ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his.
⤳ warnings: this mini series will feature adult content and is not recommended to anyone under the age of 18
intro
❦ chapter one: the fuck buddy proposal
❦ chapter two: you're not my type!
❦ chapter three: the conclusion
꒰ I've already got a taglist going but you can also sign up for tags here! under others just type in: the arrangement series ꒱
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
gojo satoru didn't love, he lusted. that's what the rumours said. and blissful, innocent you assumed better of your husband to be. arranged to marry— or perhaps doomed? your dream come true turned nightmare once you realise that your new husband; man of your dreams, despises you. and worse, that you'll do anything for his affection. including ruining your own innocence in a desperate endeavour for his attention in the only way you know how. . . lust.
ᝰ.☆ cws : arranged marriage :: unrequited love :: slow burn :: so much sex :: infidelity :: broken marriage :: loss of innocence :: pregnancy pressures :: duty vs love :: love vs lust :: violence :: abusive clans :: prostitution :: mean satoru :: sexism (not from satoru) :: side samurai!suguru x reader
ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ prologue
chapter 01 : white sheets chapter 02 : red strings
chapter 03 : roses chapter 04 : rouge
chapter 05 : spilt wine chapter 06 : scarlet sheets
chapter 07 : pale heart chapter 08 : cherries
chapter 09 : ruby chapter 10 : bleeding heart
chapter 11 : thorns chapter 12 : red light
chapter 13 : scarlet letter chapter 14 : silk vein
chapter 15 : vermilion chapter 16 : stain
chapter 17 : dagger chapter 18 : porcelain
chapter 19 : beast's rose chapter 20 : red wedding
you expected that meeting your boyfriends' family would be at least a little nerve-wracking. what you hadn't anticipated was the sheer mistreatment that satoshi faced. nor the disaster that struck and left satoshi storming off with blood on his knuckles.
⌗ wc : 11.4k ( oh boy )
♡ ₊˚‧ cws. satoshi centric :: gojo twins :: polyamorous relationship ( with reader only ) :: fluff :: angst :: smut :: hurt comfort :: toxic families :: satoshi's anger issues ( medical ) :: violence :: slighhtt creepy themes :: somno ( pre-consented ) :: rough sex :: desperate sex :: pronebone :: choking :: biting :: f.oral :: emotional sex :: crying during sex :: soft sex :: creampie :: overstimulation
♡ ₊˚‧ sweetheart. this was commissioned by @chewiebee , thank you so much for feeding our obsession baby <3
"Can't believe that guy ditched us for some tutoring session."
"Satoshi. He's a TA. He doesn't really have a choice."
"Just cause it's an acronym doesn't make it any fancier."
"Could it be— you actually miss your twin?"
"Oh, ew."
Your lips quirked while his pressed tighter, tipping his cigarette and tapping ash to the sun-cracked pavement. Blue eyes deepened with the afternoon's glow, spikes on his jacket glinting with the horizon, his fluffy white hair bathed in the warmth. For someone decked in black and silver, the sun sure did love Satoshi.
You couldn't blame it, really. Anyone who didn't was mad by default, you decided.
Your boyfriend was rough around the edges and gooey at the centre. Those big arms were the best for cuddling. Calloused hands from his bike and guitar were perfect for cradling you. The chill of his piercings always soothed you when your lips brushed over them.
Gojo Satoshi was built for love.
Even as he stood here now, face scrunched at the clearly offensive idea that he might have actually missed his nerdy twin. With his long arm draped over your shoulders as you leaned with him against his bike. Soaking in the dwindling afternoon sun and soothed by the scent of his cigarette.
You leaned into his shoulder, pressing on his side with a smile. "Admit it, you miss your little brother."
The croon earned a side eye. His pierced brow catching in the light as he raised it. "Yeah, sure," he scoffed, took a drag, then billowed smoke into the air. Making sure to direct it away from you.
"I totally miss that dork and his amazing ability to bore me to death whenever he opens his mouth for more than five seconds."
You thumped him. He whined. Hunching over dramatically and clinging to his side like he was made of glass and not leather and piercings.
"Be nice," you said, maintaining your smile. "I'm sure he misses you too."
Satoshi audibly gagged and poked his tongue out. Scrunching his nose in that habit he hardly noticed was a twin thing. You bit back a comment.
"For all I know, he'll ditch tonight," he shrugged.
Your brow quirked. "Satoru? Playing hooky? Don't joke around."
"He's not big on these snob fests either."
Your lips pursed. 'Snob fest' was certainly a way of putting a family function.
The plan was to arrive at the event with Satoshi and meet his twin there. Now, you're not so sure.
Satoru was always so attentive in everything he did. Whether it be hyper-analysing an equation sequence simply because it didn't feel right or studying a 'better boyfriend 101' manual from index-to-appendix cause Satoshi teased him about acting like a love robot.
You couldn't fathom the idea of him ditching a family function. Especially with what you've heard about the Gojo's. They were prestigious as they were plentiful. Or: problematic. As Satoshi often said.
The thought stirred earlier's coffee and sweet treat in your gut into a puddle of anxiety. Zoning you out to soothing smoke and Satoshi's warm arm still holding you close.
Suddenly, your dress felt too short. Your colours felt wrong. Your shoes felt weird. You'd spent hours fumbling through appropriate outfits and retrying every dress at least twice. Spent even longer doing your hair, your makeup, practising your smile in the mirror.
Meeting a partner's family was already stressful enough. Now slap the label 'polyamory' onto it and you've got a recipe for disaster.
What exactly were you getting yourself into by attending the event tonight? Would you make things worse for the twins? You could only imagine the comments about them sharing a lover.
A press to your temple snapped you out of your mind. You blinked at the silver-ringed index that poked your head and urged you to face a pair of thoughtful blues.
"What's up in that pretty little head of yours?" Satoshi grinned. Softer. Always for you.
"Just. . . thinking," you muttered, slumping back further into the black steel of his bike. Maybe if your dug your heels enough into the pavement, you could root yourself here instead.
You voice lowered. "Are you sure about this?"
He paused. Stared at you for a bit. Understood. You never needed to over-explain with him. He understood your heart like every gear in his bike transmission.
Squeezing you tighter so the scent of smoke and leather embraced your senses together with his warmth, he replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"What if they don't like me?"
"Well then they can just go suck a co—"
"Toshi!" You thwacked his arm and he huffed a chuckle. The remaining cigarette dropped from his fingers and snuffed under his black boot as his arm slipped down your waist. Hand smoothing over your side to caress your hip and lean you further into him. To his soft smooch on your head.
"Babydoll, I don't give a damn 'bout what they think." He squeezed assurance into your hip with those big hands that promised to always protect you. Your muscles innately eased into him. Like your heart knew she was safe.
"I love you. Satoru loves you. Anyone who's got a problem with that can take a hike," he shrugged. "Or swallow teeth. Depends what mood they catch me in."
You clicked your tongue and ignored your inward swoon as you shot him a playful glare. Gojo Satoshi. Ever trigger-happy. His grin and glinting teeth told you he wasn't exaggerating.
"You can't solve everything with fists, y'know." You pouted.
He mimicked your lips, jutting out his lower one. "Oh I know. Some things also call for. . . " He squished your hip and then swung you both around. Sending your squeak into the air as he flushed you further into his bike and slipped both hands to your thighs.
"— kisses."
His lips were on yours not even a second later. As he bundled your thighs and scooped you up. Seating you over his bike as his towering height toppled over you. Your hands shot to his shoulders. Clinging to the back of his hair as he tipped over you. Weighing into the kiss and stealing your breath into his lungs.
He tasted of smoke and bad decision. Of roughness and fun with love riddled in the leather of his tongue.
It was never just one kiss. But several. Until your knees were quaking and your lungs burned. Kissing Satoshi was a matter of trading air for passion and anxiety for thrill. His pierced tongue urged the exchange as the silver barbell stroked on your pink muscle and prompted another squeal from you.
"Toshi!" You whined.
"Toshi!" He mimicked, pitching his voice in an exaggerated squeak to mock you. You could feel that bastard grin on your mouth.
Gripping tuffs of his snowy hair, you dragged him back. A string of saliva snapped between your mouths and glistened in the last few glimmers of the sun that shone from the left. His lashes were heavy, eyes glinting, piercings shimmering. Oh, he was beautiful when favoured by the setting sun.
Beautiful and a brat. Because the bastard was still trying to steal another kiss despite swelling your lips with several.
You smacked his chest and huffed. "You're insatiable. Crazy too."
He caught your hand. Crooking his head to press a kiss on your palm. Blue eyes never once breaking from yours. "But you lovveee meeee." He whined.
"I do love you," you whispered.
Because 'I love you's' weren't something you ever kept from Satoshi. He had enough of that in his life. It was his turn to be loved. For all his cracks and the gold that shone from within them. For the rough around the edges that you adored just as much as his gooey centre.
His grin melted into a smile. Softer than any of the stars that would soon take to the sky. His forehead pressed to yours. Hands smoothing over your thighs in soft caresses.
"I love you." He mumbled back. Sealing one more peck before he withdrew, reluctantly.
Satoshi shifted and snatched a helmet. The one he'd bought for you on your first date. Slipping it over your head with practised ease and strapping it beneath your chin. "We gotta get going. We're already late."
"Mmm," you hummed, as he flipped your visor open to get a good look at your eyes. A single index pressed to the centre of the helmet.
"And I don't wanna hear any 'what if they don't like me' crap again. If anyone gives you shit you tell me immediately, got it?" His brow arched. Even his sternness was soft. Because it was protective. Because it was for you.
Your face warmed in the helmet. Even after a year of being his— he still had an effect on you. Well, until he flicked the helmet just to hear you whine and give him a verbal response.
"Yes, yes. Promise." You mumbled.
His gloved hand raised. Pinkie expectant. Stare serious. A giggle shook your shoulders as you looped your pinkie with his.
"I pinkie promise," you teased.
"Mhhm," he hummed, pressing a kiss to the tip of your finger before he snatched his own helmet and positioned you both over his bike.
The engine rumbled into the night as you nestled behind him. Hugging around him with your head to his back. Anxiety slipping into the rushing air as he took off into the streets.
As long as Satoshi was at your side, how bad could it be?
Thank heavens Satoshi barely left your side. You might have slipped on the marble floors from your own nerves.
From what you gathered, this was his childhood home. Black marble and mahogany furniture. A lavish living room that outstretched into a grand kitchen on one end, probably bustling with catering staff, and an extravagant staircase on the other end. A chandelier shimmered above it. More crystals than you could count. Dazzling onto the floor and commanding attention like every speck of this house— no, mansion.
Even the fake flowers smelled expensive.
The Gojo family was exactly as described. As prestigious as they were plentiful. A sea of white hair and blue eyes. You wondered if that was a boastful trait, too. There were the odd ones out, of course. Some black hair, some darker eyes, silver ones. But the air remained the same.
Thick with pride and riddled with prejudice.
They moved through the luxuries and leaned on the furniture like they owned the place. And yet Satoshi hadn't even been offered a seat yet. Wasn't this his home?
He lingered at your side. Hands stuffed in his pockets and blue eyes brimming with boredom. He didn't bother taking of his jacket, nor greeting anyone who hadn't greeted him first.
"Satoshi, how nice to see you." An old woman with more jewels than wrinkles approached you both. Satoshi stepped closer to you before you even considered to do the same.
"Yukino." He spoke. Not really a greeting, more of an acknowledgement.
She didn't seem to appreciate it, given her furrowed brows and tight smile. "Still lacking manners. It wouldn't kill you to call me o-bāsan."
