REI / AKI / HARU ! eighteen. he/they. entp. filipino. #1 leon kennedy and sae itoshi glazer.
NOW PLAYING! ♫ — SACRED LIGHT by bl8m
MORE INFO ♡ currently studying agriculture and economics. anything with biscoff, cheesecake, cookies n cream, and caramel. coffee and ice cream addict. jpop, anime, manga, kpop, kdrama, manhwa. i love anything black. music by ado, king gnu, yoasobi, LiSA, eve, natori, vaundy, alien stage, ariana grande, sabrina carpenter, muse, seventeen. my other faves are akaza, luka, diego brando, blade, anaxa, scaramouche, xiao, flins, kinich, invisigal.
Guys, I’m freaking out! Nagumo has been amazing in this chapter and the last one, but now I’m more afraid than ever. I really don’t want him to die... They can kill Kindaka, Shishiba... I don’t know, anyone but Nagumo and Shin, especially Nagumo.
Also, now I’m pissed that Gaku is back. I missed him because he’s another one of my favorites, but I really don’t want him to be the one who kills Nagumo... I honestly thought he was going to end up fighting alongside the Sakamoto gang because what Uzuki is doing isn’t what they originally wanted.
At this point, I think I’m not going to read Sakamoto Days until it’s finished... Okay, maybe just the next chapter and that’s it. I need to know what Gaku is planning to do. Then I’ll stop until it’s finished because this is giving me so much anxiety, and it’s not fun for me anymore.
I think this is my favorite panel of Nagumo so far. 😭
bf!gaku who fills a doorway just by standing there — broad shoulders, thick arms, heavy steps. Yet when he touches you he’s surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant at first, like he’s afraid of crushing you. When he hugs you, his palm spans your whole back.
bf!gaku with a lap that swallows you whole. Sitting on him feels like sinking into a warm couch. He always rests a big hand over your thigh or lower back to keep you from sliding off because he’s so solid.
bf!gaku who forgets how heavy he is. Sometimes he flops down on the bed next to you after a long day and the mattress dips so hard you bounce. He laughs and apologises, “Sorry for the mini-earthquake,” and you can’t help but laugh with him.
bf!gaku who carries you without thinking. Grocery bags? Luggage? You? He just scoops things up and goes. Half the time you don’t even get to finish saying “Do you want me to carry—” before he’s already done it.
bf!gaku who’s protective but never possessive. He’ll step in front of you instinctively if someone bumps into you, but he doesn’t cage you. His strength is there to make you feel free, not trapped.
bf!gaku whose warmth feels like a weighted blanket. When you’re anxious he drapes himself over you — one arm, one leg, heavy chest pressed to your back — until your breathing slows under his weight.
bf!gaku with quiet domestic habits. He opens jars, moves furniture, reaches high shelves without looking, but also brings you snacks or a drink while you’re studying because he knows he’s better at the “big” tasks than the “tiny” ones.
bf!gaku with a low, rumbly voice. When he’s tired it drops even deeper; he mumbles “Come here” and pats his chest until you curl up against him, and you feel the vibrations of his words more than you hear them.
bf!gaku who hides his softness. Under all that bulk he’s the one who remembers your favourite dessert, your comfort playlist, and carries a spare hoodie for you in his bag because “mine’s bigger; it’ll be warmer.”
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you f1 pr nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the six words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else. With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone:
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes: sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind.
Summary: Leon and you have been friends for years until you move in together and some things start to change.
The first thing Leon thought about when moving to Raccoon City and taking his new job as a police officer was, inevitably, you.
His best friend, the girl he'd loved since kindergarten when the other kids used to make fun of him because he preferred playing dolls with you, the girl who grew up into a beautiful woman, no, the most beautiful woman, the girl who always turned his world upside down just by existing in it.
God, he loved you.
Painfully so.
Everyone seemed to know that by now, except for you.
Cliché? Yeah, a curse Leon hadn't managed to break yet.
You were clueless about it, even when it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was the sweetest man you'd ever met, always spoiling you with flowers and letters, and don't even get me started on all those little details he somehow always remembered. Not to mention he was always by your side, hugging you like a lifeline, reaching for your hand every chance he got, and even kissing your cheeks or forehead every now and then.
But in your mind, that was because he was Leon.
Your Leon, your best friend, and now, your roommate.
Because what perfect timing from the universe that you got offered a job in Raccoon City right around the time he graduated. It was a divine sign for him, all the stars in the sky aligning to give him the perfect excuse to live with you. By now, he had pictured living with you a hundred times. You two would be happily married, all laughs and kisses and hugs and kisses and more kisses. Maybe two or three children would come along with all those kisses, who knows?
Yeah, well, this was not exactly as imagined, you were not married, and you definitely hadn't kissed...
Yet... Hopefully.
And then there was one extra problem for him to add to the list.
He never knew how freaking hard it would be to live with you.
You were not a bad roommate. You paid your share on time, you made food for both of you, the apartment was magically always clean and smelled good. You were perfect, and that was the damn problem.
Walking around wearing your pajamas, didn't you know he was still a man? That was tempting his natural instincts. Oh, and also your hoodies, your sweatpants, your jeans, your shirts, oh, don't forget the shorts, and Leon's clothes, and... yeah, you get the point.
Everything you did felt different now, at least for him. Watching you do mundane chores had his heart hammering against his chest like crazy because it felt so domestic, and you looked so gorgeous when you cooked and mopped and swept and fuck, Leon was losing his mind.
