[petalflvr]

hello!

𑣲 — made of dreams & daylight ⋆.˚ lilia ⟢ 20s ⟢ here for the plot

⟢ for the highs and lows and moments between ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

જ⁀➴ ♡ mdni! please refrain from checking my blogs if you’re a minor !!

જ⁀➴ ♡ i write sometimes (mostly jjk) | compilation of my works will be posted soon ﾒ૦ﾒ૦💋

[aeresha]

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen's ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ mumbling when he doesn't get his daily morning kisses .✦ ݁˖

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the tatami mats. Usually, you would spend at least ten minutes entangled in Ryomen's suffocating, four-armed embrace, enduring his rough-textured skin and sleepy grunts. But today, you were late.

You slid out of the futon, throwing on a robe and tying your hair back in a rush. You didn’t notice the immediate shift in the room's energy—the way the heavy, oppressive aura of the King of Curses suddenly stirred.

As you paced around the kitchen island, frantically brewing coffee and packing a bag, a towering figure leaned against the doorframe.

Ryomen looked a mess.

His pink hair was completely wild, his yukata hung loosely off one broad shoulder, and all four of his eyes were narrowed into slits. He crossed his upper arms, while his lower arms rested on his hips.

Then, the mumbling started.

“...unbelievable,” he growled softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that still carried the weight of sleep. “Brat wakes up, doesn't say a word. Walks right past me like I'm some common curse in the streets. After everything I tolerate...”

You paused, holding a spoon. “Ryomen, did you say something?”

He didn't look at you.

Instead, he stared intently at a spot on the kitchen wall, his lower jaw shifting as he continued to mutter under his breath. “I should dismantle this entire house. The audacity. A thousand years ago, men bled out in the dirt just for a glimpse of my face, and here I am, being ignored for a cup of bean water. Truly pathetic.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

You set the spoon down and turned to face him fully. “Are you throwing a tantrum?”

“I don't throw tantrums, human,” he snapped, though his eyes finally flicked to yours, burning with mock irritation. “I state facts. You lack discipline. You lack respect.”

He took a slow, deliberate step into the kitchen, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light. He didn't stop until he was inches away from you, trapping you between his chest and the kitchen counter. His extra hands came down on either side of you, effectively pinning you in place.

“Well?” he murmured, leaning his face down. His upper eyes were squinted shut in a pout he would die before admitting to, while his lower eyes watched your mouth. “Are you going to fix your mistake, or do I have to remind you who rules this domain?”

You laughed softly, reaching up to cup his jaw.

His skin was warm, and the rough markings beneath your fingers felt familiar.

“Good morning, Ryomen,” you whispered.

You leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Instantly, the tense lines of his shoulders relaxed. Before you could pull away, his upper hands caught the back of your head, deep-fruiting his fingers into your hair to prolong the kiss, turning it into something possessive and deep.

When he finally let you go, a smug, satisfied smirk had replaced his scowl.

“Hmph...” he grunted, turning on his heel to head toward the porch, his yukata trailing behind him. “See that it doesn't happen again tomorrow. I won't be so lenient.”

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[petalflvr]

sobrang cute potanginang buhay to

[belimah]

art by ERO

[petalflvr]

OH MY GOD

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.

"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.

You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.

Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.

"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."

He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”

You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.

"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.

"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.

Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."

True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.

Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."

He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.

None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.

"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"

Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”

"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."

Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.

"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"

"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."

Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.

Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.

"You know what those other things were?"

You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."

That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.

"And you paid anyway."

It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.

Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”

"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"

After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."

The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.

"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"

A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"

A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"

You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.

"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."

His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.

"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."

—

The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.

At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.

He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.

"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."

You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.

Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.

“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."

There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.

You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.

"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"

Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."

"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."

Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."

"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."

He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.

——

Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.

Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.

"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.

"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."

Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.

"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."

"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."

For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."

While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.

When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.

"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."

Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.

"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."

A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.

A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.

"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"

"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.

"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.

"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."

Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”

You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"

He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.

Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."

"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."

Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.

Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.

This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.

The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.

All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.

You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.

For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.

Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.

For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.

Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.

The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.

At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.

The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.

"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."

Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."

"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."

"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."

"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."

Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.

The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.

"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.

Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.

He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?

The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.

Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.

His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.

Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.

But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.

—

Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.

Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.

He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.

Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.

“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.

"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"

Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.

Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.

By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.

He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.

Bzzzt.

The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.

Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.

[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!

OH THANK FUCK.

Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, you free this weekend?

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

Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.

With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.

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

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

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

Make sure you check your oil this week.

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

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

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

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

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

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

"No. That's fucking creepy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For fuck's sake."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

notes:

> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman > sukuna: she baked me a pie > sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind

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

[t0jisbunny]

you adore olderbf!toji’s stubble… especially when you feel it between your thighs ♡

more olderbf! toji here

you’re cuddled up in bed with your older boyfriend, tracing your fingers along his jaw, rough stubble brushing against your fingertips.

god, he just looked so damn sexy like this — older, broad and scarred, rough around the edges. the stubble only added to his allure, you could practically feel your panties becoming soaked at the sight.

“mornin’,” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep, pressing a slow kiss to your lips and tugging you closer against his warm body. the prickly drag of his chin against your softer skin made you sigh against his mouth.

“mm, don’t shave today,” you whisper, nipping at his bottom lip. “pleeeaasee.”

toji lets out a low, amused chuckle. "someone’s needy this morning."

later that afternoon he tried anyway, standing at the bathroom sink with a razor in hand. you appeared behind him in the mirror like something out of a horror movie, arms sliding around his waist after glaring at him angrily.

honestly, he was just teasing at this point, knowing how much you adore his facial hair.

“toji fushiguro. put that down right now.”

his eyes met yours in the reflection, smirking. “bossy lil’ thing.” you reach up, standing on your tiptoes before rubbing your palm over the coarse hair on his cheek. “i love how it feels. on my face when you kiss me, on my thighs when you—” your voice drops, cheeks warming. “well, you know.”

flattery gets you everywhere with toji.

he turns around to face you before switching your positions, lifting you effortlessly onto the bathroom sink. "when i…what, doll?" he purrs, knowing exactly what you meant.

he squeezes your thighs, leaning in closer to whisper into your ear. "when my face is buried between these pretty thighs?"

that night, he proved exactly how well he knew. he settles between your spread legs, grinning hungrily at your glistening cunt. the first rough brush of stubble against your sensitive inner thighs pulled a soft moan from you. toji drags his jaw deliberately higher, teasing, then soothing the burn with a slow, wet kiss.