Your shoulders stiffened. This was his auntie? Which one? Probably a close one considering she had the same white-haired-blue-eyed combo. Regardless, you bowed your head.
"It's a pleasure to meet you." You offered a polite smile.
Hers thinned. "Oh, you must be the girlfriend."
It didn't sound like she was too impressed.
Yukino's stare seemed to sharpen, like a needle. Scanning over every part of you as if to find which spot needed stitching. But before she could so much as open her mouth, Satoshi's arm curled around your waist and yanked you into him.
"Yeah, yeah. This is my girlfriend. Now go find your cheating husband."
He scoffed, dragging you off with him and leaving behind a scandalised old woman without a care. You could only fall into place beside him as you walked on fumbling heels.
"Satoshi—" your hissed scold was met with a squeeze. The look on his face shut you right up.
His brows were narrowed. Eyes cold. As he guided you through the hall and to the just-as-bustling living room. Really, how big was this family? Their numbers were only emphasised with their not so subtle stares.
"Where the fuck is Satoru?" He huffed, digging his phone out of his pocket as he leaned with you against a pillar. Arm still strung tight around you. As if you'd slip into the sea of judgement and pride that scorned the manor.
You eyed the time. "Probably just finishing up."
"He's sure taking his fucking time."
Satoshi exhaled. Shoulders slumping with his head that rolled back. His exasperated stare dug into the ceiling and squeezed your heart. He looked tired. You couldn't blame him. Ever since you both got here it's been exactly as he described— a snob fest.
Your gaze flickered across the room. Eyeing the luxurious furniture. The lavish people. Money etched into every inch of the scene. Pride was more than just thick in the air. It was the air.
You hadn't missed how they looked at Satoshi. With piercing blues that matched his own yet could never live up to the heart his had. Their's were hollow. Sharp. Like sharks hunting for fresh blood. And you both looked like just the right meal.
Of course you expected a few sour apples. But not a comment the second you both arrived and stepped over the threshold.
"You really should fix that face of yours. Why cover it in holes?"
You found yourself flinching at the memory. Satoshi hadn't even batted an eye at who you assumed was one of his elders. Maybe an uncle if not a grandparent.
"Surprised you even showed up."
Commented another when you both approached the refreshments table. Their youth shocked you. Was that a cousin?
"How's college? Or did you finally drop out? We're looking to fill a spot in the ground staff."
That one nearly got a comment out of you. You would have said something. Should have said something. But the way Satoshi hadn't even blinked, let alone dignified it with a response ached your heart.
Was he so used to being the black sheep that he tuned everything out? How many of these had he attended where he was shamed for simply breathing?
The thought unsettled you. Pitted your stomach. There were probably several of these events that he attended in the past. Before you were even in the picture. Before you could protect him the same way he protected you.
Angry flames licked at that pit in your stomach. Anger that this had happened before. Enough times that he now seemed numb to it. A part of you wanted to shatter that expensive champagne they kept prattling on about. Command their attention. Shame them for their disgusting behaviour.
Because your Satoshi was built for love. He was rough around the edges, but he was gentle at the centre.
You saw it in his soft eyes. In the way he never let his lack of privilege stop him from spoiling you with whatever little money he had. How attentive he was to your discomfort. Be it at parties or your dorm. How he memorised all your tells. Knew when you were happy, when you were sad, when you needed him to listen and when you needed him to hold you.
The innate protectiveness over not only you, but his twin that he once claimed to despise and now was actively trying to rekindle their brotherly bond.
The same guy who stopped to pet stray dogs and help old ladies cross the street.
The same guy who never, ever, let you think for even a second. That you were not loved by him.
And they made him seem unlovable.
Your lips pressed together as your eyes stung. Teary. You were actually getting teary at the thought. At the unfair reality. But you sucked in a breath and blinked away the gloss. You couldn't afford to smudge your mascara. He'd notice, because he noticed everything. The last thing you wanted was for him to think someone had said something and cause a scene.
Not for your sake, but for his.
"Hey, toshi!"
Your guarded eyes glanced over. Readying a retort on your tongue if this turned out to be another slew of judgement. But warm, pale eyes and a smile eased your nerves. Seemed to ease Satoshi's too with the way his arm relaxed around you.
"Yutaka, how've you been?" It's the most mellow you've seen him all night.
Yutaka looked young. Probably younger than both of you. Maybe a cousin? He was also littered in piercings. Way more than Satoshi.
He waved a pale hand. "Fine, fine. The usual," he shrugged, offering you a small greeting which you returned with a smile. He then looked back at Satoshi.
"Come over here for a sec? Enari and I wanna show you something." He motioned with his head upstairs. Satoshi hadn't tensed, but he didn't look too thrilled either.
He glanced at the stairs. Then back to you. His lips set tight. You knew that look in his eye. Couldn't help but smile.
Always your guard dog.
"Go," you squeezed assurance into his arm. "I'll be fine. I'll just go outside."
He huffed. Hesitated. Only to roll his eyes as Yutaka badgered him. With one last kiss to your temple, he slipped from his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. Before he walked off. Leaving you already missing his warmth, but sucking in a breath.
You needed some air anyway. And he needed to relax— seemed Yutaka liked him quite a bit. Maybe another black sheep, for all you knew.
As Satoshi disappeared, you almost regretted telling him to leave. The sharks' eyes struck to you again. Sharp with the new blood that now stood defenceless.
Yeah. You definitely needed some air.
Pushing yourself off of the wall and through the doors that weren't too far away, you sighed. The cold air hit your face and eased your nerves. But not your heavy heart. The night and its stars only reminded you of Satoshi. And in turn reminded you of his mistreatment.
You leaned against the patio railing. Black steel. Probably riddled with expense too. The Gojo family were a lot more wealthy than you initially thought.
It only served to frustrate you more. All this money, this lavish home that wasn't even theirs— and Satoshi still struggled to pay for his studies and make groceries every month? What the hell was up with that?
If this was his childhood home, decked in black marble and sleek mahogany, why was he still left to struggle?
You wanted to ask him the second you both got home. Round him up and interrogate him regarding the injustice that was his empty pockets. Not that you ever cared about his financial status— but that didn't make it fair. He was his parents' eldest child. Twin or not. Tradition was still tradition.
Or did tradition not count when it came to your Satoshi?
You bit the cold air and exhaled. Wrapping the jacket tighter around you and finding comfort in the leather filled with his smokey cologne. You never minded the spikes nor the tears. If anything, it just reminded you that it was uniquely his. Just as he was yours.
Another sigh. What time was it? You found yourself glancing from the stars to the street lights. Even those screamed money.
Satoru should be here soon, right? Hopefully he'd make it all better. Where Satoshi was the heart, his twin was the brain. Warm and cool. Mind and soul. Fire and ice. The balance you needed to stay steady in an environment as hostile as this.
You checked the time on your phone. 8:23 pm. He's late. Maybe caught up with the professor? They always treated him like their favourite pet. You'd rather that than the idea that he might have actually ditched.
No. Satoru wouldn't. You had faith in him to not leave you— or his brother— stranded in this shark cage.
You were right not to doubt him.
Only a minute later, a cab pulled up. Black dress shoes graced the pavement. Moonlight adored white hair. A slice of blue cut over rimless glasses. As a tall man dressed in a white-collared shirt, black dress pants and a tie, stepped out of the car, fixing his watch. Smooth and graceful. Like an albino panther.
He checked his watch with a click of his tongue. Scrunched his nose— yup. That's Satoru.
Relief washed your shoulders into a slump. You pushed yourself from the railing and to the steps as he made his way up the patio. You smiled, folding your arms. "You certainly took your sweet time."
He paused at the last step. Stared at you.
Then grinned, slow.
His head crooked. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in my home?" The croon was deeper. Probably with tiredness. You hadn't seen him all morning, who knows how many errands he ran before you had so much as slipped from your seventh dream.
Another exhale. You met him as he took the last step. Hands tethering to him like magnetic poles. Arms looping around his neck. Your heels made it easier.
"Hi baby," you cooed. Lips pressing to his soft ones and tasting his spearmint sedulousness.
He froze.
Nothing out of the ordinary. You were Satoru's first girlfriend. You remembered how he'd stiffen at any affectionate touch in the beginning of your relationship.
Although, you would have thought he'd be used to it by now.
His mouth curled on your lips. There you go.
Large hands snapped to your waist. His head shove forward. Kissing you deeper— rougher. Oh. That's new.
The taste of spearmint sharpened. Sliced into your mouth like steel as his tongue snaked in. Tangling with yours. Knocking your teeth. You found yourself squeaking as his feet shuffled and he slumped you up against the railing. Trapping you.
Satoru was never this hasty. Not without buildup, at least. He must've been real tired.
His hands certainly weren't drowsy in the way they roamed you. Slipping down your waist and squeezing your thighs. Shoving you further into the kiss. Stealing your breath. Melting your mind.
You could hardly keep up. His glasses knocked on your face. His mouth moulded yours. Hands clung. One kiss turned into several with only a gasp's break in between.
"Sat— mm."
Sucking on your tongue. He was sucking on your tongue. Only to kiss you again. Practically shoving it down your throat this time as a hand slipped up to grip your jaw. Twist your head with his. Tousle your sanity into your shaking knees.
The railing and his strong hands were the only thing holding you up. Hands. They seemed bigger.
Wait— no.
They felt rougher.
Satoru's hands were always so soft—
"Satoya, get the hell off of my girlfriend."
At last the man broke away from you.
A grin etched on his face. Something so unlike Satoru. Something from the depths of hell itself, as he glanced over his shoulder at the folded arms and another pair of blue eyes stabbing over identical rimless glasses. Narrowed brows. Glaring daggers.
Satoru?
Your heart didn't skip a beat, it stopped altogether.
The man standing behind the one who held you was without a doubt, your Satoru.
Then.
Then who.
The man holding you grinned.
"Oh come now, toru. Let me have a little fun."
"Satoya."
Satoru's voice cut through the night. Eyes unblinking and face steeled. "I won't tell you again. Get the fuck off."
Satoya.
Who the hell was Satoya?
He sighed. Theatrical. Hands slipping from your thighs, slower than necessary, as he slinked away from you. But not before casting you one last wink.
Your tummy twisted.
"What. . . What just, who—" panic bled into frazzled eyes as you immediately scampered to Satoru. Pushing past his doppelganger and clinging to your boyfriend's arm.
"My brother, Satoya," replied Satoru. Curt and clipped. His cold stare never left the eyes that mirrored his. But he still tugged you closer. Gripped you tight.
"The one we don't talk about for this very reason."
"So rude. You would think you had some respect for your older brother, huh?"
Satoya crooked his head, brow arched and grin stained on his sharp teeth. Like he was fucking proud to have been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
"Respect is earned, asshole." Satoru scoffed.
"Oh come on. Don't be mad," Satoya sighed, taking a step closer.
Satoru yanked you back with him.
"Your pretty girlfriend over there kissed me first. You telling me she can't tell the difference?"
"How could she when you obviously want to live in my skin?"
You'd never heard Satoru bite back so fiercely before. Even if his voice hadn't raised in the slightest. That easy control he always maintained was crackling at the edges. Spurred on by that unsettling grin on his brother's lips.
What unsettled you further, though? That Satoru was right.
Satoya obviously wanted to live in his skin.
His hair was the same as Satoru's. He wore the same clothes. Had the same watch. Hell— even the same glasses. Right down to the brand. An exact replica.
What.
The hell?