The best part, for him of course, was when everyone thought you were a couple, when someone confused you for newlyweds, like the time your neighbor, an old lady who lived upstairs, called you the most adorable young couple she had ever met. You had barely opened your mouth to deny it when Leon just smiled like a lovestruck puppy and simply said, "Thanks," with the proudest tone on Earth.
That should have given you a clue about his feelings.
It did not.
Even when that was not an isolated incident. It happened every time someone got confused or assumed the two of you were together. You thought maybe it was because Leon probably didn't want to bother with explanations.
He agreed because he did think you were the most adorable young couple.
Or at least you could be.
Your apartment was always adorned with bouquets, and he called them "friendship flowers" every time you asked what the special occasion was.
What everyone saw was a man so in love he was willing to spend half his rookie salary on you without a second thought.
What you saw was just Leon being as sweet as always.
Your doubts arrived the first time you saw him jealous.
Leon was not the type to get mad at anyone. If he ever did, it would probably last less than an hour. But then he saw you arrive home with a box of chocolates from work.
A heart-shaped box of chocolates.
"Huh," he murmured, trying to hide how jealousy was twisting his guts. "Chocolates?"
"Yeah," you answered casually. "Some guy from work brought me these. Very kind of him."
"You hate chocolate," he said, rolling his eyes.
How could someone not know that interesting little fact about you? He had memorized it back in kindergarten.
"Yeah, but it seemed rude to tell him that," you said, leaving the box on the counter.
Leon reached for it and opened it, looking at the chocolates inside like they had personally betrayed him.
"They look awful. You should throw them away. They might be poisoned."
Very subtle, Leon.
"Huh, really?" you asked, getting closer to inspect them. They looked perfectly fine to you. "I was planning to give them to you."
Fuck.
How could he be so jealous and still manage to blush like a teenager just because of that?
"I don't want them," he hurried to say, crossing his arms over the counter and looking literally anywhere except at you. He could feel even his ears burning right now. "Some jerk gave you those. Freak doesn't even know you don't like them."
He seemed to think for a moment, the idea alone making his blood boil.
"You know what? Maybe I should eat them. That would teach him a lesson."
"A lesson?" you asked, completely confused. "For what?"
"For giving my girl damn chocolates. I bet he doesn't even know your favorite flower. That's why he got you a generic box of chocolates. And it's pink. You don't even like pink."
Now he was just rambling.
But you were still stuck on the my girl part.
"Yeah, he should've brought you flowers. Those make you smile, not these stupid chocolates."
"Leon?" you called softly, finally starting to put the pieces together.
"I was going to throw them away, but I think I'll eat them just to piss him off. You'll go tomorrow and when he asks if you liked them, you need to tell him I ate them. Me. Leon. Your boyfriend. Your Leon."
"Boyfriend?"
Oh fuck.
"Um, yeah, like... guy best friend?"
There was no way out of this.
This was the end.
He was ready to abort the mission, maybe fake a fainting spell, maybe have a real one. His face was burning, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to disappear, begging for the world to swallow him whole. Everything was spinning around him. You were going to be mad. You were going to leave. You were never going to look at him the same way again.
And then you were kissing him.
Wait, you were kissing him.
Fucking hell, you were kissing him.
It took a solid minute for him to understand what was happening before his hands found your waist like his body had been begging him to do that for years.
And then he kissed you back.
You felt warm and real and somehow even better than every impossible fantasy he had built in his head over the years. The kiss was everything he had spent so long dreaming about and somehow it still managed to exceed every expectation.
His brain completely short-circuited.
That day, his dreams came true.
Not the married part, not the kids...
Yet.
The kissing part, a lot of it.
And after that? He did eat those fucking chocolates, and the worst part was that they tasted damn good.
scaramouche x serial killer fem!reader — wc: 1.1k words.
synopsis: the balladeer's life's work may as well just be dirtied, because he's a fool that will adore you.
warnings: deaths mentioned (very minor ones). scaramouche being himself. published pre-snezhnaya patch. events are after the inazuma archon quests but before the sumeru archon quests.
a/n: YES this fic is heavily based on the song “jane!” by the long faces. i plan to make a few several parts of this but it all depends since i'm only testing on writing this type of fic (and also because tbh this fic alone lacks interaction between the reader and scara). also please lmk the artist of the scara fanart banner so i can properly credit them 🥹 and lmk if u guys are interested in more chaps .. anywayss enjoy reading !
“another one dead?”
“honeysuckles again.”
the harsh winter season of snezhnaya this month kept everyone moving within the center of the city. however, scaramouche halts as he notices a busy crowd forming by the entrance of a random alleyway. his two subordinates behind follow his movements—or lack of it thereof—suit as soon as he stopped, fearing another harsh scolding or a death glare so scrutinizing they’d rather lay dead on the spot.
another murder incident, he supposes. killing isn’t an odd activity in a harbinger’s life, but with the frequent crime scenes occurring within the nation of the archon he serves, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt pretending to care for once.
“what’s the commotion?” he asks the cicin mage behind him.
“i-i think it’s the rumored serial killer, my lord,” the mage stammers, bowing slightly as if her hood wasn’t enough to block the view of the intimidating harbinger. “there hasn’t been any sighting of them—”
“i don’t care what you think,” scaramouche interrupts with a scoff. “i need certain answers. get out of my sight and tell me everything there’s to know about.”
“yes, my lord,” the cicin mage bows, immediately disappearing with a flick of electro; anything to be away from her boss.
turning away, the harbinger continues his stroll to his destination: a bar in snezhnaya, where even harbingers that are feared can communicate and negotiate within.
the once loud bar filled with patrons and warmly-lit ambience suddenly tones down with its chaos as soon as he makes his entrance. drunkards are nudged by their companions, the bartender wiped glasses more rigorously as he focuses on the task, off-duty fatui soldiers either look away or bow in respect—scaramouche never bothers remembering their faces either way.
