Yowamushihime

was looking into the darkness without light ~sweet 21~

[yuieenastin]

On June 28, our dear WangWang and her babies crossed the rainbow bridge after enduring unimaginable cruelty in this world.

It broke my heart to see the news about WangWang and her babies being tortured and abused to death in China by four psychopathic kids. She didn't just die quickly, they burned her alive! Every post about those kids keeps getting taken down.

Boycott China for its cruelty and abuse of animals. Every living being deserves to be treated with compassion!

May you rest in love and peace with your babies, sweet soul WangWang🤍

[chandralia]

I DONT EVEN HAVE WORDS I need to let the scene speak for itself………

[f-tality0]

🚬 break

[iheartyuyu]

[very strong suicidal themes and strong topics. can not stress enough these warnings, reader is suicidal. v strong self projection... english isn’t my first language.]

the first time you ever had a proper conversation with sukuna ryomen, he saved your life.

that day was supposed to be your last, really. you had everything planned— letters written, belongings labeled with who to give them to, a plan in mind, and no doubt in your heart on what you were going to do.

you had nothing left.

your family would move on. your friends were already so busy, which would help. they would be distracted and they would move on, too. nothing in the world would stop, the world would continue spinning, and you were just so, utterly tired. you didn’t care about ‘being selfish’, all you cared about was just how badly you needed everything to stop.

you were just so tired.

too tired, in fact, to focus on anything as you walked into the roof of a frat party, deciding to enjoy one last party before you could finally rest. the roof was surprisingly empty, and you stood near the edge, leaning on the ledge quietly, eyes down on everyone partying downstairs, laughing and dancing and enjoying their best years.

the view was slowly becoming more blurry, your eyes glossing over with tears, taking a quiet, shaky breath, mourning the happiness you failed to ever achieve.

just then, the roof door slammed open, a loud groan echoing. “fucking choso always giving people the key. hey, you.”

you glanced over, gaze blank, vision cloudy with tears that you forced not to drop, and you paused. you could identify the tan, pink-haired frat president even with your vision blurry— fuck, probably even with your eyes shut.

sukuna ryomen was known.

the usual cliché frat president, really. a heartless asshole who’s great in bed, with a burning hot temper and knuckles that are always bruised with strangers’ faces to match. although, he definitely was prettier than any guy you had ever seen— not that it mattered, really, you never cared enough to focus on pretty guys when your first priority was to survive, but he was easy on the eyes.

for some reason, the 6’4 football player froze as soon as your eyes met. you only blinked blankly, barely able to properly see him, lack of lights on the roof and tears not helping the slightest. you sniffled, praying your voice doesn’t crack as you spoke. “sorry, am i not supposed to be here?”

he was frozen for a few more seconds, then frowned. “you’re in my monday class.”

you blinked, not expecting him to recognize you, before slowly nodding, not trusting your voice to not shake if you spoke again, he stared at you for a while longer, before walking over, leaning on the ledge beside you.

you didn’t care enough to overthink it, really, not enough to even think twice about why the life of the party was on the roof beside you instead of doing a line of shots downstairs. instead, you resumed staring at the party downstairs, trying to enjoy the last few hours—

“i don’t know you that well, but,” sukuna murmured, voice low. you blinked once, thanking the darkness for concealing the tears that finally dropped, keeping your gaze ahead as he sighed. you expected him to say something shallow, irrelevant— the kind of stuff frat boys spew to random girls on rooftops. “give it another try.”

you blinked, mind going blank for a moment. you were quiet for a beat, eyebrows slowly furrowing in confusion, because there was simply no way he was saying what you thought he was. “…what?”

“give it another try.” he grunted, voice low, serious. “one year ago, i was standing on this stupid roof with those exact tired, hopeless eyes and coming up with a plan because i wanted everything to stop. now ‘m fucking thriving.”

you froze, quiet and silent, heart beating too loud that you couldn’t hear your own thoughts anymore. sukuna kept getting blurrier, but you saw his head move to look at you before he sighed loudly. “…i’m not going to do anything, not even stop you. but, i know exactly how you feel, and i’m promising you, it really does get so much fucking better.”

“…bullshit,” you mumbled. your voice was quiet, hissed between gasps that were a pathetic attempt not to cry. he only hummed, quiet.

“i would have answered that way, too.” he muttered, voice quieter. “funny, isn’t it?”

you didn’t answer. you kept staring straight ahead, and sniffled. after a few quiet minutes, you breathed out, trying not to bawl in front of the stranger in your class. “…what stopped you?”

he let out a faint chuckle. it sounded sad.

“…you.” he muttered. you turned to him this time, utterly confused, no longer caring about the tears streaming down your face and how much of a mess you definitely looked. if he was looking at you in disgust, you definitely wouldn’t have noticed through the tears, anyways. his voice remained almost gentle, though. “that was the semester i never forgot to bring a fucking pen with me. everyday i showed up, and no one had an extra one, and i had to go get one from outside the fucking room. then, that day, i showed up, and you had two. you got one for me, a stranger, and i realized that maybe i wasn’t as invisible and meaningless as i felt.”

your breath halted, body freezing, tears flowing even faster. you could feel the neckline if your hoodie soaked with tears from how long you had been crying, but it barely registered in your mind when sukuna was casually mentioning that the reason he stood alive in front of you today was because you brought him a fucking pen. your eyes were wide, lips wobbling as they parted wordlessly, and you could finally make out the faint, sad smile on his lips.

