fluff. toji who lays on you when he’s so exhausted he could cry
a/n: some cute toji while i try to write part 4 of my other fic
it was late at night. like usual, you laid in bed with a book in hand while waiting for your boyfriend to come home.
the lock on the front door finally turned and the jangle of keys rang through the air. an exhausted sigh was heard alongside the quiet thuds of shoes being kicked off.
toji appeared in your doorway not long later, exhaustion wearing his handsome face down. you offered a small smile and put the book aside, more pressing matters at hand now.
“hi my baby.” you greeted softly, holding your arms out.
he tried to smile back but it didn’t meet his eyes. it never did on days like this. he trudged on over and slowly laid down, collapsing on top of you tiredly while still being sure not to crush you.
you wrapped your arms around him as best as you could, holding him and kissing his head gently. he melted into you. the sweet smell of your perfume and your warmth made him overflow with love.
“what’s wrong baby?” you murmured quietly, trailing some of your fingers down along his still slightly tense back. he just shook his head and buried his face deeper into your shoulder.
“so tired..” he whispered back and it was apparent in his voice.
you moved a hand to hold the side of his face, lifting his head to look at you. he let you and pressed his cheek into your hand. his eyes were rimmed with red from the day wearing down on him.
“my poor cutie. you work too hard.” you whispered, pressing fluttery kisses to each of his features. that earned the slightest hint of a smile.
“I’m okay.” he insisted. your fingers brushed against his cheek lightly, making a light pink creep up on his cheeks. you just nodded but the two of you knew it wasn’t true.
you pecked his lips now. a bunch of times. “cmon, let’s shower together. I can get you all cleaned up before dinner.”
he nodded and gave you a slow kiss, his appreciation translating through it. “I love you.”
summary : in which Clark’s in a rut trying to avoid you for your own good until you’re ovulating. And quite literally do it like they do on the discovery channel.
(IM SORRY. this song is such a jam, based on the song by the bloodhound gang
Contents : Swearing , Clark in a rut, oral ( f receiving) , face riding , Alien tongue. making out, Clark sniffing you , biting , humping , whimpering, howling, P IN V UNPROTECTED, breeding kink, levitating, mentions of pregnancy, belly bulge , pincers , mating press, rough sex, size kink, man handling , pussy sniffing. Reader calling Clark superman and kal, crying, manhandling , hyperspermia
3k words !!
SEXUAL CONTENT BELOW THE CUT
MDNI
Clark has been avoiding you for the last two days. There was something sickeningly off about him. He refused to kiss you, refused to look at you. Whenever it was bedtime he would sleep in the guest room and locked it.
In a way it made you feel a little insecure. Was there something wrong with you?? Did you upset him?
And then came the whimpering whenever he was near you. Or the fact every time he went into the guest room you could hear him. Groaning painfully and the creaking of the bed. Getting off using his hand. The pillow. A toy you once bought him EVERYTHING. BUT. YOU.
He was in a rut. No way in hell was he going near you. Because he wound hurt you by fucking you into oblivion. You're too small to handle something like that. He would hate if he hurt you. It's unforgivable.
And that's when you started aching. Your pussy throbbing desperately for touch. For anything it can get. You had started humping a pillow when Clark left for work. Rutting your hips making sure it rubbed against your clit every single time making you whimper.
But it wasn't enough. It wasn't Clark. You needed him because he knew exactly how to fuck you. How to take care of you and give you everything you need.
That night you were in the kitchen cutting up some strawberries when the door to the guest room opened, of course you waited for him to ignore you again. Until.... He smelt it. A sweet lingering smell. Not the strawberries no no... this smell made him even more hard. His 10 inch kryptonian veiny dick bulging out of his pants painfully from just the sheer smell. And he whimpered.
Then... you heard sniffing. Clark walks over to you and starts sniffing you. Grabbing at your waist and inhaling your scent. His skin was roasting hot.
"Baby what are you doing?" You giggle softly and he inhales deeply before letting out a low growl and pulling your head back slightly to kiss you deeply. It's a kiss that makes your toes curl. Shoving his tongue into your mouth and rutting his hard dick against your ass relentlessly.
The sensation made you more needy , more soaked between the legs kissing him back more hungry. It all made sense. He was in a rut. You're ovulating.
You're both fucked. Figuratively and literally.
Within seconds you're more bent over the counter and he's thrusting against you. Essentially imitating fucking you to get friction on his dick. He was scared to go all the way. He would hurt you. But you needed this. You knew he needed this.
"Baby?" You coo at him and he growls painfully at you disturbing him. But he forces himself to stop.
"What?? Are you okay? What do you want?" He whimpered and you push yourself off the counter and turn around to look at him and tilt your head looking at his blue eyes that are threatening to darken, the joggers he's wearing and white shirt . Then you look down at his joggers. His pants are bulging. Dick about to rip out. The dark patch forming just from how good you fucking smell to him. It’s the most addictive thing he’s ever smelt and it’s hurting him even more to be around you right now.
"Baby... you're gonna get sick , you need this ..." You sigh at him and his jaw clenched shaking his head.
"You don't know what you're saying, I will hurt you. When I start I can't stop." But as he was saying it his dick was twitching at the sound of your voice. How pretty you were. How small you were. Just how easy it would be to split you into two with his dick.
"I'm telling you. I can handle it. Now come with me before I fuck myself" you taunt him walking to the bedroom and taking your clothes off. And within seconds he's following the scent of your pussy like a bloodhound. And there you were. Laid naked on your bed spread out for him. The way your pussy was dripping and all puffy for him. The sweet musky smell paining him more. He's ripping his clothes off like a feral animal before climbing onto the bed and crawling between your legs. Dipping his head down and sniffing your pussy. Inhaling the scent , his eyes turning a wicked dark blue.
Then a pained howl slips from his mouth as he's rutting his hips into the sheets and looking at you.
"Please.. can I.. please baby.. please?" He's whimpering and humping the bed panting like a dog. He’s so needy and he knows it.
"Clark. This is for your own good. Take what you need. I love you. I trust you!" You coo. That's all it took. For him to bite your thighs dragging kisses along them before diving into your pussy like a mad man. Lapping at the juices and rubbing his nose all over your clit making you shriek. If he could live between your legs for the rest of his life he would die a happy man.
He's dragging his tongue in and out of your pretty hole trying to get as much of your wetness all over his face. He's nasty. You're grabbing his head pulling him closer and humping his face whimpering. His nails dig into your thighs, the wedding ring on his hand glistening, pulling you even closer like he's trying to suffocate himself.
Moments later he's spinning you both around so you're sat on his face.
You rut against his mouth screeching at how good it felt. Until... his tongue goes deeper into your pussy than it usually does. Stretching deeply into your pussy and dragging all over your walls. Slurping you out and you shudder going cross eyed.
Meanwhile he's humping the air. He needs to fuck you. You reach your hand out pumping his dick and he whimpers underneath you. The Precum runs all over your hand and he’s now humping your hand desperately. You pull your hand off licking your fingers.
But as you try get off his face he's growling pulling you back down and shoving his tongue deeper and rubbing his nose at your clit still sniffing your arousal.
And you came. Hard. All over his face whimpering and he's sucking it up making sure nothing gets left behind pulling his tongue out of your sopping hole and lifting you off his face.
Then you're rapidly flipped onto your stomach and he's propping your legs up and pushing your head down putting his mouth near your ear panting and almost shuddering.
"Last chance baby... you know I can't stop right? My genes won't let me.." a soft kiss to your cheek his breath desperate and hitching.
"And I told you. Take what you need. We're married Clark. I trust you!" You look at him and he throws his glasses on the side table grabbing his dick and slamming it into your aching pussy with no remorse. Burying his throbbing kryptonian dick. You felt your walls stretching out brutally and he's letting out a gut wrenching grunting howl as he starts thrusting brutally and grabbing your waist.
"OH FUCK! CLARK!" You squealed and he's grunting like a mad man thrusting deeper. Head thrown back like he's needed this his entire life.
"OH MY F—- GOSH! NGhhhhh!! I'm sorry I'm sorry I have to do this I can't help it" He's going harder both arms wrapping around you tugging you closer.
Your pussy was squelching and squeezing his dick and he's groaning loudly eyes rolling back. You close your eyes for just a moment feeling sensitive from your last orgasm. When you feel like you're floating. Literally floating. Your head all fuzzy and light. And when you open your eyes. You quite literally ARE. You're in the air. Nowhere near the bed. You shriek limbs thrashing about the new angle making you bent in half as he's plummeting harder into you.
"Clark!! I'm gonna fall!” You shrieked and his arms tightened around you more and he whimpered at his deep he could fuck you like this. He really couldn’t help it.
"N...no!! I'm sorry baby you're safe with me. Just take it. Please just." He grunts still holding back slightly. The tinge of nice Clark is still there. That wasn’t going to help him. He needed this out of his system before it destroyed him.
He plummeted deeper using your entire body as leverage while your head hung and it made you dizzy and the blood rushes to your head. The impending orgasm felt like it was going to destroy you.
So when it rips through you making your cunt tighten around Clark's dick he whimpers shuddering and you felt dizzy.
He slowly stops levitating pulling you onto his lap facing away from him and fucking up into you through the orgasm grunting like a mad man. His hands on your breast and he's biting at your neck leaving marks.
You shriek bouncing on him slightly. Two orgasms deep and the sound of the wetness of your pussy fills the room. He's still inhaling the scent groaning.
"C..Clark..?" You whimpered ans he tilts your head back kissing you again. Pushing his tongue into your mouth letting you taste yourself. His lips working against your own perfectly.
"Hmm?" Talk to me!" He muttered against your mouth.
"You're holding back. I told you not to!" You moan bouncing on his dick desperately trying to get off.
"I told you. I'll hurt you. Don't make me do this baby. Please nghhhh I know what's best for you. If I lose control. I'll hurt you and you'll wind up pregnant." He whimpered into your ear and you get off his dick making him growl again grabbing your waist.
"So do it. Lose control. Breed me Clark. Get your wife pregnant." You spat out and within seconds you're being grabbed and thrown down onto the pillows. His instincts have taken over and he's pushing your legs apart.
"Not gonna be finished with you until you're stuffed with my cum baby.."He shoves into you all again plummeting his dick in ans out of your sopping wet pussy making you squeak and he's howling all over again grunting as he fucks into you. "OHHHH NGHHH I'm so sorry.. oh my fu... FUCK!" He splutters out which is rare for him to curse. But the way your pussy is clamping on him turns him crazy.
"CLARK!" You scream and he's pushing your legs over his shoulder leaning down to kiss you deeply , you whimper into his mouth lashing your tongue with his and whimpering. His dick is bullying your pussy with everything he can. All 10 inches. The girth making your pussy slobber all over him.
It feels like you're gonna be split in too but you can't stop him. You need this. He needs this. He needs to breed you.
"Gonna get my baby all swollen. My pretty wife is gonna carry our baby.. OUR baby" He grunts pushing your legs down more desperately fucking you.
His hand reaches down to rub your clit harshly and fast so it’s not long before another orgasm comes crashing down and you cum so hard you’re almost pushing his dick out.
