König’s Favorite Toy

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

The answer came shortly after: Two of them pointed to a lone bar at the end of the street, comparing it to a website on their phone, which he couldn't entirely make out. The small group of men made noises of approval and hurried towards the flashing neon lights of the bar on the outskirts of the city.

After the incredibly awkward process of getting past the mean-looking bouncer at the entrance as a 35-year-old tall and beefy guy, König settles at the edge of the group, peacefully sipping his pint of beer as he overhears their conversations. Nothing interesting, per se—just the usual checking out girls their age, talks about the upcoming weeks, and how much cheaper the alcohol is here.

König can't blame them. When he was this young—ten, perhaps fifteen years ago—he was no different. Always on the go, getting blackout drunk almost every weekend. But things have changed. His head is pounding, temples aching from the strain of being up for over 40 hours without a minute of sleep. At the moment, he wishes for nothing more than a fucking bed and no flashing lights and blaring music flushing out the last bit of sanity he's held on to.

"You look awfully tired," one of his colleagues remarks, waving the bartender over. Just as König finished his drink, getting ready to leave. "Get this old fella another pint. It's on me, even. Elderly care, or somethin.'"

König sighs deeply, rolling his eyes. "I ain't old. Keep making jokes like that and I won't go easy on your hungover self tomorrow."

The young man next to him raises his hands in surrender, handing the bartender a five euro bill. "Alright, alright. Just wantcha to have some fun, ya know?"

Mhm, König grumbles, relaxing back into his chair with his new, cold pint of beer in his right hand.

The way things are going, he won't make it out of there any time soon.

Bad becomes worse when he overhears a couple of young guys walking in, chatting loudly about the 'room at the back', heading past the group of men settled at the bar without sparing the strong drinks any mind. They sounded awfully excited—a little too excited for his liking. And then, when König looks around—he realises just what kind of bar he's let himself be dragged into.

A fucking sex club in disguise.

He then looks up the name on Google Maps, which failed him on the way here.

Bingo.

"Why the fuck did we come here?" König growls beneath his breath, keeping his voice low so as not to attract unwanted attention—especially not from that one security guy who has been eyeing him the entire fucking time.

No wonder, he thinks. Wouldn't want the girls to break with a guy like him.

Good that he isn't very interested in girls—not tonight at least, and definitely not in a setting like this.

He shoves his glowing phone screen in their faces, and when they catch the reason behind his anger, their faces light up with knowing grins, chuckling.

Those bastards knew all along and didn't bother telling him.

"Just a bit of fun, big guy. We ain't gonna watch ya when you fuck, scout's honour!"

König is about to smash the fucking pint glass full of beer into their amused faces until he, just in time, remembers the security guy.

He sets the glass back down.

"I am not going to do… that. You're young, go have fun. It's bedtime for old guy me, hm?" König offers instead, his mask hiding the fake smile he puts on for some extra sarcasm.

"'S just a joke. Get you to ease up a bit, huh?" Another guy further down the table offers, tilting his glass towards him.

Ease up, alright. Nope. Who do they think he is? Fucking random girls in a sex club?

・・・

Conversations surrounding him are blurry as he gets lost in thought once again, and one after one, his colleagues leave the bar table and venture to the darker areas at the back of the club, abandoning their half-empty drinks.

It'd be a good time to leave then—as nobody seems to be paying attention to him anymore, focused on either hitting up girls in the "innocent" part of the bar or already six inches deep in one of the women in the back.

After finally having his much-needed peace, König decides one more drink won't hurt.

Or two.

And when none of his colleagues are in sight any longer and his head is spinning with the buzz of alcohol and exhaustion—he really thinks it's time to go.

He wants to, he really does—but suddenly, right after that midnight mark, flashing lights turn low, the music sensual and rhythmic, and the alcohol in his system only makes that familiar fuzzy feeling in his lower abdomen grow. Just like that, he suddenly is no longer as opposed to checking out the back of the bar.

Which he has, until now, so adamantly refused.

Just for a look, he tells himself. König finishes his beer, tips the bartender a good amount of money, and stretches the sore muscles of his legs before he gets up and disappears into the darkness himself.

After he enters, receiving another dirty glance by the guy standing guard at the door with a sign reading "Velvety Dreams", written in a fancy, red font, his eyes widen in surprise.

Dim, red lights, rows of tall wooden structures, moaning women, groaning men—it is all too much for his poor tired, drunk head.

Holy fucking shit.

Besides that it fucking reeks of sex and sweat, he is somewhat glad that the room is almost completely dark besides the lights shining on each… conveniently positioned and tied-up girl. Nobody could really see others in the dark, except if you actually decided to participate and not just watch—which he, of course, won't do.

He'd just watch—because now that he is here, he can't deny that he's somewhat intrigued. Somewhat.

Heavy footsteps carry him forwards, his eyes busy trying to take in the scenes playing out right beside him—a woman with her legs spread wide and ankles tied to hooks a few inches above the floor, only her ass, the back of her legs, and her lower back visible as the rest of her body is hidden behind the small square opening.

Her legs are long, almost too long with the heels she's wearing for the guy behind her to reach—and yet, with every vile thrust into her, her booty jiggles, loud moans muffled slightly by the barrier between the two.

And when he slaps her ass, her moans only growing louder, offering a deeper arch of her hips, encouraging him for more—König has to turn his eyes away.

Fuck. He is fucking hard. Not just semi-hard either. Full on, a visible bulge denting his pants, cock throbbing with neglect and want.

König looks the other way, but it doesn't get any better. A woman lies on her back with her legs bound wide to the sides of the wall, hips peeking out far enough for the other woman with a huge, and he means it, huge fucking strap-on to pound her into oblivion, her thighs blooming with dark bruises and deep-red scratch marks.

And she's so fucking loud—enjoying every second of it.

He's dizzy—so fucking dizzy with both exhaustion and lust, he feels like he may faint any second.

With unsteady legs, he makes it to the very last section, welcome silence surrounding him. He breathes in deeply, steadying himself against the wooden structure—closing his eyes for a good three seconds. He needs to calm the fuck down, get ahold of himself, and get rid of the raging boner currently making him look like a damn weirdo.

König's eyes blink open a few moments later, determined to make it out of here and to the safety of his bed. And, in his defence, he makes it more than one step in the right direction—until, from the corner of his vision, he catches something.

Someone gorgeous—even as most of their body is hidden.

You.

No name, no face, as it is customary here. Every woman offering herself is strictly anonymous—and so are you. He merely catches your pretty, plush thighs, ankles bound tightly at approximately the height of his chest—for other men, they probably exceed their height. You're wearing his favourite nail polish too—a beautiful shade of dark red. Your heels lie abandoned on the floor, and he thinks that perhaps, for a beautiful lady like you, he should at least be kind enough to pick them up and help you slip into them, no?

Big mistake. Irreversible, too.

Because once he bends down to pick them up, his eyes are level with your hips. Your pussy. Glistening with arousal, folds slick with the evidence of your lust. Ready and waiting for someone to take you.

Fucking hell.

His hand reaches out to touch you—but he draws back before your skin makes contact. Instead, he helps you into your heels like he planned—carefully, awfully tender—and then, he takes a much-needed step back.

But you—left empty and wanting the entire evening—have been lit aflame by his touch. Your hips jerk forwards on the leather cushion beneath you on instinct, chasing the gentle brush of his fingers on your skin.

König shakes his head no. No, he can't do this—he shouldn't. But at the same time, he closes the distance between you two again, his rough, calloused hands drawing patterns onto the skin of your inner thighs, making you whimper and arch your back in response.

"Liebling," König murmurs, dragging his fingertips down the back of your thigh longingly, eyes locked onto your pretty, soaked pussy on display for him, illuminated just by the dim, red LED lights shining on you from above. "You're too young for me. Way too young."

The gravel in his voice, the pain behind his words, makes you fucking clench. Too young? You've fucked men over twice your age, and you heavily doubt he is anywhere near that old.

"'M not," you slur, thighs trembling as his fingers make their way upwards again, brushing over the inside of your knees. You know that he's fighting his rationality here, realise that this is not a man from town. The nickname, first of all. His accent is different too. Germanic—Austrian, you figure. "Please, I need it—need you to fuck me."

König groans. Fucking groans at your sweet words coaxing him closer, making him want you more than he already does. And then—his finger dips. Dips to your pussy, slipping in between your sticky folds—trailing from your pulsing hole to your swollen clit, circling gently with the pad of his thumb.

A low growl reverberates in his chest when he feels your wetness coat his finger—at how big his hand feels in comparison to your thighs, waist, pussy.

You moan at the much-needed relief on your poor clit, your hips jerking forward for more of his touch. You're intoxicated—perhaps because no one this evening has acknowledged your presence until now—or maybe because he is focusing on you and not on himself as men usually do.

"More," you gasp, fingers clenched into fists where they are tied. "Please, more."

"Greedy girl," König drawls, chuckling to himself, both of his thumbs spreading your folds apart for his searing gaze, watching as your entrance drools with slick.

With lust—all for him.

"Let me get you ready first, ja?" he proposes, coating his middle and index finger with your arousal, using both of his hands on you as his left rests on your lower tummy, drawing slow, tight circles on your sensitive clit while the fingers of his other tease your drooling hole, applying gentle pressure until one of his digits slips inside.

You gasp as it does—jaw slack as you try to get used to the stretch. He stays perfectly still inside you, letting you feel. And feel, you do. How could just one of his fingers be this fucking—

Your thoughts are cut short when he starts with a slow pace, fucking you with his finger until you tremble and moan, walls clenching greedily around him.

König thinks you can take two, hopes you can. Because now that your pussy's been soaking his hand, making a mess on the both of you—he won't leave this fucking place without having fucked you properly.

He applies the gentlest bit of pressure at your entrance, pushing it in to the first knuckle—your cunt fluttering around the invasion, though still sucking him in deeper, even as you whimper at the burn between your thighs.

