You accidentally knock on your brother Toji's neighbor's door instead of his. Unfortunately for you, his neighbor happens to be Sukuna.
Warm autumn air drifts lazily across the cracked parking lot, pushing brittle leaves over the worn asphalt. The car finally slows to a stop, the engine cutting off in front of the old red-brick fraternity house.
You climb out, the crisp fall air brushing pleasantly against your skin. Out of habit, you adjust the leather strap of your bag on your shoulder, but it does nothing to ease the tension sitting in your chest.
You won't even be starting college until next year.
The trunk slams open behind you with a dull thud.
Your dad, grumbling under his breath like always, starts unloading boxes while your mom immediately begins counting the endless bags of homemade food they brought for Toji. Of course they couldn't show up empty-handed. Your brother's always had a ridiculous appetite after spending hours at the gym.
"Go get your brother," your mom says without even looking up. "Tell him to help your father."
"Mhm..."
Your answer comes out quiet, almost absentminded. You give a lazy nod before heading toward the fraternity house.
You think Toji's room is on the second floor...
Or was it the first?
The last time you were here, you'd been too caught up in your own thoughts to pay attention to where you were going. By the time you reach the porch, you realize you've completely forgotten the layout.
Thankfully, the heavy oak front door is closed.
You reach out and press the old brass doorbell.
Nothing.
For what feels like forever.
Nearly a full minute passes before slow, dragging footsteps finally echo from somewhere inside.
A heavy lock clicks.
The door swings open.
A guy stands in front of you.
He's ridiculously tall.
Maybe even taller than Toji.
Messy snow-white hair sticks out in every direction like he'd just rolled out of bed. He lets out a huge yawn, lazily rubbing the back of his neck before squinting against the bright afternoon sun.
Only then does he finally look at you.
His eyesāan impossibly vivid shade of blueāstudy you with open curiosity.
For a few seconds, he just... stares.
Then the corners of his lips curl into an easy, welcoming smile.
"Well, hey there."
His voice catches you off guard.
Deep.
Smooth.
Relaxed in a way that sounds almost effortlessly confident.
You suddenly forget how to speak under that unwavering gaze.
"Uh... hi."
Your voice wavers.
"I'm... Toji's little sister."
You clear your throat.
"My parents are here. I just came to grab him so he can help unload everything."
The blond lifts an eyebrow.
Something playful flickers in those bright blue eyes.
"Sister?"
His tone makes it sound less like a question and more like he's trying to figure out whether you're messing with him.
"Yeah."
He watches you for another second before his smile widens, faint dimples appearing in his cheeks.
Just like that, every trace of sleepiness disappears from his face.
"Satoru."
He gives you a small, polite nod.
"Nice to meet you."
"You too."
Satoru steps aside in one smooth motion, letting you into the cool, dim entrance hall.
"Second floor. End of the hallway, then take a right."
"Thanks."
You nod quickly before hurrying past him, trying very hard not to hold your breathāor look around too much.
You're already halfway up the old wooden staircase when a quiet chuckle reaches your ears from behind.
Heat immediately creeps up your neck.
The hallway upstairs is silent.
You walk all the way to the end where it splits in two.
Two doors.
Facing each other.
You quickly replay Satoru's directions in your head.
Right.
So...
This one.
You knock on the painted wood.
Nothing.
You wait, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.
A cold knot of anxiety slowly spreads through your chest.
You knock again.
Harder.
Still nothing.
Frowning nowāand already annoyed at your brother, who's probably dead asleepāyou raise your fist one more time.
This time, much louder.
The door suddenly flies open.
Your fist jerks forward into empty air.
You flinch so hard your heart nearly jumps into your throat.
Instead of a face...
You find yourself staring directly at a broad, bare chest.
It isn't Toji.
The man standing in front of you is built just as solidlyābroad shoulders, thick frame, the kind of body that clearly belongs to someone used to hard training. His chest and stomach are completely bare, muscles shifting beneath his skin with even the smallest movement.
But that's not what steals your attention.
It's the tattoos.
Black markings wrap tightly around his forearms before climbing over his shoulders, stretching across the sides of his ribs and branching down his abdomen in thin, jagged lines. You even catch a few smaller markings circling his biceps.
Then your eyes drift to his face.
The same black lines run beneath his eyes and across his cheekbones, making his already sharp features look even harsher.
His hair is an unusual shade of soft peach, still slightly damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower. One loose strand hangs over his forehead, almost covering his right eye.
A desk lamp glows somewhere behind him, spilling warm amber light over one side of his body while the other remains swallowed by shadow.
He's frowning.
You can practically feel his gaze travel slowly over you, sizing you up without a hint of shame.
Slowly, he tilts his head.
There's something animalistic about the movement.
Predatory.
"A...?"
The confused sound slips out before you can stop it.
He doesn't answer right away.
His brows knit together slightly, and his expression shifts into something openly skepticalābordering on amused.
Then he grimaces, as if the sound of your voice alone is enough to irritate him.
"...Who are you?"
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Heat rushes into your face, down your neck, even across your chest until your skin prickles with embarrassment.
"I... I'm sorry..."
Your words stumble over each other.
"I was looking for Toji."
Your voice comes out painfully small.
Silence.
His expression only grows flatter.
Bored.
His face practically says, Here we go again.
Apparently, girls using that excuse isn't exactly new to him.
You rush to explain before he can misunderstand any further.
"I'm his sister."
A faint smirk finally appears.
It never reaches his eyes.
He straightens up before casually leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest. The movement pulls at the tattoos stretched over his muscles.
Without saying a word, he lifts one hand and points behind you.
"Toji's room is the one across the hall."
He gives a lazy nod toward the door behind your back.
Even as you turn away, the weight of his attention doesn't leave you.
He doesn't look away for even a second.
You glance over your shoulderā
āand only now notice the faded nameplate hanging on the opposite door.
Oh.
You really did get the rooms mixed up.
"Oh my God..."
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
"Thank you."
You practically flee to the correct door, putting as much distance between yourself and him as possible before knocking several times in quick succession.
Even then...
You know he hasn't moved.
His gaze still burns between your shoulder blades, making goosebumps rise across your skin.
A few seconds later, the door opens.
Toji stands there, squinting through sleep-heavy eyes as he rubs at them with one hand.
Then he recognizes you.