“No baby.. no no cmon.. you need me in here. Yeah. You wanted this.” He pushes further into you burying himself to the hilt bucking his hips. You’re moaning louder. He’s whimpering.
“Baby I can’t cum again..” You whimpered a tear falling and he grunts carrying on
“Yes you can. I’ll get you there!” He’s pushing your thighs down more it’s shocking how you’re not breaking in half. Instead you’re wailing. Loudly. Tears falling down your face.
“No no.. I’m sorry.. I’m sorry I’m like this… oh… gosh baby… you’re so beautiful!” He leans down kissing your tears away plummeting faster while he’s whimpering. Your pussy is throbbing around him and tears start falling down his own face rutting into you harder and the headboard is smashing against the wall.
“OH… honey! S..stop! I …FFFF…NGHHH!”
The neighbours are pounding on the wall.
“WILL YOU TWO STOP ACTING LIKE ANIMALS!” You hear them yell and somehow it only spurs Clark on more as he sobs slamming in and out of your stretched out and abused pussy.
He moves your legs helping you wrap them around his waist and he’s yanking you closer to him somehow managing to be tougher if that was even possible. You sink your teeth into his shoulder and drag your nails down his back and he howls again his thrusts slowing down but plummeting deeply.
The bed creaks desperately and threatening to break. But he’s not stopping.
“Gonna breed you. Huh. Is that what my wife wants. To be so stuffed with my cum so hard that you get swollen?” He coos tauntingly slamming his lips back on yours in a claiming kiss that’s rougher than the others.
“Yes!! Yes superman! Breed me. Breed me with your fucking kid Kal el.., gonna get so big..make you a daddy!” You splutter out his kryptonian name and he stops for a second pulling away for a kiss. His eyes now darker than they’ve ever been. Dilated. Almost black.
“What… did you just call me?” He pants desperately.
“Kal el…” you pant legs shaking. The way it slips off your tongue makes his dick throb Inside you.
“Again” He enunciates with a brutal thrust.
“Kal… kal el.. love you so much.” You whimper and he does it again.
“Again. Say it again. I love you fuck.. gosh! Please!”
“Kal el… oh my fucking god kal!” You screech and he’s lost it. He’s fucking you like a complete animal grunting and growling loudly. He doesn’t even care that the neighbours can hear.
“My pretty human wife. You’re gonna look so good pregnant! “ He growls so loudly slamming into you relentlessly and the bed is shaking brutally.
He looks down lifting his torso slightly watching his dick poke out of your stomach with every thrust. He loved how tiny and helpless you were. He’s so sick. Quite literally he’s in a rut. But he can’t help it. You’re perfect.
God he was gonna love you pregnant. All swollen. Boobs getting bigger. Carrying HIS baby because that’s what HE did to YOU. The thought alone makes his head fuzzy and wanna fuck you harder than humanely possible.
His hand reaches down pushing down onto the bulge fucking you harder and you sob feeling the final coil build. This was the orgasm that felt like it was going to break him.
“Clark..kal el! I’m gonna -“ You shrieked before you collapsed around his dick. Sucking him in so hard you milk him and he yelps loudly shoving himself in and your head goes fuzzy. You feel sharp pincers latching onto your gummy walls and you cry out tears rapidly falling.
“I’m sorry baby.. I’m sorry.. I’m gonna cum and it’s gonna be a lot okay?” He tried to move and the pincers yank him in further and you wail.
With a gut wrenching sob he cums hard rutting load after load into your wrecked pussy, the cum already swelling your pussy up and warming you up more. The spikes dig further in locking him in place as he keeps cumming. You felt so full.
You whimper trying to push him out but he can’t. He physically can’t.
Until he can. And he’s back to being an animal. Slamming every last bit he can into your pretty little womb making sure it keeps. Making sure he can fuck you so hard you’re pregnant.
The bed creaks sickeningly before snapping sending you plummeting and he’s somehow deeper than he was before. Your legs in the air angling you so his cum goes further inside you.
“Oh my gosh… baby! Are you okay?” He gasps his eyes back to the blue you know and love and a small sniffling sob rips from your mouth. He’s pulling out and pulling you into his arms rocking you like a baby.
“Oh I’m sorry… I’m so sorry .. I love you I’m sorry!!” he’s kissing all over your face and shushing you gently. But the sobs turn into laughter and little giggles.
He immediately looks concerned ans tilts his head “baby what’s so funny? I hurt you? I’m horrible!”
You look at him face puffy from crying and snort out weakly.
“I think we might need a new bed” you beam stating the obvious and he shakes his head wiping tears away.
“Ya think? I think we’re gonna need new neighbours” he chuckles weakly already grabbing you some comfy clothes and helping you pull them on.
The pounding on the walls happens again.
“YOU FUCKING SICK BASTARDS SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Clark scoffs knocking back on the wall politely.
“EXCUSEEEE ME ! Me and my WIFE are trying for a baby THANK YOU!” he shakes his head pulling on some of his own clothes and scooping you up carrying you to the guest room. You climbed onto his chest on the bed and hug him so tightly resting your head on his chest to listen to his kryptonian heartbeat.
“I missed you baby… so much. Please never avoid me again.” You sigh and he rubs your back gently and sighs.
“I’m sorry baby … just doing what’s best for you. The last thing I ever wanna do is hurt you. You’re safe with me always.” Another kiss on the top of your head. Your nose. Your lips. Anywhere he can just to comfort you and let you know that he’s not a threat in any way.
“I can’t believe we broke the bed. I mean it though. I really do wanna have a kid with you baby…” he coos and your heart thuds.
“Trust me with the way you’re going. I doubt it won’t be long till I am and we can always keep trying!”
YEW N ME BABY AINT NUFFIN BUT MAMMALS SO LETS DEW IT LIKE THEY DEW ON THE DISCOVERY CHANNEL 🫵🫵🫵🫵
HELLO!! HI!!! uhm.. I missed Clark. Sorry pookie been cheating on you with Scott 😖😖😖
爆豪と切島 ⸻ the heat of the moment × bakugō & kirishima
fem!reader threesome with firefighters!bakugō & kirishima after they come to your “ rescue ”
request summary. hello gorgeous human, u know that i adore u & everything u write <3333 i need firefighter kirishima and bakugo who flirt their way into a date with yn and then having nasty passionate possessive sex <33333
content. afab!reader, firefighters!au, oral (f!receiving), threesome (f/m/m), finger sucking, kiribaku being kinda bi, p in v, creampie, body worship, praise, cum eating, size kink, this is so filthy hehe ; wc. 3.5k
the whole situation was stupid, really. you burnt the fuck out of some cookies, the smoke alarm goes off, and everyone in your building has to evacuate, et cetera.
of course, the two lead firemen that respond to the call are the most gorgeous himbos that you’ve ever seen, and they’re teasing you about it, just happy that everyone was okay. so you invite them to dinner for their trouble, and to prove that you actually do know what you’re doing in the kitchen.
they looked sexy in their uniforms, and they’re even sexier now.
the blonde, katsuki, is dressed in an expensive-looking tee with the sleeves partially rolled up, showing off his biceps, tucked into loose-fitting ripped jeans and some designer belt that accentuates his slutty waist. the redhead, eijiro, is wearing a short-sleeved button down half open, his toned chest and collarbones on perfect display, and casual slacks that make his thick, muscular thighs look like sin. they’re both styled with chains and rings, and katsuki has earrings that he definitely was not wearing to work the other day.
you take one look at them and you’re FUCKED.
and its worse because they know how hot they are — as soon as you open your front door, every thought in your pretty little head evaporates and kiri is all beaming, fanged grins and bakugo is smug with a knowing glint in his sanguine eyes.
“oh, you look so pretty, babydoll,” kirishima immediately lays it on thick, taking it upon himself to place one of his big, sturdy hands on your door and opening it all the way so the two can slip inside.
“th-thanks.”
“nice place … good thing it didn’t go up in flames.”
your face heats up at the embarrassment. “yeah … and thanks for coming ; I don’t have guests often but I really like to cook and bake for people.”
“yeah? well you can make food for us anytime, angel, we just have to figure out a way to repay you.” kiri hums, nodding his head down and hugging you. he’s massive, his frame swallowing yours entirely.
katsuki hesitates at first, but he also decides to hug you after eijiro pulls away. they both smell so fucking good, wearing heady colognes that are distinctly different from each other, but neither one is overpowering. yum.
you serve the food and they’re both so sweet, thanking and complimenting you the entire evening. you notice that neither of them ask for any sort of alcohol, which you’re thankful for.
“it’s been so long since I’ve had a home cooked meal like this, and this has to be the best that I’ve ever eaten .. oh my god, angel.” kirishima groans, eating up every last bit before setting his silverware back down.
his praise is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and you’re fluttering your doll lashes at him without even realizing it. “seems he doesn’t think very highly of my cooking.” bakugo grumbles, but it’s playful.
“can’t you just thank our host instead of being an ass? you’re jealous, huh?”
katsuki rolls his eyes before turning to you, his tone shifting entirely. “it was perfect, one of my favorites. thanks for having us, sweet thing.” your gaze turns to the blonde, and you notice just how big his hands are as he drinks from a glass of water. it’s distracting, but you manage to think of a response.
“you’re welcome, it was no trouble, and I love to cook for people … and I’m sorry to ask, but do you guys live together, or something?”
“yeah, best friends and roommates since high school. don’t worry, I take good care of him.” kirishima teases and the blonde rolls his eyes again, clearly unamused. “like hell you do, I feel like I’m your mother most days.” bakugo counters, lightly kicking at kirishima, which just makes the redhead laugh.
“well, what about dessert? I baked cookies properly this time.”
the mens’ faces light up and they nod at you .. but they both have other plans for dessert.
and yeah, they ate, and they praised you and thanked you to no end, and then they ate again .. but the main course, and even the dessert, could never compare to this — you, and your perfect, glistening pussy. bakugo is sitting with you on the kitchen counter, holding you against his chest, and kirishima between your thighs.
you’re soaking all over katsuki’s jeans, your wetness dripping through the ripped holes in the distressed denim and onto his skin, but it’s not like he minds the mess, he loves it.
“s’even sweeter than that homemade buttercream, baby, fuck. you’ve gotta taste her, kats.” kirishima moans, licking a wide stripe up your entire cunt, flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit in a way that makes you shiver as you run your fingers through his thick, silky hair.
“I will, I will … I’ve just got such a pretty view right now.” katsuki says over your shoulder, licking your neck before looking down at kiri.
their eyes meet while kirishima gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouth kisses, focusing on your clit, his dark eyelashes flutter and you can feel that there’s something not-so-platonic between them. it makes you whine as your thoughts blur, picturing these two gorgeous men pleasuring each other when they’re alone.
katsuki is mouthing at the column of your throat, sucking obscene bruises onto your soft skin. he doesn’t know you very well yet, but you’re so cute that he can’t help wanting to mark you up for himself.
you don’t last long, and you would’ve been more embarrassed if they hadn’t been doting on you as if you were the most perfect thing in existence, but kiri is telling you to cum so you don’t hold back on him — “it’s okay, princess, cum in my mouth, you’ve earned it.”
and when you cum, it’s the cutest and hottest thing that either men have ever seen. thighs trembling, one hand in kats’ hair and the other in kiri’s as you try to bring them both impossibly closer. you’re lightly hyperventilating and crying, trying to calm yourself in their holds, but kiri isn’t letting up, still just lapping and sucking at your sweet pussy until you literally push him away from you.