"Tiny fuckin' pussy, baby. Shit—" König grumbles, watching his second finger slip in alongside the first, ensnaring him. The chain around your ankles prevents your legs from closing around him, even as they shake with strain—and on the other side of the wall, you've gone quiet, breathing through the sting until it settles.

He can't help but feel bad for you, for this. For choosing you out of all girls available, for essentially breaking you in with just his fingers—let alone his cock, which is weeping with precum and so hard, it fucking hurts.

"Don't know if you can take me yet, sweetie." König breathes out, voice coming out rough, continuing his ministrations on your clit to get you to loosen up for him, fingertips massaging right over that sensitive spot inside you, curled expertly.

Pain bleeds into pleasure slowly but surely, and your hips relax onto the leather cushion, gentle thrusts of his wrist drawing slick, wet sounds from your pussy. Your lips part for soft moans, encouraging him to go faster—and he does. He reads you like a book, helps you relax around his fingers as though he knows just which strings to pull to accustom your body to his own.

"I— I can, please—" you stutter, tilting your hips towards him to show just how sure you are. Can't be much worse than his fingers, right? "Please… sir."

"You can call me König," he says lowly, pushing inside knuckle-deep, making you squeal—and when he lingers there for a second too long, you begin thrusting yourself onto his fingers, not minding the limited range of motion this position gives you.

Fuck. He is fucking doomed.

"König, please." you mewl, clenching down around his digits. "Want your cock—so badly."

He growls. A deep, rough sound from the back of his throat. Showing you just how much he's been holding back. But you—you don't want him to hold back any longer.

You want him to fuck you.

Break you, if he so wishes.

König's fingers slip from your sopping wet pussy with a loud squelch, and even though you cannot see him—you can hear him sucking his fingers clean. Tasting you on his tongue, savouring you. Your walls clench at the image in your head. Fuck.

König thinks he may actually come untouched for the first time in his life when your scent meets his tastebuds. You taste like the sweetest, most forbidden fruit in the whole garden of Eden. Young and pretty—too sweet for his rough hands, which are covered in scars, skin thick and calloused with wear—with violence and death.

But still, he wants this. Just once—wants to feel your tight pussy stretch impossibly wide around his cock, wants to watch you tremble trying to take him.

Naive little girl, thinking you could.

His hands make quick work of his belt and the zipper of his pants, tugging them down just far enough to free his aching cock—thick and hard, veins stretching beneath the thin skin. His tip is flushed, swollen, and glistening with precum—so sensitive, he curses as he gives himself a few slow pumps, at the same time playing with your pussy, which you eagerly grind against his hand.

"You wanted this, Maus. Better remember—because once I start," he growls, slapping his cock on your slick pussy a few times, making you whimper. "I won't be able to fucking stop."

"Fuck me, König," you blurt out, clit pulsing at the feeling of his cock so close where you need him most. "Take what's yours."

König growls at your words, warm, rough hands spreading your thighs apart further, pulling you towards the edge of the leather cushion you are lying on. He lets his cock glide up your slit, making sure he coats himself with your arousal before he does anything else.

"Ready?" he asks huskily, admiring how pretty you look, ready and waiting in the low red light perfectly accenting your curves and want for him. When a muffled "yes" comes as a response, your back arching towards him—he can no longer help himself.

König lines up the head of his cock with your pulsing, drooling hole, his hips jerking forwards on instinct—burying the first two inches of his girthy length inside you without a prior warning.

A broken whimper escapes your lips—every muscle in your body locking up. You may have underestimated his size slightly. Massively.

König notices the change immediately—thumb finding your clit once more, easing the tension in your muscles, shushing you. "Come on, sei ein braves Mädchen. Take what you were begging me for so sweetly."

"Hmmph—" you manage, sucking in a few deep breaths, trying to relax around him. "'S— so big, fuck—"

König's lips curl into a knowing grin. He fucking told you, but stubborn you did not want to listen. "Shh. Focus. Focus on me, Maus."

His hips rock forwards just the tiniest bit when he feels you loosen up slightly—thumb still toying with your swollen clit, drawing soft whimpers from your lips. Your walls flutter around him in protest, but now that you're no longer gripping him as tight as a vice, they only suck him in deeper.

"She wants more, doesn't she?" König mumbles, his grip on your thighs bruising. "Wants to take me all."

"Yes," you gasp, gripping tightly at your cuffs, groaning when he sinks another inch inside of your tight warmth. "Gimme— wanna f— feel all of you inside me."

His hands wander to your hips instead, angling them upwards, keeping you right where he wants you—and then, with one single, sharp thrust, he drives himself home.

"S-Shit!" you cry out, your eyes widening, legs trembling violently, making the metal of your binds rustle loudly. You've never felt this full. This stretched. You feel everything—every vein, every twitch of his thick cock currently nestled inside you, tip nudging at your cervix.

"Tight little thing, fuck," König growls, keeping your hips flush to his, not allowing you to escape him. Not when he just made you take all of him. Not when you are pulsing and clenching around him so sweetly, basically begging for more—you would take him. You would let him ruin you.

Surrounding noises have long blurred, his sole focus lying on you, on your pretty pussy stretching around his cock, on the sweet sounds you make just for him. He keeps your trembling legs spread open wide for him as he withdraws half of his length and slams back inside, drawing a filthy moan from you.

That's when he knows you are ready. You are ready to take what he's going to give you.

"Good fuckin' girl. Gettin' all worked up for me, hm? Let me show you what happens to greedy sluts like you."

The rhythm that he sets is absolutely ruthless—quick, harsh snaps of his hips against your ass, the sound of skin smacking against skin echoing around you. His big hands grip you tightly, keeping you perfectly still—hell, tilting and bending you as he pleases. You just know the man opposite of the barrier between you two is tall and strong, years of hard work making it possible for him to use you like this.

And fuck, do you love it. This is by far your favourite memory of the club since you started coming here on the weekends—most men are boring, don't know what they're doing. But him? God, you don't want it to end. You want him, need him to chase his pleasure inside you—fill you with his warmth.

"K-König, please! So good, you're so— so good!" you squeal, your heels slipping from your feet and dropping to the floor again from the sheer force with which he drills himself inside of you.

Slick sounds come from where you are connected, where he fucks his cock into you—watching you swallow his length with his ocean-blue eyes, not even daring to blink. He does not want to waste a single second of this, of seeing you writhe beneath him, moaning like a goddamn pornstar. For him—he is making you do this.

What neither König nor you realise is that you've drawn quite the attention to yourselves—your loud moans and squeals, accompanied by his harsh thrusts and occasional groans, are by far the loudest in the whole room. People are actively watching him fuck you—and they're enjoying it, asking themselves who this mysterious, tall, and broad guy is who's fucking the club's treasure—as you are called—brainless.

König's focus does not expand beyond your body. His eyes are locked on you, on your lower tummy—how there's a bulge each time he thrusts deep, how your cunt is drooling slick all over his cock and balls, dripping down your ass and on the black leather cushion beneath you.

His pace on your clit increases, angling his thrusts to brush right against that one spongey spot inside your velvety walls. He feels his own high nearing, the knot in his lower abdomen tightening.

He is going to fucking come, and it's all because of your sweet little pussy wrapped so snugly around him.

"Fuckin' made for me, Liebling. Never gonna forget you, now. Fuck." he growls, slamming inside your slick walls as though it's the last time he gets to have sex. His thrusts carry a meaning now—cock throbbing inside you, twitching with the need to come. "Going to come—breed this tight pussy like she deserves."

Fuck, König thinks, snapping out of it for a moment.

He does not know proper sex club etiquette. Would you let him come inside? Paint your walls white with his release? Or would you rather have him pull out instead?

Not knowing whether you'd appreciate him finishing inside, he decides not to take the decision from you.

When your moans grow louder, pussy squelching and clenching around him uncontrollably, König knows you are right at the precipice of your orgasm—and so is he.

He encourages you with words, thrusting deep. "Come for me, Süße. Come all over my cock like the good girl I know you are."

His next thrusts purposefully hit your sweet spot, having you tumble over the edge with a whimper of his name, cunt tightening around his pistoning cock, milking him. You are trembling, shaking with the force of your orgasm, and König fucks you through it—and right when you've come down from your high, he pulls out, thick, white ropes of his cum shooting all over your lower tummy and the mound of your pussy, some of it catching on the thin stripe of hair you left there.

It takes König's sharp, trained military senses approximately three more seconds to realise people have been watching all this time. Watching him fuck you, rutting into you like a fucking animal. And to his surprise—they fucking clap when he turns around, clearly impressed.

But König is no extrovert—never been. And definitely not an exhibitionist either. He's never done this before—fucking a woman in a public setting with others observing, above all things.

Embarrassment makes his cheeks heat up, flushing a deep shade of red—conveniently hidden beneath his mask. He's quick to tuck himself back in, clear his throat, and storm out of that damn room—leaving the damp, sex-laden air behind as well as the blissful feeling of his high, which was cut short.

Leaving you behind, on top of everything.

・・・

"You comin' back after all, old man?" one of his colleagues teases, grinning. The group has returned to their drinks at the bar, all of them wearing the same, awful expression. "Been missin' you. Had fun, yeah?"

"Fuck off," König mutters, grabs his phone from the table, and leaves that godforsaken building.

Air. He needs air. And a fucking bed. The sun is rising behind the horizon, and when he checks the time, he curses himself.

It's past 6 in the morning. He'd have to be up and going in less than two hours.

He groans, heading back to their base without the others. Two hours of sleep are better than nothing, especially after having been up for almost fifty hours now.

As soon as he sinks into the soft mattress of his bed, he is off to sleep. Perhaps he is getting old.

The first day back at the base is bad. Really. Fucking. Bad. First, because he is suffering from the worst headache ever, second, because his body is no longer used to the harsh exercises, and third, most importantly, because he cannot concentrate. Cannot fucking get himself to concentrate when its you who is plaguing his mind, your sweet little voice, your tight pussy… he has a raging boner while in the midst of combat training.