"Boys, is everything alright here?" Another relative called from the door, the old man from earlier. Satoru's stare still didn't leave his brother's.
"Fucking peachy." He grunted.
"Hey, show some respect for your elders," Satoya's face went serious. Obviously feigned. Mocking.
Satoru's fingers curled on you. Jaw set tight. Eyes flaring. You didn't know how to quell his anger. It was cold— an icy hell.
His head reared. "How about you—"
"Toru? What the hell's going on?"
Your heart stuttered. No. It sank.
Your head snapped to the door and sure enough, there was Satoshi. Pushing past his relative and stepping outside.
It took one look. At Satoru. At you bundled in his arms. At the grinning devil that was Satoya. And in the span of seconds— Satoshi's brows narrowed. A flame flickered in his eyes. The fire to Satoru's ice.
His voice lowered. Flat. It didn't even sound like a question.
"What happened."
"Satoya happened."
Satoru replied, just as tense, as Satoshi's stare left his to find yours. Rough around the edges with not a hint of that gentleness you knew at the centre.
"What did he do to you?"
The question hitched your breath. Cramped your muscles. You tried to hold his stare. You really did. But in the end, all you could do was cling to Satoru's arms and stare into the floor. Ashamed. Anxious.
"I. . . "
You couldn't say it.
A part of you hoped Satoru wouldn't. But of course he did.
"She mistook him for me. His tongue was down her throat when I arrived."
Satoshi's jaw ticked.
You saw it.
Saw his stare flare. The fire surge.
A beat of silence.
Several.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four—
"You fucking— bastard!"
The fire didn't just surge. It detonated.
Satoshi shot across the patio in seconds. Hot on his heels. A storm in his hands. He snatched Satoya by his white collar that might drip red very soon. Hurled him into a pillar. Banging his head back on the stone with a sickening thwack! So hard you swore it cracked.
Your heart shoved into your throat. The hairs on your arms standing. You knew that look. Knew that sneer and those wide eyes.
Satoshi wasn't mad.
Mad. Angry. Wrath. None of that could measure when he was pissed.
It was something you only witnessed a handful of times. More than a flame and a flare. Sheer volcanic. It was jagged. Ragged.
Ugly.
Satoru dragged you back into him before you got any ideas. Your feet were already shuffling. You always tried to get to Satoshi when he got like this. Instinctive to pull him from trouble.
"Toshi—!" You tried.
Squirmed. Thrashed. But Satoru gripped you tight. Turning his back to the scene. Pushing his hand to the back of your head. Shoving your face into his shoulder. Shielding you.
"Don't." He whispered.
You squirmed your face up. Staring. Gaping. Wide eyed and horrified at your seething boyfriend who yanked Satoya forward.
Then crashed! him back into the pillar.
No.
You're sure.
He fucking cracked something.
And Satoya— was grinning.
"Fucker— wanna see if you'll be smiling when you choke on your teeth!?"
Shouting. No— not shouting. Screaming. Satoshi was borderline screaming. Alerting the other family members who rustled from inside. Soon to poke their heads in the already dire situation.
Satoya hadn't so much as flinched.
He just. Smiled. His stare steel to Satoshi's scorching snarl. As unblinking as his brother. Yet all the more calm. Eerily so.
"You always knew how to cause a scene, huh, toshi?" He mused, leaning his face closer.
"What? Worried your little girlfriend might like me more too?"
Satoshi bristled.
You winced.
He didn't scream again. That was the terrifying part.
His voice evened. Steady. Too steady for a man who was blazing wildfire from his eyes. Shaking with violence in his hands.
"Don't." He grit. Jaw cramped.
Still. Not blinking.
"Don't. Fucking push me right now."
"Terrified." Satoya drawled. Lazy.
"Can you even afford bail?"
"You think I give a fuck about that right now? No one's gonna give me bail if I rip your fucking throat out."
The threat chilled your blood. Cold like some of the relatives that stood at the door. Frozen. Clearly wanting to say something. Clearly frightened. Clearly recognising this.
Your heart hammered. Ears ringing. Satoshi already had a run in with the cops last week. You knew how his anger burned. Knew it was ugly. Knew he could crack concrete if pushed far enough.
The true. Unbridled.
Horrifying.
Reality of anger issues.
"Satoshi—"
Still, you called for him. Choked. Teary. Your hands clambering to the back of Satoru's cardigan. Your heart shoved in your throat. Knees shaking.
Eyes. Wide. And staring at your boyfriend. Your angel boy. The man who was built for love.
But birthed from hate.
He snapped his head over. You didn't expect him to. Weren't frightened when he did. Not of him— never of him. He could never hurt you.
Satoshi finally blinked.
Finally took a breath.
Harsh. Sucked through his clenched teeth. But a breath nonetheless. A pause. A stare. At you. Your trembles. Your tears.
Something other than flames flickered in his eyes.
A beat.
One.
Two—
He hurled Satoya to the ground.
Staggered over him. Stormed forward. Past Satoru. Away from you.
"I gotta go." He hissed.
Satoru didn't flinch.
"Where are you going?"
"I gotta go before I fucking— kill him."
You winced. But still reached out. Still followed him with your eyes as he pushed himself down the patio stairs and shoved his hands into his pockets. Still tried to go after him— but Satoru held you steady.
"Toshi— Toshi please be careful." You croaked after him.
He didn't reply. But you knew he heard you.
Whether he listened to you was another story. You hoped he would. Knew he wouldn't. Not when he was like this. When fire scorched beneath his boots and his glare cut flames into the night.
He might speed.
He might might start a fight.
Might punch a cop.
Might end up in a holding cell.
The possibilities wrung your heart. So you buried your tears into Satoru's shoulder. Knees shaking with adrenaline. Lungs struggling to breathe.
"You better fix that attitude while you're at it! How shameful!" One of the elders bellowed after him.
Satoshi didn't bother looking. He just stuck his middle finger back. Didn't blink at the scandalised shouts. Only swung a leg over his bike. Roared the engine to life.
And tore through the night without even his helmet.
Satoru's arms strung you closer. He refused to reply to any of his relatives who greeted him with a politeness they hadn't dared to offer his twin. His stare fixed on Satoya who was helped up by Yukino and fussed over by a few more older women who checked for injuries.
A few others commented. Elders shaking their heads and aunties already gossiping. A sea of chatter. Of domino of judgement.
"That Satoshi's a real brute, isn't he?"
"So unslightly! It's only a matter of time before he's behind bars."
"Befitting. Maybe he'd find something better to do with his time."
Your fingers curled into Satoru's cardigan. The only reason you bit your tongue was because of your exhaustion and the desperation to just get the hell out of there.
"Toru," you croaked, tugging on his sweater. Teary eyes peeked up at him. "Let's. . . go home. Please."
His stare softened. Hand cupping the back of your head as his lips pressed atop your hair. "Of course, sweetheart. C'mon."
Satoru nudged you forward. Promptly ignoring any comments and everyone else who was trying to speak to him. He guided you down the stairs. Shooting one last glare at the smiling Satoya.
Was he staring at you?
Not that you noticed. Not that you cared. You let Satoru whisk you away from it all. Away from those black marble floors and mahogany furniture. Away from whatever horrors just occurred.
Alas, the anxiety clung to your heart. Digging its teeth in and bleeding a name that twisted in the pit of your stomach. In the hollow of your chest. The woe of your mind.
Satoshi.
You tried to think of how he was before. Leaning against his bike with a cigarette in one hand and the other squeezing your arm. How the sun adored him.
When you looked at the moon, you could only think about how it probably loathed him. Just like everyone else is that damned house.
Your Satoshi. Your angel boy.
You could only hope he was alright.
You could only hope that he'd be alright.
You hoped he would be alright.
God.
You hoped he was alright.
You were convinced that your thoughts raced as fast as his bike might have been. Was he speeding down a highway? Tumbling into a ditch? Crashing into a truck?
Would there be anything left of his bike to salvage?
Anything left of him?
"Hey."
A voice mumbled into your cheek. Cold hands squeezing on your hips stirred you back to reality. To the soft sheets and the scent of mint. To your arms clamped around a pale blue hoodie and fluffy white hair tickling your face.
"You're doing it again," Satoru mumbled, pressing an index to your temple. "Stop it."
"Easier said than done." You sighed, turning on the bed and nestling further into his arms. Pressing into his comfort. Or well— his desperate attempt at it.
Satoru's lanky arms were awkward. Constantly shifting with hands that didn't know where to hold. He'd alternated from burying his head into your chest, to your shoulder, to trying to tuck you under his chin.
He was still getting used to cuddling.
With hands that knew more about experiments than affection— you couldn't really blame him. You found it endearing, regardless. How he tried for you. Learnt for you.
"Not everyone can just tune their mind like a supercomputer, toru." Your attempted joke fell from a shaky smile.
His lips pulled thin. Something crossed between a pout and a frown. You could see the hundreds of theories and hypotheses rushing through his eyes. And yet none of them were to decode a system nor analyse an astronomical observation.
But to find a way to ease your anxious mind.
"Well," he started. "What're you thinking?"
You sucked in a breath. Looked to the side. Satoru was all about logic and reason. Something anxiety wasn't birthed from. You could only imagine how stupid you'd sound to him, but you replied nonetheless.
"Satoshi speeding," you mumbled. "Where could he have a gone? Is he on a highway? How fast is he going?"
"Well, he brought you to the function, yeah? Mean's he tuned his bike to be safer beforehand. He wouldn't take risks with you." Satoru's voice was even. A fact. "And we both saw him take off. He hadn't changed anything. Just got on and left."
Your heart eased with the realisation. Right. That was true.
"And what about the highway?" You mumbled.
"The highway was only fifteen kilometres from our home, so chances are if he met an accident we would have gotten a call by now."
That had your heart clenching all over again. Your distressed gaze flickering up to blue eyes that stare down at you, unblinking. Blank— then realising.
"Which— is a good thing," he rushed. "It's been a few hours. So. You know. He's probably not lying dead somewhere—"
"And what about a ditch?"
"Don't think we have any of those nearby. Even so, Satoshi's tough. Statistically someone of his height and weight wouldn't lose blood so—"
"Satoru."
His hand scratched at the back of his neck. Face flushed and lips pressed together. Bashful that his attempts of facing facts with your anxiety might just be making it worse. Still, he rambled.
"Look, look. The statistics of Satoshi getting into an accident are slim. Especially since he's a good driver. It's a Tuesday night. The roads are dry. His bike's tuned. He's probably not even on the road. Maybe he visited Sukuna? He's only twenty minutes away. We could text that guy— or you could text him. I don't know. Uhm. . ."
Your chest swelled with warmth as his hands scrambled to pull you closer. Nudging you under his chin and fumbling to stroke down your spine the same way his brother did whenever your thoughts wandered.
It certainly wasn't a conventional comfort, but you found yourself melting into his hold nonetheless. Mulling on his facts and squeezing your arms around him. Letting the silence settle for a minute, before you murmured.
"Thank you."
He exhaled. Sharp and ragged. Fingers bunched on the baggy shirt you threw on the second you both got back to the apartment he shared with his twin. "Sorry," he hushed. "I just. My brain doesn't think like that."
"I know." You smiled, scooting closer to smooch his jaw. You felt him tense again, then relax. His long limbs tangling with yours as he snuggled you close. Still awkwardly angled and hopelessly hesitant, but trying nonetheless.
You shifted. The bed creaking under your weight as you pressed onto him. Guiding his arms into a more comfortable position so that you could lay your head on his chest. Listen to the beat of his heart and hope that it could lull you to sleep.
