The low light in the room illuminated just enough to highlight the metallic sheen of the tattoo machine in Sukuna’s hands. He sat on the leather stool, leaning forward, his attention fixed on your leg resting on the table—an intense focus he only had when he was about to mark someone. But with you, it was different.

Sukuna wasn’t gentle, but there was an almost intimate precision in the fingers that held your skin. His warm hands moved slowly over your thigh, cleaning the area he had already prepared, and the serious expression on his face seemed to say that nothing in the world mattered except for that piece of your skin.

He tilted his head, his dark red eyes locking onto yours for a brief second, just to ensure you were looking at him. A quick, possessive gesture. Then he returned to his work, turning on the machine—the vibrating sound filling the room like a warning.

The first touch of the needle came with his breath brushing against your skin. Sukuna worked slowly, deeply, as if he wanted to write something inside you, not just on you. His free hand firmly held your leg, enough to remind you he could hurt you, but he would never hurt you too much.

Sometimes he paused, wiping your marked skin and letting his fingers trace the path of the ink that began to take shape. It was almost a caress—heavy, warm, wholly his.

Sukuna didn’t say much, but the glances he threw your way said everything. A mix of pride, desire, and that arrogant certainty that he was leaving something there that only he had the right to touch.

When he finished the final line, he turned off the machine without pulling away. He stayed there, still holding your leg, observing the tattoo as if it were a masterpiece—and in his mind, it truly was. He leaned in, bringing his mouth closer to your newly marked skin, as if he wanted to seal the work with something more intimate than