As a 35-year-old man.

König is almost glad when the day is over, and his last appointment is dinner. But bad can always become worse—and it does for poor introverted him.

"You need to teach us how to do that." One of the guys blurts out after taking a big sip from his drink, the others agreeing with smirks on their faces.

"To do what?" König responds, going through all methods he used in close combat today… and comes to no result. He was awful today, not his usual self.

The guys grin, replaying in their heads what they witnessed the previous night.

"She was the fucking loudest in the entire room, mate!"

Thanks for reading! Feel free to reblog and leave feedback. <33 -> and if you wish to be tagged for part two, let me know!

COD masterlist

you moan, but it’s strained as it falls from your lips. the coil in the base of your belly pulls taut as he fucks into you, the fat of your arse rippling as his hips slam against you and his cock nudges deep inside the heat of your cunt.

fisting the sheets, you take what he gives you, whiny breaths all you can manage as you feel his muscles around you contract as he adjusts his grip. it’s unrelenting—the pressure has the edges of your vision blurring and a tingling sort of pleasure passing down your spine. the mattress groans beneath you both as he rocks himself against you, sweat building between your bodies.

dex’s smug smile presses to your ear as he speaks. “d’you like when i fuck you like this, pretty baby? you like takin’ my cock while i hold you like a little slut?”

his movements don’t relent despite the dull ache coursing through his vertebrae. his pace and rhythm remain even as his cock slides in and out of you, and he relishes in the high-pitched moan you give him as he speaks.

“y-yeah,” you manage to stutter out, eyes dropping closed as pleasure grows dizzy in your skull. the tightness in your belly triples, and your legs begin to quiver where you hold yourself in a practised arch.

dex kisses your cheek, and it’s the most tender gesture of the night. he tightens his arm around you, and you choke on a yelp when he manhandles you up and backwards. his cock buried inside you, dex sits up until you’re practically on his lap, his arm still around your neck while the other wraps around your tummy and waist.

your back presses firmly to his, and the angle drives his cock deeper against that perfect spot inside you. it makes you yowl, eyes rolling, when dex snaps his hips and resumes his rutting. he bounces you against him, your body completely at his mercy as he pins you to him.

“how’s this?” he whispers, the bed creaking as he thrusts up, bottoming out again and again until sweat beads on his forehead and something pops low in his back. he licks your cheek as he holds you still, ignoring the way you squirm in his arms. “you like it like this too?”

“y-yeah,” you squeak out, entire body buzzing with pleasure. dex knows you’re teetering on release too. he can feel the way you begin to stiffen and shake, the way you heat up against him and the way your heart rate rises until it’s a hummingbird-like thrum against your ribs.

dex groans, balls twitching as your pussy clutches tight around him. “fuck, pretty baby, you’re fuckin’ perfect, aren’t you? takin’ my cock like you’re made for it. ah—uh, shit—d’you wanna come? wanna come while i fill this pretty pussy?”

you respond with a whine as the tightness in your lower belly stretches out then snaps. you moan his name as your orgasm hits you by force, hands shooting up to clutch at his arm as your cunt clenches tightly around the thick of his cock. you tremble, clit heavy with your heartbeat as you come, and dex counters it with a moan of his own and a couple more solid thrusts.

then, he spills inside you. he calls your name, as if you’re not locked right up against him, as he buries himself deep inside you to come. the warmth that floods you makes you want to keen forward, eyes blurring now as you blink through the haze of your orgasm.

dex whimpers as his cock jerks, and when it gives one last twitch before it softens, the arm around your throat loosens and you suck in a deep breath of cool air. but even that doesn’t last long—dex falls forward, pushing you with him, slamming you down onto the bed with his body smothering yours.

The years came and went. The hurt he once felt inevitably dulled. Yet, you always managed to linger around in the back of his mind, like a little ghost haunting him. 

To this day, he still has no idea what he did wrong. You may have ghosted everybody, but he wasn’t just anybody. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was him. 

He still cares for you, sorta, but it’s been so long, he’s not sure if he’d even want to reconnect with you. Not with how you just dropped him like that.

. . . . . . 

“Are you excited?”

“No,” you respond a little too flatly for Ieiri, who shoots you the look right after. “Ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just been forever since I’ve seen everyone.”

She sighs, redirecting her attention back on the road— there’s not much to look at. Most people stay home on gloomy Sunday afternoons. 

The GPS says you’re nine minutes away from your destination, making you remind yourself once more to relax. Though, you really wish you could be one of those people staying in right now. Cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie. 

Ieiri taps her finger on the steering wheel. “It’s like what I said—”

What didn’t she say? 

She held you hostage on the phone for over an hour last weekend, threatening and bribing, and then threatening you again if you didn’t go with her to Kento’s surprise birthday party. 

You thought you had a good argument at the time.

“Do you realize how annoying that sounds? Kento doesn’t even like surprises, could you imagine how irritated he’d be if I just randomly popped up, too?”

“If you were Satoru? Yes. You? Doubt it. If anything, he’d probably like the distraction from it.” 

“Yeah– probably,” you murmured. 

“Can you please get out of your fucking head for once?” she scoffed. “Yeah, it’s been years since you’ve seen everyone, but it’s not like it’s because of a falling out. I don’t know where you got this weird idea that they hate you now because of it. It was them who told me to bring you!” 

“Who’s them?” you stubbornly responded. 

“Suguru, Satoru, Yuki, Choso— even Toji said something about bringing Megumi so you could see him.” 

As much as you’d love to meet his kid, it would also be another reminder of all the years that’ve passed— how everyone moved on with their lives. Getting married, buying homes, having children, starting families. 

The most you’ve done is get the job. You’d include the condo if you actually got to enjoy it, but it’s been a year since you bought it and you haven’t even bothered furnishing the place despite all the money you've saved up for it. The last thing you want to do after work is look at a screen and make more decisions. Deciding between color palettes and aesthetics, deciding on what decor and accents you want— it all sounded exhausting. Hiring an interior designer was an option. Except, you barely want to talk to a stranger, let alone work with one. 

It’s too many decisions to be made for someone that didn’t want to make them. You often wonder if you’ve simply just become someone that couldn’t make them. 

You’re well aware of the things that are wrong with you, but it didn’t make it any less surprising. You, paralyzed by choices and options? 

The people who knew you professionally would laugh. Hard. Any sense of certainty that could be felt in the air almost always emanated from you. You were decisive. Sharp as hell— honed to perfection. Someone that was more than capable of a task as menial as filling a space full of items they liked. 

You know what you like, don’t you? 

No, not really.

You are sharp, there’s no doubt about it. It’s what your boss favors you for, and sure, one could say you’re valuable to the company, too. It’s a nice feeling for a while. 

Then you realize there is quite literally nothing more subjective than the value of something.

Luckily, you are very useful. It was simply a fact, and every single one of your quarterly reviews solidified it. A coworker, or god forbid a client, could spend an entire hour talking shit about you, and they’d eventually reach the point where they’d have to backtrack with a little ‘well’ or ‘however’, before giving credit where it was due. 

The devil works hard and you stole his pitchfork. Ripped it right out of his hands, because apparently, you needed it more than him to become the youngest portfolio manager the company’s ever seen. 

Who cares about the value of something when you need it? Mr. Yaga claims to hate black tea, but leave him out in the desert long enough and he’d easily drink gallons of it. 

Having you at the company isn’t a matter of life or death, there’s thousands of others out there that are more than qualified for your role. More than half probably had resumes twice as long as yours, too. 

But for Yaga, there is no guarantee that day to day operations would run this smoothly, ever again. 

You may be a little blunt. At times, impatient. But in a world full of sexual harassment allegations and sleezy managers abusing their power, not once has there ever been a formal complaint made against you. You’re not always like that either, you’re great with the clients and stakeholders. 

It’s a talent, really— remembering all the personal details people tell you, like childhood stories, the places they’ve vacationed to, a spouse's birthday month that was briefly mentioned months ago. It makes people feel special. 

It was very handy, too. Especially in the case where the company might deal with someone that isn’t likely to give them their hard-earned money or signature. Your job was to either sweet talk or gaslight. No arguing needed.

Yaga may have not preferred you at first. You were essentially a kid compared to the people that applied for the position. 

The plan was to let you down easily, tell you to keep working hard and you’ll eventually get there. You were already lucky enough to have your foot in the door as an employee. 

Yaga had a list of goals he wanted to reach before his retirement, though. Any of the other candidates would’ve helped with that, but none would've given him the opportunity to make a second list and cross that off as well. 

The decision took months. 

In that time, he realized a few things. 

One, he spent his entire adult life playing it safe, which is an obvious sign of fearing growth. You’re not sure who taught him that, but at least he realized it was okay to start over and try something new. It was like a rebrand for him and he embraced that the “new” him craved more profit and welcomed different approaches. 

The different approaches being, finding more aggressive people because they bring in the money quicker. 

He never saw you as aggressive, though. He never saw you at all, actually. It wasn’t personal, those under 30 usually come and go, so he didn’t see much of a point in remembering names. What he did see, when he finally opened his eyes, was efficiency. 

You were straight forward in a way that saved time, had an air about you that screamed “don’t ask me how my day’s going or what I have planned for after work”, yet approachable enough for work related questions. Stellar reports, received every quarterly and year-end bonus. Sharp. 

Making you one of the managers meant he could wield you like a weapon, now you are the one he uses the most. You had the salary to prove it, yet no time or energy to enjoy it. 

You’re respected. The young interns, the girls in particular, look up to you more often than not. Eyes bright and filled with ambition. Romanticizing everything, from how much coffee you drink, all the way to your style that they labeled as “effortless”. They’re not wrong, it is effortless— always some variant of trousers, a t-shirt, heels, and a long coat. They’re never planned, yet they somehow always manage to work thanks to the lack of color in your wardrobe. 

