Im gonna be honest here guys, i don’t remember what i read and haven’t read, sooooo if there are multiple reposts of the same post just ignore me thirsting…
the first thing kuroo notices is that you're suspiciously quiet.
normally, by the time he lets himself into your apartment, you'd already be greeting him from the kitchen or dramatically announcing that you were starving and he'd better have brought snacks.
instead, he finds you bundled beneath three blankets on the couch, looking like the world's grumpiest burrito.
"...baby?"
you slowly peek over the edge of the blanket, nose pink, hair a mess.
"don't come closer."
he blinks.
"...why?"
you sniffle dramatically.
"'m sick."
there's a beat of silence before kuroo smiles.
"that's all?"
"that's all?"
"yeah."
you point an accusing finger at him.
"don't touch me."
"why not?"
"because you'll get sick."
he shrugs, already kicking off his shoes.
"worth it."
"tetsu."
he ignores you completely, dropping onto the couch beside you. the cushions dip under his weight before he gently pulls you into his chest.
"tetsurou!"
"hi."
"i literally have a fever."
he presses his cheek against your forehead.
"mm... yeah, you're warm."
"exactly!"
"comfy."
you stare at him in disbelief.
"you're unbelievable."
"i've been told."
you try pushing him away, but you're exhausted, your muscles ache, and honestly... he's warm.
he wraps the blanket around both of you like a cocoon.
"there."
"i'm serious."
"so am i."
he rubs slow circles across your back while you grumble under your breath.
"you're gonna regret this."
"future me can deal with it."
you sigh dramatically.
"don't kiss me."
"..."
"...kuroo."
"..."
"...don't."
he gives you the most innocent smile you've ever seen.
"just one."
before you can protest, he presses a tiny kiss to your forehead.
then another.
then your temple.
then the tip of your nose.
you groan.
"you're impossible."
"and yet, you love me."
"...unfortunately."
he gasps.
"that sounded like a confession."
"shut up."
he laughs quietly, the sound vibrating against your shoulder.
eventually your protests get weaker.
the medicine starts making you sleepy.
your head grows heavier until it naturally settles beneath his chin.
he smiles to himself.
"there she is."
"..."
"my cuddle bug."
"'m not..."
"already asleep?"
"...no."
"..."
"...maybe."
he chuckles softly.
"get some rest."
his fingers gently comb through your hair until your breathing evens out.
he doesn't move for nearly two hours.
not even when one of his legs falls asleep.
not even when his phone rings.
not even when his stomach starts growling.
because every now and then you'd unconsciously snuggle closer, and every single time, his heart melted all over again.
—
three days later.
"achoo!" (but in a dad sneeze way)
you look up from your soup.
kuroo freezes.
"..."
"..."
he sniffles.
"...no."
you slowly lower your spoon.
"...did you just sneeze?"
"allergies."
"in august?"
"...seasonal."
"to what?"
"...love?"
you narrow your eyes.
"tetsurou."
he coughs once into his elbow.
"..."
"..."
"...okay, maybe my throat feels a little weird."
you cross your arms.
"i warned you."
"you did."
"multiple times."
"possibly."
"i specifically said not to cuddle me."
"correct."
"and i definitely said not to kiss me."
"...also true."
you give him your best 'i told you so' look.
he smiles anyway.
"still worth it."
you try so hard not to smile.
you fail spectacularly.
"you're such an idiot."
"your idiot."
"...yeah."
he reaches over the couch to hug you again.
you immediately shove a pillow between you.
"absolutely not."
"what?"
"you're contagious now."
his jaw drops.
"betrayal."
"consequences."
"where was this energy when you were sick?"
"i had common sense."
"rude."
he pouts dramatically, wrapping both arms around the pillow instead.
"...i miss my cuddles."
you stare at him for a long moment.
his nose is red.
his hair is sticking up.
he looks genuinely miserable.
"..."
"..."
"...come here."
his eyes light up instantly.
"really?"
"only because i know you'll ignore me otherwise."
he practically launches himself across the couch before carefully settling beside you.
this time, you press a cool hand against his forehead.
"see?"
you murmur.
"fever."
he leans into your touch with a sleepy smile.
"mm."
"serves you right."
"probably."
"..."
"..."
"can i have a forehead kiss?"
you roll your eyes.
"you're unbelievable."
"that's not a no."
you sigh with exaggerated annoyance before leaning over and pressing the gentlest kiss against his forehead.
he grins like he'd just won the lottery.
"...worth it."
you can't help laughing.
"...next time, listen to me."
"there's gonna be a next time?"
"..."
"..."
"...i'm not answering that."
he smiles into your shoulder as the two of you settle beneath the blankets once more, both a little sniffly now, but perfectly content exactly where you were.
a/n: i'm sick and school starts tomorrow bro also i'm making a discord server everybody cheer
Ah yes, sleepwalking. A funny but undeniably terrifying way to emotionally damage your favorite volleyball boys at 3AM.
You don't mean to cause psychological distress.
You’re just trying to live your best unconscious life.
Unfortunately, that includes:
Bargaining with rats,
Whispering cryptic prophecies,
Performing rituals in bathtubs, and
Declaring things like “The chicken coup has begun” with the gravity of a war general.
Is it a dream? A warning? A threat?
No one knows—not even you.
But one thing’s for sure:
They’ll never sleep peacefully again.
AKAASHI KEIJI
It was 3:47 a.m.
Akaashi blinked awake to the buzz of the refrigerator humming louder than it had any right to. The glow under the bedroom door looked like a horror movie setup. Your side of the bed? Empty.
Which was never, ever good.
He sat up slowly, his instincts as sharp as a seasoned libero's. No thuds. No screams. Just... soft muttering.
He padded down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.
There you were. Eyes half-closed, mumbling nonsense to the refrigerator.
Inside the fridge?
The cat.
Akaashi stared.
The cat stared.
You, serene as a monk mid-exorcism, reached in to gently pat the cat’s head like it was a cherished casserole. “He’s the secret ingredient,” you murmured lovingly, as if that explained anything.
Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Of course he is,” he whispered to himself, already accepting that this was his life now.
The cat gave him a look. The kind of look that said, You’re supposed to be the sane one here. Do something.
With a sigh that came from the depths of a boyfriend who’s seen too much, Akaashi scooped the shivering furball out of the fridge. The cat immediately clung to his chest like a baby koala. With his other arm, Akaashi gently reached out and took your hand.
“Come on, secret chef,” he said softly, guiding you away from your midnight masterpiece. “Let’s get you and your ‘ingredient’ back to bed.”
You went along willingly, still half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder as you muttered something about “adding cinnamon.”
Akaashi didn’t even ask.
He tucked you in first, the cat next, and then slid in beside both of you with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from being deeply in love with a chaos goblin.
As you snuggled closer, Akaashi stared at the ceiling.
“I deserve an award,” he muttered.
The cat meowed in agreement.
BOKUTO KOUTARO
It was 3:02 a.m.
The apartment was silent. Peaceful, even.
Until—
“Koutarou.”
His eyes snapped open. He sat up like a meerkat sensing danger. “...Y/N?”
You were curled up under the blanket, eyes shut, completely still—except your mouth, which just whispered:
“I ate the evidence.”
Bokuto blinked. “What?”
But you were already quiet again. Breathing evenly. Asleep.
Dead asleep.
Koutarou stared at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at you.
He felt a chill.
“What evidence?” he whispered. “What did you eat?”
You looked so calm. So peaceful. As if you hadn't just confessed to a federal crime in your sleep.
He slowly got out of bed and tiptoed into the kitchen like a detective in his own home. The fridge door was closed. The counters were clean. Nothing suspicious.
Or maybe too clean.
The trash can? Empty.
His eyes widened.
Did you clean the scene?!
He shuffled back to the bedroom like a man walking toward his doom. You were still there, all curled up and cozy, like you didn’t just say something that would ruin him in court.
He sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, mentally cycling through every possible interpretation.
Did you eat his protein bars? His leftover pizza? The last KitKat?
Did you kill a man?
Why did you sound so proud?
He laid back down slowly, eyes open, staring into the void.
You scooted closer in your sleep and mumbled, “Mmm. Crunchy.”
He stopped breathing.
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, you yawned and stretched like a cute, innocent little cloud.
"Morning, Kou," you said sweetly.
He blinked at you, dead-eyed, whispering: “...what did you eat.”
You: “Huh?”
He: “...What did you EAT.”
You: “??? Toast?”
He watched you take a bite of breakfast like it might be someone’s finger.
And yet… he still kissed your forehead.
Because love is terrifying.
KUROO TETSURO
It was 2:41 a.m.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of blankets. Kuroo was mid-dream—something about taxes turning into volleyballs—when he felt a presence.
His eyes fluttered open.
You were standing at the foot of the bed.
Staring at him.
In the dark.
He sat up immediately, already seconds from punching a demon. “Babe? Are you okay?”
You didn’t answer.
You leaned in slowly—unnervingly—and whispered:
“The ducks are watching.”
Then turned around.
And walked out of the room.
