Untitled

[hunnismokah]

morning YAWWWNNNN

[cs-glitch]

thinking about roommate!ghost who's a total freak and creep...

18+ mdni !!! (smut, darkfic)

alt link; ao3

cw: fem!reader, icky!ghost, heavy dubcon (reader says stop and is very hesitant/conflicted but does want him & enjoys it), stalking, dacryphilia, forced breeding, ment. of pregnancy, cum eating / cum play, fear play, (probably) a DDNE tbh, i think that's it ?, word count: 2.4k

When you’d first saw the advertisement he posted, you half-expected it to be bait. That you’d show up, he’d answer the door, and you’d end up being just another dead girl mentioned in a distasteful true crime podcast. 

Your mother always said: If it seems too good to be true, then it usually is. You should have listened to her. 

On paper, the arrangement is perfect; your rent is half the price of a one-bedroom, the apartment is in an amazing neighborhood, and your roommate is gone the majority of the time. 

The reality is that living with Simon Riley is complicated– nothing like what you signed up for. To put it plainly, your roommate is a complete and utter creep. 

Looking back, it’s almost impressive how subtle he was at the start– at least compared to the things he does now.  It made it that much easier for you to brush it off as a trauma response or bad habits from years in the military. 

A week into living together, you realize that he has a horrible habit of hovering. Waiting until you’re busy with something, coming up behind you and standing just close enough that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck.

“Think you should buy it in black,” he mumbles into your ear, staring down at your phone as you browse online for a new dress. 

You shriek, hands instinctively dropping your device.  The loud thud it makes hitting the floor echoes in your ears. You turn around, hands instinctively pressing against his chest in a feeble attempt to push him away– it doesn’t work. 

You swallow, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your thighs twitch at the feeling of his hands gripping your wrists tightly. He does– he notices everything about you. “Uh, thanks, I’ll… do that.”

You expect him to let go. Instead, he pulls you into him, wrapping his arms tight around you. You can pretend you can’t feel him pressing his nose into your hair– breathing in deeply– it’s harder to ignore the feeling of his hard cock pressed against you.

“Welcome to the apartment, dove.”

Then came the staring, heavy gaze always roaming your body, staring at you for hours at a time. It's unnerving.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s watching you– he always is nowadays. “Hi, Simon,” you mumble, hands shaking as you continue to load the washing machine. 

He doesn’t reply– he never does– his eyes just continue to trail further down, soaking up every inch of bare skin your tiny pajama shorts show off.  

You make it a point to wear loose pants and oversized sweatshirts after that– cover as much skin as possible– somehow that only makes it worse. 

You stumble into the kitchen, oversized hoodie rifling through the cabinets to find a mug for your morning coffee. 

It’s not long before you feel it again, his stare. You close your eyes, body freezing up at the unfortunately familiar feeling. “Good morning, Simon.” You’re not sure what’s worse, the words he said or the fact that he replied at all. 

“Y’ like baggy clothes tha’ much, you could jus’ wear mine, dove.”

You suck in a breath, heart beating so loud you know he has to be able to hear it somehow. “I, I don’t–”

He cuts you off, eyes staring at you so hard you swear you can feel your skin burning under his gaze. “Fuckin’ adorable, thinkin’ those layers are gonna stop me from watchin’ you– droolin’ over you.”

You repeatedly tell yourself that the sinking feeling in your stomach is nausea– disgust–, but you can’t deny the sticky feeling between your thighs. 

You don’t get to go anywhere by yourself anymore; he just invites himself to tag along. You once tried to sneak out– a ridiculous notion, you’re a grown woman for fucks sake– but he just somehow ended up there anyway.

There, sitting in a dark booth staring straight at you, is your roommate. Simon hates clubs, so why is he here? Better yet, how is he here?

It doesn’t take long before he’s walking up to you, grabbing you with his tattoo-covered arm, mumbling something about it being time to go home.  Your friend grabs your other arm, and you can tell she’s ready to call over security.  You quickly wave her concerns off, feeling his grip grow tighter each second she touches you. 

“It's fine, he's my roommate– look, I’m just gonna call it a night, okay?”

The two of you lean against the building outside while you wait for the cab to arrive. A lit cigarette hangs from his lips, and the feeling of his arm around your shoulder makes you shiver despite the body heat radiating off of him.

“Simon?” you whisper, staring straight down at the sidewalk. You wait until he gives you a half-hearted hum of acknowledgement before continuing. “How did you know which club I was at?”

The silence he gives you is worse than any answer he possibly could have provided. He pulls you in closer to him, the smell of tobacco smoke is so strong you swear you can taste it on your tongue.

You hate the way your body no longer tenses at his touch– you wonder if it ever really did.

Most nights he’s home, you shoot awake, breathing heavily from the confusing dreams you have about him– not quite a nightmare, but not solely pleasant.

“Simon?” you mumble, eyes slowly blinking as you glance around your dark room before settling into a dark corner. 

You scream, your hands reaching to pull your covers off. Legs wobbly as you scurry to reach the lights. “What–”

The second the masked man chuckles– low and mocking– you know it’s Simon. You avoid looking straight at him, never wanting to see that horrid skull mask again. 

You don’t realize you're crying until you feel wet tears rolling down your face. 

“C’mon, lovie, though’ you liked this? Seen all those blokes you watch on your phone when y’ think ‘m not lookin’.”

You’ve learned now to just close your eyes and go back to sleep, avoiding his heavy gaze from the corner of your room. 

Simon’s unashamed in the way he steals from you. It’s not something uncommon to deal with when sharing a living space, but there’s nothing normal about the things he ‘borrows’ from you.

Your dresser drawers are on the floor, and random knick-knacks and papers are scattered across your room. The mood has long been ruined, but you’re now determined to find your misplaced vibrator anyway.

He doesn’t knock when he enters your room– why would he? You don’t turn around or even acknowledge him, continuing to haphazardly rifle through your things.

It isn’t until you hear a faint buzzing sound coming from his hand that he finally feels his eyes on yours. “What the fuck, Simon?” you screech, scrambling to snatch the clearly used toy out of his hands.

He tilts his head, staring at you dead-eyed. “Didn’ think you’d mind. Never say anythin’ when I use your washin’ powder or borrow those lace panties y’ like so much.” The casual confession should make you sick to your stomach– you want it to make you sick to your stomach.

You can’t help but flinch when the door gently shuts behind him, looking around at the mess you’ve made. You glance down at the silicone bullet, fingers gathering up the white, sticky liquid dripping down it.

You spread your fingers, your mouth going dry at the string of cum between them.  You’re tasting him before you even realize that your hand has moved towards your mouth. It’s bitter and musky, but that doesn’t stop you from moaning around your digits.

A thought crosses your mind. It’s gross, and wrong, and it makes you no better than him– but he started this.

You close your eyes as you fall onto the bed, quickly kicking your shorts off and to the side. A soft buzzing noise fills the air as you press the already slick toy down harder on your clit. 

You act like you can’t hear him breathing heavy on the other side of your door– but it’s obvious in the way your normally quiet whimpers are full-blown moans.

It doesn’t take much– you were already worked up long before he’d stepped into your room. You cum hard, too focused on the low groaning coming from outside your room to fully savor the feeling.

As you clean up your mess, you wonder if you can still claim the cheap rent is why you’ve stayed so long.

You should have known better, but your friends convinced you it’d be a good idea. After complaining to them with half-truths about how horrible and invasive your roommate is, they’d planted the silly thought of getting even in your head.

You shuffle outside his door, hesitantly reaching for the doorknob. You’re not sure what you expected when you decided to barge into his room unannounced– you try not to think too hard about what he does when you’re not there.

He’s sitting along the side of his bed, thick thighs spread wide, as his hand fists his leaking cock. You stumble, your back unintentionally shutting the door, causing him to glance at you. 

“Did y’need somethin’ dove?” He doesn’t stop– doesn’t even falter– just licks his lips as he stares straight at you. 

Your skin feels like it’s on fire, unable to look away from the obscene sight. 

“Wha’, don’ tell me you’re embarrassed? ‘M jus’ havin’ a quick wank– hear you do it all the time.” The admission makes you choke on nothing, his cock twitching at the sound. “It’s jus’ a cock, lovie, ‘m sure you’ve seen plenty.”

You don’t mean to say it out loud, but your mouth moves against your will. “Never any that big,” you whisper, barely audible, but you know he heard it. 

“Come touch it.” He doesn’t ask, just commands you to– for the first time since meeting him, you understand why he’s a lieutenant. 

You hesitantly move towards him, shrieking when his hand grabs your shoulder and shoves you onto the carpet. He forces you to kneel between his legs, your pussy aching as he wraps his hand around yours, forcing you to grab his hard cock. 

You can only stare wide-eyed, lips parted as he moves your hand up and down, your palm growing sticky as his pre-cum gathers on your skin. 

“Fuck, tha’s it, dove,” he groans, head thrown back as he uses you to jerk himself off. Your legs snap shut at the wet noises filling up the room. 

You feel your stomach twist with disgust at yourself for just letting him use you– the feeling of want dripping down your thighs only makes it worse. 

You swallow, arm limp as you stare at the head of his twitching cock. “Simon, stop,” you whisper, making no move to pull away from him. 

You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut tight as he shoots ropes of hot cum all over your face. You sniffle, tears falling down your face, when he suddenly leans down, gripping your jaw as he forces you to look at him. 

His tongue brushes against your cheek, slowly licking off the mess he spilt on your skin. “Si,” you whine, your nails digging into his arms– he moans against your face when he feels them break the skin. 

“I know, I know, lovie, ‘s not fair, is it?” he coos, pulling away now that your face is mostly clean– save for his spit. “Let me make it up to you.”

In one swift motion, he sits you at the foot of the bed, leaning back against the headboard as he pats his bare thigh– cock still hard despite the fact he just came. 

It’s embarrassing how fast you discard your clothes before crawling into his lap. His thumb brushes against your cheek before pushing past your lips– looking pleased when you instantly suck the digit. 

His fingers on your hip grip you tight, picking you up single-handedly before lowering you onto his length.  The stretch burns, sweat coating your body as pain flashes across your face. He twitches inside you, and you know then the lack of prep was purposeful. 

Your hands grip his shoulders so tight you can feel his blood pooling underneath your fingernails– his hips thrusting up into you only makes you dig into the skin harder. 

He removes his hand from your mouth, reaching down to let his spit-soaked thumb hover over your swollen clit.  “Simon, please, jus’ make it feel good,” you beg, grinding your hips against his as you desperately try to meet his pace. 

His lips make their way to your neck, harshly sucking before sinking his teeth into your skin. You cry out, cunt clenching down on his cock as the mixture of pain and pleasure. 

His lips are smeared with red when he finally stops licking at your wound– all you can taste is copper as he kisses you.  

Your orgasm builds pathetically fast, you pant against his mouth as you cum around his length. He pulls away from your mouth, continuing to fuck you through your orgasm.

“You’re mine, my roommate, my dove. Even if y’ don’ say it she knows it– ‘s why she creamed all over me so quickly, yeah?” 

Your body aches as you lie limply against him like a rag doll. Your mind’s hazy, unable to focus on anything other than his thick cock still dragging in and out of you. 

His thrusts get sporadic, cock twitching deep inside you, and you can tell he’s close. “Si, not, hng, not inside, ‘m not, don’ take the pill–” 

He snorts, hands digging into your hips so hard you know you’ll still feel them tomorrow– maybe forever. His hips snap up into you, and you can feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix. 

“Don’ worry, lovie, I won’ go runnin' away when you’re swollen w’ my kid,” he coos. As he spills hot cum in the deepest part of your cunt the promise feels more like a threat. 

The thought of it– your stomach round, carrying his baby– is all it takes for you to wail into his chest, body shivering as you reach another orgasm. 

The room reeks of sex and sweat, the air thick with the weight of something heavy– something akin to permanence, ownership. 

His arms wrap around you, pulling you down onto your side as he buries his nose against the back of your head. 

“So glad you moved in, dove.”