“my, my,” a man in black at his table lifted his cup. the sixth harbinger is now at the second floor, belittling every human below as he stared down at them with his usual condescending expression. “you sure can make a room quiet.”
“i’m not here for pleasantries, pantalone,” scaramouche sits in front of him. “what was the order?”
“right,” pantalone puts down his cup. the upper floor of the bar is designed for more peaceful conversations. it almost seems like the whole floor was a vip section where no one other than the harbingers and their partners themselves bother to go up to. “i’m surprised you even made the effort to come back after the inazuma incident. your next mission is surely closer to inazuma that snezhnaya, no?”
“it was the orders of her majesty. if i had a say in it, i’d rather spare myself the trouble of getting in and out of snezhnaya within a week,” the balladeer sneers. “just cut to the chase.”
the ninth harbinger simply smiled at his colleague’s impatience. “her majesty has ordered a halt to all agendas for now. the serial murder incidents within snezhnaya have gone too far.”
the mention of the serial crime is enough for scaramouche to momentarily froze. before pantalone could even actually notice, he’s once again laid back on the plush seating of the couch. “hah. so it’s about that dead person today?”
“so you’ve seen it,” pantalone confirms in his own words. “however, it’s the tenth for the week.”
“...and it’s only tuesday.”
“correct,” the regrator nods. “and this little killer has started targeting fatui soldiers. three oprichnik officers were found dead in the outskirts of our strongholds within the nation.”
this gains scaramouche’s actual interest. “oprichniks are frontline soldiers. it’s not rare for them to be reduced in numbers.”
“of course, we found evidence it was them. honeysuckle flowers.”
honeysuckle flowers.
his porcelain-like finger tapped on the oak table once. “where is her majesty going with this?”
“this murderer has officially declared war the moment they started murdering our soldiers,” pantalone repeats the statement made at the palace meeting. “usually, this was left to the local authorities, but they still have no progress after everything, and being able to kill the fatui soldiers only tells this killer is not any measly criminal. we’re tasked to catch this killer within a month.”
the balladeer’s hat tipped downwards as he scoffs. “and her majesty expects us to stop every operation for this weakling?”
“we’ve raised that to her majesty,” the raven-haired harbinger mentions. “however, we do understand her concern for the people of her nation. it will also affect the overall economy of snezhnaya. tourism, merchant trading, and we get political mockery. the fatui will look weak to the people if they can’t handle a single murderer. the only thing that will benefit from all this is the black market from private security and weaponry transactions.”
”won’t the devil guide your hand?”
scaramouche’s eyes narrowed as he locked in on the consequences of this whole ordeal.
”for good luck? to hold the honeysuckle rose as she lies down?”
as if a ghost of a hand tilts his hat sidewards, he looks at the stage across their seats, directly seen below from where they’re sitting with the inner balcony being the only obstacle.
”reading the paper, reading the world right around her eyes.”
as if holding something vulnerable, a woman stood in the middle of stage with her hands afloat from gesticulation, her gaze enticing enough for the men below the harbingers to quiet down and swoon. the fabric of her sleeveless dress is velvet and the color of a rose, partnered with short gloves and a fascinator hat of the same shade of red. her hair is a stunning color that accentuated her face, shaped into vintage curls.
“as her majesty states, the task is the same for every harbinger, except—”
“who is that?”
pantalone’s eyes opens at the interruption of his colleague, who seems to be staring at the singer of the bar with what the regrator can fully recognize from someone who formerly wore his heart on his sleeve.
intrigue.
and it’s a dangerous thing for someone who held emotion like a fragile thing you can entrust to another so simply. regardless, the regrator entertains it with a knowing smile.
“she’s very well-known among the patrons, including us within the fatui,” pantalone answers.”i’m not surprised you don’t know her. columbina also doesn’t. the difference is that you avoid this place like the plague, while columbina avoids the outside.”
”and jane, you’re early.”
the balladeer remained silent.
”your life’s work is dirtied by the fools who adore you.”
the haunting lyrics of the song that were spoken by her mouth in red lipstick somehow feels soothing to the hollowness within the balladeer’s chest.
”only to find, only to find you out.”
and the woman looks up on cue.
as if she’s been feeling his gaze.
as if she locks in on her target.
with a soft, practiced smile, she raises her hand like an offering of salvation.
and unknowingly for the balledeer, he has taken up the offer for the fourth time.
desc | you're a computer nerd, like, a HUGE computer nerd. although you weren't world famous, you did have a pretty decent social media following from your pc and keyboard commissions. safe to say, it came as a huge surprise when a guy with 10.5M followers on Twitch dm'd you asking for a custom keyboard build. little did you know, you'd get yourself entangled in more than just assembling parts and managing cables..
genres | social media au, university au, strangers to lovers, crackfic
cw | swearing, angst, fluff, & more to come as i write!
status | ongoing
profiles | dan heng & friends planarcadiuzz
a/n : parts w ( ✦ ) are either written or partially written
hello. did you explode when hoyo showed us blade chilling in a hot spring on today's livestream? me too. so here you go. i made this in like 4 hours. please don't kill me if you find any bugs. thanks and have fun.
