Sukuna doesn't handle waking up in an empty bed in the middle of the night very well
Blinking awake into the dim blue-gray haze that fills the bedroom, Sukuna’s mind lingers in a heavy, half-dreaming state, and the first thing he notices is the empty stretch of mattress at his side. Fingers drift across the sheets, searching out of habit, only to find nothing but cold where warmth should be.
For a moment, he just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to shake the fog of sleep that refuses to let go. Only when the red glow of the alarm clock finally catches his eye does he move, brow creasing as the numbers come into focus. 4:03.
It’s the weekend. Both of you had gone to bed together hours ago, so there’s absolutely no reason for you to be anywhere else.
Before the thought can even finish forming, his body jolts upright as adrenaline floods his veins, snapping him awake faster than his mind can catch up. The sharp thud of his heart feels almost ridiculous in the silence, but the apartment is so quiet that it only makes every instinct louder.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he pushes himself up, rakes a hand through his hair, and steps into the hallway, every muscle tense, ears straining for the faintest sound.
Nothing.
Moving down the hallway without hesitation, he checks the bathroom, even though the darkness behind the door already tells him you aren’t there.
The living room is empty, the couch looks exactly the same as earlier that night, with your blanket still tossed carelessly over the armrest where you left it. Maybe you slipped out onto the balcony, but the curtains hang motionless and the glass door is sealed tight. The pressure in his chest ratchets up another notch, and he moves through the flat faster now.
The last remnants of sleep are completely gone when each room confirms the same thing over and over again: you aren’t there. Each feeds the growing, irrational fear that something has happened while he slept, and by the time he reaches the kitchen, his breathing is shallow, his jaw clenches, and his hands ball into tight fists at his sides.
And then he stops.
The kitchen is bathed in dim light, just the gentle glow from the stove clock and a faint spill of streetlight through the window, enough to outline you standing barefoot by the counter. One hand holds a glass of water, the other strokes absently over Mikan’s back as the cat perches on a high chair, leaning into your touch and purring like nothing in the world could ever be wrong.
You look half-asleep yourself, hair a little messy, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs, eyes soft and unfocused the way they get when you wake just enough to wander to the bathroom before crawling back to bed.
For a long moment, Sukuna stands frozen in the doorway, breath caught somewhere between relief and anger, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins. The sight of you, safe, slams into the fear he’s been carrying, heavy and real as anything.
Your head lifts when you notice him.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words come out sharper than he means, still edged with the panic that hasn’t left his body yet.
Confusion flickers across your face at his tone, and you blink at him, like you’ve only just remembered there’s a world beyond the counter and the purring cat pressed against your palm.
“Drinking water,” you answer quietly, your voice rough with sleep, lifting the glass slightly in explanation, like the answer should be obvious. Then, softer, as the reason for him standing there at four in the morning, staring at you like that, finally clicks, you add, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
Something in his chest finally gives, and the tension snaps all at once. Muttering a curse that barely makes it past his teeth, he walks over and catches your arm before you can get another word out, tugging you into him so abruptly that the water in your glass nearly spills over the rim. Only then does he let out a shaky breath he’s been holding since the moment he woke up.
His voice rumbles low and rough, words muffled by your hair as he pulls you tight against his chest. “You scared the shit outta me.”
His grip tightens for a heartbeat before easing. One hand slides up, fingers threading through the hair at the nape of your neck, while the other stays splayed warm and steady across your lower back. Caught off guard by the sudden intensity, you let your free hand find its way to his side, settling there gently.
“I’m sorry.” It slips out before you can stop it, even though you know you haven’t done anything wrong. Tilting your head back to meet his eyes, you find his stare heavy with something that makes it clear that he doesn’t want you apologizing for this, not ever. Nuzzling your cheek into his chest, you feel the frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I was only gone a minute,” you add softly, a little sheepish.
Sukuna huffs softly, and the short, weary sound carries more relief than frustration, but his arms stay locked around you, unyielding, as if letting go might let the fear slip back in.