“too much, kiri, please!”
he finally relents, greedily licking his lips before wiping his hand with the back of his mouth, only to let katsuki lick up what’s left on his fingers. the blonde moans, closing his eyes and gently sucking on his bestie’s thick, pretty fingers. you audibly gulp as you watch them …
“atta girl, so fuckin’ pretty.” katsuki whispers against your neck, softly rubbing your sensitive kitty before he flips your skirt and apron back down, just so he can stuff his own fingers into his mouth to taste you again.
katsuki easily picks you up and carries you into your bedroom with kiri trailing behind, holding your sweet face and eagerly trying to kiss you as much as he can over his best friend’s shoulder while he carries you — kiri is obsessed, and he just can’t keep his hands off of you.
katsuki gently sets you down and they take turns removing your clothing, and then their own. they both look perfect ; they could be models even with the array of scars and cuts and bruises decorating their perfectly toned bodies, and they’re both absolutely hung. it makes your mouth water and your pussy even wetter ; you can feel the slick already dripping down your plush thighs, mixed with kiri’s spit.
“you want us both? or one at a time?” kirishima asks, his mouth still on your skin as he slips off your last piece of clothing. both men are trying to take it slow because they want to worship you, but they’ve both been fucking dying to have you like this since they first saw you, and especially after seeing you in that cute little dress in the kitchen today.
the question itself makes you blush an even brighter shade, and your breath catches, “j-just one.”
“gotcha, angel … is that something you’d want to try another time?” and he’s so sweet the way he asks such a filthy thing … so close that you can feel his pretty eyelashes against your cheek as he noses his way down to kiss your neck.
“I don’t know, m-maybe.”
“good girl, baby, it’s whatever you want … no pressure, jus’want to make you feel good.” he speaks the words into your skin, kissing you in reverence, but it’s still a lot. you haven’t had two partners at once before, so that was out of the question for now, but he still made you feel safe.
the feeling of being shared and doted on by these two gorgeous men was unreal, and you couldn’t tell if it made you feel like a slut, or like their prized possession .. maybe a bit of both, and maybe you liked it.
he switches topics, asking, “you wanna let bakugo taste your pretty pussy now, angel? is that okay?”
you nod without thinking and bakugo grins, laying you on your back, kissing all down your body while kiri settles into your squishy pillows at the headboard with you between his legs, your back to his chest. kiri is already impossibly hard, but the sight of you with his best friend kissing and licking and biting all over your pretty body makes him so hard that it hurts, with sweet little pearls of pre beading up at his pretty pink tip and rolling down his warm, thick length.
you’re so much smaller than them, so katsuki knows that he has to open you up with his fingers and tongue a bit because there’s no way that he or his best friend will be able to fit inside of you as is. katsuki is a munch, so wishes that he could just lay there and do nothing but suck on your perfect clit like his favorite little piece of candy, but hearing you whine and keen for him while he stretches you out is also a good option.
“fuck, katsuki, you feel so good,” you sigh, already lost in him. your praise goes straight to his ego, and he sucks a deep bruise into your pelvis, rubbing his thumb over your clit. you melt into kirishima, using his muscular thighs as a scratching post, arching into katsuki’s cute mouth and moaning like a bitch in heat.
he’s thorough and he’s nasty, licking up absolutely every inch of you to the point that you instinctively pull away, but kiri keeps a hand spread on your stomach, forcing you down into his friend’s warm, wet mouth and making you take his precise tongue with nowhere to go.
you rock your hips against his face, bakugo relentlessly sucking your clit, with his fingers either sunk into your soft skin, or trying to inch his way inside of your tight cunny, sometimes swapping a thick digit for his tongue as he tries to fit deeper. it’s all too much, and you’re already close again and he can tell, finally curling two of his fingers directly into your sweet spot. you’re crying, your dainty hands in his thick, ash blonde hair as you hold him against your cunt, cumming in his mouth and letting him messily slurp and drink all of your nectar.
he’s kissing all over your body, biting at your chest, and kiri is telling you how fucking good you are for them, how beautiful you are, thanking you for letting them have you like this, how they’ll always take care of you. “fuck me, katsuki, please, I wanna feel it !! I need it, you’re so big .. ” you’re desperate now, all of your shyness becoming replaced by the overwhelming need for pleasure.
“yeah, baby?” kiri laughs. “so impatient. not until you tell us who ate your cute pussy better, okay?” you think about it for a moment, pouting up at him and quietly saying, “k-kitty kat.” kiri’s jaw drops, given how fast he got you off. “that’s my sweet girl.” bakugo gloats, kissing you and kirishima rolls his eyes. “yeah? I’ll just have to fuck you better, then. bakugo, you go first.”
“gladly.”
kats shifts onto his haunches, stroking himself and rubbing his big, intimidating length through your folds. you gasp, and you’re so sensitive that you swear you almost cum just on his tip like that. your pussy flutters around nothing, just in anticipation of being filled to the brim. katsuki senses your anxiety, leaning down to kiss you softly as he starts to slide his thick, lengthy cock inside of your tight entrance, and his sexy, needy groans are even louder than your own.
“so big, please please please please please,” you whine against his lips, your mouth dropping into an “o” as you watch how he hardly fits inside …
“m’sorry, baby, just gotta stretch open this perfect little angel cunt for a second, it’ll feel so good, I promise.” he sighs, kissing you again and gently fucking you on his tip just to open you up.
kirishima is just in awe of the scene before him, how sexy you both are .. he feels like this isn’t even real.
“he’s pretty, isn’t he? but you’re even prettier, baby. look at you taking that big cock, m’so proud of you.” kiri whispers, holding your pretty face with one of his massive hands, so close, and your eyes are entirely focused on him as you nod and kiss his soft lips.
“look at me, pretty girl, I’ve got you.” bakugo demands your attention back on him, roughly grabbing your hips and increasing his pace. he has your legs spread and bent up, his hands secured around the backs of your knees, using one to pinch at your perked nipple every so often, while kiri does the same to the other, making you clench down even harder on katsuki’s thick cock, your eyes nearly crossing.
“inside please, I need it,” you beg, with your face in kiri’s neck while bakugo uses all of his strength to absolutely rail into you, and kiri reaches down so that he can rub at your clit. you cry out katsuki’s name, feeling him stuff you absolutely full, pumping his hot, milky load directly into your cunt over and over again until he can’t hold himself up any longer, groaning into your neck and almost falling into your arms. he’s still half-hard inside of you as his thick cum spills out into a sticky mess around his base, and he could swear that he’s in love.
you’re practically mush by the time your boys switch positions and kiri gets to you. you’re absolutely fucked out by your three orgasms, but still wanting to take everything that they’re giving you.
kiri is sweet, kissing you all over again as if you had just started, sighing deeply as he uses bakugo’s cum to slowly inch his way inside of your perfect, velvety pussy. it’s like he knows exactly what you need, exactly how you like to be fucked, like he’s done this countless times before. he’s absolutely in love with how your snug cunt still grips down onto him, taking his monstrous cock like you were made for it. he’s somehow even bigger than katsuki, mostly in thickness.
“so fucking warm, baby, thank you .. oh my god, that’s my good girl, my cock feels right at home here, yeah?” kirishima rambles, tilting his head back for a second before watching himself pound your cunt, and you wrap your calves around his waist, pulling him even closer. he is so incredibly built, all muscle, but his toned waist is the perfect slutty width to let you slot him even closer.
kats has a gentle hold on your throat with one hand, softly stroking your hair with the other, keeping it out of your face, whispering praises into your ear, watching as his best friend pounds into you and ruins you.
“you’re so small, so tight for me … fuck, I love it … ”
“I-I can feel you .. i-in my tummy, eiji,” you mumble, and he just presses one hand over your stomach, causing you both to moan as he feels his big, thick length moving inside of you. bakugo’s cock throbs against your back as he watches intently, biting his lip to keep quiet.
“so beautiful .. perfect, just look at that, my sweet girl … ”
“give me your cum, eiji, please, I wanna feel it inside, need you both to fill me up .. m’on the pill, I promise,”
“I’ve got you, angel, just let go for me.”
you’re spent, but he feels so good that your body gives you one last orgasm. kirishima is close, and feeling you cum on his fat cock sends him over the edge. he kisses you as he cums inside, softly moaning into your mouth. your back arches and your warm walls pulse around kiri’s cock, greedily milking him for every single last drop and you feel so impossibly full, and your poor kitty is puffy and drenched from the inside and out.
you had never cum this many times in one session before, so everything is a bit numb and ethereal as you melt into them. you can only imagine how messy your makeup is at this point, how you’re covered in sweat and can hardly think or breathe, but they both think that you’re the cutest thing in the world.
kirishima cockwarms you for a moment as you both come down, then replaces his cock with two of his fingers. he slides them inside as gently as possible, knowing all too well how overstimulated you are at this point. you did so fucking good for them. you whimper, nuzzling into katsuki’s chest and he shushes you, watching in awe as kirishima brings his fingers to your pouty lips, letting you suck all of the bittersweet cum off of his digits.
“good girl,” he soothes, “tastes good, yeah?” you just sleepily nod mhm, tilting your head up to kiss katsuki, all messy spit and tongue like a hentai scene, and it makes kirishima’s cock twitch.
“thank you, katsuki, eijiro,” you’re hardly able to speak, but you have to say it.
“thank you, baby, you were so fucking good for us.” kiri sighs against your soft chest, gently kissing and sucking on your nipples to soothe himself after all of the intensity.
“good girl, you can rest now, we’ve got you.” katsuki reassures, and his comforting hands are still all over you, rubbing your sore arms, your thighs, stomach, holding your waist, kissing your face and neck and shoulders until your breathing and heart rate return to normal.
they spend the rest of the night cuddling you, helping you come down. you all wash off in the shower before bathing together, sleepily clinging to your pretty boys, letting them dote on you as you come back to earth at your own pace, brushing your hair for you, then your teeth, massaging lotion into your soft skin, and dressing you in clean, comfy pajamas.
they don’t even ask if they can stay the night, already set on taking care of you and making breakfast in the morning. you’d have a lot to talk about tomorrow …
先輩 ⸻ written by senpai with love
notes. I almost cried when my paused queue posted the unfinished draft of this … and tysm to @hexquirk for waiting literal months for me to finish this 🫶🏻 and tysm to the people who deleted their reblogs of my draft when I asked. I really appreciate u all !! 🫶🏻 mwah :3
[ @slutsenpai ⨯ my masterlist ] — likes, reblogs & comments much appreciated! ◟♡ do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my writing anywhere for any reason
synopsis; toji was everything to you. there was a time that you could imagine moving in together, building a life together, getting married and maybe having kids. he was the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with. maybe you jinxed it because after you had an argument you found him cheating on you. ever since then you have been a shell of yourself. your friends are determined to pull you out of it. their solution? setting you up with the one person they never expected you'd agree to meet: sukuna.
prolouge - your group - his group
a/n; ik this docent get into the nitty gritty but trusttttt there will be more content!