Maybe. Sleep didn't seem possible with both the anxiety and the stress of what had occurred. The last few hours felt like a month, and while sleep called— you weren't sure you'd be able to slip into a dream until Satoshi was back home and safe in your arms.
So instead, you asked: "what's with your brother. . . Satoya?"
Another tense. This time Satoru hadn't eased into your warmth directly after. His muscles remained wound tight as a hand cupped the back of your head. Keeping it on his chest while his flopped back onto the pillows.
"He's. . . our older brother. By four years." He started.
"You've both never spoken about him before."
"Yeah well, he's weird. And Satoshi hates his guts."
"I noticed."
It was the way he didn't flinch when Satoshi had grabbed him. How he grinned when he was caught. The memory stirred your gut and you subconsciously shifted at the unsettled feeling.
Satoru's hands nudged you closer. Maybe he also felt it. Or was simply growing accustomed to your little tells of discomfort.
"He's. . . something," he muttered, arms squeezing around you. "I don't blame you for mistaking him for me."
"The resemblance is uncanny," you curled in on his chest. Hoping to bury the unease deeper in your gut. "Even the glasses. Was that a coincidence?"
"No. He's been doing that for awhile. He purposefully tries to mimic everything about me."
Oh, that unease was going nowhere. It rooted in the pit of your stomach and tangled an uncomfortable shrub up your throat. For a minute, you could only ruminate in his words.
What the hell did that even mean?
Slowly, you raised your head from his chest. Looking down at him through his strewn glasses. He seemed a little too calm for someone who just admitted that his brother was playing doppelganger.
"That's. . . what do you mean?" You asked.
He sighed. Shrugged. "I dunno. It started in our youth. Probably something to do with our parents. It's weird."
He squished your thighs. Whether to ground himself or to assure you— you weren't sure. You weren't surprised that it involved their parents. Satoshi had told you a bit. Needless to say, you were not their biggest fan.
So what, did they force that on Satoya? Or was that his own accord? You weren't sure if you wanted the answer. All you did know was that Satoya unnerved you.
That smile flashed before your eyes and had you curling your fingers on Satoru's hoodie. Jaw set tight and eyes downcast. Something wasn't right.
Something was.
Wrong.
". . . toru that's really creepy."
He blinked at your shaking voice. Then shifted immediately and sat up. Pulling you between his knees and cocooning you in his arms. The scent of old books and mint embracing your senses as you clung back to him.
"Hey," he hushed, large hand splaying at the back of your head. Even if he didn't know what he was doing, his body seemed so attuned to yours. "Don't worry about it, okay? He's just a little weirdo with money. Most rich people are creeps."
"That's one way to put it," you mumbled, burying your face into his shoulder. "Don't become a creep, toru."
He huffed. "Hey, I'm not rich. I'm on a strict allowance."
What even was his allowance again? You weren't sure. That silver spoon was far down his throat— but at least he wasn't a snob like the many you'd seen tonight.
His chin propped atop your head. Arms locked tight around you, as if he could squeeze every worry out of you and hide you from whatever had occurred tonight. Your knight in a blue hoodie.
"Just. . . promise me you won't worry about it too much, okay?" His lips pressed to your hair. "We don't see him much either way. And whenever we do, toshi's usually got it covered."
You exhaled at the name. It ached the empty nook in your heart, but you nodded nonetheless. As you snuggled into his lankly arms and attempted to push the nagging tugs at your anxious mind away.
You pressed half of your face into his chest. Looking out the window and into the night. While you could bury the worry over your boyfriends' creepy older brother, you couldn't shake the turmoil in your tummy whenever you looked outside.
When you saw the streetlamps, heard the cars, and wondered when your angel boy would be home. Safe and sound.
Satoshi didn't feel like your angel boy when he trudged through the hallway. Mud on his boots and his mind a muck.
Didn't feel like your rough around the edges and gentle at the centre lover as he shoved the bedroom door open.
Didn't feel like any iteration of yours as he stood rooted to the wooden floorboards.
Even as you laid there in bed, wrapped up in his jacket. With his helmet on the bedside. His name probably in your dreams.
Nightmares, he's sure. He'd let that ugly side of him out again. Even after he promised himself that it'd never happen again. Not in front of you. His babydoll.
Did the look in his eyes haunt you? Did the way he screamed and threatened and looked like he was one second away from becoming a monster. . . did it frighten you?
You looked peaceful, as you slept. Curled up and hugging a pillow. Satoru must've been studying in the other room. He usually did when his stress levels skyrocketed. Satoshi wished he could have a more productive way of letting out steam.
His knuckles ached. Split and bloodied. He's glad it was concrete he punched and not a cop. Or anyone else, for that matter. Probably sprained his wrist. If not broke a finger. Maybe two.
Not that he cared. Not when the adrenaline numbed his senses. Tunnelled his vision. He tried— god. He tried. A race down the highway, a kick of dirt, he punched a wall he doesn't know how many times.
He hated getting like this.
Hated that he couldn't control it.
Hated that it was just a part of him
Hated that you.
Saw it.
Again.
And now here you were. Laid peaceful now that your monstrous boyfriend was out of the picture. He hoped he didn't haunt your nightmares. Not his babydoll.
He stood there. Statued for what felt like hours. Staring at your soft body. So soft. Too soft for him. Too pretty for someone as rough and ragged as he was.
Fuck, you were gorgeous. Even with his anger wound tight in his chest and his gut in knots— he could appreciate it. You called him an angel, but it was you who looked like you graced from heaven when you slept.
So peaceful. So pretty. Your soft curves. Those tender thighs. Soft lips.
So pretty.
So soft.
And Satoya finally had a taste.
The fire that had begun to simmer sparked back to life. Stirring in his gut and surging flames up his throat. His jaw set tight.
He's glad he wasn't the one who saw it. He might have actually ripped Satoya's throat out if he witnessed his filthy hands on you. But that didn't make the knowledge that he had touched you— kissed you— any easier.
Satoshi moved before he could overthink it.
Not that he would. He never thought when he was like this. Never rationalised. Never relied on logic. He was the heart. The passion. Fire. Not clear and crisp like Satoru.
Not steady and serene like Satoya.
Just a blackhole. Jagged, and ugly. Detonating. He destroyed what he touched, and yet. . . yet you let him touch you. Ever day, every night.
What was wrong with you?
The bed creaked. Complaining under his weight as he dropped over you. Not a second of reverence. No beats of appreciation. Just want.
Need.
His face shoved into your neck. Nose engulfing your scent and inhaling it deep into his burning lungs. Like you were his nicotine. His every addiction. His damned vice.
Large hands rushed down your sides. Felt what was his. What he didn't deserve. Dragging a searing possessiveness down your waist, your hips, to your thighs. Gripped tight. Nails biting a snarl into your skin: mine.
His bitter mouth trudged down your neck. Hot, wet kisses messing down your skin. Pressing into your pulse. Down your spine. Teeth catching on the leather of his jacket. Wanting to dug between your shoulderblades.
He ripped the jacket off.
Snatched the leather and tossed it to some useless corner of the room. It had no right to hold you. Didn't deserve to wrap around your softness and pretend it could be gentle. Just like him.
Even as you stirred, he couldn't bring himself to be gentle. Not now. Not with flames pumping through his veins and the image of Satoya's hands on you scorched in the darkest crevice's of his mind.
Your shorts succumbed to his twisting fingers. Scuffed down your thighs. Fuck— soft. So soft. Your plush under his nails and pressed into his palms stole his breath.
Panting. He was panting on your spine. Kissing back up and jerking his face into your throat so that he could drag his teeth on your pulse. Remind himself that he could easily tear in. Hurt you. Because that was the reality.
You were too gentle for him. Too soft and sweet. Even your cunt—
Shit.
His fingers littered in silver rings brushed over your panties. Felt your heat on the cotton. Tender like every part of you infuriatingly was.
Nothing about him was smooth. Not confident nor cool. None of what he'd built himself into. He was ragged. Hoisting himself down and shoving his face into your panties. Nose buried deep. Inhaling— deep— shaky. Until his eyes rolled back into his skull.
A shiver struck his spine. His hands clamped on your thighs. Wrenched you open for him as he mouthed on your panties. Sucked the cotton between his teeth. Nursed on your pussy and hoped to smear its heat onto his pierced tongue. Just a taste. Just a smidge.
No. All of it.
He needed it all.
You shifted. Stirred. . . then pressed back into him. Like your cunt was drawn to his tongue. Meant for him
He groaned, rumbled and deep. "That's my girl."
Mouth full. He never had manners. Especially not when it came to his favourite, sloppy girl.
Long fingers curled into the garter. Yanked on the fabric and strung it round your thighs. He was almost jealous of how it bit into your soft flesh. Fuck. What was wrong with him? Jealous of your fucking panties?
But he was. He was jealous of them. Jealous of the pillow you hugged. Jealous of the sheets that stained in the small trickle of your pussy. He shot his head down and lapped at the droplet before the sheets stole it completely— then shoved his face back into your cunt.
Sweet. So sweet. So sweet that you fluttered his eyes. Nearly crossed them. Nearly short-circuited his mind and rewired him into an animal that only knew how to lap. Lick. Suck and suckle. Mouth on your pussy until your juices were slipping down his chin and staining bobbing Adam's apple.
Satoshi didn't have time for patience. Not when your taste was consuming his tongue. Not when even in your sleep— you whimpered for him. Soft, tender. Something he didn't deserve. Something he'd work his entire life to earn.
Hot kisses smooched on your slit. Slotting through your folds. Trailing up to your clit and rolling his silver piercing over it until your body finally jolted.
"Ah— mngh?" You roused.
He didn't acknowledge. Only dragged his messy mouth to your slit. Pushed his tongue in. Fucked you on his piercing until your pussy spasmed and you squealed. Squirming back onto him.
He couldn't see your face. But he assumed you caught a glimpse of him. Considering how you immediately started grinding back on his mouth. How your thighs fell limp in his hands that wrenched you further open. Jostled you into the perfect position for his feral tongue.
Saliva and slick trickled down his throat. He was rasping, gasping— gulping. Drunk on your pussy and how pretty she was when he roughed her up.
Pretty.
So pretty.
And now fucking Satoya knew it too.
He yanked away from your cunt. Wet webs snapping between his mouth and your twitching folds. You gasped, readied a question. Then jolted.
Because his teeth dug into your inner thigh. Biting down hard.
Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to feel you shake on his teeth. To imprint his frustration on your flesh. Maybe if he bit hard enough he could tear away the reality that his bastard of a brother had his hands on you—
Maybe if he tasted your blood on his tongue he could erase the fact. Maybe if he felt you tremble under him. Maybe if he fisted your hair around his fingers. Maybe—
Maybe if he fucked you into the mattress and felt you squeeze around his cock in that sickeningly sweet way that only you could.
He could forget about it.
Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what he needed.
Wiping the slew smeared over his mouth with the back of his hand. Satoshi shoved himself up. Clambered over you. His knees digging into the mattress and trapping your hips. Trapping you. Under him. Under the monster you insisted on calling an angel.
"Toshi—"
His palm shoved to your mouth. Pressed his callouses into your lips and clamping your words shut as his hips dropped to your ass. Weighing you down. Crushing you.
"Ssh." He hissed. Pushing you further into the wrinkled sheets until he heard your soft whine. His nose pressed into your cheek. Teeth tight. Voice husked.
"Don't wanna hear you do anything other than take it."