Kuroo sat there, frozen, mouth slightly open, soul halfway to another dimension.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
“THE WHAT IS WHAT?”
He scrambled out of bed and peeked down the hallway to see you peacefully crawling back into bed on the couch like nothing happened.
You were out cold. Blissfully unconscious.
Kuroo stood there in his boxers, heart pounding like he just got tackled by a flock of birds with a vendetta.
He looked around.
No ducks.
But he didn’t trust it.
The next night, he installed a nightlight.
The night after that, he placed a rubber duck on the windowsill just to test your reaction. You said nothing—but stared at it for a little too long.
Now?
Now he sleeps with one eye open.
Just in case.
Because maybe the ducks are watching.
And maybe, just maybe… you’re their prophet.
KENMA KOZUME
It was 3:19 a.m.
Kenma had just paused his game. The glow from his Switch lit up his face as he dragged himself toward the kitchen for a drink, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.
He wasn’t expecting to see you already standing there. In front of the fridge. Silent.
The door was open. Cold light spilling across the tiles.
You stared inside like it had insulted your bloodline.
Kenma blinked. “...Babe?”
You tilted your head. Whispered, "It's not a portal today. Lame."
Kenma froze, holding the juice carton like it was suddenly cursed.
“The hell does it usually lead to?” he muttered.
Still facing the fridge, you sighed dramatically, like a tired traveler returning from war.
“Regret,” you said solemnly.
Then you shut the fridge and walked away.
Kenma just stood there.
Alone.
With the fridge.
And the regret.
He slowly backed away, returned to the bedroom, and found you already face-planted into the bed, limbs tangled like nothing happened.
He lay down next to you carefully, staring at the ceiling.
What did you see in there? Was it the expired yogurt? The leftover fast food? His search history?
He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
And the next morning, when you yawned and casually opened the fridge, he watched you like it was a boss battle.
"Hey," he asked quietly, not looking away, "is it… is it a portal now?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," he muttered, sipping his juice with caution. “Just checking.”
KYOTANI KENTARO
It was 1:56 a.m.
Kyōtani was already half-awake, lying on his side, arm lazily draped over you. The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that made everything feel heavier. His eyes were just starting to close again when—
You turned to face him.
Eyes barely open.
And whispered, slow and serious:
“I’ve hidden the body where they’ll never find it.”
...
His entire soul left his body.
“What.”
You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sighed… and rolled over.
And immediately fell asleep.
Kyōtani sat up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. “The what?!” he hissed into the silence, heart racing.
You snored.
He stared at you, mind spiraling into hell.
Was this a joke? A dream? A code? Did he just become an accomplice by proximity? He’d watched enough crime shows to know how this ends.
He checked the closet. The bathroom. The hallway. Under the bed.
Nothing.
Which only made it worse.
Because now the question was: where?
You, meanwhile, were blissfully unconscious, curled up like a harmless little gremlin, breathing softly as if you hadn’t just dropped a psychological nuke into his life.
He sat on the edge of the bed, muttering under his breath. “I didn’t hear anything. I saw nothing. We don’t even own a shovel.”
The next morning, you stretched and yawned, rubbing your eyes like sunshine itself.
Kyōtani stared at you over his coffee.
You blinked. “...Why are you looking at me like that?”
He paused. Considered. Then said:
"...Just making sure you’re real.”
You smiled.
He didn’t sleep for three nights.
Just in case.
OIKAWA TOORU
It was a quiet night in the Miyagi apartment.
Too quiet.
Oikawa had just finished his skincare routine and was about to crawl into bed next to you, humming softly and adjusting his silk eye mask, when it happened.
A thud.
Then—
SPLAT.
He flinched and turned toward the sound.
A cupcake.
Smeared on the wall.
Like a pastry-based crime scene.
And you? Standing beside the bed, arm still mid-throw, eyes closed.
Then, in a low, haunted voice that echoed through his soul, you whispered:
"It's too late, Carol."
...
Oikawa’s jaw dropped.
You got back into bed like nothing happened.
He stared at the cupcake. Then at you. Then back at the cupcake.
There. Was. No. Carol.
He didn’t know a Carol. He’s never met a Carol. He doesn’t even like the name Carol. It sounded… threatening now.
He slowly pulled the eye mask up, face pale.
“What did Carol do?” he whispered to himself.
You snored.
Oikawa backed into the hallway and whispered into his phone flashlight camera like he was in a horror documentary.
“It’s been 7 minutes since the incident. Subject Y/N has returned to sleep. Carol remains unidentified. The cupcake is… dead.”
The next morning, you woke up chipper and confused as to why there was chocolate frosting on the wall and your boyfriend was sipping tea like a Victorian widow.
“Did… something happen?”
He didn’t answer. Just muttered:
"We are never baking cupcakes again."
Tooru now double-locks the pantry at night. And flinches every time someone says “C” words.
Carol, whoever you are…
he hopes you never come back.
IWAIZUMI HAJIME
1:03 a.m.
Peace. Silence. The soft hum of the aircon.
Iwaizumi Hajime was dozing off, his breathing steady, arm wrapped loosely around you.
And then you whispered, barely audible:
"Hajime..."
He stirred. “Mm?”
You shifted, lips near his ear, and mumbled like a general delivering final orders:
"The chicken coup has begun. Tell Gerald to start phase two."
...
He blinked.
“...Huh?”
But you were already gone.
Not dead, no. Just deep in sleep. Face smushed into the pillow. Dead to the world, but not, apparently, to the ongoing uprising in the poultry community.
Iwaizumi sat up slowly, like if he moved too fast, the chickens would hear him.
He stared into the darkness.
"Gerald... who the hell is Gerald."
Was Gerald a chicken?
Was he Gerald?
Did you plant something?
He got out of bed, checking every window, fridge, and closet like a man preparing for an oddly specific war.
When he returned, you were cuddled in the blanket fortress, completely unbothered.
Iwaizumi whispered into the void:
"Why would you say that to me."
The next morning, he brought it up over coffee like a man trying to casually discuss a national emergency.
“Hey... um... last night you said something about a chicken coup? And phase two?”
You blinked. “I what?”
“And Gerald. Don’t forget Gerald.”
You laughed. “That’s unhinged. I must’ve been dreaming.”
“Yeah, well. Now I can’t go near a rotisserie without wondering if I’ve made enemies.”
Iwaizumi now triple-checks chicken coop memes for signs of coded rebellion.
He doesn’t know who Gerald is.
But he fears he’ll know when it’s too late.
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
It was nearing 2 a.m.
Kageyama had just gotten comfortable, duvet pulled up to his chin, the room quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.
And then—
CREEEAK.
He opened one eye.
You were standing.
In front of his closet.
You opened it slowly. Looked inside with the gravity of a priest opening a tomb.
Then whispered, completely monotone:
“This is where I keep my alter ego… Brenda.”
...
He blinked. “Huh?”
You didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark closet.
And added:
“Brenda wears red lipstick and commits tax fraud.”
You shut the door.
Got back in bed.
And slept peacefully.
Kageyama, however, did not.
He turned slowly to stare at the closet like it personally insulted his family. His entire body froze, unsure whether to scream, pray, or text someone for help.
“Brenda?!” he hissed, trying not to wake you.
He opened the closet cautiously, half-expecting a mannequin in heels or a woman in a red power suit whispering, “You owe me everything.”
But there was only… clothes.
And yet.
It didn’t feel right anymore.
Kageyama now sleeps with a volleyball in one hand and a slipper ready to throw in the other.
He also googled “how to remove lipstick stains from dreams” and “can closets hold alternate personalities legally.”
The next morning, you stretch, yawn, and ask why he looks like he didn’t sleep.
He says nothing.
Just side-eyes the closet.
And mutters:
“…Brenda.”
SUGAWARA KOUSHI
It was 1:47 a.m.
Sugawara had just drifted off, snuggled under the warm blankets with dreams of mochi and domestic peace. Everything was perfect. Still. Serene.
Until the TV clicked on.
He blinked awake to a soft gray glow filling the room. Static.
Pure white noise hissing like a snake in the dark.
And you?
You were standing directly in front of the screen. Barefoot. Eyes closed.
Sugawara sat up slowly. “...Babe?”
You didn’t turn.
Didn’t flinch.
You just leaned in a little closer, hands relaxed at your sides, and whispered:
“This is how they talk to me.”
...
He screamed. Internally. Like a church boy in a horror movie.
You turned around, eyes still closed, and shuffled back to bed without another word. The TV kept hissing behind you.
Sugawara stared in utter terror.
He grabbed the remote. Nothing.
He tried the power button. Nothing.
He unplugged it. The screen flickered—finally—off.
He stared at the outlet like it had personally offended him. Then grabbed a bundle of sage from the kitchen drawer (emergency vibes only) and lit it like his life depended on it.
Twice.
The next morning, you woke up refreshed.
“Oh wow, I feel great!”
“Yeah,” Sugawara said, looking deeply unwell. “Did you… dream of anything?”
You squinted. “Hmm. Something about… a static broadcast? Weird, right?”
He paled. His mug trembled.
You sipped your tea cheerfully.
