There are bubbles in the creek. Pretty, gleaming, soap bubbles that catch the light in curious ways...
You're camping in the middle of nowhere, there shouldn't be bubbles in the creek.
Curiosity be damned you secure your camp and begin following the trail of bubbles floating down the creek, some are huge and others teeny tiny little things that barely hold to the surface of the water. As you walk you can't help but be enthralled by the sight of them, maybe it's some stupid kids out here playing and messing around, or it could be some campers from another site over from yours but nonetheless the bubbles are pretty, if not strange.
Following the bubbles what you find isn't even close to what you'd been guessing. Standing on the edge of the creek, you watch what looks like a dragon hybrid surfaces from the shallow water, bubble forming as he twists in the water. From the soaked stranded of white hair are four strange fin-like horns? You're not sure, but the long thick tail that moves through the water seems to spawn more bubbles with each step and sway through the water. The unique scattering of pink, black and yellow scales across this hybrid back draw your eye, in speckles and spots the scales glint with a soapy sheen.
He seems entirely focused on making more and more of the bubbles that have drawn you here, only stopping once he notices you. Twisting in the water and watching as you stand and stare at him, watching as he stands up fully from the water and strikes an interesting pose to show off the full length of his very naked body.
There is only one thing that comes to mind once he finishes posing, 'Oh god... He's a nudist.' soon followed by, 'why am I kinda into it?'
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Most cop thing I've ever read. what the fuck are you talking about. The posts you're looking for might be on this website but we won't show them to you???
just so you know, if you completely ignore the search feature on the website and just type "tumblr.com/search/term" into the address bar, it bypasses all of this. broken-ass website
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and youâre 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, whoâs 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 masterlistââŚâao3ââŚâsukuna 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. Heâs 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. Youâre 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. Itâs 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, youâre prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driverâs 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 whoâs 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. âIt 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.â
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, heâll 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 youâre 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. Heâs seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like heâs 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.â
"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 whoeverâs been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe youâd 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 doesnât 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. âHeâs a mechanic, so like⌠why wouldnât I trust him about⌠mechanic stuff?â
"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 doesnât fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasnât just one bad invoice. Itâs 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 wonât question the invoice. He knows youâll 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.â He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
â
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your carâs engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until heâs 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 heâd 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 youâre 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.
âIf 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 isnât something he does. He doesnât take work home, and he sure as hell doesnât do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "Iâll 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 heâs trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, thatâs... 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.
ââ
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 heâs still inside.
Pushing open the side door, youâre 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 whatâs inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesnât 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 heâd 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. Itâs an apple pie. And itâs 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 heâs 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 goodâbetter than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert youâve 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 youâre not gonna question it.â
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
Heâs working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure youâre 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.
Sukunaâs highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions youâre 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 didnât have the background to know better. The way youâre 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. Itâs a small, polite habit that doesnât 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 canât help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when youâre 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 chestâyouâre 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 heâs 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 heâs 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. Itâs 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 shynessâhe doesnât 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 heâs 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 heâs just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? Thatâs too aggressive, too much like heâs 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 heâs been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He canât 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 youâve been to a scam, itâll feel like an ambush. Itâll 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 heâor anyone elseâhands 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. Iâll look at it and tell you if theyâre trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, youâre 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. Iâll 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 onâknowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because heâs the one steering it. But right now? Heâs 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. Heâs got no way to reach you, which means heâs 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 hasnât 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, heâs 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 uglierâdoubt.
Doubt isnât something heâs 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 youâd forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. Heâd been so sure there was something there. Heâd bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe heâd read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didnât 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. Heâd 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.
â
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 whatâs inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself itâs just so it wonât get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows thatâs 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. Sukunaâs heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it inâmaybe you lost his number but found the shopâs online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip thatâs just a little too tight.
âRyomenâs 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. Theyâre 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 thatâll 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. Thatâs it. Heâs done checking. If you havenât texted by now, youâre 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.