His other hand jostled his belt. The metal buckle was nothing to his feral fingers. It was snapped in a second. His zipper fell victim next. Pants shoved in the slew of a few, dizzying seconds.
Your skin was cool against his. Or maybe his was just burning. The contact ripped a hiss from his throat. Hand curling tighter against your mouth and hips knocking yours flat to the bed.
Helpless. His. As his hot, angry tip flushed between your thighs. The cool piercing dragged ice on your sensitive slick where his skin burned hot.
Satoshi was no stranger to roughness. He'd played with your body like the strings of his guitar and fine-tuned its gears like his bike. He knew how to wind you to staggering heights and tear you down into a trembling puddle.
But this was different.
This was raw.
The way he pressed through the first ring of resistance in your sweet cunt. The way he shoved his hips into the backs of your thighs. Sunk into you inch— by agonising inch— it was impatient.
Possessive.
Carnal.
"Fuck—" he grit, cock throbbing with the wet pulses your pussy squeezed around him. The angle and position had him lodged in that perfect spot of yours. The one that thrummed on his underside vein and pressured his prince albert piercing.
The same spot that sent you squirming. Had you whining. Your shaky hand scrambling back. Nails digging into his arm when you found it. Holding. Clinging.
Still. Clinging to him.
Really. What was wrong with you?
Your whine was pitiful on his palm. He could imagine your pretty eyes. Fluttering and glossy. If your hips that tried to rock back into him were anything to go off of— you were needy. Needy for him. The guy who didn't deserve you because he never deserved anything sweet and soft.
Still, he huffed a snicker. "Yeah, there ya go." His hips bucked forward. Once. Twice. Grinding so filthy into that darling, devilish spot that wormed more of your muffled whines and spluttered your messy slick.
"That's it. This pussy knows she's mine, huh?"
She sure sounded like it. Squelching and squealing as he drew his hips back. Languid, sadistically slow. Only to shnap! back. His balls smacking slick from your puffy folds.
Then again. Again— and again. Falling into a pace that was hardly natural. But primal. A roughness that bounced your body on the creaking mattress and fucked you sore into the messy sheets.
He felt it. Every flutter. Every squeeze. Every spittle of drool you leaked on his palm. You were his in this moment. In every definition of the word. Your pussy clenching around him, your heartbeat thrumming around his cock, your wetness suffocating him as he etched his claim into your body. Chasing bruises into the backs of your thighs like the ripples on your ass.
Filthy. The sound of wet smacking. Clamouring hips. Your squelching cunt and his cock that bubbled sin out of her with every wicked snap of his hips. The way you moaned for him— keened for him.
The way you just. Let him do this.
Let him fuck you.
Let him ruin you.
Let him slam his cock so deep that it was grinding a filthy, wet smooch on your cervix. So that he was moulding your sweet pussy to every vein, bump and curve.
Let him make you his. Even if he didn't fucking deserve you.
He shifted. Hooked his arm around your throat to replace his palm over your mouth. Spilling your needy, pitched whines into the air. Letting his name fill the scent of sex and sweat.
"T-Toshi— oh god, oh toshi—"
His bicep wrestled up. Pressed to your mouth. Urged you to bite. And when you did, he bit back a low whine from the back of his throat.
Fuck. He hoped your teeth left marks. Left him with something to prove that he was yours. Even if just for the moment. When he was balls deep and fucking you feral. Pouring his frustration into brutal thrusts and hissed pants on your ear.
Every inch of his hard muscle pressed into you. Weighing you into the matress. Caging you. And yet he was the animal.
The one who should be put on a leash. Hell— the one who should be muzzled. Maybe then his teeth wouldn't drag down your neck. Maybe his canines wouldn't circle your pulse.
Maybe he could forget that he had a maw. That it was capable of violence.
That he was violence.
His arm snagged around your waist. Shoving your pelvis into an arch so that the curve of your ass squished back onto him. So he could feel it slap with every filthy thrust that ploughed into you. Allowing him to drive into you so deep that your nails tore into the pillowcase and your teeth dug deeper into his bicep.
"Mngh!" You whined.
"Yeah? You like that baby?" He panted. Ragged and rough on your ear.
Long fingers wedged between your folds. Trapping your clit. Harassing it under his callouses and roughing it into a spasm that spread to the rest of your body.
He felt your thighs squish together. Felt the suffocating squeeze of your pussy. The way your tongue went limp on his bicep and the shattered sound that you choked out.
Sucking a breath through his teeth, he shoved his cock deeper. Humped on your spasming cervix and fucked you through the wet, messy orgasm that shook through you. Left you helpless.
Left you his.
"That's it— fuck. That's my babydoll—" His teeth caught your lobe. Tugged. Rolled his barbell piercing on the heated skin. As he panted. Rasped.
"Needy girl. Only I get to fuck you like this, got it?"
He plucked at your clit. Rubbed it rough between his thumb and forefinger as his thrusts turned into nasty, deep grinds. "No need to slut it up with that bastard. You've got me."
Your cum spluttered with ever feral hump. Sticky strings webbed between your thighs. Snapping and smacking into a lewd mess as he fumbled into a clumsier pace. Still hard. Still rough. But struggling.
Not struggling to fuck you. Never that.
But struggling to keep up with his pounding heart and the surge shooting through him. Anger, possession, pleasure, insecurity— it all became one. A confusing blur that commanded him to do nothing but ram his hips forward. Fuck your sweetspots. Cream you full.
Because he was good at sex.
Good at winding you up so high and tearing you back down. Shattering you through several orgasms. Rolling your eyes back and having you drooling all over.
Good at making you forget that he was just some broken, battered man who you kept trying to glue together. As if his cracks were worth anything.
"You're mine—" he still rasped. Because he couldn't help but want you to be his. He was a broken man, but a selfish one, too.
"All mine. You've always been mine." He prattled. Arms squeezing you tighter into him. Cock ramming clumsier. Hitting into a new spot with every plunge. Gushing your slick all over and spamsing your nerves into overstimulation.
He wasn't sure where his words started and where they stopped. Wasn't sure what he was saying. Only that he was fucking you. Only that he was holding you. Clinging to you.
Begging.
Begging?
"You're mine— mine, all mine, say you're—"
"Toshi—"
Soft lips brushed a kiss beneath his jaw.
His muscles locked up. Eyes fluttered. He faltered. Hips stuttering pitifully as you strained to lean your head up. Kiss his jaw. Whisper oh, so, devastatingly sweet.
"Always yours toshi."
Fuck.
Fuck.
His strength gave out. Collapsing. His weight slumped into you. Face sagged into your shoulder. Hips staggering in a broken pace. Broken. He was humping on your ass like he was broken. Flushing you completely prone into the mattress.
"Yeah— y-yeah, fuck—" he croaked.
What was happening to him?
"Say it again. Please."
His arms, hulking and strong, wobbled like twigs as they hooked around you. Hugged you tight. Close. As if even a breath of distance would dispel you into thin air. Even an inch would allow the possibility that you weren't his to worm in.
Your hand snaked back this time. Fingers finding his messy, soaked hair. Threading through in that gentleness that only you were capable of. You were panting. Whining. Clenching so tight he was suffocating.
Yet you still spoke so sweetly. So true.
"Yours. Yours. 'm yours. I love you."
The world stopped spinning. His ears stopped ringing. Satoshi—
Shattered.
He seized. Hips halting. Breath baiting. Muscles wound so tight he thought they'd snap. As he replayed those three, darling, dangerous words. I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
He whimpered.
Tender. Trembling. A pitiful sound that shook from the back of his throat as his fingers curled on your flesh and his face limped into your pulse.
And yet you still dared to speak to him so gently. So softly.
"Toshi,"
Calling him by that name that everyone did. The name that you made yours.
"Let me hold you, please." You whispered, pressing another kiss to him. This time his bicep, where your teeth marks dented into his flesh. Where you tore, and now tendered.
His shaky hands were moving before the rest of his body could keep up. Trembling knees digging into the sheets and lifting him. His arms shifted. Slower now. Sacred. As he turned over so his back hit the headboard and you were bundled within his lap.
Your skin was soft against his. You always were. The soft to his hard. Gentle to his ragged. Where he was creased, you were comfort. Even now. Especially now. As your arms slipped around his head.
As you cradled him.
Cradled him. Him. The guy who didn't deserve you. Who could never earn it no matter how hard he tried.
"Baby," he shuddered. Face pressing into your shoulder as you straddled his hips. Squished your thighs against his. Your tummy and breasts into his hot skin that mellowed at the brush of your lips on his temple.
"Sshh." You hushed. Crooking his head under your chin. Lifting your hips slow, slow, devastatingly slow— and then sinking back down his cock. Seeping your wetness into every vein and spasming him into a tender overstimulation.
"I've got you 'toshi. I've got you."
And oh, his heart ached. Throbbing hard in the chasm that was his chest. A place he once thought hollow. A place you'd crept into and held, and kissed, and caressed, and whispered stupid, hopeful things like: I love you.
His heat melted into your warm. As you hugged his head into your shoulder and rocked your hips with his. A slow sway. A sensual dance. Despite your bruised thighs and strained hips.
Pleasure curled up his spine. Something raw pooled in his tummy. Something raw.
Something terrifying.
He moved with you as best he could. Mouth limp on your shoulder and panting as he tried to match the rock of your hips. But how could he when your voice whispered to his ear? When he stuttered every time you said—
"I love you."
"I love you, Satoshi."
"I love you."
"Don't."
He finally croaked.
Quivering fingers clutched your thighs. As if he wanted to tuck into you. Crawl into the comfort that was your body and hide from the ugliness that was him.
"Don't. You shouldn't. You—" he breathed. Heavy, shaky.
Your fingers thread into his hair. Rubbed at his scalp. Had him flopping his head further into you as his hips staggered into pitiful rolls.
"Yes, I should." You whispered. Softly, stubbornly
Cradling his head closer as your hips came down just a bit firmer. Dragging him deeper, deeper— deeper. Until he hiccuped a moan on your shoulder.
Hiccuped a sob.
Broken, brittle.
He tucked his face further into you. Burrowing in your neck with his mouth limp and panting, whining. As your lips brushed his ear. Whispering those three words that unravelled him into something bare, and hideous, and disgusting—
And yours.
"I love you, Satoshi. Love you, so much. 'm so glad you're okay." Your voice shook. Pussy squeezing him as you sank to the base and bucked slow. Intimate. Your slick velvet hugging him tight the same way your arms did.
"I love you," he returned. Ragged from the back of his throat.
His tears slipped to your skin. He tucked closer. Tried to hide them. But his shaking shoulders gave it away. His stifled breaths and shivering hands. The stutter in his hips.
His mind scrambled. His heart frazzled. Tears pouring down his cheeks as he helplessly bucked and let you take him higher, and higher.
You cupped his face.
Damn you. Your hands were heavenly.
Palms caressing his wet skin as your thumbs brushed on his cheekbones. Smoothed over his tears and directed his gaze to you. Blue eyes shimmering. Shattered, like crystals.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
You squeezed around him in-turn.
"Look at me," you breathed, rolling your thumbs over his cheeks again. How could he deny you when you were so sweet? How could he do anything other than crack his eyes open and let you see the fragments of his soul?
You smiled.
He splintered.
"Cum for me," you whispered. So innocent. Dripping with honey despite what you were telling him to do.
"Cum with me, please," your hips rolled. Just a bit faster. No— passionate. Intimate. "Please. Please, cum with me, angel boy."
Angel boy.
His tears fell faster.
"Oh— fuck. Oh fuck." He hiccuped.
