The afternoon sun filtered through the lush canopy of Gotham’s Robinson Park, casting dappled shadows across the grass. It was a surprisingly beautiful day warm, with a crisp breeze that blew away the usual smog.
You and Jason were sitting on a plaid blanket spread out under a massive oak tree, a half-empty picnic basket sitting between you. Away from the gloomy alleys and the heavy leather of his Red Hood gear, Jason looked relaxed. He was just wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, his broad shoulders leaning back against the tree trunk as he watched you.
"I still can't believe you made sandwiches," Jason said, a rare, boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He took another bite of his lunch. "With the crusts cut off and everything. What am I, five?"
"You're a growing boy who needs sustenance," you teased, leaning over to gently poke his bicep. "Besides, you always complain about the food in this city. I figured home-cooked was the safest bet for a proper date."
"Yeah, well..." Jason looked away, a faint dust of pink hitting his cheekbones as he cleared his throat. He reached out, his large, calloused hand finding yours on the blanket and intertwining his fingers with yours. "It's good. Best thing I've had in a long time."
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. For a few minutes, everything was perfectly peaceful. The distant sound of children laughing on the playground and dogs barking in the distance filled the air.
Then, the hair on the back of Jason’s neck stood up.
His posture instantly went rigid. His hand tightened around yours, and the relaxed boyishness vanished, replaced by the sharp, hyper-vigilant instincts of a trained vigilante.
"Jason? What is it?" you asked softly, looking up at him.
"We have a breach in security," Jason muttered, his jaw clenching as he glared at a paved walking path a few yards away.
You followed his gaze. Strolling down the path, looking entirely too conspicuous in bright athletic gear, were Dick Grayson and Tim Drake. Dick was holding a half-eaten soft pretzel, chatting animatedly, while Tim walked beside him, typing furiously on his phone.
As if sensing Jason’s death glare, Dick’s head snapped toward your oak tree. His eyes widened, and a blinding, mischievous grin spread across his face. He grabbed Tim’s shoulder, nearly making the younger boy drop his phone, and pointed right at your picnic blanket.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Act natural. Maybe if we don't move, their depth perception won't pick us up."
"Jason, they're walking right over here," you laughed, tossing a loose blade of grass at him.
"Jay! Hey!" Dick called out, jogging over the grass with an energy that was entirely uncalled for on a relaxing afternoon. Tim followed at a more reluctant, but heavily amused, pace.
"What do you want, Dickwing?" Jason growled, not moving from his spot against the tree but keeping you tucked close to his side. "Some of us are trying to have a civilized afternoon."
"We were just doing a lap around the park," Dick said smoothly, coming to a stop at the edge of your blanket. His eyes darted to your linked hands, and his grin grew even wider. He looked at you, utterly charming. "Hi there. I'm Dick. And this is Tim."
"Tim," the younger one nodded, pocketing his phone and giving you a polite smile. "We’ve heard... whispers. Mostly angry muttering from Jason, but whispers nonetheless."
"It's so nice to finally meet you both," you said, offering a warm smile, along with your name
"The pleasure is all ours" Dick beamed, gesturing to the picnic spread. "Wow, look at this. Sandwiches, fruit... Jason, who knew you could be domesticated? Did you actually use a napkin, or did you just wipe your face on your sleeve like usual?"
Jason shot Dick a look that could have melted steel. "One more word out of you, and I’m throwing you into the park pond. I don't care how many witnesses there are."
Tim chuckled, leaning slightly forward. "Don't let him intimidate you, He's all bark. Mostly."
"Oh, I know," you teased, glancing up at Jason, whose ears were now burning a bright red. "He's actually a big softie when he wants to be."
Jason let out a dramatic, suffering groan, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. "I'm dying. This is how I die. Death by embarrassment in broad daylight."
Dick laughed, clearly satisfied with the amount of teasing he'd accomplished. He checked his watch and gave a sigh. "Alright, alright, we'll leave you two lovebirds to your picnic. But,seriously, if you ever need someone to trade embarrassing stories about him, you know where to find us."
"Don't give her any ideas," Jason snapped, though the heat had left his voice.
With a cheerful wave from Dick and a supportive nod from Tim, the two brothers wandered back toward the walking path, Dick loudly narrating something about finding an ice cream truck.
As they finally walked out of sight, the tension left Jason’s shoulders all at once. He let out a long breath, turning his head to look down at you. "I am so sorry. They have a radar for when I'm actually enjoying myself."
"Are you kidding? They seem great," you laughed, reaching up to gently smooth down a stray lock of his dark hair, right where the white streak caught the sunlight. "And they're right, you know. You are cute when you're defensive."
Jason scoffed, but he couldn't hide the genuine smile that broke through his tough exterior. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
"Yeah, yeah. Just eat your sandwich, sweetheart," he murmured, his blue eyes warm and full of affection. "Before the rest of my family decides to go for a jog."
A/n: I haven’t written for Jason in forever!!! I love him so much I need to get back into him
⋮ ⌗ ┆ Benjamin Poindexter (FBI!dex) x fem!reader ⋆.ᐟ
summary: Benjamin Poindexter x reader fic set before his fall into Bullseye. Y/N Hawthorne, a forensic psychology student in New York, finds herself becoming familiar with a quiet FBI agent who walks into her favourite coffee shop every morning. What begins as a simple routine slowly becomes something far more complicated.
⋮ ⌗ ┆ chapter 3/?
⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc: 4.8k
Two and a half weeks passed.
By then, the rain had become almost expected.
It drifted over the city in soft curtains as you finished your morning run, leaving the pavements dark and gleaming beneath the streetlights that had yet to switch off. New Yorkers hurried from doorway to doorway beneath umbrellas, coffee cups warming cold hands as another working day began.
You found Benjamin already inside the café.
He stood where he usually did, one hand wrapped around a paper cup while the other rested loosely in the pocket of his dark FBI jacket. Tiny droplets of rain still clung to the shoulders of the fabric, evidence that he'd only just arrived himself.
As you stepped through the door, he looked up.
"Morning, y/n."
You smiled before you even realised you were doing it.
"Morning, Benjamin."
It was the first time you'd ever said his name aloud.
Something about hearing it in your own voice felt strangely unfamiliar.
The barista glanced between the two of you with a knowing smile.
"The usual?"
"Please," you replied.
Benjamin looked towards you.
"How's university?"
You slipped your purse back into your bag.
"Busy."
"I imagined it would be."
"I've got two essays due next week."
He nodded once.
"You mentioned behavioural profiling."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You remembered that?"
"Yes."
The answer came so naturally that it almost caught you off guard.
Most people forgot the details of conversations after a few days. Benjamin, apparently, did not.
"We've started looking at interview techniques now," you explained as the barista prepared your drink. "How psychologists build rapport, recognise inconsistencies... things like that."
He listened with the same quiet attentiveness he always seemed to have.
"Do you enjoy it?"
"I do."
You laughed softly.
"It's probably the first module where I haven't spent half the lecture wondering why I chose this degree."
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"That's good."
The barista slid your coffee across the counter.
"There you go."
"Thank you."
Benjamin collected his own cup at almost the same moment.
The two of you reached the door together.
"I'll get it."
He pulled the door open before you had the chance, holding it steady as you stepped out beneath the awning.
"Thanks."
He gave a small nod.
Rain fell steadily onto the pavement beyond, the sound mingling with passing traffic and the distant wail of a siren somewhere deeper in Manhattan.
You opened your umbrella.
"So..."
Benjamin glanced briefly towards the street.
"I should—"
He gestured vaguely in the direction he normally walked.
"Yeah," you said.
"I've got class."
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then Benjamin turned to leave.
"Benjamin?"
The name left your mouth before you could lose your nerve.
He stopped almost immediately. Turning back, he looked at you with quiet curiosity.
"Yeah?"
Your grip tightened around your coffee cup. You hadn't actually thought this far ahead.
"I…" You swallowed. "Could I get your number?"
The words hung between you.
Almost as soon as they left your mouth, you wished you could gather them back up again.
Heat crept into your cheeks.
"Not—" You let out a small, awkward laugh. "Not in a weird way."
Wonderful.
That definitely made it sound less weird.
"I just thought..." You rubbed your thumb against the cardboard sleeve of your cup. "I don't know... it might be nice to catch up outside the café sometime."
Benjamin blinked.
Not because he looked uncomfortable.
Because he seemed to be genuinely considering the question.
His lips parted slightly.