[+edit] there are 3 'endings' you could get. this is all dialogue, no narration. i am also very rusty when it comes to writing blade so forgive me if he's ooc!
itch.io game download page
(mac, linux, windows) →
synopsis: jealous yearner diego but he tries to not make it obvious until he breaks.
warnings: a hint of angst if you squint. british cursing once. diego character manga spoilers. this is my first finished work after like 2-3 years be gentle w me
when diego brando keeps something around him, he considers it efficient and convenient. whether it’s a political connection, a trinket being sold in random markets, even his rations for a certain duration during his races are always optimally calculated—practical yet effective.
that’s how diego convinced himself whenever you appeared in either his mind or line of sight. he never cared for how your gaze lingered on his silhouette for a second too long when he bid farewell, when your smiles directed at him felt like it never belonged to anyone but him.
when he feels a bit more vulnerable—a less than rare occurrence for the british jockey at nighttime, dare i say—he says it’s because you stayed that he simply reciprocates the intent. because you’ve known each other since he was nothing but a discarded child after his mother’s death; a pitiful nobody that the harshness of the world turned a blind eye to. uttered repeatedly in his mind that it’s merely an obligation of sorts, that he feels indebted that you didn't belong to the said harsh world.
though he’s also aware that he’s free from any kind of debt towards you. in addition to the rise of his standing in the world of horseracing, his youthly attractive visage makes the ladies feel like they’ll strike a work of art. countless noblewomen ranging from old widows to naively innocent maidens started chasing him for marriage and more fame. thus, he had the funds to provide you a decently stable life. always hiding envelopes with a stack of bills hidden under your large saucer on the small, round dining table whenever he visits your humble home for his favorite blend of tea; he claims it’s because no one was ever to successfully replicate his tea blending preferences.
he never noticed why it bothered him, or perhaps he just shoved that fact away to prevent himself from discovering the truest depths of his decisions that involved you.
“diego?” he didn’t flinch, but cursed himself internally for letting you witness how he zoned out over you. you’ll never know, but he still somehow felt exposed.
your hand reached out, for whatever reason, and felt magnetized towards it with his own.
“your canteen?”
he reached out with his left one that held the said object.
looking away, he cleared his throat to gain even a little composure, not that you recognize his mental crisis. “why are you here?”
“i’ve been here since your first loop,” you refilled his tiny jug. “i’m guessing you’ll proceed until before dusk?”
“why do you presume like you know everything i do?” he griped plainly, tugging at the collar of his usual turquoise turtleneck as if to let out the heat that clung onto his body; he wasn’t certain if the heat was from the blazing sunlight or your response.
you looked up at him from silver bullet’s horseback and smiled. “do i not?” you offered his round canteen. “i’ve always been here in this field during your equitations.”
he scoffed like the prideful man he is, refusing to acknowledge a fact. “no one told you to accompany me.”
“you never complained.”
“you’re convenient,” diego halted, his one hand on silver bullet’s reins ready to take off once again. “unsolicited, but convenient.”
you merely smiled at his baseless harsh description. you always do. not because you’d take every insult as if it wouldn’t scar, but because you’ve been with him long enough to know he wouldn’t even dare think of harming you.
“do you have plans after?” feigning curiosity, you tilted your head. you always knew his answer.
“no,” diego immediately answered, yet you know what’s about to follow. “but i have no plans of doing such trivial matters today as well.”
it was always a quick shutdown from him whenever you ask that question. you simply nodded. same time, same situation, same answer, same conclusion. you knew that there’s no bite to it, anyway. you always know there never was.
“i see,” you replied. “no problem.”
but for once, diego faltered. a shift of his gaze to his slight left, then you again. “is something perhaps bothering you?”
you blinked, a little bewildered at his sudden query. “no?”
“you need assistance with anything?”
it finally elicited a small chuckle from you. “not at all. i just wanted to ask if you’d like to eat with me for dinner.”
he raised a brow. “an initiative?”
“a courtesy.”
“courtesies are way past us at this point now, don’t you think so?” he exhaled huffily. “fine. i suppose indulging you in your wishes for once would be harmless.”
but once became occasionally, then sometimes, then regularly. diego started taking initiative in his own detached, restrained way whenever you wouldn’t ask after you refill his water at the same field. he wasn’t aware that whenever you won’t ask, it means your night was already meant for a scheduled occupation. you never dared to refuse him the first time he asked, though. you knew it took him a lot of mental courage and internal back-and-forth to even ask that, considering his avoidant gaze partnered along with muttered lines of “my presence” and “insufferable and boring”.
what diego never realized is that there’s one more characteristic to those he keeps around: consistent. it was thursday again when got into the horse tracks with his horse companion. he’d normally tend to silver bullet, then you’d arrive on time just before he takes off galloping with his horse on the field.
he turned to his side, expecting you to be there, but all his sight took was your absence of a supposedly present lady, accompanied with an unusual presence of a paper under a water bucket to prevent it from being one with the wind.
‘i will not be arriving until after lunch. i will be bringing a peace offering instead to make up for my absence.’
diego stared hard at the note, pinching the thin piece of paper between his thumb and mid-section of index finger like it’ll crack, then discards it, eyes lingering before it focused back on silver bullet while being void of emotion. it didn’t matter, he can refill his canteen himself, comb silver bullet’s mane after doing a great job of keeping up with him, readjust his reins—
“someone certainly looks like a soaked puppy on a stormy day.”
and for the first time with you as the witness, diego flinched at the sound of your voice. his eyes narrowed in scrutiny and hidden relief. “...you.”
“i said i would be back at noon, not after ten months,” you mused. “you’ve been this grumpy all morning? i hope silver didn’t have to personally deal with the aftermath.”
“who said i was grumpy?”
you finally smiled. diego breathed. “me.”
“hmph. presumptuous.”