You overheard your lack of jewelry and unpainted nails being appreciated once for how “clean” you look. All you could think of was the girl that used to do her hair and paint her own nails at one point. Except for the ones on her right hand. She saved that job for her best friend who surprisingly had a steady hand, despite complaints flying out of his mouth the entire time. Even on the days he gave in and painted his own nails black, he’d find something to be grumpy and complain about. 

It was always you choosing whose house to hang out at, which movies to watch, what places to grab food from. He was a big brat whose favorite answer to most questions was an inaudible ‘I dunno’ from the way he’d mumble it. So, you always led the way. 

Now it’s you mumbling that same exact ‘I dunno’ when you’re all alone. 

You’re tired. Worn out. If you were a blade, you end each day dull and chipped. Nobody sees it, not even those young girls with all the time they’ve spent studying you, blinded by their own dreams and aspirations to be just as important, not knowing the difference between being valuable and useful. 

Maybe it’s better off that way. 

Who were you to try to burst their bubbles when you never had dreams or aspirations to begin with? Your eyes were never as bright as theirs— not as a student, not as an intern, and definitely not as a new hire. 

You never had a spark to begin with, what makes you think they’d eventually lose theirs? 

Maybe you were the unlucky one here. 

You were the one whose head went under water after one bad semester, after all. Even now, years later, it still feels like you’re stuck in the deep end while everyone else has moved on. 

Toji chose to get married and have a kid. 

You can’t even choose yourself on most days. 

“You have arrived at your destination.” 

Fuck. You have a hard time believing the GPS was that loud when it was telling Ieiri which exit to take and where to turn. 

Her lips thin into a reassuring smile as she makes the final turn into the apartment building’s parking garage, and you fail to return it as you take a deep breath. Ieiri doesn’t say anything this time, figuring you’ll probably just have to see everyone's excitement for yourself to realize this wasn’t a pity invite. It’ll settle half of your nerves. 

The other half should settle itself with time and a drink. Several drinks, honestly. She did the best she could with telling everyone that what you pulled during your second year of college was 100% a you thing and to not talk about it unless you brought it up. Which you probably won’t— everyone will understand. No one wants to talk about being in a dark place when they haven’t fully left it. 

One moment, you’re sitting in the passenger seat with your seat belt still buckled. Next, your chest is tightening as you watch her open the door to Satoru’s apartment. There’s already chattering, which stops once she announces your guys’ arrival. 

You barely get the chance to look around before Suguru’s peaking his head out of the kitchen to see if you really did show up and lets out a laugh once he sees that you did. It was light and airy, the kind that’s accompanied by the warm feeling that you should get in your chest when seeing an old friend. 

He’s obviously changed, it’s been 7 years. Yet, he never lost that quality that managed to make people a little more comfortable.

“Hey stranger.”

Your lips thin into a shy smile, “Hey.” 

“Well?” Suguru asks, holding his arms out. “I know it’s been ages but there’s no need to be shy.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping forward and accepting the hug. 

He lets out another laugh. “Don’t be— it’s nice to see you.”

“Where’s mine?!” 

You easily recognize the offended, slightly childish tone. You slowly turn your head around to see a slightly less lanky Satoru. Aside from getting some much needed meat on his bones, he doesn’t seem to have changed much. He’s still as unserious as ever, still wears sunglasses indoors like an asshole. 

Ieiri stood back the entire time, sipping on a drink she had already managed to make, patting herself on the back as she watched her little plan run smoothly: Show up early and let you build some confidence from awkwardly greeting the old friends you shared together one by one. 

It’s funny, you told her that they’d eventually move on to talking to the friends they made after you, but they all seemed more interested in circling back to you, whether it be handing you a shot or introducing you to a new face. 

If there was one burden she wishes she could take from you, it’d be the burden that has you walking through the world as if you were everyone’s last choice. 

Today should be enough to prove that.

“Yeah, no— at this point, fuck Nanami and his birthday. This is a better surprise.” Satoru throws an arm over you, slightly swaying from the shots he’s already taken. “Pfft– he doesn’t even like his birthday. I’m sure he’d be happier to see her, too—”

“He’s coming up the elevator,” Suguru cuts him off. 

“SHIT! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP AND HIDE,” Satoru suddenly yells, as if he weren’t just talking shit just seconds ago. 

No one would be surprised if Kento heard him yelling at everyone like that, and given how hesitant of a knock there was at the door. The blonde probably already knows there’s something up. 

Suguru goes to open the door, and the moment he opens his mouth to greet him, there’s a loud wave of people yelling ‘SURPRISE’ behind him, with Satoru saying it a split second sooner than anyone else did. 

Kento’s eye slightly twitches. Half surprised, half irritated. He fucking hates surprises and knows that’s the only reason why Satoru decided to throw him one. Before a complaint can leave his mouth, Ieiri hands him an old fashion. He tries to speak again, but gets interrupted once more when she tells him who’s here. 

At first he scoffs, already having enough of people of fucking with him today. 

“No, I’m serious!” she swears, looking around trying to see where you were at, eventually catching a glimpse of your head in the kitchen. “There she is— come say hi.”

Ieiri grabs his wrist and pulls him through the living room and into the kitchen, where you, Yuki, and Choso were talking. She turns back to look at Kento, who’s already surprised by her rare display of excitement, as she gestures towards you. 

“See? Surprise!”

“Yeah, surprise!!” Yuki says right after. 

“Holy shit.” Kento rarely curses, but finds himself unable to come up with better words. “It’s been ages!” 

“I know!” You try to sound more apologetic, but ultimately fail from the nice buzz you had going on. “Happy birthday!” 

And for once, he’s a little less uptight about it when he gives you a hug and says his thanks. It was a nice surprise, he had to admit. If only Satoru didn’t have to ruin the moment with the way he barged into the kitchen with some stupid, frilly party hat in hand, begging Kento to put it on. 

“I said no!”

“C’mon, Nanamin!” Satoru whines, taking a step forward each time the blonde takes a step back. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t want to get any younger— I’m a grown man, and so are you. Maybe you should start acting like one.” 

“I do! I’m just fun,” he continues to pester him, ignoring everything Kento mumbles under his breath. 

You end up excusing yourself to use the restroom, somewhat bummed you couldn’t stick around longer to watch them bicker some more. You’re sure it went on for a while, though, unaware of how it was cut short when Shoko grabs Satoru by the arm. 

He hisses at how tight of a grip she has on him, fingers digging into his skin as she pulls him aside.

“What is your problem?!” he asks through a clenched jaw. 

“Sukuna’s here?!” 

“Yeah?” He tries and fails to free himself from her grip as he answers. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise!”

She looks at him like he’s stupid, nails continuing to dig into his flesh. “A nice surprise? He fucking hates her. I wouldn’t have brought her here if I knew he was coming!”

“Ow ow ow— No he doesn’t?! Do you actually believe that?!” he groans in between each sentence. 

“Yes! He says it every time someone brings her up!”

“Ow ffuck! You know how dramatic he can be sometimes— fuck, Shoko, please, you’re breaking skin.”

“You deserve it!” she responds in a clipped tone, despite finally letting go. 

“Jesus Christ— you can’t just assault people like that,” he pouts, rubbing his arm. “It’ll be fine! It’s been years, he can’t hold a grudge that long.”

. . . . . .

Sukuna can absolutely hold a grudge that long. 

Except, he was staring at said grudge like some fucking loser, and had to remind himself that it was still alive and well. 

At first he thought you were just one of Satoru’s new friends as you walked through the living room, shyly making your way around everyone, but then you just so conveniently looked up in his direction.

His eyes nearly widened. 

And yours actually did, looking as guilty as you should be.  

The longer you two stood there, looking at each other from across the room in shock, the guilt you had in your eyes started to fade. He was sure everyone else welcomed you back with open arms, and in turn got irritated because you probably thought he’d do the same. So before you could even think to take a step in his direction, he wiped the shock off his face and replaced it with a look that’s able to make even grown men turn around and walk the other way. 

Which is exactly what you did, stomach slowly twisting into a tight knot as you immediately began to replay the death glare he gave you over and over in your head. 

Sukuna didn’t stay long and left shortly after. Not without pretending like he didn’t know you when he said goodbye to everyone, including Kento, who he never even got the chance to say hi to in the first place. 

Shoko didn’t think that was enough to have a complete 180 in your mood. She then realized you were already quiet before that. You also decided to stay in the kitchen, where there was a wall in between you and him. 

So yeah, she blames Sukuna.

“Are you sure he didn’t say anything to you?” Ieiri asked one last time as she pulled up to your apartment building. 

“Nah— my stomach just started to hurt. I don’t drink alcohol that much.” 

She still didn’t believe you, not with how big of an asshole Sukuna can be, which is why a certain someone got an earful over the phone the moment you got out of the car. He barely got a word out while she threw nothing but insults and threats so specific his way, that he had begun to believe them.

Of course Satoru felt bad! He didn’t want you to disappear again for another seven years and have it be all of his fault. So, he gives Sukuna a call, continuing the cycle of abuse started by Shoko. 

The phone rings three times. Sukuna never finishes saying hello before Satoru tries to grill him. “Alright, what did you say to her?”

“Who the fuck are you even talking about right now?”

Sukuna knows exactly who he’s talking about, Satoru can just see his face crinkling in fake disgust over the accusation because he’s just a bullshiter at the end of the day. 

“Shoko thinks you said something to her— she said she was acting all weird and shit when she came back from the bathroom.” 

“She’s already fuckin’ weird,” Sukuna scoffs. 

“So you did see her before you walked into the kitchen to say bye?” 

“Yeah, I saw her. Doesn’t mean I said anything to her though, you fuckin’ moron.”

Satoru sighs and rubs his temple, knowing he probably looked at you like he wanted to skin you alive. 

“What? Is looking at her a crime now?” 