"I…"
A sharp vibration buzzed from inside his jacket.
He froze.
Another buzz.
His eyes dropped instinctively towards the inside pocket.
For a brief moment, he didn't move. As though trying to decide.
The phone vibrated again.
"...Sorry."
The word came quietly.
"I just..."
He stopped himself, almost frustrated.
"Excuse me."
He slipped the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I have to take this."
"It's okay," you said quickly.
"Sorry."
There was something almost apologetic in the way he said it.
Then he stepped a short distance away, already lifting the phone to his ear.
"Poindexter."
His voice changed immediately.
Sharper. Professional.
You remained where you were.
One minute passed.
Then another.
You leaned lightly against the café window, watching pedestrians hurry past beneath umbrellas while Benjamin continued the conversation several metres away.
He paced once.
Stopped.
Listened.
Answered.
Every now and then, he glanced in your direction. Not for long. Just enough to confirm you were still there before returning his attention to the call.
Five minutes slipped by. The conversation showed no sign of ending.
You looked down at your coffee.
What were you still doing here?
He'd looked uncertain before the phone rang. Maybe he'd been trying to think of a polite way to refuse. Maybe asking for his number had been a mistake.
You sighed quietly.
Reaching into your bag, you found a folded receipt and a pen.
Balancing your coffee beneath one arm, you scribbled your name and phone number onto the back.
For a moment, you stared at it. Then, before you could overthink it again, you crossed the few metres separating you.
Benjamin looked up as you approached.
He was still listening to whoever was speaking on the other end of the call.
You held out the folded piece of paper.
His eyes dropped to it.
Then back to you.
"It's just my number," you said quietly. "If you ever... want to."
He reached out automatically.
Your fingers brushed for the briefest second as he took the paper.
"...Thank—"
The word caught in his throat. Whatever he had been about to say disappeared as the voice on the other end of the line spoke again.
He turned his head slightly.
"Sorry," he muttered into the phone, sounding momentarily flustered. "Go ahead."
You offered him a small smile.
"Bye, Benjamin."
Before he could answer, you turned and walked away into the rain.
Benjamin remained where he was, the folded piece of paper resting between his fingers. His gaze followed you for a second longer than it should have.
Then he looked down at your handwriting.
Carefully—almost instinctively—he folded the paper once more and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Not with his wallet.
Not loose in another pocket.
Somewhere he knew it wouldn't be lost.
—
The rest of the day passed in a blur.
By the time Benjamin finally returned to his apartment, New York had settled into that peculiar hour where the city seemed both exhausted and wide awake. Traffic still flowed beneath his windows in an endless stream of headlights, the occasional siren echoed somewhere in the distance, and rain continued to patter softly against the glass, carried sideways by the evening wind.
He locked the door behind him.
The familiar click of the deadbolt was followed by silence.
His apartment was immaculate.
Not because he particularly enjoyed cleaning, but because everything had its place. His keys hung on a small hook beside the door. His jacket was hung carefully on the same hook it always occupied. His shoes were lined neatly against the wall before he walked further inside.
Routine.
It settled his thoughts.
Most days.
Tonight, it didn't.
Benjamin loosened his tie as he crossed into the kitchen, switching on the light above the dining table. The warm glow filled the otherwise dim apartment, illuminating the sparse furnishings and the stack of unopened post resting on the counter.
His shoulders ached.
Hours spent wearing body armour had left a familiar heaviness between his shoulder blades, and the muscles in his neck protested as he rolled them gently. SWAT deployments rarely ended when they were supposed to. There was always paperwork afterwards. Debriefings. Reports. Meetings that stretched long beyond the point anyone remained fully alert.
Normally, exhaustion made it easier to quiet his mind.
Not tonight.
He filled a glass with water but left it untouched. Instead, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
His fingers found the folded receipt almost immediately. He already knew it was there. Even so, he unfolded it with surprising care.
Your handwriting curved neatly across the paper.
Your name.
Your telephone number.
Nothing more.
He read it once.
Then again.
He remembered standing outside the café. Rain falling steadily onto the pavement. You shifting your coffee into one hand while trying to explain that asking for his number wasn't strange.
You'd looked embarrassed.
He'd been about to answer.
Then the phone had rung.
Benjamin exhaled quietly.
He should have thanked you properly. He should have explained. Instead, he'd answered the call.
Because that was what he always did.
Work came first.
It had to.
His therapist had once asked him whether he found it difficult to separate his professional life from his personal one.
At the time, he'd answered honestly.
"I don't really have a personal one."
The memory lingered unpleasantly.
He looked back down at the receipt. You had waited. Five minutes. In the cold rain. He hadn't asked you to.
You could have walked away.
Most people would have.
Instead, you'd waited until it became obvious the call wasn't ending, walked over to him, handed him your number and quietly said goodbye.
No frustration. No irritation.
Just... understanding.
Benjamin frowned slightly.
He wasn't accustomed to people being patient with him.
His thumb brushed absent-mindedly over the edge of the paper.
He reached for his phone. Unlocked it. Opened the contacts application.
For several moments, he simply looked at the blank screen waiting for a name.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Y/n Hawthorne.
He entered the name.
His thumb paused above the next field.
Telephone number.
He copied it carefully from the receipt, checking each digit twice before saving the contact.
The screen now displayed your name. That should have been enough. Instead, he remained seated.
The silence inside the apartment felt unusually loud. He opened the conversation window. A blinking cursor waited beneath your name.
He could apologise. That seemed appropriate. Or perhaps thank you.
No.
He should apologise first.
He began typing.
Sorry about this morning.
He stopped. Deleted it. Too abrupt.
He tried again.
I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly.
He stared at the sentence.
It wasn't inaccurate. It simply didn't say what he meant.
Delete.
Another attempt.
Thank you for waiting.
Delete.
His jaw tightened.
None of it sounded right.
None of it properly acknowledged the image that kept returning to him—seeing you standing beneath the café awning, rain falling beyond the shelter, waiting while he remained on the telephone.
He rested the phone on the table. Perhaps calling would be better.
No.
Calling unexpectedly might inconvenience you.
He didn't know whether you were studying.
Working.
Sleeping.
His eyes drifted back towards the receipt lying neatly beside the phone. He realised, with faint annoyance directed entirely at himself, that he had spent far too much of the day replaying the conversation.
Not the words.
The timing.
If the phone had rung thirty seconds later...
He would have thanked you. He would have given you his number. He would have explained that work had interrupted him. Instead, he'd left you standing there wondering whether he'd intended to answer at all.
Benjamin leaned back in his chair, rubbing hand across his face.
He disliked unfinished conversations.
They lingered.
His phone remained on the table beside your contact. The cursor still blinked patiently within the empty message box.
Outside, rain continued tapping steadily against the window.
After another long moment, he picked up the phone once more. This time, he didn't start typing immediately. He simply looked at your name.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth softened into the faintest hint of a smile.
Tomorrow, he decided.
Tomorrow, when his thoughts were clearer.
He would send the message.
He owed you that much.
—
Saturday mornings were supposed to be peaceful.
At least, that was the idea.
No lectures.
No rushing across the city.
No checking the time every five minutes because you were terrified of being late.
Just sleep.
That was all you wanted.
You had spent the previous night experiencing nearly every emotion a person could possibly feel within the space of a few hours.
Embarrassment.
Confusion.
Regret.
A strange kind of disappointment that you weren't entirely sure you were allowed to feel.
You had tried studying first.
That was always your default.
If something bothered you, you worked harder. If your thoughts became too loud, you filled the silence with something productive.
Except last night, you'd read the same page of your textbook four times without absorbing a single word.
Eventually, you gave up and moved onto something far less productive.
Eating.
Not because you were particularly hungry.
Just because having something else to focus on was easier than sitting with your thoughts.
Then came Pamela.
Your phone call had lasted far longer than either of you had intended.
You had explained everything.
The café.
The conversation.
The rain.
The fact that you'd asked Benjamin Poindexter for his number and immediately wanted the ground to swallow you afterwards.
Pamela had listened patiently.
Mostly.
"You do realise you didn't commit a crime, right?"
"I know."
"Because the way you're talking, you'd think you accidentally confessed to something."
"I just feel stupid."
"You asked a man for his number."
"I know."
"That's literally all that happened."
You had gone quiet. Because she was right. It wasn't a dramatic event. It wasn't some life-changing moment. He was a man you'd met in a coffee shop. That was all.
He was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.
The quiet FBI agent who ordered the same drink every morning.