"Shorty?"
"Toji!"
The second you hear his voice, all the tension leaves your body.
You throw yourself into his arms, burying your face against his chest.
Still half-asleep, he pats your back automatically.
"Mom and Dad are here."
Your words tumble out in one breath.
"Dad needs help unloading everything. They brought, like... a ridiculous amount of stuff."
"They're already here?"
He drags a hand down his face, trying to wake himself up.
"It's barely fucking nine in the morning..."
You shrug.
Only after he speaks does Toji notice where your uneasy gaze is fixed.
Behind you, still leaning lazily against his own doorway, stands his neighbor.
Toji's expression changes instantly.
Every trace of sleep disappears, replaced by quiet irritation.
His whole body tenses.
"Sukuna."
His voice turns sharp.
"The fuck are you staring at?"
The stranger lets out a low chuckle.
His voice is deep, rough around the edges, but just as rich as Satoru's had been downstairsā
ābut unlike Satoru's, there's something dangerous beneath it.
Something aggressive.
Sukuna.
You quietly memorize the name.
"Your kid sister decided she'd stop by my room first."
Toji shoots you a questioning look.
You shrink a little, still hiding against his shoulder.
"I... mixed up the doors..."
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Toji clicks his tongue in annoyance, his jaw tightening.
He steps out into the hallway, stuffing his hands into his sweatpants pockets before gently nudging you forward.
"You guys heading back tonight?" he asks, never taking his eyes off Sukuna.
"Yeah."
You nod.
"We're leaving later."
"Shame."
That lazy, velvety voice comes from behind you, sending your pulse climbing all over again.
You glance back.
Sukuna hasn't moved.
His arms are still crossed over his chest, every inch of those black tattoos on display.
That crooked smirk is still playing on his lips.
"Aren't you staying for the party tonight?"
Toji rolls his eyes so hard you can almost hear it.
His jaw flexes.
"Shut up," he throws over his shoulder.
"She's not going."
"Why not?"
Sukuna sounds almost amused.
"'Cause she's still too young."
The words sting far more than his attempt to protect you.
"Excuse me? I'm not! I'm alreadyā"
You take a step forward, ready to argueā
ābut Toji doesn't even acknowledge your protest.
Instead, he reaches over and plants a heavy hand on top of your head, giving it a firm squeeze.
"And don't even think about checking out my friends."
His tone is serious.
Almost warning you.
"I wasn't going to!"
You grumble, brushing your hair back into place after he ruffles it.
You're about to argue some more.
But your eyes meet Sukuna's.
He's still standing in his doorway.
Still looking at you.
Not Toji.
Not the hallway.
Not anything else.
Just...
You.
The smirk on his lips slowly spreads into something far more self-satisfied.
You don't know how long the moment lasts.
Long enough to make your pulse forget how to behave.
Maybe forever.
Thenā
Thwack.
Toji smacks the back of your head.
You let out a tiny yelp, immediately dropping your gaze to the toes of your sneakers, pretending they're suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world while trying desperately to calm the frantic pounding of your heart.
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)
Thanks for reading! ā” Just a little drabble. I'm still a bit unsure about this one, but I hope some of you enjoyed it anyway.
stealing your husbandās chocolate and finding out it was laced with an aphrodisiac!
[content: MDNI, crack smųt, a very unserious piece of work, piv, hair pulling, use of aphrodisiacs, sukunaās sour but then heās sweet]
Never in your life have you been so horny it hurt.
āKuna, pleaseāharder,ā you cry out.
āIām going as hard as I fucking can, you little slut,ā he snaps, each thrust matching every harsh word that gets spat through his teeth. āTHIS IS WHY YOU DONāT EAT RANDOM. CHOCOLATE. ON. THE. COUNTER.ā
āIām sorry! Fuck!! I didnāt know!ā
āThere was a note saying DONāT eat itāyou just didnāt give a shit because youāre a thief and a glutton. A liar now, too,ā he continues to scold you over the chocolate bar he was going to give to Jin so heād stop groveling over his ex. Itās been 6 fucking months, heās tired of having to listen to him go on and on about Kaori. Enough is enoughāhe needs to go out and sleep with someone.
And now Jinās never going to shut up. Sukuna doesnāt even want to look at you right nowālet alone reward your behavior with dick.
āAnd now youāre cryinā like itās my fuckinā fault.ā Itās him who should be crying right now. āItās simple: Leave my fucking snacks alone. I always get multiples of each so youād keep your grubby little hands off them. Why canāt you just be normal and go in my wallet?? FuckāArch that back some more.ā He cracks his palm over your ass. āYeah, hike it up nice and high.ā
āI canāt!ā It feels like itās about to break with all the weight heās putting on it! Both of his hands pinning you down, burying every last inch of his cock inside of you.
He scoffs, nudging for you to close your thighs, then planting his knees right next to yours so they stay that way. āDo you want to cum?ā
āā¦yes,ā you whimper.
āThen fucking arch it.ā
You sniffle. āOkay.ā
He breaks character and huffs out a laugh as he watches you continue to helplessly stretch and squelch around him, making a creamy mess all along his shaft. He straightens his back, big hands now firmly grabbing your hips as he picks up the pace.
āYeahhāstay right there,ā his chest rumbles as he lets out a low, drawn-out groan. The smack of his hips growing louder, driving himself right into that little spot that wonāt stop screaming for his attention.
It has his attention now.
The new angle had you whining into the pillow, absolutely reeling from how good he was at this, despite his complaints. He knows how to be rough. Nearly lifting you off the bed once he starts pulling your hips back, heavy balls smacking against your sensitive clit as he makes you meet each and every rough thrust he delivers.
āF-fuckk!ā you choke out, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you start babbling out a bunch of words.
āSo fuckinā spoiled.ā He complains, but just barely. āCāmon bratāyouāve been working me like a fuckinā dog, give it to me already.ā
āI know, Iām sorry.ā He doesnāt believe you. You sound like youāre in heaven right now. āMmhhāI love you so much.ā His scowl deepens. āSo, so muchāyouāre so fucking big.ā
āTch.ā He grabs a handful of your hair, then yanks you back until youāre up against his chest, lips grazing your ear while muttering in it. āI donāt want an apology. What I want is for you to cum on my fuckinā cock already. Or should I just stop?ā
āNo, no donāt! Please! Iām trying, I swear,ā you begin to plead with the man.