“i just observed.”
he snorted. “what business did you have to neglect my horse?"
his question had you tilting your head in amusement. it’s as if his horse’s liking for praises became your partial responsibility, but you didn’t take offense. “you mean ‘neglect you’.”
“i have no need for such care,” he glanced at her blankly. “nevermind. you had no duty to be present every time.”
“don’t sulk. someone required my attention.”
his gloved hands stopped combing silver bullet’s mane for a short moment; however, it was long enough for you to notice. “your neighbor asking for help again?”
“...a merchant,” you answered with a bite of your lip, hesitance echoing through your lackluster posture. “asking for my hand. it was too sudden, so i tried rejecting his humble advances, but he was persistent—”
“and you felt the urge to explain so suddenly?” he barely glanced at you, yet his voice’s modulation said it all. you never expected him to be curious about you, but never did you expect him as well to express such disinterest to the point of dismissive yet grating rejection.
“diego,” your tone took a dispirited turn, volume low as if to tread lightly. “are you upset?”
“i’m uninterested,” he finally turned to you with a passing cold glare above his shoulder. “don’t invite me for anything tonight; i’m not interested in doing any pleasantries to faff about with you.”
“what is wrong with you?” you glared back, but fiercer. “is it necessary for you to be a ruthless jerk every time?”
“‘jerk’? ‘ruthless’?” he scoffed. “you speak as if we just met. and i spoke nothing but my true feelings.”
“feelings?” your face twisted into one of mocking. “you speak of feelings as if you ever showed any.”
before you know it, his words became aboundingly cruel in his own way through detachment; something that’d hurt only to you. “and you speak like you know me. did years of being acquainted with you gain you this much arrogance?”
that silenced you. but the silence was sharp, grinding—enough to express what you both won’t dare to vocalize.
“you’re infuriating,” you hissed in a gravelly voice. “i can’t believe this—” a scoff followed with a short howl of laughter. “did i not mean anything more than an ‘acquaintance’ to you all these years, you bastard!?”
the blonde jockey refused to speak more. to him, he thought he already did more than enough to regret the damage that would set you off and potentially cut you off from his life as well. but to you, it was a nonverbal admittance.
with a quick and loud exhale, you stormed off from the area. your heavy steps carrying the weight of the argument and the burden of emotions that diego refused to share with you.
however, he remained unmoving beside his horse. despite silver bullet’s company—whom has been his companion ever since—the absence of one more presence that he’s always been looking forward to made him feel empty and lonely.
-
alas, no prideful man would still be immune to his innermost battles at the end of the day. every man needs that push to snap, voluntarily or not.
and for the great jockey, it was seeing a man—who’s not him—making you laugh. and it was also right right after your argument, where diego absent-mindedly lingered around the town’s side where you live in with his horse in tow at dusk.
not that he’s such a joker and flatterer to you himself. he has made several women laugh for the sake of having them fall into his trap. he didn’t need to do that with you; he’s more than just a flirt when it’s you.
he observed the man’s mannerisms with composure, yet his thoughts flowed like a chaotic mess where dinosaurs were trampling all over the forest.
the man’s gestures alone says a lot about his standing. stiff yet elegant posture, slightly lidded eyes and up-tilted chin that makes him look down at wherever he looks at, fingers moving gracefully whenever his hands move—he’s not just your normal merchant. it makes diego look at him with scrutiny from caution. why would an elite nobleman want to mingle with a simple maiden living in the rural sides? was he simply captivated by your beauty and charms? diego couldn’t blame the merchant if that’s the case. however, what if ulterior motives are secretly involved? how did you even meet this man?
however, it isn’t the man’s wealth that made him feel threatened. he has the wealth to support your living for a lifetime, after all. but the gentleman was undeniably attractive, charismatic, and… a gentleman. diego could be a gentleman whenever he tries, but you know who and how he is already.
“so,” the man hummed, its vibrations sending diego’s jumbled mind into alarm after his next words. “what do you say… we have dinner tonight?”
and it jolted his upper body, flinching too hard it earned him a little whine from silver bullet.
“i have scouted the nearby city for any diner that would hopefully align to your preferences, and there—”
“i apologize, gentleman, but this fair lady has a scheduled rendezvous with me tonight,” diego hoisted himself down from the saddle of his arabian-thoroughbred, dusting off his gloved hands with each other while sauntering with his chin held high towards the duo. “i’m afraid she will not be able to keep you company for the rest of the day.”
brows furrowed, the nobleman snorted in disbelief after recognition. “diego brando? this lady—are you telling me you’re entertaining me while having an affair with this widow!?”
your jaw dropped, ready to retaliate. “that’s not—”
“mind your words when talking about her,” that earned the businessman a glare from the jockey, silent but enough to warn him thoroughly. “she is not obligated to settle with one man when there’s no commitment. after all, she’s an exceptional, respectable woman who makes even the bastards chase her around with her beauty and nobility. secondly, i believe ‘having an affair’ is no longer a valid argument against a widow. i suggest you choose your words correctly before flaunting around mindlessly.”
the man, unable to find a counter-argument, could only scoff and leave the two with grumbles and heavy stomps, as if breaking character.
your head turn was sharp like your glare as you looked at the blonde. “diego, what in the hell was that?”
“i saved you,” i feigned a proud huff, inwardly panicking. “i could tell that bloke was an annoying, narcissistic one. better to keep you out from them.”
“what?” you sneered. “do you know what you’re saying!? the man was nice—”
“exactly,” his eyes narrowed. “he was nice. too nice for a high-caliber merchant to hang around towns destitute of excessive wealth. never even thought about how dodgy it is?”