[mitchythedrawer]

Bad puppy

[miisbehaved]

Tongue Tied

starring tattoo artist!choso x reader (rec!)

summary: you’re left alone with your best friend’s quiet, mysterious roommate. What could possibly go wrong?

content: MDNI 18+, fem!reader, tattoo artist!choso, alt!choso, pierced!choso, stóner!choso, plug(?)!choso, hair-down choso, no use of “y/n”, pórn no plot, maybe some plot, high séx, elements of dubcon, oral séx (f!receiving), hándjóbs (m!receiving), sqúírting, dumbification, piv, size kink, CHOSO IS LOWK POSSESSIVEE, dare i say yandere?, brééding, etc.

word count: 5.1k

author's note: picture credits from left to right: einruji07 on X, b___ashui on X, einruji07 on X | divider credits go to @strangergraphics | this was inspired by an anon rec from a couple months ago! i tweaked it a little bit, so plz forgive me (ó﹏ò｡) 🩶 also, MDNI 18+ if you are not 18+ i will block you.

choso's aux: dreams, fairytales, fantasies - a$ap ferg, sativa - jhene aiko, girl with the tattoo enter.lewd - miguel, nights like this - the kid laroi, swim - chase atlantic, right here - chase atlantic , chokehold - sleep token

“Where the fuck is he?” You mumbled anxiously underneath your breath.

You had been waiting inside Curseblood Studio for almost twenty minutes at this point, your phone long since dead by your side, thighs stuck to the plush leather of the parlor couch, and the thin heel of your boot tapping restlessly against the worn flooring.

The interior of the place was dim, and the reception area was entirely empty. It was 19:00, and you knew it was near closing hours (if not already). 

Behind you, the soft pat, pat, pat of the summer rain tapped against the shop’s windows - a gentle melody accompanied by the faint humming of a tattoo gun somewhere deep within the shop, steady and distant, like a pulsing heartbeat thrumming in anticipation.

You were supposed to meet Suguru over an hour ago to catch the train into Chuo together. It was by order of Satoru, as the white-haired menace had practically begged the entire friend group to go clubbing with him tonight. But when Suguru never showed up at the station, you found yourself heading to the one place he was most likely to be: the tattoo shop where he worked. 

Which, conveniently, just so happened to be situated right underneath the apartment that he shared with–  

“You good?”

The voice was deep, soft, familiar.

You lifted your head, only for your eyes to land on… him.

Kamo. Choso. 

The tall, tired-looking man had silently situated himself behind the counter without you realizing earlier. His dark hair, which normally was tied up, fell loosely around his neck, showing off his shaggy wolfcut. The dark inked slash that ran across the bridge of his nose contrasted well with the silver shark bites that adorned his pink lips, and his usual loungewear was replaced with ripped cargos and a black muscle tee, exposing his muscular arms and the gorgeous, dark red ink that wrapped around his pale skin in dizzying patterns. 

His dark eyes met yours for just the smallest of moments, before quickly flicking away.

“Hi,” you murmured. You suddenly grew shy, feeling embarrassed for imposing well past his business hours. “Yes. I’m… good.”

He offered you a small nod in response. 

The two of you knew each other only in passing. He was part of Suguru’s other friend group, and just so happened to be both his roommate and the other co-owner of the studio. 

A reserved tattoo artist during the day. 

An introspective stoner during the night.

During the numerous times you found yourself in your best friend’s apartment, you had only observed Kamo Choso from a safe distance: the hard planes of his bare back as he disappeared through the kitchen, the faint scent of old weed lingering from his room, and the sharp line of his jaw caught in brief, accidental glances. 

It was only during the rare moments when the two of you awkwardly crossed paths, whether in the cramped hallway or the messy foyer, that conversation ever seemed possible. Yet even then, it rarely made it past a simple “hello”. 

Which is why you found him so hard to read.

You truly couldn’t tell if the man genuinely disliked you, found you entirely unremarkable, or if he was simply the kind of person who kept everyone at arm's length. 

Regardless, this was the first time ever where the two of you were addressing each other directly, without the chaperoning assistance of Suguru. 

The quiet man rested his inked arms on the countertop that separated the two of you, silently letting his dark eyes wander over your body, taking you in. 

Your hair framed your face softly, and every time you shifted, he could see the faint glint of the earrings that dangled beneath. The dress you wore tonight was short with a modest neckline, and the sheer black tights that adorned your legs accentuated the curve of your thighs. 

Choso blinked, before wordlessly staring down at his hands, which had, at some point, unconsciously began to grip onto the countertop below him.

“I apologize for imposing on you.” Your words came out small as you looked up at him from where you sat, your nails tapping nervously against the frayed leather of the couch.  

He shook his head almost immediately. “You’re not.” His voice came out a touch too deep, too serious, too rushed. He coughed lightly, willing his eyes to look at the clock on the wall rather than the mole by your lips. “Shop’s about to close though. You waitin’ on someone, or d’ya get bored and want some ink?” 

You couldn’t help but release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, an endearing chuckle escaping from your prettily glossed lips at his dry words. 

Cute. 

“Hmm…” you smiled, playfulness laced in your voice, “unfortunately, just waiting today...” 

He didn’t even have to ask. He already knew for whom.  

Suguru. 

Choso tsked, cursing the other man underneath his breath for keeping you, the most attractive person that’s ever stepped foot inside the building, waiting. You watched him with doe-like eyes as he scratched the back of his neck, his brow furrowed in deep thought, and his inked biceps flexing subtly under the lowlight.

A moment passed before the man in front of you spoke again. 

“Well then. Wanna do some waitin’ upstairs?” 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The thick smoke from a dying roach curled languidly in the heady air between you both. 

It had been roughly thirty minutes since Kamo Choso had invited you into his apartment, taken your phone to his room to charge, and returned with the disappointing news that Geto-Fucking-Suguru hadn’t left you a single notification.

It had also been roughly twenty minutes since he’d offered you his weed.

Which is how you both found yourself here, sitting on a large couch in his shared living room, Human Earthworm 4 playing in the background, Choso’s zip-locked stash laying haphazardly on the coffee table in front of you, and his extended leg mere centimeters away from your thigh.

He didn’t expect you to be able to keep up with him, let alone agree to his offer in the first place. 

Smoking with company felt a whole lot nicer than smoking alone. 

Though, he didn’t know if that was because it was with you.

He took a sip of his Asahi, before chancing a glance up at you. 

The whites of your eyes were glazed a pretty pink, and you were already staring at him with hooded lids, your glossed lip caught between your teeth as if you were deep in thought. 

He looked away abruptly, startled by the force of his own heart squeezing at the sight of you. 

“You don’t like me very much.”

Your head felt heavy as it lolled to the side, lashes fluttering lazily with each slow blink. The observation left your lips with surprising ease, delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone one might use to comment on the weather or the color of the sky.

He raised a pierced brow, his eyes impassive and his jaw drawn tight. 

“Pardon?” 

You smiled at him as if you were amused, before reaching out to grab the perspiring can from him, your soft fingers grazing his inked ones. 

How bold. 

If you were any more sober, maybe you would have refrained. Given him his space. Maintained the formal distance that had always existed between you. You frowned at the thought. 

You took a sip of his beer, a hearty sigh escaping your mouth as the cool liquid gave you some reprieve from the heat that permeated the room. 

An unreadable look crossed his face as his eyes locked in on where the gloss on your lips left a faint mark where his mouth had been just moments before. 

“You heard me, Kamo Choso.”

You regarded him for a moment, dark eyes probing him as if a dare.

And, despite his proclivity for solitude and his enjoyment of peace, at the end of the day, Kamo Choso was simply a man.  

Game. On.

He wordlessly fished out another pre-rolled joint from his stash, settling it between his pierced lips before sparking his lighter.

A moment passed. 

The movie played on in the background. 

Outside, the distant horns of late-night Osaka traffic drifted up to the third-floor apartment. 

He exhaled through his nose, letting the smoke unfurl between you, filling the space, before slowly turning his head to face you, his expression unreadable. 

“Address me casually.” He spoke coolly, his voice deep and just a touch scratchy. 

And it took a moment for your hazy brain to register the fact that he was not asking.

He tapped the joint against the ashpan on the table, before taking another drag. 

You swallowed, heat beginning to pool in your belly as your legs clenched subtly at his words.

It was almost a tease, watching his strong jaw work as he smoked in front of you, and seeing the glimpses of hard muscle rippling underneath his cut shirt. 

How gorgeous he was.

How breathtakingly intimidating. 

And before you could even have time to register your thoughts, he’s shifting closer to you, his hand mere millimeters away from your leg. 

“Open.” His voice was low and careful. 

You quietly obeyed.

And his eyes were focused solely on your pretty mouth, on the way your lips softly wrapped around the paper of the joint as he placed it gently between them. 

His large fingers brushed against your bottom lip, the metal of his rings cooling the heat on your skin, before tenderly grazing your jaw. 

You quickly took a few puffs, trying to conceal your reddening face behind the smoke. 

You removed the joint from your lips, letting it rest on the edge of the ashpan as you stole his beer again, doing anything you could to try and calm yourself down. 

The corners of his mouth curled into a knowing grin. 

“-And for the record,” he leaned in, his hand moving to rest against your knee, the warmth of his skin searing straight through the thin fabric of your tights. “I don’t share my weed with people I don’t like.” 

And his face was so close to yours that you could see the flecks of gold in his glazed eyes, the smooth lines of his tattoo that ran across his nose, the reflection of the TV light within his brow piercings, and the way his tattoos crawled up his forearms and curled around his neck.

Your head began to spin.

The steady warmth in your belly began to manifest an embarrassing amount of slickness between your thighs.

There was no denying it.

He was attractive. So damn captivating. 

So really, you couldn’t help it when the following words tumbled out of your sweet, sweet mouth:

“I think I’m gonna need more proof than that, Cho-so-kun~” 

And despite your light, breathless voice and wavering grin, Kamo Choso was oh, so serious as he pulled you into his lap, muscular arms working to situate yourself on top of him as your dress rode up higher along your thighs.

Your hands instinctively reached out to prop against his hard chest, and the shock on your face had your mouth forming the cutest little ‘o’ for him. 

His chest was firm underneath the fabric of his shirt, and he smelt faintly of smoke and peppermint. 

The longer you sat on his lap, the more your breaths intertwined, his air becoming your own, and yours becoming his. 

You couldn’t help it as your hand drifted up the broad plane of his chest, your fingertips skimming over the fabric of his shirt before running over the slope of his tattooed neck. Your touch lingered along his jaw, thumb brushing gently against the cool metal of his shark bites 

So soft, so intimate.

He brought one of his hands to cup your own, keeping your palm pressed to his jaw, and your thumb resting against his lips.

“Deal.”

And then he’s turning his head to press his lips against your palm, mumbling something against your soft skin, before moving both of his large hands doowwnn your body, finding steady purchase on your hips, fingers spanning across your ass as he’s shifting you impossibly closer to him, until your warm cunt was pressed against his painfully large erection.

Your chest was now squished against his, your noses knocking, and your long lashes fluttering against his skin.

He could feel the stiffness of your nipples as it pressed into him, and he could smell the jasmine of your perfume that began to mix with the light perspiration on your neck. 

His lips were hovering yours, his breath shaky as he stared down at you. 

“Choso…” you all but whimpered to him.

And oh, how he loved hearing his name in your mouth. His dick lurched in his pants. 

Which is why he’s sticking his pierced tongue out, running it softly along your bottom lip, before languidly curling it up, letting it slip between the seam of your parted mouth as he finally, finally kisses you, sucking you in, savoring the sweetness of your saliva and the softness of your tongue. 

And you sighed, so prettily and dreamily as your eyes fluttered closed. 

You could feel the heaviness of his erection now as it pressed against your clothed cunt, the tights you were wearing doing absolutely nothing to hide the pathetic dampness that already began to soak through.

His large hands began to roam, rubbing circles into your hips before running down to your thighs, slipping his calloused fingers underneath the seam of your little black dress. And then pushing up, up, up along your legs until the skirtpiece is thoroughly bunched around your waist. 

And your mind was spinning, the head high from his weed making all of your senses feel so heightened. 

