hi! you gave me your number at the grocery store yesterday. I was wondering if you could send me the information about the tattoo shop please? thanks so much! :)
you read the text and reread it and reread it once more before pressing send. goddamnit, you should’ve at least asked for the man’s name, you think to yourself as you read your message for the nth time in twenty seconds. you go to edit the text, or maybe send another, fuck, is it rude to double text a stranger? even if said stranger put his number in your phone despite not really asking for it? you guess you didn’t mind much, especially if he was going to connect you with a good tattoo artist and all, but—
the text comes in during your spiraling thoughts. you read it once, twice. blink a few times. that…does not answer a single thing you had asked. is that supposed to be his name? should you ask him that for confirmation? you pause for a bit, waiting for another text to come through that doesn’t, before making your own move.
hello sukuna! can you connect me with your tattoo artist please? :)
he’s an exclusive prick and doesn’t have any availability for the next two years.
you pause. blink. suck in a deep breath and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with this dead end when another text comes through.
but he’ll squeeze you in when I take you so send your address so I can pick you up.
oh what the fuck. this is a bad idea. right? sending what’s virtually a stranger your address? but he seemed…normal enough in the grocery store. didn’t try to outright attack you or crush your head between his tiger paws, as you’d feared before. you want to say no, you should say no, but—
but he’s showing up an hour later, dressed in another tank top, white this time, and low slung gray sweatpants that has a black oil stain on the hip of it. you’re sure he’s part tiger somehow, somewhere, deep in his lineage, with the way he stalks toward you when you open the door and step out. he’s been leaning against his car, something old, that sounds like it’s breathing with every passing second, and the man—sukuna—grins when he sees you. his legs are long, and you can make out the muscled thigh from beneath the fabric of his pants, and—oh fuck, you shouldn’t have looked down there.
you’re not a pervert. really, you’re not! especially to men that aren’t on the pages of your books. but it’s hard not to notice the thick bob between his legs when he steps up to you, and gently but sternly guides your glued form from the steps to the passenger side of his car. he opens the door for you, and you think it’s gentlemanly, until you realize that the thing is damn near bolted shut and you couldn’t have opened it yourself if you tried. still, you thank him, to which he leers at.
“don’t be thankin’ me just yet,” he tells you, and you think it might be a threat, or maybe a conversation starter, but you’re not too sure so you stay quiet in the end. “gotta swing past my shop first to pick up some cash.”
you should tell him no, should tell him you can pay for your own tattoo, and actually, you can wait two years for a tattoo, and that you really shouldn’t go to a second and third location with him. but sukuna kinda smiles at you—you’re still not sure if it’s a smile or him bearing his teeth in threat but you smile back, anyway—and let him drive you away from your home. you could be getting murdered, but you don’t wanna make any assumptions and offend him, so you sit quietly and hope for the best.
a tattoo by the end of this journey though, would be really great, and worth getting into the car with a possible former convict. you take your chances.
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