â§âËđď¸âŠ âËđ§âšâĄ you work at the convenience store and sukuna works at his family car workshop by its side, which means you guys acknowledge each other daily but never really talk. that is, until he notices you crying while sitting on the curb, capri sun gripped in your hands, and an unusual relationship blooms between you two.
contents. sukuna x fem reader! fluff ⢠first times ⢠awkward reader ⢠sukuna is down bad but he wonât admit it ⢠eventual smut ⢠angst ⢠hurt/comfort ⢠eventual after high school -> adulthood timeskip in later chapters. if you know the artist let me know so i can credit them!!
the summer had been creeping in quietly, the way it always did in this forgotten corner of the suburbsâlonger evenings that stretched the daylight into golden haze, warm air thick with the faint, dusty tang of sun-baked asphalt and overgrown weeds pushing through sidewalk cracks. cicadas hummed earlier each day, their relentless drone seeping through open windows like a promise of heatwaves to come, a persistent soundtrack that seemed to accelerate time itself.
at school, faded graduation banners hung crookedly from the rusted gates, fluttering limply in the breeze like surrender flags. teachers had long stopped pretending anyone cared about final lessons; they just droned through attendance, their voices blending into the chatter of students scrolling phones and trading gossip about post-grad freedom, about escape, about everything waiting beyond these walls.
and somehow, you were leaving it exactly the way you had entered it three years agoâ invisible, adrift, alone, like a ghost who'd learned to walk through hallways without anyone to see.
your family's convenience store sat stubbornly on the corner like it always had, a little box squeezed between the narrow, pothole-riddled road and the low concrete bulk of the auto workshop next door.
it had been there before you were born, would probably be there long after you leftâ assuming you ever found a way out. its faded sign flickered intermittently, buzzing like a trapped fly against the glass, the letters worn thin by sun and neglect. inside, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on scuffed linoleum floors sticky from spilled sodas, the kind of place people passed through but never stayed.
the bell above the door chimed every few minutes, a tinny jingle that marked the parade of regulars: weary construction workers grabbing packs of cigarettes and black coffee before dawn shifts, kids on bikes snatching candy bars with sticky fingers, tired mothers with overflowing baskets of instant noodles and cheap frozen meals, their faces etched with the same exhaustion you saw in the mirror.
after school, you worked the register; scanning barcodes with mechanical precision, stocking shelves with cans of off-brand soda and bags of chips that crunched under your fingers, wiping down sticky counters that never stayed clean. you smiled when you had to, a tight-lipped curve of your lips that never reached your eyes, because that's what kept the customers coming back, that's what kept the business running, that's what was expected. you had learned early that performance mattered more than feeling.
and every afternoon, like clockwork, the workshop next door roared to life, shattering the store's dull rhythm.
metal clanged sharply against metalâ wrenches dropping, hoods slamming. engines revved with guttural growls that vibrated through the shared wall, sending faint tremors into the soda fridge, making the bottles inside clink against each other like nervous teeth. loud voices carried through the open garage doors, rough laughter and barked orders from the men who worked there, oil-stained shirts clinging to sweat-slicked backs.
the air outside grew heavy with the sharp bite of motor oil, rubber, and exhaust, mingling with the store's perpetual scent of stale air freshener and artificially flavored slushies. it was a smell you'd come to associate with late afternoons, with the dying sun, with the border between your world and theirs.
he worked there with his familyâ his older brother mostly, from what you'd overheard in passing, fragments of conversation that drifted through open doors like smokeâ his presence as commanding as the rumble of an engine tearing through quiet streets.
grease was always smudged somewhere on him: black streaks across his knuckles, up his veined forearms that flexed when he hauled tires or torqued bolts, sometimes even a careless swipe along his sharp jawline, darkening the faint shadow of stubble there. he went to your schoolâ same grade, same echoing hallways, same looming graduationâ but your worlds never touched. they weren't even in the same universe.
he was a storm cloud moving through crowded corridors, students parting like the red sea: the quiet ones averted their eyes, whispering about fights he'd won or rumors of trouble with cops; the bold ones trailed him like moths, hoping for a scrap of his attention, a nod of acknowledgment, anything. sukuna never looked particularly interested in any of it. his steps were deliberate, shoulders broad under his worn black tees, pink hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed and couldn't be bothered to care, tattoos peeking from collars and cuffsâ marks that screamed don't approach, don't ask, don't even think about it.