His hands felt rough and dominating. His tongue tasted like syrup and felt like sin. The cool metal of his piercings sent electrifying jolts straight through your overheated nerves and all the way down to your throbbing pussy. 

There was just something so addictive about him, the way he moved, the way he controlled the pace – something so captivating that all you could do was follow, willing your body into submission, making you want to obey. 

He released your bruised lips with a small haah~ 

You blinked up at him, your pretty eyes dazed and cutely confused as to why he was stopping now. 

His heart squeezed tightly in his chest. 

With one hand on your waist, he’s gently reaching around you, carefully picking up the joint that was still burning away on the ashtray, and then placing it between his lips. 

He inhaled slowly, methodically, letting his eyes lock with yours again, his gaze glassy and heavy-lidded.  

Such a pretty little thing, you were. 

And oh, how he wanted to keep you. 

Mark you and bite you and claim you for himself. 

Choso reached out, his large, ringed fingers lightly wrapping around your neck as he pulled you closer, pressing his mouth against yours again as he let the smoke lazily unfurl inside of you. 

And the smile on his face was nothing short of sleazy as he felt another gush of slick escape through the now translucent material of your tights.

“Mhhhn. Easyy there,” he all but drawled into your ear, his hand still firm against your throat. 

You couldn’t help but squeeze your eyes shut, your core twisting with embarrassment, shame and… arousal? 

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, before resting the joint between your lips as he uses his other hand to lift the material of your tights higher, drawing the fabric taught to enunciate the folds and dips of your pussylips underneath. 

He sucked a heavy breath in, his dick twitching at the sight of the soaked fabric, your quivering lips, and the impressively large dark spot that you were making on his pants just from kissing alone. 

He was such a fucking goner.

“‘M not even close to done with ya yet,” he breathed, his chest starting to rise and fall almost erratically. “Not even close to provin’ to you…” his glassy eyes were slowly growing wild as his brain seemed to register something.

“Proof… You wanted proof, babygirl?” His low voice came out rough and partly delirious. He didn’t even give you a chance to speak before he’s using his large hand to cup your sex, the heat of his palm against you making you clench in anticipation. 

You could feel your heartbeat throbbing in your pussy, pounding to a beat almost similar to his name.

Cho-so. Cho-so. Cho-so. 

“I’ll show ya’ proof-” 

And then he’s riiiipping the flimsy fabric of your tights apart, until your bare cunt lay fully on display before him. 

“-And you’re gonna take it. ” 

You didn’t even have a chance to respond before he’s pushing you down, down, down until your upper body rested against the cushions of his couch. 

He leaned forward, holding the dying joint to your lips, letting you take another hit before he finished it off, taking one long drag before crushing the roach into the ashtray. 

You try to keep the smoke inside of you for as long as you can, letting it settle in your lungs and course through your blood. 

And it seemed like he was of a similar mindset as you. 

Except, instead of exhaling into the already hazy air of his living room, he’s leaning down, until his flushed face is nestled between your damp thighs, his tattooed nose pressed firmly against your exposed clit, and his soft mouth latching onto your drenched  pussylips as he blows the smoke inside you for yet the second time that night. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, kiss-bitten lips tugged between your teeth, and cheeks flushed a sensual shade of rouge.

Everything was just so incredibly warm.  

“Choso–!” 

“Haah– this what ya’ wanted all along right? You just wanted me.” He’s lapping you up, licking fat, messy stripes against your folds, talking against your pussy almost breathlessly. “Say it. Say that you just want me. That you just need me.”

And your jaw is hinging, mouth parting, the words forming at the tip of your tongue–

Squeellchhh~ 

“Yess! Good girl! Such a good fuckin’ girl.” 

It’s only then that you realize he was never even talking to you to begin with - in fact, he wasn’t just talking against your pussy, but to it.

You moaned, your chest heaving, your skin buzzing with every touch of his fingers and every lick by his tongue. You squirmed as he draagged his piercing through your folds, the smooth metal tracing a cool path on your blazing skin. 

You could hear the sound of your blood pounding loud in your ears now, your heartbeat wild in your chest. Everything felt like too much, and not enough, all at the same time. 

“M-more, Cho. Need more.” You panted out, your glassy eyes staring back up at him pleadingly. 

“That so?” He grunted, the words reverberating throughout your cunt as he spoke between your lips. 

You nodded, a tear slipping from your eye as the heat in your belly grew. 

“Then get louder.”

And there was absolutely nothing that could’ve prepared you for when he pressed his pierced tongue against your clit, letting the metal ball press firm as he plunged his thick, ringed fingers inside of you, fucking into your tightness, pumping in and out and in and out, hitting and pressing and massaging that sensitive lil’ bundle of nerves deep within your velvety pussy. And you’re gasping shamelessly, your breah hitching and your back arching and your voice breaking as he’s fucking his fingers impossibly deeper, crooking them up until you saw stars. 

You could feel yourself beginning to cream around him, your juices messily splattering across his maw. 

And the way he was staring up at you had your tummy twisting in on itself, the unyielding heat pooling in your pussy growing hotter and hotter. 

He stared at you through glassy eyes and heavy lids, his cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of pink, sweat running down his temples, and his warm tongue swirling his name onto your clit in agonizing lil’ loops. 

Cho-so, Cho-so, Cho-so~

It was divine. It was hot. It was messy and wet and so fucking good.  

You began to chant his name like it was the only one you knew, like you forgot your own entirely, like you didn’t even fucking care  – because all that did matter was the wet sounds of his mouth sucking your clit and the squelching of your pussy as it echoed throughout the heavily smoke-filled room. 

And you were doing so well, crying his name on both your lips, that he didn’t ever want to stop. 

So, it nearly broke him when he had to release your clit with a little paah~ 

He leaned back, one of his hands still fucking his fingers inside of you as the other worked on unbuttoning his pants. His rhythm faltered for only a fraction of a second as he tugged aside his briefs, releasing his cock with a heavy thump! against his hard abdomen. 

And…

Holy shit. 

Your wide eyes ogled at him as your mind fully fucking short-circuited. 

He was large. 

He was pierced. 

And he was inked. 

You let in a small gasp, your glassy eyes trying to take it all in: the tattoos that wrapped around his base, the sheer fatness of his girth, the angry veins that climbed up his cock, and the glinting metal on the underside of his shaft. 

Another warm gob of slick slipped languidly past your lips, making a trail through your soaked folds before finding home on the damp couch cushions below.

And a burst of pride swelled in Kamo Choso’s chest at the way you were looking at him, at the way your pretty pussy was crying to him: so cute, so pathetic, so needy. 

He swatted his hand against your swollen cunt, relishing in the little aah~ that escaped your kiss-bitten lips. 

“You’ve been doin’ so well, babygirl,” he breathed. 

And you were so dazed, so stoned and blissed out that all you could do was whimper in response. 

Slowly, he pulled his ringed fingers out of you, his hand and wrist soaked fully in your release. He hummed, a proud smile pulling across his features as he languidly wiped your juices over his already leaking cock, before slowly, teasingly jerking himself off. 

It was transfixing, to say the least – watching as he gripped himself at the base, his heavy dick bobbing as he pumped himself, pushing thick pearls of pre-cum up, up, up through his slit. 

His breath stuttered as you reached out, curiously tracing your fingers along the underside of his shaft, pausing his ministrations. 

“I thought…” you began, your eyes locked onto where the veins on his dick pulsed in anticipation. “I thought you still had somethin’ to prove to me?” And your eyes were wide and doe-like as you menacingly spread his gooey pre all over his throbbing tip.

“Oh I do, don’t I,” he drawled, leaning over your body, caging you in, as his hips dipped down to meet against yours. “How could I even forget.”  

And then he’s slipping his cock against your soaked folds, coating himself further in your slick, rolling his hips so that you could feel him, all of him, from base to tip. 

You mewled at the sensation of his heavy dick pressed against you, using you, and the metal of his piercing meanly rubbing past your pulsing clit. 

“There ya go,” he crooned, his mouth licking hot stripes by your ear. “Jus’ like that now. I like it when you're loud f’me.”

And he keeps his pace, rubbing against you, letting the weight of his leaking tip tease lightly against the tightness of your hole, before retreating, always retreating, slipping and sliding against you in painstaking loops. 

You could almost cry. 

You could almost scream. 

And then you’re clawing at his back, at his hair. Digging crescents into his shoulders. Begging him to go. Begging him to do something. Begging him to fuck you. 

And the grin that formed on his face was positively wicked. 

“Deal.”

And then he’s presssingg his thick cockhead against your entrance, the cool metal of the piercing rubbing against your warm lips, as you slowly began to swallow his tip whole.

You’re gasping, your hole stretching to accommodate for his girth, for the extra metal that he wore on his skin.. 

“Holy fu–” his eyes screwed shut, his breath ragged, and his chest rising and falling erratically at the sensation of your warm, gooey walls wrapping around him in an overwhelming kiss, squishing and massaging against the sensitive underside of his tip.

He could’ve nutted right then and there, your wet pussy squeelching as you squeezed around him. 

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“Fuck, you’re just a cruel lil’ thing, aren’t ya?” 

And you don’t even have time to respond, don’t even have time to think, because he’s forcing himself in, spearing your gummy walls apart, burrowing his dick deep within you until it felt like you could feel the metal of his piercing practically smooching against your cervix.

Your eyes roll back into your head, the air feeling as if it had been knocked from your lungs from the sheer length of him. 

“Haah~ knew my baby could do it f’me,” his deep voice cracked, his glassy eyes wild as he gripped firmly onto your hips. He started to buck into you, fucking himself deeper and deeper, until all you could hear was his skin slapping against yours as he molded your pussy to the shape of him, rubbing his cockhead against your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, animalistically. 

“Knew you’d be able to take it,” he was grunting now, his words choppy and he veins on his neck popping from the sheer force of his dick pounding against your cunt. “Knew you’d feel this good while I prove to ya how much I fuckin’ like ya.”

Your traitorous heart swelled at his words, your tummy fluttering, pleasure building, and your pussy gripping onto his cock like a lifeline. 

His pierced mouth found yours again, his tongue meeting yours in a messy french. Drool started to spill from your lips as his pace quickened, the wet sound of his balls smacking against your soaked cunt filling the hazy air around you. Everything was getting hotter, stickier, clumsier. His hips were beginning to stutter, and his breaths were coming out in short, quick pants. 

And his tip just kept pressing exactly into that spot you needed most, the smooth metal of his piercing rubbing your nerves in ways that had your toes curling, skin tingling, and head absolutely reeling. 

And you could feel it – your legs trembling, your ears ringing, the absolute peaks of your orgasm rippling and running through your body in overwhelming waves as his fat, leaking cock fucks into your womb. 

“Shit–I’m–” his jaw tensed, his muscles flexing as he willed himself not to cum. 

His dick was almost halfway outside of your gooey hole when you blinked up at him, teary eyed. 

“C-Cho…” you were barely coherent, sputtering and gasping. “More.” And then you’re wrapping your legs around him, locking him in, pressing him flush against you, pushing his cock back inside you, refusing to let him go. “Need more proof,” you whispered. 

And oh, of course he had to oblige. 

Especially for you. 

Especially like this. 

“Yes, babygirl” was all he could breath out as he messily fucked you through your orgasm, pumping his cock in and out and in and out of your squelching pussy. 

He watched, entranced, as he could see the soft bulge of himself in your tummy from where his dick was buried within you. 

It was just all too much, too warm and soft and wet and tight, that his vision turned blurry, his lungs squeezing, and his chest heaving, as his thick, ropey cum forcefully painted your womb white, stuffing you full. 

And, despite the absolute mess, he tenderly pressed a kiss to your temple, letting his mouth rest against your skin as he shallowly fucked his seed inside you, riding through the peaks of his own high.

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, his body warm as you breathed in each other’s air.

“Stay tonight?” His voice was soft, almost uncertain. 

Your heart tugged against your ribs. 

“Okay.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You snuck out of his bed before he had the chance to wake.

You blamed it on work. On responsibility. On the long list of reasons that made leaving feel like the right thing to do.

It was for the best, you kept repeating to yourself.