“not everyone is like you, diego,” you hissed but a little softer. “not everyone would be nice for the sake of end-term benefits—”
“you don’t benefit me.”
his words stung, but confusion won over your mind. “excuse me?”
“you don’t benefit me. not anymore. but i stayed,” he continued. “i don’t have any favors to owe you now. definitely not as nice as that bastard, but i was always there.”
you squinted. “what are you getting at?”
“do you need me to be nice to you? is that what would take you to not look at any man other than me?”
“i don’t need you to change, diego! that’s not the point!”
“bloody hell, woman!” he snapped. “how are you so dense to not see how much i pine for you!?”
a stunned silence fell over.
“i don’t do confessions,” he said. “but i’m not also a coward. they’re too flashy, pretentious—i only did that once to charm the old woman i intended to marry for convenience. you’re not on her level. i treasure you. not for wealth, but because it’s you who never judged me at my worst.
“so if you will,” one step closer. “don’t just look at me, see me.”
you finally let out the breath you’ve subconsciously held. “diego, i always do. you don’t need to ask.”
“then what was that?”
“he was nothing but a gentleman,” you shook your head before chuckling. “you fool. i was always yours, whether you knew it or not. i just never wanted to potentially ruin what we have.”
it was his breath’s turn to halt. “...you’re naive.”
“stop it with the insults now.”
“but you are,” he insisted smoothly. “yet… your naivety was one of the traits that made me stay. i don’t want it to fade, i wish to protect it instead. you remained so lovely, so good-hearted despite what the world threw against us. before i knew it, you became the constant in my life that held no advantage but i valued the most. the one i only ever cared for after my mother—you who held the same warmth and affection as her.”
his hand silently asked for permission to hold yours as he held it out, but not before stripping away his glove. once you reached out, his rough-edged fingers honed by callouses gently lingered your smooth and soft fingertips. it was clear that he had forbidden you to do any vigorous work.
he held eye contact with enough firmness that still hinted at his sentiment. “i ask of you. have me.”
you breathed out a laugh. “again, you don’t need to ask.”
“i’ll ask again and again if necessary,” he muttered against your wrist as he cupped his face with your hand that he held so dearly.
“and i’ll be giving the same answer again and again.”
for once, diego smiled. genuine and amused. “which is?”
you returned his smile with one of your own: content and affectionate.
summary: recently, things have gotten worse and you struggle to leave the bed. your husband, leon s. kennedy, worries about you.
song: five string serenade - mazzy star
"what's wrong honey?"
"i don't know."
"are you hungry?"
"i don't know."
"do you think you'll go to work tomorrow?"
"i don't know."
you didn't know. you couldn't label how you felt. you always thought you were good at labelling your feelings and speaking about how you felt. you thought you were articulate; you read a lot, wrote a lot, drew a lot. you could express yourself in so many different forms. so why couldn't you just tell leon what was wrong with you?
'wrong' with you.
was it even wrong to feel this way? you heard about people losing their fire, and then coming out the other side better than ever, learning something new about themselves. you were floating, not moving forward, just stagnant.
maybe you were doing depression wrong. or this was a forever feeling, and it was never going to go away. this infinite numbness that was going to continue to penetrate your mind and eat away at you.
over the years, you had coped with your depression better and better, even your husband commented on how much happier you seemed.
you heard the floorboards creak, the floorboards that leon was meant to fix ages ago, a cautious padding of feet approaching the room. the door squeaked open, leon paused, watching you from the doorway.
your depression always crept in, unnoticeable at first. you would take longer to get out of bed in the morning. your eyes would burn with exhaustion when driving home after work. your food portions became smaller. you blew through your cigarette packet quicker than usual. you would unintentionally fall asleep everywhere in the house.
everywhere.
including the bathtub.
that night redefined your marriage. you couldn't let it happen again.
but that was years ago.
and now you had fucked all your progress up because you couldn't leave your bed.
your eyes never left the wall. it was a light blue, you told leon it would light up the room, make it less dingy after he said he wanted grey - reminding you to never let this man decorate the house. if you squinted your eyes closed enough, you could see a small stain. a stain that you have no clue to what it could be, or you do - and you'd rather not think about where it came from. the grainy texture of the paint, the smooth parts and the bumpy parts, the plaster that filled what once was a dent in the wall, the faint splatters of paint near the desk area. it all reminded you of a life before the hollowness in your chest.
stop running away from your problems, you told yourself.
you liked running, physically and mentally. leon was the opposite. you admired his mindset, but you saw where it ended. the copious amounts of empty bottles in the recycling.
in the end, both of you craved what was going to destroy you.
your inability to get up embarrassed you. just move your stupid arm or move your stupid leg. sinking into your mattress of hatred and despair, you imagined your mattress growing around you like it was going to eventually engulf and absorb you.
getting up meant dealing with things. you'd have to find your underwear, and then realise you needed to do the laundry, and then you'd get hungry and would have to make dinner, but then you would realise you couldn't make dinner without groceries and then you would have to get fully dressed to go out, and how it never ended. you wished you could just do it once and for all and to be done with it.
every other adult did this, why couldn't you?
your lifeless body lay across the bed, only your hair was visible, peeking over the duvet. the drawn curtains caged you in this tumbling darkness, a cold lace draped around the room.
his mouth opened to say something, something like a stupid joke, but then clamped shut again as his throat tightened. his eyebrows furrowing and then relaxing before he made his way to the bed.
"c'mon baby. i'll run you a warm bath if you get up," leon murmured, sliding into the bed with you, his arms wrapping around you.