❝ one night he wakes, strange look on his face. pauses, then says, “you’re my best friend,” and you knew what it was. he is in love. ❞
you and clark have been best friends forever. everyone can see you’re in love except you. you always choose each other but neither of you has figured it out yet
now playing - you are in love by taylor swift
tags/warning: fluff, friend to lovers, clark being a cutie pie, no smut!!
note: omggg guys… i’m back i really hope u enjoy this!!
you met clark when you scraped your knee in his front yard. it wasn’t anything dramatic, just a clumsy fall while riding your bike past the kent farm. you don’t even remember what hurt more, the sting of the pavement or your pride.
but he noticed.
he knelt beside you like it was the most important thing in the world.
“are you okay?” he asked, eyes wide with concern.
you nodded, biting back tears. he didn’t believe you.
so he ran inside, came back with a damp washcloth and a band-aid, and gently cleaned the dirt from your knee like he’d done it a hundred times before. you were eight.
it wasn’t the last time though. after that day, you started finding reasons to “fall” in front of his yard, little scrapes, dramatic tumbles, anything just to see him again. and from that day on, you and clark became best friends.
he was the kind of kid who always carried extra snacks in case you forgot yours. the one who held the swings still so you could climb on, who walked you home when it got dark, even if it meant being late for dinner.
you grew up side by side. he was your first sleepover, your science project partner, your prom date when no one else asked. people always assumed you were together. teachers paired you up without asking. neighbors smiled knowingly when you sat a little too close on the porch swing.
you never noticed.
to you, it was just clark. the boy who always looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense in the world. the boy who made you laugh until your stomach hurt and always knew when something was wrong without you saying a word. but now, here you are, older, quieter, still orbiting each other like you always have.
it’s a slow monday morning in clark’s apartment. you’re curled up on his couch in one of his old flannel shirts that’s way too big on you, sleeves falling past your hands. the tv hums softly in the background with some random show you barely remember turning on.
you smell pancakes.
in the kitchen, clark is making breakfast, flipping them with one hand while pouring coffee with the other, like he’s done it a hundred times. like it’s natural. like this is normal.
and maybe it is.
because this isn’t new. the sleepovers that turned into staying over for days. the late nights talking until one of you drifted off. the way you wear his clothes without thinking. the way he always makes two cups of coffee, yours just the way you like it.
“breakfast is ready,” he says, his voice gentle, a little raspy from sleep. he places your plate on the counter, right in front of your usual spot.
you get up from the couch and walk over to the kitchen island, sliding into the seat. clark leans against the counter across from you, mug in hand, but doesn’t make a move toward his own plate.
“you’re not eating?” you ask, tilting your head.
he shakes his head and takes a slow sip of his coffee.
“not yet.”
you pause, fork in mid-air. “why not? you know you can’t save the world hungry, right?”
“i’m fine,” he says. “i just wanted to make sure you eat.”
you roll your eyes, but your heart stumbles in your chest anyway. because it’s always been like this. he always takes care of you. always has.
“you know,” you say between bites, “if you keep making me breakfast like this, i’m going to start thinking you’re in love with me.”
you mean it as a joke. kind of.
clark chuckles, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “guess i better stop, then.”
you look up at him, raising a brow. “wow. not even gonna deny it.”
“i’m just saying,” he grins, “don’t fall for me just because i know how to make pancakes.”
you smirk. “too late.”
he laughs again, the sound echoing through the kitchen, but there’s a split second where something shifts in his face, just the smallest pause before he brushes it off. you’re not sure if he caught the way you said it. you’re not sure if you meant it.
you stab another bite of pancake. “you used to be way worse at cooking.”
“you used to cry every time you lost at uno.”
“i was eight.”
“you were sixteen.”
you throw a bottle at him, and he catches it without even looking.
“stupid reflexes,” you mutter.
“eat,” he says, nudging the plate closer to you, his voice a little softer now. “we’re gonna be late for work.”
you roll your eyes, grabbing the fork from the table again. “we’re always late.” you say, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.
clark was right.
you’re late.
ridiculously late.
you’re both speed-walking, well, more like half-jogging—down the sidewalk, the city buzzing around you. his hand brushes yours every few steps, and neither of you quite pull away.
clark’s glasses are fogging up from the sudden burst of movement and the heat of his coffee still clutched in his hand.
“i told you,” you laugh, a little breathless, trying to keep up. “we’re always late.”
he grins, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his knuckle. “you didn’t have to finish all your pancakes, you know.”
“they were good!” you argue. “you made them!”
“you say that like i had a choice.”
you glance at him sideways. “you did. you always do.”
he looks at you then, like he wants to say something—but he doesn’t. just smiles instead, a little softer this time.
you finally reach the daily planet, breathless and slightly sweaty. as you walk through the doors, lois is already standing near the bullpen, arms crossed.
her eyes narrow, lips twitching into a smirk.
“well, well,” she says, voice echoing just enough to make you both flinch. “look who decided to show up.”
clark clears his throat, pushing his foggy glasses up again. “traffic.”
he heads straight to his desk, setting his things down and reaching to straighten the small framed photo sitting beside his monitor. it’s the halloween picture—him in a half-falling vampire cape, you in a crooked witch hat, both smiling at the moment.
you walk in behind him, dressed properly now, your work blouse tucked in, your coat slung over your arm, but your hair is still a little messy, your cheeks a little too flushed for a monday morning, and there’s something about the way you smell faintly like his soap.
you pass lois’s desk, and she doesn’t even pretend not to notice.
she slides out of her chair smoothly, catches you by the arm before you can make it to your own desk.
“did you spend the night at his place?” she whispers, eyes narrowed in playful accusation.
your head snaps toward her. “what? no. why?”
she smirks, leaning in just enough so clark can’t hear.
“you smell like him.”
you blink. “how would you even—”
“girl,” she says, rolling her eyes. “i’ve worked with the man for years. i know what kind of shampoo he uses. don’t insult me.”
you glance over your shoulder. clark’s at his desk, flipping through papers, sipping his coffee, clearly pretending he’s not listening even though his ears are a little red.
you sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “it’s not like that.”
lois hums, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she leans back against her desk. “whatever you say.”
she lets you go, but her eyes linger on you for a second longer. not judging. just… knowing.
lois isn’t stupid. she’s seen it from the beginning. the way clark looks at you like he’s watching the sunrise. the way your whole face softens when you talk about him.
at first, she thought it was cute. a little childhood crush thing. harmless. sweet.
but then weeks turned into months. inside jokes. matching coffee orders. you fixing his tie in the elevator without thinking. him walking you home every night like it was instinct.
still, you weren’t together. not officially. not out loud.
lois sighs, sitting back down at her desk and muttering to herself, “idiots. both of you.”
you finally reach your desk and sit down, stealing a glance at clark. he’s already looking at you. like he always is.
you smile. he smiles back.
and still, nothing is said.
star wars is playing episode v the empire strikes back clark’s choice of course. the lights are off except for the soft glow of the screen and the city outside your window.
you’re on the couch your legs tossed lazily over his lap a bowl of popcorn balanced between you. clark’s hand rests on your ankle his thumb moving in slow absentminded circles against your skin.
“clark this doesn’t make sense,” you say eyebrows scrunching as you stare at the screen. “how is leia suddenly in love with han like weren’t they just yelling at each other two seconds ago”
clark smiles without looking away from the movie.
“that’s how it works sometimes.”
you scoff. “no it’s not. people don’t just go from arguing all the time to falling in love.”
his thumb pauses for just a second before it starts moving again a little slower now.
“i don’t know,” he says. “maybe they always loved each other. maybe they were just scared to admit it.”
you go quiet turning your head just enough to look at him. he’s still watching the screen but there’s something in the way he says it. like he’s not really talking about leia and han.
you open your mouth to say something but you don’t.
because this moment is safe. this moment is soft. this moment is the in between space you and clark have lived in for a while now.
and if you say the wrong thing maybe it all changes.
so you don’t say it.
instead you toss a piece of popcorn at him. “you’re such a nerd.”
he laughs catching it mid air without even looking.
show off.
“you’re the one watching star wars with me for the third time this month.”
“only because you promised pancakes again.”
he grins. “i always do.”
and his thumb keeps tracing gentle circles on your ankle.
and you let him. and maybe that’s the scariest most comforting part of all.
okay, okay. obviously you love clark.
as a friend, of course.
who wouldn’t love clark?
he’s clark.
he’s the guy who always puts everyone else first. who never hesitates to help someone, a stranger, a neighbor, a friend. who brings soup when you’re sick, who offers his coat when it’s cold, who notices things like the way you like your coffee or when you’ve had a hard day, even when you don’t say a word.
he’s the kind of person you want to be around.
which is probably why you’re here all the time.
you’re the one helping him now. you’re the one looking out for him, because you’ve started to notice that he doesn’t even consider helping himself. he never stops to ask what he needs.
and maybe, just maybe, that’s part of why your heart aches a little whenever he smiles at you.
because you know you’d do anything to protect that smile. you’re not gonna deny that there are probably some feelings there. some soft, stupid, long standing feelings that have been hiding.
like the first time you had a sleepover at his place.
he insisted you take the bed. he slept on the floor. and before he turned off the lights, he plugged in a little nightlight he found in a drawer because he remembered that you were afraid of the dark.
what he doesn’t know is that you aren’t. not when he’s there keeping you safe.
or like that time you both went to prom together.
you didn’t have a date, and neither did he. no one else wanted to go with you, and you almost didn’t go at all. but clark just said, we’ll go together. easy.
like it was the simplest thing in the world.
and okay, fine. you also can’t deny how good looking clark is.
he’s tall. like, really tall. and his hair, all soft and curly, always falling into his face in that annoying, perfect way.
you hate how easy it is to look at him. and you hate even more how easy it is to fall for him.
but the worst part? you’re not sure if he even sees it.
and the fact that you’re the only person he ever runs to after saving the world?
yeah. that’s the part that gets you.
sometimes he just shows up on your couch, bloody, bruised, half conscious. you never ask what happened. you don’t need to.
you just pull him in, patch him up, wipe the blood from his face, try to keep him awake long enough to heal. even half-asleep, he can tell you’ve been waiting for him, hoping he’d come back safe.
so it isn’t a surprise when you walk into your apartment tonight and see him there again.
your bag drops from your shoulder before you even realize it, landing on the floor with a thud. you rush to the couch, falling to your knees beside him.
“clark,” you gasp, your keys hitting the floor with a loud clatter. “what the fuck.”
“hey, pretty,” he says with a half smile, eyes barely open. like he’s just come home from a long day at the office and not from the edge of death.
you shake your head and press your fingers to the side of his neck, checking his pulse even though you don’t need to.
he’s warm. too warm.
“i’ll be fine,” he mumbles. “just gotta wait till morning.”