“i just planned to raincheck it, you know. couldn’t let your pens go to waste. but, by the time the semester ended, i felt... better. i remember fucking laughing then, because holy fucking shit, it really does get better.” he stated calmly, reaching over, warm fingers wiping your tears in a way rhat was so nonchalant that it almost made you laugh. “so, trust me, i know how it feels. gets really fucking better.”

“…what if it doesn’t?” you finally manage to choke out. he hummed quietly, taking the time to think, before his fingers dropped away from your face.

“then you will get better,” he spoke, voice serious. “you’ll heal and adapt.”

“i don’t think i have it in me, sukuna.” you whimpered. “i don’t… i’m so tired…”

strong, yet gentle arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a solid chest. he held you so firmly yet so carefully, as if you were going to break if he breathed wrong.

“…let’s try,” he whispered, a hand gently sliding to hold your head gently as you broke, sobbing, the sound muffled by his shirt, which you definitely were ruining. “one more try. just one more, and then ‘ll never bother you anymore. i’ll even give you a pen, just one more semester, okay?”

you sobbed harder. he held you patiently, waiting for your cries to die down, never once loosening his grip, fingers carefully rubbing your back to comfort you. after a few minutes, you finally pulled away, harshly wiping your tears, and he spoke again, voice even quieter. “one semester, and then i’ll let you do whatever you want, i promise. please.”

you rubbed your eyes harder, as if that would remove the pounding headache that refused to leave you, even in your worst moments. “…you don’t have to be involved in this, sukuna.”

“i want to be.” he immediately argued, no hesitation. “least i can do after you saved my life, really.”

“that’s stupid. i just gave you a stupid pen.”

“that stupid pen saved my life,” he repeated, frowning. “please? please.”

you scoffed, the sleeves of your hoodie still covering your palms that you had pressed to your eyes; avoiding looking at him. “…i really don’t want you burdened.”

“you think i would do this if i didn’t want to?” he grunted. “have you heard nothing about me?”

you were quiet for a while, before you finally sighed.

you already had everything written and packed, plan ready, everything prepared. you already survived for twenty years, a few more months weren’t too bad, right? and it wasn’t like you had to force yourself if things became unbearable again, you could always just… do it.

worst case, sukuna would just end up as another letter in your life.

eventually, the curiosity of how sukuna thought he could ever make things better won, and you sighed, sniffling as you dropped your palms off your eyes, looking at him, your eyes exhausted and swollen. “…one semester.”

sukuna ryomen grinned like he won the fucking lottery. “i promise you, you’ll never regret this.”

and years later, as you laid in bed, turning off the alarm set for you to go to a job in a career you finally felt comfortable in, sitting in a room with mirrors you no longer despised even glancing at, with sukuna’s heavy arm wrapped around your waist because your clingy husband refused to let you get out of bed with ease, your lips twitched into a small, tiny smile.

yeah, gets really fucking better.

a/n: this was lowk horrible but using this fic to cope so it doesn’t matter anyways. do u guys like my new dividers I LOVE THEM shoutout to my tumblr crush fr <3

[beaniesayshi]

second opinion

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

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

wc: 10.4k, one shot

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

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know what those other things were?"

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

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

"And you paid anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goodnight, Sukuna."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bzzzt.

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

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

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

OH THANK FUCK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, you free this weekend?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make sure you check your oil this week.

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

"What the fuck am I doing?" 

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

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

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

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

"No. That's fucking creepy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For fuck's sake."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Food. You’re asking about bringing food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pizza's here,” he rasps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

notes:

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

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

[cottonkendi]

Your Babies Masterlist

MASTERLIST

Sano Shinichiro x f!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Established Relationship, Crack, Angst

Status: Completed

Synopsis: Drabbles of your life being Sano Shinichiro's girlfriend.

Playlist that I made for Your Babies (songs that I usually listen to while writing chapters for Your Babies, it gives off the vibe that I want Your Babies to have and it might set the mood for when you're reading Your Babies, who knows~)

Chapter 1

A trip to the Principal’s Office ft. Kiddie Meals

Chapter 2

Business trip ft. Drama king

Chapter 3

Not proposing in the bathroom ft. Manjiro pillow

Chapter 4

No kissing zone ft. Izana

Chapter 5

Staying in contact ft. Kids

Chapter 6

Late night dinner ft. Sausage thief

Chapter 7

Finally falling asleep ft. Midnight visit

Chapter 8

Emma's arrival ft. Lunch run

Chapter 9

A little lunch break ft. Shinichiro's girls

Chapter 10

Sleep overs ft. Clingy boys

Chapter 11

Easy money ft. Idiotic friends

Chapter 12

How it started ft. How it ended

Chapter 13

Not so lonely dinner ft. New job

Chapter 14

First day ft. Seeing him

Chapter 15

Shinichiro's problem ft. Your boys' good deed

Chapter 16

Prom partner ft. Trading boys

Chapter 17

Idiots to... friends? ft. F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Chapter 18

The reward ft. Early preparations

Chapter 19

My Universe ft. Are you lonely?