Heâs 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 doesnât move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. Itâs 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. Thereâs a text from an unknown numberâexcept 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, thatâs 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 heâs not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that wonât 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 Sukunaâs 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. Heâs 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, thatâs 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 heâs 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 excuseâsomething car-related, since thatâs the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternatorâs 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 heâd screwed up the belt tension. He knows itâs perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride wonât 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, heâs just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesnât know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.Â
"What the fuck am I doing?"Â
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, heâs completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. Heâs Sukuna. He doesnât sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. Heâll 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 mindâopening 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."
Heâs 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.
âPathetic,â 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 youâd wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought youâd wanna see it. He sounds like heâs trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. Itâs not a lie, but heâd rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukunaâs completely done with himself, and heâs 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 heâs going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell heâs doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clearsâhe doesnât need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. Thatâs it.
Iâm 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 arenât just guessing. No worries if youâre 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, youâre 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, Sukunaâs 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 itâs 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 heâs just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. Youâre asking about bringing food.
For you, itâs 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 youâll 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 thatâs completely foreign to him: Iâll grab some burgers. No, thatâs 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, youâll eat before you come, and heâll 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. Iâll 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. Thatâs all heâs got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
â
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. Heâs 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 canât 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, Sukunaâs already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
âYouâve 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 isnât. 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. Weâre skipping the basic fluid checkâyouâre 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 itâs 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 youâve 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,â 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. âBringing 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 heâs 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 somethingâs broken, thereâs 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 doesnât 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, heâs talking more than he ever does. And thatâs 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 noâhe has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary heâs 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?
Heâs desperately trying not to abuse the trust heâs 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.
âNever mind.â
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 doesnât answer right awayâhe canât. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that youâve 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 heâs 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. Heâs 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 isnât 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 pecksâone 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. Heâs 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 youâdark, 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 hasnât 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.
âText me your address,â 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 isnât rough, but itâs firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. âAnd be ready at seven.â
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 donât 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
im getting emotional thinking about adopting an old dog with sylus....fdgjbdfd,,
sharing a peaceful home with sylus that has a nice backyard and gets lots of sun without being too hot. you adopt a dog with him from the nearby shelter, an old boy who has grey on his muzzle and walks a bit slowly due to joint issues.
and sylus would be so patient with him, taking walks with you at a slower pace, showering the little guy with affection, getting him beds that alleviate the pain in his back, raising the food and water bowls up so he doesn't have to bend down to eat,, i'd literally cry. that dog would be spoiled rotten!!!
i have a neighbor who had a dog that would stop and lay down while they took walks, and she would stop when the dog did and patiently wait for him to be ready to walk again... this is something sylus would do too.
especially if the poor dog came from a hard, lonely life in a shelter in the n109 zone and had a bullet wound to the leg that never fully healed right. sylus would never be bothered by taking extra time to wait for the old boy to limp along, always ready with praise and pets during the long process of helping his leg heal a bit better.
he's such a big softie i love him so much!!!! the most intimidating leader of a crime ring you've ever met sitting with his partner on the side of the road on a warm, peaceful, quiet day, talking and laughing together while your old dog takes some time to rest. maybe one of your neighbors walks by and waves at the two of you, and you both wave back. the scent of flowers in the air and birds chirping above, the sun on your faces and a gentle spring breeze brushing your cheeks.
also,, the fond, gentle smile sylus would have while looking down at the dog and scratching behind his ears, the dog's head in his lap with his tail wagging slowly and audibly thumping against the couch.
just something about a slow domestic life with him taking care of the sweetest old dog togetherrrrr
i have even more thoughts....
he wouldn't mind taking breaks during his walks with you, because that means he gets to spend more time gazing at your happy face and talking about nothing important together
the way he'd roll up his sleeves while giving the dog a bath!!! his strong forearms and big hands gently scrubbing soap into the dogs fur, and both of you laughing when afterwards the dog shakes himself out and sprays you both with water.