The familiar face you recognised before you knew anything about him.
You didn't know why you had suddenly wanted his number.
Maybe because talking to him had become easy. Maybe because you had become used to seeing him. Maybe because, somewhere along the way, he had stopped feeling like a stranger.
That thought had only made everything more confusing.
And, despite your best efforts, you had cried once. Only once. Mostly because you felt ridiculous for caring.
Pamela had immediately noticed.
"Y/n."
"I'm fine."
"You are crying."
"I'm aware."
"Okay, well, that's usually a sign you're not fine."
You had laughed despite yourself.
That was the annoying thing about Pamela. She always managed to make you feel better.
—
Now, several hours later, you were still in bed.
Your bedroom was exactly the kind of space you had always wanted.
Dark.
Comfortable.
A place that felt completely yours.
The black metal frame of your bed stood against the wall, surrounded by a black lace canopy that softened the sharpness of the furniture. Dark wooden shelves held stacks of books, some neatly arranged and others left open where you'd abandoned them halfway through reading.
Your vintage vanity sat in the corner beneath the soft glow of a lamp, the large round mirror reflecting the warm lighting scattered throughout the room.
Candles sat on almost every surface.Not because you needed them.
Because you liked the atmosphere they created.
The gentle flicker.
The quiet warmth.
The feeling of being somewhere separate from the rest of the world.
Ambient lighting had always been your favourite thing.
The kind of lighting that made everything feel calmer.
More manageable.
Your walls were covered with posters, photographs and little reminders of things you loved. A CD rack stood in the corner beside a small pile of albums waiting to be organised. Books were scattered across the floor, some opened face-down on the rug.
Your laptop sat abandoned nearby.
Open.
Completely dead.
You had forgotten to charge it.
You didn't care.
You didn't want to deal with the mess.
Not the physical one.
Not the mental one either.
You pulled the blanket slightly higher, sinking further into the mattress.
Your cat shifted somewhere near your feet, barely acknowledging your existence before settling back down.
Even she seemed to understand that today was a day for doing absolutely nothing.
You closed your eyes.
For a moment, you tried not to think about the café. Not about the rain. Not about Benjamin standing there with his phone pressed to his ear. Not about the way he had looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't.
You had no idea what he was thinking.
You had no idea whether he would ever message.
And, honestly, you weren't sure which possibility made you more nervous.
Your phone rested on the bedside table.
Silent.
You told yourself you weren't waiting for it. You were just tired. That was all.
You had a free Saturday.
You were allowed to sleep.
You turned onto your side, facing away from the phone.
"Five more minutes," you whispered to yourself.
The rain outside had finally stopped.
The city was beginning to wake up.
And somewhere across New York, Benjamin Poindexter was already at work.
But for the first time in a while, your usual Saturday routine had been interrupted by a thought you couldn't quite put away.
You wondered if he had kept your number.
—
Saturday mornings were usually predictable.
Benjamin preferred it that way.
Predictability meant fewer variables.
Fewer variables meant fewer things that could go wrong.
The café was one of those routines he hadn't thought much about until recently.
It was simple.
Coffee.
A few quiet minutes before work.
A familiar environment.
The same faces.
The same order.
The same corner of the city waking up around him.
Except this morning, something was different. You weren't there. He noticed immediately. He told himself he didn't.
He stepped inside the café, removed the rain from his jacket and joined the queue like he always did.
He looked at the menu despite already knowing what he wanted. He listened to the conversations around him. The music playing quietly through the speakers. The hiss of the espresso machine. The sound of cups being placed onto counters.
Normal things.
Routine things.
Still, his eyes moved towards the door every time it opened.
Every time someone walked in, his attention shifted automatically.
Not obviously.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But enough.
The door opened again.
A man carrying a briefcase.
Not you.
Another customer entered a few minutes later.
A woman with headphones and a takeaway order.
Not you.
Benjamin looked away.
He disliked the fact that he had been expecting you.
You weren't late.
You weren't supposed to be there.
You had your own life.
Your own schedule.
The fact that he knew you usually came in on Saturdays was irrelevant. Or at least, it should have been.
"Large black coffee. No room."
The barista began preparing it before he had even finished speaking.
Benjamin watched the familiar movements.
The same order.
The same cup.
The same routine.
Yet something about it felt incomplete.
His eyes briefly moved towards the table near the window where you sometimes sat.
Empty.
He looked away.
—
By the time he left the café, the coffee was already in his hand.
The city was brighter than it had been the previous evening. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets damp and reflective beneath the morning light. People moved along the pavements carrying shopping bags, walking dogs, heading towards whatever plans they had made for the day.
Benjamin stood outside for a moment longer than necessary.
He looked down the street.
No sign of you.
It was irrational. He knew that. You had never promised to be there.
You had never said you would message him.
You had simply handed him your number.
A small gesture. An invitation. Nothing more.
His fingers moved inside his jacket pocket. The folded receipt was still there. He had kept it safe. He wasn't entirely sure why.
Benjamin had spent the previous evening trying to find the right words.
Not a rushed apology. Not something careless.
You deserved more than:
Sorry about yesterday.
That didn't explain anything. It didn't explain that he had wanted to answer.
That he had appreciated you waiting. That he had been thinking about contacting you since the moment he left.
He wanted to say it properly.
That was the problem.
Benjamin had always been better with actions than words.
Actions had rules. Words didn't. Words could be misunderstood. Words could reveal things he hadn't intended to reveal.
He had spent most of his life learning control. Control over his reactions. Control over his emotions. Control over the things people saw.
But a simple message to someone who had been kind to him shouldn't have felt complicated. And yet it did.
His phone sat heavy in his pocket.
He had not had the right moment.
That was what he told himself.
During work, there was no time. After work, he had been exhausted. At home, he had rewritten the same message repeatedly until none of it sounded genuine.
He hadn't wanted to send something empty.
You had not treated him like a task to complete.
He didn't want to treat you like one either.
Benjamin looked back through the café window.
The empty chair near the window caught his attention again.
A strange feeling settled in his chest. Not panic. Not concern. Something quieter.
Disappointment.
He disliked that too. Because it meant he had been hoping to see you.
He finished the last sip of his coffee.
Then he pulled his phone from his pocket. For a moment, he simply stared at the screen.
Your contact was still there.
Y/n Hawthorne.
His thumb hovered over your name. He could message now. He should. He had a few minutes before he needed to leave.
Enough time.
He opened the conversation.
The blank space waited.
Benjamin stared at it.
Then he began typing. This time, he didn't delete it.
Good morning, Y/n.
I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call.
I hope you got home safely.
He paused.
It was formal.
Too formal.
He frowned and added another line.
I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.
His finger hovered above send.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly, he wondered whether you had changed your mind. Maybe you regretted giving him your number. Maybe he had made you uncomfortable. Maybe the silence was your answer.
Benjamin looked at the message again. For someone who could make decisions under pressure in seconds, this felt strangely difficult.
A notification appeared on his phone.
Work.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
He locked the screen and placed the phone away. Not because he didn't want to send it. Because he wanted to do it properly. He wanted to be certain.
As he walked towards his vehicle, the thought remained.
You weren't there this morning.
And for some reason, that absence stayed with him longer than it should have.
—
The afternoon passed slowly.
After speaking with Pamela, after replaying the entire situation in your mind far more times than you wanted to admit, you eventually decided that the only way to stop thinking about it was to stop sitting still.
So you cleaned.
Not because your apartment was particularly messy.
It wasn't.
You just needed something to do with your hands.
Music filled the room, loud enough that the neighbours would probably hear it if they were paying attention. You had abandoned any attempt at being graceful, dancing around the living room with a cloth in one hand while rearranging books and wiping down surfaces.
It was ridiculous.
And it helped.
Your apartment felt warmer with the music playing.
The candles were lit.
The lamps were turned low.
The city outside continued moving, cars passing beneath your window and people living their own lives without any idea that you had spent the last twenty-four hours overthinking a man you barely knew.
A man who was supposed to just be the coffee shop guy.
You moved another stack of books onto the shelf, quietly singing along before stopping to laugh at yourself.
This was better.
You were fine. You were going to be fine.
Then your phone chimed.
The sound was almost lost beneath the music.
Almost.
You froze.
The cloth in your hand lowered slowly.
For a moment, you stared towards the phone sitting on the kitchen counter.
You told yourself not to rush.
You told yourself it could be anyone.
Pamela.
A university email.
A notification.