Blunt nails dug into your skin. His arms locked around you. Trembled. As you rose the pace. Surged the heat into a desperate rock of your hips onto his.
Satoshi clung to you. In any way he could. In every way he could. A sob choked from the depths of his chest as his nerves flayed and his head limped into your hands.
"I'm sorry—" he spluttered, tears trickling down his pale, blotched face. "I'm sorry— 'm sorry. So sorry for everything baby. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry for getting angry again. Sorry—"
His hips jerked. An arch crawled up his spine. As his hands anchored to your hips. His only sanity. His sweet serenity.
"I'm so fucking sorry."
"Sshhh."
You hushed him. Hugged him. Hugging his head close to your chest. Drowned him in your soft breasts and heartbeat. Lulled him with your tender voice. As you pushed him higher. Dizzying. Blinding.
Until it all crashed down.
Until your tears hit his face, too.
His orgasm didn't crash. It caressed. Washing over him in thralls that stole his breath. Had him gasping sobs into your neck as his nails scratched at your hips. Clambered. Clung.
To this feeling only you could give him. To this devastating way only you could shatter him. To you.
He clung to you.
Your hips rocked a few more times. Easing him through a climax that left his ears ringing and his mouth drooling. Shoulders shaking and body limp as he slumped into you. Exhaustion bleeding out into his soft sobs that eased into hushed cries.
Cries because you—
"I love you."
Fuck.
He croaked again. Something incomprehensible as you slowly, tenderly, slipped off of him and guided him into the bed. Tucking his head beneath your chin and embracing him in your arms.
"I—" his breath struggled. "I love you. I love you. I'm sorry."
"Don't," your hand raked through his hair. Massaged his scalp. The whimper died in his throat as his lashes fluttered and his head limped further into you.
"I'm just happy you're safe, toshi. Just happy my angel boy's safe in my arms."
You held him like he wasn't rough around the edges. Like he wasn't all leather and silver. Like he was just. Yours.
And as the exhaustion finally crashed down upon him, as he collapsed into your body and slumped against your heart.
He allowed himself to think that he deserved this. Just once.
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students — with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds — that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ frat!kuna fwb series ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. angst. friends with benefits. toxic frat culture. hazing. fraternity/sororities. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. SLOW BURN. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. sukuna is a football (soccer) player too. HAPPY ENDING. tags will be updated as series continues.
✮ ch 1 || how it all started ✮ ch 2 || miss me already?
✮ ch 3 || call me ✮ ch 4 || two worlds
✮ ch 5 || conditions ✮ ch 6 || cracks
✮ ch 7 || summer break ✮ ch 8 || tbd
✮ ch 9 || tbd ✮ ch 10 || tbd
✮ ch 11 || tbd ✮ ch 12 || tbd
✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line
✮ pt 2 — you’re desperate to prove this is just sex
✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time
✮ pt 4 — sukuna’s brothers visit unexpectedly
✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna
✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you
✮ pt 7 — halloween special: scare actor!sukuna
✮ pt 8 — sukuna’s noticeable bulge at the gym
✮ pt 9 — high stakes no nut november edition
✮ pt 10 — holiday special: grinch!kuna naughty or nice
✮ pt 11 — sukuna leaves his door open when you’re over
✮ pinterest board ✮ ask tag ✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮
[ INFO ] : the chapters are the actual series. it begins mid-spring semester JUNIOR year. the parts exist in the same story, but as stand alone canon oneshots and will not be mentioned in the chapters (like filler eps). they take place between sept-nov fall semester of their SENIOR year [parts and chps can be read separately]
THERE IS NO SERIES TAGLIST ✦ age should be visible on your blog tho (art: @/xhealer_ tt, dividers: @/lariesographic)
apocalypse - prologue
undergroundboxer!kuna x reader [soulmate au]
series masterlist
∞︎︎
you had come to the conclusion that your soulmate was either a felon or a cold-blooded murderer.
you were leaning more towards the latter.
there were only so many times you could wake up with sore ribs and aching knuckles before starting to consider homicide as a genuine career path for your soulmate.
you were sixteen years old when you began feeling what he felt and he rarely felt happiness.
at sixteen, you remembered clinging onto hope, faith that things would change for the better.
at nineteen, you tried denial. optimism even. maybe he just had niche hobbies?
now, at twenty-two, exhausted and running on three hours of sleep and an unhealthy dependence on caffeine, you had finally settled on acceptance.
your soulmate was batshit crazy, absolutely insane.
the realization came to you somewhere between waking up at three in the morning because someone was being beaten up and nearly throwing up on the marble floors of your bathroom after feeling a wave of adrenaline so violent, it couldn’t possibly belong to a sane person.
you blamed him for the dark circles under your eyes, as well as the chronic irritability, insomnia and the emotional damage too.
“hey sunshine!”
you glanced up from your kitchen island to see shoko freely walking into your apartment as if it was her own. which, considering the amount of time she spent there, perhaps it was.
“you look awful.” utahime voiced from beside her as she walked towards your fridge, pulling out a bottle of coconut water, “devils dick wouldn't let you sleep again?”
you stared blankly out at the city skyline stretching beyond the floor to ceiling windows, morning fog curled between skyscrapers while the city below came to life beneath streaks of pale sunlight, almost pink.
“yes,” you replied bluntly, taking a sip of the black coffee in hand, “unless i’m the one suddenly developing anger issues and an overwhelming desire to commit aggravated assault.”
shoko snorted into her matcha at your words, though a thin layer of concern blanketed her eyes as she watched you.
you felt it before you saw him, the soft fur brushing against your ankles as you looked down at the familiar tuft of brown, “hi, ani.”
the cat purred against you lowly, circling your feet once before making his way towards the porcelain bowl filled with his breakfast.
it was a bit sad how your cat was your one companion in the vast penthouse you resided in. technically, the house belonged to your parents who were overseas so often, it was entirely in your possession alongside an absurd monthly allowance and very little supervision.
most people your age would’ve killed for this kind of freedom.
a luxury apartment in the middle of the city, prestigious university and a future already carved out neatly in front of you.
from an outside perspective, your life was perfect.
except for the stain beneath the surface of everything. him.
a constant you despised, yet he was all too impossible to ignore.
most soulmates exchanged softness through their bond. love, warmth and peace.
you exchanged pain, phantom bruises and what you were fairly certain was unresolved psychological trauma.
“how bad was it?” shoko questioned as she sat on the stool by the island.
you considered the question for a moment.
truly, last night wasn’t his worst night but it wasn’t his best either.
“my left thigh kinda hurts.”
“ooh,” she winced, “that’s new.”
“yup. he’s branching out,” you brought your cup up to your lips, “lucky me.”
the soulmate bond manifested differently for everyone, but emotional and physical sensations were universal. tiny things passed between soulmates all the time, including stress, exhaustion, happiness and lust.
utahime once told you soulmates were a blessing.
you’d nearly laughed in her face. did she know what a blessing was?
“maybe he’s in jail.’ shoko offered lazily as utahime immediately shot her a look.
you looked up at the girl. jail?
you almost hoped he was, that way the chances of meeting the son of a bitch were practically down to zero. you didn't want anything to do with the sadistic motherfucker.
your friends found your situation significantly sadder than you did, mostly because all of them had experienced their bond the way it was intended.
warm, soft and disgustingly tender.
utahime met sora during your graduation trip to greece. it was in the middle of a beach club and you distinctly recalled the way utahime went all quiet, the way they couldn’t look away from each other despite utahime always swearing that fate had handcrafted him specifically to irritate her.
you don’t remember how they progressed, only that they did. more than you could even imagine.
shoko met percy during your welcome week in freshman year, all anxious minds and bright eyes. you remembered the way shoko used to continuously rub the bridge of her nose because she claimed her soulmate wore the heaviest glasses on earth. then there he was. tousled hair, thick-rimmed glasses and all.
they’ve been inseparable ever since.
sometimes, you felt like the worst person alive because you resented them, just a little bit.
not because they were happy, but because they got softness where you got violence.
if you closed your eyes, just for a moment, you could recall exactly when you'd first felt him.
while walking through the school hall in first year, the most overwhelming sense of fear overcame you. real and true terror, practically paralyzing you in place. dread that was raw and sharp, crashing into your ribs hard enough to steal the air right from your lungs.
then came the pain, something you’d grow all too familiar with.
pain that only got worse with age.
you found yourself continuously trying to make sense of the colossal question mark that was your soulmate. who was he? what was he so afraid of? why was he in constant pain?
still, you learned the rhythm of him.
it was embarrassing, honestly. you knew things about your soulmate that no stranger should know.
you knew he preferred sleeping on his back because his shoulders were always too bruised to lie on comfortably. you knew he clenched his jaw till his molars hurt when he was furious. you knew he rarely slept through the night and how he carried exhaustion like it was stitched into his bones.
and worst of all, you knew exactly what his anger felt like and it was ugly. not explosive or wild in a dramatic sense but controlled.
it sat low in your stomach like a rock, dangerous and waiting.
sometimes, in the middle of lectures, your chest would suddenly tighten for absolutely no reason and you’d know instantly.
those were the worst days and they happened more often than you’d like.
your body would grow tense hours before it even happened, as if it already knew what was coming. your pulse would spike and adrenaline would drip into your bloodstream until your own fingers twitch with restlessness.
then came the impact. a burst of pain and the metallic taste of blood in your mouth that you could never see.
panic used to fill you at the sensation and now, you’d barely flinch.
“again?” utahime would whisper from beside you during your labs.
you’d simply nod.
apparently, your soulmate enjoyed fist fighting at eight in the fucking monring. truthfully, you didn’t know what scared you more. the violence itself or how used to it you’ve become.
because despite everything, the resentment sitting bitter on your tongue every time he dragged you into another sleepless night, you still found yourself searching for him constantly.
in crowds, trains and crossing busy streets. but you never felt his presence around, so you knew they were futile attempts.
you hated that too. the way your body longed for someone your mind already decided was a monster. the devil reincarnated.
sometimes, late at night, when the city outside your windows finally quieted down and the skyline blurred into soft hues of orange and pink, you’d feel him lying awake.
always restless and consistently pained.
there was something deeply unsettling about sharing insomnia with a stranger.
you’d feel him shifting endlessly beneath bedsheets, the tension in his shoulders and agitation under his skin. occasionally, the dull ache of old bruises blooming across muscle.
those nights left you exhausted and you always tried to ignore it at first, but one night, half-asleep and irritated beyond relief, you wrapped your arms around yourself beneath your comforter with a frustrated little sigh. a weak attempt to offer him a semblance of comfort.
go the fuck to sleep.
the effect was so immediate, it had your heart growing erratic.
you felt him still, completely and truly. a calm settled over your chest like a balm on wound.
after that, it became routine.
you’d discovered a hack of some sort.
to get through to him, you have to act as if you are him.
you’d taken up yoga with hime because it seemed to ease his sore muscles.
some nights, you’d feel him spiraling so violently with anger so strong, it crawled beneath your own skin. on those nights, you’d sit on your balcony overlooking the starry night enveloping the skyline in a deep blue. a case of markers in hand along with an adults coloring book. one of those complex ones with multiple minuscule shapes.
and color, you did. because it seemed to soothe him.
you knew it because you could feel it happen in real time.
the slow loosening of tension beneath skin and the steadying of his heartbeat. then the exhaustion would finally pull him under.
it felt strangely intimate.
though it started selfishly because you wanted the rest, you soon began doing it for him.
sometimes, you wondered if he knew it was you.
if he realized that the sudden calmness swallowing him whole at three in the morning belonged to somebody else.
if he knew his soulmate sat forty floors above the city in pretty pink pyjamas and color stained hands trying to soothe a rage she didn’t understand.
the thought made your chest ache because you knew he knew.
despite how badly fate had screwed you over, he was still yours.
and somehow, horrifyingly, you were still his.
despite it all, he still felt so unbearably human.
most nights were spent peacefully from that day on, for the most part.
you could tolerate him now but there were still quieter nights where he couldn’t sleep.
the bond grew restless during those hours, tension humming beneath your skin like static. you’d feel him, his exhaustion weighing heavy in your own bones despite the fact that you’d done absolutely nothing all day besides write up your report.