you had never spoken to him, didnât even want to, although sometimes you were too curious for your own good. you just noticed him, couldn't help it, really. the way he owned every space he stepped into, like gravity bent around him, like the air itself made room. the effortless tilt of his head when he laughed at something crude, the rare flash of sharp teeth that could have been charming if it wasn't slightly terrifying. the way he movedâ it was safer to watch from afar, hidden behind the register counter, invisible in plain sight.
sometimes he came into the store.
energy drinks, mostlyâ cans of monster sweating beads of condensation that left wet rings on the counter. once, a pack of spark plugs wrapped in plastic, the kind you'd seen a thousand times but couldn't name. another time, a box of bandages after what looked like a nasty cut on his hand, the skin around the wound angry and red, and you'd wondered briefly if it hurt, if he'd hissed when the antiseptic hit, if anyone had helped him clean it. you'd ring him up in silence, fingers flying over the keys, avoiding his gaze with the precision of long practice.
the total would flash on the screen: 4.50. 12.99. he'd slide crumpled bills across the counter or tap his chipped card, the screen lighting up green. you'd hand back change, quarters warm from your palm, a receipt fluttering down like a dead leaf. neither of you ever said anything beyond the price. a nod, at most. a grunt. that was the extent of your relationship, if it could even be called that: transactional, forgettable, the kind of interaction that left no trace.
until the day everything hit you at once, like a wave you didn't see coming, like drowning in slow motion.
it was after school, the last week before graduation ceremonies and that final, suffocating assembly where they'd call names alphabetically and you'd walk across a stage to shake hands with people who didn't know you existed.
the hallways buzzed with excitementâ clusters of students swapping numbers, planning beach trips to the coast, wild house parties with contraband booze, university orientations in shiny brochures clutched like golden tickets. group photos snapped in the quad, laughter echoing as poses turned silly, arms around shoulders, heads tilted together.
promises flew: "text me all summer!" "we gotta do this again before college scatters us!" "i'll visit, i swear, don't cry!" you stood on the edges, backpack heavy on your shoulders, listening to it all with a hollow ache in your chest that had grown familiar enough to almost ignore.
nobody asked for your number and nobody snapped a picture with you and nobody said, "we should hang out before we all leave town."
you didn't even have anyone to say goodbye to. no yearbook scribbles, no tearful hugs, no shared inside jokes to carry into the unknown. when you'd checked your yearbook that morningâ the one you'd paid for like everyone elseâ you'd found exactly three signatures. one from a teacher who'd written "keep up the good work!" in looping cursive. one from a girl in your english class who'd clearly mistaken you for someone else. and one that just said "have a good summer" in handwriting you didn't recognize. three. out of a class of four hundred.
the feeling clung to you like damp clothes after a rainstorm: heavy, embarrassing, stupidly raw. you tried to shake it off during your shift at the store. you restocked the fridge methodically, shoving bottles into neat rows until your fingers went numb from the cold, until the bones ached. you counted change with exaggerated focus, stacking coins into perfect towers, sliding bills into their slots with precision. you smiled at customersâ a harried dad buying diapers, an old lady haggling over lottery tickets like her rent depended on itâyour voice steady, automatic: "have a good one," "come again," "that'll be $4.87." the words meant nothing. they were sounds you made to fill space.
but when your shift finally ended and the sky bled into deep orange, painting the workshop's open bays in fiery light, painting the oil stains on the concrete gold, it all came crashing down. the weight of three empty years buckled your knees before you could even make it inside the house attached to the store's back, the small apartment where dinner waited and questions waited and life waited in its endless, grinding routine.
you sank onto the curb between the store and the workshop, back pressed against the rough, graffiti-scratched wall that separated your worlds. knees pulled tight to your chest, you clutched a cold capri sun pouch you'd grabbed from the fridge on impulseâ straw still tucked in its side, condensation slicking your palms, the foil crinkling every time you shifted. the pavement bit into your thighs through thin jeans, but you didn't care. the cicadas screamed louder now, mocking you with their endless noise.
and you couldnât help but cry.
quietly at first, hot tears slipping down your cheeks, blurring the cracks in the sidewalk into rivers, into oceans. you bit your lip, willing it to stop, willing yourself to be normal, to be fine, to be anything other than what you were. but the dam brokeâ ugly, wrenching sobs that made your shoulders heave, your breath hitch in sharp gasps that scraped your throat raw.
snot dripped, your face twisted in that childish way you hated, the kind of ugly crying no one should ever see, the kind that made you look as broken as you felt. you kept your head buried against your knees, hair curtaining your face, praying the evening shadows would swallow you whole and no one would notice.
unfortunately, the workshop next door was still open, floodlights spilling harsh white across the lot, illuminating everything you wanted hidden.
the sound of heavy footsteps crunched on gravel, stopping just a few feet away.
you froze, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the places where tears still tracked down your cheeks.
you didn't need to look up to know who it was. that presenceâunmistakable, like a shift in air pressureâ
you swiped at your face frantically with your sleeve, mortified heat flooding your cheeks as you stared at a grease stain on the pavement, willing yourself to disappear. "i'm not crying."
a beat of silence passed, thick as the humid air, heavy as the weight in your chest.