Anything.
Still, your feet moved before you had consciously decided to walk.
You picked it up.
Your stomach dropped slightly when you saw the name.
B. Poindexter.
You stared at the screen.
He had messaged.
You opened it.
Good afternoon, Y/n.
I apologise for not contacting you sooner. Yesterday got away from me. I should have thanked you properly before I had to take that call.
I hope you got home safely.
Then another message below it.
I would still like to take you up on your offer to talk sometime, if you meant it.
You read it once.
You read it twice.
Then a third time.
Not because the message was complicated.
Because it sounded exactly like him.
Careful. Thoughtful. Almost too formal.
A smile appeared before you could stop it.
You sat down on the edge of the sofa. For some reason, seeing his name on your phone felt different than seeing him across the café counter. This was intentional. He had chosen to contact you.
You could text back. That would probably be normal. Most people texted. But you had always preferred calls.
Texting left too much room to overthink. Too much time staring at words. Too much time wondering what someone meant.
So before you could convince yourself it was a bad idea, you pressed the call button.
—
Benjamin was sitting in his vehicle during his lunch break when his phone began ringing.
He looked down.
Your name appeared across the screen.
For a second, he simply stared.
He had expected a message.
Eventually.
Not a call.
His thumb hovered over the answer button.
Then he pressed it.
"Hello?"
There was a brief pause. Then your voice.
"Hi."
Something about hearing you rather than reading your words caught him slightly off guard.
"Hi."
You immediately laughed softly. "Sorry. I know I could have just replied."
"No."
The answer came quicker than he intended.
He paused.
"You don't have to apologise."
You smiled despite yourself.
"Okay."
There was a quiet moment. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.
Neither of you were used to this yet.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," Benjamin said.
You leaned back against the sofa. "You already apologised."
"I know."
"Then why are you apologising again?"
Another pause.
Because he didn't have an easy answer.
Because the truth was that he didn't like the thought of you standing there in the rain because of him.
"I should have handled it differently."
You softened slightly. "Benjamin, you were working."
"That doesn't mean I couldn't have explained."
"You were on the phone with work."
"I know."
The way he said it made you realise he wasn't arguing. He was simply stating that he understood.
You smiled faintly.
"You're very hard on yourself, aren't you?"
Silence.
A longer one this time.
You wondered if you had gone too far.
Then:
"Sometimes."
It was quiet.
Honest.
You weren't expecting that.
"So," you said, trying to lighten the mood, "are you always this serious?"
A small pause.
"Yes."
You laughed. A genuine laugh.
And on the other end of the phone, Benjamin went quiet. Not because something was wrong. Because he had realised he liked hearing that.
"I was joking," you said.
"I know."
"You didn't sound like you knew."
"I did."
"You didn't."
A faint smile touched his face.
"No."
You smiled.
The conversation continued. Nothing dramatic. Nothing life-changing. Just two people talking.
You told him about your cleaning attempt and how you had been avoiding university work.
He asked questions. Not many. But enough.
He listened.
When he spoke, he was careful with his words.
When you laughed, he stayed quiet for a moment afterwards, as if committing the sound to memory.
Eventually, he glanced at the time.
"I have to go back."
"Right."
The disappointment in your voice was subtle. But he noticed.
"I'll see you soon?"
The words left his mouth before he could reconsider them.
You smiled.
"Tomorrow morning?"
A pause.
Then:
"Tomorrow morning."
And somehow, that simple agreement felt like the easiest thing either of you had said all day.
When the call ended, Benjamin remained sitting there for a moment longer.
The city moved around him. People walked past. Cars passed by.
His lunch break continued ticking away.
But for the first time that day, his thoughts felt quieter.
neighbor!nanami fixing your car and earning himself a cute date!
“can you hand me the screwdriver?” your neighbor, nanami kento, asked. he wiped his sweat dappled forehead using his shirt that he’d tossed aside, standing across from you shirtless as sweat dripped down his chest.
you almost couldn’t hear what he’d said, way too busy staring at him because what the hell?
that morning, before you’d driven off to the cafe, with all the easiness of a deserved off day for you’d worked nonstop all through the week, you were happy and content and peaceful.
until your gaze caught up on the steam creeping across the cool floor beneath the hood. and let out a horrified scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood up.
which, was also the reason your neighbor, nanami kento ended up in your garage, shirtless and sweating.
he talked about some hose clamp and how it loosened, but honestly, you were way too focused staring at his biceps to comprehend what he’d just said.
as he tightened the clamp, he uttered a silent “fuck,” his knuckles splashed with coolant and the warm breeze upon his bare chest made him slightly shiver. ‘this,’ you thought, ‘is the hottest thing i’ve ever seen.’
“what can i help with?” you asked him, purely out of courtesy. kento breathed heavily as he leaned into the car, his arms tightening along. at the beginning you’d wondered if it was that necessary for him to take his shirt off, now thinking again, it certainly was needed. it was a necessity. your eyes lingered on his arms.
“nothing really— it’s almost over anyway.” he muttered under his breath, his muscles still flexing along his every move. “that must’ve scared you.” he added.
“yeah, honestly, once i saw that steam i almost thought the car was gonna blow up.”
he laughed with a strained voice, and you thought how the dry summer air must’ve been making it unbearable, let alone the heated breeze fluttering through the garage here and there.
“thank you, really, you didn’t have to do this.” you kind of felt guilty about how he was wasting his whole weekend morning on fixing your car, but then again, it was him who’d rushed out of his house once he’d heard you scream. with his mug full of coffee on his hand. and his surprisingly cute slippers.
well, you’ve always known that he had a rather unique approach on fashion.
“don’t mention it. i had nothing better to do anyway.” he smiled up at you, his cheeks reddened with a slight flush. his hair was messy in a way that made your heart throb.
“hmm.” you tilted your head to watch him as the leak stopped dripping and he slowly rose up, the warm breeze rippled through the branches across the garage and summer sun stretched across his flushed skin with a soft glow.
he was finished. probably.
“really, thank you so much nanami-“ you tried but he cut you off.
“kento. please.” the words tumbled out as he ruffled his hair with a nervous urgency. although you’d been familiar with each other through years of silent good mornings and shy attempts at conversation, you’d never crossed that invisible distance before. you smiled warmly upon his words.
‘fuck, just go for it,’ you cheered for yourself. there was no way you were letting that shirtless man leave.
“thank you so much kento. genuinely-“ you bit your lip, “actually, i was just about to get my morning coffee. there’s a really nice place i know nearby. how about,” you fidgeted with your hands. “a thank you coffee? my treat.”
you breathed out the last words with such haste that even you couldn’t comprehend what you’d said for a few seconds.
“well, that’s a bit generous for just fixing your car, isn’t it?” he laughed gently.
“a coffee?”
“you.” oh.
with heat creeping into your skin, you giggled, avoiding his gaze. “no, i think i’d say it’s exactly what you’ve earned.”
he, again, breathed out a laugh as he shook his head. wearing his shirt back, with a muffled voice he said, “i don’t think i could ever say no to that.”
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
The city outside the apartment window is a blur of distant headlights and quiet rain, but inside, the world has shrunk to the width of a mattress, the warmth of a duvet, and the quiet rhythm of two people winding down.
Nanami is entirely undone in the best way possible. The sharp, tailored suits of his corporate day job have been traded for a soft, comfortable lounge pants. His hair, usually parted so precisely, falls loosely across his forehead, and his wire-rimmed glasses sit abandoned on the nightstand.
You lie on your stomach beside him, your cheek pressed into the soft cotton of your pillow. Kento rests on his side, propped up on one elbow, his heavy gaze resting entirely on you.
There is no rush here. The demands of the day have officially expired, and Kento’s focus is entirely yours.
Slowly, he brings his free hand down to the small of your back. His palm is warm, large enough to cover the expanse of your lower back, and slightly calloused from years of hard work. He lets the weight of his hand rest there for a quiet moment, letting you adjust to his heat, before his fingers begin to move.
With agonizing, beautiful slowness, Kento drags his fingertips upward. He traces the elegant curve of your spine, his touch as light as a feather, yet deliberate enough to send a pleasant shiver straight to your core.
His fingers drag over your shoulder blades, mapping out the shape of you with a quiet, reverent familiarity.
He circles back down, the pads of his fingers whispering against your bare skin, lingering on the sensitive spots until he hears the soft, contented sigh escape your lips.
"Are you cold?" he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates pleasantly in the quiet room.