“he’s awake…” you mumbled one night, shoko glancing up from where she sat on the couch in your room, typing up her essay on her laptop despite the deadline being three hours ago.
“again?” shoko huffed, “does this guy not sleep?”
you simply hummed once because sometimes he does. when you help him sleep.
it was all too intimate in the worst way possible.
at times, you felt like he lived beneath your skin more than inside his own body.
when you wrapped your arms around yourself, mumbling a go to sleep, somewhere across the city, your soulmate listened.
one emotion you both felt was the soul-tying loneliness.
you understood loneliness, grown up and made friends with it.
it seems he did as well. he dealt with his in a different way than you did yours, though.
it happened late one night when you were halfway through your night routine.
at first, it was subtle, a warmth against your lips.
your movements slowed instantly, fingers hovering near your face as confusion knitted your brows together. what the fuck?
then came another sensation, this time featherlight touches across your jaw.
your stomach dropped because what followed was the most excruciating pain you’d ever felt, exploding through your body so suddenly, your serum bottle slipped from your hands and shattered across the bathroom floor.
and you collapsed with it.
a gasp tore from your throat as agony spread violently beneath your skin, hot enough to make your vision blur. it felt all wrong, burning and suffocating.
you knew exactly what was happening.
he was touching someone else.
you remembered shoko mentioning it once after utahime drunkenly asked too many questions about soulmate bonds during freshman year.
physical intimacy with someone who wasn't your soulmate caused backlash through the bond.
“apparently, it feels awful,” shoko stated, “super painful.”
awful? that fucking liar.
this wasn’t just awful. you felt like you were burning.
you curled against the cold marble tiles, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach as another wave of pain hit hard enough to drag a broken sound from your throat. it felt like being split apart from the inside out as tears blurred your vision.
“stop…” you whispered shakily, though you didn’t know who you were talking to anymore.
him? fate?
the pain built as you continued to feel touches that weren’t yours, warm skin that wasn’t yours.
someone else’s hands against him.
it made you sick.
humiliation mixed violently with heartbreak until you could barely breath through it, till you sobbed against yours hands.
messy and continuous tears soaked your sleeves as you sat on the bathroom floor, fury and devastation clawing through you so violently, you didn’t knwo what to do.
“i hate you!” you choked out as your lungs burned.
you felt the sudden stillness instantly, followed by a hollow feeling in your gut.
it hit your ribs so unexpectedly, your chest caught.
guilt. real guilt.
your expression twisted immediately. that sick son of a bitch.
that only angered you more.
you dug your nails into your palms hard enough to break skin and pain shot through you then, wanting him to feel it, to hurt the way he always made you hurt.
you slammed your first against the tile once, twice then again as your knuckles split open eventually but you barely noticed.
then suddenly…warmth.
you went still, breathing shaking unevenly as the sensation wrapped around you in an unfamiliar fashion.
it was a pair of arms, strong as they held you.
your breathing stuttered as you processed what was happening.
was he…hugging himself? like how you would?
he was holding himself because he didn’t know how else to reach you, to console you.
your anger cracked slightly at the edges because for the first time in years, he felt close. not in his usual worrying or irritating way.
and no matter how much you hated yourself for it, you leaned into it.
because after all, you were just as lonely as he seemed to be.
after that day, even following his piteous attempt at comfort, you were vengeful.
gone were the nights you’d hold yourself, him, to sleep. gone were the late night drawings or the yoga classes, the massages for his sore muscles and the relaxing teas.
gone was your gentleness along with any semblance of hope you had clung onto like snow on mountains.
you fucking hated fate.
∞
“maybe he’s dead.” shoko offered as you glanced up at her from the blaring screen of your laptop, illuminating your face in the darkness.
utahime shot her a look as you sighed gently.
you weren’t sure if her words were meant to console you but you weren’t sure they did.
you hated him, yes, but did you want him dead?
the thought sent a pang up your chest. no, you didn’t.
because you hadn’t even met him yet.
where all your friends had already fulfilled their bonds, you were left pondering the possibility of fate playing a sick trick on you,
“i mean, with all the fights he gets into, i wouldn’t be surprised.” shoko continued, her words trailing off as she caught utahime’s glare.
you shook your head once, ignoring the tightness beneath your ribs, “if he was dead, who the fuck am i feeling every day?”
shoko hummed once, as if pondering the thought, “maybe he’s in hell!”
now, that seemed probable.
rain tapped gently against the windows while blond played softly in the background as you returned your attention back to the half-finished page in front of you.
it was oddly peaceful in a way you weren’t used to. which meant he was either asleep or unconscious.
honestly, both possibilities reassured you equally so.
“you need to leave your castle, princess.” utahime smiled mockingly from her place on your carpeted floor as you rolled your eyes gently, fingers pausing atop your keyboard.
“why?” you muttered, thumb absentmindedly rubbing soft circles against your wrist.
“um, because of human interaction?” shoko dropped onto your bed, arms and legs starfished across the plush white sheets atop your king sized bed.
you rolled your eyes once more, “and you guys are…?”
both girls grumbled at your response making you smile softly, looking back down at your laptop as ani purred from his place curled at your feet.
you did leave your home! how else would you shop? or attend your lectures? or get your sixth coffee of the day?
“there’s a party downtown tonight.” shoko grinned at you genty, practically soft-launching the idea as you scoffed once.
“ew.”
“don’t say ew with that stupid face like you’re old!”
“m’not old,” you shrugged, “i’d just rather do anything else.”
shoko huffed, sitting up on your bed before walking towards your place on the couch, "you always do anything else! you’ve been so down recently, just let us help!”
you almost wanted to laugh. a party wouldn’t help by any means.
instead, you swallowed quietly, looking back down at your laptop.
he had been strangely distant lately, ever the rage-filled psychopath, but quieter somehow. you didn’t know if you liked it or not.
“c’mon,” utahime pleaded, “just one night!”
before you could answer, you felt it again.
a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins so suddenly, your jaw clenched.
the room went quiet as utahime’s expression shifted, “devils dick?”
you sighed inwardly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
it was a familiar feeling, hot and electric and so fucking alive beneath your skin. you didn’t want to wait for the pain to follow.
“okay.”
the girls exchanged a look.
“okay?!” shoko exclaimed with a grin as you sighed gently.
“that’s what i said.”
her squeals were met with silence as you tried to calm your-his-breathing.
there was this weird feeling in your gut, deep and carved in stone, like tonight was significant.
it felt almost damning.
∞
an - just a little glimpse into this worlddd! no kuna in this yet so :( but u guys will meet him ch1 !! also this is prob gonna be a shorter seriessss like 6-8 parts!
anyways lmk what u guys thinkkkk and if u want more of this au!
also wanna say i read a fic like 7ish yrs ago on here from @/stuckonspidey, i dont think they're on here anymore but they had a soulmate fic that inspired this that i wrote a while ago sooo credits to themmm i remember loving that fic smmmm! :)
Does this count as dead dove? Or is it just kinda dark? I don’t think it does, but lmk cuz I actually have no idea
Tags: fem!reader, mentions/implications of sex, manipulation, toxic relationship, very canon dabi imo, mentions of committing SA/DV/trafficking (not dabi), murder, not too graphic in anything
—
“I don’t wanna be a hero anymore.”
Despite his lack of outward reaction, Dabi is definitely surprised by your abrupt declaration. Here you are, lying naked on his chest, tracing soft little shapes on his scarred skin, all sated and glowing after your usual routine of fucking…and you just have to go all serious on him.
“Really? Gonna give up that shiny life of yours?” His voice is low and rough, like usual, but more teasing than usual.
He knows he’s exaggerating your job, and you know he’s full of shit. Your life is anything but ‘shiny’, and obviously it’s not going the way you envisioned since you’re sleeping with one of the most wanted villains in the country.
Dabi chuckles as you stop your tracing to lightly swat his chest instead, just once but enough for him to know you’re serious. Blue eyes glance down at you now instead of the ceiling, going slightly softer around the edges with an indulgent sort of exasperation.
“What is it this time?” He asks, sounding like he couldn’t give less of a shit but pulling you an inch closer. “Your boss piss you off again? Such hard work being a sidekick, isn’t it?”
You grit your teeth lightly at his mocking, curling in your fingers to stop yourself from pinching at his staples in retaliation. You glance up to meet his gaze, internally cowed by the way his eyes bore into yours with a natural intensity. Glancing away, you answer his questions reluctantly.
“Yeah…but it’s more than that…” You trail off, gathering your thoughts and the courage to say them, even if you know he won’t judge you for it. “It’s just…not what I expected. There’s so much bullshit…all the coverups, and the payoffs, and the secret deals…I dunno, I guess I was naive…”
It goes silent as your words float around the room, and you instinctively curl a bit more into him as if to hide from the fact you said them at all.
Dabi is, secretly, surprised and almost…proud of your admission. Everything you said is obvious to him, the corruption and incompetence that runs deep within hero society, otherwise he wouldn’t be who he is. And he knows you were never some bright eyed idiot, worshipping every hero and kissing up to the HPSC, otherwise he wouldn’t have kept you around. But still, he wasn’t expecting you to see it for yourself, and he wasn’t expecting you to quit entirely.
“Naive, yeah. But at least you’re not stupid enough to not notice it…and you’re not some brainwashed loser who ignores it.” Dabi has a funny way of reassuring you. It’s blunt, surprisingly honest, and oftentimes mixed with an insult. But it means something to you, because he’s the only person who tells it how it is.
You press closer again, basking in his warmth as cold wind howls outside, shivering a little as he reaches down to squeeze softly at your waist. The silence stretches again for a few moments, this time with you neglecting to speak up. But then you do, quiet and hesitant.
“So…you think I should do it?” You fidget with the ridge between his scarred and healthy skin now, avoiding his gaze. “Quit, I mean.”
“I’ve wanted you to quit since the first time I put my dick in you.”
It’s so abrupt you actually freeze, his response sending heat rushing up to your face. Your head turns to look up at him again, only to find him more focused on lighting a cigarette with his free hand. A little blue flame dances on the tip of his finger as he brings it up to light the cigarette dangling in his mouth.
“What- what do you even mean by that?” You stammer, cheeks only getting hotter as you watch him.
Dabi glances down at you then, taking a drag before blowing the smoke away from you. He grins teasingly, scoffing softly as if it’s obvious.
“I mean obviously I want I want you to quit.” He states dryly. “No more jumping to answer calls, leaving in the middle of the night just to go help some useless nobodies.”
You frown at that, pulling away a little to prop yourself up on an elbow. Glaring lightly, you look at him with that scolding face he’s come to know and ignore.
“I still want to help people, just not under some…corrupt organization.” You insist stubbornly.
Dabi snickers, rolling his eyes as he takes another drag of his cigarette. You’re about to ask what’s so funny before he yanks you back down by your waist, almost a bit roughly, so you’re laying your head on his chest again. A short gasp leaves your lips at the sudden move, your glare sharpening slightly as he holds you against him and blows his smoke to the side again.