Chapter 20

Jealousy jealousy ft. My princess

Chapter 21

Genuine confessions ft. Revelation

Chapter 22

Don't do it ft. Threats

Chapter 23

Date ft. Househusband

Chapter 24

Dance with me ft. Talking to myself

Chapter 25

Ramen and Beer ft. Our past

Chapter 26

More kids ft. I'd pay to spend a night with you

Chapter 27

Tell me ft. Crying again

Chapter 28

Leaving ft. Cigarettes

Chapter 29

Forts and Sleepovers ft. Your Snowmen

Chapter 30

Adoption Papers ft. Little Caterpillars

Chapter 31

New Shop ft. Budget

Chapter 32

Arguments ft. Guitars

Chapter 33

Making up ft. Punching bag

Chapter 34

Beginning of the End ft. The In Between

Chapter 35

Yes ft. Blue Balls

Chapter 36

Surprise ft. Protect

Chapter 37

Dim Stars ft. Hope

Chapter 38

It's fine ft. Worse

Chapter 39

Memories ft. Nightmares

Chapter 40

Wait for me ft. Home

Chapter 41

I'll stay ft. I care

Chapter 42

Start again ft. Dreams

Chapter 43

Repeat ft. Cigarettes

Chapter 44

Hospital Bills ft. Don't get hurt

Chapter 45

Run away ft. Mikey Gossip

Chapter 46

Luck ft. Mothers

Chapter 47

Confessions ft. Heart Monitor

Chapter 48

Help me ft. Wait

Chapter 49

Family ft. No sides

Chapter 50

Siblings ft. I'm sorry

Chapter 51

Sano Siblings ft. Life

Bonus: Takemichi

Bonus: Switched Lives

Bonus: In Another Life

Bonus: Your Babies

Extra! Headcannon

taglist: (make sure that the visibility setting is on so that I can tag you 😊😊)

@rinsie @sseorin @sunahyejin @agoddess-inashell @wakasagurl @diestheticu @queen-flower @salty-salty @the2ndl @crapimahuman @imkumichan @angelmitsuri @coconois @princessatoru @akaashis-liquidluck @bajifairyy @tsukkisukkii @chaoticyuna @missarabellla @kawasbaby @bittermoonlightsblog @yukihime-mikeys-girl @vanderaliwaal @astro-pioneer @nomnom21 @tamakislover @misinfe @starryshi @honeysoob @monsterm21-blog @justalamppost @arisu003 @quacksonlover81 @shaak-ti-s @yuuki4646 @manjiroarchiviste @gouzouuuuu @sh4nn @bubs-world @lordbugs @notsostraightweeb @xbabybajix @aruhappy @chiaki3nanami @matchamidoriya @skrp @sadly-yu @tsukkikeisimp @manhwabtch @kawaragimysticalsenju

all rights reserved © cottonkendi, 2022. do not copy or repost any of my works! likes/reblogs/feedbacks are very appreciated~

[cottonkendi]

House of Memories Masterlist

MASTERLIST

Sano Manjiro "Mikey" x f!Reader

Genre: Childhood Friends to Lovers, Angst, Fluff

Status: Completed

Synopsis: In which you look back at all the memories you’ve had with Mikey.

Chapter 1

Running away from a tiny Mikey ft. Shinichiro and friends

Chapter 2

Meeting your favourite Sano ft. Baji's star printed pants

Chapter 3

Dora and Yaki ft. Annoying Draken

Chapter 4

A gang is a bad idea ft. Clingy Mikey

Chapter 5

Flowers for papa ft. Shinichiro's 13th rejection

Chapter 6

Happy Birthday Mikey ft. Shinichiro's lies

Chapter 7

Kiddie Meal Flag ft. A spying Takemicchi

Chapter 8

Baji Keisuke ft. Mama Baji's rejection

Chapter 9

Brother ft. A family reunion

Chapter 10

Together with Mikey ft. A time capsule

Chapter 11

Bonten ft. Darling little lamb

Chapter 12

Hanagaki Takemichi ft. Regrets

Chapter 13

Will you marry me? ft. Your broken promise

Bonus

Headcannons ft. Extra extra

Competition

Pre-school life ft. Michael and Edward

all rights reserved © armycandy10, 2021. do not copy or repost any of my works! likes/reblogs/feedbacks are very appreciated~

[kcokaine]

yuji

[levitonin]

Right sensei ?

[rt0no]

[frenchcoucou]

father son 🏖️

ac: noonrema

[mugggsiesss]

WHY IS EVERYTHING SMUT WHY WHY WHY JS GIMME SOME HEARTWRENCHING ANGST OR TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF I DONT WANNA SEE THE WORD COCK FOR LIKE A WEEK STAAWWPPPPPUHHH

[elizabug]

[deathcomequickly]

The Drowned Halls

Ko-fi

[offt0wonderland]

Secret Relationship ~ Hajime Iwaizumi

₊˚⊹

Hajime Iwaizumi has always been private; so, it didn't come as a surprise when he mentioned keeping y'all's relationship a secret. And it works... until it doesn't. Because one afternoon, you overhear just enough of a conversation to spiral.

wc: 5.2k

a/n: sooo I broke this into two parts. This one-shot is supposed to be centered around miscommunication (with a good ending, dw everyone!). And I really wanted to give background as to why Iwaizumi would say the things he did/act the way he did. Hopefully, this set-up of how you met and how... some teammates act around you... gives lead way into his reasonings in part two.