“I know,” he mutters eventually, almost to himself, the edge of panic fading away. “I know that.”
For a few seconds, neither of you moves. The kitchen is quiet except for the slow, steady thud of Sukuna’s heartbeat finally calming beneath your cheek, and the impatient purring of Mikan weaving around your ankles, as if he’s been personally wronged by all this drama.
Then, he slips the glass from your hand and sets it on the counter, his other arm settling around your shoulders, steering you gently toward the bedroom, unwilling to let even an inch of distance creep in.
“Come on,” he murmurs, and you don’t argue.
Sleep tugs at you again, heavy and insistent, and as you sink back onto the mattress, your body leans instinctively toward his warmth. Sukuna wraps himself around you, pressing his chest firmly against your back and banding one arm tight across your waist, his hand splayed over your stomach. The other slips beneath your pillow, fingers searching until they find yours and tangle together.
Now that you’re back exactly where you should be, Sukuna lets out a slow, quiet exhale as the last traces of restless adrenaline finally drain from his chest.
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
boyfriend!Sukuna figures it out fast because he’s good at spotting patterns, and this one repeats so often that it can't be anything else.
You can go an entire day without eating and not realise it.
It's not that you don’t want to eat, try to punish yourself, or forget intentionally. The issue is that when your mind concentrates on a task, a project, a book, or a problem that needs solving, the rest of the world completely fades away, including things like hunger, time, and the passing day.
He notices it first on weekends. You mention one small task, and hours vanish. He comes back from the gym to find you still in the exact same place, surrounded by scattered notes or open tabs, driven by pure momentum. When he asks if you’ve eaten, you wave him off, promising to eat once you’re done, like “done” is a fixed point instead of something that keeps moving further away.
While preparing his work lunches, he starts making an extra portion, packs it, and leaves it in the fridge, mentioning it in that blunt tone he uses when he doesn’t want credit for anything. You genuinely plan to eat it, so you agree easily. Sometimes you do, but more often than not, he comes home to find the container untouched, just as he left it. He doesn’t say a word, even though it irritates him every time.
So, he changes tactics. One day, you get a text from him saying he’s about to eat, asking what you’re up to, and suggesting you could eat together if you want. It seems like nothing more than a spontaneous idea, like sharing the moment just makes sense, when in reality, it’s actually carefully thought out.
And that’s what makes it work.
Sometimes you text while eating; other times, you have a quick facetime with him sitting at work with his food while you finally step away from your desk. Sometimes, you simply eat quietly at the same time in different locations. To you, it’s a simple, sweet gesture, like he’s missing you and just wants to share his lunch break.
Every time, once you’re finished, you message him that the food was really good and you’re glad you ate together. He downplays it with a casual “yeah, obviously,” telling you not to make a big deal out of it. Yet, the next day, there’s food in the fridge, and another text from him.
He never presents it as a concern, knowing you don't forget out of carelessness but because your mind fully commits to whatever it’s doing, and this is simply his way of distracting you long enough to make space for something else.
You don’t talk about it directly, but you begin to expect his lunch break texts and start planning around them subconsciously, because eating together, even like this, makes it easier to take a break from your work.
And Sukuna never admits that the whole thing was a calculated plan. Not that you ever catch on.
sukuna gets hit on while you’re busy befriending a stray cat
There’s a cat sitting on a low wall, regarding the world like royalty, bored out of their mind with all their subjects. You stop walking without warning and immediately crouch down, feeling the leather strap of your bag slide off your shoulder, but you don’t care because your attention gets completely rerouted, like the rest of the world has ceased to exist, and you have absolutely nowhere else to be.
It’s a mottled grey tabby, broad, looks elderly and deeply unimpressed with the entire concept of the universe. But somehow, it has decided you are an acceptable company, and you take it very seriously.
Sukuna stands a few steps away with his hands loosely in his pockets, already resigned to the fact that this is just who you are. You see a cat, and you stop functioning.
He can’t help but watch you with a mix of exasperation and a bit of amusement that’s almost close to fondness, mostly because you look so stupidly happy, and that tends to completely override anything else he might think about your sudden, public abandonment of him.