“mmnn, baby—” you moan breathily, fingers tightening in his dark strands.

“never shavin’ again if it makes you this wet, — shit, doll,” he murmurs against your skin. he takes two fingers and spreads your folds, collecting your slick and bringing it up to your clit, rubbing slow circles.

then, he leans in, broadening his tongue, then dragging it through your folds. both large hands grip your soft thighs, pushing them against his cheeks to allow you to feel his stubble as he devours your cunt.

“mmnn, fees s’good,” you pant, bucking your hips against toji’s face as he closes his lips around your clit, humming lowly in enjoyment.

you were gonna throw all his damn razors in the trash.

A/N; i’ve been thinking about this non stop ugh, got this idea from @cateleya21 !!

[t0jisbunny]

asking olderbf! toji his body count ♡

more olderbf! toji here

in hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have asked a question you didn’t want the answer to.

"soo… how many women have you even slept with?" you ask, slipping it into conversation since you were on the topic. you’ve been with toji for over two years now, you know about his past, you know he’s no saint — especially when it comes to women.

but you find yourself wondering far too often how many women your boyfriend has satisfied, how many women he’s had moaning his name whilst he fucks them stupid. the past is the past, you know that.

you just didn’t want to wonder anymore.

“you ain’t gonna like the answer,” toji responds, one arm around you as you sit curled up together on the couch in front of the TV.

you feel your stomach drop, heart beating faster in your chest. the thought of him with another woman makes you sick to your stomach — never mind possibly hundreds of them.

you begin to understand the saying "curiosity killed the cat.”

"…can you just give me a number?" you ask gingerly, unknowingly holding your breath as you await his answer. “didn’t know it mattered to you," he responds gruffly, eyes glued to the TV like this was some casual conversation.

you remove his hand from your shoulder, shuffling away a few inches with a faint pout on your face. you knew this was slightly unfair to him. he can’t change his past, but why wouldn’t he just tell you the number?

you finally catch his attention, hearing him huff as he turns to look at you. "cmon, doll. y’just askin’ shit you don’t wanna know." he pulls you closer again, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

you move away again, still frustrated, digging yourself into a deeper hole. "but why can’t you just tell me?"

your older boyfriend sighs again, not so much in irritation, mainly because he knew any answer he gave you would upset you in some way.

“i don’t have a number to give you. not like i counted," toji says, pausing the TV to give you his full attention. he pats his lap invitingly, "cmere."

you hesitantly climb into his lap. two large hands find your hips, securing you there like you might run away. “don’t work y’self up over it. you’re the one who matters to me. not them."

you nod, leaning in and burying your face in toji’s neck, melting into his lap. he rubs your back reassuringly, kissing your temple.

you stay like that for a moment, safe in his arms, reminding yourself that you are the woman he loves — his past was practically meaningless. "m’sorry for getting jealous," you say quietly, breaking the silence.

"you’re hot when you’re jealous," he purrs, threading his fingers through your soft hair. "s’okay. gonna remind my pretty girl how much i love her," he adds, cock hardening beneath you.

a needy whine escapes you, two hands fisting the collar of his shirt. "please…"

he’ll fuck you until your intrusive thoughts were long gone — until you had no coherent thoughts left at all.

a/n; thank u sm for 3.1k MWAHHH!

[janeisoffline]

Midnight sex with Simon Riley (18+)

You stand in the kitchen of the quaint apartment you share with Simon. Your arm is outstretched, keeping you steady against the edge of the counter, and your ankles are crossed below you. The blinking clock on the stove reads 12:24 A.M, the dim glow of streetlights pours in through the window above the sink, and all you did was come in for a drink of water, but you still hear the shuffling footsteps of your boyfriend who walks like the dead when he's tired.

His arms wrap around your waist, swallowing your body whole with the sheer size of him, locking you down in place. He places a kiss on your shoulder while his hands roam. One hand snakes under his over-sized shirt you wear, bunching it up until his palm finds your breasts and he squeezes the plush skin. His other hand makes its way to your thin, cotton panties, pushing past the waistband and finding its way in between your thighs.

"So warm," he whispers groggily, placing a soft kiss to your neck, and goosebumps line your skin despite the warmth his body has to offer.

His chest is pressed against your back, his mouth to your skin, and the longer you linger there with his hands caressing your body, the more you want him. He sucks, bites, licks your neck, leaving purple bruises to ache in his wake, all while he continues to stimulate every last part of you. His fingers toy with your nipple, pulling and pinching until it peaks within his grasp. His palm grinds against your clit, just enough to drive you insane but not enough to do really anything.

"Si," you say breathlessly, moving your hips with the rhythm of his body unintentionally, rubbing your ass against his hard cock that aches in his boxers which earns you a groan of desire from the man behind you. "Let's go back to bed, Si."

"Can't make it to the bed lovie… need to be inside you here, right now," he says, voice low and rough around the edges with lust as he pushes down your panties until your legs are forced to uncross and the fabric strains against your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat from his words, desire builds in you until you know your pussy is soaking, until a heat begins to pool in your lower belly that only he can soothe. You spread your legs wider, gripping the edge of the counter with both of your hands, arching your back into him when you hear the rustle of his boxers being pushed down.

His hand pushes up your shirt as his fingers kiss your spine deliciously, pressing down to arch your back further, presenting your bare pussy to him and he notches his tip against your entrance. You push back on him, sinking an inch inside of you with ease, and the two of you share a raw moan of pleasure. He pushes in the rest of the way, groaning from the feeling of your warm, wet walls wrapped so tightly around him, and he doesn't stop until his cock is buried against your cervix.

"Goddamit," he says behind clenched teeth, "you're so tight around me."

You squirm your hips, begging for friction, and he places both of his hands on your hips until his fingers dig into the fat of your skin and begins to pound into you. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping for more. The veins and ridges of his cock slide through your walls, molding your pussy to him, leaving no space inside of you empty for long as he repeatedly fills you to the brim.

"F-fuck Si," you stutter, lifting your hips with need, meeting his every thrust with one of your own.

His hips roll against your own, finding a rhythm of harmony between the two of you, delivering the same amount of pleasure with each last thrust. He slams against your cervix, and your pussy clamps down on his length. He pulls out until only the tip remains, and your pussy sucks him back in. Angling his hips, he finds your sweet spot with ease, hitting it with precision and leaving your toes curling against the tile of the kitchen floor.

"You feel so good baby," he praises, leaning down until his bare chest is pressed against your back, his hands finding their previous positions on your body.