❀ all images are found off of pinterest! I do not own them.

The first time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were in second grade.

You’d wandered into the school gym after classes like you always did, mind filled with anticipation as you pictured the small square scooters lined up against the wall — the very ones Mr. Nakamura let you ride while you waited for your parents. It wasn’t anything special, not really. But it was yours. A moment in time that was quiet and predictable. 

Except that day, it wasn’t.

Because two boys, who appeared older (not to mention louder), were dragging a long white net across the floor, stretching it right through the space you’d claimed as your own for the past few weeks. And honestly, the scrape of it against the worn down scooters made something ache in your chest. 

Maybe it was because your once predictable atmosphere had turned incalculable. Maybe it was because you couldn’t fathom how the gym teacher would allow such preposterous energy to enter this space during your quiet time. Or maybe it was because you were wholeheartedly, unexpectedly, thrown into a lion’s den; mind racing with possible conversations the two boys could conjure up. 

I mean, of all days for someone to take over your spot. Of all people for Mr. Nakamura to say yes to. You were irritated; Infuriated, even. So rightfully vexed that you were preparing yourself to turn around, maybe even say something — something dismissive, something that would make it clear the situation irked you. 

Until one of them looked up.

His short hair was a mess, eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world around him didn’t matter as much as the unfolded net. There was something almost stubborn in his expression. A flicker of indignation that gleamed in the rounds of his eyes. 

And just like that, the irritation fizzled out as quickly as it had come, replaced by something far worse — heat creeping up your legs, blood quickening through your veins. 

He was cute.

“Hey!” You flinched at the sudden outburst, irises glancing over to his friend. It was odd, the way they differed so distinctly from each other. The taller one was clean-cut; an innocent smile glued to his face. There were no narrowed brows, no sense of exasperation. Just a young boy oozing with confidence. “Think you can toss some balls for us?”

Your heart jumped at the query — shit, this wasn’t part of your scenarios. Not once did you anticipate that they’d ask you to join. But rehearsed or not, it didn’t matter. Because that meant staying. That meant being closer… and maybe, just maybe, the cute boy would look at you again. 

But then the voices echoed. The cynical notions that would always find a way to etch itself into the grooves of your brain, replaying at a constant rate until every pragmatic counter argument became nothing but fibs: What if you messed up? What if your throw was awful? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if he noticed — and not in a good way?

Your throat tightened. “I—” Yet nothing came out. All that remained was the suffocating silence and utter confusion written on both of their faces. 

So, you did the only thing you could at eight years old: You turned on your heel and bolted. And by the time you made it outside, your vision had blurred, tears slipping out before you could stop them — frustration and embarrassment were the sole embodiments of your existence. I mean, why did something so small feel so overwhelming?

All you could discern was the fact that you hadn’t even learned his name. And next time — next time you weren’t going to freeze up. In fact, you’d never let a situation like that cause such panic ever again. 

Which was why the second time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were different. You had spent the past nine years of your life forcing yourself to talk more, smile more, throw yourself into conversations before doubt could catch up. And it worked, mostly. 

At least, until he appeared again. 

You were mid-conversation, attention narrowed entirely on the blonde in front of you — the one currently rambling about the science project you’d just been paired on. Normally, you wouldn’t have given such undivided attention to a mundane conversation. But he was cute. And you’d be damned if you got another A- in this course. 

“I was thinking we could do reaction times,” Haru continued, completely unaware of the advantage he had just by existing the way he did — longer strides, effortless pacing. You noticed it immediately, the way you had to step forward, then quicken, just to stay beside him. “Like, testing how different stimuli affect reflex speed. It’d be fun. There’s a ton we could do with that!” 

You nodded, keeping pace as best as you could. “I agree.” 

“Oh good! I knew choosing you as a partner would be a good idea…” You didn’t notice the chair. Nor did he. At least, not until your shin collided with cold metal; the impact sent a sharp jolt up your leg, your balance pitching forward before you could catch it, allowing a sliver of moment to let your head collide with the edge of a table. The pain was instantaneous; a flourish of heat ruminating the left hemisphere of your forehead. 

“Oh fuck, are you alright?” You tilted your head upwards, vision spotting at the edges as you forced your eyes open… Oh. Weird. This guy’s hair looked so similar to the same unruly mess you took note of in 2nd grade. “I’m so sorry,” he was already crouching beside you, voice tight in a way that didn’t quite sync with his otherwise steady movements.  “I should’ve made Lazykawa push his stupid ass chair back in.” His hands came up without hesitation, steady and warm as they framed the base of your neck, tilting your head just enough to check you over. Haru hovered somewhere beside him, still mid-panic. 