"you're sitting on the curb holding a capri sun like it's life support," sukuna said, tone dry as the dust kicking up around his boots, flat as the concrete under you. "and you're crying. i saw.â
you squeezed the pouch harder, the plastic crinkling defensively under your grip, the straw digging into your palm. a weak defense. a pathetic one. "it's cold. helps."
you braced for him to laugh or walk away as he stared down at youâ either would shatter you and confirm everything you already believed about yourself.
he didn't leave. his shadow loomed, broad and unmoving, blocking the last of the sun. that somehow made it worse, his silence pressing like a thumb on a bruise.
"did someone die?" he asked after a moment, tone completely serious, which only confused you more.
your breath stuttered. "âŚwhat? no. god, no."
you shook your head, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwanted. "i've never dated anyone."
"you fail something? exam? class?"
"âŚno. i passed everything."
he went quiet again, like he was cycling through a mental checklist and coming up empty, and you were a problem he couldn't quite solve. the distant rev of a test engine idled behind him, underscoring the awkward stretch with mechanical rhythm.
you sniffed hard, pressing your damp sleeve to your runny nose, feeling the fabric grow wet, the mess of yourself in every possible way. the words clawed their way out before you could swallow them back, desperate and unfiltered, torn from somewhere deep.
the cicadas filled the uncomfortable silence, relentless and indifferent.
"âŚand?" he prompted, voice even, but there was no judgment you could detect, just curiosity.
you stared at the ground, throat so tight it ached, pavement blurring anew. "and i didn't make any friends."
the confession hung there, small and pathetic in the open air, smaller than you'd imagined it would sound, more embarrassing out loud than it had been in your head.
"everyone's talking about summer plans," you continued, voice cracking like glass under pressure. "i just stood there, listening to it all week. three years of classes and lunch tables, and nobody even noticed i existed. i was just⌠there. like background noise. the one kid no one remembered."
you laughed weakly, a choked sound that hurt coming out, wiping your eyes again with a sleeve that was already soaked. "isn't that stupid?"
a long pause stretched, the workshop's clamor fading into white noise, the cicadas seeming to hold their breath.
you risked a glance up, peeking through damp lashes, through the blur of residual tears.
sukuna stood there, arms crossed over his grease-flecked chest, one boot tapping idly on the gravel. a fresh streak of black smeared his forearm, tattoos curling like angry serpents beneath, ink stark against skin. his expression was unreadableâ crimson eyes narrowed slightly, assessing, like you were a busted carburetor he was figuring out and he was deciding whether you were worth the effort.
you blinked, brain short-circuiting, ââŚwhat?â
"a friend," he repeated, as if it were the simplest fix in the world, as obvious as changing a tire or filling a tank. "you said you don't have one. so make one."
your mouth opened, closed. opened again. "âŚthat's not how that works. you can't justâpeople have groups already, histories. there's no time toâ"
"seems like it is," he shot back, unfazed, cutting through your protest like it was nothing. "you're not dead. start talking."
you stared at him, puffy-eyed and stunned, capri sun forgotten and crushed flatter in your lap, foil crinkling with every small movement.
he stared back, eyebrow arching faintly, as if you were the one making this complicated. you were not? aside from being slightly more awkward than your average teenager, you were normal and perfect capable of being someoneâs friend. although the last bit wasnât proven yet.
the workshop buzzed on behind himâ clangs and shouts, the hiss of an air compressor, the rumble of an engine turning over. the evening air hung warm and heavy, carrying faint diesel fumes and the distant smell of someone's dinner cooking. your face still throbbed, nose red, you were a mess, clutching that stupid pouch like a lifeline, like it could save you from drowning on dry land.
before you could talk yourself out of itâ before sanity could kick in and remind you who you were talking toâ the words tumbled free, reckless and raw, torn from somewhere you didn't know existed.
