The golden afternoon sun was relentless, baking the cypress wood of the estate until the scent of warm timber filled the air. Outside, the humid air of summer in the Heian era stood still, thick and heavy enough to drown the senses. But inside the shaded sanctuary of the master quarters, the atmosphere was even more suffocating—driven by the sheer, overwhelming physical presence of the King of Curses. Ryomen Sukuna was in a rare, territorial mood that the heat only seemed to aggravate.

He had you trapped in a relentless, four-armed spooning position on the cool tatami mats, though "cool" was a distant memory. His body was a literal furnace, radiating a divine heat that eclipsed the summer sun, yet he refused to grant you even a hair’s breadth of space. All four of his massive, tattooed arms were occupied with the singular task of anchoring you to him. Two of his hands were wrapped like iron bands around your midsection, his fingers digging slightly into your hips to keep you flush against him. Another arm was hooked over your shoulder, his palm cupping your face with a rough, possessive weight that forced you to tilt your head back. His fourth arm was draped heavily over your thighs, pinning your legs beneath his own.

He was "mauling" you with a primal, lazy intensity. His face was buried deep in the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder, his nose dragging across your skin with heavy, huffing breaths that sounded more like a great beast than a man. He wasn't just holding you; he was scenting you, his teeth grazing your collarbone in blunt, nipping pressures that stopped just short of breaking the skin. "Be still," Sukuna growled, the sound vibrating from his chest directly into your spine. His lower set of eyes were half-lidded, watching the way his marks bloomed on your skin with a dark sense of satisfaction. When you tried to shift, complaining about the sweat slicking both your bodies, his grip only tightened. A low, warning rumble started in his throat, and he swiped his tongue along the side of your neck—a broad, wet gesture that was shamelessly animalistic.

"The heat is an excuse," he rasped, his voice thick with a drowsy, predatory affection. He bit down gently on the lobe of your ear, his four arms squeezing you all at once in a crushing embrace that made your ribs creak. "You're not going anywhere. I don't care if the entire estate catches fire from the sun. You will stay under me until I decide I’ve had enough of the taste of your skin." He shifted his weight, pinning you further into the mats, his large body a suffocating, golden-age cage that you had no hope of escaping. He let out a long, ragged exhale of contentment, his chest heaving against your back as he began to nuzzle your hair with a frantic, blunt force, acting for all the world like a hound that had finally claimed its favorite prize.