“you’re bleeding all over my couch,” you whisper, voice cracking. “jesus, clark.”
you run to the bathroom, grabbing your little med kit, the one you keep stocked just for him.
when you come back, he’s shifted slightly, trying to sit up straighter like he’s worried about staining your couch more than the hole in his side.
you kneel again and start working in silence. you just need to do something.
you press the gauze against his side, careful but firm.
he flinches a little. you hate that he flinches.
“anywhere else hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
he shakes his head.
you know he’s lying.
you keep going anyway.
he watches you quietly, eyes soft despite the pain. like he’s more worried about you than the blood or the bruises. like he’s memorizing every movement of your hands.
“you scared the hell out of me,” you say finally, not looking at him.
“i know.”
“no, you don’t,” you snap, louder than you meant to. your hands pause. “you didn’t call. you didn’t text. i thought…”
your voice wavers. you swallow hard.
“i thought maybe this time you weren’t coming back.”
clark blinks slowly, like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how.
“i just…” you swallow again. “i hate not knowing if you’re okay.”
a pause.
“i came home,” clark finally says.
“to what?”
“to you.”
you let out a shaky breath, then lean forward, forehead pressed lightly against his. you stay there for a moment, not moving. just breathing him in. just feeling him here, alive, in your arms.
then you pull back, brushing his sweat damp hair from his forehead.
“i’m staying here,” you tell him quietly. all night.
he smiles again, something soft and sleepy and completely clark.
“i like when you do,” he murmurs.
you stay beside him. you don’t get up. you pull a blanket from the back of the couch and gently lay it over him, tucking it around his shoulders.
you slide down to the floor, curling up beside the couch, knees tucked to your chest.
just close enough to hear him breathing.
just close enough to reach out and brush your fingers lightly over his.
you don’t think he notices.
but a moment later, his fingers twitch and curl around yours in the faintest squeeze.
that’s when you realize.
you are in love with clark kent.
and now that you know, it feels like the most obvious truth in the world.
clark shifts above you. his brow is furrowed slightly, a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to remember something or maybe figure out how he feels even in half sleep.
“y/n,” he murmurs, voice soft and rough with exhaustion.
“yeah, clark?” you whisper, tilting your head up.
he blinks slowly, still not fully awake, and then, almost without thinking, he says,
“you’re my best friend.”
the words hang there. small. simple.
you can feel the certainty in them, even if he doesn’t seem to fully know what he’s saying.
you smile softly, brushing a hand over his arm. “i know,” you murmur. “now go to sleep.”
he hums, letting your words sink in, finally relaxing, the strange look fading as he drifts back into rest.
you lie back down, thinking nothing of it at first. just clark, half asleep, being clark.
you don’t realize it yet.
but one day, when you think back to this night, the way he said your name first, like it mattered, like it came before everything else, it will finally click.
he wasn’t confused.
he wasn’t rambling.
he is in love.
you wake up in your bed.
that’s the first thing that doesn’t make sense.
the second is that you’re still fully dressed, shoes off but everything else on, and there’s an ache in your back like you slept curled up on the floor, which you did.
you sit up fast.
the living room. clark.
you swing your legs over the bed and rush out, heart thudding. but when you reach the couch, it’s empty.
clean. like nothing happened. like he was never there.
except you know better.
there’s something resting on the arm of the couch. a neatly folded blanket. and just under it, a small piece of paper with your name on it, scribbled in that familiar handwriting you’d know anywhere.
you unfold it.
hey. you fell asleep. i didn’t want you to wake up on the floor with a stiff neck, so i moved you. hope that’s okay. couch is clean. figured i owed you that much. didn’t want to leave, but i’ll be back after work. i promise.
- clark
P.S. you still mumble in your sleep. it’s cute.
you stare at the note for a moment. then you bite your bottom lip hard and try not to smile.
you fail.
your fingers curl around the paper like it’s something fragile. something important.
-
you’re trying to focus. really, you are.
there’s a half-written story on your screen and an empty coffee cup beside you, but all you can think about is clark.
he isn’t here today-off doing superman things, saving the world, or whatever it is he does when he disappears without explanation.
you try not wait for his text. try not to think about the way he looked on your couch. the note he left. the way your fingers had brushed.
you’re in love with your best friend.
great.
“hey.”
you jump in your chair. lois is leaning against your desk, smirking like she knows everything. she’s holding a fresh coffee in one hand and trouble in the other.
“jesus, lois,” you mutter, snapping your laptop shut like that’ll hide the crisis looping in your brain. “personal space?”
“don’t need it,” she says, setting the coffee down. “you’ve got that post-kent glow.”
you blink. “that’s not even a thing.”
“it’s so a thing. i can tell.” lois tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches you squirm.
you scoff. “you’re literally making stuff up right now.”
“oh, come on,” she groans. “we all see it. me and jimmy made a bet.”
your eyebrows shoot up. “a bet?”
“yeah-to see when you and clark are finally gonna get together. i said by the end of the month.”
“you guys are stupid,” you say, trying to laugh it off, but your voice falters near the end. “that’s never going to happen. i mean… he’s my best friend.”
you say it slowly, like maybe if you drag the words out they’ll sound truer. like maybe you won’t think about how long you’ve been friends. since you were eight.
how he always finds his way back to you. how last night changed something and you don’t know how to un-feel it.
“it would ruin everything,” you add, almost to yourself.
lois watches you quietly for a second. then she says,
“right… well. too bad for you.”
you glance up. “what’s that supposed to-”
“because he’s literally walking toward us right now.”
you spin in your chair. and there he is. clark kent. looking like a walking heartache in a slightly wrinkled shirt, his tie crooked, hair still damp from wherever he just came from.
“hey,” he says with a smile just for you. “sorry i’m late.”
your heart’s already racing. you stand up-for no real reason-and before you can even say hi, clark leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“thanks for taking care of me last night,” he murmurs, voice soft and close. “i owe you.”
you freeze. your breath hitches. you can feel the heat crawl up your neck.
“i’m just- i’m going to the bathroom,” you blurt, grabbing your phone like it’s your lifeline. you don’t wait for a response. you just turn and practically sprint away.
clark watches you go, confused, brow furrowing slightly. he glances at lois like maybe she has some kind of explanation.
she does not. she just rolls her eyes and takes a long sip of her coffee.
“you are both so dumb,” she mutters.
you’ve been ignoring clark for a couple of days.
not completely. not in the cruel, radio silence kind of way. but in the subtle, painfully obvious kind of way.
the kind where every time he walks toward your desk, you suddenly need to call someone, or get coffee, or your personal favorite go to the bathroom.
you went to the bathroom ten times in one day.
ten.
even lois started keeping count.
and clark? well, he noticed.
of course he noticed.
he’s clark.
he noticed the shift in your smile. the way your replies got shorter. how you stopped teasing him when his tie was crooked, or how you avoided looking him in the eye every time he tried to start a conversation.
he didn’t do anything wrong.
that’s what makes it worse.
you just didn’t want to ruin anything. not the years of friendship, not the safety of knowing he’s always there, not the quiet, constant feeling of being known by someone who’s been by your side since you were kids.
but ever since that night when he showed up at your door bleeding, bruised, and falling asleep on your couch with your hand in his, it hasn’t felt the same.
you haven’t felt the same.
because something changed.
because you’re in love with him.
because now, when he smiles at you, your heart flinches in a way it never used to.
so you hide.
poorly.
lois cornered you yesterday by the elevator and said,
“you look like a middle schooler avoiding her crush. just go make out already.”
you responded by getting on the wrong elevator.
and clark?
clark finally decides to stop waiting.
you finally got home after a long day at work.
clark wasn’t at the office today, which if you’re being honest was a bit of a relief. one less person to avoid.
one less excuse to make up. he had sent you a few texts throughout the day, checking in, asking if you were mad at him.
you answered each one with something short and vague.
you miss him.
god, you miss him. it physically hurts not being around him, not hearing his voice or seeing that ridiculously warm smile he always saves just for you.
you unlock your door, lock it behind you, and slip your shoes off. you were heading for the bathroom, but something catches your eye clothes. clark’s clothes. draped lazily over the back of your couch.
you don’t remember when he left them here. but then again, he’s always leaving things behind. like it’s his second home.
you scoop them up without thinking. even now especially now you love wearing his clothes.
after a hot shower, you slip into one of his shirts and a pair of shorts. his scent clings to the fabric warm, clean, a little like vanilla and something else that’s just him.
and it makes you want to kiss him.
it makes you ache for him.
you towel off your hair, pad out of the bathroom barefoot, and head to your bedroom.
the room is dark, lit only by the faint orange glow from the streetlights outside. the wind dances through the cracked window, making the curtains flutter.
and then you see him.
clark.
he’s sprawled across your bed like he owns the place.
one arm tucked under your pillow, tie long gone, hair a little messy, glasses resting on your nightstand. his stupidly long legs are hanging off the edge of the mattress because, as always, he doesn’t quite fit.
you sigh softly, but not in surprise.
of course he’s here.
of course he’s in your bed.
you quietly shut the window, then walk over and gently shake his shoulder.
“clark.”
he doesn’t move.
you try again, brushing your fingers against his arm.
“clark.”
he flinches just slightly, eyes blinking open. he squints up at you in the dim light and then, he smiles. soft. sleepy. like he’s home.
“hey,” he mumbles.
you cross your arms. “what are you doing here?”
he shifts, sitting up slowly. rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “i was waiting for you.”
you raise a brow. “you fell asleep.”
“i know.” he yawns, blinking again. “i figured if i stayed here, you couldn’t keep avoiding me.”
your chest tightens.
you never wanted to hurt him. you never wanted him to feel like this.
“i wasn’t avoiding you, clark,” you lie, voice small, eyes darting to the floor.
he gives you a look. gentle. knowing.
“we’ve been best friends for years, y/n. i know when you’re avoiding me. you do it when something’s on your mind.”
he pats the empty spot on the bed beside him. you hesitate for just a moment, then crawl in.
he watches you settle in, tucking one leg under the other, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs.
“so,” he says softly, “tell me, pretty… what’s going on in that head of yours? did i do something? i’ll fix it. just tell me. i don’t want you mad at me, okay? i can’t-“
“clark.” you stop him, but you’re smiling. you can’t help it.
even now, with your heart a mess and your brain screaming at you to stay quiet, you still smile when he talks like this. still want to kiss him when he looks at you like that.
you couldn’t help but stare at his eyes. big, blue, and impossibly soft.
your gaze flicked down to his mouth. his lips. the ones you’ve thought about more times than you’d ever admit.
silence hung between you. the kind that buzzes in your ears. you felt your heart thudding, fast and nervous and loud enough that you know clark hears it. and the worst part?
he’s looking at you the exact same way.
you can barely breathe.
“i’m not mad at you,” you whisper, breaking the silence.
your eyes drop again to his neck. and there it is.
the necklace.
the tiny, handmade necklace you gave him when you were eleven. it’s still there. the cheap string hasn’t snapped, the colors are faded, and the little charm you picked out the one that’s supposed to mean strength is still hanging on by a thread.
your fingers move before you can stop them. you reach out and touch it. touch him. the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips makes your chest ache.
he still wears it.
he never stopped.
even after all these years.
you feel him suck in a breath when your fingers brush his neck.
this isn’t the first time you’ve touched clark. not even close. you’ve shared beds. laughed till you cried. held each other through heartbreak. this kind of closeness it was normal.
but this?
this feels different.