"âŚwill you be my friend?"
the second they left your mouth, regret hit like a freight train. you wanted the earth to crack open and swallow you, the curb to dissolve, you wanted to disappear into the gravel. what was wrong with you? asking ryomen sukunaâ the guy who radiated don't-fuck-with-me energy, the one everyone whispered about like he was a live wire, the one with rumors and a reputation that preceded him like a storm frontâ to be your friend. while sobbing like a loser and clutching a capri sun like a child.
silence stretched, eternally confusing. your stomach plummeted to your shoes, then through the pavement, then into some infinite void below.
he stared at you, crimson gaze piercing, face unreadable.
you stared back, horrified, heat crawling up your neck, burning your cheeks, making everything worse. "âŚi mean, you don't have to! forget i said that. i was justâemotional, stupid, i didn't meanâ"
"sure," he repeated, casual as asking for a pack of cigarettes, shifting his weight like this was no big deal.
you blinked at him, brain rebooting slowly, painfully. "that's⌠it?"
"what, you want a contract? pinky swear? engraved invitation?" a flicker of something crossed his faceâ amusement, maybe, or disbelief at your disbelief.
"no, i justâ" you floundered, searching his face for the punchline. "why?"
he shrugged, broad shoulders rolling under his shirt, grease flaking off as he uncrossed his arms. "you're here every day. store's right next to the shop. i see you restocking, ringing up idiots, wiping down that counter. might as well make it official."
that⌠was his reasoning? proximity? convenience? you didn't know whether to laugh, cry again, or pinch yourself to wake up from whatever strange dream this was.
"âŚso we're friends now?" you asked in a small voice.
"guess so." a ghost of a smirk tugged his lip. âdonât make it weird.â
another pause settled, charged now, electric. he jerked his chin toward the mangled pouch in your hands. "you gonna drink that or just keep strangling it?"
you glanced downâ forgotten, warped into a sad pancake, foil crinkled beyond repair. cheeks burning, you fumbled the straw in, stabbing until it punctured, and took a sip. artificial orange flooded your mouth, overly sweet and fizzy, tasting like childhood and sudden, dizzying relief, like something you hadn't known you needed.
sukuna watched for a beat, crimson eyes flicking over you, then he turned on his heel like he was heading back to the workshop's chaos, done with this strange interaction, finished with you.
panic flared hot in your chestâ don't go, not yet, please not yetâ
he paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder, eyebrow quirking, waiting.
you swallowed, voice still small but gaining traction, finding strength you didn't know you had. "âŚfriends hang out, right?"
"so⌠do you want to hang out? sometime? i mean, if you're free afterâ"
he studied you for a long moment, the dying sun catching the pink in his hair, turning it fiery, turning it almost gold at the edges. you held out your capri sun toward him, a pathetic peace offering.
"âŚwe can share this?â
he looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch.
"âŚthat was just in your mouth."
"âŚi can get you another one."
he gave you a long-suffering look and sighed, running a grease-streaked hand through his hair, disrupting the already chaotic pink.
"âŚi am? wellâ kindaâ"
"âŚand you cry on sidewalks."
he stared at you one more second, crimson eyes unreadable, face giving nothing away. then jerked his chin toward the store.
you blinked, confused, as if you werenât the one offering a minute ago.
"capri sun, loser," he said, like you were slow. "grape."
your heart stuttered, skipped, restarted.
he turned, already walking back toward the workshop, toward the noise and the grease and the life you'd watched from afar for so long. you scrambled to your feet, knees protesting, capri sun crushing further in your grip.
he stopped, half-turning.
you clutched the crushed pouch to your chest, feeling your heartbeat through the foil. "âŚhi. i'mâ"
"i know," he cut in, flat and certain. "i read your nametag."
your mouth opened and closed uselessly. "âŚoh."
and then he walked back into the workshop, swallowed by the noise and by the world you'd never been part of.
you stood there on the curb, staring after him, watching the space where he'd been, feeling the evening air warm on your skin.
your eyes still stung and your face was still puffy and your life was still a mess, still uncertain, still terrifyingly empty in so many ways. but for the first time all dayâ you were smiling.
just before he disappeared completely, his voice carried back to you, low and steady,
and just like that, your summer started. not with parties or plans or promises from ghosts. not with numbers in a yearbook or invitations to beaches or group chats you'd never be part of.
but with him, with the hum of cicadas and the promise of eight o'clock ticking closer, with the taste of artificial orange still sweet on your tongue and the weight of a crushed pouch in your hand.