You cry out when his fingers find your clit, pinching the sensitive bundle of nerves in between his calloused fingers before rolling and rubbing at the same pace of his relentless thrusts. His other hand finds your breasts under the sea of fabric, latching onto your nipple and twisting until it hardens from his touch. His thrusts continue to drive you towards your inevitable orgasm, each one hitting your sweet spot, then your cervix, then pulling out and stretching your entrance wide to accommodate his length.

"S-so close Si," you say breathlessly, your eyes shutting tight while you focus on every touch from him, every sensation.

Your words spur him on as his lips find your neck where he kisses over blooming bruises, his tongue parting his lips for him to lick the salty-sweet sweat of your skin, and you're completely lost in it. Your mouth hangs open ever so slightly as moans pour from you, drool drips from your chin, tears stain your cheeks from the sheer amount of pleasure running through your body.

"I know baby, I know," he whispers, kissing just below your ear, holding you up when your knees grow weak from the tender press of his mouth. "Cum on me lovie, for me."

His words turn to begs, which turn into groans of desire while he continues to fuck into you like he wasn't just fast asleep. With a wider stance, he digs into you, reaching deeper, fucking you faster, thrusting harder, anything to push you over the sweet edge your body so desperately craves. Your nails try to find purchase against the smooth countertops, trying to steady yourself when your legs grow numb and your mind can't focus on anything over then him.

A shiver runs down your spine, your body grows rigid, your muscles draw taut. His finger works your clit effortlessly, drawing your orgasm out of you as if you have no control over it. A broken moan falls from your lips when cum gushes from your entrance, coating his length, leaving behind rings of cream at his base. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around his length, pulsing with lingering pleasure, and Simon can't help but drop his gaze to where the two of you are connected.

"So beautiful," he says, more to himself than anything else. "That feel good?"

You nod your head frantically, dropping your forehead to the counter, the frigid stone cooling your body temperature. His hand runs down your spine again after he eases up on your clit when your body begins to jerk from overstimulation, and your back arches the more he thrusts into you. His grunts and groans turn rawer, the need for his own release building, and he turns his focus to that.

"Gonna fill you up, huh baby? That sound good?"

He knows the answer to it, which is why he wastes no time in drilling into you. Hips rolling against yours, fingers digging into any skin on your body they can find, his sounds of pleasuring ringing out in the small space around you two of you, and his release is crashing through him.

"F-fuck, oh fuck," he curses, his length twitching deep inside of you as he continues to rub against your raw walls with need.

With a few more thrusts and a guttural groan, long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, leaking out from his tip with every pulse of his orgasm, coating your walls in everything he has to give. His body stills, only the slightest thrusts and movements to draw his climax out for as long as possible remain, and your pant against the counter trying to catch your breath when his body collapses against yours.

He rests his forehead against your lower back, kissing the skin oh-so softly while he pulls out of you, hissing from the stimulation of his tip sliding through your tight entrance. Your legs shake, your arms feel weak, your body is beyond tired from what he just did to you. He drops down to his knees behind you to clean up the mess left in between your legs before lifting your panties back up and slapping your ass.

Simon leaves a kiss on the raw skin while standing up and turning you around to throw you over his shoulder. He stomps back to the bedroom, throwing you onto the mattress, and slides in right beside you. Pulling the sheets over the two of you, he wraps his arms around your body, making sure you're tightly secure before he begins to growl about how you are stealing his precious sleep from him.

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[empty-sigh]

[semiloml]

cw: size kink, pussy drunk! bokuto, unprotected sex, overstimulation, manhandling, reblogs and comments are very appreciated!!<3

“Fuck—‘m sorry, baby, I can’t—I can’t stop—”

Bokuto’s voice was wrecked, his breath hot against your skin as he slammed into you, holding you down like you’d disappear if he let go.

His massive frame caged you in, thick arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you still as he fucked into you with desperate, hungry thrusts.

You were already so fucked out, legs shaking, body limp beneath him, but Bokuto—Bokuto wasn’t done.

“T-too much—‘Koutarou—!”

“Nah,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes wild, blown-out and glassy. “Feels too good, baby. So tight—fuck, I swear you’re getting tighter—”

A deep, broken moan ripped from his throat, his hips shuddering as his fat cock dragged against your sensitive walls, hitting spots so deep they made your toes curl.

“S’too big, ‘Ko—!” You sobbed, your hands gripping his biceps, fingers barely able to wrap around the thick muscle.

“You can take it,” he panted, voice dripping with something dangerously sweet. “Know you can. My good girl—always takes me so well.”

He pulled out almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, making your back arch off the bed.

“Ohhh, fuck, yeah,” Bokuto whined, his voice breaking as he ground himself deep, rolling his hips like he was trying to mold you to his shape. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so good—gonna make me cum so fast—!”

His cock throbbed inside you, his thick veins pressing against your walls, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. You felt so full, stretched to your limit, your stomach bulging just slightly from the sheer size of him.

Bokuto groaned at the sight, pressing his palm to the little bump, feeling himself inside you.

“Shit, look at that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something almost dangerous. “Splitting you right open, huh? Fuck, baby, you were made for this dick—made for me—”

Your walls fluttered around him, and Bokuto gasped, his grip on your hips bruising.

“Oh, fuck, oh, fuck—don’t do that, baby, fuck, ‘m gonna cum—”

His pace stuttered, thrusts turning erratic, desperate, his breath ragged as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he moaned, his voice breaking. “Gonna make you so full—fuck, take it—take all of it—”

With a final, wrecked groan, Bokuto spilled inside you, his whole body trembling as his cock twitched, filling you with thick ropes of cum. He shuddered, pressing his face into your neck, still rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts, pushing it all deeper.

“Shit,” he panted, arms tightening around you. “Still so hard—can’t get enough—”

And with the way he was already rutting back into you, his cock twitching, aching for more—you knew he meant it.

AUTHOR‘S NOTE: BOOMSHAKALAKA THANK YOU ALL FOR THE GREAT SUPPORT

[petalflvr]

texts between boyfriend!toji and girlfriend!reader

in which toji is a shameless flirt (this man loves you alright!! ⁠♡)

cw: contains suggestive

my first smau!! i hope y’all like it ⭑.ᐟ

[miniairo]

Ruin or ruin?

[petalflvr]

i just came

[daflex]

Call it whatever you want.

"You're not my boyfriend." Try telling Ryomen Sukuna that when another man gets a little too close.

