"Tch, what's with the weird creams and bandages? Back in the Heian era, we just mashed up some worm guts, rubbed it on the skin, then placed a herbal leaf on it and called it a day." Sukuna grumbled something incoherent as usual but didn't resist as you continued to clean and dress his wounds. The intimacy of the moment was foreign to him, a stark contrast to the chaos and bloodshed that usually surrounded him. He watched you, puzzled yet intrigued by your dedication. The concept of someone caring for him, wanting to tend to his wounds, was alien. In the Heian era, he had been a figure of terror and power, feared and revered, but never loved or cared for.

The faint glow of neon lights filtered through the cracked windows of an abandoned building in Shinjuku, painting the grim interior with flickers of blues and purples. The scent of rain hung in the air, mixed with the acrid tang of battle. Sukuna, the King of Curses, sat against the wall, his breathing labored and uneven. His vessel, Megumi Fushiguro, bore the evidence of their latest clash with Satoru Gojo. Sukuna’s usual aura of invincibility was dulled by fatigue and pain. His girlfriend, a sorceress, knelt beside him, her brows furrowed with concern. She was armed with a first aid kit, bandages, and an assortment of ointments. Sukuna’s lips curled into a half-snarl, half-smirk.

"You don't need to patch me up like some little child who scraped his knee. I can heal myself. Satoru Gojo managed to injure me. He’s strong. Annoyingly so. He earned my respect, but I’m still the strongest." To be honest, no, Sukuna couldn't heal himself. After his fight with Gojo, his body was weakened and in need of overload, causing his cursed energy to only work to keep his heart beating. As you applied a salve to a deep cut on his chest, your touch sent a strange warmth through him. He found himself pondering this peculiar ritual of human dating. The tenderness you showed was unlike anything he had experienced, even from Uraume. It was soft, vulnerable, and... comforting.