While your boyfriend, Sukuna Ryomen, was a renowned tattoo artist, you had never been the type to get yourself tattooed. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate tattoos—it was just never something you’d considered for yourself. Sukuna, however, didn’t mind. He liked to tease you, reminding you that, in his eyes, you were a treat just as you were. Still, every now and then, he’d casually drop the hint that he wished you’d let him work on your skin.

Then came your anniversary. You’d been mulling it over for weeks, trying to think of the perfect gesture, and eventually, you decided to take the plunge. You made the bold choice to do something outrageous: get his name tattooed just above your hips. It was an unspoken rule—never tattoo your partner’s name—but for you, it felt like an act of devotion. His name, etched into your skin permanently, would be a vow, a promise, a declaration that if things ever ended between you two, the pain would be felt in more ways than one.

When you finally told him, Sukuna was unnervingly silent for a beat, his gaze shifting from you to the floor, his veins popping, muscles tightening. It was as if he was fighting the urge to pull you in and devour you right then and there. Instead, his voice dropped, his tone lower, more gravelly than you’d ever heard before, hovering just above a whisper. “You sure about that?”

As you settled into the chair, every nerve in your body seemed to hum with heightened sensitivity. You watched as Sukuna prepared his tools, his shirtless torso on full display—muscles taut and defined, tattoos covering his skin like a living work of art. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his hair, pushed back in place with the barest effort, only seemed to emphasize his rugged allure.

The buzzing of the machine filled the air, and as his eyes met yours, darkened with something predatory, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Oh, you had no idea what you’d just gotten yourself into, did you?