“y/n,” he says, and your name sounds like a prayer coming out of his mouth.
you look up to meet his gaze, but you don’t even get a word out
because clark leans in and kisses you.
his lips crash into yours like he’s been waiting forever.
like he’s been holding back for years and he just can’t anymore.
and you kiss him back like you’ve wanted this for just as long.
after a moment, you both pull back, breath mingling in the quiet space between you.
“you…” you whisper, still a little dazed. “you kissed me.”
clark doesn’t move right away, like he’s giving you space to run if you want to.
but you don’t.
you’re too caught in the feeling his hand still brushing your wrist, the way he’s looking at you like he’s seen this moment a hundred times before in his head and never stopped hoping for it.
“i’ve been wanting to,” he says, voice low, rough with sleep and something gentler.
“for a long time.”
you blink at him. “since when?”
he smiles quiet and a little crooked, like he doesn’t expect you to believe him.
“since you fell in my front yard.”
you let out a small laugh, breathless. “that wasn’t even on purpose”
clark raises a brow. “the first time wasn’t. but after that?” his head tilts, teasing and tender. “you kept doing it. scraped knees. that dramatic limp you did even when you weren’t bleeding.”
you go still, heart thudding loud enough for him to hear.
“and i knew,” he says softly, gaze never leaving yours.
“but i still waited for you. every day. with a bandaid in my hand.”
something cracks in your chest.
“i thought maybe if i was ready… you’d keep coming back.”
you can’t say anything. your throat’s too tight. your heart’s too full.
then, gently, his fingers brush against yours.
“so don’t avoid me like that again, okay?” he murmurs.
“not when i’ve been waiting for you this long.”
and that’s when it hits you he wasn’t just talking about this week. he was talking about years.
you nod, eyes shining. “i love you,” you say quietly, before crawling into his lap, your arms wrapping around his neck.
clark doesn’t hesitate.
“i love you too,” he breathes against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again.
Summary: You jokingly ask Clark if you are allowed to eat in front of his parents.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
By the time you were eight months pregnant with Leia, one thing had become very clear to everyone around you: Clark would do absolutely anything for you.
Which was precisely why the prank had been so tempting.
The prank simply appeared in your mind while sitting at the Kent farmhouse table on one warm afternoon, watching Clark pile food onto your plate for the third time before you’d even fully finished the second helping.
“Honey, you need more potatoes,” he said earnestly, already reaching for the bowl.
“Clark,” you laughed, “I’m still eating.”
“You’re eating for two.”
Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”
Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”
You bit back a smile.
That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.
Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?
The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.
And it made him very, very easy to fluster.
And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.
You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.
Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”
Clark didn’t even look up.
“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”
You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”
Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”
“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”
Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.
“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.
You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.
Clark reached for the biscuits.
“You want another one?”
“Yes please.”
“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.
You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.
-
Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.
Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.
“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”
Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”
You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.
“…Am I allowed?”
The room went silent.
Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.
Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.
“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.
You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”
Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?”
You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”
Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.
Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.
Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”
“The cobbler…”
“Yes.”
Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.
“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”
“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”
You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”
Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.
“Clark Joseph Kent.”
Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.
“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”
Pa Kent crossed his arms.
Clark looked even more panicked.
“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”
You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”
“Why would I not want you to?!”
Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.
“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”
Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”
“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”
You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”
“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”
Clark looked genuinely devastated.
“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”
He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.
“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”
Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”
Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"
"Clark," you said.
“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”
“Clark.”
“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”
“CLARK.”
He stopped his rambling.
He looked at you.
You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.
The entire table stared at you.
“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.
You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”
Silence.
Clark blinked.
“…What?”
You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”
Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.
Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.
Clark remained frozen. “You…”
“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”
Clark looked deeply betrayed.
“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”
You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.
Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“I cannot believe you.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.
“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"
He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.
"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”
You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.
"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."
"I know."
"In the rain."
"It wasn't raining."
"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply.
You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.
Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.
Synopsis: Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge.
WC: 3690
Category: Fluff, First Kiss, Logan’s POV
Another Grumpy!Logan x Sunshine!Reader because it’s my comfort trope ✨🫶
『••✎••』
He never realized how much he wanted someone to care for.
It was something he didn't know he desired. A year ago, he didn't care for a single thing. He felt nothing. He was so numb. So empty.
He was an angry man. The kind of man people kept their distance from. Wade ruined that; he aggravated him so much that Logan started actually caring about his life. And for as much as he despised his fugly ass, he was internally grateful for him. He started to open up more and more.
Wade had a part in taking him out of rock bottom, as they say, but you… you aggravated him in the most endearing way possible. You were so bright, so happy, and full of life. Logan couldn't understand how someone could be like that, and he hated you for it. He thought it was so ignorant of you.
"I mean, come on, how could she be that happy all the time? It's fucking dumb. She doesn't even know me!"
That's what he said to Wade, but his roommate only laughed. He found his frustration hilarious and made fun of him constantly.
And don’t even get started on the way you spoke. Never once have you raised your voice at anyone. You always talked softly, and even if you were pissed off, you still found a way to make your words sound gentle.
The man couldn’t wrap his mind around the way you acted, you weren’t a mutant, but you damn well could have been with that forever customer service smile you wore every day.
The level of patience and understanding you held for people was insane to him, especially the amount of patience you held with him.
He was constantly telling you to fuck off, and you took no offense; you just returned that stupidly kind smile and told him that if he needed anything, you were there for him.
You had no clue what he’s done, what he's capable of, and yet you treat him with the utmost respect. And being a mutant, respect, and kindness were two things he hadn’t received in a very long time.
It made him realize things—about himself and others. He started noticing you a little more—the way you looked and the way you acted. It started out as simple confusion and disgust… the typical reactions one would have when one sees an overly happy person.
But it evolved slowly into intrigue and curiosity.
Then something else. Something he couldn't describe.
His first instinct was to push it away. To try and convince himself, he was disgusted. He did this with everything he felt, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself.
It wasn't disgust.
He couldn't name it; he wasn't ready to, but he knew it wasn’t that.
Wade had noticed the change in him, the way he looked at you, the way he started being a little less rough with the words he chose to say. He didn’t bring it up, but the shit-eating grin he gave each time Logan walked in and saw you was more than enough proof that he had picked up on it.
Of course, it only resorted to grins because the one time he opened his mouth, Logan didn’t restrain himself. He popped his claws and had to go couch shopping the next day.
Whoops.
So, with Wade keeping his mouth shut after being chewed out by Blind Al and Logan trying his best to push away the foreign feelings, it finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore them.
He didn’t understand why, of all nights, it had to be this one, but it was.
It was 3 am, and his old nightmares had come back to haunt him. He was restless, sweaty, and couldn't take another second of sleep.
It took a rinsing of the bathroom sink and a pitiful glare at his reflection for you to return his gaze.
He froze for a second.
You were wearing a large T-shirt, with a pair of shorts underneath. Your hair was messy, but it looked so soft, and your face was clear of makeup, leaving the imperfections of your skin that made you all the more beautiful.
Always wearing a smile. Always greeting him with a soft voice, sometimes a little raspy if just waking up, butnonetheless soft.
But once he rubbed his eyes and let out a tired yawn, you weren’t there anymore.
Because you were never there, you lived across the street. You were in your apartment, sleeping, with no idea that, at that moment, the man who constantly told you to fuck off realized he couldn't stop thinking about you.
The same man who would grunt, scoff, and throw away every kind gesture now realized he secretly cherished them.
He stood there for a moment, just pondering his thoughts. His eyes were still on the spot he saw you in.
His head turned to the right, seeing the digital clock that rested on the nightstand.
3:02 am.
You were asleep…. most likely asleep. You would be unhappy if he came over and woke you up, wouldn't you?
He looked back at the sink.
You could be upset, but you could also be happy. You could give him that smile. That sweet, warm smile.
It would be worth it, right? Just for that?
3:04 am
He didn’t think about it. Not even for a second. Ironically, it started raining as if to test him, but the man was determined.
He put on a jacket to cover his bare chest, threw on some random shoes, and was out the door before his mind could stop him.
3:13 am
He knocked on your apartment door. He was completely drenched from the rain. His hair was messy, his jacket sticking to his body, and his shoes were so wet that the squelching sound they made was the only thing audible.
He heard shuffling. Soft steps coming closer. He could smell your scent. It shocked him how easy it was for him to recognize it.
You unlocked the door. Your brows furrowed in confusion.
His mental image of you being in sleepwear, messy hair, no makeup, had been confirmed. You were beautiful.
You had a tired look, one of the many looks he wasn’t used to. But it was still a good look, and it still held your signature kindness.
He had a feeling it would.
You didn't look too shocked, just tired and confused.
You spoke. "Logan, is…? Are you okay?"
Your voice was even softer than usual, the raspiness it held only making it more comforting.
You were genuinely worried about him, and it hit him then that he was being an asshole. Making you wake up in the middle of the night, and for what? Just because he wanted to see you?
Just because of that, he should’ve given you a reason. An explanation.
He should've asked. He should have done so many things differently, but he didn’t.
His head was in the clouds, and all he could think about was you.
You. That was all.
But his expression gave away that he was in a daze, and your worry only grew.
"Logan? What's wrong?"
You stepped out into the hallway and reached a hand to him.
His heart jumped a bit when you did so. It was just a gesture—one simple act of compassion.
He wasn't worthy of that, but he couldn't resist. He didn't want to.
Your fingers barely brushed against his upper arm before he moved. He grabbed your wrist.
His grip wasn't hard. His hold was gentle, as he had no intentions of hurting you. You could’ve easily pulled your arm away if you wanted to, but you didn't.
His eyes locked with yours. He wasn't sure what possessed him, but it felt so right, so he followed his instincts.
He tugged at your wrist, causing your body to fall into him. Your chest pressed against his. His arms wrapped around you, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other resting on the small of your back.
The embrace was so sudden, and he knew the situation was far from ideal, but his senses were overflowed by your presence, your scent, your softness.
His chin rested atop your head, and his eyes fluttered closed.
It wasn’t the first time he ever hugged someone, but it was the first time he hugged someone in such a way. He held onto you tightly, his grip possessive but not painful.
He was afraid to let go.
He felt your hands press against his chest. You were probably going to push him away, he thought, and he tried to prepare himself. He told himself he would let you go because it was the right thing to do, yet he didn’t need to.
You hugged him back, and he almost lost his footing.
How long had it been since he last received a hug? Since the last time, someone held him and showed him affection?
Too long.
Your hands went inside his opened jacket and held onto him. Your fingers pressed against his skin, and your soft, warm breaths caressed his neck.
He could stay like this for eternity, and he would never grow tired of it.
Your voice reached his ears.
"Logan, did something happen?"
He had been standing there for quite a while. He wasn’t aware of how long. Time seemed to freeze around you, but he didn’t mind. He wasn't one to believe in such nonsense, but when it came to you, he was ready to accept it.
Your hand rested on his arm, and he knew you were subtly prompting him to move, and so he did.