You’re absolutely thrilled when the cat, after a moment of intense, green-eyed staring, allows you to gently extend a finger and touch it. You instantly start a non-stop, ridiculous stream of mushy nonsense, completely forgetting you're technically in public. When it headbutts your hand with surprising force, you burst out laughing, like this might be the best moment of your day. In fact, it probably is, judging by the bright smile on your face.
This is, of course, the exact moment when a stunning woman decides that today is her day, and Sukuna is the ultimate jackpot. Her eyes quickly scan his physique, the imposing height and the lines of his tattoos, like she’s already mentally rearranging her life to make him the centrepiece of it.
Clearly, she likes what she sees, and misinterpreting his relaxed, nonchalant posture as availability, she saunters up to him with a bold confidence that’s kinda admirable because it takes guts, but in this specific situation, it’s deeply, deeply misguided.
“Well, hello, handsome,” she practically purrs, tilting her head smoothly like she’s already got him. “You look far too interesting to be standing here by yourself.”
Sukuna doesn’t even glance at her, keeping his eyes glued to you crouching on the pavement, scratching a grumpy-looking stray cat behind the ear like it’s your actual job. Your shoulders shake when you start giggling again, and he just watches the curve of your cheek and the shape of your smile, not offering the woman even the slightest bit of his attention.
"Hey," she tries again, moving closer and smiling at him brightly, but it’s obvious she’s surprised by his silence. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”
“Not interested,” he responds bluntly, sounding more bored than anything else. He wouldn’t have bothered answering at all if she hadn’t crossed that invisible line and stepped directly into his space.
Then, as her perfectly sculpted brows lift in offence, Sukuna finally grants her the smallest fraction of his attention. He gives her a brief and unimpressed glance, a look he usually reserves for minor inconveniences.
Instead of pointing or turning fully toward her, he merely tips his chin toward the space past her shoulder, as though even the effort of gesturing properly would be giving her too much.
“That one’s mine.”
The woman turns, and what she finds is not what she was expecting.
Her eyes land on you, crouched in an oversized, slightly faded hoodie, with messy hair from the wind and your bag nearly dropping on the dirty pavement, completely oblivious to what’s happening. She watches you for a few seconds, and then she scoffs with open, patronising judgment.
“Really?” she asks in blatant disbelief. “You could do so much better.”
He lets out a slow, almost audibly patient breath, like he’s about to explain that fire is hot to a remarkably slow child.
“I already have.”
The woman stiffens, caught off guard by such a sudden, harsh, and frankly crushing rejection. She opens her mouth again, glancing back at you, and her lips tighten right before she’s about to make a biting comment about your clothes, your slightly awkward posture, or the foolishness of softly cooing at a stray cat without a care in the world.
“Careful,” Sukuna says in a deceptively light tone, slightly lowering his head, while his eyes are dead serious. Even with his hands still in his pockets, his posture signals that if she makes one more insulting remark about you, it won't end merely with her wounded pride. “You’re already leaving.”
That gets through. She mumbles something low and unintelligible under her breath, walking away quickly as her bruised dignity scrambles to catch up with her retreat.
Sukuna turns his full attention back to you, because as far as he’s concerned, the entire interaction is already finished and irrelevant.
You stand up a moment later, dusting off your hands as you hurry over to him, beaming like you have genuinely discovered the meaning of life.
“You saw that cat?!” you ask, full of excitement, grabbing his arm. “He let me pet him!”
“I noticed,” he replies in a tone notably softer than it had been a moment ago.
You look up at him, tilting your head, and your smile slowly turns suspicious. “You look smug.”
“I am,” he confirms effortlessly, and the corners of his mouth curve slightly into a smirk.
You narrow your eyes at him. “And why is that?”
“Because,” he answers, grabbing the sleeve of your hoodie and pulling you firmly against his side, “you’re busy befriending a stray, and the universe keeps trying to hit on me.”
You snort, and a joyful laugh breaks through as you slide your hand into his, lacing your fingers together.