A/N: you aint my boyfriend and i aint your girlfriend 🤨 if u couldnt tell, this was inspired by boyfriend by ari and social house ✌️😗 this is also an old fic i dug out 🚬 anyways exams have been fucking me raw lately and not in a fun way. i should be out here bussing it down at the club, getting lit, making questionable decisions. instead im bussing it down with textbooks and practice exams. tragic. devastating, even. its okay tho, bc i got bts tickets 😛

Art: @/pattyi.i on insta <3

Sukuna never asked for a commitment. Somehow, the arrangement just fell into place anyway. It started with small things: late night texts, showing up without warning, and a heavy black leather jacket tossed over the back of a chair like it belonged there.

Your phone buzzed softly against the counter.

you home.

No greeting, no question mark—just the absolute assumption of an open door.

yeah.

Three dots appeared instantly.

open up.

A heavy knock followed seconds later.

"Geez. No 'please' or anything" you mumbled, tossing your phone back onto the counter.

Opening the door revealed Ryomen Sukuna leaning against the frame as if he’d been waiting all night. A familiar presence filled the doorway before he even spoke, the air growing heavy with his warm, spicy cologne. Red eyes flicked down, assessing the view. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Bruh, you literally just texted me.”

He hummed, brushing past without waiting for an invitation. His hand lingered briefly on the small of your back, pressing just enough to claim the space before letting go. You shut the door behind him. “You’re going to start paying rent at this point." Sukuna stretched out on your couch, arms draped lazily across the cushions with a smirk. “You’d miss me.” An eye roll was the only response you gave him, but neither side pushed the argument.

Weeks passed in a blur of late nights and shared silences. A heavy hand would rest on your waist during trips around the kitchen, fingers brushing the curve of your hip and teasingly lingering during the morning coffee brew. On walks together, he closed the distance entirely, slipping a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. No matter how many times that hand was swatted away with a muttered, “People are going to think we’re dating” the pink haired man just shrugged, keeping his hand firmly planted against ur ass. He always stood slightly behind or beside you, a silent declaration: I’m here.

Sometimes he waited after lectures, leaning against the campus gate with a lazy, half smirk, arms crossed as the crowd filtered past. Spotting him always made your stomach twist, knowing he’d been waiting long before the dismissal bell. His gaze would lock on, serving as a quiet warning to anyone walking too close.

Nights were spent sharing the couch and stealing blankets, half tangled around his large frame while the remaining fabric barely covered your lap. Sometimes he drapes himself across you, a hand brushing lightly down your arm or against your thigh—never intrusive, but entirely claiming the space. When he relaxed completely, your fingers wander over his tattoos, tracing the sharp lines along his face and chest. Each mark felt almost magnetic under the skin. He would hum low, letting the attention slide, a thumb occasionally brushing your wrist to claim the movement. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your fingertips, a slight smirk evident in the way he adjusted his posture to keep your hand exactly where he wanted it.

There were nights spent falling asleep in his bed after an argument left unfinished—bodies pressed tight, the quiet between you louder than any words. Other mornings started tangled in his arms, hair brushing his chest, fingers clutching his shirt before fully waking up. His hand would curl around your wrist, his thumb tracing small, slow circles. The habits became second nature to notice: how he leaned a fraction closer when a stranger got too near. The amused smirk whenever a tease was thrown back at him. The trademark "tch" or scoff of annoyance that left his lips. Pressing his forehead to yours in the early mornings, claiming the first minutes of the day. Playing the thief with a tilted head and a lazy, "Oops, that's my spot now" daring an argument.

Almost like a couple. But without labels or promises, the unresolved tension grew nearly unbearable.

Tonight, gojo's house was packed. The bass vibrated faintly through the floorboards, drowning out the roar of the crowded room. People moved in a blur of red cups and loud laughter.

Pausing near the entrance to scan the room, your eyes landed across the living room. Sukuna leaned against the back of a couch, looking entirely too comfortable. A few girls crowded his space, laughing a little too loudly at whatever he’d just muttered. One girl rested a hand on tattooed arm. Another leaned in close, fingers brushing his shoulder. He let them.

Your jaw tightened.

His eyes found yours instantly, as if he’d known the exact second you walked through the door. The crowd seemed to fade under his direct stare. Across the room, through flashing lights and shifting bodies, he just watched. A slow smirk pulled at his lips, waiting to see your reaction. The girl beside him kept talking, her fingers resting on his arm, tracing the very same tattoos you usually spent hours mapping out. Sukuna didn’t move away. He just looked on—unbothered and thoroughly amused.

Typical.

Turning away before he could read anything else on your face, you made a beeline for the kitchen. A quick adjustment was made to the hem of the mini black off shoulder dress, the fabric hugging your waist and tight at the hips. Gold open toe heels clicked softly against the floorboards, gold hoops swaying with the quick tilt of your head. The reflective surface of the fridge offered a quick glimpse—makeup intact, shoulders tense, face slightly flushed from the scene in the living room. Pulling the door open, the cool light spilled out as you grabbed a drink.

“Careful with that one” a voice warned.

Turning around revealed a guy leaning against the counter, sporting a charming smile. “Trust me. It’s stronger than it looks.”

A small laugh escaped you. “I’ll take my chances.”

The guy laughed, stepping a bit closer to be heard over the booming music. “So… what brings you here alone?”

A shrug followed. “Just needed a drink and a break from… life.”

His smirk widened. “I get that. Same here.”

The conversation began to flow more freely, a genuine laugh sparking at a joke he made. It felt easy. The guy leaned in, lowering his voice. “You know, you’ve got this energy. Makes people really want to talk to you.”

A smile crept up, a sudden flutter stirring in your chest—until a familiar scent hit the air. Warm, spicy, and impossible to ignore. The exact aroma that lingered on your clothes every time he pulled you in.

Sukuna.

A heavy pair of arms slid around your waist from behind. His broad chest pressed flush against your back, almost swallowing you as he pulled you back. One hand settled flat against your stomach while the other grazed your hip, fingers brushing the edge of your short dress to anchor you firmly against him. The fabric shifted under his grip, lifting fractionally as you instinctively braced on your heels. Sukuna wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked dead on the guy across the counter. Slowly, the pink haired man dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of your neck before settling into the crook of your shoulder. Warm breath ghosted over your bare skin, his fingers tightening just enough to claim you. The gentle sway of gold hoops brushed against him with every shallow inhale.

The guy stiffens. “Oh—uh. Sorry, man, I didn’t know—”

“No” you interrupted, trying to shift out of his grasp. “We’re not—”

“Yeah” Sukuna cuts in smoothly, his voice low. “You should go.”

The guy hesitated, muttered a quick, “Right… my bad” and vanished into the crowd.