^^ also bonus points if he's the one who decided to indulge the dog's whims and let him roll around in the mud and have fun after a rainy day!!!
showing up to his meetings with dog fur on his clothing and not caring one bit! and maybe also how he'd get a little bit of a tummy from leading a more relaxed lifestyle with you, physically softening as well :)))
more personal yap but ive been playing this mobile game called adorable home since highschool and i got emotional thinking about living in a place like this with sylus âŠ
just somewhere open and warm and happy with animals visiting and lots of cats. and maybe you even have a small pond in your backyard where ducks like to visit,,
(the customization options for characters aren't very robust and there's no white/grey/blonde hair options so i share my home with kaeya but its ok i love kaeya too)
i loveyou hank,, i love youuu,,, thank u for the 22 heartsss,,
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im getting emotional thinking about adopting an old dog with sylus....fdgjbdfd,,
sharing a peaceful home with sylus that has a nice backyard and gets lots of sun without being too hot. you adopt a dog with him from the nearby shelter, an old boy who has grey on his muzzle and walks a bit slowly due to joint issues.
and sylus would be so patient with him, taking walks with you at a slower pace, showering the little guy with affection, getting him beds that alleviate the pain in his back, raising the food and water bowls up so he doesn't have to bend down to eat,, i'd literally cry. that dog would be spoiled rotten!!!
i have a neighbor who had a dog that would stop and lay down while they took walks, and she would stop when the dog did and patiently wait for him to be ready to walk again... this is something sylus would do too.
especially if the poor dog came from a hard, lonely life in a shelter in the n109 zone and had a bullet wound to the leg that never fully healed right. sylus would never be bothered by taking extra time to wait for the old boy to limp along, always ready with praise and pets during the long process of helping his leg heal a bit better.
he's such a big softie i love him so much!!!! the most intimidating leader of a crime ring you've ever met sitting with his partner on the side of the road on a warm, peaceful, quiet day, talking and laughing together while your old dog takes some time to rest. maybe one of your neighbors walks by and waves at the two of you, and you both wave back. the scent of flowers in the air and birds chirping above, the sun on your faces and a gentle spring breeze brushing your cheeks.
also,, the fond, gentle smile sylus would have while looking down at the dog and scratching behind his ears, the dog's head in his lap with his tail wagging slowly and audibly thumping against the couch.
just something about a slow domestic life with him taking care of the sweetest old dog togetherrrrr
i have even more thoughts....
he wouldn't mind taking breaks during his walks with you, because that means he gets to spend more time gazing at your happy face and talking about nothing important together
the way he'd roll up his sleeves while giving the dog a bath!!! his strong forearms and big hands gently scrubbing soap into the dogs fur, and both of you laughing when afterwards the dog shakes himself out and sprays you both with water.
^^ also bonus points if he's the one who decided to indulge the dog's whims and let him roll around in the mud and have fun after a rainy day!!!
showing up to his meetings with dog fur on his clothing and not caring one bit! and maybe also how he'd get a little bit of a tummy from leading a more relaxed lifestyle with you, physically softening as well :)))
more personal yap but ive been playing this mobile game called adorable home since highschool and i got emotional thinking about living in a place like this with sylus âŠ
just somewhere open and warm and happy with animals visiting and lots of cats. and maybe you even have a small pond in your backyard where ducks like to visit,,
(the customization options for characters aren't very robust and there's no white/grey/blonde hair options so i share my home with kaeya but its ok i love kaeya too)
i loveyou hank,, i love youuu,,, thank u for the 22 heartsss,,
Chinese insider info suggests the game was going to go under investigation by apple AND the Chinese government.
This is because the Valko haters went a review bombed them. Removed their money from the game. Pushing the game to bankruptcy.
I believe if this strike goes on from any sides the game itself might go down.
The developers panicked with the governmentâs involvement in the mix. This is truly heartbreaking.
Disgusting behaviour from mostly the Chinese toxic girlies. Not all of them hated Valko but these girls went ahead and ruined the company that gave them the game that they survive on.
Yes Infold has problems. The game has missing content. But patience and constructive criticisms wouldnât have pushed this situation to the brink.
For context they started making up shit on how Valko (a fictional character) is tied to the 731 situation.
It was a historic tragedy where the Japanese experimented on the people with biological chemical warfare.
My question is this game is a SCI FI game. Its whole premise is the fact that people are getting experimented on without their consent and turning into monsters and dying.
Our MC was a lab rat. Where were these concerns when the game was moving in this direction?
And media has always had its way having story lines that have usually already occurred. Because humans are disgustingly like that. That is why most of them write âthis is purely fictional. If related to real life incident it is a total coincidenceâ.
