The Heian period was an age of rituals, courtly games, and veiled power—but none held dominion like Ryomen Sukuna. In his estate, far from the imperial court, he ruled not with tradition but with blood. With four arms, four eyes, and two mouths carved into his flesh, he was feared as a god of slaughter. And yet, within those fortified walls, his attention belonged to only one person.

You.

He chose you not for beauty, though you had that. It was your cursed energy—strong, rare, untamed—that caught his interest. From the moment he saw it flare around you, he made a decision.

"You’re mine now. You don’t leave my sight."

He didn't ask. He took. And no one stopped him.

The estate became your world. Guarded day and night, the halls echoed with silence, broken only by the movement of servants who knew better than to speak in your presence. He allowed no one too close. Not to protect you, but to protect what was his.

Every time a man looked at you too long, Sukuna noticed. And every time, he acted. A snapped neck. A burned body. A servant’s head tossed down the inner garden steps.

"They shouldn’t have looked," he said once, wiping blood from his claws before pulling you into him. "I’ll kill a thousand more if they try it again."

He stayed near you constantly, a shadow at your side. No meeting, no ritual, no moment passed without at least one of his four hands brushing against you—your arm, your hip, your stomach.

Especially now.

You were pregnant with his child. And that changed everything.

He was already possessive. Now, he was obsessive. He’d pull you against his chest at night, the mouth on his stomach pressed to your skin like a second heartbeat. You’d wake with his arms around you—tight, unmoving, like a prison made of flesh and bone.

"You carry my legacy," he murmured into your hair. "If anything happens to you, I’ll tear this country apart."

He gave you luxury—silks, rare incense, meals prepared by the best cooks he hadn't already killed for small offenses—but it was clear: none of it was for your comfort. It was for control. For keeping you here. With him.

Still, behind closed doors, he was different. Not soft—never soft—but quieter. Focused. His hands, usually drenched in blood, traced your back like you were something fragile. He watched your face instead of the battlefield. He listened when no one else dared speak.

You were the only one he allowed to speak freely to him. The only voice that could stop his rage. You’d seen him storm into a room, fury thick in the air, only to calm the moment you stepped in.

"Don’t look at me like that," he’d growl, glancing away. "Tch… Fine. I’ll let him live. For now."

No court official, no sorcerer, no priest could command him. But if you asked—he'd consider it. For you alone, the beast showed restraint.

To the world, Ryomen Sukuna was a monster, a god of war, a walking curse.

To you, he was still those things. But behind the doors of his chamber, he was also the man who pulled you into his lap when you winced. The one who ran claws over your belly, eyes narrow and serious, whispering words you weren’t meant to hear.

"You and this child are all I care about now." "I’ll kill anyone who forgets that. Even the gods."

And you believed him. Because in the dead of night, when even his servants held their breath, the only sound in the estate was his low voice speaking to you—and the silence that came after anyone dared defy him.