“With the way you look at people? It should be.” It’s clearly not the first time Sukuna’s managed to simply offend someone his face with the way it comes out as a complaint on Satoru’s end. 

“Why do you even care?” 

“Don’t turn this back around on me?!”

“Then quit trying to grill me over the way I look at people. Seriously— she comes back and you all are fuckin’ babying her like she’s some victim. It’s not that serious.”

“Well Shoko—”

“Shoko can fuck off.” Sukuna cuts him off. “Don’t bother me about something stupid like this again. If she can’t handle someone looking at her in a way that she doesn’t like, maybe she should stay home and lock herself in her fuckin’ room.” 

“I– she already did!” he tries to come to your defense. “Shoko won’t tell me much, but she was going through it for years. She probably still is! She doesn’t go out at all. I tried telling you before and you wouldn’t listen.”

There’s a long pause before a disappointed sigh could be heard. Satoru could tell it was directed towards himself instead of you. “She was going through it, so she locked herself in a room for years?”

“Not literally,” he scoffs. “Look, all I know is she was dealing with depression and now she’s all anti-social because of it.”

“She should’ve fuckin’ said something then.” 

“Well, she fuckin’ didn’t.” 

“That’s–”

“If that’s an opinion, it doesn’t matter,” he cuts the man off, starting to grow impatient. Satoru has adhd— the severe, annoying kind. There’s only so much he could handle before getting the violent urge to scream out random noises. “I’m just gonna give you her number so you can talk to her if you want. Who knows, she might even open up to you more since you were the one closest to her.”

“I don’t want her n—”

“YES YOU DO.” Satoru yells, leaving Sukuna more appalled than annoyed. “I just sent it. BYE.”

click.

Sukuna glares at his phone for a moment as if it were an extension of Satoru, convinced he was dropped as a child or something and just doesn’t know it. He knows he definitely wouldn’t tell his kid if he dropped them as a baby. 

He relaxes his tensed brows and shakes his head as he pulls up the number Satoru sent. For some reason, he expected it to be your old number that he still somehow knew by heart. 

He hates that he remembers it. 

He also hates that the actual reason why you disappeared isn’t as dumb and selfish as he wanted it to be. 

. . . . . .

In the three weeks he’s had your number, he hasn’t tried reaching out. He also hasn’t accepted any invitations to hang out with anyone as a group, despite being told that you were okay with him showing up. Part of it was spite, the rest being him genuinely tired from work. 

His old man’s been taking more time off under the guise of letting him ‘take over for the day’. He acts so gracious with it, too, as if Sukuna should be thankful for the opportunity, when really, Wasuke should just fucking retire already so he can hire someone else to take his place as site manager. He’s essentially working two jobs now and when he asked for a raise, that old piece of shit laughed so hard that he damn near coughed up fifty years worth of cigarette tar.

You’d think watching his father nearly hack up an entire lung would be enough to make him quit smoking himself, but that shit pissed him off so bad that he smoked three cigarettes in a row just to calm down before going back to work. It still pisses him off. He doesn’t regret taking $50 out of that old man's wallet on his way out to cover his gas for the day. He honestly should’ve taken more. 

It’s been months since he’s gotten home at a decent time. Tonight was probably the worst thus far. 

He drags his feet into his apartment and kicks off his boots, heavy eyes landing on the clock that’s two minutes away from 10:00 pm. 

The next ten minutes are spent shoveling leftovers into his mouth, followed by a hot shower that was mainly spent just standing there, zoning out as the hot water hit his back. It’s been days since he’s jacked off, realizing it doesn’t even give him the urge, his sex drives plummeted all the way down to hell. He just wants to sleep at this point. 

Except when his head hits the pillow, he’s wide awake. It doesn’t help that he ends up scrolling through instagram— there was hardly a point for someone that barely followed anyone to begin with. 

There’s not much to scroll through. The most interesting thing being a recent post of Suguru’s night. He absentmindedly looks through them, then pauses at the 4th photo of you and Shoko with your little drinks in hand. 

You were barely smiling. 

Your lips curved just enough for the camera— nothing like the photos of you from before, grinning and laughing. That’s how he’s always remembered you.

Would it have even made a difference if he told you not to move so far away for school? It’s not like he could’ve known, you never said anything. He thought you were doing just fine and you deleted everything one day and changed your number. 

He taps the photo to see who’s tagged. Just Shoko. You still haven’t gotten back on social media, no profile to see what you’ve been up to. All he knows about you is that you moved back to the area after graduation and scored a cozy finance job without telling anyone. The only reason why you got in touch with Shoko again was because she ran into you at some bakery and made you give her your number. 

It didn’t even matter if you did have a new phone with no contacts by the time you moved back. You didn’t need to text him or call him, you could’ve just shown up. Sure, he might’ve been annoyed at first, but he wouldn’t have turned you away. 

You’ve known each other since 8 years old, you disappeared at 19. That’s his whole childhood right there. You played together, ate lunch together, walked to school together until he got a car, ditched school together. You had your own shampoo and toothbrush at his and would just use his clothes if you didn’t have a spare set with you.

It’s just dumb.

Still thinking about it, that is. It’s been years. It may have been fine to still be thinking about it at 21 or 22, but now it’s just ridiculous.

. . . . . .

You aren’t expecting Sukuna to warm up any time soon. At all, really. You couldn’t blame him for the reaction he had seeing you at Kento’s birthday. If there was one person that deserved an explanation, it was him, and you’re just about seven years too late for that. 

He wasn’t the same person you knew. You couldn’t just go up to him expecting that you’d get to have a conversation. A civil one, at least. 

It’s been years. 

And honesty, it might not even be about being several years too late. He’s a grown man, why would he care about a childhood friend that just up and left?

All there’s left to do now is to stay out of his way. You’re sure his temper’s the same and the last thing you want is to bug him. Hopefully being at a kids birthday party shields you from it in the case that you accidentally do. From what you heard, he seems close enough with Toji to know not to fuck with his sons special day. 

It’s not all bad. Toji couldn’t come to Kento’s birthday since his wife and son woke up sick that day, so you were more excited than nervous for today since you’d get to meet them. 

This time it was you that picked up Ieiri. You felt a little guilty for being the one that constantly got rides, despite having a running car of your own. Once you two got to the little park in their neighborhood, everyone was already there, including Sukuna, who was stuck having to watch his nephew that you’ve heard about through Choso. 

The biggest plot twist of all was probably learning that Jin is now technically Choso’s stepfather. You knew Choso had a teen mom, you didn’t know she was that young, though. You also had no idea how much of a milf hunter Jin was, either. 

Jin apparently didn’t know that was Choso’s mother. No one believes him, especially not Sukuna, who still looks at two like they’re a couple of fucking sickos for making him Choso’s step-uncle. 

The kid’s name is Yuji, and he looks just like Jin and Sukuna when they were kids. He’s the same age as Toji’s son, who’s turning 3 today. Yuji acts nothing like his father or his uncle. Jin was always quiet and sensitive. Sukuna was sensitive, too, but he was always very vocal about the things that annoyed him. The toddler was more like Gojo, hopped up on sugar and bouncing off the walls. 

Sukuna calls out to him like an angry mother at a grocery store, gritting his teeth as he tells the kid to, “get your ass over here, NOW,” all while Yuji pretends not to hear or see him…. up until Sukuna gets up from the bench, which is when the little boy decides to run back to him, whining about how he’s sorry and how he didn’t know. 

Megumi’s more quiet and follows Yuji around. He even ran back to Sukuna with the boy, worried that his friend's uncle was going to leave him at the park too, even though his father was at the grill just a few feet away. 

Watching the two boys play is adorable, but you try not to look too much in an attempt to avoid making eye contact with the grumpy uncle, which ends up becoming more difficult than you’d imagined. The kid eventually wore him out to the point where he managed to slip out his view. 

Yuji didn't go very far. 

“...es’cuse me?”

You feel a little tug at your shorts and look down to find an incredibly worried Yuji, who should’ve gone to an adult he knew, but here he was after quickly deciding you were the trusted adult for whatever problem he had. 

“What’s wrong?” You crouch down, getting at eye level. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, pointing to his feet. “I donno how to tie my shoes.”

“You don’t?” you ask, sounding just as concerned. “Do you want me to tie them for you?” 

He pouts. “Yes, please.” 

Your heart melts at his little voice. “Aw, okay.”

Like any other kid, Yuji’s amazed at how fast adults can tie shoelaces, unable to keep up with the strings crossing and looping around each other to create the little bow at the end. 

“Yay!” He claps his hands, jumping in excitement. “We can play again, Gumi!”

Megumi thinks to celebrate with his friend, but closes his mouth right after opening it. 

Then you’re startled by a scoff made directly behind you. “You make a stranger tie your shoes and you can’t even say thank you?” 

The last to freeze is Yuji, who side-eyes him, rather than turning to face him. “Um.. ya I did..”

“No you didn’t?!” The toddler's ability to lie over something so simple amazes and offends the man at the same time. Does Yuji seriously think he’s that stupid? “I watched you lie about not knowing how to tie your shoes and then I watched you try to run off with even thanking her.” 

“I donno how to tie my shoe!” Yuji stomps a foot on the ground to prove whatever point he thought he was making. 

“Yes, you do— now thank her, before I take your shoes away.” 

“Oh no, not my shoes!”

“Yeah. Bye bye, shoes.” Sukuna snorts, clearly enjoying this. “You’re a big boy now, remember? You don’t need them.”

“Yes, I do!” Yuji whines.

“Then have some manners and say thank you.” Sukuna continues to glare at the kid while pointing at you.

“Thank you for tying my shoe,” Yuji tightly grabs the bottom of his t-shirt with both hands and bows at you, then turns to his uncle and starts whimpering. “Don’t eat my shoes, Unkakuna! I need them!” 

Sukuna’s even more annoyed now at how specific that was. “Who said I was gonna eat them?!” 