But it was too much: The noise. The neverending cycle of murmurs building around you, the sharp inhales, the shifting bodies, the way attention became positioned at every angle. You wanted it to go away. You wanted this whole ordeal to be a forgotten memory. So, you braced your palm against the boy’s shoulder, pushing just slightly to give cue of your pending sense of rise. “I’m,” your first word was hoarse, a hint of agony still laced deep in your throat no matter how hard you tried to smooth it over. “I’m okay, don’t sweat it.” 

Haru leaned further into your line of sight, his expression warping as he took in the small stream of crimson cascading down your brow. “You’re bleeding!” 

No. No, no… Please no. 

Your right hand removed itself from the student’s broad shoulder; fingers brushing up toward your forehead. The second you felt it, the damp slick, you froze. “I’m so sorry.” Honestly, you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.

“Sorry?” The boy’s tone shifted after that; his sentences now edged with something closer to irritation as if that was the last thing you should be saying. “Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.”  And before you could respond, before you could even explain your reasoning behind such nonsensical verbiage, his arm slid behind your back, the other hooking beneath your legs. You gasped at the sudden lift, your hand instinctively grabbing onto the front of his shirt as he adjusted your weight against him. “I’m taking you to the nurse.” He said, already moving, stride steady as he turned down the hall.

Haru scrambled after him, still talking — still panicking. But you barely registered it; too fixated on the drops of red pooling in your palm.

“If you’re just going to ramble, get out.” Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard, his mouth parting as if he had some sort of rebuttal towards the boy’s directness. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to delve into confrontation. So, Haru just nodded, demeanor a little more flustered now, bowing once toward where you sat.

“Sorry — yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later. Make sure you’re okay.” His words tripped over themselves on the way out, fading as he backed toward the door. And just like that — he was gone.

Honestly, you felt bad for Haru. Anyone in this situation would’ve panicked. One second you’re talking about a project, the next there’s blood running down the side of your face like something out of a thriller. So Haru wasn’t wrong for freezing up. If anything, he handled it well for most people’s standards. 

Which is why you were already opening your mouth — ready to say something, anything, to the boy in front of you. Because did he really have to be so… taut about it? 

But then the door clicked; and everything else went with it. The chatter outside dulled, footsteps became distant. Even the weight of people watching seemed to be categorized as unimportant — peering eyes blocked by the tall wooden door. All that remained was the faint hum of the cheap fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of fabric as you eased your palms back onto one of the beds. 

Finally… you could breathe.

“That your boyfriend?”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly despite the dull throb that followed. “What?”

“If it is,” he continued, tone more matter-of-fact than anything else. “Sorry for grabbing you like that in front of him. He didn’t look like he was going to handle the situation well.”

Your brows knit together, confusion flickering through the lingering haze. You shook your head. “No. He’s just my new science partner.”

“Oh.” The brunette leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest as his eyes dragged along the curve of your cheek. “Alright.” 

Alright? 

The corners of your lips tipped downwards, canine dug deep against the tissue of your cheek as you observed the boy in uniform. Truthfully, something about him was weird. Not in a bad way — just… off.  Like trying to recall a dream you know you had, but can’t quite piece together no matter how hard you focus. But you didn’t dwell on it. You did just have your head slammed into. 

“Well,” you started. “Thanks for bringing me.”  Your gaze soon flicked toward the door, subtle but intentional, giving him a clear out to the situation he had unexpectedly found himself in. Except, he didn’t take it. Didn’t even move, really. He just continued to lean, still watching you in that same quiet, almost absent way — like he wasn’t trying to stare, but couldn’t quite stop himself either. Honestly, it was making your demeanor border diffident more than anything else. A sense of unease that hadn’t appeared in your vocabulary since you were eight. “Guess I should really watch where I’m going, huh?” You added, a weak attempt at humor slipping through. 

Fuck. Why was he making you so… Awkward?

His expression remained stoic, a slight sigh escaping his nasal. “Yeah.” You almost whined in pure embarrassment at his response. I mean, that was it? Not even a courtesy laugh — just that dry, practical agreement like your attempt at easing the situation hadn’t even registered as a joke. 

“C’mon man. The least you could do is pretend that was funny.” You muttered, warmth already creeping up the base of your neck. 

Sadly, he didn’t bite. “But I agree. Watching where you’re going would definitely help.” 

Yep, you wanted to disappear; drag the thin, crinkling sheet over your head and hope that somehow, miraculously, you’d phase out of existence. Because what was this? Why was this happening? And more importantly — where the hell was the nurse?

She’d stepped out not long ago; something about a call, leaving you behind with gauze pressed to your forehead and that stupid wrap snug around your head. Frankly, her being here would’ve helped. At least then there’d be something to focus on. Something to fill the thick stretch of silence that made every aching second worse.

Your fingers twisted into the sleeves pooled around your hands, fabric bunching as you tried to steady yourself; tried to find that version of you that didn’t get like this. Because you didn’t — not anymore. You’d worked too hard for that: You knew how to hold conversations, how to stay present, how to keep your thoughts from spiraling into something unmanageable. You were good at it.

So why was it unraveling now?

Your gaze flicked up before you could stop it. And of course, he was still looking at you. “You seemed like you were pretty into that conversation.” 

“Huh?”