āTry harder.ā Then he smiled, because he felt you squeeze around him. āJesus Christāyou need to me talk you through it too? The chocolates supposed to make you horny, sweetheart. Not useless.ā
āItās not my fault,ā you whimper, and squeeze around him again, pulling a condescending huff out of him.
āYou poor thing,ā he hums. āProbably spent the whole day waiting for me to come home so I could make you feel better, huh?ā
His breath tickles your ear and you nearly moan. āMhmāI thought about it all day.ā
āWell arenāt you sweet,ā he mutters, tone as condescending as ever. āYou got what you wanted, too. Iāve been taking care of you for a while now. How many times have I cum in you now?ā
āIā¦ I donāt knowāā
āOf course you fuckinā donāt.ā He cuts you off, unamused by your answer. āWant me to do it again? Fill you up, make you feel all nice and warm?ā
āPlease.ā
āGive me what I want then. If these sheets arenāt soaked by the time Iām about to cum again, Iām pulling out and finishing on your face,ā he lets go of your hair and begins to laugh. You donāt get much of a chance to react before you feel the pads of his fingers on your clit, pulling a gasp out of you once he starts rubbing little circles on top of already fucking you. āHehāletās see if playing with this cute little clit saves you.ā
And he knows you donāt deserve itāany of it, honestly. Unfortunately, he canāt help himself, not with the reactions he gets out of you. He married you for many reasonsāgetting to spend the rest of his life with a squirter was one of them. The moment your breathing grows labored and you sound like youāre gonna start to cry, his lids grow heavy and he starts saying all the things he told himself he wouldnāt say today.
"Yeahhh, thatās it, babyāfuuuuckātakinā it so good.ā He is fucking gone. Voice thick, filled with nothing but lust and awe as he presses against your lower belly. āCāmon, you want it here, right? Yeah, you know what to doādonāt let some fuckinā asshole finish on your sweet little face.ā
Yes. Your husband just degraded himself. And you just egg him on without meaning to. You were already whining about how it was too much, the incoherent āwant it inside,ā just made it better worse.
āI will, Iāll give you so fuckinā much if you just give me oneājust one. Easy. ShitāIāll fill you up as much as you want afterwards.ā He doesnāt know what heās saying, but that doesnāt matter when itās what has you crying and trembling and finally gushing around his cock.āYeah, thatās it. Thatās it, thatāsāfuuuuck yeah. Good job, sweetheartāgood fuckinā job. Fuck.ā
Funny enough, he came right after you, which was a relief because that meant his job was done and he was finally able to give his dick a fucking break after hours of feeling like he was working for free, when he had already worked a regular eight hour shift prior. The biggest relief of all was seeing you lie limp in bed, after slightly worrying if you ever actually would.
He leans over you with a smug smile, already having forgotten how much you pissed him off earlier as he moved some hair away from your face. Checking to see if youāre actually asleep or not, then feeling a deep sense of peace when seeing that you are. He presses a kiss against your cheekbone, and in the most loving way hopes you stay that way because he cannot do that again. Then finally, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The peace is only lasts four steps until itās completely shattered again when he hears your weak voice.
content: drabble, mentions of alcohol, sukunaās an ass guy (rip readers ass), threats
Being with Sukuna isnāt for the weak. Heās not the most expressive person when it comes to his feelings, not even after an entire year of being in a relationship. He doesnāt do PDA, wonāt partake in discussions when his friends start talking about the women theyāre seeing, has a straight face the entire time whenever he does briefly talk about you.
But, everybody knows he loves you. Yourself included.
Itās in the way he keeps an eye on you in group settings, the way heāll randomly come up to you with a new drink after noticing youāve already finished the one youāve been holding in your hand. Sukuna will be on his best behavior when youāre around, but will also lose his fucking mind if you are mildly inconvenienced.
āShe asked for extra barbecue sauce 13 minutes ago,ā he once snapped at a waiter. āWhere the FUCK is it?ā That was fucking embarrassing. In his defense, he refuses to start eating without you and you were waiting until they came back with it to touch your food.
At the end of the day, he simply wouldnāt have stayed this long if he didnāt hold any deeper feelings. They are there! He just has them hidden behind his god awful temper.
Itās not until he finds himself a little too drunk at a small party, when he randomly decides to be open and honest about how much he enjoys touching you.
And it starts with the resounding smack! of his palm as he cracked it against your ass cheek, followed by the yelp it pulled out of you, because it was the last thing you expected.
It reaches many people's ears, and when they turn to look towards the dining room table, they find you glaring at Sukuna. He looked fucking love struck with that glossy, faded look in his eyes as he sat back in his seat, rubbing the spot he decided to target while you were in the middle of looking for the lipgloss in your purse.
āThat fucking hurt!ā you hiss at him, swatting his hand away, only for it to go right back. āWhat is wrong with you?!ā
āLooks fuckinā nice in these shorts,ā he says absentmindedly, smiling as he gave your ass a firm squeeze.
āStop that,ā you swat his hand away again.
āQuit acting like that hurt,ā he scolds you, face softening as his hand goes back, again. āLove this assāmāgonna fuck it one of these days.ā
āKuna!ā you gasp, stunned by his sudden boldness when heās nothing but reserved with you in public. āNo youāre notāā
āKiss me,ā he cuts you off, his big hands now pulling you in by the waist.
āNo.ā
āYes.ā
āNo?!ā You start to shove him away, which does nothing but make him laugh, especially when you look back at your friends who find themselves more than entertained by seeing this side of your relationship.
āThe fuck are you looking at Shoko for? Sheās not gonna save you from meāisnāt that right Shoko?ā he raises his tone as he asks.
āYeah, Iād rather not.ā
āThatās what I thought.ā He grins as he turns his attention back to you. āYou see that, baby? She doesnāt give a fuck about you. Nobody does. Just me.ā
And you laugh, because this is how he always teases you when youāre alone. āYou sure itās just not because everyoneās scared of you?ā
āGood. You should be scared of me too, sweetheart,ā he responds, as if it drives his point home. āNow give me my fuckinā kiss.ā
Thereās a low groan that rumbles through his chest when you finally do kiss him, as if heād been waiting for one the whole night. He grabs your jaw, slips his tongue into your mouth, drags it on for longer than it shouldāve been.