“I dunno! You eat everything!” Yuji claims, bottom lip quivering and all, making his uncle's eye twitch in disbelief. “It’s all stuck in your big belly.” 

Sukuna’s face drops, as if he didn’t see a 6-pack in the mirror this morning with his own eyes.

“I don't have a goddamn belly,” he scolds him through a clenched jaw, then lowers his tone as he begins to crouch down. “Do you want me to hit your Papa Jin?” 

“No!!!”

“Then quit acting like I eat everything in sight, you little shit.”

Yuji scratches the back of his head as he continues to whine, trying to force a couple tears out. Eventually he turns to you. “He’s gonna hit my papa with his big belly.” 

“Uh-oh. That's not nice,” you begin to laugh, all while Sukuna grumbles something about Jin being the one with love handles. 

“Papa gonna cry,” he claims, continuing to act distraught over the news, trying to get all the sympathy he can from you. “My poor papa.” 

You giggle. “I don’t think he’ll hit your papa, though.”

“He’s gonna EAT my papa!” Yuji stretches his arms out, emphasizing how big of a meal that would be for Sukuna. As if it couldn't get any worse, Yuji finds a random basketball and tries to stuff it under his shirt. “Then his belly will be big like THIS.”

“Stop it,” Sukuna snaps, pointing off into the distance behind the kid. “Get out of here before I barbecue you on that grill Mr. Toji’s using.” 

“Hey!” Yuji gasps. “You can’t do that!”

“You can barbecue anything when you have barbecue sauce, Yuji.” he informs the kid, then notices a mortified Megumi standing off to the side. “You’re next.”

“DAAAADDDDYYYYYYYY.” 

The boys run to Toji at full speed. Yuji thinks it’s a game, but Megumi’s genuinely scared, sobbing as his father picks him. His dad’s obviously confused as to why his son’s crying like someone threatened to kill him. Once Megumi’s able to actually get a full sentence out as he points right as Sukuna. 

If Megumi thought he was going to receive any sort of comfort from his father, he was dead wrong. Toji bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop, even when Megumi starts screaming and hitting him for not being more concerned over something so dire.

“Megumi says you’re not allowed to have any cake,” Toji yells out. 

“I’m taking Yuji home if I don’t get a slice.” 

Sukuna’s response has the two boys whining in the distance. 

“NO barbecue me.” Megumi glares as he tries to strike a deal with the most difficult person he’s encountered so far in his short, yet stressful life. 

“Give me three slices and I won’t barbecue you.”

“But Unkukuna, you’re belly!” Yuji rounds his arms out in front of him, emphasizing how detrimental those extra calories would be for his physique. 

Everyone grows quiet as Sukuna stares him down, wondering who the fuck even taught him that. Whoever it was better pray to god that he doesn’t find out. 

“I’m not gonna be your uncle anymore if you keep talking about my belly.”

Yuji reaches out in despair as he screams, “NOOO.”

“No? You don’t want that?” he asks, fighting back a smile. 

Yuji throws his back dramatically, shaking his head. “NO.”

“That’s what I thought,” he barks, not bothering to hide how proud breaking Yuji down with a singular sentence made him. “Now ZIP IT.”

“KAY’.” 

Yuji looks away for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to calm down, all while sneaking little peeks at Sukuna. 

He quickly looks away after seeing that his uncle’s staring at him, then peeks again. It happens several times, yet his uncle hasn’t moved a muscle once as he continues to just look at the boy like he’s better than him. 

What kind of a sick game is this? 

Naturally, he grows irritated knowing Sukuna is winning whatever game this is, which isn’t fair since he’s already going to have three slices of cake later. Even one slice was pushing it, to tell you the truth. He was too young to put into words why it pissed him off. All he knows is watching Sukuna enjoy good things, that are meant for good people, will never sit right with his spirit.

By the time Sukuna decided to stop staring at the kid as a form of psychological warfare, you had already been awkwardly standing there for quite some time, unsure if you should leave or not. It was either look rude or look too comfortable, neither of which you wanted to come off as.

Sukuna wasn’t mad at you anymore. At least not since Gojo called and told him you were and still are dealing with some mental health stuff. 

He wasn’t planning on talking to you today, either, purely because he didn’t believe he should have to apologize for giving someone a harmless look. But then he caught Yuji trying to get your attention and figured it would’ve been fine since 2 minutes with him would make anyone want to choose peace for the next hour.

You couldn’t tell what he was thinking when your eyes finally met his, but at least he wasn’t giving you that same disgusted look you got at Nanami’s birthday. 

You weren’t the best at starting conversations outside of work, though, and quickly embarrassed yourself with how bad you stuttered while trying to find something to say, which ended up being an apology for tying the kids' shoe. 

In turn, Sukuna looked at you like you were a fucking weirdo. 

“What? No, it’s— that’s fine,” he waves a hand, still thrown off by the apology. “He just goes around annoying anybody he can.”

“Oh– don’t worry, he didn’t annoy me. He's adorable.” 

You suppress a laugh as he shoots you a look saying he’s anything but that. 

“He’s a pain in the ass,” he grumbles, already rubbing his eyes from how tired he is. “We passed around a baseball for an hour before coming here and he’s still running around trying to convince people that I’m a fatass.”

He has to be at least 200 pounds of pure muscle and has the ass of a baseball player, so you neither confirm nor deny the words out of fear that you’d make yourself look stupid again. “He probably just likes your attention.”

“That’s the problem— he’s probably taken 10 years off my life already because of it,” he smiles a little, obviously more fond of the kid that he lets on. 

You avert your gaze as you find yourself smiling as well. “His poor parents.”

“They have good life insurance, he’ll be set.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” you laugh with him until it dies down into another awkward silence. You’ve barely looked at him and try not to think too much about it after the realization. Having a conversation with him was surprising enough. Difficult on your end, too, but you pushed yourself. “How’ve your dad and Jin been?”

“Jin’s been good, he’s—” he huffs out a laugh, “you know he went and made Choso his fuckin’ stepson right?” He openly points at Choso, not very worried about getting caught. 

“Yeah,” you nod, just as surprised by it, more so by the fact that Choso and Yuji and brothers. 

“Well. He’s still going strong with Kaori. Just bought a house,” he struggles to list things worth sharing— aside from the mommy kink, his brother’s pretty boring. Sukuna quickly moves on to Wasuke, who he has no issue talking about. “Old man’s driving me nuts. Says he wants to retire, instead he just takes a bunch of days off and pretends he’s doing me a favor by letting me play boss while he’s gone, so now I’m doing my job and his.” 

“You’re working for the company?”

He sighs deeply. “Yeah.” 

It pains him to say, remembering all that talk about him wanting ‘something of his own’ when he was younger. Now here he is, set to take over daddy’s company. 

“I mean… it’s already there,” you try to offer some words of reassurance, being the one that heard most of the said talk. “All you have to do is maintain it once it’s yours.”  

“Exactly,” his tone changes, less ashamed of pulling the nepo baby card. “I’m not tryna work any harder than I should at this point.”

“Does he pay you extra on the days he’s off, at least?” 

“Fuck no.” He laughs, even though there is nothing funny about being exploited at his grown age. “Yeah— nope— he works me like a fuckin’ dog.” 

Hence why he’s been helping himself to whatever cash is in the old man’s wallet and whatever food he has in his pantry when he visits. He makes good money to begin with, so it’s not like he can’t afford any of it, it’s just the principal. 

He’ll take Wasuke’s toilet paper, too. 

That old man has one year to either give him a raise or retire completely before couches and T.V.s start to go missing. 

“Old man’s been good, though… still kickin’,” he mutters, then stops himself before saying something really fucked up, “What’ve you been up to?”

You shrug as you let out an indecisive hum, knowing you didn’t have much to share. “Nothing really— work usually has me pretty busy.”

He’s well aware of how boring of a life you have, but still tries to push for more details. “Yeah? Suguru says you’re in finance now.”

“Mhm,” you nod, growing shy, “portfolio manager.”

“You spend the day telling people what to do now?” he asks as if he were almost impressed. 

“Not really,” you laugh. “A lot of it’s research, reporting, meeting with clients, I— yeah, I mainly just take care of more of the sensitive stuff. If my manager hat’s on, it’s usually just collecting reports from the other managers or figuring out what’s going on with their teams if they’re not performing the way they need to.” 

He nearly barks out a laugh. 

You look at him with confusion. “What?” 

“So instead of managing a bunch of people, you just terrorize their managers?”

“I don’t terrorize them,” you murmur, shifting in place. “It’s their job to make sure that their teams are performing well and if they aren’t—”

“You ask them why they aren’t doing their jobs,” he finishes your sentence with an amused grin. “Then they sit there for the next hour, trying to come up with an answer for that.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if he has to do the same. “Well— kind of.”

You don’t have time to sit there and listen for an hour, nor do you want to. The longest one went just over twenty minutes before you had to stop her. 

“Listen, Linda— I,” you stopped to think twice about what you were going to say, “I’m just asking why there’s been a dip in the performance, I really don’t need an entire life story for that. Why don’t we take a few steps back— how has your team been?”

“Well… uhm… well… they…” You nodded, thinking it’d encourage her, and it did, but 5 minutes later she went off course to talk about her failing marriage, again. “And then Dave, he—”

“Is Dave a new hire?” 

Her eyes dried right up. “No… Dave is my husband.” 

You knew damn well who Dave was, but she was starting to get on your nerves.

“Okay, let’s talk about your team right now… this is about work— Dave doesn’t work here.” You tried your best to be patient with her, but it was like teaching a kindergartener how to self regulate. “I wanna know things like how everyone’s been mentally— are they eating, are they getting enough sleep, are they taking their breaks? Are they having to work through them?”

She didn’t know. She just wanted to give you a sob story so you’d let her off the hook. So, when she mentioned Dave a third time:

“This isn’t working,” you murmur to yourself as you turn to your computer and start typing. “I’m going to make a little worksheet for everyone, including you. Think of it as a peer review. You’ll have one for each team member and each team member will have one for you. I think that’ll be an easier way to get to the bottom of things.” 