"No," you whisper, shifting slightly closer to him. "Just perfect."
A faint, incredibly rare smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s a expression he reserves only for you, hidden away from the rest of the world. "Good."
Kento shifts, lying down fully so his head shares your pillow. He pulls you against his chest, tucking you into his side. The scent of his cedarwood soap and clean linen wraps around you like a cocoon.
He reaches up, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone, sweeping back a stray lock of your hair. He looks at you as if you are the only steady thing in a chaotic world.
"Today was exceptionally long," he admits softly, his thumb continuing its soothing, rhythmic sweep across your cheek. "But coming home to this... to you... makes the rest of it entirely inconsequential."
You lean into his palm, kissing the warm skin of his wrist. "I'm glad you're home, Kento."
He leans in, closing the small distance between you.
The kiss is slow, deep, and laced with a quiet devotion. It isn't rushed or demanding; it is a gentle pressing of lips, a silent reassurance that you are both exactly where you belong. He tastes faintly of the mint tea you shared earlier, his lips soft and warm against yours. When he pulls back, he doesn't go far, resting his forehead against yours as your breath mingles in the space between you.
His hand slips back down to your waist, pulling you securely against him, while his other hand resumes its slow, mesmerizing tracing along your back. Under the weight of his touch and the safety of his arms, the rest of the world simply fades away.
You've been married to him for years. What you find in the shed makes you question everything.
Pairing: Husband!Sukuna x fem!reader
CW: character death, murder / homicide, gore (dismemberment, mutilation, blood, injuries), body horror, psychological manipulation / gaslighting, toxic relationship / unhealthy relationship dynamics, captivity / imprisonment / isolation, Implied cannibalism, mutual obsession
For my event INTERLACED
Ten years.
A whole decade.
Wasted.
You wear your wedding gift from him, always neatly tied or braided into your hair.
Ivory white and clean as a whistle. You kept it spotless.
A lace bow, with the most delicate trim and floral motifs.
Every day.
You loved Sukuna so much it hurt your heart at times, unable to properly show how much poured from your fingertips after touching his skin. Just a hug or a small kiss would have you flooded with love. All for him.
He was the same, you never knew any hardships when he was around, there to be a strong arm, a word that made you laugh, brightening your day. Never upset you, sure, he might be a bit rough around the edges, but you weren't perfect, either.
The purest kind of love and adoration, care.
Mutual obsession.
So when did it start going wrong?
Truthfully, you hadn't even noticed it. Nothing was amiss. Your mind about him is as spotless as your bow, your husband could do no wrong.
Nothing was wrong in your marriage, nothing had changed in your relationship.
But your surroundings were shifting.
Missing knives, but they were replaced with new, better ones a day or two after you began asking where they had gone. A safe tucked away in the closet, no clue what was inside.
"For our safety, sweetheart, you know how wild animals are."
Having to do more loads of laundry than usual. But Sukuna himself would do it, not letting you glance at his dirty clothes thrown into a pile in the middle of the hamper, reassuring you to leave it to him.
"Go rest, my flower. I'll handle it."
No questions about this odd tint of red around his fingernails that never went away.
Why was the shed locked shut?
The shed.
Just a regular tool shed, your husband kept his power tools and lawnmower there, nothing unusual for the house.
So why was it bolted shut day after day unless Sukuna strolled inside of it?
"Just working on some things in there, don't worry your pretty little head about it, alright, my doll?"
"You should be worrying more about watering the flowers instead of some junk in a rotting shed, my love."
Sweet words, easing your curious heart. He was a good man.
But you couldn't help yourself, could you?
Off at work, at least that's what your husband told you he was up to, not around to fill your ears with light whispers and reassurance of your growing paranoia.
It was starting to get cloudy outside, a storm rolling in from past the canopy of nearby trees. Your first sign not to step outside.
The second one was the lock on the wooden door.
You had the key, right?
Of course you did.
While searching for your slippers in the morning, you had peeked under the bed.
Taped on the underside of your husband's side was… something.
Now it was in your hands, your anxious, shaky hands.
Don't be nervous now, all you have to do is turn the lock.
Click.
You didn't reach for the handle yet, taking a shaky breath and shutting your eyes.
Sukuna wouldn't be mad, right?
No, no, he wouldn't.
The only way he spoke to you was through patience and gentle guidance. He'd just chuckle and show you what's inside himself, yes.
Manipulation and lies, sugarcoated to sound as tender as your flesh.
You didn't know, using that same feeling of safety to calm your nerves, peering at the door once again, your hand on the handle already, key in the lock.
Nothing to be uneasy about, it's just a shed with gardening tools and maybe some car parts. Stop feeling like you might get your neck snapped just by having a little look.
The door creaked open, louder than you would have liked. The treeline went silent after the uncomfortable noise. A third warning.
What you saw wasn't all that odd… the lawnmower in the corner, a grass trimmer, and a few shovels in a dark corner.
You stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.
The lamp in the middle of the shabby thing flicked awake after tugging on the string dangling down.
There was this faint smell of dread hiding behind the organization.
Your eyes flicked around, landing on the workbench at the far side. Your feet carrying you there before your brain.
A small jar of pulled teeth fell into your gaze.
Teeth?
The more you looked around, the items didn't seem so innocent anymore.
Thick rope and a few rusty saws tucked under the table.
Not rust.
Maybe the worst thing was a splotch of thick blood on the edge of a bucket filled with that same stench of impending doom.
It wasn't blood… just paint.
Your fingers reached out, you had to prove to yourself that it was nothing.
But the deep crimson stained your hand, the smell of iron hit your nose, and you couldn't keep the fantasy stable anymore.
Thunderclouds had hidden the sky completely outside, making the space darker than before.
The loud thuds of heavy raindrops hitting the tin roof of the shed rang through your ears, overwhelming your senses, hands trembling while looking at the glossy blood seeping into your nail beds.
You should not have left the door open.
"My flower, what are you doing in here?"
Sukuna had returned.
You snapped out of your trance, blinking and looking in his direction, hand reaching up to your head in search of the comfort of your lace bow, fiddling with it while watching your husband approach.
Rough hands cradled your face, gently checking if you had hurt yourself. Red irises did a horrible job of hiding his displeasure with you.
"You didn't harm yourself, did you? Oh my sweet girl… come here."
A hug, face smushed into the comfort of his chest. A steady heartbeat against your ear.
So he wasn't mad… good.
Your trembling hands clung to his back.
You couldn't see the way Sukuna's jaw clenched, nails itching to claw into your sides and squeeze you tight enough to have you pop.
"You shouldn't be in here. How about we go back inside and have dinner, hm?"
No questions about the key or your findings.
False safety.
Sukuna had taken you back in the house, sat you down, and helped heat up some food. It was silent while you ate, your fork barely able to cut through a soft vegetable, as the thought of the odd findings popped back into your mind.
"Sweetheart, why is your bow filthy? Messy girl."
Your fingers had stained a corner of it with the Incarnadine shade.
Scrubbing. Scratching, desperately washing both your hands and the lace, couldn't get rid of it.
You cried in his arms that night, gathered up in his chest, head lying against his.
Sukuna caressed your back, caressed your hair, and shushed you to sleep.
It was just a bow.
The truth was cracking from the seams everywhere you looked now. The house was lacking color, the dullness and real darkness creeping in from unlit corners. The ingredients in the pantry and the shelves in the fridge seemed to be rotten, tasteless.
Sukuna's face looked different, touching it made your skin tingle- as if it refused to connect with his.
Maybe it was because the romanticized image of him was losing its shape.
And maybe the fact that he refused to let you go outside.
No more garden work, too harsh for your puzzled mind.
The sun was too hot, even on a cloudy day.
You needed to relax, even after sleeping all day.
It was getting unbearable.
The front door was locked, the back door too. Sukuna was working in the study.
Trapped in your own safe haven, you needed to do something, so why not go down to the basement?
Your husband never said anything about the cold concrete box below the floorboards, knowing you were too scared to go there.
With nothing better to do, his logic was being proved false with every step you took down the squeaky stairs.
You found the light switch, getting a yellow, old hue illuminating the space.
Oh yeah, the freezers were down here.
Two, to be exact. Sukuna liked smoking meat and fish on sunny days, so you knew he used them to keep them frozen.
A little peek wouldn't do you any harm.
So what if your last gander took away your freedom to leave these walls? This was different.
As if.
The sound of the creaking steps had alerted him, no matter how slow you had gone.
