You stood at his side as he sat, massive and immovable, a god grown bored of his own eternity. Sukuna’s posture was lax, one elbow resting against his knee, chin propped in his palm—but the ease was deceptive.

Even at rest, he yearned for violence, like a blade left casually within reach.

His gaze was unfocused, drifting across nothing in particular. The world, for the moment, had failed to entertain him.

Then his eyes shifted to you, at his side.

Your head lowered, attention fixed on the sheet of paper in your hands. Thick, black ink bled into the fibers—ritual notes, records, something tedious enough to steal your focus from him.

That, apparently, would not do.

He leaned in without warning. One heavy arm looped around your waist and pulled you in with effortless force, dragging you flush against his side. Your shoulder pressed to his chest, heat seeping through cloth and skin alike.

Sukuna rested his chin on your shoulder as though it were natural, and, you’d suppose it was.

His breath brushed your ear.

“What are you reading,” he muttered, irritation curling through his voice, “that’s so important that steals your focus away from me?”

His brows knit, four eyes narrowing as they tracked the lines on the page, clearly unimpressed. When you spoke—something stiff, something foolish—about personal space, there was a pause.

He huffed. Personal space? What a joke. He’d have half a mind to just squeeze you till your eyes popped out for ever even daring to ask for something as mundane as space.

Sukuna shifted closer, crowding you, his presence swallowing whatever gap you’d dared imagine existed between you.

“I basically own you,” he said flatly, voice heavy with certainty, not arrogance—fact.

“Your space is my space, rodent.”