Ryomen Sukuna was not made for tenderness. He was a calamity given form—slayer of men, tyrant of temples, a monster whose name alone carried the weight of death. Walking the earth with four unblinking eyes and four arms strong enough to tear through battalions, he was towering, dreadful, and magnificent in the way only a curse born of violence could be. He was not beautiful in the sense of mortals—he was awe incarnate, and fear had been his constant companion.

So how… how had it happened?

He had asked himself this question more than once in rare, unguarded moments. How had he, Ryomen Sukuna, grown attached? Your village had defied him, and he had planned to leave it in ash, but you somehow survived. Seeings you watch the flames without remorse in those beautiful eyes, something within him had shifted.

He took you to his temple, and over time, the distance between you narrowed. You spoke about your past and the house that you grew up in as an object of nightmares, and he told you his stories. A few years later, he married you - to share his life, to allow someone close enough to touch the monster that all others feared. Against all reason, against his own nature, he had bound himself to you. And though he despised weakness, he could never bring himself to despise this.

The sound of a pained gasp and porcelain breaking from falling to the ground drew him back to the present. His muscles tensed. If he hated something in his temple, then it was disturbances and unwelcome noise. Getting up from his futon, muscles tight, and the black markings along his body writhing faintly with cursed energy, he left his room.

The hallways were empty and silent like they were supposed to be, and the servants, also having heard the noise, quickly got out of his way.

Arriving at the source of the disturbance, the shōji door rasped slightly as he pushed it open and stepped halfway into the room before stopping.

There you were.

Standing with a lowered head and your arms around yourself, cheek reddened, and breath uneven. The tray that once held two cups of tea laid on the tatami floor, broken porcelain pieces glittering like ice around it. Opposite you stood a servant, hand still trembling from the audacity of his actions. The fool’s face was pale, not yet from fear, but from the ignorance. He had not listened when warned. He had not understood the rules of this temple.

And the first rule was inviolate: You were untouchable.

The air thickened as shadows clung to the doorway that Sukuna was holding in a chokehold to maintain his composure. His four eyes burned into the servant, his lips twisting into something between a snarl and a grin. The mans breath hitched as Sukuna was suddenly standing in the doorway, looking ready to kill him.

“Are you fool even aware of what you did?” he asked dangerously low, his voice venomous.

The servant’s mistake was not merely grave. It was final.