You turn inside Sukuna’s arms, looking up at him. “Bruh, what's your problem?” 

Sukuna looked down as if nothing had happened.

“You’re not my boyfriend” you huffed out.

His eyes slowly searched your face before letting out a slight scoff.

Pushing lightly against his chest, you snapped, “Stop acting like you own me.”

He simply watched, absorbing the defiance. Then, with a sudden tug at your waist, he pulled you closer. The hem of your dress rode up your ass slightly before his hand reached behind to pull the fabric back into place.

“You want a boyfriend?” His thumb dragged slowly along your jawline, tilting your face up to force eye contact. "That what this is about?”

Silence was the only answer, making his eyes narrow. “Tch. Greedy.”

The music and chatter faded into background noise—the space between you grew heavy. Sukuna hummed softly, his hand sliding back down to the small of your back. His fingers settled there as if they had never left, pressing into the curve. Your heels click softly against the floor as he adjusts his hold, keeping the fit perfect. “And yet” he murmured, leaning closer, “you still let me do this.” Your breath catches when he pulls you a fraction closer. 

“Doesn’t really sound like you want a boyfriend” Sukuna said lazily. Dipping his head lower, his lips trailed light kisses along your neck—the same familiar routine he’d done a thousand times before. It made your stomach twist. A sharp inhale brought in his spicy cologne, mixing with the soft sweetness of vanilla perfume until your head spun.

“Sounds like you just want me.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a low, teasing vibration. “Go ahead… say you’re leaving me.”

The words never came.

A slow smile spread across his face. Because he already knows you won’t.

[yailuxe]

౨ৎ — bf toji fushiguro finally realises why you’ve been moody || mdni, smut 1.6K words.

you always greeted him the same way whenever he came home from a mission.

beaming smile, a “bear hug” that lands more like a tickle, and a kiss lasting so long your lips tingled by the time you pull away.

so why is it that this time, toji gets neither?

when he asks what you’ve been up to during the two weeks he’s been away, all your replies are curt. short, tight-lipped mutterings that were seemingly trapped deep inside your throat and refused to come out no matter how hard he tried.

and man, did he try.

you're making dinner when he comes up behind you, and his arms have barely wrapped around your form when you shoulder him away, grumbling something about “broke boyfriend hugs” he couldn’t even make sense of. so with frustration and confusion taking over in equal measure, he moves to sit in the chair on the other end of the island.

toji watches as you zip around the kitchen as if the tiles would burn your feet if you stayed in the same place too long. your hands are jerky as you take plates out of the cardboard. every movement too sharp and exerting a lot more force than necessary.

when you place them on the counter, the loud clank of ceramic against marble is grating enough to make him stop biting his tongue.

“what’s going on with you?”

the drawer rasps as you open it and he hopes it’s a coincidence you happen to take out a knife so soon after the question.

“huh?” your brow arches, but you still don’t look up. it has him bristling.

“you’ve been in a mood all day,” that draws your eyes to his and even when they narrow at the edges, he doesn’t stop talking, “i’m not a fuckin’ mind reader. if something’s wrong, you better come out with it.”

a nerve under your eye twitches.

“i’m sorry,” he has a feeling you’re not sorry at all. but finally that nonchalant front is cracking, and along with it, a frown follows its path, setting deep lines around your mouth. “is coming home to a clean house and me slaving over a hot stove not good enough for you?”

the fuck?

his jaw to tightens. “i never said that.”

“then what are you saying?” you throw back so fast it almost feels like he’s been shot.

toji pauses. he takes stock of you from head to toe and really allows himself to take his time as he does so.

the man reasons that your body always told him what your stubborn mouth never seems to be able to so maybe, just maybe, he would be able to sniff something out.

your hair falls to your shoulders, messy as if you ran your hands through it a few more times than you should have. eyes a little too bright and tracking as they stay fixed on him.

his sudden appraisal is anything but subtle, and whatever cutting remark you throw his way at the fact is completely ignored.

instead, he focuses on how your pulse jumps in your neck, ticking fast within the delicate column of skin. the way it always did that when you were angry, or when you were—

oh.

dark eyes light up like a christmas tree when it finally hits him.

“i see what this is about.” toji starts with the barest hint of amusement colouring his tone. his gaze flickers south just to make sure, and yes. the longer he stares at your tits, the more your nipples pebble under your sleep shirt. they perk up so hard he’s surprised they haven’t torn through the fabric yet. “baby, we've been together three years and you're still too shy to tell me what you want?”

your back straightens. caught. “what are you even talking about?”

he merely raises a brow at you, because you knew exactly what he was talking about. and slowly but surely, a warm flush touches your cheeks. embarrassment has you throwing the knife back into the drawer—as if you forgot what you wanted to use it for in the first place.

“you know what? fuck this,” you turn the stove off and step away. “make your own damn food.”

but toji wasn’t hungry anymore. not for food anyway.

his hand latches around your wrist before you get two steps in, and your head whips to him. lips part to no doubt curse him out, so he sharply yanks you into his chest.

the pull happens so quickly it knocks the air out of your lungs and before you can take a second to breathe, his mouth is on you to steal even more.

strong hands cup the undersides of your arms, lifting then setting you down on the edge of the counter and a shiver runs up your spine as cool marble hits skin.

toji grips the plush flesh of your thighs, forcing them apart then winding them around his body.

the speed of it all and the rush of having him between your legs, all snug and muscular, has your hips subtly pitching against his…or at least you thought it was subtle until he pulls away.

“oh, my poor baby,” he huffs against your mouth. “missed me a little more this time, didn’t you?”

your lips purse in response, and when you look away with your nose turned up, a soft chuckle is exhaled over your jaw.

you don’t have to answer for him to know the truth.

swift hands grab your shorts, almost tearing them clean off in his rush to get you bare for him, and once you were, his eyes go impossibly dark as they settle between your thighs.

“fuck, look at you,” a sexy grin tugs at his scarred lips. “so soaked for me and i’ve barely touched you.”

your chin tips up. “what makes you think it’s because of you?”

smack!

his palm promptly cracks over your cunt and the sharp bite of pain coupled with the wet squelch that echoes through the apartment afterwards, has you mewling.

“shit—!”

“keep being a brat, and i’ll leave you like this,” he tuts.

both of you knew that was a lie, but you still bit your tongue. mostly because the sight of him lowering himself to his knees steals away any snark you hoped to make.

once settled between your legs, middle and pointer fingers part your folds open, smearing the glittery wetness of your slick over your clit. then thumping over it in two sharp taps that have you grunting.

thick fingers slide down to press over your entrance and he croons when he feels you quiver. desperate and painfully empty.