āSee? That wasnāt so hard,ā he murmurs.
āGet a room, freaks,ā Gojo yells out from the kitchen.
āFuck off,ā Sukuna easily cuts himself. āWeāre going home so I can fuāā
āWe never agreed to that?!ā
notes: idek i havenāt written for sukuna in months and immediately wrote this when the idea popped up
the atmosphere was calm, well as calm as it could be with sukuna there.Ā
you sat curled up in his lap while he yelled at toji through his headset for the nth time. you shifted slightly before slowly sliding out of sukuna's lap, he muttered a quickĀ
āwhere ya goin?ā his eyes shifted towards you, now fully out of his grasp.Ā
ābathroom.āĀ
he let out a low hum and returned his hard gaze back to his monitor.Ā
-
āholy shit ryomen, yer washed.ā toji snickered through the mic.Ā
āeasy to talk when you pick OKC every fucking round.ā sukuna snarled back.
āaye back to back dubs speaks for itself.āĀ
āits been two rounds already?ā sukuna checked his phone, its been almost 2 hours since you left his lap.Ā
ātwo rounds of belt? yea bro.ā a snort came out from sukunas headphones.Ā
āim hoppin off anyway to go out with my girl. cus i got other shit to do, like my girl. get it? cus i have a girlfriend.āĀ sukuna teased.Ā
āblah blah blah we get it asshat.āĀ
sukuna chuckled to himself before logging off and heading over to barge on you in the bathroom, which was locked? he lifted a heavy knuckle and tapped on the door twice.Ā
ābabe, you takinā a shit?āĀ
a small snort escaped from the other side of the door, āyea ryo ive been shitting for two hours.āĀ
his crimson eyes fluttered into a roll before he twisted the knob again, āokay brat then why is the door locked, let me in.āĀ
needy bastard. ākuna you can wait for like two minutes, im almost done.ā you added the final touches to your face before adjusting your dress again. kinda short. eh its fine.Ā
he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed āalmost done what? I can smell your body wash, did you wanna go on a date ton-āĀ
the door swung open, revealing your finished look. hair done and neat, makeup on point, gold jewelry layered all over your body, and your new brown mini dress that hugged your body perfectly.Ā
sukuna paused, looked you up and down, eyes immediately turning hungry.Ā
āblack shoes or brown shoes?ā you cocked a brow at him.Ā
āfuck, you look gorgeous baby.ā he answered completely ignoring your question, āwhere we goinā?āĀ
you puckered your lips and smiled back at him, āthank you. okay so black or brown?āĀ
ābrown. and give me like fifteen minutes, I'll be ready.ā he bee-lined straight to the bathroom before your manicured hand pressed against his chest, stopping him right in his tracks.Ā
āryo you canāt come to girls night. I've told you this like a thousand times.āĀ
girls night? It was like someone shot him in the chest right then and there. not only were you looking absolutely beautiful on a night the both of you had off, you were going out with your friends. instead of sukuna. not to mention how much they hated sukuna. the burly mans shoulders tensed,
Ā ānonono, the hell you mean girls night? I thought WE were going out tonight.ā it was almost pathetic how whiney his voice sounded. to anyone else it would've been a once in a blue moon sight, unfortunately for you it wasnāt.Ā
āryo I told you last night that I was going out with them.āĀ
ādid not.āĀ
ādid too.āĀ
ādid not.āĀ
āryomen i literally told you before we went to bed and you said āokay ill drive you.ā you pushed past him and slipped on your brown kitten heels, before admiring your full look in the mirror.Ā
āThere's no way I said that, I was out cold before you even shut off the light.ā he followed your trail like a sulking puppy`. a large six foot something sulking puppy.
āsukuna i promise you iām not lying.ā you paused with your purse and keys in hand.Ā Ā
āfine. but if i get handsy in the car, you cannot blame me. you look so hot.ā he grabbed the keys from your hands and opened the front door.Ā
you tsked, āmhm mhm no touching while my girls are in the car.āĀ
āwhat.āĀ
āweāre picking them up, remember?āĀ
āyouāre shittinā me.ā
-
after thirty minutes of being interrogated, looped into gossip, and asked the āyouāre a guy what do you think?ā question approximately fifteen times,Ā sukuna finally got to the restaurant.Ā
your girls murmured a bunch of rushed thank yous before quickly hopping out of the car and heading into the restaurant. sukunas hand still gripped the wheel,Ā
āthank you for dropping us off kuna.ā you leaned over the center console and gave him a peck on the cheek, causing him to turn his head.Ā
ācall me if anything.ā he responded in a low mumble.Ā
āi know i know.ā you smiled before turning to open your door.Ā
āwait.ā you paused and turned to look back at your boyfriend who was already outside of the car, he made his way around to your side and opened your door. He held your hand in his large gruff one before pulling you into another kiss, he pulled away just an inch from your mouth, his breath still on yours,
āiām fucking the shit out of you when you get home.āĀ
you felt the warmth pooling in your cheeks, you bit back a smile and mumbled backĀ
āpromise?āĀ
sukunas hands gripped at your waist, before dropping to his sides, a slow huff escaped his nose, āpinky.āĀ
you snorted before walking off, feeling the sting of sukunas hand slapping your ass as you did so.Ā
-
sukuna knew as soon as you called three hours later, slurring every other word, that he would be eating his words that night.
Ā after dropping off your equally drunk friends, he carried you into bed, taking his time removing your make up because he knew you would yell at him if he didnāt, then taking off your heels and dress, changing you into one of his shirts.
āryo.āĀ
āhm.āĀ
āmy friendsss saidd they loveeyou.āĀ
āreally?ā shocking. considering they mean mugged him all night. didnāt even bother to say his name properly.
you nodded slowly under the sheets.Ā
āwhyās that?āĀ
a hiccup escaped your lips, eyes fluttering shut āthey saidā¦ youmake mee glow.āĀ
ātheyāre idiots.āĀ
you snorted, āloveeyouu.āĀ
āi love you too brat.āĀ
he couldnāt even be mad at you for blue balling him all night.