Sugawara burned sage again when you weren’t looking.
He has since installed a child lock on the TV.
And prays nightly for “Them” to pick a different channel.
TSUKISHIMA KEI
1:26 a.m.
He was up scrolling, glasses low on his nose, earbuds in. Everything was normal.
Then he felt it.
Movement.
You.
Shuffling out of bed like a gremlin in a trance.
He pulled one earbud out. “...You good?”
You didn’t answer.
Instead, you walked up to him, eyes half-lidded but direct—too direct.
You slowly… silently… handed him a single white sock.
And whispered:
“If it moves, run.”
...
He stared at the sock in his hand.
Then stared at you.
Then back at the sock.
You had already turned and zombie-walked back into bed. Out cold.
Tsukishima, alone in the dark now, holding a cursed sock like it was the Horcrux of Satan, muttered:
“…What the actual f—”
He sat there for a good minute, debating every life choice that led him to this moment.
Then he cautiously set the sock on the floor and backed away like it might sprout legs.
The sock did not move.
Yet.
He stared at it for five full minutes, just in case.
By 2 a.m., he’d burned it in the sink with kitchen tongs and muttered curses under his breath.
Next morning:
“Kei, have you seen my other sock?”
“No. It's dead. Forget about it.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
You tilted your head. “You’re acting weird.”
He stared at you.
Then at your feet.
Then at the floor where the sock once was.
He doesn’t sleep well anymore.
To this day, he avoids the laundry basket like it's cursed.
Because what if the sock wasn’t alone?
What if that was just phase one.
YAMAGUCHI TADASHI
Yamaguchi had just reached peak comfort—blankets tucked just right, your leg draped over his, the room perfectly quiet.
Then—
You snorted in your sleep.
Sat up like a possessed doll.
Eyes opened just enough to be terrifying.
And in the creepiest half-asleep voice imaginable, you said:
“He knows we switched the baby.”
...
He blinked.
“...I’m sorry—what?”
You flopped back down without another word. Snored. Like nothing happened.
He lay there stiff as a board, heart pounding.
“Switched the… baby?!”
What baby?
WHO IS "HE"?
Did you two kidnap a child in your sleep? Was it metaphorical?? Is this a code???
He lay awake for the next hour, eyes darting around the room like someone was going to bust through the door with a warrant and a diaper bag.
At 4:27 a.m., he was on Google:
“Sleep talking criminal confessions”
“Can dreams be used as evidence”
“How to unswitch a baby you don’t remember switching”
Next morning:
You stretch. Smile. “Morning, Tads!”
He doesn’t answer.
He just looks at you. Cautiously.
Finally:
“...What baby.”
You: “Huh?”
“Last night. You said—‘he knows we switched the baby.’ WHO IS HE. WHAT BABY.”
You blink. “That’s horrifying. I don’t even remember dreaming.”
He just nods slowly.
You sip your coffee like a totally normal person.
He stares at the baby doll on the shelf.
It’s looking at him. He swears it is.
He now sleeps with a night light and checks behind the couch before going to bed.
Just in case.
Because what if it wasn’t a dream?
What if “he” really knows.
HINATA SHOYO
It was 2:47 a.m.
Hinata was dreaming about volleyball and mochi.
The night was peaceful. Moonlight spilled gently across the room.
Then, out of nowhere—
You opened your eyes.
Sat upright.
And in a voice that did not belong to you—deep, rasped, echoing like it had crawled out of a well—you said:
“The bones… are in the closet.”
...
Hinata blinked. “HUH???”
You laid back down. Eyes shut. Completely still.
He froze.
"...Bones?" he whispered.
He looked at the closet.
The closet looked back.
Slowly… cautiously… Hinata climbed out of bed, crept over like he was in a horror film, hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob.
He opened it.
.
.
.
A cockroach ran out.
He screamed.
Tripped over a shoe.
Fell flat on his back.
The closet swung open wider. Nothing else inside. No bones. No monsters. Just clothes… and shame.
You snored peacefully behind him like nothing had happened.
Hinata stared at the ceiling in silent betrayal.
He’d been set up.
By YOU.
By fate.
By the roach.
The next morning:
“You okay? You look like you didn’t sleep.”
“I saw things, [Y/N]. Things you can't un-see.”
You blinked. “Oh. Maybe it was the bug. I dreamed about bugs last night.”
Hinata just nodded slowly.
He now closes the closet with tape every night.
And occasionally whispers back:
“The bones are gone. But the trauma remains.”
GOSHIKI TSUTOMU
It was 1:13 a.m.
Goshiki had to pee.
Simple mission. In. Out. Maybe brush his teeth, maybe not—who’s to say? The world was quiet, the moonlight soft, his socks comfy.
But as he passed the bathroom, he heard something. A whisper.
A low, reverent, slightly sing-song whisper:
“…Soup time.”
He paused.
He turned.
And there you were.
Sitting in the bathtub.
No water.
Lights off.
Just you.
In your pajamas.
Holding a rubber duck gently like it was an infant. Cradling it. Whispering sweet, terrifying nonsense to it.
“Soup time…”
Goshiki stared. You didn’t blink. You didn’t look up.
He backed away.
Step. By. Step.
Closed the door. Slowly. Like in a horror movie.
He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until 4 a.m., whispering:
“Not my business. Not my duck. Not my soup.”
The next day:
“[Y/N]… were you… in the tub last night?”
You: “Huh? No. Why?”
He just nods. “Right. Me neither.”
He still hasn’t brushed his teeth in that bathroom.
The duck remains. Somehow closer to the drain every morning.
He swears it’s watching him.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
It was 3:33 a.m.
Ushijima slept like a man who trusted gravity and his eight hours.
Until—
You suddenly shot upright in bed.
Eyes wide. Moonlight framing you like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Then, in a voice he did not recognize—
Elegant. Crisp. British.
You said:
“The theatre calls… and I must answer.”
Then collapsed.
Limply. Tragically.
Like a haunted widow whose fiancé just perished in a horse-and-carriage accident.
Ushijima stared at you, heart pounding.
Silence.
He blinked.
“…Since when do you have a British accent?” he whispered to no one.
No response.
You were already back in dreamland, drooling peacefully into your pillow like none of that just happened.
Ushijima sat there for a full minute. Processing. Possibly glitching.
“…Was that... Shakespeare? Who’s calling you? Where are you going? What theatre??”
No answers. Just the quiet hum of betrayal.
The next morning:
“Do you—do theatre?” he asked over breakfast, like he was afraid of the answer.
You, chewing cereal: “What? No. Why?”
He paused. Stirred his coffee. Quietly mumbled:
“…You lied with accent.”
You: “Huh???”
He just nodded to himself, deeply disturbed.
You, apparently, had layers.
And one of them was British.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
It was 2:16 a.m.
Shirabu was halfway through cramming for an exam when he heard the fridge open.
He figured it was you. Midnight snacking. Normal.
Until—
He peeked into the kitchen and saw you standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in cold light, cradling a cucumber like it was sacred.
Then you hissed, voice low and gravelly:
“This one’s got the code.”
He froze.
“…What?”
You turned, eyes glassy, face serious.
And walked away—back to bed—still holding the cucumber.
Shirabu stared after you. Then walked to the fridge, curious, confused, low-key concerned for both your sanity and his.
That’s when he saw it.
On the cucumber.
Right under the sticker.
A barcode.
That’s it.
Just a plain old, grocery store barcode.
Shirabu stood there for a second. Processing.
Then sighed the heaviest sigh of his life.
He didn't even bother asking questions.
The next morning, he handed you a slice of toast and muttered:
“You need to stop watching spy thrillers before bed.”
You blinked at him. “I didn’t?”
He stared.
Then slowly pulled the cucumber out of the fridge.
You: “Why is that in a Ziploc bag??”
Him: “For containment.”
You: “...Of what??”
Shirabu just bit his toast and walked away.
He's not sure what worries him more: the fact that you sleepwalk…
Or the fact that you did it with such conviction.
MIYA OSAMU
It started with missing onigiri.
At first, Osamu thought maybe he just forgot he ate them. Or maybe Atsumu dropped by and did what Atsumu does best—steal without remorse.
But when it kept happening, he got suspicious.
So one night, he waited.
Lights off. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on the kitchen.
And right on cue—there you were. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Eyes unfocused. Floating toward the fridge like a snack-seeking phantom.
He watched in horror as you unzipped a bag of rice crackers, whispered, “It’s okay now,” and stuffed two in your pockets before munching on a third.
The next morning, Osamu confronted you, holding up the empty snack bag like a lawyer in court.
“You wanna explain this?”
You blinked at him, groggy. Then sighed, like he was the unreasonable one.
“They were hungry.”
“…They who?”
You glanced at the floor.
Then at the air vent.
And said nothing.
Osamu turned slowly to the vent.
Paused.
“…No. No way.”
You just sipped your coffee, dead silent, looking like someone who’s seen things. Things that crawl. Things that whisper.
He didn’t sleep that night.
He bought an air vent cover the next day.
The snacks now live in a locked cabinet.