“With him,” he clarified, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Before you ran into the desk.” 

Normally, a query like that would signal some underlying intention. A sliver of inquisitive wonder to get some sort of information. But for some reason, his tone didn’t have an ounce of accusation to it. “Oh — yeah. We were just discussing an upcoming project.” 

“What kind?”

“Reaction times,” you said; voice a little steadier now that the topic made sense. “We’re thinking of doing experiments on reflex speed. Different stimuli, stuff like that.” He hummed once: Not fully impressed with the reasoning behind your lack of awareness, but not dismissive either. “I think we need people for it, though,” you added. “Like actual participants. Not just me and him. And I’m not sure how we'd even round anyone up for that.”

The boy cleared his throat, back straightening as his shoulders returned against the wall. “Volleyball players would work.”

“What?”

“They’ve got fast reflexes,” he said simply. “More consistent results.”

Huh. That actually… made sense. But how in the hell would you get a whole team to participate in such a random quest? You opened your mouth to respond, ready to dig deeper into his thought process, yet the door slammed open, a soft voice quickly following suit. “Iwa-channn, I got wind from Hanamaki that you snapped and started hitting people other than me. I’m impressed. But also a bit annoyed because I thought I was the only one—” The boy faltered, eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he peered down at you. It was Oikawa. Now he, you knew — your friends could never really shut up about him and his unparalleled beauty. “Oh,” he said, goaded tone immediately shifting to intrigue. “It’s you.”

You scrunched your nose. “Me?”

“Mhm.” His smile came easily, a sense of confidence etched into his stance as he rested an elbow atop of his friend’s shoulder. “You’re friends with Matsuda, right? I noticed you always hang around her in the hallways whenever she drops by my classroom.”

Yeah, this was not helping your current state of mind. Your fingers lifted, the pad of your pointer pressed against your temple as you tried to recall moments of passing. But everything seemed fuzzy; at least, everything regarding Oikawa. The only faint memory was Matsuda goggling at a few of the volleyball teammates in class 3-6, but you didn’t really pay much mind to that. I mean, why would you? You only ever stayed around that room for a few minutes before darting off. 

Iwa-chan (at least, that’s what Oikawa called him) exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiver of irritation evident in the way his nostrils flared. “Why are you here, Oikawa?”

“To visit my dear teammate, obviously,” Oikawa alleged, sliding his elbow away and stepping further into the cramped room without a hint of hesitation. “And to meet the head-injury victim.” His gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a second too long for your comfort. 

“Oh. I’m fine.” You said quickly.

“Good,” he replied. “You’re pretty, so I'd hope you were okay.”

Your brows pulled inward immediately at that. For two people who seemed so different, they both had this same problem — talking like their thoughts didn’t need filtering. The difference was that Oikawa’s bluntness landed somewhere between observation and flirtation, which only made your posture tighten, shoulders drawing in slightly as heat prickled the tips of your ears. 

Iwa-chan’s expression tautened immediately. “Oikawa.”

“What?” he said innocently, hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s true.” The air notably shifted at his reluctance to back down. Subtle exchanges between the two boys had become increasingly common. Like something in the room had been recalibrated, off-center, and they didn’t quite know how to work it out yet (with words, at least). But you could see the way Iwa’s jaw tightened. And you could see the way Oikawa noted it immediately. His expression changed — camera-ready grin softening into something more calculated, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” he resumed. “I did happen to hear something about the volleyball team. If you ever need the team, I can make that work: The team… Me… Whatever you need!”

Iwa-chan’s patience visibly snapped. “Shittykawa,” he said flatly, stepping forward just slightly. “We’re trying to help her. You offering yourself up sounds less like helping and more like you just want attention. Fucking idiot.” His hand raised, palm smacking against the back of his friend’s scalp. 

Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching his skull in effort to dull the radiated pain. “How cruel. I’m offering resources.”

“You’re saying you are the resource.” 

“And a very valuable one!” Oikawa added immediately. You stared between them, unsure where you were supposed to land in this conversation — if you were even meant to be part of it at all. But Oikawa’s attention drifted back to you again.

“As I was saying. Think about it.”

The third time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, it was in the high school gym.

And boy was it… different. Your once solidified memory of predictability and contentment had no longer meshed with the word gymnasium. Because this one was louder: Shoes screeching against the once polished floors, sharp echo of volleyballs colliding with hands at each corner.

This wasn’t your space. Not like before, at least. And yet — you had still walked in. Because, somehow, you had agreed to this. Agreed to the arrangement that now had you standing just near the entrance, fingers curled back into your sleeves, eyes trying hard to ignore the chaotic movements of rowdy boys.

Yeah…No. This wasn’t going to work. 

Your heels dug into the wood, fully prepared to swivel your body out the door before anyone could take note of your appearance. But you could feel it; the vibrations of Haru behind you. And there was no way in hell he was going to let you walk out. “This is perfect,” he beamed, already pulling out his notebook. “Do you see their form? Their reaction speed? This is exactly what we needed.”

Of course it was. Of course he was thrilled. Easy volunteers, controlled environment, data that would probably carry the entire project on its back.

Oh, Haru had won. And he knew it.