“How rude of it,” you comment, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Terribly.”
“So... got her name?” you ask playfully, knowing the answer already.
“No.” His voice drops to a low, husky rumble as he rolls his eyes at your teasing. “Didn’t care.”
“Good.”
You start walking, immediately launching into a detailed monologue about how the cat definitely needs a name, some warm milk, and maybe some basic medical check-up. Sukuna walks beside you, gently rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb and listening to your enthusiastic chatter as if it was the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard in his life.
it’s your anniversary, and you’re going out. the only problem is that Sukuna doesn’t really… like the way you’re dressed?
not fluff, but not angst either (i think). let's call it... married stupidity.
Sukuna’s waiting in the living room by the dining table, holding a glass of water. He’s already dressed in a black button-up that’s straining over his broad chest and arms, reminding you that he knows exactly what he’s doing wearing it, especially with the top two buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to show off the wristbands. His suit pants are tailored perfectly, and his pink hair is pushed back. He looks annoyingly composed, which makes you melt before you even take a step into the room.
You step out of the bedroom, wearing a dress you bought exactly for this occasion. You’d tried it on in the store and instantly knew that it was the one that would make his eyes drag over you like he was starving. It’s a black V-neck with a long slit down the side that bares your leg with every step, and it fits really tight, hugging your waist and curves beautifully.
You pause in the doorway, expecting his eyes to darken and for him to cross the room and pull you close, rasping something dirty into your ear. But Sukuna… just glances at you quickly and looks down at his watch, taking another unbothered sip of water.
Completely thrown off, you blink a few times, clear your throat, and force a light tone because you’re sure he just missed it somehow. You turn slightly, letting the silk catch the light.
“…So?” You ask, fishing for that slow, lazy once-over that always makes your knees weak and your mouth dry. “What do you think?”
He shrugs, and it immediately sets something off in your chest. “It’s fine.”
The word hits you like a cold splash of water. It’s so dismissive and so wrong; it doesn’t even belong in his mouth and, honestly, it shouldn’t even be in his vocabulary when you’re looking like… that. The smile vanishes before you can stop it, and you can't stop yourself from frowning.
“…Fine?” you quietly repeat, desperate to find a crack in that blank expression, a lie, the slightest tell, anything.
“Yeah,” he says flatly, not bothering to look up again. “It’s fine.”
Your stomach drops. Heat, prickling and hot, starts crawling up your neck, and suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of every inch of the fabric, every seam, every place the dress might be sitting wrong. This is the man who once had to excuse himself from a crowded restaurant just because your skirt rode up too high when you crossed your legs. Now he’s acting like you’re wearing a garbage bag and calling it high fashion.
“…You don’t like it?” you ask carefully, trying to keep your voice steady, refusing to let the hurt leak into your tone.
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, eyes glued to the glass in his hand. “Didn’t say that. It’s just a dress. Doesn’t really matter.”
That’s even worse. Your brain latches onto that sentence, tearing it apart, turning it over until it’s raw and you can’t think about anything else. Since when does it not matter to him? A sharp spike of panic hits your chest as you nod, maybe a little too fast, already backing toward the bedroom.
“Okay,” you mutter, your pride stinging. “I’ll… I’ll try something else.”
That word, fine, echoes in the silence as you stare at your reflection, trying to figure out what is wrong and where the man who usually can’t keep his eyes off you is.
The second dress is softer, less revealing. It’s still black, but looser at the waist and lower in the back. He’s loved this one before. You smooth it down, adjust the straps, check your makeup again, even though it’s perfect, and walk back out.
He looks up for a split second, and his eyes flick from your shoulders to your legs, then immediately away.
"This one?" you ask hopefully, keeping your voice light, turning so the material flows.
He hums. “Yeah. It’s fine too.”
“Too?”
He nods, rolling his shoulders like he’s just distracted or bored, as if you aren’t standing there looking like you’re about to ruin lives. Before he can offer another soul-crushing word, you duck back into the room. If you stay there any longer, you’re going to ask a question you don’t actually want answered, or the anger or the tears hit. And you’re not crying tonight. Not with this makeup.