Instead of excusing herself, she stares at you like a deer in headlights.

“There’s no need to wait on me by the way, I’ll have them emailed out to everyone within the next hour.”

On the rare occasion that you do have to ask performance related questions, you send them the same exact worksheet so they have an idea of what you wanted to talk about— which is the only part you mention to Sukuna. He’d probably accuse you of terrorizing Linda when you know you could’ve been ten times worse.

You’re just glad he didn’t ask about any of the other stuff you had to do.

Sometimes you wished you spent your days in Linda’s professional shoes— god forbid you ever had to deal with a man like Dave. Her job was less demanding than yours. More human. Working with others and collaborating with them must be great in terms of keeping you grounded— normal people, that is. 

You wouldn’t consider any of the people you answer to now as normal. The stakeholders, clients, the higher ups, Yaga— they’re all fucking crazy. You couldn’t just pretend like they were normal, you had to match their energy and in some cases, you had to be worse to finish whatever job you were tasked to do, which drove you closer to their territory with each day that passed.

“Do you like it there?” Sukuna looks at you and asks, tone fond and filled with warmth, as if he were proud of you. 

In the same moment you realize that you were only fooling yourself earlier when you tried to believe that he hated you. 

You wish you could turn back time by just a few seconds to change the subject. You didn’t want to answer a question that he clearly wanted a yes to— you’re sure it’d make him feel better about knowing you chose to spend all those years alone, when you had someone would’ve easily stayed by your side. 

You grew stiff, eyes glossing at the question because you hated the real answer to it. 

“Not really,” you murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. “That’s kinda how I feel about most things, though.” 

It was true. You don’t even know why you’re wishing for a job like Linda’s, you always came off as cold and hardly spoke to others before the big promotion. 

He didn’t know what to say to that, he wasn’t even sure if there were any words you could give to someone as apathetic as you sounded when answering. It’s not like he was the type to offer anything encouraging to begin with. Instead, he stayed quiet, comfortable in the silence as he let his own mind run free for a bit. 

Just as you were starting to think you made him uncomfortable—

“Did anyone have to drag you here today?” he asks. 

“No.”

“So you chose to come to soot sprites' birthday?” he asks, as judgmental as ever.

You smile. “I did.” 

He gently rests his hand on top of your head, leaving you with a familiar sense of comfort as he leaned in. “You’re not doing too bad then.” 

“Uncle-Kunaaaaaaa!” The man looks up to see his nephew sprinting towards him. “My tummy growling!!”

“This kid’s always coming up with the most extra ways to say things,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls away. “So you’re hungry?”

Yuji slows down the closer he gets, until he’s skipping towards the man. “Yeah. Mr. Toji says he make chicken sticks.” 

Sukuna looks at Yuji the way he always does whenever the kid decides to rename something. “You mean skewers?”

“Yeah, chicken sticks,” Yuji nods, confidently repeating himself, because Sukuna was obviously wrong, even though Toji said skewers, too. Both men obviously don’t know what they’re talking about. 

The man actually looked to you for help, and given how it’s an issue between a 3 year old rage baiter and a grown man that will make time to argue with a child, you decide to stay out of it. 

“That sounds yummy,” you say to Yuji, and you could feel Sukuna glaring at you for not even bothering to call them skewers, too. “You guys should probably grab some before Suguru arrives, he loves chicken and leftovers.” 

Sukuna lets out a mixture of a scoff and a laugh since it’s true, but if anyone’s taking those skewers home, it’s him. 

Which is why he lets Yuji start to pull him away to get some. 

. . . 

Getting to talk to you more, after being pulled away from Yuji, hardly counted since it was with groups of other people. 

Luckily for Sukuna, your car’s parked right next to his and you’re leaving at the same time he’s trying to get the little brat in his car seat. He’s half asleep and won’t let go— each time he physically tries to pry Yuji off of him, he does this weird muted scream. 

He’s about 2.5 seconds away from wrestling this kid when he hears someone. 

“Bye.” 

It comes off as a little unnatural, but it’s in more of an awkward ‘I don’t know if I should say goodbye to you right now’ way. 

Sukuna turns around. “Oh, wait—” 

His hand slides into his pocket, only to find it empty, then realizes it’s in the pocket of his jacket. The side where Yuji’s on and won’t leave. You stay in the place the whole time, wondering if he’s aware of how funny he looks grumbling to himself as he checks all his other pockets. 

He eventually finds his business card, then rolls his eyes after realizing he’s about to give you a business card, because he’d rather not tell you he already has your number. To add salt to injury, he didn’t even need to pull his phone out, because the goal was to give you his number. 

“Here.” He hands the semi-decent card over for you to take, surprised it’s not more broken down since he’s always leaving them in his pockets, even when he’s throwing his clothes in the washer. “You don’t have to of course, but feel free to reach out if you’re interested in catching up sometime over lunch or something.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” You look at the card, flipping it over a couple times. “Um… I don’t actually… need this, though.”

He stares at you for a moment, wondering if it was just some pathetic, last minute excuse to turn him down. 

“I already have it,” you shyly admit, handing the card back to him as if it were better off going to someone else. “Satoru gave it to me a couple weeks ago. I just wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.” 

“Fair enough.” He shrugs, reluctant to say more— he might be down to catch up, but he’s still not apologizing for his face. “Shoot me a text sometime, then. I wouldn’t mind.” 

“Yeah, I will.” You smile a little, trying to hide a bit of the excitement that was starting to bubble up. “Alright, well— it was nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

. . . . . . 

‘You’re not doing too bad.’

It took around 3 months after the words left Sukuna’s mouth to actually start believing them. 

It’s not like your life was crazy interesting now. It just slowly started to fill up with things you looked forward to over time. Whether it be hanging out with others or simply sitting in your living room with a latte you took your time making. Your apartment started to feel more like a home with each new addition you added to it. You were nowhere near done, but you found yourself enjoying the process of casually looking through items and randomly falling in love with different ones. 

The newest addition was a painting you saw a year ago and decided not to buy, despite how much you loved it. You stood in that gallery for over an hour, convincing yourself that it would never get that much attention from you again once you took it home. You were convinced that it’d find a way to collect dust in a space that felt as sterile as yours, and left it for someone that had a home where it wouldn’t. 

You found it again in a consignment store with a big coffee stain on the side of the canvas. The person who ended up buying it probably got rid of the moment it spilled. They didn’t even bother hanging it up, and most likely had it on some counter before the accident happened. By the time you got to it, it was collecting dust with dozens of other paintings leaned against the wall since they weren’t good enough to be hung up.

You paid less than a quarter of it was originally worth, but a part of you thinks you would’ve purchased it for its original price if it meant you got to take it home. You’ve thought about it nearly everyday since you stepped out of that pristine gallery, after all.  

Sukuna stared at it for a while before hanging it up. You can’t remember how the conversation started, but he came over and put it up for you after finding out you were going to do it yourself, claiming you didn’t have the right tools. You probably don’t. 

It wasn’t until the canvas was up on the wall when he finally asked the question you had been expecting to get after you caught him looking at it funny. 

“That brown stuff on the bottom corner is a part of the whole thing, right?”

“Nope.” 

He just stood there and continued staring at the damn thing with you, waiting silently for an explanation that he soon realized he’d never get on his own.  

“Are coffee stains some new trend I don’t know about?” 

He was dead serious. It was almost funny how he couldn’t believe that you’d just buy something that was stained like that. 

“Nope, not a trend.” 

He continued to stare at you, so utterly confused as to why you want that thing hung up on your wall when you could just walk into one of those art shops and buy a new one. It’s not like you couldn’t afford it, he’s seen some of the shit you own and you’re clearly not bothered by commas on a price tag. 

You eventually told him the story. He probably still didn’t get it, but that didn’t really matter. 

“How cute,” he says rather boredly, wondering why you couldn’t just tell him that in the first place. “You didn’t buy it for more than 50% of its price, right?” 

You shoot him an annoyed look. “I spent almost an entire year sulking over it, do you seriously think the price of it matters at this point? I wanted it.” 

“You probably ended up cursing the damn thing so no one else could have it. People don’t usually spill coffee on paintings.” he says, starting to laugh the longer he thought about it. 

You don’t laugh with him, but he does catch the proud look on your face as you walk away, just happy to have it. He walks after you with another question in mind, hoping now was an okay time since he always forgets. 

“Mind me asking why you’re just now starting to furnish the place?” 

You shrug. “I was just always too tired to get out of bed. If it wasn’t for work, I wasn’t getting up,” you remind him. “Too many choices to make, too. I’d get overwhelmed and stop looking for stuff.” 

“Yeah, there’s a lotta shit out there,” he murmurs, helping himself to one of the white claws in your fridge. 

The can cracks open and he takes a sip, looking over your living room that’s become a bit more filled in since the first time he came over to help you put your couch together. The place was so empty that he automatically assumed you had recently moved in. 

He’s been helpful since Megumi’s birthday— at least he tries to be. 

It never feels forced, most of the time it’s just him asking if you wanna come along to a place he was already going to, just to get you out of the house. 

He also asks how you’re actually doing, a lot— figuring you were just someone that needed some extra support, given how one lonely, difficult semester made you isolate yourself to the point where you started to believe you weren’t worth missing.

Once, he almost asked how you could’ve ever put him into that category. He loved you, both platonically and not platonically. But he never asked, the past is the past and that’s probably just how it is when someone’s spirit’s in the dumps.

He’s far from a therapist and never has any advice to give, but he was surprisingly good at getting you out of your head— pull you back to reality, without the reality check. You’ve obviously had more than enough of them. It’s why he doesn’t bother being harsh with you, at all. Even during the times he’s come off as more straightforward, you don’t feel any judgement or malice behind his words. The last thing he wanted was to say or do something that made you think you couldn’t give him a call. 