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting across the gym in reluctance — only to catch something familiar. Or, more accurately, someone: Iwa-chan stood across the court, a volleyball resting loosely in his palm as he listened to something one of his teammates was saying. 

Yet, for a second, his gaze flicked up, meeting yours in an instant. And you couldn’t help it; the center of your chest tightened, warmth shedding your entire body. It was the same feeling you had at eight years old. 

Oh god, please don’t run away and cry.

But his lingering gaze soon turned into a subtle gesture; a small tilt of his head toward the court, like he was telling you to come closer without making a big deal out of it. And this was what you had prepared for all those years ago. The rare moment that would allow you to refine your past into something more ameliorate. You took a big gulp and pushed your weakening feet forwards. 

It was difficult though; finding a reason not to bolt. The sounds only sharpened the deeper you got in the gym: Their voices became more disordered, their serves became a little less predictable — near misses to the side of your head inevitable. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly, gaze flicking from one player to the next, trying to map out where you were supposed to stand — where you were supposed to even exist in this environment.

“Oi, Iwaizumi…” The voice drifted off the second he saw you. And there was no subtlety to your intrusion anymore — just pure dubiety written across everyone’s faces as you turned to the brunette for any sort of repose. “Uh, who’s that? New manager?” 

“No,” Iwaizumi shifted his jaw around, thumb hooking around the collar of your shirt as he tugged you forward slightly. “She’s here for a project.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to settle his teammates' questions before it could spiral into a mountain of more queries. The group nodded in understanding, attention fixed neatly on you as they awaited more clarity on their pending participation. Yet, you couldn’t move. I mean, who knew volleyball players could be so… intimidating. Iwaizumi stepped closer, finger still hooked within your fabric while the ball in his right hand tapped once against his palm before he stilled it. “Head okay?”

“Yeah.”

His irises narrowed, a look of uncertainty engrained in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t push it. That wasn’t really his place. “Alright,” he noted, glancing past you briefly — probably toward where Haru was still hovering near the entrance. “Get whatever you need to set up.”

Right. Setup. 

You turned slightly as you waved Haru over. And he didn’t need much convincing (unlike you) — already halfway across the floor before you fully gestured, notebook still clutched in one hand, the other digging through his bag for whatever materials he had insisted on bringing.

“This is fantastic,” he breathed, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We can start with baseline reaction tests, then move into variable stimuli: auditory, visual—”

“Keep it simple today.” Iwaizumi cut in.

Haru stuttered. “Simple?”

“Yeah. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

Haru nodded quickly. “Right. Yes, okay, we can do that.” You glanced between them, then back toward the rest of the team who were still watching, some more subtly than others. It was peculiar, observing the intensity Iwa possessed when discussing with Haru. For anyone on the outside, it would seem as though the volleyball player harbored hatred towards the blonde. 

Huh, maybe it was because of the way he reacted this morning. 

No matter the cause, it would appear that you had, unbeknownst, become the best mediator in the situation, the one who would oversee communication between the players and Haru. Although, one particular team member deemed it a necessary obstacle you’d have to overcome. 

“Hey l/n-chan!” You turned, watching as Oikawa stood just a few steps away — one hand rested on his hip, the other lifting in a small, easy wave. “You made it. Nice bandage too. Looking cute!” It was a simple comment; a declaration followed by his warm and inviting smile. But that wasn’t what caught you: It was your name, and the way it came out so easily for him. Not to mention the honorifics he added to the end of it. “Oh, wait,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “It is l/n, right? I asked Matsuda earlier.” 

Yeah, Matsuda was definitely going to give you an earful about this later. 

Iwa, however, looked like he was two seconds away from combusting. His finger, still hooked lightly beneath the collar of your shirt, tightened just enough to tug you back — to pull you out of the center like you didn’t belong there in the first place. It was subtle: Controlled. But it still made you feel like a ragdoll being repositioned without warning. 

“Yeah. It is.” You answered, slower this time. Honestly, you weren’t sure if that was the right response. Or if you were supposed to correct him, say something about the honorifics, tell him not to use it so casually. But maybe that’s how Oikawa was. So who were you to shut down his playful mannerisms? Yet with the way Iwaizumi lingered, the way his finger kept a firm grip on your clothes, it felt like that was the wrong decision. And it was becoming painfully clear that Iwa wasn’t going to be your sense of relief anymore. 

Unfortunately, that left Haru. Who, completely oblivious, was already across the court trying to line up a ruler with one of the players’ hands like none of this was happening.

“Perfect!” Oikawa continued, completely unfazed to his teammates' death glares. “For a second I thought I had it wrong. That would’ve been embarrassing, huh?” 

You let out a polite laugh, something to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened to build. “Yeah.” 

Iwa didn’t budge to the fibbed innocence. He placed his right leg in front of yours, the ball resting in his hand thrown roughly against the chest of the captain. “Unbelievable,” Oikawa squealed, hand pressing to his sternum. “You always resort to violence!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were smart.”

Yeah, you needed this to end — It was becoming painfully uncomfortable. “Why don’t we start?” You asked, palms clasped together in an effort to cut through whatever that was trying to become. “We’ll just start with something simple. Reaction timing.”  A few of them straightened slightly, attention shifting back. “We’ll start with you all catching the ruler when it drops. That way, we can measure the distance and convert it into reaction time.”