He doesn’t question it anymore.
But sometimes, when it’s really quiet,
He swears he hears a crunch.
KITA SHINSUKE
Kita was a light sleeper.
He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him—maybe the creaking floorboards, maybe the distant thump of... jazz hands?
He peeked into the hallway and stopped dead.
There you were.
Spinning slowly.
Barefoot. Arms raised like a ballerina summoning a weather god.
And whispering, with complete, bone-deep conviction:
“This is how the rats taught me to summon rain.”
You did a final pirouette. Then clapped twice.
Kita blinked.
You turned toward him, eyes closed, nodded solemnly, and walked straight back to bed like nothing happened.
He stood in the hallway for a long moment, lips parted, socks cold.
“…The rats?” he muttered.
It rained the next day.
Not a drizzle.
A downpour.
Thunder. Flood warnings. A rogue frog on the porch.
Kita stared out the window, hand gripping his mug like it might float away.
You?
You ate cereal like normal.
Not a single mention of rodents. Of rituals. Of rain.
He didn’t ask.
He couldn’t ask.
Because if you answered,
he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again.
MIYA ATSUMU
Atsumu had just drifted off when he felt the bed shift.
You sat up—slow, stiff—like something out of a ghost documentary.
Then, in a voice that didn’t even sound like yours, you muttered:
“If I vanish… check under the floorboards.”
Then flopped right back down and started snoring.
Atsumu blinked at the ceiling, eyes wide, frozen. He didn’t breathe for a solid minute.
“…I’m sorry, what?”
The next morning, you acted completely normal.
Too normal.
Smiling. Stretching. Asking if he wanted toast.
He didn’t mention it.
But he remembered.
Night two, he tossed and turned.
By night three, he had a flashlight and a crowbar.
By night four, he was in the floorboards.
There was nothing there.
No hidden passage. No secret note. No you-shaped hole.
Just dust, a broken pencil, and the faint scent of panic sweat.
He’s stopped sleeping.
Every time the clock hits 3:33AM, he holds his breath.
Because what if this time, you sit up and finish the sentence?
SUNA RINTARO
It was 2:12AM.
Suna got up for water.
He didn’t expect to find you kneeling in the kitchen, arm stretched dramatically toward the base of the cabinet.
In your hand: one single, perfectly balanced Ritz cracker.
Whispered, reverent:
“For the council.”
Suna blinked. Didn’t move.
Three rats emerged from the shadows like they were summoned. Took the cracker.
You gave a solemn nod, murmured, “The pact is sealed,” and shuffled back to bed.
No further explanation. No context. Just rat business.
Suna stared at the empty floor for a long moment.
Then turned around and walked away.
“Not my business,” he muttered.
He hasn’t brought it up. He won’t.
But deep down, he wonders—
What if you're on the council, too?
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
It was 1:47AM.
Kiyoomi was half-awake, scrolling through news articles about bacteria for fun (as one does), when you rolled over and mumbled into the darkness:
“I gave the rats my brain. I don’t need it anymore.”
Silence.
Then your breathing evened out, like you’d just shared your grocery list.
Kiyoomi sat there for a full minute, blinking slowly.
“…Makes sense,” he whispered into the void.
The next morning, you poured juice into a bowl instead of a glass.
You’d locked yourself in the bathroom nearly an hour ago.
Cramps had you doubled over, your mood was in the gutter, and you felt bloated, ugly, and irritable. The last thing you wanted was anyone seeing you like this—especially not him.
Outside the door, Shoyo Hinata paced like a worried puppy.
“Y/N…?” he called gently. “You okay in there?”
No answer.
So, he tried again. “Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? Me to go fight your uterus?”
Still nothing.
After a moment of silence, a quiet shhfff sound slid across the bathroom floor.
You blinked, turned, and looked down near the door.
A small pack of strawberry Pocky had been pushed through the crack under the door.
“…Shoyo?”
“Just in case you’re hungry,” he replied from the other side. “And if you’re sad. You always eat Pocky when you’re sad.”
You were silent for a while—partly confused, partly touched—when another shhfff noise happened.
This time, it was…a fuzzy pair of boxers.
Steam rose from them.
“What the hell is that?” you asked, leaning toward it like it might attack.
“…I microwaved my boxers,” Hinata said proudly. “So you can wear them and feel warm!”
Your jaw dropped. “Hinata Shoyo. You microwaved your underwear—for me?!”
“YEAH! Not the ones I wore today, okay? They’re clean!! I swear! I just thought—you know—you always say warm stuff helps when it hurts so bad, so I thought…”
You couldn’t help it. A laugh burst out of you despite the dull ache in your stomach.
“…That’s the dumbest and sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you muttered.
You unlocked the door slowly, peeking out with tired eyes and a flushed face.
Hinata stood there with a lopsided smile, holding a heating pad in one hand and another snack in the other. His cheeks were just as red as yours.
“I just… wanna help,” he said sheepishly. “Even if I’m not good at it.”
You opened the door fully and pulled him into a hug.
“You’re more than good at it. You’re the best.”
And in that warm, giggly moment—with microwaved boxers, snacks on the floor, and a sunbeam of a boyfriend—you felt just a little better.
KITA SHINSUKE
Your legs are curled against your chest under a mountain of blankets. The world feels too loud, your body too heavy. Your cramps pulse like clockwork—sharp and relentless—and the heat pack isn’t helping anymore. Neither is your mood.
There’s a knock at your door.
Soft. Familiar.
You groan. “Don’t come in. Go away. I look ugly right now.”
Silence.
Then, the click of the door opening anyway.
You can’t bring yourself to lift your head, but you recognize his footsteps—quiet, deliberate. The scent of chamomile floats into the room before you even see him.
You peek out from the cocoon of blankets.
There he is. Kita Shinsuke.
Hair still perfectly combed. Hoodie sleeves pushed neatly to his elbows. Holding a mug with both hands like it’s something sacred.
“You’re not ugly,” he says plainly, like it’s just fact. “You’re in pain. That’s not the same.”
He sets the mug on your bedside table and doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t force anything. Just turns toward the messy basket of unfolded laundry near your desk and begins folding—slowly, methodically. Like it’s part of a quiet ritual he does just for you.
You stare, too tired to argue, too touched to say anything.
He doesn’t speak either. His movements are calm, steady. It’s like watching a warm breeze clean your room. Your shoulders start to loosen without you realizing. The throbbing in your abdomen is still there, but somehow, it’s less… sharp.
When the last shirt is folded and stacked, he walks over and sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to shift it too much. He picks up the mug again, now cooled just enough, and gently presses it into your hands. His fingers brush yours—warm, calloused, familiar.
“Drink a little. Then I’ll heat up your pad again,” he murmurs.
You do as he says, because you trust him, because his voice makes the ache in your chest ease.
As you take a slow sip, Kita leans in a little closer.
His hand brushes your hair back from your forehead, so softly it makes you want to cry.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Even when you think you’re not.”
You blink at him, stunned at the quiet certainty in his voice.
He studies your face for a moment—eyes calm, kind. Then he leans in and presses the softest kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than needed. Your breath catches. It’s like everything stops—except your heartbeat, which stumbles in your chest.
You whisper, “Thank you.”
Kita smiles faintly, resting his forehead gently against yours. “Always.”
And for the first time that day, the ache doesn’t feel so heavy.
Not with him here. Not when he makes even your worst moments feel worth showing up for.
AKAASHI KEIJI
You were halfway out of bed when it happened—
That dreaded, telltale warmth.
Panic set in immediately. Your stomach dropped as you glanced down at the faint crimson bloom on your sheets. You scrambled to fix it, heart racing, trying to move fast, cover it up, clean it—anything before someone—
Creak.
The door opened. You froze, like a raccoon caught mid-crime.
And there stood Akaashi Keiji, blinking softly at you in the doorway.
You were hunched awkwardly, half-lifting your blanket, a pillow pressed to your side, and you just… froze. Wide eyes. Stiff shoulders. Total horror.
Akaashi took one look at your face and understood.
You broke first, your voice a whisper, shaky and small.
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just—it's gross and—”
He stepped in without hesitation.
“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay. It’s normal.”
You turned away quickly, embarrassment burning through your skin. “I just—I didn’t want you to see it.”
He sighed—not out of frustration, but with the kind of softness people use when folding origami.
“Then I’ll close my eyes while I hold you next time,” he said, only half teasing, and you hated that it made your heart stutter.
Still overwhelmed, you slipped out of the room and headed straight for the laundry area, hiding behind the washing machine like a little gremlin. You didn’t even know why—it just felt like the safest place to melt from embarrassment.
Moments later, you heard the shuffle of sheets and footsteps approaching.
Akaashi appeared around the corner with a laundry basket, wearing that same calm, unreadable face he always did—but this time, his voice was warmer than usual. “Let me clean it. You go rest.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he gave you that look. The one that somehow convinced Bokuto to sleep at a reasonable hour.
“You’re tired. And I know your back hurts. Please,” he added.
And you knew he wasn’t asking out of pity. He was offering care, in the quiet, thoughtful way only Akaashi Keiji could.