He pulled away from the hug just enough to look at you.
Your lips were turned upwards. The corners of your eyes creased.
"Logan?"
It was then that his actions registered—how utterly close the two of you were, how intimately you were holding each other. He was already warm just from genetics alone, but now he felt everything around him heat up.
"I-"
He didn't know what to say. It was like he was back in that bar, drinking away every thought. He couldn't think. There was nothing. Nothing but the feel of your body against his.
But what truly sealed the deal was when he felt your thumb gently caress his knuckles. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but it was centered exactly on the scars his claws made.
That little movement made his brain short-circuit. His hands twitched. His grip tightened. He held onto you with his entire body as if scared to let you go.
"What happened?"
You were patient with him. The fact that he hadn’t even answered any of your concerns said enough.
But, eventually, he did find some words to respond with. It wasn’t the answer you were searching for, but it was a response.
"Why are you always being so fucking kind?"
It was such a simple question, and yet the amount of pain it carried was overwhelming. He knew you could hear every word behind it. Every word he couldn't bring himself to say.
He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a good man. He did horrible things, and sure… he made an attempt to make up for it. To be better, but it couldn’t have been enough, could it?
You were still here, looking at him with those soft eyes.
Why couldn't you look at him the way he deserved to be looked at? Like he was a monster.
Why did you have to look at him with those goddamn beautiful eyes?
"You deserve kindness, Logan. We all do."
And then, your voice became even softer and a little shaky. Your hands went back to massaging his knuckles. His scars.
"Just because you see yourself a certain way doesn’t mean the rest of us do. I see the good in you. Always have since we first met."
You spoke so softly, yet your words were heavy with emotion.
"I know it's not easy, but try to have a little more faith in yourself."
You didn’t deserve the harsh words he always threw at you. You didn’t deserve any of his anger. You didn't deserve him.
"Why?" He repeated his question, his voice strained, and you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched. "Why should I?"
His arms loosened their hold around you; his hands moved down your sides, and his touch feathered light. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t quite let go just yet.
You paid it no mind. Only staring back into his eyes with the same kindness he was so used to, the one he had grown to treasure.
"You have a right to feel the way you do, Logan. And I can't claim to understand what you've been through. I can't begin to imagine. But you are a good man. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but you’ve shown me time and time again that you're trying."
A smile crept its way onto your face, and a soft giggle escaped past your lips.
Now, to be fair, he was used to hearing your laughter. With your… odd sense of humor, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. But, this would be one of the firsts to add to his collection.
The one reserved for him and him only.
Your laughter wasn’t loud, or annoying, or anything like Wade's. It was soft, sweet, and oh-so pleasant.
You were looking at him. Staring up at him with such love and warmth. You didn't even realize it, but he did.
"Besides, who wouldn't be a little grouchy waking up to that handsome face every morning?"
And, now, he was repulsed by the unwelcome vision of a certain masked man making his way into his head. He was so disgusted by the thought he didn’t bother responding. He didn't want to.
So, instead, he moved.
He had a habit of moving on his own and not thinking about it. It went from his hands going to your sides, and now, his hands reaching out to press against the door behind you.
You were pinned against the door, and the way you looked at him didn’t change. Of course, it didn't. Your eyes were always kind. They always were.
You were leaning against the door. Looking at him, waiting.
And he stared back.
He was so close, and he was tempted to pull away. To take a step back and leave. It would be the best for both of you; at least, he thinks so.
He couldn't give you anything.
He had nothing.
There was only himself. His body. His mind. His past.
His claws, too, if that counted for anything.
But, besides those, there was nothing.
He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn't good either. Not like you were. He couldn’t possibly begin to match you, not even if he tried.
Which is why he had no intention of trying.
Yet, even as he thought that, his body moved even closer. The dog tags he had never taken off since he was given them hung loosely, dangling in front of your face.
One of your hands was on his chest, the other gripping onto the material of his shirt.
"Logan."
You spoke his name so softly. Almost a whisper, and yet, the sound of it was all his senses were focused on.
Your gaze shifted between his eyes and lips, and the hand that had been holding onto his shirt moved, reaching up to his shoulder.
The touch was light, as if hesitant, and it caused him to lean even closer.
It was so close. You were so close. You had been before, but never like this. Never in the way he wanted.
He wanted you so badly.
And you were right there. Looking at him with those eyes, with a soft, tender smile, and with an expression he didn't recognize.
He knew that was an invitation. You were always an open book, and your body language was no different.
And it wasn't the first time you did so.
There were many times when you looked at him. Your eyes trailing over his face. Your gaze went downwards, lingering before you snapped out of it and looked away.
He always saw it, always knew it was there, but he just chose to ignore it. He wasn’t in the right mind, then. He was just another broken man, struggling to get by, trying his best.
Trying to find some meaning in his life.
But, even now, he was still hesitant. Even after coming all the way here and making his intentions clear, he struggled with it.
"Are you sure?"
Because you were so much better than him.
Because he could still remember the day the two of you met. How much of an asshole he was, how rude, how angry.
It wasn’t until the seventh time you approached him that he realized that he had met someone who genuinely, wholeheartedly cared.
It wasn't until the twentieth time you approached him that he finally accepted it.
He could never forget the way you smiled and spoke to him, even though he had given you no reason to.
"Hi, Logan!"
You would say.
"Good morning!"
You would wave.
"Have a nice day, Logan."
You would nod, even though the man himself chose to ignore you. Goddamn it. You were so much better than him.
Much purer. Much more innocent.
You had a heart of gold, and a soul as white as snow. You were so good, so kind, and the thought of soiling you, of ruining your light with his darkness, it scared him.
It was the sole reason he didn't give in, even now, with you offering yourself to him.
He didn't want to ruin you.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No second thoughts.
Your eyes were so kind. So full of love, and the same emotion reflected back in his own.
But, even with the clear sign of assurance, he still felt the need to create one last line of defense.
With the hand against the door, he peeled it back enough to have your eyes catch sight of the fist it made.
In a millisecond, he unleashed his claws and slammed his fist against the door, the sharp adamantium easily slicing through the wood, causing the door to crack.
And, yet, no reaction. Not a single flinch, not a wince, not even a hitch of breath.
You weren't afraid. Not at all. Even as the claws were mere inches from your face, you weren't scared.
The corners of your mouth twitched. Upwards, and it soon bloomed into a bright smile.
He retracted his claws, and gave you another once-over, just to be sure, and you responded by lifting your hand, grasping the metal chain hanging from his neck.
Your fingers grazed against the cool metal, and your smile softened before turning into a small grin.
"For a man who states he isn’t scared of anything, you sure have a lot of defense mechanisms, Logan."
Teasing. That was a new one for you.
He liked it.
"Say it again." Now, finally, you showed a different expression. Confusion mixed with curiosity. You were wondering what he meant. "My name."
"Logan."
For you, his actions were mere seconds. You had no time to process the feeling of his breath against your lips. The feeling of his stubble tickling your skin. The feeling of his warm, dry lips pressed against yours.
But, for him, it was a slow, steady motion. He took his time. He pulled you closer, his hands moving from the door and cupping the back of your head and your waist.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Nothing rushed.
He held you like you were fragile. Like you were made of porcelain and could break at any moment. He could, theoretically, but he would rather go through Cassandra’s entire repertoire of torture than hurt you.
He lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your arms around his neck, his own pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your skin.
You tasted exactly how you were. Pure. Sweet.
Like heaven.
He was sure he was leaving that of the bitter alcohol he had downed on your lips, but you didn't seem fussy about it.
Not that he could focus on anything else, anyway.
He was too distracted by the way his tongue danced with yours.
Too focused on the taste of your mouth.
Too distracted by the way your hands made themselves a home in his wet hair. They would tug every once in a while, releasing a groan he hadn’t known was there.
He was too distracted to care.
He was too lost in your scent. Wade always called him that character from that shity vampire movie due to his nose.
He always disagreed until you happened to mention the resemblance. Then, and only then, did he see the logic.
And you saw the logic here, too—the logic of how good you melted together. Experiencing it now made him question his decision to stay away.
If it was always going to be this good, this intoxicating, he should’ve done it a long time ago.
He should've taken the chance.
It would've saved the two of you a lot of frustration, and a lot of headaches.
But it didn't matter. He was here now.
And, as his foot broke into the door, mouth still latched onto yours, with him figuring his way about your apartment, he thought:
It doesn't matter.
As long as I’m here.
As long as you’re in my arms.
It doesn't matter.
Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have to wake up to that toupee-stapled face every morning, as he had so dreadfully imagined.
Unfortunately, it also meant that the next time he saw Wade, he would have to deal with him talking his ears off about what had transpired.
But, for now, he could live with that.
He was more focused on the fact on making sure you weren’t regretting your choice.
You finding out Logan cheated on you was a complete accident. You'd gone looking for him after a mission because he'd left before the debriefing ended. When you open the door to one of the empty hallways near the Danger Room, you freeze. Logan has Jean pressed up against the wall, making out with her. Once they notice you, Logan and Jean pull away from each other almost instantly. However, the damage is already done. Your stomach drops, and before either of them can explain, you turn on your heels and walk away.
Logan follows you all the way back to your room, knocking on your door for nearly twenty minutes. He apologies and tries to explain himself. He tells you it “just happened” and insists he still cares about you. Yet, you could give two shits about the excuses he is giving you. He hurt you willingly and that’s enough of an explanation for you. Eventually, you snap and harshly tell him to leave, throwing a few curse words and insults his way.
The breakup hits you harder than anyone expects. The following weeks were miserable. You still attend training and participate in missions because you're an X-Man before anything else, but outside of that, you completely withdraw. You stop joining everyone for meals, skip movie nights, and spend most evenings curled up in your room pretending to read while your mind keeps replaying the events of Logan cheating.
Scott notices before anyone else does. He notices the untouched food on your plate, the way you force smiles during conversations, and how you immediately leave the room whenever Logan walks in.
He doesn't push you to talk or constantly ask if you're okay. Instead, he starts sitting beside you during meals. He’ll join you in the library during your reading time. After training, he walks you back to your room. On missions, he partners with you whenever possible. Over time, Scott’s presence became a comfort to you and it became a part of your daily routine that you looked forward to.
Scott has liked you for years, but after finding out what Logan did to you, he buries those feelings even deeper. Watching you hurt is heartbreaking enough. The idea of pouring out his feelings to you while you're grieving another relationship genuinely makes him feel sick. He decides that if all he ever gets to be is your friend, then that's enough.
Some nights, your depression becomes overwhelming. You'll find yourself sitting alone on the roof of the mansion, staring at the stars because you can't sleep. More often than not, Scott joins you. He never pressures you to talk. Sometimes the two of you sit in complete silence for hours, and somehow that silence feels like a security blanket around you.
The first time you finally break down in front of someone, it's Scott. You ask him if there is something wrong with you and why Logan chose Jean over you. Scott immediately shakes his head. "Don't do that to yourself," he says softly. "Someone else's decision to betray your trust doesn't determine your worth."
Scott never speaks badly about Logan or Jean. Even though he's disappointed in both of them, he knows insulting them won't make you feel better. Instead, he focuses entirely on helping you rebuild your confidence.