The two of you had been stoned last night. Perhaps even a little crossed. Those were all facts. 

And this was not your first hook-up. You knew how it always went. You knew that by the time he would wake, you’d see it on his face: the embarrassment, the awkward realization, and the forced post-sex niceties

You knew how it worked – so why risk spoiling a beautiful(ly perverted) memory? 

Your heart squeezed, and your stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.

It was nice, for what it was worth. 

Your thoughts were a blur as you hurried back to your apartment, too focused on putting distance between yourself and the warmth you’d left behind. And it wasn’t until you sat down at your desk that you noticed your phone was still dead, its screen dark and lifeless in your hand.

He never charged it. 

You sighed, plugging the device into power as you began to ready yourself for the work day ahead.

And it was only after you finished making yourself a cup of coffee and settling down into your chair when your phone finally lit up. 

.

.

3 missed messages from “Sugu”

1 missed call from “Sugu”

9 missed messages from “UTAHIME <33”

21 missed messages from “Gojo (Block L8r)”

5 missed calls from “Shokkkkko”

1 missed message from Unknown Number. 

Oh?

You pressed into the latest message.

.

. 

Unknown (01:07):  txt me when u wanna make it permanent. X

Your brow furrowed as you read the text again.

The hell did that even mean?

You glanced up, pondering the message until your eyes briefly caught your own reflection in the mirror across from your desk.

And there, just visible above the collar of your shirt, was a swirl of dark red ink peeking through the fabric.

Your breath hitched quietly.

Slowly, you hooked a finger beneath your collar and pulled it down, revealing tidy, elegant, deliberate strokes. 

脹相の

...

"Choso’s"

a/n: apologies if this got poopy this was totally meant to be a lot shorter than i made it. arf.

tag list: @rinreena, @hailsworld00, @crybabymina, @porcelaiinedoll

[zenbabyy]

𝙎𝙏𝙄𝙏𝘾𝙃 𝙈𝙀 𝙐𝙋

chapter 2 : no boys allowed!

pairing // gojo x fem!reader

warnings // MDNI!, toxic gojo x toxic fem reader, college au, angst, slow burn, friends to lover to.. whatever the fuck this is, emotional unavailability, self-sabotage, unhealthy coping mechanisms, lots of drinking and weed, attachment issues, codependency, miscommunication, angst no comfort, maybe sort of comfort if you squint, jealousy, messy situationships, anxiety, depression, low self-esteem, smut, rated M! no minors!, honestly everyone needs therapy

word count: 5.3k

this chapter was inspired by: outta time by bryson tiller

story masterlist | chapter one | chapter three

It was now nearly halfway through the semester. Since then, you and Gojo had become relatively close friends.

The friendship had honestly developed quite quickly.

It started with texts, then late-night phone calls, then FaceTime calls squeezed between classes, study sessions, and all-nighters. It was strange how fast he'd become a part of your daily routine.

He confided in you about his stress and the expectations his family continued to place on his shoulders despite being thousands of miles away. And in return, you told him things about yourself that you only ever shared with one other person, Soli.

You were open with him about the things you wished you hadn't done and all the pain you'd endured at the hands of other men.

You told him how hard you were trying to be different.

"No boys allowed!" you joked.

He laughed, but never made light of what you were telling him. Instead, he listened without judgment, offering words of comfort and encouragement whenever you needed them.

You felt like you had really found a genuine friend in him.

So then why did you find yourself smiling and blushing whenever he laughed?

Why did your heart ache when you listened to the pain that was laced in his voice whenever he talked about his parents?

You had a theory. 

Unfortunately, acknowledging it would mean confronting feelings you'd worked very hard to ignore, and you weren't about to risk your friendship with Gojo over a crush.

Despite your routine, you still hadn't spent any time alone together.

Sure, you saw him constantly whenever the group made plans—which, admittedly, was often—but somehow there was always someone else around. 

A small, ugly part of you wondered if it was intentional, but you would never bring it up to him. You just accepted that maybe you two would never cross that line.

It was another late night where you two stayed up talking about anything and everything. You were sat at your desk writing your upcoming lab report as you listened to him complain about all the minor inconveniences he had to deal with throughout the day.

He sounded…tenser than usual.

“Then the old hag had the audacity to honk at me, as if it was my fault someone was crossing the street!” He groaned out in annoyance. 

You hum as you finish writing out your data table. 

“You poor thing.”

You hear a small sigh escape him before there was a long pause.

“Can I…ask you something?” He asks a bit quieter now.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You're not really paying attention as you focus on your calculations.

He’s silent for a moment.

"If someone you loved deeply decided to leave, would you let them go? Or would you fight for them?"

You glanced up from your work and over at your phone, caught off guard by the sudden depth of his question.

“Uhhh…I guess it depends?” You drop your pen and pick up your phone, bringing it with you to lie on your bed.

"Why? Is there an ex-girlfriend you haven't told me about?" You asked it teasingly, fully expecting him to laugh it off or deny it outright. 

Or maybe it was hope.

There's another stretch of silence, and you can feel your heart rate spiking at the implication.

“Is there?” You start to chew on your lip, a sure sign of your budding anxiousness.

He sighs.

"Yeah, there is..." For a moment, all you could hear was the faint rustling on the other end of the call. 

"I was gonna tell you eventually." His voice was quieter now. "I've just been trying to figure things out with her."

Your stomach immediately drops as a deep feeling of something uncomfortable blooms in your chest.

“Oh.” You hate how disappointed you sound. “Well, what happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first. You assume he’s trying to figure that out himself.

"Honestly... I don't really know."

You could hear his steady breathing through the phone, so clearly it almost felt like he was sitting beside you.

"I guess we've been in a bad place for a while now..." You frowned at the underlying sadness in his voice.

"How long have you guys been together?" The question left your mouth before you could stop it. You told yourself it was innocent curiosity.

Nothing more.

"Uhh..." He paused. "Six years." You chewed the inside of your cheek.

"But we've known each other since the beginning of high school."

The uncomfortable feeling turns nearly unbearable.

Six years.

"Damn," you swallowed thickly, absentmindedly twisting the string hanging from your hoodie around your finger, "that's a long time."

"Yeah..." The single word carried a weight that made your stomach sink.

Suddenly, this wasn't some random girl. This was someone who had spent a decade knowing him, growing up with him.

"Honestly, I'm probably not the best person to ask for relationship advice," you hesitated, "but if I really loved someone," you said quietly, "I'd fight to be with them. Even if they made it seem like they didn't want me to."

The line went quiet. Then you heard him hum softly.

"Okay..." A pause. "Thanks."

"Mhm." You looked down at your hands, noticing how badly your acrylics needed a fill.

The two of you ended the call shortly after that. You blamed it on needing to finish your lab report. Gojo accepted the excuse without question. In reality, you just needed silence.

The second the call disconnected, the room felt painfully empty. You close your eyes and lay your head against your pillows, trying not to overthink about nothing. Eventually, you look up, your sight falling upon the glow-in-the-dark stars you and Clara had stuck to your ceiling the week before. 

The green plastic constellations glowed softly in the dim room.

You wondered what her name was and what she looked like. If she'd ever had the kind of deep conversations with him that you had. If she'd spent hours listening to him talk about his dreams.

His fears.

His family.

You wondered if she knew his favorite color.

His favorite food…

Then you felt stupid.

Of course she did. She'd known him for years.

You turned onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut. The worst part wasn't the jealousy. It was the fact that you could no longer ignore the feelings you'd developed for him.

────────

The next couple of weeks flew by, and before you knew it, midterms were looming over your head.

To put it lightly, you were stressed.

Between lab reports, assignments, and your calculus class actively trying to humble you on a daily basis, you felt like you were barely keeping your head above water.

Unfortunately, academics weren't the only thing occupying your thoughts.

Ever since that night you'd learned about Gojo's... ex? Honestly, you weren't entirely sure what to call her. Whatever she was, the conversation had forced you to confront something you'd been desperately trying to ignore.

You had a big, fat, giant, massive, embarrassingly obvious crush on him.

And worst of all? You were pretty sure he was well aware of it.

So, naturally, you did what any emotionally mature adult would do. You ignored it. Or at least, you tried to. You buried yourself in schoolwork, convinced yourself you were being ridiculous, and pretended he was blissfully unaware.

Because really, what were you gonna do?

He was clearly still tangled up in whatever was going on with her. The last thing he needed was for you to dump your feelings on top of everything else he was trying to handle.

You would take this crush to the grave if you had to.

Well… maybe you’d tell one person.

You had to tell Soli everything. She was your best friend after all. 

So you fessed up and exposed everything to her. The late-night calls, FaceTimes, the opening up to each other. She didn't really have much to say, which surprised you slightly. She just warned you that you were heading down a path that would end in heartbreak.

You promised her you were fine and left it at that. She'd honestly been acting a bit distant lately, but you just chalked it up to being busy with school and work.

It was now the Saturday before your calculus midterm, and you were having a full-blown panic attack. You were currently on the phone with Gojo, ranting about how unfair your life was and how you were definitely going to have to drop the class.

"Relax," he laughed, "I can tutor you. I'm a math major, remember?"

You pause, your eyebrow raising like you'd just come up with a brilliant idea.

"Hey, wait, aren't you a math major? You can just tutor me." There's a brief silence before he starts laughing.

"I literally just said that."

"Oh." A grin spreads across your face. "Well? Are you gonna?"

"Yeah, I'll come help you." He laughs again.

You end the call smirking, feeling accomplished, before you suddenly freeze.

Wait. He was coming over here?

You look around your room. There were clothes and random shit thrown around everywhere. Your bed was unmade. An old takeout bag sat abandoned on your desk.

You cringe at the mess, then immediately get to work.

You throw your dirty laundry into a basket and haul it down to the laundry room to start a load. When you get back, you begin picking up all the random things scattered around your room, putting them back where they belonged.

You finally grab the old takeout bag and throw it away in the kitchen before clearing off your desk.

Then you make your bed.

Sweep the floor.

And finish everything off by lighting a candle scented ‘Pink Lilac & Vanilla’. The sweet scent quickly fills the room.

You step back and admire your work.

Yeah. This was a perfectly normal amount of cleaning to do before a friend came over.

You were just stepping out of the shower when you got a text.

"Shit..."

You quickly wrapped yourself in a towel and grabbed your phone, fully expecting it to be Gojo letting you know he was outside.

Instead, it was from an unsaved number.

1 New Message. Now.

Unknown Sender: hey

Your eyebrows furrowed as you hurriedly brushed your teeth.

you: who is this?

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Unknown Sender: it's me...

Your movements paused. Slowly, you lowered your toothbrush.

No. It couldn't be.

A flash of panic shot through your body as you stared at the screen. There was only one person on the planet who would text you like that. Only one person arrogant enough to think those two words would be enough.

Your ex.

For a moment, you simply stared. You hadn't spoken to him in almost a year. Why was he texting you now, out of the blue at that?

Before you can even think about what you're going to do, the top of your screen lights up with Gojo's contact.

Bzz-Bzz! Bzz-Bzz!

Without a second thought, you delete the message thread and answer the call.

"Hello?" you mumble around a mouthful of toothpaste, spitting the foam into the sink as you hurry back toward your room.

"I'm walking up now," Gojo says. "What floor was it again?"

You yank open your dresser drawers, frantically searching for something presentable to throw on. After a moment, you settle on a pair of gray spandex shorts and a matching sports bra.

"I'm on the third floor. Apartment 302." You can hear his footsteps echoing through the stairwell.

"Okay, cool. Be there in a sec."

The call ends.

You quickly pull on your clothes and glance at yourself in the mirror hanging behind your door. Your eyes travel over your outfit. You contemplate whether it's too revealing before the doorbell rings.

Welp. Too late now.

You let out a breath and make your way to the front door, pulling it open.

"Hey!" You smile up at Gojo. His backpack hangs off one shoulder, a lazy smirk already on his face.

"Hey, kid." He steps inside as you move aside.

"So this is your lair, huh?" His gaze drifts around the apartment, taking in Clara's artwork and the handful of pictures tucked between the clutter decorating the walls.

