre, too overwhelming, too utterly beyond the scope of anything you’d been prepared for, despite your extensive and unwanted education in the erotic arts.
As the full weight of your current predicament finally registered, your overtaxed mind decided it had quite enough of this utter nonsense. Enough absurdity. Enough demonic anatomy and impossible expectations. With a quiet sigh, your eyes rolled back in your head and you promptly fainted. Dead away. It seemed the most sensible course of action at the time.
The last thing you registered before your consciousness fled entirely was the rumble of Sukuna’s amused laughter and the sensation of strong arms – multiple strong arms – wrapping around your limp body, hauling you against his chest. His stomach-mouth pressed against your lower belly, its slick tongue slithering out to taste your skin, while his cocks – both of them – casually, audaciously, nestled between your legs, oh so very close to your most intimate place. And did you imagine it in your rapidly fading awareness? Or had those things just gotten much, much harder in such a short timeframe? They certainly felt larger. Heavier. More… eager. The demonic bastard actually derived pleasure, actual sexual arousal, from your terror. He practically throbbed with it, pulsed with wicked delight.
Damn him. Damn him and his four arms, four eyes, and two massive cocks to the deepest pits of hell, where he belonged. Damn the Fujiwara Elders and their machinations. Damn this whole situation to the nine circles and back again.
A desperate part of your mind prayed fervently that this was all some elaborate fever dream. Surely, when you awoke, you would find yourself back in the familiarity of the Fujiwara compound, far from the nightmare that was Ryomen Sukuna and his... excessively endowed anatomy.
But deep down, beneath the layers of shock and denial, you knew the truth. This was no dream, no illusion. This was your new life. Your last and greatest gamble. When your consciousness returned, you would have to face it head-on, with all the courage and cunning you could muster.
The real challenge had only just begun. Whether you liked it or not, you were about to have your hands very, very full. In more ways than one. And likely not just your hands. Oh, no. Not just your hands at all.