So you nodded, slowly, and let him take over.
Later, you found him again, curled on the couch with a blanket ready for you. A warm mug in his hands. Lo-fi playing softly in the background, paired with his voice as he read from your favorite book—his tone calm, steady, like nothing awkward had happened at all.
You sank beside him, cheeks still hot.
“Still feel gross?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to yours.
You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not as much.”
He reached out, brushing your pinky with his.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because you’re not. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”
GOSHIKI TSUTOMU
You were curled up in bed, hair messy, hoodie oversized, hot water bottle clutched to your stomach. The cramps were rude. The bloating was worse. And your mood? Somewhere between “burn the world down” and “cry over a kitten video.”
When your bedroom door creaked open, you groaned.
“Go away. I look terrible.”
Silence. Then—
“Wha—NO YOU DON’T!!”
You blinked, startled, as Goshiki Tsutomu stumbled into your room like a panicked deer. “You’re literally glowing?? Like—like a powerful goddess or something??”
You stared at him, deadpan.
He stared back, cheeks going pink like cherry blossom petals in real time.
“I mean—!” he tried again, waving his arms. “I-I just meant, you always look good! Even when you’re, y’know… fighting for your life??”
You raised an eyebrow.
He clutched a plastic bag tightly. “I brought snacks!”
Then—of course—he tripped over your laundry basket.
Half the snacks spilled out onto the floor in slow motion. A pack of gummies hit your shoe. A chocolate bar slid under your desk like it was making a break for it.
He stood frozen, mid-squat, mouth slightly open in silent horror.
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A small one at first, then a full giggle as he scrambled to collect everything, muttering apologies to both you and the snacks.
“I’m—uh—usually way cooler than this,” he said, red-faced, clutching the surviving chips to his chest like wounded soldiers. “But I just—I wanted to make you feel better, and I read that snacks and compliments help, so—”
You reached out, tugged him gently by the sleeve, and said, “Thank you, Tsutomu.”
He froze.
You gave him a tiny smile. “You're flustered, but you're sweet. And honestly, that’s way more comforting than being too smooth.”
His ears turned red. “S-Smooth is overrated anyway.”
You scooted over, patting the spot beside you. “Come sit, snack guardian.”
He sat beside you like a very nervous golden retriever, still holding the chips, trying very hard not to vibrate with excitement or accidentally touch your knee.
And despite the cramps and bloating, you couldn’t stop smiling.
Because in all his awkward glory, Goshiki made you feel like a goddess—even in sweatpants and pain.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
You were flopped across the couch like a defeated warrior, wrapped in a blanket burrito with a hot compress against your stomach and a scowl on your face. Everything felt puffy. Your mood was foul. Your body felt like it was personally betraying you.
So when you heard footsteps approaching, you groaned.
“I’m bloated and horrible. Don’t come near me.”
A pause.
Then, in that calm, even tone only Ushijima Wakatoshi could pull off:
“Your appearance does not change how I feel about you.”
You peeked out from under your blanket.
He was standing beside you, stoic as ever, holding... a peeled orange. Perfectly sectioned. Not a bit of peel or pith in sight.
“I read that citrus is good during menstruation,” he said seriously, placing it in your hands with utmost care.
You blinked. “Wait—you peeled this?”
“Yes,” he said plainly. “With a spoon. It was... delicate work.”
Your heart did something warm and annoying.
He sat beside you then—not too close, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Strong. Steady. Like a mountain planted at your side.
He didn’t say much after that. Just rested a warm hand against your back, slow and grounding, like an anchor. You didn’t even have to explain how much it helped. He seemed to know, in his own quiet way.
After a while, you muttered, “You’re really not freaked out by all this?”
He looked at you, confused. “Why would I be?”
“I dunno... it’s messy. Complicated. Most guys don’t get it.”
“I don’t fully understand,” he admitted without shame. “But I understand you are in pain. And I want to help. That is enough for me.”
You just stared at him.
Because somehow, that was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to you.
He gently pushed the orange closer. “You should eat. I peeled it with precision.”
You laughed, even though it hurt a little. “You’re kind of perfect, Wakatoshi.”
He blinked slowly. “Only because I’m with you.”
And for once, the pain didn’t feel quite so heavy.
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You were half-buried under a mountain of blankets, hoodie up, socks mismatched, and a microwaved heat pack balanced precariously on your stomach.
Your cramps had declared war. Your bloating was its loyal general. Your mood? Somewhere between “don’t look at me” and “don’t not look at me.”
So when the door creaked open, you groaned dramatically.
“Go away. I look ugly right now.”
A pause. Then his voice—flat, mildly confused, completely Kageyama:
“You’re literally just lying down.”
You peeked up. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway with a grocery bag and a furrow between his brows. Inside the bag? Snacks, bananas, a heat patch, and... chamomile tea?
You squinted. “Did you look this stuff up?”
He stepped in, muttering, “Yeah. Watched three videos. One of them had cartoons... I didn’t like it.”
Your heart did a small, ridiculous flip.
Kageyama placed the tea on the side table like it was a volleyball trophy, then sat stiffly beside you. He handed you a warm bottle of water like it was part of a ritual. He didn’t really know what to do—but he wanted to do it right. That much was obvious.
“You don’t have to stay,” you mumbled, a little shy.
He frowned. “I want to.”
You stared at him.
He stared at your blanket burrito.
Then, in a very serious voice:
“If you need anything... I’ll get it. Unless it’s, like, prescription stuff. Then we need to text someone with a license.”
You bit back a laugh. “That’s... thoughtful?”
He stiffened. “I’m just trying to help. You helped me when I failed that Math test.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t bleed for five days straight.”
His face turned bright red.
There was a loud knock at the door—probably your sibling yelling about borrowing something.
Kageyama stood up like a soldier mid-war. “I’ll handle it.”
You blinked as he marched out, posture tense, voice firm as he told them, “She’s busy. Come back later.”
You heard muffled grumbling. Then silence.
When he came back in, you were smiling.
“Tobio,” you said softly.
He looked over, slightly worried. “What?”
“You’re kinda bad at this... but you’re also kinda great.”
He sat back down beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Well... yeah. I know. But I’m still gonna try.”
You leaned against him, heat pack between you, and for the first time all day, you didn’t feel quite so gross.
KUROO TETSURO
Your uterus was staging a full-blown revolution, your head was pounding, and your emotions were somewhere between burn everything and cry over nothing.
So when Kuroo Tetsurō peeked in through the door with his usual smirk, your reaction was immediate and primal.
“I feel gross, go away.”
He walked in anyway, waving a bar of chocolate like a white flag.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”
You deadpan stared. He paused.
“Okay wait, don’t kill me—here’s chocolate!” He tossed it onto your bed like he was feeding a wild animal.
“I told you to go,” you gritted, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him.
He ducked with a laugh, catching it midair. “Woah—projectile detected!”
“Oh, shut up with the science jokes—”
Too late.
“You know,” he said, inching closer, “your mood is just Newton’s Third Law in action: for every annoying boyfriend action, there is an equal and angry girlfriend reaction.”
You hurled a slipper next.
It missed, barely.
He gave you a look. “Did you just throw your slipper at me?”
“I’ll throw the other one too if you don’t leave me alone!”
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, he set the chocolate properly on your nightstand, sat beside you, and—very gently—reached for your foot.
You raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Massaging away the murder vibes before I die.”
You were still glaring... but you let him.
His thumbs pressed against the arch of your foot in slow, soothing circles. He was annoyingly good at it. You hated how fast the tension began to melt.
“I read that foot massages help with cramps,” he said casually, shifting a little to rub at your calf too. “Also, I like touching you. That part’s a bonus.”
You huffed, pulling the blanket over your face. “I hate you.”
He leaned down, kissing your temple through the blanket.
“You’ll love me again when the serotonin from the chocolate kicks in.”
Another grumble.
Then, softly, you peeked out. “...You are good at massages.”
“I know,” he smirked. “Physics, baby.”
You smacked him lightly with the pillow again—but this time, you didn’t throw it.
BOKUTO KOUTARO
You were curled up on the couch with a heat pack, blanket hood over your head, and an expression that said: I’m done with this world.
You barely mumbled, “I look like death. Don’t look at me.”
But Bokuto was already there—wide eyes, full heart, and very little understanding of how menstrual cycles worked, but deeply trained for this exact situation.
“NOOOO, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL EVEN WHEN YOU’RE DYING!!” he cried out dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the couch like you were in a medieval tragedy.
You groaned and smacked a pillow over your face.
Three weeks ago, he’d caught sight of a single bloodstain on your sweatpants and screamed like you’d been stabbed. “BABE?! ARE YOU BLEEDING TO DEATH?! SHOULD I CALL KUROO? OR AN AMBULANCE???”
Since then, you sat him down—twice—and gave him the “Period 101” crash course with printed infographics, diagrams, and a checklist labeled:
“THINGS TO DO WHEN Y/N IS IN PAIN (DO NOT PANIC)”
And now? He was ready.
Bokuto gently removed the pillow from your face like it was sacred.