"i don't feel like it," you said, a distance woven into your voice.
no matter how close he held you tight, he couldn't have you fully.
there was nothing about today that made you want to move. it was already the afternoon. you wasted half the day, there was no point in starting it now. in fact, it annoyed you that your husband even suggested getting up at this time.
you hated the afternoons. pointless waiting around time. he knew that.
"these cold feet tell me otherwise," he hummed, his warm feet touching your icy ones - puncturing your self-hatred.
"i'm not ready to get up," you whispered. "i have so many things to do. you probably think i'm lazy."
your frozen hand suddenly twisted into a fist, curling around your shirt. or his shirt, you just stole it, and he stopped asking for it back.
"why would i think that?" you could feel his warm breath against your shoulder. something about this gentle warmth kept you afloat.
"because i'm a grown adult with responsibilities like everyone else. this is childish." you admitted, becoming quieter.
his arms pulled you closer to him and he rested his chin in the familiar space between your neck and your shoulder.
"it's okay to feel down," he said with a certainty. "you're the hardest worker i know."
"that's the biggest lie i've ever heard." you scoffed.
"forgot about how terribly stubborn you are." his chuckle tickled the back of your neck.
"i'm not stubborn." you snapped, reflex faster than the sadness.
"i think you are just proving my point here, hun." he laughed a little, "you're still you. still arguing with me over something silly. so i know a part of you can sit up."
"you're so corny," you huffed, bringing your arm out to push his face away. his stubble scratched your hand, and he pressed a kiss against your palm.
"works every time." he mumbled against your fingers that were pressing against his mouth.
you then slowly retreated them back under the duvet.
"i haven't felt this way in so long. i'm just... fucking everything up all over again. i'm the same person i always have been. i haven't changed." you sighed, drowning in your spiral.
he held you closer to him, as if he was trying to absorb all your mental pain. he saw you change with his own eyes. he saw the smile grow back onto your face again, he saw you begin to argue with him about silly things again, he saw you laugh at his corny jokes again.
"you know healing-"
"isn't linear yeah, yeah." you interrupted him.
"wasn't gonna say that."
you didn't respond, feeling the barbed wire tighten around your throat, like if you swallowed wrong it would tear something open.
"you think you're still the same?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and brushing your hair out of your face.
you didn't answer him. you stared at the wall instead. if you released anything right now, it was all going to come crumbling, crashing and toppling down.
"when it got bad, back then, you kept it to yourself." he paused, remembering how that ended. "but you're telling me you're struggling. that's not the same. that's better than keeping it to yourself."
his precise wording, the way he paused before saying sentences just told you everything you needed to know. he was scared all over again, worried that saying the wrong thing would trigger you further into the hole you were falling into. he couldn't let that happen.
"can you run me a bath?" you said, suddenly.
you could hear his breath hitch like he was about to say something, but he said yes, pressed a kiss onto your temple and disappeared down the hallway.
the water faucet turned on, the water splashing into the porcelain bath tub. it filled the dusty quiet of the house.
you couldn't stand his voice any longer, you hated the tenderness within it. his pathetic attempts at comforting you. before he would tease you and excitedly trot down the hallway humming away, off-key. this time, he saw straight through your deceitful ways, now he was cautious. he was walking on egg shells in his own house because of you.
you hoped, cruelly, that he would run the bath, tell you it was ready, and you would tell him you would get there in a second, and forget about it. just fall asleep again, because you never planned on bathing anyway.
what sort of cruel wife dangles progress in front of her husband like bait, letting him believe he could still reach you?
you imagined the steam fogging the mirror, him dipping his fingers in the water multiple times to ensure it wasn't too hot.
disgusted by yourself, the selfishness of it all, the greed in wasting his time, the lack of consideration for how this was affecting him. rotten, that's what you were. it was sour and spoiled your corpse of a body, spreading throughout all your veins.
you heard the soft clink of bottles being placed down and then the rustle of fabric. you pictured him folding your freshly cleaned pajamas and towels and placing your soaps on the side of the tub.
he married someone bright and determined, someone who argued with him about the colour of the walls and forced him to come to antique shops. not a body in the bed.
a burden.
not someone who wasted his time, just to see if he still cared. not someone who made her husband audition for her love.
pressing your face further into the pillow, your forehead twitched. you wished that you could suffocate your thoughts but they just kept taking root.
you were going to waste it.
the water would still, waiting for your body that was never planning on coming. after some time, it would cool and all the bubbles would dissolve. leon would drain it, pretending that this never happened as the last bubble fell down the drain.
the water shut off.
footsteps didn't come immediately. but they did, eventually.
"it's ready honey." he said softly, the door opening a little as he pushed it against his fingertips.
"i'll be there in a minute." you croaked out, your nails digging into your thigh, leaving crescent-shaped marks. disgusting.
the thin bar of warm yellow light from the hallway slipped into the room, running across the pooling duvet.
"okay." he replied, his footsteps retreating down the hallway. not angry, not disappointed. just 'okay'.
your chest tightened. you squeezed your eyes shut, just hoping that maybe, everything would just disappear. you prayed that maybe you would get sick or some catastrophic external event would happen so none of this would be your fault anymore. because it had been you.
seeing his shaking hands and his pleading cries after that night changed you. saying your name over and over again as if repetition alone could've brought you back to normalcy. even if it was an accident, it scared both of you enough. he drove himself to exhaustion making sure you were okay. you noticed his constant hovering afterwards, his sudden desire to make you food all the time, the way he would check your pulse in the middle of the night. you didn't mean to fall asleep in the bath, you weren't trying to kill yourself. but the water didn't care about intent. and intent didn't change impact.