If that was the story too it allows people to delve into the past and learn about the mistakes we as a society have refused to accept.
I blame the haters for bringing us to this point. You have threatened a company that (yes is money hungry but also) worked on this project for so long.
The extreme might push the game to stop development. So yes, this was violent and cruel. But we will fight for our content.
Because media is the voice of the mind. A platform is the stage where we speak out. Art is the expression of the soul.
There is no space for those who get their way with hate. You donât love the LIs if you are willing to stoop so low to cheap ass tricks.
Think about it. What would your LI say if they found out you committed such a crime?
And to the people who continue to support and want Valko to be back. Even I hope we get him back. But there might be no hope.
Please reblog, like and comment so people read this
I cannot speak Chinese nor I have relations beyond the fire wall so please take this entire post with a huge grain of salt, but the only thing that is for sure after valko's cancellation is that infold's does not care about players. I recently logged into a Chinese social media to see what was the debate there and the situation is way more complicated than the community not accepting him as a LI.
To put it short, valko was pretty much set on failure by infold.
Before his release infold has caused a huge backlash by making a reference to the unit 731 while talking about human experiments. This number was apparently fixed later on as 611 which refers to another tragic accident.
(please let me know if this translation is accurate, I only used a site and still managed to tweak because of this)
However, following this Infold has also been accused of romanticising sexual assault and home invasion in valko's marketing with the usage of the proverb "ĺźçźĺ ĽĺŽ¤" which may refer to welcoming a dangerous man in your house. I've also heard that the phrase "do not bathe in a pot at midnight", which was present in the trailers before the livestream may have referred to a case of domestic violence. However, I've failed to find both the case it was referring to and the actual video so infold may have taken it down and the case probably didn't make it to international news.
There have been a lot of complaints from both the global and CN server about the delay of Caleb and Sylus' stories. In addition to this and the aforementioned issues, the cn server is also debunking the fact that infold isn't fixing the game's main problems before adding a new LI and fishing for more money. All of these factors could be the reason why they dislike how infold acted when promoting valko.
I'm currently unable to prove that all the allegations weren't real and if these information may be real but I hope that I may have been able to give you some insights of why the cancellation may have happened and hold infold accountable.
to go on with the decision of removing a character that was going to serve a narrative purpose in the game, foil another li, and had become loved from the very little content of him shown, the cn playerbase will never have my respect.
as dramatic as it sounds, they will never know what they took from me and i truly hope that at the end of the day, cheering over valko being removed is never going to guarantee their love interest gets more time âto shineâ.
i hope this is a wake up call if it wasnât before. i am so heartbroken over this, iâm sorry if this results in me stepping away for a few days or altogether. i was truly excited for him and what he was going to bring to the love and deepspace world, but alas, at the end of the day, this is a company and theyâll follow where the money goes instead of adhering to actual complaints and fixing them.
To piggyback off of oomf, the removal of Valko is a flippant decision which undermines the integrity of their already-frail story-writing. Literally deleting a character that they already put real money into developing (in terms of his character and how heâll interact with MC, and the lore that will keep the story going) just because of forecasted revenue loss sets the precedence that it does not matter how much effort they put into their stories, so long as that story doesnât make money, they see no value in it. Itâs an egregious affront to the art form of story-writing imo, and giving into aggrieved fansâ senseless tantrums is giving up whatever little shred of dignity the company had left in the first place đđđđ
To piggyback even more as not an oomf, the decision to remove Valko was a way to placate players and get the heat off of Infold for scheduling issues; it was not solely for forecasted revenue loss. Some players who are in China did create racist posts on XHS regarding Valkoâs skin-tone. This isnât the first time this has happened with Infold, nor with Chinese-developed games in general. The new management team for Infold has consistently dropped the ball in regards to scheduling of updates; for them to market Sylus and especially Caleb so heavily in China prior to release and to not expect players to crash out is asinine. The complaints for scheduling have been heard for months upon months. The only reason Infold cares now is because, after spending money on researching, developing, and marketing two new love interests, they lacked the care imperative to their revenue to assure that they could expand their game further without risk of severe consequences for Infold.