“Cool. Sounds easy enough.” Someone mentioned.

“I can go first.” Your head turned instinctively: Iwaizumi. He stepped forward without hesitation, rolling his shoulders once before holding his hand out, palm hovering just below the ruler. “Like this?” he asked.

You nodded, stepping closer to position it properly. “Yeah, just don’t grab it until it falls.”

“Got it.”

You adjusted the height slightly, trying your hardest to ignore his bicep brushed against your shoulder. But with the way the tension in his arm pressed against the fabric, muscles set in preparation — you almost let the ruler slip. “You, uh, ready?” He nodded once and that was all the confirmation you needed; anything to get him and his body away. So, you let go, observing as his fingers snapped shut around the ruler instantly. 

What the fuck. That was fast. 

A small scoff came from somewhere behind you two, a tall figure looming within your peripheral vision. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want accurate data, y/n.” You shivered at Oikawa’s address: It was one thing to add honorifics to your last name. But your first name? That was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. “Right, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi’s posture shifted, tongue pressed tight to the inside of his cheek as your name echoed within the group. He needed to control himself, to restrain himself from smacking Oikawa so hard he’d forget his own birthday. So, he resorted to gripping the ruler, knuckles white from the tension. “Shut up, Shittykawa. Or I’m making you run laps.” 

Yep. You were absolutely turning red — you needed Haru, and stat. 

“You can’t do that! I’m captain!” Iwa-chan narrowed his gaze, earning a small whimper from the boy to the side. “How about I just try?” Oikawa puffed his chest out as if that statement alone justified everything that had come out of his mouth — hand already reaching for the ruler like he had every right to take over. Iwaizumi, however, was swift to smack it away before his fingers could even brush the plastic.

“No.”

“Wow. Again, violent. In front of a girl too,” Oikawa muttered, rubbing the back of his hand before flashing you a grin that didn’t quite rival the look of irritation in his eyes. “See what I deal with, y/n?”

There it was again: Your name. You swallowed, ignoring the grunt that escaped Iwa’s throat at his incredulous friend. “I’ll adjust. Hold it higher to match inconsistencies in height.” You stated, stepping back half a pace — anything to create space from the touch of Iwa’s bicep.

“Do it again.” Iwa stated.

Your head lilted innately, a few blinks fluttering at the newfound abruptness. “What?”

“The test,” he clarified, holding his hand out again. “Do it again.”

Oikawa dragged his tongue across his lower lip, cheeks puffed out at the frustration iwaizumi was putting him through. “You’re acting like you didn’t just ace it.”

“I said do it again.” 

The tone was enough to silence Oikawa, forcing him to back away, hands pressed against his shorts while his lips thinned into a tight line. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait my turn.”

Yeah, the hit to your head was definitely getting to you. “Alright then, ready?” A nod. And just like before, his fingers caught it instantly. “Okay, yeah. That’s, uh, consistent.”

“Told you.” Oikawa chimed in from behind, far too pleased for someone who hadn’t even participated yet.

But you ignored his commentary, your focus now fixated on the line of participants you needed to get through. How many rounds of experiments until you were able to escape such a fever dream. “Oikawa.” you waved him up, stepping a full pace away from the wing spiker before he even had the chance to pull you back into whatever invisible radius he seemed to keep you in. 

And just like that, the rhythm picked up. Haru scribbled frantically beside you, muttering calculations under his breath as he eyed the measurements. It wasn’t until dusk had arrived, most members of the team gone, that time had caught up with you. 

“I’m going to go home and get this data written out coherently before I forget,” Haru tipped forward, blonde hair framing the sides of his ears. “Please get home safe. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.” 

You gave a smile, a gentle reminder to your science partner that you were, indeed, feeling loads better than the last time he saw you. Haru gave a weak thumbs up after that, scrambling out the door and into the night. 

It was funny, really. The way you’d somehow ended up back in a gym alone. Only this time, the walls weren’t lined with those chipped scooters you used to wait for. No quiet corners carved out solely for you. Just buckets of volleyballs stacked along the edges, the faint scent of socks and varnished wood lingering heavier than it did a few hours ago. 

“You’re still here.” You whipped around, watching as Iwaizumi stood near the bathroom door, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges, shirt clinging slightly from the perspiration of today’s training. 

“Sorry,” you started, already backing up on your heels, fingers curling tight around the strap of your bag as the exit crept closer behind you. “Haru and I were just going over the results — like a debrief. I was about to leave.” 

His gaze didn’t follow the explanation, though. It stayed on you; traced your face like he was looking for something specific — before dropping, settling on the bandage still stuck stubbornly to your skin. “I’ll walk you home.”

Your brows pinched together. Walk you home? He didn’t even know where you lived. What if you were on the complete opposite side of town? You opened your mouth, ready to question it, to at least clarify, but he already grabbed his bag in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thought, no reason for you to decline his declaration. 

So, the fourth time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi — it was intentional.

[shimisstuff]

❤️‍🩹🩹

[lyra-weis]

"Mirror, Mirror on the Wall..."