Whenever you start spiraling, Scott has an incredible ability to ground you. He'll remind you of successful missions you've led, people you've helped, funny memories with the team, or simple things like making sure you've eaten and gotten some sleep. He doesn't magically fix your depression, but he makes carrying it feel a little less lonely.
Months pass before you realize you're genuinely smiling again. Not the polite smiles you've been forcing, but real ones. Most of them happen during conversations with Scott. He has such a dry sense of humor that his jokes catch you completely off guard, and hearing your own laughter again almost surprises you.
One afternoon, you're helping Scott reorganize the training schedules after everyone else had finished up for the day. Somewhere between arguing over the stupidest things and stacks of paperwork, the two of you end up laughing so hard you both had tears in your eyes. It's the happiest you've felt in months, and Scott treasures that moment more than you'll ever know.
Everyone around the mansion starts noticing your new found happiness. Ororo comments that your eyes seem brighter and more cheerful. Kurt tells Scott he's happy to see you laughing again. Even Professor Xavier notices that you seem more at peace whenever Scott is nearby.
Despite what everyone else thinks, Scott still refuses to make a move. Every time someone jokingly suggests he ask you out, he simply replies, "They've been through enough." He wants to be absolutely certain that if you ever date again, it's because you've healed. He doesn’t want you to date to fill the empty space Logan left behind.
It isn't until nearly a year after the breakup that Scott finally considers asking you out. By then, your friendship has become one of the strongest relationships either of you has ever had. You know each other's coffee orders, daily routines, favorite books, and exactly how to cheer the other person up after a rough day.
Scott spends an entire week trying to work up the courage. He practices what he's going to say, immediately decides it sounds stupid, starts over, and repeats the process about twenty times.
When he finally asks, it's after a late-night training session. The two of you are sitting on the mansion steps watching the sunset, both completely exhausted. Scott rubs the back of his neck before saying, "I know this might change things... but would you want to go on a date with me sometime?" He's visibly nervous, and somehow that makes your heart melt.
You smile almost immediately. "I was wondering how much longer it was going to take you."
Scott blinks. "...You knew?"
You laugh. “It’s so obvious you like me, Scott.”
“...Oh. Was it that obvious?”
“Literally everyone knew about it.”
Your first date was simple because that's exactly how Scott wanted it. A quiet dinner, followed by a walk through the park where the two of you talk about everything except being X-Men. It's peaceful. Comfortable. There isn't a single awkward silence because you've already spent months becoming best friends first.
After every date, Scott waits until you're safely inside your room before heading back to his. Only then does he let himself grin like an idiot as he gets ready for bed.
The relationship develops slowly. Neither of you are in a rush. There are weeks where all you do is go on dates, hold hands, and enjoy finally being together without putting pressure on yourselves.
The first time Scott tells you he loves you, it isn't like those dramatic scenes you see in rom-com movies. You're both cooking dinner in the mansion kitchen, flour somehow ends up on his face. That makes you start bursting out laughing, and he looks at you with soft adoration before saying, "I love seeing you happy." A few seconds later, almost as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud, he adds, "...I love you."
Loving Scott feels different. You never have to question whether he wants to be with you. He communicates, checks in on you, remembers the little things, and never lets you go to bed wondering where you stand. After everything you've been through, that consistency becomes your favorite thing about him.
Looking back, you realize Scott never rescued you from heartbreak. He simply walked beside you while you healed, reminded you of your worth when you couldn't see it yourself, and patiently waited until your heart was ready to love again. By the time you officially became a couple, it didn't feel like finding someone new: it felt like coming home.
His shirts had randomly started going missing a month into you two dating. Whether it was tshirts or long sleeves it disappeared from his apartment after you would come over.
Of course it wasnt very hard to figure out that you had been taking them, Sukuna knew he just didnt particularly care. What he didnt account for was how good you would look wearing nothing put your panties and his oversized shirt, the neckline so big is slipped down the side of one of your shoulders.
You had invited him over for a movie date night and when he pushed open your apartment door and found you in the kitchen, hunched over and making popcorn for the two of you he was already gone. You looked so good, so pretty as he approached you, grabbing your waist and pulling you back against him so he could nuzzle his nose into your neck, breathing you in before peppering kisses along the column of your throat.
“Who knew a thief could look so fuckin’ good?” He asked with his mouth pressed against your neck and you laughed, popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth. “Catwoman always looked good, pretty sure thats why Batman was down bad” his head bumps yours gently as you respond, his hands slipping under the hem of your stolen shirt to drag up, feeling your soft skin and curves under his fingers.
He presses you further into the kitchen counter, hiking the fabric of the shirt over your ass so he could grind into it, a grunt slipping from his lips as his fingers find the plush skin of one of your thighs and pushed it up to rest on the counter. His fingers toyed with your panties, pulling them back and letting go to hit against you.
You gasp out, glaring back at him, “Ryo” you whine and his pulls them to the side, pulling his hard cock out of his sweats to rub against your folds. “Yeah, yeah i know, woman. Just lean forwards a bit”
You comply, arching forwards. He hums at your obedience, praises slipping from his lips as he nudged into you, sinking in slowly to tease you. “Theres my good girl” he purrs, hips pulling back slowly to the tip before slamming back in deeply “feels so fucking good around me”
You moan out, head dropping to rest against the cupboard as he thrusts into you, heat spreading over your skin and through your nerves. He leans closer, kissing at your exposed shoulder and neck, biting and kissing at the skin. He angles his hips to hit deeper, his mouth falling open as warm breath fans over your skin.
“Feels so good Ryo” you moan out, hand reaching back for him. “But need more” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss before tugging you back against him. His other hand grabs at your thighs, fingers digging in as he thrust harder, faster, cock bumping your cervix everytime he thrusted in with wet squelches.
His fingers trail down to rub at your clit, leaning in to bite your neck hard as he lets out grunts against your skin. “Come on baby, be a good girl and cum for me. Know you fuckin’ wanna so bad” he teases and you feel your insides tighten, squeezing him so good as you cum around him. Your brain goes fuzzy as you drop forwards against the cool counter, slick trailing down your thighs are Sukuna thrusts into you harder chasing his own high in your sensitive, overstimulated pussy. You whine out loudly, nails reaching back to scratch at his muscular arms before he thrusts into you fully and cums, warm seed flooding your insides with a groan. Sukuna leans forwards against you, hands grabbing at your thighs and ass as he kneads the skin, kissing along your skin.
“Should steal my shit more often” he lets out a gruff laugh, biting at your skin before picking you up and bringing you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
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 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 five 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.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
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 even 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: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
sukuna was used to getting hit on. normally, he flat out rejects anyone that even makes an attempt to flirt with him. tonight he's taken you on one of your usual date nights, but imagine his surprise when the woman who approaches your table is hitting on you instead of him!
"ryo. ryo, ryo, ryo, i don't know what to get!" you pout, extending a leg underneath the table to graze your husband's calf as he grunts, brows pinched together in concentration as he stares down at the menu
"doesn't matter. i'm ordering half the stuff they have here anyway... you hungry for dessert too?" he questions, and you give him a deadpan look before he dramatically rolls his eyes, eliciting a giggle from you that has the corner of his mouth tipping upwards in a smirk
"fatty," he murmurs, and you make a point to dig the tip of your heel into his shoe, yet even through the pain, he maintains that annoying grin, and you shake your head with a laugh
the restaurant sukuna chose to take you out to tonight was located on the outer edges of the city near the water. your seating is overlooking the ocean, and you're not sure where you should stare—either at the lapping waves shimmering underneath the sparkling sun, or at your husband (an equally irresistible sight). he's wearing a tight black shirt with the first few buttons open, revealing the intricate details of his tattoos and the large expanse of his muscles and chest
a waitress eventually approaches your table. she's pretty—tall, lean, and wearing a dark red lipstick that suits her well—and you feel your heart sink a bit. you're sure she was staring at your table earlier, and you'd already assumed she was keeping an eye out on sukuna. almost subconsciously, you sit a little taller in your chair as she greets you two
"hello! i hope you guys are doing well. what can i get started?" she starts in an extra sweet voice, and you avoid her eyes and instead drum a single manicured finger against the table to distract yourself
you know you have nothing to feel insecure about, but anyone would feel a bit down if attractive women were constantly hitting on their husband, right?
without looking up, sukuna starts
"i'll have a plate of crab cakes, four fish tacos, one chicken marsala, one miso marinated black cob, two fettuccini pastas, one lobster ravioli, and one lava cake—and the center of it better not be undercooked. my wife doesn't like whenever it happens and i want her dessert to be nothing short of perfection." sukuna finishes, and the waitress looks genuinely distressed as she quickly jots down everything he said
"uhm, and all that is for just the two of you?" she questions hesitantly, and sukuna's gaze snaps up with a scowl
"yeah. and?"
you try to stifle your laughter as she quickly shakes her head with a smile, still writing everything down. your husband was... a bit of a big eater.
"no, no, i was just wondering— oh. did you say wife?" she frowns, and you try not to wince at twinge of disappointment in her voice
"if you were thinking i'm single, you're out of luck." sukuna states boldly, not bothering to give her any further attention as he folds up the menu and hands it to her
"uhm... i wasn't wondering about you. i was wondering about you." — and suddenly her gaze is pinned on you, and your eyes widen a fraction
"me?" you squeak in disbelief, and she smirks. it's cocky and slanted and it instantly reminds you of your husband's habit when he's teasing you, and you can't even try to hide the smile on your face as you cover it with your hand, caught off gaurd and embarrassed
"yes, you. you are beautiful. so, are you happily married to this guy, or just marri—"
"that's enough." sukuna stammers, and he looks genuinely mortified by the look of curiosity on your face. you giggle, shaking your head
"thank you... you're very beautiful too." you smile, and she actually blushes at your words, telling you she'll be out with your food soon as she walks back inside the restaurant with a lot more pep in her step than before
sukuna reaches over to pull your hand out of your lap and onto the table, and he adjusts your ring with furrowed brows as you giggle
"ryo—"
"i can't believe that woman's audacity—hitting on my wife! when i get home, i am writing the most deplorable review of this restaurant." he snaps as you let out a sudden laugh
"don't be silly, you big grump! she was nice," you smile, and he drags a hand down his face as if this was the worst day of his entire life.
sukuna wasn't used to women hitting on you. no man ever tried because all six feet of your husband was always looming behind you like a guard dog just waiting to rip someone's head off for looking at you too long, but he never suspected he had to look out for women too!
his brows are furrowed as he rubs a thumb over the diamond on your ring finger, and your gaze softens before you cradle his own larger hand in your own and press a kiss onto his knuckles. he blinks at you a few times before turning away with a huff, the tips of his ears a light shade of pink
"you're mine. you'll never indulge in anyone that tries anything with you, right?" he murmurs, still staring at your interlocked hands as you pout
"of course not." you promise gently, and he seems satisfied by your response as he holds your hand firmly in his own
after a moment of thought, he opens his mouth once again
"do you think we should make out to confirm our status for everyone else here?"
"ryo!"
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