“You want the raspberry tea or the mango one? You said mango last time, but you also said raspberry makes you feel loved—”
You blinked.
“I’ll bring both,” he decided, already sprinting off like he was on a game show.
He returned with both teas, a small heating pad, and a pink sticky note taped to the mug that read:
“YOU ARE BRAVE AND AMAZING AND PERIODS ARE SCARY BUT YOU’RE SCARIER 💪❤️ – BOKU ❤️”
You stared at the note.
Then at him—grinning and rocking side to side, eyes expectant.
“Okay,” you said softly. “That’s actually really cute.”
He beamed. “I FOLLOWED THE LIST!!”
You motioned him over with a little wave. He dove beside you immediately, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a large, clingy marsupial.
“I’ll cuddle the cramps out of you,” he declared. “Koala mode: activated.”
You snorted. “You’re the most chaotic comfort ever.”
“Chaotic comfort is still comfort!” he said proudly, then kissed your cheek.
You buried your face in his hoodie, finally able to laugh through the pain.
He stayed like that for hours—occasionally gasping when you shifted or winced (“is it back?! should I karate chop it??”) but never leaving your side, not even once.
DAICHI SAWAMURA
You were curled up under two blankets, hoodie hood up, hair a mess, face pale, eyes tired. Your body hurt, your emotions were a rollercoaster, and the only words that escaped your mouth when Daichi walked into the room were:
“Please, I’m a disaster. Go away.”
But instead of leaving, Daichi Sawamura knelt down beside you with that soft, impossibly patient look in his eyes and said:
“You’re my favorite disaster.”
You groaned into the pillow. “Don’t say sweet things when I look like this…”
“I said what I said,” he replied, standing to his full height like this was some kind of operation he was born for.
And maybe it was.
Five minutes later, he returned with:
Your heating pad (already warm),
A fresh glass of water,
Your meds (right on time),
A snack you didn’t even know you were craving,
And his shoulder.
“Lean on me,” he said gently, tucking himself behind you on the couch and pulling you into his side like a magnet.
You didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really.
You pressed your forehead to his chest and closed your eyes. His arm wrapped around your waist, firm but soft, grounding you even when the cramps made your breath hitch.
“You’re doing great,” he whispered.
“I’m just lying here and not crying.”
“And that’s still brave,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “Your body’s doing a lot. You don’t have to do anything else.”
You felt yourself melt into him—like your pain got a little lighter just from being near him.
He didn’t make a big deal. He didn’t flinch. He just stayed. And that was exactly what you needed.
IWAIZUMI HAJIME
You were curled up on the far end of the bed, hoodie zipped up to your nose, hot pack clutched like a lifeline. Your hair was a mess, your eyes watery, and you were pretty sure you looked like you’d fought a war and lost.
Iwaizumi knocked softly and peeked in. You turned your face away.
“Don’t look at me,” you mumbled. “I feel disgusting.”
He sighed. Not annoyed—never that—but like he was frustrated that you were hurting and blaming yourself for it.
“You’re literally sick,” he muttered, walking in without hesitation. “Let me take care of you, idiot.”
You glared at him half-heartedly from under the blanket. “Rude.”
“I said it with love,” he grumbled, setting a tray down on your nightstand. It had toast, soup, a glass of water, and your painkillers—organized like he was prepping for surgery.
Then he sat beside you and placed a hand gently on your back.
You were tense—tight with pain—but his palm was warm, his fingers steady as he rubbed small circles along your spine.
“…Your uterus is a damn menace,” he muttered under his breath, like he could intimidate it into behaving.
You laughed. It was small, breathy, but real.
He looked at you, still serious. “Did you eat anything?”
You shook your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and handed you a piece of toast. “Bite. Don’t argue.”
You opened your mouth to sass him, but he beat you to it with a warning stare. You took the bite.
He gave a satisfied nod. “Good.”
You chewed slowly, his hand never leaving your back, his other hand checking your forehead like he didn’t trust you to admit if you had a fever.
He didn’t coo or fuss. He didn’t hover. He just... showed up. Knew exactly when to speak and when to just be there.
His love was the kind that made you feel safe without needing to ask. Tough in tone, soft in every action.
And when you curled into his chest later, finally full, warm, and less in pain, he kissed your hair and mumbled:
“Still beautiful. Even when you’re annoying.”
You poked his ribs.
But you were smiling.
KYOTANI KENTARO
You groaned, face buried in the pillow, your stomach twisting like it was training for a wrestling match. The cramps hit you so hard, you barely had the energy to reach for your heating pad.
Then—knock knock—your bedroom door creaked open.
“Go away,” you muttered, not even turning to look. “I look disgusting.”
Kyōtani stood there, frozen for a second. He stared at you, disheveled and clearly in pain. His ears turned a little red.
“Shut up,” he grumbled, stepping in. “You don’t.”
You peeked through one eye, just in time to see him drop a small plastic bag onto your desk like it was nothing.
Inside: your favorite chips, a pack of sour gummies, a weird milk tea you mentioned once, and—somehow—your favorite brand of pain relief patch.
You blinked.
“…You went to the store?”
He didn’t look at you. “Was already out.”
That was a lie.
You knew it.
He knew you knew it.
But neither of you said anything.
Instead, he awkwardly stood there, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.
You groaned again as another wave of cramps hit. You clutched your stomach and curled tighter into the blankets, trying not to cry.
That did it.
Kyōtani took off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, silent but sure, like it was instinct. He didn’t say a word, just let you lean into him.
But the pain didn’t go away.
And before either of you could process what was happening, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, face buried in his chest like he was your personal heating pad. You let out a shaky breath and stayed there.
“Wha—” he froze, muscles stiff like he’d been turned to stone. “What are you doing???”
“Shhh,” you mumbled. “It hurts. You’re warm. I’m sleeping here now.”
You passed out within minutes.
He sat there, hands up like he wasn’t sure where to place them, cheeks burning, heart racing like he’d been spiked straight through the soul.
Eventually, his hands settled on your back—carefully, gently. He even leaned his chin on your head and closed his eyes.
“…Idiot,” he whispered softly, barely audible. “Don’t say you’re disgusting.”
Because even like this—messy, tired, pained—you were everything he secretly adored.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
You were bundled in a hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a messy bun, and a heating pad across your stomach like it was the only thing keeping you alive.
Your phone buzzed.
Shirabu: Outside. Open up.
You groaned. Noooo.
You shouted toward the door: "Don’t come in, I look like trash!"
But it was too late. The door opened a crack—and there he was. Backpack slung over his shoulder, hair slightly messy from rushing over, and his ever-present frown on full display.
“I’ve seen you cry over animal videos,” he said flatly. “You’re still out of my league.”
You blinked.
“…You’re annoying.”
“Good. I brought vitamins and warm towels. Don’t waste my effort.”
He walked in and started unpacking like this was a mission. You sat up a little, trying not to grimace from the cramps, pretending to scroll on your phone like you didn’t just feel like sobbing two seconds ago.
Shirabu caught the way you winced and muttered, “Tch. Idiot body. I’ll beat it up if I have to.”
You giggled at that, and he looked away, cheeks faintly pink.
When he finally sat beside you—arms crossed, like he wasn’t here for emotional support—his shoulder barely brushed yours.
And you?
You really wanted to lean on him. Just a little.
But no.
Too embarrassing.
So instead, you scooted just a tiny bit closer. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to feel the warmth of his sleeve.
He noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but his arms slowly, so slowly, uncrossed. One hand rested on your blanket. The other tugged you in by the hoodie strings like you were a cat being scruffed.
“…You could just say you want to be held, you know,” he muttered under his breath, placing your head gently on his shoulder.
“I don’t,” you whispered stubbornly, face already heating up.
“Sure,” he said sarcastically, wrapping an arm around you anyway. “That’s why you're basically glued to my side.”
You snorted and sank into him, pretending you were asleep so he wouldn’t tease you further.
But when he leaned down and whispered against your forehead, “Even your trash days are my favorite,” your heart skipped.
Maybe being clingy wasn’t so bad—if it was with him.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
You curled up tighter under the covers, the heating pad already losing warmth and your cramps flaring like they had a personal vendetta. The light knock at your door barely registered.
“Go away,” you groaned. “I look ugly right now.”
The door creaked open anyway.
“I don’t care how you look,” Sakusa said gently, stepping in. “I care that you’re hurting.”
You peeked out from the blanket burrito you had made yourself into. There he stood—messy curls, fresh clothes, a pink mask (was that the one with the tiny peaches?), and a tote bag full of comfort items in his hand.
“Kiyoomi…” you mumbled, embarrassed.
“I brought your favorite snacks. The heat pad. Extra pads, the tea you like, and…” He trailed off, fishing something from his bag. “…the fuzzy socks you said felt like clouds.”
Your eyes watered a little—not from the cramps this time.
He crossed the room, set the bag on your desk, and placed a perfectly folded blanket at the edge of your bed.
“You didn’t have to,” you whispered.
“I wanted to,” he replied, gently placing a hand on your forehead, mask still on. “You're always taking care of others. Let someone take care of you.”