This also goes to show Infold does not value their employees, because how in the world do they lack the security to have cow dung inside the lockers of workers? To have so much revenue and not mediate the issue for them is frustrating, too. Like Iâm not supporting the corporation, but given the situation with playersâ reactions being extremely egregious in stories that have reached international news, youâd think Infold would have better protections in place for harassment on this level. Infold is falling into the same issues as Hoyoverse and Heartopia have (i.e. issues surrounding racism and lack of options outside of the white beauty standard, favoring their native playerbase, and not taking issues into hand until presented with a side of nationwide protest), and there is certainly a precedent set for them as a company if they want to release another game globally.
USUALLY I dont go public with my thoughts and keep them on surveys and legitimate ways I feel can make change, and because I am am nothing but a speck on the social media world, but I have thoughts and I am utterly pissed.
First, for the love of it,as a black woman that was deeply hurt by all the derogatory terms used against Valko and his fanbase. please, I urge you to NOT use this as an excuse to be hateful, xenophobic and racist toward other parts of the fandom, even if you believe they are responsible. I know the feelings are hot and everyone is bothered or mad, but don't compromise your morals and throw more hate into the world. Express your distaste, anger, but not by dragging yourself down.
Now, I believe, this is insane work from Infold. This literally solves nothing and adresses no legitimate complaints. This keeps showing they DO NOT LISTEN to their fandom aa a whole, otherwise they wouldn't have made this bonehead decision so close to release. Now, they will throw a bs MS update in and punish the players left with no quality.
I have beef with Infold in a lot of things, especially the damn lighting issues on dark skin tones, and now I have more beef with them, because they chose to do this.
Greed is bs, I tell you. We have so much invested in this game and its characters and seeing them and their stories be slowly destroyed is actually heartbreaking even if they are pixels.
And I know Infold is a Corp and is in it to make money, but you can make money and still care about your fandom that is the one that gives you money.
This decision affects every single fan, wether we believe it or not. It also takes the livelihood of a ton of people away, if there is no Valko to work on, his VA will suffer too and who knows who else with this.
He and his team were used as scapegoats for money.
This was a rant.
I had to delete my previous post as I got an alarming, hateful message about it, but I am choosing to put this out there anyway.
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in another life you wouldâve been mine to hold and to cherish. iâm so sorry you were hated before given the chance to steal our hearts, to tease us with your jokes and make us smile and to know what it wouldâve felt like to be loved by you.
you will always forever hold a special place in my heart my ao yin </3
FOR THOSE IF YOU WHO DONT HAVE TWITTER (X) OR AREN'T IN THE DISCORD
This is some advice I collected from everyone (do what you feel comfortable with). Here are ways to maybe give them a chance of listening to us (spread the word pls pls):
1. Sign petitions!
Fans urge Infold and PaperGames to restore Valko as a love interest in Love and Deepspace to honor the original vision for the game. Add you
Bring Valko Back!
2. Email Infold, or for those of you that still have your surveys or are VIP, expressing actual concerns about hard work and money being wasted on their end, their lack of care for the global players, and our wishes for Valko to be exclusive to the global server. Contact customer support in the app, through your email and through the app, tell them to reconsider canceling him!
Hi! I wanted to ask the Love and Deepspace team to keep Valko's launch. I agree he deserved more time in the spotlight before the launch, deserved more build-up, but genuinely I've been so excited for him. Please reconsider your decision on removing him. For all the negativity, there are so many more people out here who want him around and will spend money on him. Don't give up on us!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Infold,
Your decision to cancel Valko is deeply disappointing and, in our opinion, unfair to the global player community.
We, the global players, have become attached to this character. Many of us have already started saving resources for his release, created new accounts specifically for him, and even spent money on those accounts in anticipation of his arrival.
We believe this decision is disrespectful to your global audience. If the Chinese Love and Deepspace community did not accept this character, then remove him from the Chinese version of the game if necessaryâbut please keep him available on the global servers. Otherwise, many of us will feel that the time, effort, and money we invested were wasted.
As consumers of your content, we are extremely dissatisfied with this decision. We sincerely ask you to reconsider and allow Valko to remain as the sixth Love Interest for the global version of the game.