Your tainted hands lifted the large hinged lid of the chest.
Just some plastic bags of red meat, parts of a pig, and venison. A large salmon head stared up at you from the side.
The eyes of the dead fish were gouged out.
The lid went back down, now wanting to see if the same contents were in the second one.
You should have stopped with the first one.
At first the same plastic bags stared up at you, what looked like minced meat and animal body parts.
Not that human hand though.
Sawed off from the bicep, a fleshy limb wrapped in the same plastic bag, but oozing crimson from the palm made eye contact with you.
The color drained from your face, doubling over and pulling the dismembered part out, your own arms shaking while looking at the frozen appendage.
Bile churned around in your stomach, a sour, watery taste taking over your mouth.
The stairs were still squeaky, making sound as heavy footsteps rushed down.
"Flower, what are you up to now?"
Once Sukuna's head went low enough from the upper floor, seeing the sight of you holding something you never were supposed to see.
Your hands dropped the bag immediately, clattering to the basement floor, a part of the bag opening, the smell of decayed flesh hit your nose once again.
"My angel, are you trying to get yourself in trouble again. It hurts me to keep you locked away, but if you keep fooling around, i might just keep you in one room and tend to you."
His voice was gruff, trying to sound smooth and caring, but it was clearly impossible to do so.
He tried to reach out to you, blunt nails touching your hair, easing you to step into his embrace. Just like any other time to have you calm down and trap you in his arms till he felt you'd deserve freedom.
His palm crushed your skull into his chest, Sukuna acting like he wanted to infuse you inside of his ribcage.
"Silly thing, must you keep poking your nose in my things?" He cooed into your hair, but you swore you could feel his canines trying to bite into the top of your head.
"We will go upstairs, watch a movie, and forget all about this-"
"No!"
You never spoke against him, so the sudden outburst had Sukuna's grip faltering, you shoved yourself off of him, looking more panicked than ever, not letting him worm his way into your logical thinking.
"Come back, you little…!"
You stumbled back, tripping over the same arm, trying to grab onto the freezer but it did nothing, crashing backwards with a thud.
Thankfully it only gave you a faint dizziness, scrambling up right after.
A tattooed arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than before. He wouldn't let go now.
"You hit your head, my dear. It's bleeding. Maybe you shook your little brain back into place. I told you, we are forgetting about this and watching a fucking movie."
He dragged you back up the stair by your middle, not caring about you tripping over your own feet, not caring that you were looking at the melting limb on the ground and the image of pooling blood and peeling skin underneath a plastic sheen was the last thing engraved in your mind before the lights got switched off.
He sat you down, giving you a stern glare before disappearing into the bathroom to grab a first aid kit for your bleeding scalp.
The gash was above your bow, it still neatly wrapped into your hair, the thick red seeped into the middle of the ivory lace. Stained worse than before, just a few spots keeping the previous ivory color safe.
His fingers were gentle, parting your hair and cleaning the wound with stinging spirit. Your eyes blankly watched the subtitles flow as some old western movie played on the television.
You didn't dare look up, not wanting to see the cold glaze in his irises, knowing Sukuna wanted nothing but to take away your air and put you to sleep.
You weren't the one slumbering.
The only way you could end this nightmare was to snuff out the source.
It was past midnight, a large, full moon shining trough the tightly shut windows. Your bow hanging on by a few messy locks of hair, a bandaged wrapped around your skull with a red splotch on the back.
A knife, your favourite one to cut up fruit. The one with a pretty handle, engraved with both you and your sleeping husbands initials.
You stood over him, eyes almost bleary while watching Sukuna's peaceful expression. Like the day he asked for your hand, for the day he said he wanted to be yours. The day you bought a house together in the middle of nowhere.
If only you were strong enough, your breathing had turned shaky and bordering on gasping as your hand shook, unable to even process what you were about to do.
The last thing to give away your actions was a droplet, a salty and large teardrop rolling down your cheek and right on to Sukuna's lips.
His eyes shot open as if his senses were on high alert, an arm already reaching out to grab at you.
You didn't know what else to do besides listen to your mind- stumbling back and running as fast as you could.
Almost falling out of the bedroom after shoving the door open.
Sukuna didn't yell for you to get back. He was already chasing after you.
You couldn't hear a single thing, heart too loud in your ears- wanting to leap out of your mouth.
Glass shattered, sharp pain in your palms and legs while climbing trough the kitchen window.
Damp grass padding against your bare soles as you ran for the treeline, unable to breathe.
You don't know how far you ran.
Didn't know how long.
He caught up, he always did.
Why would such a silly girl like you think he had just let you go?
"My petal, where have you gone now? I can hear you."
It felt like he was right behind the tree you had hid, blunt nails digging into the handle of the knife you thankfully hadn't dropped.
You shut your eyes, holding your breath. But that was no use.
"My angel, come out."
Heavy footsteps approached, with no care stepping right past the thick bark of the tree.
A stab to the chest, your hands weak from fear but driven enough to push the blade right to his beating heart, ripping trough muscle.
Too shocked by your own action, the pain from the same type of sharpness slicing trough the side of your throat.
Maybe it was a bit romantic, the last time spent together, in each others arms, spluttering and struggling to breathe, buried in moss with a pale moon not even giving you the ability to see one another bleed out.
Sukuna had never kissed the top of your head as tenderly as right before his last breath.
"I love you."
Not like you could reply, blood filling your lungs and vocal chords sliced.
Already fading out together with the last beat of his heart.
The bow, the lacy thing no longer white, barely even recognizable by how much blood had been spilt.
Yoon's notes: hi guys sorry for the lame ass horror fic
The dinner rush was a blur of clattering silverware, high-strung demands from Gojo about "ambiance," and Nanami strictly enforcing side-work checks. But through it all, your mind kept drifting back to the paper grocery bag sitting in the walk-in cooler with your name on it, the one Sukuna had personally packed with fresh ginger, pork belly, and a vibrant array of green scallions.
By 10:30 PM, the diner was finally empty. You flipped the lock on the front door, the click echoing satisfyingly through the dim restaurant.
As you finished wiping down the registers, your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. It was the group chat again.
You felt your cheeks heat up as you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket. Right on cue, the heavy kitchen doors swung open, and Sukuna walked out. He had swapped his chef’s coat for a plain black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the sharp lines of his tattoos. In his left hand, he held the promised bag of fresh ingredients.
"Ready?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet diner.
"Ready," you breathed, grabbing your jacket and your bag.
The walk to your apartment was different tonight. The initial awkwardness from the previous night had shifted into a tense, thrumming anticipation. It was chilly, the autumn air nipping at your nose, but walking next to Sukuna felt like standing near a furnace. He kept his pace perfectly matched to yours, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead with an effortlessly protective posture.
When you finally unlocked your apartment door and ushered him inside, you felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Your apartment wasn't messy, but it was small. A modest kitchen, a neat living space, and a counter with two barstools.
"Welcome to my palace," you joked weakly, taking his hoodie and hanging it by the door.
Sukuna didn't judge. He simply walked into the kitchen, placing the paper bag on the counter, and immediately began examining your setup. He opened a few cabinets, tracking down a cutting board, a knife, and a skillet with the practiced ease of someone who owned every kitchen he stepped into.
"Your knife is dull," he noted, testing the edge of your chef's knife with his thumb. He sighed, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Typical server. Don't worry, I brought my own."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sleek, dangerously sharp knife wrapped in a protective cloth.
For the next thirty minutes, you got to witness something most people had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for: a master chef cooking a private meal. Sukuna moved with a mesmerizing, brutal efficiency. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his blade against the cutting board filled the apartment, mincing ginger and garlic into perfect, uniform pieces.
You sat on the barstool, chin resting in your hands, completely captivated. "You look a lot less terrifying when you're cooking at home," you murmured without thinking.
Sukuna paused, his knife hovering over a bunch of scallions. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, glinting with amusement under the soft kitchen light. "Terrifying? Is that what the front-of-house thinks of me?"
"I mean... you do yell at the food runners a lot," you pointed out, tilting your head.
"They drop my plates," he countered, turning back to the stove. The skillet hissed loudly as he dropped the pork belly into the hot oil, filling the room with an incredible, mouth-watering aroma of caramelized meat, soy sauce, and fresh ginger. "If they respect the food, I respect them." He glanced back at you. "You've never dropped a plate."
"I value my life too much to anger the kitchen," you laughed.
"Smart girl," he murmured under his breath, tossing the pork with a flick of his wrist.