He pulled down the mask slightly—just enough to lean in and press a soft kiss to your temple, then one to your cheek.
“Even when you feel your worst,” he murmured, “you’re still the person I love the most.”
Your face heated faster than your cramps hurt.
You tried to hide under your blanket again, but he was faster—he slipped in beside you, gently pulling you into his chest as he tucked the warm heating pad between you.
“Rest,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wrapped in Sakusa’s quiet love and warmth, even your uterus decided to calm down for once.
cw: reader has big boobs, that’s it, based on a true story (i’m running out of shirts)
Kita’s phone buzzes just as he steps out of the shower, lighting up through the thin film of steam that’s developed as he towels off after his post-fieldwork clean. He finishes drying himself and picks it up, eyes narrowed in curiosity. You never text him while you’re at work.
lover
can you bring me my travel sewing kit?
asap pls 🤲
It’s a strange request, but he obliges, taking it from its customary place on the lower shelf of your nightstand and walking up the street to the general store where you work. The bell on the door dings as he pushes his way in, curious brown eyes scanning the space for you.
“Oh, thank goodness,” you say, emerging from the door behind the register where employees take their breaks. “Shinsuke, come here, please!”
You disappear back into the break room. He crosses behind the counter cautiously, still wary of going into employee-only sections even though he knows rationally that it’s perfectly acceptable for him to be there.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed in here after last time,” he says. The last time he was in the break room was in high school, the two of you a new couple, and you had delighted in convincing him to break rules in ways very unlike the routine-oriented, straight-laced Kita Shinsuke.
“Don’t be cheeky,” you roll your eyes, then consider for a moment. “Well. And don’t let my father see you. Just close the door.”
He closes the door carefully behind him, drinking in the flustered state of you. Your hair is frizzing up around your head like you’ve been running your hands through it repeatedly, your cheeks are flushed down to your décolletage, and you have your left hand clamped over your right shoulder.
“Are you alright?” The last detail has him hovering by you like a mother hen over her eggs, his bigger hand brushing against yours, asking you to show him.
“Yeah,” you blush. “I’m not hurt, you can relax. I just—I leaned over to empty the wastebaskets and myboobsexplodedmyshirt.”
You say this in such a rush that he has to ask you to repeat yourself.
“My. My, uh, chest was too,” you make a curving motion with your right hand and he might be blushing too, now, from the heat of his cheeks. “And the seams burst on the straps of my top.”
He blinks at you.
“It’s such a bad problem to have,” you drop your chin, your words muffled. “I don’t know how, I popped a button off of a shirt last month too. At least nobody was in the store.”
Kita wordlessly lifts the sewing kit.
“Thank you,” you say, all your breath whooshing out of you. “You’re a god. Do you mind holding these for me? Shinsuke?”
As you speak, you peel your hand away from where it’s been clamped, the material of your top sticking to your skin but slowly following, the shredded straps slithering away. You neatly thread a needle, wetting the crimson filament with your lips and making absolutely nowhere in your vicinity safe to look at. The divot between your collarbones is fluttering with your pulse; he could reach out and touch it, put his thumb in that hollow, trace it all the way down to—
“Shinsuke?” You say again, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Shin? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he nods, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. “What did you need?”
“Can you just hold the corner—” you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger. “And the strap so I can pin it?”
He takes the fabric from you, noticing a tremor in his hands that he immediately tries his hardest to squash. The backs of his knuckles brush against your soft, sun-kissed skin. He is going to be in terrible trouble with the father-in-law.
“Am I very red right now?” He asks quietly. You lean back and study him, your perceptive gaze matching his.
“Yes, actually.”
“I thought so.” He sounds resigned.
You stitch up the torn pieces on one side, Kita watching your deft little fingers work with a kind of adoring fascination, and have just pinned the other when the bell dings again, signifying the arrival of a customer.
“Shit,” you swear. “I guess I’ll just—”
“Take mine,” Kita offers immediately.
“What?” You shake your head. “It’s fine! This should hold.”
“Please,” he’s already reaching behind him and grabbing the collar, bunching up the fabric and pulling it over his head. You stare at him, pupils expanding and mouth agape (and thus unable to argue), as he offers it out to you. “I’d prefer you wear this over until you can sew the other than risk anything.”
Kita is a dutiful son of the fields who has been working out in the heat many days this summer. He’s a quiet boy, a good neighbor, and the pride of his family. He never does anything to shame his family name, even this: after all, the talk of the town today is only that Yumie’s boy was so tan and strong, more cut than anyone would expect under those heavy overalls, as he walked shirtless down the street coming back from the store with empty hands and a dazed smile on his face.
Alpha Kita accidentally knotting you the first time you two have sex. His rut is nowhere near, the knot just snuck up on him. He didn't even realize until he tried to roll his hips as you ride out your orgasms and he suddenly can't pull out. He'd be soooo embarrassed, half folded over you as he tries to hide his face in your neck but you smell so good it's making his hips jerk and just reminding you both that you're kinda stuck here which makes him more embarrassed and-
You're trying to comfort him and tell him its ok, you dont mind, these things happen (never with you. And you assume never to Kita. But its not unheard of, and you consider it flattering in a way?) You're scratching at the nape of his neck, trying to soothe him with praise because you can feel his stuttering breath on your neck and you're kinda afraid he's going to cry because he's shaking like a leaf and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. Then he says - murmurs it into your collarbone, really - "It's never gonna go down if you keep doing that" and you're so focused on his lips moving against your skin that you don't really register the words at first. It clicks, eventually, and you move your hand away from his neck with a bashful "Oh! Sorry."
And its like, without your hand on him, he deflates. His grip on you loosens and he's still shaking but not nearly as much. He's able to move his limbs, at last, and adjusts so that you're laying on top of him, still firmly tied together. His hands rub up and down your sides before wrapping around your back. "I really am sorry about this. I woulda warned you, at least. " But now its your turn to bury your face in the crook of his neck as you tell him "Stop apologizing, this is nice". You punctuate your words with a kiss where his scent is strongest, and you just know from the way his body shudders under yours that you've just bought yourself a little more time in this position.
How writers feel after starting a jaw-dropping, pearl clutching, thigh shaking, mouth watering, soul taking series just to leave me with no aftercare and discontinue it
CW: suggestive jokes (Matsukawa, Suna, Osamu a little)
MATSUKAWA’s sprawled on the couch, waiting to see the new outfit you bought. You had excitedly texted him before coming home, hiding the contents of your bag as you ran to change. It’s been a few minutes when he teasingly calls out, “You okay in there, babe? Need help?”
“No, actually I don’t, Issei,” you reply before walking out of the master bathroom. You do a slow turn, smoothing out the fabric that seems to hug you in the most perfect way.
“Oh goddamn.” Issei gets up so fast he stumbles on the rug beneath him and slips onto the wooden floor.
“I don’t know when i’m gonna wear this, but it’s really nice, right?”
“Really fuckin' nice,” he agrees, grinning. “Respectfully and in love with you, I humbly ask, do you want to immediately get out of this and make out right now?”
IWAIZUMI looks up when he hears the changing room door open. You’re fixing the waist of your outfit, and don’t notice the way his eyes widen. He whispers under his breath, “Holy fuck.”
“Haji, do you think it’s too much for the dinner? I know it’s ‘just your old teammates’ but, like, i want to look good,” you explain.
Hajime’s gaze softens and he clears his throat before standing. “No, it’s perfect. You look…you look perfect.”
You smile and it’s all he can do to stop himself from covering his face and groaning. Trying to contain himself, he sighs. “Oikawa’s going to say something about you looking better than me, and I won’t even be able to disagree.”
The sound of your laughter fills the air, and it seems to take your boyfriend’s breath away. “Well, we better get something just as good for you then.”
KUROO almost drops his keys walking through the front door.
“Tetsu, you’re back early.”
“God, please don’t tell me I forgot about a super important event tonight.” He sounds both panicked and in awe, mind in shambles at the sight of you. You open your mouth to speak, but Tetsuro's faster.
“Wait, don’t tell me,”—he speeds toward you—“before I die, I want you to know you look incredible, and I’ll gladly be your poorly-dressed accessory for the night.” There’s a joking strain to his voice, and he sniffs before bringing leaning against you.
“Tetsu.” You laugh and pat his back. “There’s nothing happening, I just bought a new outfit and wanted to try it on.”
The messy-haired man lets out a noise between a relieved sigh and groan. Feeling safer, Tetsuro to look at you, now able to fully appreciate the sight. “Thank god. I’m gonna count that as the second win of the night then 'cause seriously, you look so good right now.”
ATSUMU’s in the middle of fixing his tie when you walk into the bedroom. Your reflection joins his in the floor-length mirror, and he freezes with wide eyes.
You turn from side to side and smile. “What do you think?”
Atsumu’s tie is half-done when he turns to face you. He puts a hand to his forehead. “Am I dead? Are you an angel here to take me away?”
You snort and approach him to finish tying his tie. “I’m gonna take that as a ‘you look good, babe,’ then.”
“Just good? Baby, I think ’m sweating. Maybe cryin’ a little.”