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and youāre 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, whoās 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 masterlistāā¦āao3āā¦āsukuna 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. Heās 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. Youāre 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. Itās 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, youāre prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driverās 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 whoās 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. āIt 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.ā
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, heāll 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 youāre 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. Heās seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like heās 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.ā
"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. Justā¦ more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoeverās been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe youād 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 youāre 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 youāre 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 doesnāt 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. āHeās a mechanic, so likeā¦ why wouldnāt I trust him aboutā¦ mechanic stuff?ā
"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 doesnāt fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasnāt just one bad invoice. Itās 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 wonāt question the invoice. He knows youāll 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.ā He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
ā
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your carās engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until heās 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 heād 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 youāre 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.
āIf 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 isnāt something he does. He doesnāt take work home, and he sure as hell doesnāt do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "Iāll 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 heās trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, thatās... 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.
āā
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 heās still inside.
Pushing open the side door, youāre 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 whatās inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesnāt 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 heād 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. Itās an apple pie. And itās 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 heās 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 goodābetter than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert youāve 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?"
"Lastā¦ 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 youāre not gonna question it.ā
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
Heās working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure youāre 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.
Sukunaās highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions youāre 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 didnāt have the background to know better. The way youāre 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. Itās a small, polite habit that doesnāt 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 canāt help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when youāre 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 chestāyouāre 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 heās 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 heās 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. Itās 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 shynessāhe doesnāt 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 heās 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 heās just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? Thatās too aggressive, too much like heās 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 heās been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He canāt 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 youāve been to a scam, itāll feel like an ambush. Itāll 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 heāor anyone elseāhands 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. Iāll look at it and tell you if theyāre trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, youāre 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."
"Thatā¦ actually makes me feel a lot better. Iāll 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 andā¦ 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 onāknowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because heās the one steering it. But right now? Heās 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. Heās got no way to reach you, which means heās 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 hasnāt 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, heās 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 uglierādoubt.
Doubt isnāt something heās 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 youād forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. Heād been so sure there was something there. Heād bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe heād read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didnāt 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. Heād 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.
ā
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 whatās inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself itās just so it wonāt get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows thatās 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. Sukunaās heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it ināmaybe you lost his number but found the shopās online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip thatās just a little too tight.
āRyomenās 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. Theyāre 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 thatāll 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. Thatās it. Heās done checking. If you havenāt texted by now, youāre 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.
Heās 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 doesnāt move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. Itās 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. Thereās a text from an unknown numberāexcept 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, thatās 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 heās not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that wonāt 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 Sukunaās 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. Heās 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, thatās 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 heās 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 excuseāsomething car-related, since thatās the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternatorās 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 heād screwed up the belt tension. He knows itās perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride wonāt 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, heās just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesnāt know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.Ā
"What the fuck am I doing?"Ā
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, heās completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. Heās Sukuna. He doesnāt sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. Heāll 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 mindāopening 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."
Heās 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.
āPathetic,ā 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 youād wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought youād wanna see it. He sounds like heās trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. Itās not a lie, but heād rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukunaās completely done with himself, and heās 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 heās going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell heās doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clearsāhe doesnāt need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. Thatās it.
Iām 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 arenāt just guessing. No worries if youāre 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, youāre 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, Sukunaās 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 itās 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 heās just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. Youāre asking about bringing food.
For you, itās 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 youāll 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 thatās completely foreign to him: Iāll grab some burgers. No, thatās 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, youāll eat before you come, and heāll 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. Iāll 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. Thatās all heās got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
ā
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. Heās 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 canāt 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, Sukunaās already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
āYouāve 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 isnāt. 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. Weāre skipping the basic fluid checkāyouāre 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 itās 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 youāve 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,ā 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. āBringing 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 heās 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 somethingās broken, thereās 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 doesnāt 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, heās talking more than he ever does. And thatās 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 noāhe has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary heās 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?
Heās desperately trying not to abuse the trust heās 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.
āNever mind.ā
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 doesnāt answer right awayāhe canāt. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that youāve 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 heās 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. Heās 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 isnāt 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 pecksāone 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. Heās 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 youādark, 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 hasnāt 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.
āText me your address,ā 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 isnāt rough, but itās firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. āAnd be ready at seven.ā
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 donāt 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
ryomen sukuna who is smitten with sweet, slightly clueless reader
ryomen sukuna was off limits.
all the cheerleaders knew it. all his fellow jocks knew it. hell even the younger female professors, who couldn't help but stare at him , knew it.
he is built like a greek god and acts like a retired sergeant. no one can tear their gaze off him when he is on the field , and yet no one truly dares to approach him when he is off the field either.
he has a nasty personality that doesn't shy away from saying "fuck off " right on the face of even the prettiest cheerleaderāhence shattering her confidence completely. rumours even suggested that said girl never dared confess to anyone ever again.
you were just a happy go lucky.
sweet dresses, pretty jewellery, neat hair. you were just a girl with a sweet, slightly clueless personality. everyone's friend and enemy of none and so on and so forth.
you had your own circle of close peopleāeven though one could count them on the phalanges of a single digit.
a different world from the one in which the formidable campus king ruled.
hell, no one could have ever suspected in a million years that ryomen sukuna would cross paths with you. or that he would , quite literally, trip over himself while he watched you feed a stray kitten.
who would have known that his eyes would track your easy smiles and register your presence in every room you entered.
and that he would carry you out of a frat party, drunken and smiling and giggling into his chest, all the while safely nestled in his arms, as if you had him wrapped around your little fingers.
in all honesty, you did.
the ryomen sukuna was in love
with you .
you, who wished on airplanes and made it a regular habit of quizzing him about the various shapes he could decipher from the clouds above.
you , to whom laughs came easily. you who was happy with giving away your meals to stray animals.
no one expected the formidable captain would be so besotted with a girl .
ryomen who never gave any woman the time of his day , would become so enamored by you that he wouldn't be able to tear his gaze off of you.
the students would gape openly when they saw him waiting for you outside your class, walking with you to your next class.
or the bombāgently tucking your hair behind your ear.
ryomen sukuna did not do soft or sweet.
but he did... apparently. for you. with you.
ryomen sukuna didn't let random girls kiss his cheek. but you weren't a random girl. you were his girl.
so his teammates stared slack jawed at the light lipstick stained kiss on his cheekāaverting their gazes before they could be faced with his wrath for staring too long.
ryomen sukuna didn't carry other girls baggage for them. so why were his arms full of art supplies and projects even though his major had absolutely nothing to do with it?
it was called being smitten, ofcourse .
with you.
who , for ryomen, hung the stars and moon in his sky.
