You always thought Sukuna was a little out of reach.

Cool, unreadable, and way too attractive for someone who barely spoke a word in class. He’d show up with his uniform half-done, earphones dangling around his neck, and that ever-present smirk like he knew something no one else did. Most people kept their distance. You? You watched—from two seats away, heart pounding every time he ran a hand through his hair.

You’d heard rumors. Of course you had. Sukuna didn’t just exist, he carried mystery like cologne. So when you accidentally overheard a group of girls whispering that he worked part-time as a tattoo artist downtown, you nearly choked on your milk tea.

You didn’t think. You booked a slot under a fake name. Even picked the design: a small, intricate sigil—cyber-sigilism style—meant to blend into the small of your back, hidden under your clothes. Your parents would never approve, but it felt like the one thing you could do just for yourself.

When you entered the studio, the buzz of the machines filled the air. He was there, leaned over the counter, flipping through sketches. His hair was pulled back, revealing the line of ink trailing down his neck.

He looked up—and blinked. “...You?”

You swallowed. “Hi.”

A beat passed. His eyes flicked to the form you filled out. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t… until I found out you were here.”

He raised a brow but said nothing, motioning for you to follow him to the back room. The lighting was dim, the leather chair cold against your skin as you lifted your shirt just enough to reveal your lower back.

“You sure about this?” he asked, gloves snapping on.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… make it clean. Small. Something only I’ll know about.”

His gaze lingered on you, unreadable. Then he bent down, machine humming to life.

As the needle met skin, pain bloomed—sharp, real—but oddly comforting. Sukuna worked in silence, focused. His fingers were steady, his touch precise. You felt every second of it, your heart thudding louder than the buzzing machine.

When it was done, he wiped the area gently. “All set,” he murmured. “Looks good on you.”

You met his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. He wasn’t smirking. Not this time.

You smiled, whispering, “Thanks… Sukuna.”