“Tsumu—”
“Uh-uh, don’t say my name. I might explode.”
You laugh, face warm from his praise; his own flustered state keeps him from noticing yours. Atsumu shakes his head again, as if to get out of a haze. “You know what, let’s go. Yeah, let’s go now before I keep you all t’myself. We’re gonna knock ‘em dead.”
OSAMU lets out a low whistle as you walk into the living room, eyes scanning you up and down. He gets up from the couch, and places his hands on your hips. “Y’sure you have to go out tonight?”
“Samu.”
He laughs at your pointed look and puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m kidding, hon. You look stunning, though.”
Rolling your eyes, you thank him. “C’mon, I’m gonna be late if we don’t go now.”
You walk to the door, but Osamu thinks back to the evening’s weather forecast. “You aren’t bringing a jacket?”
“Hm? Nah, we’re gonna be inside.” Putting on your shoes, you don’t bother looking at him to reply. Blindsided, you stumble by the weight that suddenly drapes over your shoulders. You know Osamu's favourite jacket from anywhere, and you stand properly so he can fix it on you.
He leans over to kiss your temple and mumbles in your ear, “Now you’ll be warm and everyone will remember we’re dating.”
SUNA snakes his arm around your waist and kisses your temple. “Hi, babe.”
“Rin! When did you get here?”
“A couple of minutes ago. Beelined for you after Tsumu shoved a drink in my hand.”
You laugh and he smiles before registering what you’re wearing. He takes a sip from his drink while scanning the new look. “This what you bought on saturday?”
“Hm? Yeah, it’s really nice, right?”
Rin looks between you and the glass in his hand. “If I didn’t have manners, I would’ve thrown this glass and made out with you.”
You roll your eyes and hit his stomach, pretending that his words didn’t make your stomach flip. “Why can’t you compliment me like a normal person?”
Rin takes no offense, instead maneuvering so he can hold his drink while wrapping his other arm around you. He squeezes you, grinning when you yelp. “‘One, cause you look hot, and two, where’s the fun in that?”
SAKUSA’s fingers slip from his cuff button again, earning a huff and frown from him. “Omi, are you ready?”
“Yeah, can you just help me w—” he turns to the sound of your voice and pauses. The new outfit you told him about makes his heart skip a beat, and he almost forgets about his own suit predicament.
“With what? Oh, the button?” You make your way over to help, Kiyoomi still the entire time “There ya go.”
“You look incredible,” is the first thing he says instead of thank you.
“Huh? Oh, I—thank you. You look very handsome.”
There’s a beat of silence as Kiyoomi weighs the pros and cons of going out. He nearly frowns. “Completely related, am I allowed to be rude if anyone tries to flirt with you?”
HINATA spits out his drink and chokes a little. “Oh my–oh my god, sorry, I—”
“Shoyo?” you speed over, concerned but also trying not to laugh. “Are you okay?”
“Huh? Yeah? I’m so fine,” he says, flushed face saying otherwise. (Whether it’s from the choking, embarrassment, or your outfit, you’re not too sure.) Then, as if he wasn’t choking a few seconds earlier, he starts showering you in compliments.
“Anyway,”—he clears his throat—”you look great, babe. like, like it really screams 'you,' you know? I bet everyone’s gonna be jealous of me.”
You tilt your head, chest warm from his praise. “Oh really? Of you, mister professional volleyball player?”
Shoyo mirrors you and tilts his head as if you’ve asked a silly question. “Well, yeah? 'Cause you look this good and I get to date you.”
TSUKISHIMA’s not great with compliments, and he always wants to kick himself in the ass for it when it comes to you.
You look at him standing a couple feet behind you in the mirror. “I think I like this one better. What do you think, Kei?”
Biting his lip, he looks to the side and clears his throat. “It looks good.”
He can feel you staring and fiddles with the hem of his shirt. You prod again, “You sure? You don’t think it’s missing something?”
Mustering up some strength, Kei glances at your wary expression and lets out a breath. “No, I promise. You look great, and this is the best thing you could have chosen.”
You smile, and his gaze softens a fraction before he’s back to being Tsukishima—“Are you ready now? Because we’re going to be late if we keep standing here, and the group chat’ll blow up our phones.”
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes:
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
synopsis: you dated atsumu in hs but broke up a few years later. years have passed since the breakup and he now plays for the msby black jackals, but he still hates you for breaking up with him.
status: finished
introduction: yn & her bfs ✿ tsumu & his bros + yn’s bfs
Trying to find good AOT or JJK fics is so hard nowadays. Everything is just smut. Like every fic i just saw under “armin x reader” is smut. It’s not that big of a deal, but it’s lwk annoying when all ppl write about now is smut. Like what happened to plots, angst, storylines, yearning, etc. im usually not the type to complain but omg. I wish ppl would see aot and jjk as more than just smut.
And can we talk about how there’s smut for yuji, who (if i remember correctly) is a minor?
hidden kisses- matsukawa issei x reader || wc: 721 || tags: slightly suggestive, making out, small spaces, caught making out, kiss marks, teasing, flirting, || masterlist || taglist form || prompt list
“Issei, someone is gonna find us,” you murmured against his lips. He smiles against your lips and pulls you closer to him. The storage room is dark and cramped as he has you pushed against the furthest wall. You can only just barely make out the outline of his face in the dimly lit room.
“Yeah?” You can already hear the smirk in his voice as he moves his head to kiss your jaw before trailing down to your neck. “We’ll be fine.” His breath tickles your neck and his hand pushes your shirt up slightly with his hand.
“Watch your hands,” you whisper breathlessly into the air. One hand rests on his back as the other pushes his face slightly into your neck. He sucks lightly at the skin and you know small bruises are already forming along the surface. “Issei, come on.” You reprimand him although there isn’t much bite in your words, more so mild annoyance.
You shiver lightly feeling his thumb swipe across your stomach. His hands grip slightly tighter as he lifts you up and you have to wrap your legs around his waist as he holds you against the wall. “I’m not doing anything,” you huff as you hear his voice. He knows what he’s doing, he should be ashamed. He trails his kisses back up to your lips, he bites on your lower lip and you open your mouth with a gasp. His tongue slips into your mouth and you tangle your fingers in his hair and lean into the kiss.
“You’re evil,” you tell him as you pull away from him. A string of spit connects your mouths but breaks when you swipe your tongue over your lips. He only hums at you before you bring him back in, he hums against your lips and your free hand goes under the collar of his shirt. Your fingers scratch lightly at his back which causes him to laugh lightly against your mouth.
It’s cut short when you hear the door of the closet click open. You jump down from Mattsun and quickly adjust your clothes and wipe at your mouth. There’s a sigh of relief when a familiar head of coral hair appears in the doorway. “Well, well, well, I thought I would find you two here.” Makki puts his hands on his hips and although his words sound like a reprimand there’s a teasing lilt to his voice.
“Not a word,” you close your eyes for a moment and shake your head before leaving the closet. Mattsun follows close behind with Makki in tow. “I told you someone was going to find us.” You cross your arms and refuse to look at him.
“It’s just Makki,” He puts his arm around your shoulders and rolls his eyes when you push it off. You can hear Makki’s quiet laughter in the background and you both turn to give him a look.
“Hey, he’s right. Imagine if Iwaizumi, or god forbid, Oikawa found you.” The thought does unnerve you. Perhaps it’s okay that it’s just Makki. He comes up and leans towards you to whisper in your ear. “Plus if it makes you feel better, Mattsun’s got lipstick smeared all over his face and you look just fine.” You can’t help the laughter that boils in your chest as you turn your head to see how your lip stick has stained Mattsun’s lips. The color bleeds around the corners of his mouth and there’s small kiss prints below his jaw and one just barely visible under the collar of his shirt.
“It does make me feel little better.”
“What? What happened?”
“Got a little something on your face is all,” you both burst out laughing as he sighs and shakes his head at you two.
“What about it? Am I supposed to be ashamed that my partner kisses me?”
“Come on, wipe it off.” You raise your eyebrow to him and laugh softly when Makki copies you.
“Yeah, come on, wipe it off.”
“You two are awful, honestly why am I even friends with you?” He sighs and wipes the lipstick off with the sleeve of his shirt.
“You love us.”
“Yeah, I do.” You allow him to wrap his arm around your shoulder, and he kisses the top of your head. “I really do.”
thank you for all your requests mey <333 i love that they're all mattsun. it made me giggle when i saw them. (the prompt event is still open if anyone else would like to send in a request from the list!)
prove me wrong! directory // haikyuu uni
part two - where partners are assigned
extras from sunnie!
yn lives on coffee and vibes
kuroo is already hopelessly down bad and yaku sees it as a goldmine to bully the hell out of him for it
bokuto did have a project to work on :(
the breakup was so bad for yn that kiyoko and akaashi don't pressure her too much about hockey stuff but they do think she's a little delusional and avoidant
yn was so nice texting bokuto but he felt so bad about giving her number out that he put himself on punishment (akaashi thought it was funny)
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
izzy806
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
gamechangershow
2087