We hope you will listen to the voices of your global community and make a decision that respects all of your players.
Sincerely,
Global Love and Deepspace Players
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Infold Games,
We are writing to you today as a deeply concerned and disappointed community regarding the official cancellation of Valko from Love and Deepspace. The news has sent shockwaves through the entire fandom, and we feel compelled to address the company directly because we refuse to sit back and watch such an incredible character be phased out. Valko brought a completely unique energy, a fascinating dark charm, and a thrilling dynamic to the universe you have built. The immediate and overwhelming outcry across social media proves just how amazing he was and how much the player base wants him back.
What makes this decision so incredibly difficult for us to accept is the way his character was promoted to the community. Infold spent significant time and resources featuring him in official livestreams and dedicated videos, naturally generating massive hype and encouraging the fandom to invest heavily in his presence. To abruptly pull the plug after using these platforms to integrate him into our experience feels like a complete disservice to player engagement. You cannot showcase a character so prominently, witness the fanbase rally behind him with such passion, and then simply take him away after we have already supported the content.
We are formally urging Infold Games to look at the unified response from your community and reconsider this decision. The players who log in every day, support your streams, and love this game are asking you to listen to our feedback. We want Valko back, and we expect a company that values its audience to respect the time and emotional investment we pour into your world. Please, do the right thing for your player base and bring Valko back to Love and Deepspace.
Sincerely,
The Deepspace Hunters Community
3. Leave bad reviews on App Store/ google play and tell them you dont want valko to be deleted > dont insult them, just tell them you love him and dont want him gone.
4. ATTACK THEIR SOCIAL MEDIAS
Flood their instagram, twitter, youtube, tiktok comments.
Temporarily stop posting the other guys on these socials and post/share only Valko content. If you must, post other guys content on ao3 or tumblr (Infold doesnât monitor these sites).
Mass report their socials!
The goal is to make infold lose money, gain a bad reputation, and let them know that they will actually lose global fans!
5. Download xiaohongshu (rednote) and spam valko content Go directly to the cn base and use #ćĺ°šĺćśä¸çşż GO TO THE CN SOCIAL MEDIA!
**EVERYONE, BE SMART, DON'T JUST SPAM**
6. DELETE THE GAME
They are trying to bribe us with pulls and selectable memories. Make sure you have a way to restore the game, but for the time being delete it and reject their bribes. Support or create Valko edits/fanart instead!
My personal opinion:
Was I excited when Valko was first introduced: no, and that can be seen from some of my previous posts, I just didn't really care for his face. BUT Did I keep an open mind: yes, because I recognized that I felt the same about Sylus at first, but Sylus grew on me, which can also be seen in my previous posts and reblogs, etc. Was I starting to feel Valko and started to get excited after the watching the new trailers, myths, etc: yes, because I kept an open mind about him and wanted to see what could happen.
At no point in time was I nasty or rude about Valko of the people who where excited about him right off the bat. I knew just because he wasnât my cup of tea didnât mean I wanted him gone. Other liked him but I didnât have too and also didnât want to close the door to the possibility that I could in the future.
The issue for me wasnât the new 6th LI, it was the lack of updates for Sylus and Caleb, as was a lot of other peoples opinion. But INFOLD CAN STILL GIVE US BOTH! Give Valko to the Global servers and just not the CN server. GLOBAL SERVER FANS EXIST TOO!
There was so much work that went into him from so many people. DONT WASTE ALL THAT HARD WORK! By doing so it just feels like you're reinforcing the blatant bullying and disregarding the opinion of the global server fans.
For me its less about Valko being cancelled and more about the CN fans getting everything they want and the global servers being ignored over EVERYTHING we ask for and Valko is just the prime example of this.
So please if you're on Twitter (X): trying to get the #giveusvalko and #BRINGBACKVALKO to trend.
Sign the petitions, send the emails (VIP members and those who havent done the in game survey yet PLEASE put your response to good use). WE CANT LET THE CN GIRLIES WIN ALL THE TIME. This is ridiculous!
This is the response the CN fans are giving. They have sued Infold over Valko, giving racist comments (can't post those here), and are just being rude and nasty about this whole ordeal.