While the pork simmered to absorb the flavors, Sukuna leaned against your counter, just a few feet away from where you sat. The proximity made your chest tight in the best way possible.
Before the silence could get too heavy, your phone buzzed on the counter between you.
You quickly flipped your phone face down, but you weren't fast enough. Sukuna had caught the frantic typing and the sudden blush creeping up your neck.
"Utahime again?" he asked, plating the food onto the two simple ceramic dishes you had set out.
"She has zero boundaries," you groaned, covering your face with your hands. "I apologize on her behalf."
"Don't worry about it." Sukuna placed a steaming bowl of ginger pork and rice right in front of you, handing you a pair of chopsticks. He took the stool next to yours, his large frame suddenly making the kitchen feel incredibly intimate. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
You took your first bite, and you honestly thought you might cry. The pork was incredibly tender, crispy on the edges, with a perfect balance of savory soy, sweet mirin, and a sharp, warming kick of ginger that spread through your chest.
"Oh my god," you whispered around your food. "Sukuna, this is amazing. It's better than the diner specials."
Sukuna watched you eat, a look of profound satisfaction settling over his features. There was a softness in his eyes that he never, ever showed at work. "Of course it is. I don't have to ration the ingredients for a hundred customers here. I only have to make it perfect for one."
Your breath hitched slightly. You looked at him, searching his face, realizing that Utahime might not be entirely crazy after all. The heavy-handed flirting from Gojo, the sudden sickness of Shoko... it was all leading here. But looking at Sukuna right now, you realized he wasn't being forced into anything. He wanted to be here. With you.
"Thank you, Sukuna," you said softly, your voice sincere. "Really. For the walk, and for this."
He held your gaze for a long moment, the space between you feeling charged with a sudden, heavy tension. Slowly, he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray bit of sauce from the corner of your lip. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle against your skin.
"I told you," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "It's nothing. Get used to it, because I'm bringing dinner tomorrow night, too."
A/n: hopefully more frequent ptys post from now on! Especially since we are finally getting to the romance part in sukunas route!!
The afternoon sun filtered through the lush canopy of Gotham’s Robinson Park, casting dappled shadows across the grass. It was a surprisingly beautiful day warm, with a crisp breeze that blew away the usual smog.
You and Jason were sitting on a plaid blanket spread out under a massive oak tree, a half-empty picnic basket sitting between you. Away from the gloomy alleys and the heavy leather of his Red Hood gear, Jason looked relaxed. He was just wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans, his broad shoulders leaning back against the tree trunk as he watched you.
"I still can't believe you made sandwiches," Jason said, a rare, boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He took another bite of his lunch. "With the crusts cut off and everything. What am I, five?"
"You're a growing boy who needs sustenance," you teased, leaning over to gently poke his bicep. "Besides, you always complain about the food in this city. I figured home-cooked was the safest bet for a proper date."
"Yeah, well..." Jason looked away, a faint dust of pink hitting his cheekbones as he cleared his throat. He reached out, his large, calloused hand finding yours on the blanket and intertwining his fingers with yours. "It's good. Best thing I've had in a long time."
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. For a few minutes, everything was perfectly peaceful. The distant sound of children laughing on the playground and dogs barking in the distance filled the air.
Then, the hair on the back of Jason’s neck stood up.
His posture instantly went rigid. His hand tightened around yours, and the relaxed boyishness vanished, replaced by the sharp, hyper-vigilant instincts of a trained vigilante.
"Jason? What is it?" you asked softly, looking up at him.
"We have a breach in security," Jason muttered, his jaw clenching as he glared at a paved walking path a few yards away.
You followed his gaze. Strolling down the path, looking entirely too conspicuous in bright athletic gear, were Dick Grayson and Tim Drake. Dick was holding a half-eaten soft pretzel, chatting animatedly, while Tim walked beside him, typing furiously on his phone.
As if sensing Jason’s death glare, Dick’s head snapped toward your oak tree. His eyes widened, and a blinding, mischievous grin spread across his face. He grabbed Tim’s shoulder, nearly making the younger boy drop his phone, and pointed right at your picnic blanket.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Act natural. Maybe if we don't move, their depth perception won't pick us up."
"Jason, they're walking right over here," you laughed, tossing a loose blade of grass at him.
"Jay! Hey!" Dick called out, jogging over the grass with an energy that was entirely uncalled for on a relaxing afternoon. Tim followed at a more reluctant, but heavily amused, pace.
"What do you want, Dickwing?" Jason growled, not moving from his spot against the tree but keeping you tucked close to his side. "Some of us are trying to have a civilized afternoon."
"We were just doing a lap around the park," Dick said smoothly, coming to a stop at the edge of your blanket. His eyes darted to your linked hands, and his grin grew even wider. He looked at you, utterly charming. "Hi there. I'm Dick. And this is Tim."
"Tim," the younger one nodded, pocketing his phone and giving you a polite smile. "We’ve heard... whispers. Mostly angry muttering from Jason, but whispers nonetheless."
"It's so nice to finally meet you both," you said, offering a warm smile, along with your name
"The pleasure is all ours" Dick beamed, gesturing to the picnic spread. "Wow, look at this. Sandwiches, fruit... Jason, who knew you could be domesticated? Did you actually use a napkin, or did you just wipe your face on your sleeve like usual?"
Jason shot Dick a look that could have melted steel. "One more word out of you, and I’m throwing you into the park pond. I don't care how many witnesses there are."
Tim chuckled, leaning slightly forward. "Don't let him intimidate you, He's all bark. Mostly."
"Oh, I know," you teased, glancing up at Jason, whose ears were now burning a bright red. "He's actually a big softie when he wants to be."
Jason let out a dramatic, suffering groan, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. "I'm dying. This is how I die. Death by embarrassment in broad daylight."
Dick laughed, clearly satisfied with the amount of teasing he'd accomplished. He checked his watch and gave a sigh. "Alright, alright, we'll leave you two lovebirds to your picnic. But,seriously, if you ever need someone to trade embarrassing stories about him, you know where to find us."
"Don't give her any ideas," Jason snapped, though the heat had left his voice.
With a cheerful wave from Dick and a supportive nod from Tim, the two brothers wandered back toward the walking path, Dick loudly narrating something about finding an ice cream truck.
As they finally walked out of sight, the tension left Jason’s shoulders all at once. He let out a long breath, turning his head to look down at you. "I am so sorry. They have a radar for when I'm actually enjoying myself."
"Are you kidding? They seem great," you laughed, reaching up to gently smooth down a stray lock of his dark hair, right where the white streak caught the sunlight. "And they're right, you know. You are cute when you're defensive."
Jason scoffed, but he couldn't hide the genuine smile that broke through his tough exterior. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
"Yeah, yeah. Just eat your sandwich, sweetheart," he murmured, his blue eyes warm and full of affection. "Before the rest of my family decides to go for a jog."
A/n: I haven’t written for Jason in forever!!! I love him so much I need to get back into him
The dinner rush was a blur of clattering silverware, high-strung demands from Gojo about "ambiance," and Nanami strictly enforcing side-work checks. But through it all, your mind kept drifting back to the paper grocery bag sitting in the walk-in cooler with your name on it, the one Sukuna had personally packed with fresh ginger, pork belly, and a vibrant array of green scallions.
By 10:30 PM, the diner was finally empty. You flipped the lock on the front door, the click echoing satisfyingly through the dim restaurant.
As you finished wiping down the registers, your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. It was the group chat again.
You felt your cheeks heat up as you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket. Right on cue, the heavy kitchen doors swung open, and Sukuna walked out. He had swapped his chef’s coat for a plain black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the sharp lines of his tattoos. In his left hand, he held the promised bag of fresh ingredients.
"Ready?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet diner.
"Ready," you breathed, grabbing your jacket and your bag.
The walk to your apartment was different tonight. The initial awkwardness from the previous night had shifted into a tense, thrumming anticipation. It was chilly, the autumn air nipping at your nose, but walking next to Sukuna felt like standing near a furnace. He kept his pace perfectly matched to yours, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead with an effortlessly protective posture.
When you finally unlocked your apartment door and ushered him inside, you felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Your apartment wasn't messy, but it was small. A modest kitchen, a neat living space, and a counter with two barstools.
"Welcome to my palace," you joked weakly, taking his hoodie and hanging it by the door.