Gojo could've fought the baddest bitch ever but had to fight two of his sons and then die a few minutes before sukuna turned into his true form š„¹š„¹šššš
ā¦. Youāre trying to save money for collegeā¦ And at the same time your neighbor ā that asshole and a pervert, Ryomen Sukuna ā gets out of prison. He offers to keep your little secret, but on one condition... āIāll pay you thirty bucks to take my cock in your mouth. Right here, before Toji gets back. Be a good girl.ā
This summer is going to be a long one.
And Sukuna has already decided exactly how youāre going to spend it.
ā ¢. part three! series masterlist
ā¦.cw : Toxic Dynamics :: Dubious Consent :: Power Imbalance :: Fear of Getting Caught :: Sexual Harassment :: Blackmail & Threats :: Degradation :: Slut-shaming :: Dirty Talk :: Rough Fingering :: Forced Orgasm :: Titjob / Paizuri :: Cum on Body
The heat is suffocating.
You stand by the open window, pressing a cold glass of lemonade to your lips. The ice has almost completely melted, leaving cloudy streaks along the glass, and the sweet, citrusy taste does nothing to soothe your dry throat.
Thin beads of sweat trail down your spine, collecting at the small of your back, right where the fabric of your swimsuit clings to your skin. The humid air wraps around you like a second layer, sticky enough to settle into every pore.
Your bikini top is already darkened with sweat. Your tiny denim shorts cling to your hips, as though they've soaked up the heat itself. You drain the last of your lemonade and set the glass down on the windowsill a little harder than necessary. The remaining ice cubes clink sharply against the glass.
For the past few weeks, you've been doing everything you can to stay out of Sukuna's way.
The second you hear his heavy footsteps on the porch, you find an excuse to disappear. The moment the growl of his Mustang rolls into the driveway, your stomach drops, your heartbeat climbing into your throat.
You keep telling yourself that if you don't cross paths with him, maybe this obsessionāhis obsession with youāwill eventually burn itself out.
What a joke.
But you can't avoid Sukuna.
His eyes find you every single time.
Whenever everyone gathers outside in the evenings, you deliberately sit beside other guysāthe neighbor's son, an old friend from school, anyone. You laugh at their stupid jokes, all while stealing glances at Ryomen from the corner of your eye.
His expression never changes.
Cold. Blank. He nurses a beer or lights another cigarette, looking almost bored, but his eyes never leave you.
They find you through the crowd, studying every movement you make. Every laugh. Every smile. Every accidental brush of someone else's hand against your shoulder, as though committing it all to memory.
The longer this twisted game drags on, the more terrified you become.
You can feel the tension winding tighter beneath your skin.
And when it finally snaps...
You know you're going to be the one left in pieces.
You forgot one thing.
Sukuna doesn't tolerate outsiders.
A steady hum of voices drifts in through the back door, mixed with laughter and the shrill screams of children. Half the neighborhood seems to have shown up.
Someone brought meat for the barbecue, someone else showed up with salads, and others dragged folding chairs beneath the old oak just to claim a patch of shade.
You step onto the porch, and the scorching air crashes into you like a wave from an open oven. The midday sun hangs directly overhead, bleaching the grass into a dull yellow. Heat shimmers above the asphalt.
"Hey! Over here!"
Yuji stands waist-deep in the pool, dark wet hair plastered to his forehead, his usual bright grin stretching across his face. He waves both arms to get your attention.
You make your way down the stone path, the sun-heated gravel biting into your bare feet. The moment you reach the edge of the pool, Yuji flashes a mischievous smile and splashes you.
Cold water smacks against your stomach.
You gasp, flinch back, then laugh as you curse at him.
"Come on! Get in!" he calls, sunlight glistening across his shoulders. "The water's perfect!"
You peel off your shorts, letting them fall into the grass before climbing onto the metal ladder. The steps burn your feet, but the second the water reaches your waist, the oppressive heat melts away.
The water smells of sharp, clean chlorine and the sun-heated plastic of the pool edge. You dive beneath the surface, letting the cool water wash away the sweat. You surface, gasping, only for Yuji to splash you again, and suddenly you are wrestling like kids, the water spraying everywhere, a brief, fleeting escape from the dread.
Yuji lunges for your waist, but you twist away, slipping toward the deep end before resurfacing behind him.
"That's cheating!" he laughs, spinning around.
"Oh, quit whining."
He catches you the next time, wrapping both arms around your waist and lifting you effortlessly off the pool floor.
You squeal, grabbing at his sides.
His body isn't the same as it used to be.
His hands are rough now, strong, all lean muscle beneath warm skin.
With a laugh, he tosses you into the water.
For one blissful second, everything goes silent. Only bubbles drift past your face.
You surface, coughing and laughing at the same time, then shove him in the chest with all your strength.
He barely moves.
Just stands there, entirely too pleased with himself.
"You're such an asshole," you mutter between breaths.
Water trickles down your collarbones, collecting at the ties of your swimsuit.
Yuji laughs, but the smile fades almost immediately.
"Uh... I've gotta get back to the grill." He rubs the back of his neck. "If Sukuna catches me slacking off..."
Your smile disappears.
"He's... coming?"
Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.
"Yeah." Yuji nods. "He and Toji went to grab more beer."
He notices the look on your face and lowers his voice.
"Sorry. I know you two don't exactly get along. But... maybe things have changed over the past year?" He shrugs. "Honestly, he barely ever talks about you."
You force yourself to nod.
If only Yuji knew.
If only this kind, oblivious boy had even the slightest idea what had happened two nights ago in the backseat of his brother's Mustang.
The way Sukuna had wrapped your hair around his fist.
The way he'd forced your face down between his knees.
The way you'd stared into those wild crimson eyes while he ruined your throat.
Your fingers drift unconsciously to your neck. It still feels as though his grip has never really left your skin.
"I should head inside," you mumble, already climbing out of the pool. "I need to dry off."
"What? We literally just got in!" Yuji calls after you.
But you're already walking away, not listening anymore.
Youāre basically sprinting. The wet fabric clings to your body, highlighting every curve. The concrete is slick; you almost slip.