I donât play Love and Deepspace, but I consume content about it. What is most interesting to me is that articles on the cancellation of Valko arenât mentioning the racism part of it. Itâs not just about updates, especially given Infold released a statement not long after initially announcing Valko regarding the concerns with updates surrounding updates for love interests (i.e. Caleb and Sylus), including rewards for players. I highly encourage everyone to do their own part to protest against this, but I do feel itâs imperative to state that itâs entirely possible global servers will receive nothing regarding Valko. If CN players learned that an exclusive character was released only to global servers despite them protesting, Infold would very well be harassed even more. The cow dung, funeral flowers, and symbolism behind it all is disgusting and bastardizes the player-base through those grotesque actions, and itâs reasonable for Infold to fear further consequences. CN players have become, very evidently, near-psychotic with zealousâturnedâperverted behavior towards any game made in China when a company makes a move. They directly harm others before (that isnât to say the entire player base does this, but if the loudest ones are the consequence-creators, then there is something to note).
Needless to say, there is no reason why we canât continue to create content or protest during this time. Just donât be surprised ifâand thatâs a big ifâValko comes back, heâs the whitest crayon in the bin. They werenât making racist remarks regarding him looking outside the Chinese beauty standards for skin color for nothing.
imagine being valkoâs non!mc significant other and you lose your boyfriend because he imprints on your best friend upon seeing her for the very first time in a grungy alley.
every current li has a foil except rafayel, so if this rumored new love interest is really supposed to be the âboy next doorâ mature type of man with different colored hair and inspired by some kind of mythological creature like theyâve been saying on twitter for the last few days, i will be so sat.
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your fanfic feels unbelievable to me for one specific reason: why would an elf so beautiful, almost three thousand years old, a prince, fall in love with a human woman? hahahađ
your character isnât a mary sue, but I still feel like the trope is so worn out: the orphan girl who isnât even the most beautiful woman in Middle-earth receiving the love of an ancient being.
iâve been thinking about this comment, because it actually touches one of the central questions of the storyđ
why would legolas fall in love with emma?
not because emma is the most beautiful woman in middle-earth. not because she can compete with the beauty of elven women. legolas grew up surrounded by beauty: ancient, elven beauty, almost natural to him. elven women, music, forests, the grace of his own people â all of that is part of his landscape.
and emma also grew up among elves.
that is why it hurts her.
because she does not look at that beauty only from the outside: she has lived close to it her whole life. she saw it in rivendell, in their faces, in their bodies, in the way they moved, spoke, endured. of course she wonders what legolas could possibly see in a human woman, mortal, imperfect, marked by fear and war.
but tolkien does not write love as a beauty contest.
in tolkien, love looks at something else. nobility. truth. courage. mercy. the beauty of the spirit, if we want to call it that. that light someone keeps carrying even when the world tries to put it out. â¨
legolas does not fall in love with emma because she is perfect.
he falls in love because she awakens in him a kind of desire he does not fully know how to live with.
not only physical desire, though also that. not only tenderness, though also that. it is something more uncomfortable: a different intensity, more mortal, more urgent, more contradictory. emma forces him to feel time differently. she pulls him out of the stillness of eternity. she makes him face the possibility of losing something before he has even dared to name it.
her mortality does not make the love less believable. it makes it more terrible. more painful. more tolkienian. because for an immortal being to love someone mortal is never simply to love: it is to stand before loss, limits, and an ending, and still find himself unable to turn away.
and in tolkien, not every ending remains untouched by love. just think of beren and lĂşthienđ
so no, emma is not the most beautiful woman in middle-earth.
she does not need to be.
this story is not about an orphan girl being chosen by an elven prince because she âdeservesâ to be chosen. it is about time, silence, desire, fear, missed chances, flowers, war, and an elf discovering too late that immortality does not protect him from regret.
after 28 chapters of slow burn, yearning, emotional damage and terrible timing, i think the answer is quite close to something written by julio cortĂĄzar, an argentine writer and one of my favorite authors, because it illustrates exactly what i mean: đ¤
âas if one could choose in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked in the middle of the courtyard. youâll say they choose her because they love her; i think itâs the other way around. you donât choose the rain that will soak you to the bone when you leave a concert.â đ§ď¸