“toji,” you complain between a moan and it makes his cock stir. your hips lift, seeking a trace of friction, only to get the soft press of his lips over your thigh instead.

the kiss was almost sweet and you hated it. hated him, because since when was toji ever soft?

he’s clearly teasing you.

“hm, you want something?” he murmurs so close to your cunt you can feel the heat of his breath on it. “told you i’m not a mind reader.”

he glances up at you and just knows you’re calling him every name but his own in your head. the way your lip curls tells him as much, but it only has him smiling wider.

“your mouth.” you manage between uneven pants, and a low hum follows.

“what about it?”

jesus christ.

you throw your head back in frustration, and he simply waits you out.

waits until you swallow your pride and get bold enough to tell him what you want.

it takes some time for your eyes to meet again.

“need it,” he frowns with faux empathy. so mocking it would have made you stand up and leave if you weren't so pent up. you ignore that it makes you a little wetter too.

“where?” he whispers, then thinking better of it, he tilts his head to the side. “show me.”

with a sigh, you let your legs part some more, fingers bumping against his as you circle your clit. he leans down and you nearly slap him when he presses another tender kiss to your inner thigh instead of where you wanted him most. where you literally just showed him to go.

“you sure you don’t want it here?” your head shakes and kisses continue to trail up your skin until he reaches your cunt. each peck he delivers is soft and gentle and devastatingly disarming, so when you start to relax, his lips part and sinful lick is dragged all the way up your slit.

you gasp. brokenly and all too loud, and he meets it with an answering groan against you.

“there’s my sweet girl,” toji doesn't give you time to adjust. “sweeter fucking pussy.” doesn't start slow.

his tongue laps at your sensitive clit, fat tip flicking it teasingly, before going to slurp the slick dripping down your folds. he sucks sensitive flesh into his mouth, sharp teeth scraping until you squirm under him. your hips shift back only to be pulled forward again.

“uh-uh, you wanted this. don't hide her from me.”

toji cups the tops of your legs, holding you down and open as he forces his tongue into your cunt. you flutter around the muscle, and it only makes him plunge deeper. swirling, thrusting, searching.

calloused hands grow rougher when you try to wiggle away again, moving to the backs of your thighs to push your legs, up, up, until your knees nearly touch your ears.

his mouth unrelenting as he eats you out like he means to break you. sloppy open-mouth kisses smacking onto pussy until your legs tremble in his hold.

“toji—oh, fuck please—” you don’t even know what you’re begging for as you grip his broad shoulders.

manicured nails dig into his skin, and it hurts, but it also has his cock throbbing harder. each pulse beats in time with your clit twitching under his tongue, and he groans when you cum and balmy sweetness washes over it in a thick heady rush.

“shit, there you go baby. let it out.”

the man doesn't stop even when you're a blabbing mess under him, and he moans into your pussy, free hand fisting his length through the rough fabric of his jeans.

you fall back against the counter, its coldness and hardness not even registering as you convulse all over and only then does he finally pull away.

“been gone for fourteen days,” he starts while your bleary eyes stare up at the ceiling. “guess i have to make you cum that many times to make it up to you?”

your eyes go round and you look down at him.

there’s no way he could do that. there was no way you could do that.

but as two fingers are pushed deep into your cunt, hooking up juuust right, you have a feeling the maniac is going to find a way regardless and god did you love him for it.

of course you fucking missed him.

art by @/hunnismokah

note: self indulgent because this was me a few days ago, minus you know, toji…..anyway first jjk drabble yay (?)

🏷️: @stberrypuss, @cheriefrosting, @indom-itus, @rambld, @ehcilhc @blueglitterwalet, @magicalpeenpoo, @sonotkiki, @mieleism, @deartoru, @sugusplaything, @maxxthefan, @kingraspberry12-blog, @21-princess, @peonysecret , @jiyuspassion, @sluttyangel04, @shannonigans1029, @pjselee

—join the taglist here!

[fayelero]

baby megumi interrupting you and toji…

“shit, baby… you feel so fucking good tonight,” toji groans low against your neck, his voice rough but full of reverence.

the room is dark, only the faint glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the curves of your bodies under the thick blanket. you’re on your back, legs wrapped loosely around his waist as he moves inside you with slow, deep, passionate strokes. every thrust is deliberate, dragging his thick cock along your walls in a way that makes your toes curl. his scarred chest presses flush against your breasts, skin hot and slightly damp with sweat.

toji’s face is buried in the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin with every breath. one of his big hands cradles the back of your head while the other grips your hip, holding you right where he wants you. it’s not the usual rough, punishing fuck he loves to give you — tonight it’s slower, heavier, full of that deep, aching love only he can make you feel.

“toji…” you whimper softly, nails gently raking down his broad back. your walls flutter around his thick length, squeezing him every time he bottoms out. “so deep… feels so good…”

he groans, hips rolling in that perfect rhythm, grinding against your clit with every stroke. “that’s it, mama… just like that. let me love you properly.” his voice is gravelly, breath hot against your ear. “been thinking about this pussy all damn day.”

your orgasm has been building for what feels like forever — a slow, warm coil tightening deep in your belly. every drag of his cock pushes you closer, your thighs trembling around him, breath coming in soft, needy gasps.

you’re right there. so fucking close.

“toji— i’m— i’m gonna—” your voice cracks, back arching as the pleasure crests.

and then—

knock knock

“mama… papa…?”

megumi’s small, shaky voice cuts through the room like ice water.

both of you freeze instantly.

toji’s hips stop mid-thrust, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, throbbing angrily at the sudden denial. your orgasm dies right on the edge, leaving you painfully empty and frustrated, walls still fluttering desperately around him.

“fuck,” toji hisses under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder. his entire body is tense, muscles coiled tight with frustration.

you react faster than he does. you gently push at his chest and whisper, “quick, baby.”

toji pulls out with a quiet, wet sound, jaw clenched so hard you can hear his teeth grind. he rolls off you immediately, yanking the blanket up to cover both of you properly as you sit up and adjust your nightgown, making sure you’re fully clothed.

“come in, sweetie,” you call out softly, voice still a little breathy but warm and motherly.

the door creaks open.

megumi stands there in his little dinosaur pajamas, clutching his stuffed wolf to his chest. his eyes are red and puffy, fat tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. his bottom lip trembles as he looks at you.

“i had a bad dream…” he whispers, voice tiny and broken. “there was a monster… and it took you and papa away…”

your heart melts instantly. all the sexual frustration vanishes the second you see your baby crying. you open your arms wide.