"Yeah..." You laugh softly. "Home sweet home."

You turn and start toward your room, gesturing for him to follow. You push open your door and walk to your bed, sitting down. 

"You can take the chair." You smile as he steps into your room.

Gojo looks around for a moment before dropping his backpack onto the floor. He pulls your desk chair out and turns it so it's facing you before taking a seat.

"This room is definitely you." His eyes drift around the space, taking in all the plants and random posters hanging around.

"Thanks?" You laugh lightly.

His gaze lands on you.

You watch his eyes travel along your body briefly before snapping back up to your face. You hold your breath. All of a sudden, you felt self-conscious.

I knew I shouldn't have worn this.

You can feel your clothes clinging to your body, accentuating every curve.

"We should get started." He licks his lips and pulls his bag over, digging through it before pulling out a calculator, pencil, and notebook.

"Show me where you're at." He gestures toward the notebook sitting beside you on your bed.

"Oh!" Your face heats up as you quickly grab it and hold it out to him. His eyes flicker to your face before he takes it and starts looking over your work.

"Well, here's the first issue." He points out an error in your calculations. You stare at his hand as he traces through your work.

His fingers look… long... his wrist and forearm thick and riddled with veins.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your thoughts immediately wander somewhere they absolutely shouldn't.

I wonder if they’d fit inside my—

"You have to make sure you're following the basic integration rules—hey, are you paying attention?" Your eyes snap up to his. He's staring at you with one eyebrow raised.

"Y-Yeah." You sit up straighter. "Basic integration rules. Got it."

"Okay..." He hands the notebook back to you. "Show me."

You frown slightly and take it. "You're supposed to be teaching me, not watching me fail."

He snorts. 

"I need to see what you know if I'm going to help you." He leans back in the chair, his hands folding between his slightly spread legs.

You look down at the problem. The numbers blur together almost immediately. You glance up. Gojo is still watching you. Waiting. Expecting you to actually know what you're doing, at least a little.

"This is so humiliating." You sigh dramatically.

A laugh escapes him. "It's one calculus problem."

"It's one calculus problem that's actively ruining my life." You angrily scribble your guesses on the paper.

"You're being dramatic." He watches you write down absolute nonsense.

"I'm being realistic."

"Just do the problem." He rolls his eyes.

You stare at the page for another few seconds. Nothing you wrote down looked familiar.

"...I have no idea what I'm doing." You pout and drop the pencil in your lap.

His head falls back as he laughs.

"Oh, we're starting from the beginning then."

"Gojo. Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying." You pout.

“Okay, okay, you big crybaby.” He shakes his head and smiles, then takes the notebook from you.

For the next three hours, it continued like that. Him explaining a concept and you pouting as you were forced to apply it to the problem yourself.

Eventually, you threw your notebook onto the bed and flopped backward dramatically.

"Uuuggghhh, my brain hurts." You gripped the comforter beneath your palms.

"This is only Calc 2. Wait until you get to Linear Algebra." Gojo snickered and stood to stretch, his arms reaching high above his head.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows and looked at him.

You really wish you didn’t.

His shirt rode up slightly as he stretched, exposing a strip of skin along his abdomen.

Your gaze drifted, then locked into the hair that led down his v-line and disappeared into the waistband of his gray sweats.

Then down further to the soft bulge of his—

"Like what you see?"

You blinked and looked up. Gojo was staring down at you with a smug expression.

"What?"

"You heard me." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Your ego is ridiculous." You rolled your eyes and sat up.

"Mhm." He didn't look convinced. You really hated that.

"Can we please get back to studying?" you asked.

"Trying to change the subject?" His grin widened. 

"Desperately."

He laughed, and the sound did absolutely nothing to help your situation.

You both sat there staring at each other. Something unrecognizable crossing over his features. 

You blink up at him, your pupils blown wide as your lashes flutter prettily.

His sharp blue eyes look down at you. He seems to hesitate before he steps in between your spread legs that were dangling off the side of your bed. He leans forward on his palms, one on each side of you, caging you in.

Your breathing hitches as he invades your space.

“Y’know,” he licks his lips, “you look real pretty in those tight shorts.” He says slowly as he moves his hand to graze against your thigh.

Your mouth parts as a soft exhale escapes you.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me…like you want me to fuck you,” he continues as he plants his knee in between your legs, the mattress dipping down under his weight, “makes me think you wore them just for me.”

You gasp as his hand rubs up your thigh to just under the swell of your breast, his fingers dipping under the band of your sports bra.

“I-I don't know what you're talking about…” You gasp as your face flushed with an intense burn. His fingers feel rough against your soft skin.

Suddenly, your panties felt too sticky against your core.

“Mhm, sure you don't.” He slides his fingers up further until they graze your stiff peak. A soft groan leaves his lips.

“I bet you’re sensitive, huh?” He was absolutely right. He pulls the fabric up to expose your tit, pinching your nipple between his fingers. 

You were absolutely soaking by now, unable to move as your chest heaved.

Just as he’s leaning down to suck it into his mouth, his phone rings, loud and obnoxious. 

You both freeze.

A look of shock crosses his face, and he quickly pulls away, clearing his throat.

Color rises across his cheeks and down the his neck as he reaches up to rub at it awkwardly.

You stare at him.

He stares at the wall.

The silence is immediate and painfully awkward. Neither of you seems to know what to say. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you sit there, still trying to process what had just happened.

Gojo opens his mouth. Closes it. Then, let's out a long breath.

"Well." His voice cracks slightly. His phone stops ringing, then starts up again with a second call. 

He sighs and picks it up. A guilty expression settles on his face as he answers.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm just helping a... friend," he glances at you as he says ‘friend’ before quickly looking away, "study for their math test."

You can hear a voice speaking on the other end.

It sounds…feminine.

Your stomach drops. A horrible sense of dread settles in your chest as you quickly pull your sports bra back into place.

Suddenly, you can't bring yourself to look at him. You stare down at your comforter instead, blinking rapidly as you try to keep your emotions under control.

Gojo closes his eyes as he listens to whoever is on the other end of the call, then he drags a hand down his face.

He looks frustrated and, most noticeably, immensely guilty.

"Okay. I'm leaving now," a pause. "...yeah…love you too." He hangs up.

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. Your head snaps up. Gojo is already looking away.

He shoves his phone into his pocket before immediately reaching for his backpack.

The silence is unbearable.

Neither of you says anything as he hurriedly throws his things into his bag before zipping it shut and slinging it over his shoulder.

Still, he doesn't look at you.

Not once.

"I, uh..." He clears his throat. "I gotta go."

Your throat feels tight.

"I'll see you around." He mutters. The words sound hollow. Like he doesn't actually want them to happen.

He opens your bedroom door, then he's gone.

A few seconds later, the front door slams shut. The sound echoes through the apartment. 

You sit there motionless for a long moment. Then another. Staring at the empty doorway where he'd been standing only moments ago.

Your breathing grows heavy as you fight to keep yourself from crying, but you already know you're failing when tears begin slipping down your flushed cheeks.

You cover your face with your hands as you weep, feeling the rejection sting deep in your chest.

You weren't even entirely sure what had happened.

Everything had spiraled so quickly that your mind struggled to keep up.

One second he had been sitting in your room helping you study, and the next he was rushing out the door after having his hand up your top.

You felt confused, but most of all, you felt like a complete idiot.

You’d really let yourself believe there was something there.

That the late-night calls and FaceTimes meant something. That maybe the way he looked at you wasn’t all in your head. Now you felt stupid for ever entertaining the idea.

How could he do that and then leave as if nothing had happened? As if you were just some toy he could play with whenever he felt like it?

Did he really have that little respect for you?

You squeezed your eyes shut as fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. Your chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a vice around your ribs and kept tightening it. No matter how hard you tried to make sense of what had happened, you just simply couldn’t.

All you knew was that for one stupid moment, you’d let yourself think he wanted you the same way you wanted him.

You were so fucking naive.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand before reaching for your phone and to Soli.

She answers after the second ring.

“Hello?” Her voice is thick with exhaustion.

“H-Hey.” You manage shakily.

“What happened?” She asks, her tone changing immediately. “Are you crying?”

The concern in her voice makes whatever composure you had left crumble completely. A broken sob escapes you before you can stop it.

“What happened?” She asks again, sounding much more alert now. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

How were you even supposed to explain this? You weren’t entirely sure you understood it yourself.

Before you can try again, you hear the front door open and close. There’s a pause, followed by the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching your room.

Clara appears in the doorway, looking at you with surprise as she takes in your shaking form.

“Girl, what the hell happened?” She’s immediately at your side, rubbing your back as you cry into your hands.

“Hello???” Soli’s voice can be heard through the phone quietly.

Clara picks it up and holds it to her ear to respond to Soli.

“What’s going on??” Soli asks, concern laced in her tone.

“I don’t know, I just got home and heard her crying,” Clara responds, extremely confused. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

She pulls the phone away and puts it on speaker.

You try to tell them what happened through gasps.

“G-Go..jo, h-he…” You cough. Another round of tears floods your face, preventing you from getting your words out fully.

“Gojo what?” Clara continues to rub your back, trying to help you calm down.

“H-He came o-over and we w-were stu..dying,” you swallow thickly as you let out a heavy breath, “we were studying a-and then he just…just t-touched me…”

Your face crumples again.

“What do you mean he touched you?” Soli speaks up as Clara looks utterly confused.

You sigh shakily. “He just…got this look on his face and…and he leaned over me…I thought he was going to kiss me, but he fucking grabbed my tit!” You sniffle loudly.

“What? Gojo?” Clara looks even more confused.

“Yeah…” you nod and blink hard, trying to clear your vision. “He came over to help me study and then…things got intense… I-I thought we were about to… y’know…” Your face burns. “But then his phone rang, and he got this…guilty look on his face before he just…left…” You ramble out.

Even now, saying it out loud makes your stomach twist. The whole thing sounded fucking ridiculous. You almost wished you hadn’t told them.

Not because you didn’t trust them, but because hearing yourself explain it made everything feel so much more embarrassing. But the more you thought about it, the more confused you became.

“Oh, my god.” Soli groans on the other side of the phone.

“That asshole!” Clara says. She looks like she’s about to seriously murder someone. “How could he do that to you?”

You don’t answer. I mean, what could you even say? He very clearly got ahead of himself, knowing full well he had someone.

You frown as you realize that.

Part of you wants to defend him. Another part of you wants to curse him and his entire bloodline.

“I’m calling Geto.” She stands and grabs her phone before walking out your door.

You look at your phone sadly as you faintly hear Clara cussing in the living room, presumably at poor Geto. At one point, you’re almost positive she calls Gojo a bitch.

“What was he even doing in your room, dude?” Soli sighs.

“I needed help with my math homework! How was I supposed to know he was going to do all that?” You say exasperatedly.

“I’m not blaming you…” She’s silent for a moment. “I’m just surprised, okay? I wasn’t expecting this to happen.”

“Yeah, me neither.” You frown as you stare down at your hands resting in your lap.

The silence stretches between you for a moment. You can hear Clara’s muffled voice from the living room. You can hear traffic outside. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Everything feels strangely distant.

“Look. This is a sign. He is just another stupid fuck boy who is no good, okay?” Soli says firmly. You bite your lip as you listen to her.

“You were doing so well, don’t forget what you promised yourself. Especially not over some dick face like him,” she sounds extremely annoyed. “You need to promise me you’re not going to fuck with him anymore.”

The reminder stings, but she's right. You couldn’t let another guy have this much power over your emotions.

“O-Okay.” You say quietly.

She sighs again.

“I’m sorry this happened to you. I know you really liked him.” Her voice is gentler this time.

Your lips tremble as a fresh wave of tears falls. You really fucking did, too. 

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be surprised.” You close your eyes.

Looking back, there had always been something messy about the situation. You just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it. 

A few moments later, Clara comes back in.

“Geto’s gonna beat his ass for us.”

Despite everything, a watery laugh escapes you.

“You okay?” She sits next to you again, frowning.

“Yeah.” You give her a small smile.

“Aw, come here, girl.” She pulls you into a hug.

The comfort is enough to stop you from crying again, at least for now.

