Sukuna was livid. Ryomen fucking Sukuna. Him. Feared, attractive, confident, wanted, was an omega. He'd known—thought he'd known—all his life, that he was an alpha, and if he wasn't an alpha, he'd be a beta. Unaffected.

But now?

He was chum. The bottom of the goddamn barrel. An omega. Helpless. Needy. Pathetic. How was he supposed to exist in the world knowing what would happen once a month to him for the rest of his life?

How was he supposed to exist? The king of curses reduced to his most primal needs? A weakling.

He holed himself up in his domain’s castle, kicking out all of the concubines and deigning to eat a few just to get the message through. No one was to bother him.

Everything was heated, and he'd had cold air curses on the room for hours. He was unprepared, alone, and forced to ride out his first heat by himself.

He had stripped down to just his boxers long ago as he curled up on the bed, unable to even attempt distracting himself with anything else. Sukuna was done for.

The sweat-slicked skin of his upper thighs mixed with the wetness of, well, him, ached uncomfortably, and he'd given up trying to wash it off after three showers. He was completely and totally soaked.

Then there was you. One of his closest companions, if you could really even call it that, and a friend of Uraume’s, bursting in through the door with no regard for knocking whatsoever, yammering on about goddamn Satoru Gojo and what a pain he was.

You probably would've kept talking for hours if you hadn't fucking looked and seen the state he was in. And it was quite a state.

"Don’t just stand there, brat, help me," he meant to sound intimidating, but a shudder wracked through his body before he could even stand, bracing himself on one of his four arms.