“oh, my sweet boy… come here.”

megumi runs over and climbs onto the bed, burying his face in your chest. you wrap your arms around him tightly, rocking him gently, one hand stroking through his dark spiky hair.

“it’s okay, megumi. mama and papa are right here. no monsters are gonna take us, i promise,” you coo softly, pressing kisses to the top of his head. “you’re safe. we’re all safe.”

toji lies beside you, silent.

he’s burning.

his cock is still rock hard, throbbing painfully under the blanket, leaking against his stomach. every muscle in his body is tight with frustration. he had you right there — right on the fucking edge — and now he’s stuck watching you comfort your son while his balls ache and his dick twitches angrily for release.

he loves megumi. he really does. but right now? he wants to throw the kid back into his own room and bury himself back inside his wife until she’s crying his name.

instead, he forces a rough but gentle hand onto megumi’s back, rubbing slow circles.

“ain’t no monster tough enough to take your old man, kid,” toji mutters, voice low and strained. “go back to sleep. we’re right here.”

megumi sniffles and nods, but he doesn’t move. he curls tighter against your chest, small hands fisting your nightgown. you keep rocking him, humming softly, completely focused on soothing your son.

toji’s jaw clenches harder. he shifts under the blanket, trying to adjust his painful erection without drawing attention. every time you move to comfort megumi, your ass brushes against his thigh and it takes everything in him not to groan out loud.

minutes drag by.

megumi’s breathing eventually evens out, but he’s still clinging to you. you look over at toji with soft, apologetic eyes.

toji stares back.

his green eyes are dark, frustrated, almost predatory. the muscle in his jaw keeps ticking. he wants you so bad it hurts. he was so close to feeling you fall apart around him, to filling you up while you moaned his name so sweetly. now he’s stuck with blue balls and a hard-on that refuses to die down.

you mouth “i’m sorry” at him.

he doesn’t answer. just exhales sharply through his nose and looks away, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

after another ten long minutes, megumi is finally deep asleep in your arms. you carefully lift him and carry him back to his room, tucking him in with extra blankets and his favorite wolf plush. you kiss his forehead softly and leave the nightlight on before closing the door gently.

the second you step back into your bedroom and close the door, toji is on you.

he grabs you by the waist, spins you around and pins you against the door, mouth crashing onto yours in a hungry, frustrated kiss. his hard cock presses insistently against your stomach through his sweatpants.

“you have no idea how fucking bad i need you right now,” he growls against your lips, voice thick with pent-up lust. “was so close to feeling you cum all over my cock… and then the kid shows up.”

his hands slide under your nightgown, gripping your ass hard as he grinds against you.

“toji— he might wake up again—” you whisper, but your body is already melting into him.

“then you better be quiet, mama,” he rasps, lifting you up and carrying you back to the bed. “because i’m not stopping until i’ve fucked all that frustration out.”

he drops you onto the mattress, yanking your nightgown up to your waist as he settles between your thighs again.

“now where were we?” he mutters darkly, lining his throbbing cock up with your still soaked entrance.

“round two starts now. and this time… no fucking interruptions.”

-

Ⓒfayelero all rights reserved. please to not plagiarize, repost, or translate !

[reignpage]

In which Toji uses his superhuman strength to get his hands on you

“I won’t ask again, doll. Unlock the door and let me in.”

“No!”

He pounds on the bathroom door. The whole house shakes, so does your skeleton. “Not in the mood for games, woman. You got my dick hard; you’re going to take responsibility, like a big girl.”

What were you thinking spamming him nudes whilst he’s at work? No, the better question is, what was he thinking taking you seriously enough to speed home? Can’t a girl have fun without consequences?

“I was gonna,” you start, practically shaking in the tub as you hold a shampoo bottle, a foolish delusion of protection, “but then you came home early! You weren’t supposed to come home so soon. Ugh, you ruined everything. You know I need at least an hour prep to be in my most seductive mood, Toji!”

You can almost visualise the disbelieving scoff that’d reveal his sharp teeth and make that delectable scar stretch when he bangs on the door again. He’s probably leaning against it, imagining all the ways he could have you bent and pumped full of cum. The thought makes your thighs squeeze tightly even as a nervous, almost manic laugh escapes you. 

The rattling of the walls stops. Silence rings out.

“...You laughing at me?”

Oh fuck. 

You’re done for. That much is clear when he punches a hole in the door barely a second later with a thunderous bang. Huddling on all fours, you brace yourself with a scream as the wood splinters onto the floor. Your poor pussy’s going to feel just like that door when he’s done with you, you’re sure.

You peek up. Toji’s hands grip the wood, ripping a bigger hole in the weak thing. His glinting eyes meet yours. He growls, “Oh, good. You’re already in the right position.”

Screaming bloody murder, you throw the bottle at him, and another and another. They all bounce off his chest as though they weigh nothing. “Fuck off! I take it back. I take it all back!”

“Too fucking late. Shouldn’t play games you’re not ready to lose,” he lectures. In no time at all, he steps through and casts a shadow over your body. The veins on his beefy arms pop, his thighs flex, and his lips curl up — yet, all you’re looking at is the monstrous cock in his pants, painfully hard and somehow bigger than you remember, weighing him down.

“I hate you, you big brute!” you shriek, when he throws you over his shoulder.

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. Pretend you’re not creaming your fucking panties.”

Busted.

“I’m sorry?” you try, a last ditch effort to get your way. “I won’t do it again?”

He throws you on the bed and watches you bounce, licking his lips. “Try again when I’m feeling nice. Maybe I’ll buy your bullshit apologies then.”

Sniffling, you grumble, “And when’s that going to be?”

“Dunno.” Toji lifts one shoulder lazily as his hands grip your knees and shoves your legs apart. “Let’s get to orgasm number eight and go from there.”

I imagined that scene from The Shining lol but much less scary, and more ngh!

[lilithkleia]

a little hair never stopped toji >_0 !!

“sorry toji we can’t—not tonight.” is all you manage to say before his lifts his head from between your legs, looking like a kicked puppy while he pouts.

“ ‘m more than willing to stop if you aren’t in the mood, ma.”

“no it’s not that it’s just that i haven’t shaved…in a while.”

“say less—” he says dragging your shorts to your ankles before you offer another weak protest against him.

“WAIT—you aren’t turned off by that?” you cock your head almost confused at the way his finger tremble near your hips. just itching to rip your stupid panties off of you and shove in face in your pussy until he suffocates.

your panties do a poor job at trying to hide the bush you’re sporting, the hair peeking out from the edges and toji almost feels like a dog with a treat laid out right before him.