Has something changed in the way he sees you?
The thought sticks in your throat like a thorn as you slip into the third dress—a navy blue halter that ties in a bow at the nape, that’s just begging to be untied. This time, you stay silent, giving him a chance to react on his own, and your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
Sukuna gives another indifferent shrug.
“Sure,” he says. “That works.”
Works.
Your fingers curl at your sides as you swallow hard and nod, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your face neutral. Something is seriously wrong, and you still don't know what it is.
By the fourth dress, your movements are rushed and almost frantic. The zipper snags because your hands are shaking, and your thoughts are a messy, ugly loop you can’t seem to break.
Too much. Not enough. Too tight. Too plain. Maybe you misread the whole night. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe you’re overthinking everything. Maybe you aren’t.
This one is something you pick when you don’t want to stand out. Still beautiful, but safe. Maroon, fitted at the waist, long sleeves, high neckline, flaring into a full skirt that falls to mid-ankle. It’s elegant and classy, subtly showing off how good your body looks without screaming for attention.
“How about this one?"
He finally looks at you, leaning a shoulder against the wall, folding his arms. But it’s still that flat, distant expression, and not the one you’re yearning for.
"Doesn't matter—they’re all fine.”
Something inside you snaps. “Okay,” you murmur, barely audible. “Let’s just go then.”
This time, you don’t even glance at him as you head for the front door, because if you do, you might not be able to hold it together. Putting on your heels, you feel hollow and resigned to the idea that something has changed. Whatever this is, you’ll deal with it later. For now, surviving the night while pretending you don’t feel it is the only goal left.
Just as you reach for the handle, Sukuna moves in right behind you, so close you feel his breath. A hand lifts, hovering near your hip like a threat he’s been holding back all evening. He leans down, and while his mouth brushes your ear, his voice drops into a rough, hoarse rasp that makes your skin flush.
“Go put the first one back on,” he rasps, all that careful indifference stripped away. His chest presses against your back, and you can feel the unmistakable, hard line of him against your spine—undeniable proof that everything you’ve been spiraling over was a total lie. “That one made me want to bend you over the table and ruin you before we ever made it out the door.”
He’s been silently suffering for the past twenty minutes, with his cock straining against his suit pants, fighting not to walk over and prove exactly how far from fine he really was.
Relief is sharp and dizzying, but it’s immediately shoved aside by a surge of pure, unadulterated fury and the overwhelming need to either scream or slap that stupid smirk off his face. You spin around, gasping, already raising your hand with murder in mind.
“You absolute asshole,” you hiss, voice shaking now that you know you aren’t crazy. “I almost cried.”
His mouth curves, slow and utterly unapologetic; his eyes darken, finally drinking you in the way you both needed all along.
“I know,” he says, raising one brow as the thick length of him presses firmly into your stomach. “Consider us even, brat.”
And if the nearest object you can grab and throw at him survives the next five seconds, it’s honestly just luck.
a/n: this was his payback for the prank reader had played on him before. and i just very much need it to lay some ground work for a different drabble i'm very excited about lol
ps. don't worry, she retaliated by putting petrol in sukuna's diesel jeep
The last shrill beep from the scanner dies out, and the cashier slides the final item across, leaving a mountain of grocery bags stacked at the end of the conveyor, teetering so much that it makes you wonder if they’ll topple before you even get a hand on them. Reaching for the battered metal cart you’d been dragging through the aisles, you barely get your hand on the handle before Sukuna lets out a flat, dismissive scoff behind you.
"Leave it," he mutters, nudging you away from it.
"What do you mean leave it?" you ask, looking up at him with a slight frown. "We have to get it to the car."
“I’m not walking all the way back across the lot just to return a piece of metal,” he grumbles, already shoving his hoodie sleeves up his forearms, brooking no argument.
“Kuna, the car’s parked at the very end of the row,” you whine, casting a helpless look at the mountain of groceries, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. “Uh. Fine.”