You frantically scan the tables for his silhouette, praying to slip by unnoticed.
Youāre one foot onto the porch steps when a heavy palm slams onto your shoulder. Fingers dig into the muscle, jerking you backward.
You gasp, and your back slams into a rough wooden pillar.
The wood is scorching hot beneath the relentless sun, searing against your shoulder blades almost as fiercely as his grip.
He looms over you, a mountain of heat and shadow that swallows the light, cutting you off from the rest of the world.
Heat pours off him. He smells like sweat, sharp cologne, and bitter cigarette smoke.
The white t-shirt clinging to his chest is damp at the collar. A crumpled pack of cigarettes juts from his chest pocket. The tattoos on his face look like ink-stained scars, and his eyes hold nothing but cruel amusement.
"Where are you running off to, brat?" His voice is a gravelly, guttural growl. "Saw me and decided to bolt?"
"Let go, Sukuna," you hiss, pressing your palms to his chest. Under your fingers, his muscles are hard and boiling hot. "Let go, someoneās gonna come out!"
"And what are they gonna do?"
He leans in, pinning you against the pillar with his weight. Your wet swimsuit leaves a darkening, spreading blotch on his shirt. He drops his gaze to your chest, slowly licking his parched lips.
"Those tits look insane. Wear that on purpose? Knew I was coming, didn't you, little bitch?"
"Fuck off," you exhale.
He thrusts a hip, forcing your head to smack against the wood again. His calloused hand, smelling of engine oil, unceremoniously rests on your waist, his fingers digging in.
"Decided to get a piece of the brat while you're at it?" he whispers right into your lips. "I saw you fawning over him in the pool. Have fun?"
"We were just playing! Yuji is my friend, you hear me? He's normal, unlike you!"
"Friend," Sukuna spits out venomously. "That pup follows you around like a lost dog. And you love it, don't you?"
His hand slides lower, roughly grazing your thigh, his fingers shoving under the wet fabric of your bikini bottoms. Without a shred of foreplay, he shoves a finger inside.
You freeze, breath hitched.
"Sukuna... don't... please..."
"I don't give a damn," he smirks.
His finger moves deeper, working you.
"My dad... my dad's gonna come out and see!" youāre almost begging.
Not now.
Please, not here.
"And whatās your old man gonna do?" Sukuna sneers. "Beat me up? Brat, your daddy worships me."
His thumb grinds down hard on your most sensitive spot. A suffocating, sticky heat floods your lower belly. You hate yourself for how fast your body starts pulsing under his touch.
"I can hear you breathing," Ryomen whispers, biting your earlobe until it draws blood. "You want me to tear this piece of trash off right here and fuck you? Say 'no,' and I'll pull my hand out. Well? Say it."
You open your mouth, trying to choke out that damn "no," but instead, a dirty, drawn-out moan escapes your lips.
"Slut," Sukuna growls.
He jerks his hand away, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the kitchen door.
"Get inside. Now." He gives your wrist another rough tug. "Running away, huh?"
You knew he was crazy. A hot-headed, dangerous beast. Once youāre in the dim hallway, he turns, his face inches from yours. His eyes burn with something wild, something deeply wrong.
You never should have gotten close to Sukuna.
You never should have made that deal.
"You get whatās gonna happen if your saint of a father finds out how his little girl sucks dick in parking lots?" he spits.
"It... it wasn't like that..." you sob, tears blinding you.
"Oh yeah? Then what was it? You just naturally learned how to swallow my cock to the hilt? Just swallowed my cum while you were dripping like a bitch?"
You cover your face, choking on a sob. Sukuna waits. Then his grip on your wrist lightens. He lets out a heavy, dirty sigh.
"Go upstairs." His voice is quieter now, but there's still steel beneath it.
He gives you a slight shove toward the stairs.
Your heart pounds in your temples. Your mouth has gone dry. You want to scream, call for Yuji, run back to the people outsideābut your feet move anyway.
You run. Faster than if he were dragging you himself. Because the fear and panic inside you are tangled so tightly with the forbidden arousal pulling you under that you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.
Youād be lying if you said you didn't want this.
You'd be lying if you said the adrenaline wasn't pulling you toward him.
You rush into your room.
Run.
Move.
Why aren't you moving?
Sukuna follows close behind.
The lock clicks with a dry, terrifying snap.
You stand in the center of the room, gasping.
The window is left slightly ajar, and the boisterous, drunken laughter of your father echoes up from the backyard, mocking your silence. The sunset floods the room in a sickly, golden light.
Sukuna leans his back against the door.
Anyone outside who looks up will see you through the glass. The sheer, reckless audacity of it makes your mind reel with vertigo.
Sukuna takes a step. Then another. He is huge, a dangerous predator filling the space of your clean, quiet bedroom. You back away until your knees hit the mattress.
"Sit," he orders.
You don't move.
Ryomen is enormous, filthy, smelling of the summer heat, beer, and the street. He fills every inch of your quiet bedroom.
"I said, sit."
You drop to the edge, your wet swimsuit leaving a dark, damp stain on the pristine white sheet. He steps in, forcing your knees apart with his legs until you are completely trapped between them.
"So nervousā¦" A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You have no idea how much that turns me on."
Sukuna looms over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He doesn't hesitate; he reaches out, slapping your cheek with a casual, stinging disregard before grabbing your chin, forcing your face up to meet his dark, predatory stare.
"Don't be scared, little one," he rasps, his eyes glinting with a savage hunger. "I don't bite. Unless you start begging for it."
His hand moves to the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your damp hair and pulling hard, forcing your cheek against the denim of his crotch. You can feel the heavy, pulsing heat of himāhuge and rigidāpressing against your face through the thick fabric.
"I missed you," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.
"Sukuna... my dad... he'll come up..." you whimper, your voice breaking.
"Fuck," he growls, his patience fraying. "Quit whining."
His free hand dives under the hem of your top, and with one sharp, violent motion, he yanks the fabric up. Your nipples harden instantly in the cold air.
You instinctively try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists and pins them firmly to your sides.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them wide, and his fingers squeeze your breast with such punishing intensity that a sharp cry escapes your lips.
He only smirks, reaching behind your neck to jerk the ties of your bikini top free. It falls away, leaving you completely bare before him.