“I’m fine, he’s just a man.” You wipe your face one last time.

“I know, but still. I don’t know what he was thinking…” Clara shakes her head.

You can already tell what she’s thinking. He’s in a relationship. Why would he lead you on like that? The question sits heavily in your chest.

You wished you knew.

“I just want to put it out there that I would never treat you like that, wifey.” Soli’s voice rings through the speaker.

You laugh, genuinely this time.

“Thank you, my faithful husband.” You pick up the phone. Clara just smiles at you.

“See? Who needs a man when you have the girls?” She gives you a side hug.

You nod and lay back on your bed.

The emotional exhaustion is finally beginning to catch up with you. Everything hurts.

“I need a tub of ice cream and about 10 shots of cheap liquor.” You groan.

“I can send you $50 to order DoorDash.” Soli says.

“Geez, and you’re rich too?” Clara responds.

You all laugh.

The conversation continues for another twenty minutes before Soli finally hangs up.

You spend most of it talking about how women would run the world if all the men were to disappear.

Eventually, the food arrives.

Clara insists on carrying everything to your room despite the fact that it’s only a few bags.

By the time you’ve eaten far too much junk food and finished most of the shooters, the ache in your chest has dulled enough that you can almost ignore it.

Almost.

────────

Later that night, you and Clara are both lying on your bed, a pint of ice cream in front of you both, and 12 empty bottles of 99-cent shooters thrown around the floor.

She was intensely watching the corny romcom that was playing on your laptop.

You, on the other hand, are staring at your phone.

You had recovered the messages from your ex and were staring at his last text.

You know what you’re doing is wrong, but your damaged ego is making you desperate for some sort of attention and validation, and you know he’s willing to give it to you.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You know exactly how this ends. You’ve been down this road before.

You also know that if Soli knew what you were thinking about doing right now, she’d probably fly across the country just to choke slam you.

You bite your lip as you type out a response.

you: ‘hi.’

He immediately starts typing back.

Unknown Sender: ‘where are you?’

Unknown Sender: ‘i miss you.’

Your stomach twists. The response comes so quickly that it almost annoys you.

You sigh and lock your phone.

Clara looks up at you.

“You good?”

You nod and close your empty ice cream container.

“Yeah.”

She studies you for a second before turning her attention back to the screen. You follow and watch the movie half-heartedly, already feeling the familiar clutch of anxiety clinging to your chest as you think about your ex.

When the movie ends, Clara hugs you and stands up, saying she was heading to bed but that she would see you tomorrow.

You tell her goodnight and watch her disappear through your door before the apartment falls quiet once more.

You lay in your dark room, the ceiling illuminated in neon green.

Sleep refuses to come. Your mind is replaying all of the events that led up to this moment in your life. One common theme that stuck out to you is that you could never be alone for too long.

Eventually, with a frustrated sigh, you pull your phone from under your covers and hold it up to your face.

The screen lights up as you read your ex’s texts.

58 minutes ago.

Unknown Sender: ‘i miss you.’

You stare at the message for a long moment.

You know this is a bad idea, but right now, being wanted feels easier than being hurt.

You type out a response.

you: ‘i miss you too.’

You don't even hesitate before you press the blue arrow.

Sending…

Delivered. 

 damnit gojo smh...

♡ masterlist |

© all writing belongs to @zenbabyy. please do not repost or claim as your own.

[j3zt3r]

bartender!toji

Bartender!Toji who gets ridiculous tips because women flirt with him.  Black tanktop pulled tight across his chest because it’s nothing more than a dive bar. Lights on dim and a colorful array of drinks displayed behind him. 

He licks the scar on his lips when he’s in deep focus. The women take it as a form of flirting. “Cute smile,” your friend murmurs, her eyes tracing the veins on his biceps and forearms. “Yeah?” He hums, sliding her drink over. “You should see the rest of me.” 

She leaves a $50 bill in the tip jar with a little wink. 

Bartender!Toji who loves a good challenge.  He treats every woman the same. Flashes her a lazy smile, leans against the counter, says something bordering on pure filth with a deep voice that gets away with anything. 

But it’s always the reserved ones that get him going. Whether they’re shy, or they hate his guts, he makes it his mission to have them by the end of the night.

It isn’t long until he sets his sights on you. Clever fucking mouth and hips that make him a fiend. 

Bartender!Toji who never sleeps with the women he flirts with. (Unless it’s you.)  It just makes him that much more desirable. He’ll whisper the nastiest shit in the ear of a woman with all the right curves… and just leave her wet and wanting by the end of the night. 

Bartender!Toji who wears the same outfit every night.  It’s like his entire wardrobe is just racks of black jeans and black tank tops.  

Bartender!Toji who pretends to treat everyone the same.  But his real favorite customer is you. A regular who pops up with the sluttiest little skirts that give him everything and nothing at the same time. Among the group you always arrive with, he makes your drink first. He pours it stronger— slides it to you. Before you can take it he scoots it back towards himself. “Brought your stomach tonight?” He tilts his head smugly. 

You bite back a smile, looking up at him under pretty eyelashes. “Fuck you, Toji. Just give me my drink.”

He doesn’t slide it over just yet. Leans one arm against the counter. “Ah, nevermind hun, ya’ brought your pretty mouth instead.”

“And what’d you bring?” You roll your eyes. “That cocky attitude?” 

“Nah.” He slides your drink over with a lazy grin. “It’s heavier than that. Eight inches. Makes women smile.” 

Bartender!Toji who drags you into the storage room after closing.  The bass from the bar thumps through the wall as he presses you against the shelves. “Five minutes,” he whispers by your ear. “Tha’s all I got.” 

Bartender!Toji who handles drunk idiots all the time.  Two guys are at a table, barking at each other over a lost card game. They’re big. Muscular. Waiters are too scared to confront them. They rush to Toji, who flicks his rag over his shoulder and scowls like he’s already sick of this shit. 

It doesn’t take long for Toji to make both rowdy men look like kittens as he rips them apart by the scruffs of their collar. “You’re scarin’ the guests.” He growls. “Talk it out like men or get the fuck out.” 

Bartender!Toji who hates complicated cocktails.  Someone ordered something with ten ingredients once. He stares at them. “...Ya’ serious?” 

Bartender!Toji who isn’t healthy for you. At all. Who realized that his feelings for you were getting way too personal and had to drown you out using another woman. You caught him in the women’s bathroom one night, a woman bent over the toilet and moaning his name. 

For Toji— it didn’t help a fucking thing. He still thought about you like a meth-head. 

Bartender!Toji who’s a mess by the end of the night.  Flat hair is messy. Falling in front of his face. Sitting on the counter with his button-up a few slots loose, exposing his hairy chest. Legs open and way too relaxed. The women are watching him like animals ready to pounce. One of Toji’s coworkers notices and has to tell him to stop sitting like that in fear of Toji’s safety. Toji gives him a “?” look but gets down anyways. 

Bartender!Toji who slides you free drinks with a little wink.  “Don’t tell anyone.” 

Bartender!Toji who gets jealous when you come in with a guy.  He still pours the drinks. But god he doesn’t look happy about it. He’ll hover around this new-fucker who’s humping your leg like a fuckin’ dog. Asking you questions. Getting a laugh out of you like the bastard deserves it.  

You give him a smug little smile when you notice he’s hovering like a jealous ex. “Toji?” You call his name with mock-sweetness. He perks up immediately. “Wassup babygirl?” You shake your glass at him. “Can you make this stronger? Wanna get really drunk tonight.” 

His jaw twitches. Eyes flick to the guy on the stool beside you but he doesn’t say a fucking word. 

𝘢/𝘯 : 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘐'𝘮 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺 🤪 𝘛𝘰𝘫𝘪 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘳𝘳𝘳 m.list

[f-tality0]

Cheese!!!!

[writingdose]

one of the best feelings tbh

[invrtedspear]

━━⠀⠀TEMPORARY CHEMISTRY ; e. yeager (chapter six)

modern!eren yeager x fem!reader

summary: you have a crush on jean kirstein and your friend eren yeager has a solution: fake date him to make jean jealous enough to notice you. unfortunately, eren is very good at pretending to be your boyfriend.

words: 3.3k

part: 6/? (pt 1) (pt 2) (pt 3) (pt 4) (pt 5)

content warning(s): modern au, college au, frat boy eren, mentions of drinking and doing recreational drugs. mentions of sex. eventual smut. no so slowburn. friends to lovers. porn with some plot. minors dni.

chapter specific warning(s): a bit more jean/reader (nothing really substantial), angst, p in v sex, dirty talk, eren brooding

author's note: another (mostly) filler chapter. next chapter will be crazy long, so this is to hold you guys over until then :) BIG things happening next chapter.

Eren sat in Mikasa’s passenger seat, watching the lights of the city pass by while she drove Armin and him home from the club. He leaned his head against the glass, eyes closing for a fraction of a second. When he did, he thought back to the bathroom, the way you said you two had to talk, the moans that spilled from your lips. He licked his own, he could still taste you. 

“You kept us there so long,” Armin complained in the back seat, kicking the back of Eren’s chair. “Where were you anyway?” 

Eren rolled his eyes. “Bathroom line was long, Min. Don’t worry we’ll get a book in your hands as soon as we can.” 

“That’s not even the point.”

Mikasa was silent as they pulled up to the Acacia house, parking on the curb and glancing over her shoulder watching Armin practically fling the door open and walk to the front door. Eren looked at her with a grin. “Thanks, Mik, you’re a lifesaver,” he said as he went to open the door. Mikasa pressed the lock button on the car, effectively keeping him in. 

Eren huffed. “What?” 

“You can stay,” Mikasa said in a matter of fact tone. 

“Didn’t ask?” 

Eren leaned over her to undo the child lock beside her, earning a hard smack to the back of his head. “Jesus what the fuck!” He yelled, leaning back in his chair. “What the fuck did I do to deserve that?” 

Mikasa hit him again then pushed his shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with me? You’re the one hitting the shit out of me when I just want to go the fuck to bed!” He shouted, throwing his hands up in the air to defend himself in case his sister wanted to hit him again, though it seemed like she exhausted the message she was trying to send. Though that lasted a few seconds before she hit him again. 

“You came up with this stupid thing with her and she told me that now you’re acting all weird!” 

Oh, so this is what it was about. The fake dating, how he had practically ghosted you this entire week after the incident on the dance floor that he was still pretending he didn’t remember. Mikasa stared at him the same way that she used to whenever he tried to brush things off, the first time being when he came home with a broken arm at eight years old trying to convince his father and her mother that it wasn’t that big of a deal. 

“I’m not acting weird,” Eren deflected. “I got her the date with Jean. I’m a genius.” 

He reached for the door handle again, which he found was still locked. “Mikasa.” 

“No.” 

“Mikasa.” 

“No.” 

“Mik —” 

“Eren.” 

It was the way his sister said it that made him immediately shut up. Eren ran both of his over his face. His head and stomach hurt and the last thing he wanted was whatever intervention Mikasa was trying to stage in her car at 3am. “You wanna know what’s really annoying?” Mikasa asked him, tilting her head to the side to keep eye contact with him. 

“No,” Eren said.

“Well I’m going to tell you anyway.” 

Eren groaned, leaning his head against the front of the dashboard, his brown hair falling to frame his face, closing his eyes as if to pretend he was falling asleep so he could get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. Mikasa didn’t let up or give him any mercy like always. Her fingers curled against the steering wheel, giving a sigh. “You’re acting like it doesn’t bother you when it clearly does,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing ever. “And before you say it doesn’t, just remember that I’m your sister and we’ve grown up together so I know when you’re lying.” 

He leaned up. “So what if it does? It’s not like it makes a difference.” 

“It does make a difference,” Mikasa said. “She cares about you.” 

Eren let out a tiny laugh. She cares about you. Of course you cared about him, you’d been friends for years, so many years of birthdays and Christmases. You would answer his calls whenever he got stranded somewhere and he didn’t want Mikasa to know he was too drunk to get home. You were the one who pushed him to join a frat and get him to apply to this college in the first place. He’d known you so long that he couldn’t even remember a time where you weren’t a part of his life. So, yes, he knew that you cared for him. But why did the way that Mikasa say it make his mood sour? He cared about you too. He wanted you to be happy, and if that meant being with Jean, he was fine with that. Right? 