“if i’m ever turned off by a little bit of hair, that ain’t me.”

“this isn’t a little hair toji this is an entire BUSH!”

“are you trying to sell me on this? im convinced already, lay down.” his voice was almost pained, his face warm and flushed almost as if he were sick.

“you’re into this, aren’t you.”

you barely get your sentence out before he rips your panties off of you, the thick hair almost covering the entirety of your slit, you almost cringe until you hear him groan.

“oh my god you are.”

and before you know it, his mouth is latched onto your cunt, his nose deep inside your bush while toji inhales as if he’s in dire need of air.

“you—fucking weirdo—why are you ah—sniffing me?!”

“smells good, doll.” is all you get before he’s back at it, his tongue sloppily kissing your cunt while his nose slowly bumps your clit while you moan into the mattress trying to hide your face.

he’s licking stripes in the hair, practically munching on it, it’s gross, it’s perverse—and it’s absolute heaven to toji. and he’s eating you out as if he has a point to prove—well, to never have you shave the bush again, of course.

you can feel your body spasming around him, your cunt coated with his drool and your slick, and he looks up momentarily, his face dripping while he has the most ecstatic smile on his face.

“maybe…i should shave—” you joke your body recovering from the high while he kisses your inner thighs. taking another whiff of your pussy before you push his head away.

“just say you want me dead next time.”

“toji i can’t keep the bush forever.”

“my girlfriend hates me and she wants me dead.”

this was inspired by da lovely @yoonsucks mwah @yorikae @sugusplaything !!

all works belong to @lilithkleia, do NOT copy, translate or feed to AI. lest you wish upon toji’s worm to crawl up your ass.

[rengoatku]

How to apologise to your wife in 3 easy steps, a guide by Toji Fushiguro!

Is your wife upset with you? Is she giving you the old silent treatment and making you sleep on the couch? Well, you're in luck! Toji Fushiguro is here to help you fellas out with his easy three-step guide on how to apologise to your wife.

Step 1 — Poke and prod until you find the reason. (May backfire)

You had been giving Toji the cold shoulder since last night and frankly, he was getting tired of it. You turned away every time he came within two feet of you and pushed him away when he tried to trap you in a bear hug. Toji had had enough.

He decided to make his move when you least expected it, creeping up on you as you scrolled on your phone in the living room. “Come on, doll, haven't you had enough of sleeping alone? Don't you miss a pair of big, strong arms holding you close?” His scar stretched across his mouth as he grinned, plopping himself down beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder before you could wiggle away.

You scoffed, eyes never leaving your phone, “No actually, it's nice when im not being squished between your man boobs.” Toji’s face contorted into one of utter betrayal, “I thought you liked them…”

Silence engulfed the room as you continued to scroll on your phone while Toji fumbled for what to say next. He wracked his brain for what to say to get you to admit why you were upset with him.

Was he snoring too loudly? Did he spend too much on lottery tickets again? Maybe he stayed out too late with Shiu again?

“What's going on with you, huh? What did I do wrong this time?” He squeezed your shoulder, eyes fixated on yours which still refused to meet his, “You know what you did, Toji. Don't play dumb with me,” You turned to face him, a pout evident on your lips.

Toji’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, what on earth did he do this time?

“Just tell me so we can get this over with,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “No Toji! Figure it out yourself you bum. Do I have to spell everything out for you?”

Step 2 — Spend your last ¥1,100 on a somewhat nice bouquet of flowers.

Toji sighed to himself as he dug through his beat-up wallet, the piece of crap might as well have moths flying out every time he opened it.

His eyes scanned the numerous floral arrangements, each a combination of different colours, some pale and some so vibrant they hurt his eyes. The shop smelled sickeningly like pollen, his nose tickled with every inhale. “Ah shit — why is it all so expensive? Who’s buying roses for ¥5,000?” He kissed his teeth, searching for an affordable bouquet to bring home to you.

Finally, his eyes landed on a small bouquet, two tulips of your favourite colour surrounded by baby's breath. “Hmph, just in my budget.”

The door slammed shut with a bang! Toji’s booming voice followed, “I have a surprise for you, doll.”

He appeared in the doorway of the living room, flowers in hand — granted they were slightly beaten up by the wind on the walk home and from how hard he was gripping them. Your eyes stayed glued to the TV, face remaining unbothered. “Oh come on, just look at what I bought for you.”

He strode over, shoving the bouquet into your face and blocking your view of the TV screen. “Toji! Go away you oaf,” you shoved at his chest with your foot, turning away from him with a pout, but he didn't miss the way your frown faltered as you eyed the flowers. “I got them for you, don't you want to see them?”

You huffed, snatching the flowers from him and examining them. Toji wore a proud smirk, finally thinking he had won back your affection. “¥1,100? Seriously? Am I not worth more than pocket change?”

Ah shit, he forgot to remove the price tag.

Step 3 — If all else fails, admit defeat.

Toji Fushiguro was a man of many talents, however, apologising was not one of them. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

All other attempts at gaining forgiveness without actually apologising for something he didn't even remember led to dead ends, so now Toji’s only option was to verbally apologise. Now if this isn't your strong suit — similar to Toji — you may want to prepare and practice beforehand.

Something that Toji did not do.

“Look, I don't know what's gotten into you or er — what I could've possibly done but can you just please forgive me already?” You sat on the other end of the kitchen table, stone-faced as ever. “You can't apologise for something you don't know about, it's not an apology.” Toji groaned, calloused fingers coming to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what I did, dammit!”

You scowled at him in return, slamming your hands on the table, “You ate the last mochi! That's what. I was saving those, Fushiguro! We both know it!” As if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his head Toji’s expression morphed into a softer one, “Ah — I did, didn't I?”

You got up from the table but Toji grabbed your wrist, “Look, I’m sorry, I didn't know it was a big deal. I shouldn't have eaten your food without asking.” you looked him in the eye for what felt like the first time in weeks — although it had really only been one day — and for once your husband seemed to be showing genuine remorse.

Your scowl faltered, lips twitching up into a smile, “Now I feel bad for making a big deal, you've got those cute puppy dog eyes.” He chuckled, standing up to pull you into a hug, “What can I say? It's my speciality.”

You rolled your eyes, melting into his embrace.

He knew you were never really mad at him, he noticed how the flowers had been put into your favourite vase.

Maybe he'll buy you more mochi just to eat it and watch you pout again.

a/n: sorry I didn't know how to end it :c