Sukuna didn't judge. He simply walked into the kitchen, placing the paper bag on the counter, and immediately began examining your setup. He opened a few cabinets, tracking down a cutting board, a knife, and a skillet with the practiced ease of someone who owned every kitchen he stepped into.
"Your knife is dull," he noted, testing the edge of your chef's knife with his thumb. He sighed, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Typical server. Don't worry, I brought my own."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sleek, dangerously sharp knife wrapped in a protective cloth.
For the next thirty minutes, you got to witness something most people had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for: a master chef cooking a private meal. Sukuna moved with a mesmerizing, brutal efficiency. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his blade against the cutting board filled the apartment, mincing ginger and garlic into perfect, uniform pieces.
You sat on the barstool, chin resting in your hands, completely captivated. "You look a lot less terrifying when you're cooking at home," you murmured without thinking.
Sukuna paused, his knife hovering over a bunch of scallions. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, glinting with amusement under the soft kitchen light. "Terrifying? Is that what the front-of-house thinks of me?"
"I mean... you do yell at the food runners a lot," you pointed out, tilting your head.
"They drop my plates," he countered, turning back to the stove. The skillet hissed loudly as he dropped the pork belly into the hot oil, filling the room with an incredible, mouth-watering aroma of caramelized meat, soy sauce, and fresh ginger. "If they respect the food, I respect them." He glanced back at you. "You've never dropped a plate."
"I value my life too much to anger the kitchen," you laughed.
"Smart girl," he murmured under his breath, tossing the pork with a flick of his wrist.
While the pork simmered to absorb the flavors, Sukuna leaned against your counter, just a few feet away from where you sat. The proximity made your chest tight in the best way possible.
Before the silence could get too heavy, your phone buzzed on the counter between you.
You quickly flipped your phone face down, but you weren't fast enough. Sukuna had caught the frantic typing and the sudden blush creeping up your neck.
"Utahime again?" he asked, plating the food onto the two simple ceramic dishes you had set out.
"She has zero boundaries," you groaned, covering your face with your hands. "I apologize on her behalf."
"Don't worry about it." Sukuna placed a steaming bowl of ginger pork and rice right in front of you, handing you a pair of chopsticks. He took the stool next to yours, his large frame suddenly making the kitchen feel incredibly intimate. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
You took your first bite, and you honestly thought you might cry. The pork was incredibly tender, crispy on the edges, with a perfect balance of savory soy, sweet mirin, and a sharp, warming kick of ginger that spread through your chest.
"Oh my god," you whispered around your food. "Sukuna, this is amazing. It's better than the diner specials."
Sukuna watched you eat, a look of profound satisfaction settling over his features. There was a softness in his eyes that he never, ever showed at work. "Of course it is. I don't have to ration the ingredients for a hundred customers here. I only have to make it perfect for one."
Your breath hitched slightly. You looked at him, searching his face, realizing that Utahime might not be entirely crazy after all. The heavy-handed flirting from Gojo, the sudden sickness of Shoko... it was all leading here. But looking at Sukuna right now, you realized he wasn't being forced into anything. He wanted to be here. With you.
"Thank you, Sukuna," you said softly, your voice sincere. "Really. For the walk, and for this."
He held your gaze for a long moment, the space between you feeling charged with a sudden, heavy tension. Slowly, he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray bit of sauce from the corner of your lip. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle against your skin.
"I told you," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "It's nothing. Get used to it, because I'm bringing dinner tomorrow night, too."
A/n: hopefully more frequent ptys post from now on! Especially since we are finally getting to the romance part in sukunas route!!
The dinner rush was a blur of clattering silverware, high-strung demands from Gojo about "ambiance," and Nanami strictly enforcing side-work checks. But through it all, your mind kept drifting back to the paper grocery bag sitting in the walk-in cooler with your name on it, the one Sukuna had personally packed with fresh ginger, pork belly, and a vibrant array of green scallions.
By 10:30 PM, the diner was finally empty. You flipped the lock on the front door, the click echoing satisfyingly through the dim restaurant.
As you finished wiping down the registers, your phone buzzed in your apron pocket. It was the group chat again.
You felt your cheeks heat up as you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket. Right on cue, the heavy kitchen doors swung open, and Sukuna walked out. He had swapped his chef’s coat for a plain black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, exposing the sharp lines of his tattoos. In his left hand, he held the promised bag of fresh ingredients.
"Ready?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet diner.
"Ready," you breathed, grabbing your jacket and your bag.
The walk to your apartment was different tonight. The initial awkwardness from the previous night had shifted into a tense, thrumming anticipation. It was chilly, the autumn air nipping at your nose, but walking next to Sukuna felt like standing near a furnace. He kept his pace perfectly matched to yours, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead with an effortlessly protective posture.
When you finally unlocked your apartment door and ushered him inside, you felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Your apartment wasn't messy, but it was small. A modest kitchen, a neat living space, and a counter with two barstools.
"Welcome to my palace," you joked weakly, taking his hoodie and hanging it by the door.
Sukuna didn't judge. He simply walked into the kitchen, placing the paper bag on the counter, and immediately began examining your setup. He opened a few cabinets, tracking down a cutting board, a knife, and a skillet with the practiced ease of someone who owned every kitchen he stepped into.
"Your knife is dull," he noted, testing the edge of your chef's knife with his thumb. He sighed, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Typical server. Don't worry, I brought my own."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sleek, dangerously sharp knife wrapped in a protective cloth.
For the next thirty minutes, you got to witness something most people had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for: a master chef cooking a private meal. Sukuna moved with a mesmerizing, brutal efficiency. The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his blade against the cutting board filled the apartment, mincing ginger and garlic into perfect, uniform pieces.
You sat on the barstool, chin resting in your hands, completely captivated. "You look a lot less terrifying when you're cooking at home," you murmured without thinking.
Sukuna paused, his knife hovering over a bunch of scallions. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours, glinting with amusement under the soft kitchen light. "Terrifying? Is that what the front-of-house thinks of me?"
"I mean... you do yell at the food runners a lot," you pointed out, tilting your head.
"They drop my plates," he countered, turning back to the stove. The skillet hissed loudly as he dropped the pork belly into the hot oil, filling the room with an incredible, mouth-watering aroma of caramelized meat, soy sauce, and fresh ginger. "If they respect the food, I respect them." He glanced back at you. "You've never dropped a plate."
"I value my life too much to anger the kitchen," you laughed.
"Smart girl," he murmured under his breath, tossing the pork with a flick of his wrist.
While the pork simmered to absorb the flavors, Sukuna leaned against your counter, just a few feet away from where you sat. The proximity made your chest tight in the best way possible.
Before the silence could get too heavy, your phone buzzed on the counter between you.
You quickly flipped your phone face down, but you weren't fast enough. Sukuna had caught the frantic typing and the sudden blush creeping up your neck.
"Utahime again?" he asked, plating the food onto the two simple ceramic dishes you had set out.
"She has zero boundaries," you groaned, covering your face with your hands. "I apologize on her behalf."
"Don't worry about it." Sukuna placed a steaming bowl of ginger pork and rice right in front of you, handing you a pair of chopsticks. He took the stool next to yours, his large frame suddenly making the kitchen feel incredibly intimate. "Eat. Before it gets cold."
You took your first bite, and you honestly thought you might cry. The pork was incredibly tender, crispy on the edges, with a perfect balance of savory soy, sweet mirin, and a sharp, warming kick of ginger that spread through your chest.
"Oh my god," you whispered around your food. "Sukuna, this is amazing. It's better than the diner specials."
Sukuna watched you eat, a look of profound satisfaction settling over his features. There was a softness in his eyes that he never, ever showed at work. "Of course it is. I don't have to ration the ingredients for a hundred customers here. I only have to make it perfect for one."
Your breath hitched slightly. You looked at him, searching his face, realizing that Utahime might not be entirely crazy after all. The heavy-handed flirting from Gojo, the sudden sickness of Shoko... it was all leading here. But looking at Sukuna right now, you realized he wasn't being forced into anything. He wanted to be here. With you.
"Thank you, Sukuna," you said softly, your voice sincere. "Really. For the walk, and for this."
He held your gaze for a long moment, the space between you feeling charged with a sudden, heavy tension. Slowly, he reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray bit of sauce from the corner of your lip. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle against your skin.
"I told you," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "It's nothing. Get used to it, because I'm bringing dinner tomorrow night, too."
A/n: hopefully more frequent ptys post from now on! Especially since we are finally getting to the romance part in sukunas route!!
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