"leon." you called out, mustering up all the energy you could. he had fought hard for you, and now you were going to fight hard for him. it didn't mean pretending you were okay, but it meant being open and honest.
too quickly, like he was hoping for this, he poked his head around the door. the light from the bathroom haloed him briefly. the mattress dipped, his weight sitting on it.
"i'm here," he said, his hand firmly holding your shoulder.
"i want to get up." you said, "i'll get in the bath you made. i don't want this to end like it did last time."
suddenly, tears spilled from your eyes, your frame heaving up and down. everything burst and crumbled. your body folded in on itself as you tried to hide yourself.
"oh, honey," his voice was low and steady as he pulled you into his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. "i've got you baby."
"i can't even get up. i can't get up and have a bath." you choked on your words, sobs breaking through. "you shouldn't have to deal with this."
"i didn't get married to you to only have you on your good days," he said, rubbing firm circles into your hip. "you getting up is not small to me."
"it's small to everyone else." you mumbled, sniffling.
"you're not married to everyone else." he whispered, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. you huffed slightly as your fingers held onto him tighter.
"you go out fighting horrors that i can't even imagine. you shouldn't have to come home to this."
he stilled, his rough fingers holding one side of your face and wiping the tears that spilled down your cheek. he gently brought your chin up to look at his eyes.
"don't do that."
"don't what-"
"don't compare." he hushed, "you think what i deal with makes this less real?"
you tried to move your face away from his grip, but tears kept leaking from your eyes.
"i'm sorry for being like this."
"what are you apologising for?" he asked, "just because i fight things that are visible, doesn't make the things you fight any less painful. i said this before and i'll say it again, you're the hardest worker i know."
you went quiet, your sobs broke into gasps, sharp little inhales that hurt your chest. leon didn't say anything, he didn't rush you, or overwhelm you or fill the silence. he only continued to trace gentle, grounding circles into your back with his thumb. your forehead rested on his collarbone, his scent was a mixture of cologne and that slight earthy smell from when he spent too long in the garden.
then your breathing gradually evened. you pulled away from his body, his hands still holding you as you blinked through the blur. you noticed the damp patch on his shirt. everything felt lighter, the heaviness of the duvet wasn't as suffocating as before. leon pressed his lips against your forehead.
"you done apologising?"
"maybe." you whispered. his lips twitched.
"i'll take maybe." he laughed a little, relief overwhelming him. you two held each other in silence for a little longer, relaxing in one another's warmth.
"i want to get up." you said, clutching onto him a little tighter.
"okay." he began, "let's sit up first-"
"if i change my mind about this-" you broke out, breaths going uneven.
"then we change our minds and i'll stay with you until you're ready again. i'm not leaving your side." his hand firm on your shoulder still, tilting his head to catch your gaze. he had that reassuring look that he always had, no matter the situation, it somehow made you think everything was going to be okay. the sort of reassurance and warmth that had you remembering when you first met him and he flashed you that boyish grin of his. the one that made you fall in love with him. your breathing evened.
"okay." you pressed your lips together, his smile now filling you with determination.
"ready?"
you nodded.
he shifted himself so he was sat on the edge of the bed, and you pushed yourself up using your elbows. leon's hand instinctively shot out to support your lower back, steadying you before you could even ask. the room swayed, your vision swimming. as your head slowly turned to him, you saw the small proud smile that was ghosting on his lips.
he stood up, but his touch never left.
"ready for standing up?"
you hummed in agreement and shifted your feet off the bed slowly, until they touched the cold of the floor. your hands clutched onto leon's damp shirt as you pushed yourself up.
you stood.
you knees felt weak and your head felt light, but you were up. you leant into leon, his firm solidness made the twist in your chest loosen.
"there she is." he said, a smile in his voice.
despite everything, you were standing.
note: if this does well, i might write a part 2 of the reader getting in the bath, or if anyone else has any other suggestions i'd love to hear them. i hope everyone is okay, just saw the sun for the first time in so long - i didn't need to go outside with a scarf or coat it was so nice. i even got ice-cream, that's how excited i am for the summer. through editing this i also noticed that i unintentionally made an undertale reference.
re9 leon who's spent years pining after you, but solidly locked it behind layers and layers of highly guarded walls and amidst the clutter of all things repressed in him.
re9 leon who thinks he's missed his chance with you. or that he never had it to begin with. it's been too long, the timing's off, he's never been able to give you what you deserve—
and you deserve the world. not a man pushing 50 whose every expedition is so fraught he can't guarantee you he'll ever return to you safe and sound, much less return at all. his luck has an expiration date, and you shouldn't be there when it spoils.
re9 leon who buckles embarrassingly quick once you've had enough of the back and forth, the 'will we, won't we', the way he keeps himself at an arm's length at all times but the way that same arm is still held protectively in front of you whenever the situation calls for it.
re9 leon who can't believe his luck when you finally get together, who puts you on a pedestal of his own making— lovingly built with your every flaw and virtue in mind. he's too old to idealize, to see anything but the reality of who you are and still think it's far beyond the wildest reaches of his imagination.
the world is quieter around you, and you make him dream for once.
re9 leon who's at once reserved and unabashed, so forthcoming with the way he loves you because age has made him reckon with the nature of time yet almost shy when he realizes the depth of his gestures — particularly when you return them, when he's on the receiving end.
re9 leon who's every part the hardened veteran, weary beyond his years, but melts into your every touch, your every kiss. chases after you.
re9 leon who gets greedy, with his heart and with his hands, but who can't bring himself to care for as long as you'll have him around. who always checks in, reassures your every doubt, heeds your every word.