Before your fingers can even curl around the plastic handles, a large hand sweeps in, batting yours away with a gentle but unmistakable firmness.
“Don’t touch 'em,” Sukuna rumbles, a sly, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth as he steps right into your space, his massive frame blocking out the entire grocery counter behind him.
“I can carry the light ones," you protest with a little huff, crossing your arms as you look up at him. "The bread isn't going to break my arms."
"I said I’ve got it, brat," he chuckles deeply.
To prove his point, he gathers up the handles, looping the heavy canvas bags full of milk jugs, protein shakes, and soda bottles over his forearms, stacking plastic bags up his arms until they nearly reach his elbows. The lighter bags with bread, produce, and paper towels, he scoops up with his remaining fingers, refusing to leave a single thing for you. By the time he’s finished, he’s loaded down with the entire week’s haul in one stubborn, showy display of strength, looking for all the world like a pack mule who refuses to admit defeat.
A satisfied grunt rumbles out of him as he turns toward the automatic doors, and you can’t help but laugh softly, falling into step behind him, hands completely empty. He’s forced to walk a little slower, balancing the absurd volume of bags, and watching his broad shoulders shift beneath his hoodie, you’re hit with a sudden, ridiculous rush of affection that leaves you grinning like an idiot.
The walk to the very end of the parking lot row suddenly feels far too long to be spent walking apart from him.
Matching your pace to his long stride, you slip in beside him and glance down at his hands, completely swallowed by a sea of plastic handles.
"Kunaaaa," you call out, dragging his name out in a soft, teasing whine.
He doesn't look away from the car waiting in the distance, but his head tilts slightly toward you, tracking you out of the corner of his eye. "What?"
"Why aren't you holding my hand?" you ask, pitching your voice into the most exaggerated, tragic pout you can muster.
Sukuna stops dead in his tracks, planting himself right there on the open asphalt, weighed down by the mountain of groceries you insisted on. The sigh he lets out is so exasperated and dramatic that it practically makes you roll your eyes, but when you look up, you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a fond, reluctant grin threatening to break through.
He stares at you like you’re the most ridiculous creature he’s ever met, then, with exaggerated slowness, shifts his wrist under the mountain of bags and wiggles his pinky free from the mess of handles, holding it out for you to take.
"There," he mutters, voice thick with the familiar blend of fondness and utter defeat. "Take it."
A bright, triumphant giggle bubbles up from your chest as you step in close, wrapping your whole hand around his thick finger. Satisfied, you set off again, tugging him along down the parking row like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Walking like that, you catch a few elderly ladies heading for the entrance openly grinning at the two of you, while a couple by their trunk tries—and fails—to stifle a giggle at the sight. The two of you must look completely ridiculous: this hulking, broad-shouldered man with face tattoos, arms overflowing with grocery bags, being led across the asphalt by his tiny wife clinging to just one finger.
Catching the stares, Sukuna lets out a quiet, amused huff, but falls right back into step beside you, his heavy footsteps perfectly in sync with yours. His pinky stays in your hand, hooked tight around one of your fingers, not loosening for even a second as you both make your way toward the car.
"You're completely shameless, you know that?" he murmurs down at you, crimson eyes softening with fondness as he shakes his head, clearly exasperated but unable to hide how your antics get to him. “Spoiled brat.”
"You can’t be mad for that when you’re the one who made me this way,” you chirp, happiness bubbling in your voice as you lean your shoulder into the solid weight of his loaded arm, just for a heartbeat before pulling away again.
"And look what I got for it," he grumbles, but the massive grin splitting his face betrays him completely, turning the complaint into something almost proud. "A wife who makes me carry twenty bags and still demands a hand to hold."
"Oh? Makes you? You can always let go if it's too much work," you tease, intentionally loosening your grip just a fraction to test him, watching for the inevitable reaction.
Sukuna’s pinky tightens instantly around your finger, a low scoff rumbling from his chest as you both finally reach the bumper. "Like hell I am. You're stuck now, angel. Pop the trunk."