“I know she does,” Eren spoke, a bit quieter. “We’re friends.” 

“Then why are you making things weird?” 

He didn’t know why he was making things weird. He didn’t know why he had been dodging your texts just to follow you into a club bathroom for almost twenty minutes, going down on you like it was his only lifeline. Eren had never acted like this before in his life. He always knew what he wanted, especially when it came to girls. He didn’t sit around wondering what they felt about him, it had always been simple. There was no overthinking and definitely no following somebody in a club, desperate to get their attention because seeing them with another person made him want to rip his heart out and stomp on it till it stopped working. 

Eren needed to stop this. He needed to figure out how to stop feeling like . . . this. Whatever this was. He needed it to stop now, before it grew roots and infected him and eventually rotted deep in his chest. Eren knew where this road would end if he didn’t pull back now. Misery and embarrassment for starters, and ruining one of the longest and most important friendships of his entire life. 

You liked Jean. Jean clearly liked you. 

“Fine,” he said, finally looking towards Mikasa again. 

“Fine?” 

“I’ll back off,” Eren elaborated, glancing at a group of drunk sorority sisters passing by. “I’ll let her be happy.” He felt as though he was swallowed glass the moment it left his mouth

He remembered what he said to you. Just admit that you were jealous. 

The irony was not lost on him. 

you: do you remember what citation format we need to use? 

You stared at your phone, rereading the message you had sent to Eren two hours ago. Cross-legged on your bed with your laptop sitting forgotten on your legs, you wondered what was wrong with him. It had been three days since what happened at the club. Usually you would’ve gotten a text five minutes after you sent it, not two hours. He’d say something along the lines of I don’t listen in class and I’ll ask Armin tho and add an offhanded comment about something that happened to him that day. Now? Absolutely nothing. 

You were able to type three sentences before you sighed, leaning your head against the headboard. It seemed there was no use in getting anything done when Eren wouldn’t — Buzz. 

eren yeager: APA i think

There was no text bubble underneath it. No follow up text either. 

you: thanks

eren yeager liked your message. 

It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. Though, that seemed to be the mantra of your entire life these past few weeks you had been spending with Eren. Everything about him bothered you now, not even just the normal bother that came from being friends with him for so long. You hated the way he looked at you, but you hated when he didn’t look at you. You hated when he texted too much, but you hated when he didn’t text at all. 

jean kirstein: wanna go to lunch wed? can’t do tmr : ( i’m sorry. chem kicking my ass.

Even through your annoyance at Eren, you smiled at the message. He’d been a welcome distraction from all of this, and you did really feel yourself warming up to Jean as much as he was to you. He used to be such an unattainable thing to you for months, just the crush you watched on the sidelines. Now, Jean was texting you, taking you on dates and kissing you. It makes you feel happy, warm inside. 

you: sure : ) np

jean kirstein: cool

jean kirstein: pick u up at noon? 

you: perfect

jean kirstein: no that’s all u

Goddamn this girl wouldn’t shut the fuck up, Eren thought as his hands came to grip the hips of a girl he’d met from Tinder two hours ago. He thrusted again, hands kneading the soft flesh of her ass and giving it a hard smack. She moaned, practically keeling over on his bed with her head stuffed into his pillow. Sweat beaded along his brow, sticking strands of his brown hair to his face while he continued the punishing pace into . . . What was her name again? Anna? Amelia? Something with an ‘A’ for sure. It wasn’t like he could ask now without pissing her off, and Eren was really just trying to forget for at least two hours about you. 

“Feels good, baby,” She moaned, arching her back up in an obvious display to have him hit a deeper spot inside of her. “Feels so good, right?” 

Eren stayed silent, the only noises coming out of his mouth the occasional grunt and low moan. Yes, it did feel good but it really didn’t feel that great. It felt stupid and meaningless, something that had never bothered him before. In fact, a month ago he would’ve been putting his all into a hookup, he’d spend an hour between her legs for a good hour for nothing but love of the game. 

Now, it just felt stale. Though, the feeling was better than what he felt when he opened his phone up two hours ago to a picture of you and Jean on Jean’s Instagram story, a soft expression on your face with your head leaning against his shoulder, the caption ‘sushi date’ in large letters. It pissed him off so much that he immediately closed Instagram and opened Tinder, swiping right on practically every profile he saw until he got a hit. It was easy to find girls down to fuck on a college campus, and for Eren it was even easier. 

Like he remembered where he was, his eyes shot back from their dazed off position and he picked up the pace, one hand moving up to grab the girl's long blonde hair and pulling it between his fingers. For a moment he looked down at where his dick was practically bullying her pussy, realizing that it wasn’t doing any better at trying to make him cum. Fuck he needed to get this over with before people started calling him a limp dick on campus or something. 

It was wrong, incredibly wrong for his eyes to land on the pair of your panties that he had stolen from the club that now sat on his dresser, partially forgotten but he knew it was there every time he walked into his room regardless. He hadn’t given them back to you because, well, he was trying to avoid you and it’s not like he could hand them to Mikasa to give them back. That definitely crossed some type of boundary. Eren was shameless, but he wasn’t that shameless. 

Eren’s eyes closed then, leaning into the feeling of the girls’ walls clenching, nearing her own orgasm. He didn’t care anymore about his stupid pride, he needed something, anything to cum. So, he started to think back to your moans, those sweet, downright sinful moans that left your mouth when he was on his knees for you. How your fingers slid through his hair effortlessly, pulling him closer like you didn’t want him to ever let go. He wondered what you would sound like now, if the girl was you. You’d probably arch your back deeper, hips slamming back to meet his, reaching for that pleasure that he would willingly give you. 

Well, the more he thought about it, he wouldn’t want you to be facing away from him. Eren would want you on your back, staring up at him with your pretty mouth open while you whined his name. That way he could see exactly how he was affecting you, how much you wanted him to give you everything he could possibly give. He’d praise you for taking him so well, hand sneaking down your stomach until his fingers landed on your clit, rubbing harsh circles to make you louder. And you would take it, walls clenching around him, gripping him like you wanted to keep him there forever. Eren would be there forever, he would want to be there forever. He’d fuck you for hours, as much as you wanted, making you cum until you forgot your own name. 

The thought of that had him moaning loudly, dick throbbing as he spilled himself into the condom, chest heaving while he tried to catch his breath, leaning against the girl's back. She said something, but in his haze he couldn’t listen, thrusting shallowly a few more times to milk himself of everything. Then he pulled out, pulling the condom off to throw it in the trash. With hookups, aftercare wasn’t very important to him, which he knew was wrong, but typically the girls would want to leave fairly quickly. He didn’t need to do anything, didn’t have to say a word, because the girl was already crawling off of the bed, searching on the floor for her clothing. 

Once she did, she walked up to him and leaned in for a kiss, which he deflected by turning his cheek to have her kiss that instead. “Oh,” she said with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Can I go to the bathroom?” 

“All yours,” Eren said, motioning to the closed bathroom door and watching her disappear through it. He threw on his underwear and black sweatpants back on, hands running through his hair, still a bit breathless. As if he wanted to continue punishing himself, his hands grabbed for his phone, opening Instagram again and seeing your profile picture surrounded by green, signalling you had posted to your close friend the story that he was on because he was your close friend. Just your close friend, he had to remind himself. 

When he clicked on the story, he saw a picture of the sunset along with hands clasped together, a song he didn’t recognize playing in the background. He didn’t need a degree in English to read between the lines. You were still with Jean, having some romantic whatever the fuck. He wanted to scream. This was so stupid. 

The bathroom door opened and the girl walked out. “We should do this again sometime!” She said, giving him yet another smile. 

Eren forced himself to grin. “Yeah, sounds good, I’ll text you.” 

He definitely wouldn’t. When he went to go unmatch with her on Tinder he saw that her name was actually Ava. Not that he really cared anyway. 

reiner: don’t forget guys it’s formal this weekend 

marco: are you fucking srs i don’t even have a date why didn’t u tell us sooner

reiner: it’s quite literally been on the calendar for months

connie: its ok marco i’ll be ur date

marco: hard pass

connie: boo hoo you’re just mad u and jean wont pull up together

jean: con leave him alone

mikasa: historia and ymir are coming too i saw them earlier

sasha: LETS GOOOOOOOOOOO

Leaning against the wall of the gym, watching Mikasa lift while you pretended you were looking up workout routines on your phone, you were watching the conversation play out. You’d completely forgotten that formal was this weekend earlier, until Jean asked if you would be his date. Formal was a big deal for fraternities and sororities, it was an excuse to get blackout drunk in semi expensive clothing, and every single Greek house tried to out compete each other on which had the best venue. And getting dressed up with Jean as your date? It was enough to make you smile right there in the gym, ignoring the way that Mikasa was rolling her eyes at you between sets. 

connie: are we all bringing dates

reiner: that’s how formal works

connie: IM JUST TRYING TO GET A HEAD COUNT 

sasha: niccolo is coming :p

armin: annie said yes too!

Mikasa sighed, putting away the dumbbells. “Are they still texting?” 

You gave her a look. “What do you think?” 

connie: jean how long did it take for u to finally ask her

jean: i actually did yesterday dumbass

you: connie im gonna kill u

sasha: AWWWWWWWW YAY U GUYS ARE GONNA BE SO CUTE

marco: finally 

You kept waiting for the chat bubble with an ‘E’ pop up signalling that Eren was typing, but still nothing. Was he really ignoring you even in the groupchat? Usually he would be texting up a storm in the chat, making fun of everyone and poking fun at Marco for not having a date yet. 

connie: OK FORMAL IS GONNA GO CRAZY

sasha: we have to remember to take pictures

bertholdt: finally some content that isn’t eren shirtless from formal last year

reiner: thank god somebody said it

eren: first of all fuck you

Wow. He speaks. 

connie: eren are u bringing anyone

sasha: is that even a question hes a whore

eren: thanks

connie: so thats a yes

bertholdt: poor girl

eren: yk what fuck all of u

reiner: answer the question

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. You were going with Jean and you were happy. 

eren: ya i am

marco: who is it this time

armin: that girl i told you about from the club he was all over her

eren: ya

You thought back to that night, Jean’s hands around your waist while you stared at Eren making out with that girl. You could remember the way that he kissed down her neck like it was his lifeline and how he did the same thing to you twenty minutes later. The fact that he was even bringing that girl and it wasn’t just a one time thing stung you more than you’d like to admit. He must’ve liked her, right? Eren wasn’t the type of person to really keep a girl around for very long. He preferred the hit-it-and-quit-it mentality. This girl was obviously different. 

Mikasa must have seen your face, because when she walked over to you, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, she narrowed her eyes. “What’s up?” 

“It’s nothing,” you said, locking your phone and putting it back in your bag. “Let’s get out of here, I'm starving.” 

“Wanna get Thai?” Mikasa asked, making you silently thank her for not pressing on the subject further. You both walked out of the gym into the afternoon sun, the light orange rays of the sunset beginning to shine through the trees. You thought about what dress you were going to wear this weekend, maybe the dark green one, or the blue one you hadn’t worn yet. Thankfully university formals weren’t the ones like high school with long dresses, done up hair, and suits. It was more casual than that. Short length dresses and the dressiest that guys would get would be a button up shirt and maybe business casual pants if they were feeling fancy. It was more about the experience than the outfits, but you wanted to look good for Jean. 

Just Jean.

taglist: @jyn3s @ritzzberitzz @prettyfacefay @chosoluvv @starringrcll @wastedskullz @wgwingguns @glitterunicornstink12 @designherr @badbun5656 @as1yasss @wrldwyde @gnomelover1

(sorry if i forgot anyone)

[kashun]

━━━ CONSEQUENCES OF FLIRTING BACK.

𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ when you finally decide to flirt back after years of brushing off sukuna’s teasing, he quickly discovers he can’t handle a taste of his own medicine.