"Come on, brat," he breathes, his eyes darkening to black. "Jerk me off with your tits. Show me you remember how."
His hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head back so you have to look him in the eyes.
"You understand me? Or do I need to knock it into your head?"
Your shaking fingers grab his belt. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull it down. His cock falls out heavy, the wet tip glistening in the sunset.
"Don't be shy," he sneers. "Remember how you used to lick it. How deep youād take it."
You swallow, licking your parched lips. Sukuna snorts mockingly.
"Just do it, I'm tired of waiting."
You cup your breasts in your hands, pressing his shaft firmly between them. The skin is slippery from sweat and leftover pool water; the cock moves easily, with a wet, sliding sound. You speed up the pace, squeezing your palms tighter. Under your hands, he becomes even more tense and aroused.
"Yeah... thatās it, slut... Squeeze harder."
He starts moving his hips to meet you, practically fucking your chest with short, sharp, mechanical thrusts. The belt buckle clinks against the button with every movement, and he pushes deeper, faster.
Downstairs, Yujiās laughter rings out, oblivious, while inside you, everything is melting into a puddle of shame and hunger. You part your lips, sucking the head on every forward thrust.
"Damn... fuck..." Sukuna rasps. "Yeah, like that... More... Iām gonna..."
He cums just as you take the head into your mouth again. Hot, thick spurts splash across your chest, your neck, coating your chin. He stays there for a long time, his whole body shuddering with every release.
Sukuna finally steps back, breathing heavily. He zips up and looks down at youādisheveled, covered in his essence, and trembling.
"Good job," he huffs, a look of satiated, animal triumph in his eyes. "Obedient little slut."
A large drop of his seed falls onto your navel. Your hand, acting on its own, drops down, your fingers pressing through the soaked fabric of your panties. You are aching with a hunger that doesn't end. He sees it, and his smirk widens.
"What, did you like it when I was rough?"
"No, I...ā"
"What 'please'?" He leans in, grabbing your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "Say it. Out loud."
"I want you to fuck me!"
"I thought so."
He throws you onto your back. The mattress squeaks piteously as he bears down on you, pinning you to the bed with his massive body.
"Lie still and don't you dare twitch."
He takes your hands, puts them over your head, and pins them to the pillow with one of his massive palms, stripping you of the slightest chance to defend yourself. Youāre completely open and left to his mercy. He tears your panties aside.
His fingers jam inside, relentless, hitting you at full reach. The soundāthe wet, rhythmic squelching as you move on your own, grinding against his handāis enough to snap whatever thin leash he had on his restraint.
"Slut... what a fucking slut you are," he growls through his teeth. He grinds his crotch against your side, his hard, throbbing length pressing through the denim, punishing your bare, wet skin.
"Look at me, fuck," he orders, his free hand clamping around your throat. "Open your eyes, slut, and see whoās fucking you."
He dips his head, his teeth sinking into your skin right over your pulseāa sharp, sudden bite that makes you gasp. He instantly licks the sting with his scorching tongue, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Feel how much I want you?" he rasps into your ear. "I want to bury myself in you. But first, youāre gonna come from my fingers. Youāre gonna come for me, hear me?"
His movements turn frantic. His thumb hammers against your clitoris with no mercy. You arch into him, your fingers tearing at his shirt. Everything inside you pulls tight, like a wire strung to the breaking point. The tension becomes unbearable, and you explode. A loud scream is drowned in his shoulder, your body goes into convulsions, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in a death grip.
Sukuna doesn't stop, continuing to move his fingers, wringing the last of the orgasm out of you until you go completely limp, turning into a ragdoll.
He finally pulls his hand out with a wet, heavy sound.
He brings his stained fingers to his lips, watching you with those dark, predatory eyes, and slowly licks them clean.
Sukuna stands up. As his weight leaves the mattress, the room suddenly feels empty. He fastens his belt, the sharp click of the buckle sounding like a death sentence.
"So, how are we supposed to go back downstairs after that?" He sounds lazy, but his eyes burn with triumph. "You smell like me and sex from a mile away, brat."
"Why are you doing this, Sukuna?" Your voice trembles. "Was that night not enough for you?"
He pauses, leaning in so close that the smoke from his cigarette burns your eyes.
"Enough? Brat, it'll never be enough. You brought this on yourself. Remember this: stay the hell away from my brother. You so much as look at him again, and I'll fuck you on his own bed. I don't give a damn who's outside the door."
He strolls to the dresser, lights another cigarette, and exhales a stream of smoke. "What? Not even a 'thank you'?"
You give the smallest nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I understand."
"Good girl."
He turns toward the door. It clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade. You are left alone, and your gaze drifts to the nightstand. Two crumpled twenty-dollar bills lie there.
Payment. That's all it is.
Nausea crawls up your throat, but the worst partāthe part that makes you want to tear yourself apartāis the faint, pulse-like satisfaction still buried deep inside you. Your body has betrayed you.
You grab a wet wipe and, frantically, until your skin is raw and purple, you wipe the semen from your chest and neck, desperately trying to wash away the smell of his tobacco and skin. With trembling fingers, you somehow pull on your wet swimsuit and head down to the backyard.
Suddenly, right by your ear, making your whole body flinch, his low, mocking voice rings out:
"Sweetheart, you forgot to wipe the traces off your chin."
You spin around abruptly. Sukuna is standing a step away from you, demons dancing in his eyes, and on his lipsāthat same crooked, triumphant smirk. Toji is standing behind him, lazily sipping beer and giving you a sharp, sly once-over from head to toe. Heās clearly in on your "secret."
You jerk your hand up in fear, frantically scrubbing your chin... but your fingers are dry.
Thereās nothing there.
He lied.
Just to mock you.
To show that you are completely in his power.
Your face flushes a deep, burning crimson. Sukuna lets out a ringing, mocking laugh. He turns and heads toward the table, his broad back flickering among the guests like a predator returning to his pack.
You watch him walk away, feeling a slow-acting poison spreading through your veins. You feel used, trampled, and dirty. But as you watch him effortlessly take charge, a horrifying thought creeps into your mind: the sun will set, the guests will leave, and somewhere in the parking lot beside the Mustang, a lighter will click again.
And you'll find your way back to him. Because the poison beneath your skin craves only himāand you don't want it to stop.
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)
Divider credit: @dollywons and @enchanthings
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