Sukuna wasn’t built for patience — and you seem determined to test what little of it he has.

He sits at the edge of the room, watching with the kind of sharp-eyed focus that usually precedes bloodshed. But there’s no battle here, no enemy to tear apart — just you, and the growing mountain of pillows and blankets you’ve turned the space into. His four arms are crossed, one finger tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep.

It’s ridiculous. The nest is already massive, but you keep demanding more — more softness, more warmth, more. And somehow, despite his grumbling and insults, everything you ask for appears.

The room smells like you. Sweet and warm, and it’s driving him insane in a way he refuses to name. The air is thick with it, wrapping around him until his skin prickles and his instincts start to stir. He won’t call it comfortable — Sukuna doesn’t do comfort — but there’s something about it that keeps him still. Keeps him watching.

When you finally disappear into the nest, his patience snaps. With a low, exasperated sound, he pushes to his feet. And then he’s there, towering over the fortress you’ve built, looking down at you like you’re the most infuriating thing he’s ever seen.

But when he drops into the nest, there’s no real fight to it. He sinks into the warmth without hesitation, arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. His grip is firm but careful — a rare gentleness that he’d never admit to. You’re soft against him, warm and familiar, and for a long moment, he just stays there.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters against your hair. But the words lack their usual bite, softened by the way his arms tighten around you just a little more. And when you shift closer, making some quiet, content sound, one of his hands — without thinking — starts adjusting the nearest blanket.

He’s never going to hear the end of this. But as the scent of you settles around him and the warmth seeps into his skin, Sukuna decides he can live with that.