✿ ◞◟) ryomen sukuna 𝓍 gn!reader

𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 fluff, college!au, established friendship, uno reverse card flirting, sukuna is really pathetic, lovestruck behavior, yearning hidden under friendship (?), sukuna is blushing.

part two.

the afternoon light coming through sukuna's apartment windows was that tired golden color, the kind that made everything look a little too soft and a little too warm for a tuesday that felt like a thursday.

you were sprawled on the pink haired boy’s worn-out leather couch with your laptop balanced on your thighs, trying to finish a reading assignment that had no business being this dense, while sukuna sat on the floor across from you with his back against the coffee table, his phone in one hand and a half-empty energy drink in the other.

sukuna's tattoos stretched across his forearms every time he moved to scroll through whatever mindless content he seemed to be invested in, those familiar dark lines shifting over muscle and bone like they'd always been there, like they were just another part of him you'd stopped really noticing years ago. the four-eyes motif on his biceps caught the light when sukuna leaned forward to set his drink down, and you watched him crack his neck in that lazy way he always did when he was bored, the movement causing his jaw to flex once before he settled back against the table leg.

"you're staring," sukuna said without looking up from his phone, and there it was — that particular tilt to his mouth, the one that meant he was about to make things annoying on purpose. "didn't know my forearms were that interesting, sweetheart. could've just asked for a closer look."

you didn't even blink.

"your forearms are fine, kuna. i was actually staring at the window behind you because there's a really weird-looking bird right on the fire escape."

sukuna finally looked up, one dark eyebrow raised, and he turned his head toward the window just to check. when he saw nothing there, his gaze slid back to you with that familiar mixture of amusement and mild offense.

"you're lying."

"oh, am i?" you clicked back to your reading assignment, highlighting a sentence you'd already highlighted twice. "bird must've flown away. tragic timing, really."

sukuna laughed once, short and sharp, and went back to his phone, but you knew damn well he wasn't done; sukuna was never done when he was bored and you were the only person in the room. it was like a game for him, or maybe like a compulsion — throwing out these little flirtatious comments just to see if he could get a reaction, any reaction, even though he'd known you for long enough to understand that you'd stopped reacting to that particular brand of nonsense somewhere around year two of your friendship.

"you know," he said after a moment, dragging the words out like he was savoring them. "most people would at least pretend to be flattered. but you just sit there like a brick wall with a laptop. it's kind of insulting, honestly."

"i'll try to care about your feelings more," you said flatly, not looking up. "let me just find that emotion real quick."

sukuna kicked at your foot with his own, just a light tap of his sneaker against your socked heel.

"you're the worst."

"you're the one who keeps flirting with a brick wall. that sounds like a you problem."

sukuna grinned at that, wide and sharp and entirely unbothered, because this was simply how things worked between the two of you; he'd flirt, you'd deflect, he'd laugh, and then five minutes later he'd ask if you wanted to order food or complain about his stats professor or show you some ridiculous video he found at two in the morning.

it was comfortable, it was routine, and it meant exactly nothing, and you both knew it.

but today, something about the light and the quiet and the way sukuna was sitting there looking entirely too pleased with himself made you feel like switching things up.

just a little.

just to see what would happen.

you set your laptop aside slowly, making a show of closing the screen and placing it on the cushion next to you, and then you turned your body toward him.

sukuna was already watching you with that lazy curiosity he always got when you deviated from your usual patterns, his phone completely forgotten in his hand, and you let your gaze drag over him in a way you never actually did — leisurely and meticulous, like you were taking your time with something you'd been saving for later.

his eyebrows pulled together just slightly. "what?"

"nothing," you said, and you let your voice drop just enough to change the texture of it, to make it softer and slower than your usual flat delivery. "just looking."

you watched the confusion flicker across sukuna's face, quick and genuine, because this wasn't how the script went;

you weren't supposed to look at him like that. you weren't supposed to sound like that. and you sure as hell weren't supposed to slide off the couch to sit on the floor next to him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his, close enough that you could smell whatever cheap cologne he'd grabbed off his dresser this morning.

sukuna's hand tightened around his phone.

"okay. you're being weird."

"am i?" you echoed your earlier words back at him, tilting your head just slightly, and you let your fingers rest on the floor between you — not touching him, not yet, but close enough that the proximity felt intentional. "i thought this was what you wanted, kuna. you're always saying all that stuff. figured i'd finally give you a response."

sukuna's throat moved as he swallowed, and you could see the moment his brain started scrambling to catch up with what was happening. the confidence he normally wore like armor seemed to flicker, just for a second, and his gaze dropped to your hand on the floor before snapping back to your face.

"that's—" he started, and then stopped, and you'd never seen sukuna stumble over a word in your entire friendship. "i mean, yeah, but—you don't actually—"

"don't actually what?"

you leaned in just a little, and you watched the tips of sukuna's ears go pink. his ears, of all things. the same sukuna who could make a waiter uncomfortable by accident just by existing was sitting here with pink ears because you'd leaned about four inches closer to him.

"don't actually find you attractive? because i never said that."

sukuna's mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again, and absolutely nothing came out except this small, strangled sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh or the end of his dignity.

you could feel the heat coming off his arm where it was braced on the coffee table, you could see the way his chest had started rising and falling just a little faster than before. his tattoos seemed to move with every small shift of his muscles, the dark lines pulling and relaxing as he failed spectacularly to figure out what the hell to do with his hands.

"you're messing with me," sukuna said finally, and his voice literally cracked on the last word.

ryomen sukuna's voice cracked like he was fourteen years old and talking to his first crush, and you had to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.

"am i?" you asked again, softer this time, and you let your finger trace a small, idle pattern on the floor between you; not toward him, not away from him — just there, like you were thinking about it. "i don't know. maybe i just got tired of you being the only one who gets to have fun."

sukuna's blush was spreading now, crawling down his neck in splotchy patches that disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, and he was gripping his phone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

you could see his pulse beating in his throat, quick and uneven, and his eyes kept darting between your face and the small space between your bodies like he was trying to calculate something he didn't have the formula for.

"this isn't—" sukuna started, and then he had to stop to clear his throat, and the sound was embarrassingly loud in the quiet apartment. "this isn't funny."

"i'm not laughing."

"you're definitely laughing on the inside. i can tell. your eye is doing that thing."

you blinked innocently. "what thing?"

"the thing where you're being an asshole and enjoying it."

but sukuna's voice was way too high to land the way he wanted it to, too breathy to sound like anything other than a man who was rapidly losing control of a situation he'd assumed he'd always be in charge of. his leg was bouncing now, that restless energy he got when he was nervous translating into small, jerky movements that he probably didn't even realize he was making.

you let the silence stretch, you let him sit in the discomfort of not knowing what came next, and you watched as he absolutely failed to fill it with one of his usual easy quips.

sukuna's brain was working overtime behind his eyes, you could easily tell — trying to figure out if you were serious, if this was a joke, if he was supposed to laugh it off or lean into it or run in the opposite direction.

finally, he did the last thing you expected.

he looked away.

sukuna actually looked away, his jaw tightening as he turned his face toward the window, and you could see the way his hand shook just slightly when he reached up to rub at the back of his neck. the movement made his sleeve ride up, exposing more of those dark lines, and you noticed the way his fingers trembled against his own skin.

"you're doing this on purpose," he muttered, and his voice was so quiet you almost didn't hear it. "you're trying to—i don't know what you're trying to do, but you're doing it on purpose."

"maybe," you said, and you let yourself smile then, just a small one, because he looked so genuinely thrown off that it was actually kind of endearing underneath all the hilarity. "maybe i just wanted to see what would happen."

sukuna turned back to look at you, and his eyes were wide in a way you'd never seen before — less of the sharp, amused glint he usually carried and more of something raw and uncertain, like a door you'd accidentally nudged open that he'd been keeping firmly closed. his blush had settled into something deeper now, staining his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and his lips were parted just slightly like he was still trying to figure out how to breathe normally.

"well," he said, and his voice cracked again, softer this time, almost fragile. "are you happy? because i'm—i'm not—this is—"

sukuna gave up on words entirely and just gestured vaguely at himself, at his flushed face and his bouncing leg and his white-knuckled grip on his phone, and the gesture said everything sukuna's his voice couldn't.

you laughed then, not meanly, just a warm exhale of a sound, and you bumped your shoulder against his gently.

"yeah," you said, your voice back to normal now, dropping the flirtatious edge entirely. "i'm pretty happy, actually."

sukuna stared at you for a long moment, his chest still rising and falling too quickly, and then he dropped his head back against the coffee table and made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine.

"i hate you," he said to the ceiling. "i genuinely hate you. you're the worst person i've ever met."

"you're blushing."

"shut up, i'm not blushing. my face is just warm. from the—it's warm in here."

"it's twenty-one degrees in here."

"shut up."

sukuna didn't move his head from the coffee table, but his large hand found your knee — just a brief, clumsy tap before retreating, like he'd meant to do something else and changed his mind at the last second. his fingers were warm through the fabric of your jeans, and you could still feel the slight tremor in them even after he pulled away.

you sat there together in the golden afternoon light, the silence softer now than it had been before, and you watched as sukuna slowly, painfully tried to collect himself.

his ears were still pink, his breathing was still uneven, and every few seconds, his gaze would slide toward you and then snap away again, like looking at you for too long might somehow make things worse.

it was, without a single question, the most pathetic you had ever seen him.

"sooo," you said after a while, keeping your voice light and easy. "you want to order that thai place, or are you too busy being embarrassed to eat?"

sukuna lifted his head just enough to glare at you, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he still looked like he'd just run a marathon in a sauna.

"i'm not embarrassed."

"okay."

"i'm not. i just wasn't expecting—" sukuna stopped, swallowed, tried again. "you don't just—you never—"

"never what?"

he held your gaze for a long, charged moment, and something in his expression flickered — some thought you couldn't quite read, some emotion the pink haired boy shoved back down before it could fully surface. then he looked away once again, reaching for his abandoned energy drink like it might offer him some kind of salvation.

"nothing," he said quietly. "forget it. thai sounds fine."

sukuna didn't flirt with you for the rest of the evening.

not once.

and if you caught him staring at you when he thought you weren't looking, his expression soft and confused and a little bit scared like he'd just discovered something he didn't know how to name — well, you didn't mention that either.

some things were better left for another tuesday.

masterlist.

[lacquerheadd]

when i’m in a humongous honkers competition and these two show up

[f-tality0]

Sukuna w goons but like if I forgot to add smthjbg it’s cause it’s 2am buhbye

[metranart]

🔞➡️ And then this happened...

[naomiiocha]

Someone pointed out how attractive sinisterbart sukuna was and unfortunately I really saw the vision

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of the 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 gets personally offended on your behalf after realizing your regular shop has been scamming you. Once he figures that out, 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!

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!

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.

OH THANK FUCK.

Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.

[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.

He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.

The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?

By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.

With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.

Hey, you free this weekend?

He glares at the six words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else. With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.

Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.

His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.

Make sure you check your oil this week.

He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.

Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.

I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.

He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.

"No. That's fucking creepy."

He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.

A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.

Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.

Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.

"For fuck's sake."

By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.

Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.

I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.

He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.

With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.

Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone:

[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)

Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.

Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.

A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.

Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.

Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.

Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.

[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?

He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.

A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.

—

Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.

He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.

Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.

“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.

"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"

Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."

He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.

"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."

You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."

"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."

Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.

"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."

He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.

"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."

For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.

When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.

All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.

A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.

"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."

Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."

The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."

For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.

After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.

Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.

Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.

You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.

Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.

Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.

Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.

He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.

And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?

He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.

"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.

You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"

Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.

For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.

Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.

“Never mind.”

You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.

"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.

"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.

It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."

Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.

But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.

A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.

"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.

Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.

"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."

He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.

The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.

Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.

Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.

Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.

Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.

That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.

Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.

Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.

A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.

“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”

Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."

His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.

"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.

You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.

notes: sukuna. buddy. my man. my brother in christ.

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind.

[hijkio]

Stop and THINK‼️

[fwrails]

NO college is actually NOT fun because where’s nerd gojo and quarterback toji and plug choso and punk geto and frat sukuna and chair of dept. nanami and assistant prof. shiu & graduate prof. higuruma and—