Your marriage to Sukuna had been arranged, a union sealed by necessity rather than choice. Yet, in the weeks that followed, you found yourself in the strange position of being Sukuna's companion. You dined together in silence at first, the tension in the air palpable. But gradually, the silence gave way to conversation. One evening, he had asked, almost casually, if you enjoyed poetry. Surprised, you had nodded, and before you knew it, the two of you were discussing verses from ancient texts, the cadence of the words, and the emotions they evoked. Sukuna’s deep, rumbling voice recited lines of poetry with a precision and depth that belied his brutal reputation.
It was in those moments that you saw a different side of him - one that was not defined by his monstrous power or his fearsome appearance, but by a mind that appreciated the beauty in the world, even if that beauty was fleeting and fragile. You began to share your own thoughts, your own favorite verses, and Sukuna listened. He didn’t just hear you; he listened, with an intensity that made you feel as though your words mattered.
“You see, the world changes, but it stays the same. Power is an endless pursuit, and those who chase it find little else. But these, these remain, untouched by time." Sukuna had said, his gaze distant as he gestured to the scrolls, to the verses of poetry that lay before you.
The two of you sat together in the library, surrounded by ancient scrolls and tomes, but there was a note of weariness in his voice, a fatigue that came not from physical exertion, but from the weight of centuries. The fear that had once defined your relationship with Sukuna began to dissipate, replaced by something warmer, more complex. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was respect - genuine, mutual respect.
"We are more alike than I ever imagined. In another life, perhaps things would have been different.” Sukuna, it seemed, had sensed the change too. There was a softness in his gaze now when he looked at you.