“Good luck with that.” He drawls, lazy but gaining that familiar cynical edge. “It’s all corrupt. Heroes, the cops, the hospitals, the governments…all of it. You’d be better off giving up on helping people.”
You squirm against his grip at that, huffing softly as he holds strong to keep you down. “I’m not giving up on that—.”
He interrupts you by roughly flipping the two of you over, pinning your wrists down with one hand in the blink of an eye. You look up at him, stunned and wide-eyed as he uses his free hand to take another drag of his cigarette.
“You wanna help people? Wanna really make the ‘bad guys’ pay?”
The condescension dripping from his words would normally have you glaring and huffing, but right now he has you trapped. You hesitate before nodding quietly, relaxing under him.
Dabi smirks, mocking and mean but somehow still just slightly fond. “I got somethin’ you can do…” He drawls, and you already know you’re gonna hate it. “It’s still corrupt, but it’s upfront about it. And you gotta have the balls to do it.”
Narrowing your eyes suspiciously, you frown a little. Knowing him, it’s gonna be something terrible. But, well…it’s hard to say no to a pretty face and smooth voice like that. It couldn’t hurt to just see what it is, right?
“…Fine.” You mumble reluctantly, glancing away. “But I’ll beat your ass if it’s stupid.”
Dabi chuckles, carelessly tossing aside his cigarette and reaching down to grab your thigh instead, hooking it up around his waist. He leans down, rough lips brushing against your ear as he notches himself at your entrance for another round. “You can try…”
—
It is stupid.
And terrible.
And illegal.
And yet, you’re hesitating to leave…or beat his ass like you threatened to.
“C’mon…” Dabi goads, standing back and watching like this is a show just for him. “Think of all the awful things he’s done. All the people he’s hurt.”
As if that exact statement couldn’t be applied to Dabi as well. But…not in the same way.
Dabi kills. Murders. Steals. Awful, yes, but…
The man kneeling in front of you is different.
A real monster. Rape, domestic violence, trafficking…it’s just different.
Your hands shake around the gun you’re holding. It’s fully loaded, safety off, your finger on the trigger…but it’s still aimed down at the floor. Your eyes are wide with fear and hesitation, and yet your gut crawls with a lurching disgust and hatred.
Dabi set this all up for you. Hinted the guy down, dragged him here, tied him up, then went and brought you here as well, informed you on every bad thing this guy has done. All to what? To test you? To see if you really have what it takes to…’help people’ in this way?
“Jesus Christ…” Dabi grumbles suddenly, and you just now realize you’ve been frozen and quiet for much longer than you thought.
Heavy footsteps trail up behind you, getting closer and closer until he’s inches behind you, his heat pressing through your clothes. You startle a little as his hands grab your waist, tight but almost…caressing.
“Don’t have all night.” Dabi mumbles, leaning in close to your ear and making you shiver. “He’s a useless piece of shit. No one will miss him.”
It’s true, but…
You bite your bottom lip before it can tremble, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. Your eyes are wet with unshed tears, so uncertain and held back by the years and years of training and ethics drilled into you since you were born. It’s a good look on you, Dabi thinks…but wholly inconvenient right now.
He grabs your jaw, turning your face back towards the man on the ground. “Don’t look at me. Don’t look away. Don’t close your eyes.” Each instruction comes out as a command, making your breath hitch.
Reaching down for your hands now, Dabi guides them up until the gun is pointing at the man, aimed right between his eyes. “Just pull the trigger, baby. You can do it…”
The encouragement is anything but genuine, purred in your ear while his scarred hands force yours to stay in place. Heart pounding and breaths shaking, you obey his instructions because you don’t know what else to do. Your hands shake harder between his as your finger squeezes and squeezes until…
BANG
thud
Clang!
The gun dropped from your hands a second after the body fell to the floor, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at what he made you…no, what you did.
Breathing stuttering and mind fried, you finally look away, panicked gasps leaving your lips.
Dabi watches for a second, letting it sink in, before grabbing your waist again and turning you around. He’s holding back a grin, you can tell, a rare and fully manipulative moment of comfort from him. His hands pull you closer, right up against his chest until your shaking hands grab and cling onto his jacket.
“Good job.” He mutters, letting you throw yourself at him and cry into his shoulder. “The first one is always the hardest.”
A rough hand comes up to stroke your hair lazily while blue eyes watch the blood pool behind you dispassionately. The seconds tick by, filled with the sound of your distress and his calm breathing. Only once he’s had enough does Dabi pull you back a bit and grab your jaw, hard and mean to make you focus.
“Stop crying.” He demands cruelly, expecting your tears to stop that same second. They do.
You sniffle shakily, blinking up at him tearfully while his fingers bruise your cheeks. His expression is cold, impassive, but focused solely on you. The hand on your waist slides to the small of your back, pressing you in closer. Dabi stares down at you silently, watching your tears subside and your breathing calm down just slightly, your grip on his jacket not quite as frantic anymore.
He grins then, almost subtly but undeniably pleased, finally letting up his grip on your jaw to smear the tears remaining on your cheeks. “This is a good look for you.”
The way he drawls it out makes you nauseous. His hips press forward just a bit, making you all too aware of how worked up your actions have gotten him.
This is the man you’ve been sleeping with all these months. He’s not always funny and snarky and lazy like you know him to be.
Of course you knew. He’s a murderer. A terrorist. A liar and manipulator. He’s fucked up beyond redemption. He’s cold and violent and unfeeling. But seeing it like this, really knowing it…
“How ‘bout a reward for a job well done, huh?” Dabi purrs, already leaning down to sink his teeth into your neck.
Yeah, you know now.
A line was crossed.
You passed the point of no return.
And now, all you have is him.
So, with a heavy heart and even heavier dread settling in your bones, you close your eyes and nod your head.
CUDDLING WITH GENSHIN BOYS — ALHAITHAM, WRIOTHESLEY, NEUVILLETTE, AND CHILDE
— ALHAITHAM:
Alhaitham doesn’t care for his nine to five job.
His job is something that is a necessity for the sake of proper functioning as a self sufficient adult, and being a self sufficient adult is an inevitable part of life, therefore, he cannot avoid his job. He cannot survive without it, in fact. But there are times where Alhaitham wonders if he really needs this job. He wonders if he really has to waste the time he does in his small, cramped office, when there’s a large bed with a good amount of pillows to reside in instead.
Reside in with you.
“You’re quiet,” you poke his nose. He scrunches it, giving you a glance from the corner of his eyes.
“Aren’t I always?”
“Well, yes,” you giggle, snuggling closer into his side as your chin plants onto his chest. “But you’re quiet-er. It’s unsettling.”
“Unsettling,” he repeats, lips quirking into an amused smile. “That’s a little of a rude thing to call someone who’s simply trying to relax, wouldn’t you say?”
You shrug. Your legs swing over his and you curl closer into him as you all but merge yourself at his hip. “I’m bored. Entertain me.”
“What method do you prefer? I have a handful I could try.”
“Try one where you’re not staring off to space,” you say dryly.
Alhaitham laughs. He doesn’t laugh very often during his work day, nor does he smile, but when he comes home and feels your body slot next to his, he more than makes up for the lack of stretching the muscles in his face seem to get through the day. You’re warm, and close, and feeling you like this is worth a miserable nine to five job.
“If it were plausible, I’d quit my job and stay here,” he says with a sigh.
“Me too,” you smile. And then, you poke his nose again and giggle when he scrunches it again. “But we’re adults, so we can’t do that.”
“Lovely,” he says flatly, tightening his grip on you.
— WRIOTHESLEY:
Wriothesley likes to nibble. You direct your attention anywhere else for a moment, and you’re rewarded (or maybe punished) with a nibble.
“Quit that!” you shriek, trying to shove away his face as his sharp, white canines try to attack your cheeks. “Wriothesley, quit that!”
“Quit what?” He has the nerve to laugh. His lips stretch and show the pearly whites that harass your skin openly, and you pause for a moment at how handsome it makes him.
“You know what,” you accuse.
“Nope,” he winks, “I don’t.”
“Stop biting me!”
“Then stop ignoring me,” he bargains.
He slumps over your body again, his eyes staring up at you expectantly. Sometimes, you think he was a puppy in his former life. Sharp teeth, quick senses, and two wide, dangerously cute eyes.
You sigh and bring your fingers back into his hair as he perks up happily. And again, your theory is proven when his tail all but wags at the gesture.
“Biting me is not an acceptable form of communication,” you give him a scolding look. He gives you a cheeky little grin that makes you roll your eyes.
“Ignoring me isn’t either,” he counters. “That’s not communicating at all.”
You huff at his smart little mouth, and he happily presses closer to you and closes his eyes, cherishing the careful threading of hour fingers in his hair.
“You’re like a puppy,” you snort, “always need to be pet.”
“I’ll be your puppy if you stop ignoring me,” he says, sighing in content.
— NEUVILLETTE:
Neuvillette likes mortals. He finds the way of their life rather beautiful. They cherish things that are small and fleeting, things that he has grown accustomed to treating as mundane.
“Look,” you point excitedly at the window, “there’s a rainbow!”
He glances over. Indeed, it’s a rainbow, each color blurring into the next just like your bodies in his bed.
(You look sad, you had murmured when he came home.
It’s nothing, he’d whispered softly.
But you knew. Somehow, as if the rain dampens his mood, Neuvillette is gloomy during the bad weather. You knew the moment he’d walked in and insisted that something as simple as snuggling would ease his mind.
Perhaps it is that simple, he’s realizing now.)
“The wonderful thing about Fontaine being a nation with so much rain is that we often see rainbows,” you murmur. “It makes it worth enduring.”
“Is that so?” He asks softly.
“Yes,” you smile, hugging him tighter. “It’s a sign that good things are always on the horizon, wouldn’t you say Monsieur?”
“You need not call me that in our own home,” he flushes, earning you a soft giggle.
“You’re right,” you laugh, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “My love, wouldn’t you agree they’re worth the awful storms?”
“Yes,” he nods, agreeing as he leans closer into your body. You’re right, he realizes. Snuggling does, indeed ease the troubles of his mind—there is often a rainbow every time you do.
— CHILDE:
Snezhnaya is cold. Ajax, you think, purposely makes things colder.
“Why is it so freezing?” Your teeth chatter as you press even closer to him, rubbing your cold feet against his calves.
He chuckles, smug and giddy all at once. “It’s Snezhnaya, love. What did you expect?”
“Don’t be smart, Ajax,” you shoot him a flat look that tells him you’re highly unimpressed. “Of course it’s cold, but it’s never this cold. It’s almost as if the temperature is—”
You pause. It dawns on you and you throw him a nasty glare that he at least pretends to look sheepish about.
“Why are you looking at me like—”
“Ajax, my darling,” you say sarcastically, “you wouldn’t have happened to fiddle with the heating, would you?”
“Why, I’d never,” he says a little too innocently.
You slap his chest, and he laughs, curling a thick, muscled arm around you tighter and bringing you closer against his warm chest. It’s sturdy and built like a place you can take shelter in when you’re cold—even if it is the reason you’re cold in the first place.
“Aren’t I attached to your side enough?” You glare, “you don’t need to risk killing me of hypothermia for this.”
“Nonsense,” he gasps, “you’re never close enough! There is no such thing. Now come closer so I can keep you warm.”
“Keeping me warm is quite the bold claim,” you say dryly, “considering you’ve practically frozen me on purpose.”