It’s probably why you’re so comfortable with having him come over and why you don’t mind telling him certain things, like the fact that you spent most of your free time sleeping at one point. He never bats an eye. He just wants to be around you, like he’s always had.

“Summers’ coming up. Getting anything for the balcony?” he asks, nodding in the direction of its doors. 

You turn your head, looking over at the empty space. “What would I even get?” 

He’s mid-sip when you ask, but hums in acknowledgment. “Some seating, a little table, maybe a fire pit if you’re feeling extra crazy.” 

You fight back a smile, “Oh? Thanks, asshole.”

“You might be a grandma, but I never said there’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“I’m trying not to be, okay.” You give him the finger as you walk to the fridge, hoping he didn’t take the last seltzer. Seconds later you’re cracking one open yourself.

He chuckles at the little pout you get on your face when you’re offended. “I’m just fuckin’ with you— you’re fine.”

“I guess,” you murmur, leaving him in the kitchen to go take a seat on the couch. 

He trails behind you, leaving enough space between the two of you as he takes a seat on the couch he nearly lost his mind trying to put together. The instructions were in a language so uncommon that most people go about their lives without knowing about it.

“What do you mean you guess?” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “Kinda feel guilty for all the years I lost, I wish I could get them back.”

“I bet,” he leans back in his seat. “You ever considered making more time for yourself, now?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Taking some time off. Could be a week, could be a couple months. You could even try working part time for a little. You have a savings, I’m sure you could get away with taking a break.” 

“Oh— yeah, I have actually. The company has really good benefits, though. It’s kinda why I haven’t even tried to leave,” you turn towards him, leaning against the arm rest as you hug your knees. “I’ve been considering asking for a demotion, though.” 

You’re not quite sure how Yaga would handle that. You’ve been coming up with different ideas all month— a hybrid schedule, switching to a 4 day work week, maybe leaving early some days, a demotion. You’re sure taking on another role would have its own difficulties, but it’d be easy to handle compared to all you do now. The workload you have really should  be split between two people, maybe even three. 

“That’d definitely be a lot less work,” he remarks, still shocked at all the shit he has you do. 

“A lot less— I’m hoping Yaga agrees to one of them. If not, I might just find some place else. I could probably take a few months off then. Free time does sound nice.” 

“Yeah you could sleep in, hang out with anyone who’s free, find a hobby, go on a date—“

His last suggestion gets shut down with a laugh. “Yeah, right.” 

“What?” he smirks.

“I suck at dating,” you inform him. “I don’t even know how to anymore.” 

He snorts. “That’s a little dramatic, no?”

“It’s true— last time I went on one was three years ago.”

He raises his brows, then flatly asks, “Three?”

“Don’t judge me,” you grumble. 

“M’not. It’s just— 3 years of completely nothing?”

“God— obviously.” You hide your face in embarrassment. “You are judging me right now.”

“I’m not,” he laughs, taking another sip. “Just a long time to go without having someone take care of you.” 

"Well I slept through most of it anyway so I'm fine,” you roll your eyes, annoyed at how he’d even make a joke like that when he knows you can support yourself just fine without anyone’s help.

“You’re awake right now, though.” 

“So?” you scoff.

“I can take care of you, if you want,” he offers.

“Not funny,” you murmur, just about ready to kick his ass out. 

At first, he’s confused as to why his little offer had you that offended. Then after a minute, it clicks. Since you refuse to look at him, you miss the amused grin on his face after realizing you two are thinking about two entirely separate things in terms of ‘being taken care of’.

You only finally look at him when he gets up from where he’s sitting and there’s a shit eating smirk on his face, making you think he’s just being a dick and leaving.

Then he takes a seat right next to you, leg just barely brushing against yours.

“What are you d—”

“I think you’re a little confused here,” he says a little too calmly, throwing his arm over the backrest and leaning in way too close.

“Listen, I looked forward to hanging up that painting of yours all day, same goes for all the other stuff I’ve helped you out with.” You feel your cheeks start to warm as a result of the low, honeyed tone he’s using on you. “I really like helping you. It makes you a little happier, and with all the assholes I have to deal with everyday, it makes my day a lot better. So, why not just let me do a little more?”

“I don’t— what are you even talking about right now?” Your words come out all nervous and jumbled, failing to stay calm from how close this guy is. 

“I’m talking about all the times I’ve caught you looking at my dick print.”

Your eyes widen in horror and he laughs. 

“Yeah, you’re not slick,” he tucks some hair behind your ear and leans in closer. “C’mon— you’re not even at work right now and your mind’s still all over the place trying to find stuff to be stressed about. Aren’t you tired?”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you hesitate to answer. “I mean— yeah.” 

“Let me fuck you then,” he murmurs, tracing the backs of his fingers down your arm. “You won’t have to think about anything, won’t have to do anything— just gotta take it. Super easy. Sounds fun, huh?” 

“I… I don’t know,” you just barely whisper, shifting in your seat from all the nerves, looking like a deer in headlights.

“I think you do know.” He continues to toy with you as he waits for you to say anything else. Surprise: you never do. 

“I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

You look like you’re about to have a panic attack and it’s adorable. “Stop what?”

“This.” He smiles, pressing a soft kiss right under your ear, humming against your skin, not missing the way it makes your breath hitch. Then he presses another one on your jaw, then another, getting closer to your lips and pulling back right before he does, meeting your glazed over, half lidded eyes. 

He snakes a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you in, making your lips meet his. The first kiss is slow and gentle, letting you warm up to it. You put your legs down trying to get closer, not expecting for it to grow more heated, too. 

An arm wraps around your waist and you're being pulled in to straddle his lap. His big hands roam around your hips and ass as you start to full on make out, grinding you down against something long and hard until you’re desperately panting against each other. 

He gives your ass one last squeeze before finding the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up over your head, rushing to unclip your bra and tossing it in whichever direction the shirt went. A soft gasp slips through your lips once you feel the wet heat of his pierced tongue drag a slow stripe over your nipple, not thinking much about the way Sukuna smiled at you afterwards. 

You should’ve braced yourself for the level of greed you were about to experience. 

Many minutes later, your tits are covered in spit and you’re failing to bite back moans out of self preservation. 

And it’s fucking hard. 

Sukuna’s groaning and dragging a heavy tongue over each nipple 1, 2, 3, 4 times before wrapping his lips around them and starts sucking. He goes back and forth between each, pulling away with a wet, lewd pop before moving on to the next. At first, he’d replace his mouth with his fingers— rubbing, rolling, and pinching on the sensitive bud so it’s not completely neglected while he works on the other one. 

They’re now firmly planted on your hips, because apparently he needs the extra friction. So now your shorts are soaked through and you’re trying not to cum as he continues to push you down back and forth against his cock.

Your fingers are digging into his shoulders, the moans you’re struggling to bite back come out as whines and the one thing that actually pulls one out of you is when Sukuna’s palm cracks down on your ass. 

“Come here.”

He pulls you in by the back of your neck and swallows all the little sounds you try not to make with a kiss messier than the last. 

The air's hot and heavy once he breaks it. A small string of saliva hangs on and then breaks as you pull away, already looking like a mess while trying to catch your breath.  

“Bed?”

“Yeah,” you nod, sounding more desperate. 

“Thought so,” he stifles out a laugh as he suddenly gets up, easily taking you with him as he makes the short walk to your bedroom. 

He sets you down on the mattress before pulling his shirt over his head. The buckle of his belt lightly clinks as he undoes it to take his pants off, leaving just his boxers on that leave little room for imagination. He leans forward, hooking his fingers over the waistband of your soaked fucking shorts, taking them off along with your panties in one go. 

You don’t even get the opportunity to be shy around Sukuna because he's immediately grabbing the backs of your thighs and letting out a low whistle while pulling them apart to get a good look at how wet you already are. 

“Shit— look at you,” he groans. 

Without warning, he dips his head down in between your thighs, and he licks a long, fat stripe up your slit, not missing the extra friction from the metal ball on his tongue. There’s a shit eating smirk on his face when his head comes up, teasing you as he pushes you back further up the bed to make more room for himself. 

“Told you this was fun.”

“Shut up.” You giggle as you watch him get settled back in between your thighs, only for it to die out once he dips his head back down. 

He draws a long sigh out of you once he starts to slowly lap at your sensitive clit. He goes at an unhurried pace, just barely using any pressure and you’re sure he’s just doing it to fuck with you. With the way you are right now, the lazily licks are fucking torture, making you squirm around while you clench around nothing.

The more you move, the tighter his grip around the back of your thighs gets, until you find yourself pinned in place as he finally starts to pick up the pace, adding more pressure until that metal ball starts swiping across your clit like you need it to. You focus on it, until it gets ripped away once you finally feel his tongue press flat against your hole and begins dragging heavy stripes up to your clit. 

Your breathing grows sharp and uneven, hand moving down to his head, locking strands of hair in between your fingers as drawn out moans start spilling past your lips. He goes from pressing his tongue against your entrance to pushing past it, dipping further and further until deciding to just stay there and fuck you with it.

The shallow thrusts have you squeezing and clenching, back arching off the bed, desperate for more. You nearly let out a pathetic cry when he pulls away, but then he fills the empty space right back up with not one, but two of his fingers. They’re long and thick, and he’s curling them in. The pads of his fingers rub right up against that spot inside that has you seeing stars. 

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as he starts to pump them in and out faster, until a light squelch can be heard. “Oh fuuuck.” 

“You like my fingers?” he asks with a low, amused hum. 

You nod. “Feels so good— oh my god.”

“I bet— look at how fuckin’ soaked they are from you.” He pulls them all the way out for you to see, then stuffs them back in. He starts curling faster, thumb pressing your clit and rubbing little circles until you’re clenching and whining. “Yeahh— that’s it, show me how good that feels.”

He keeps hitting your sweet spot until something in you shifts, making you close your legs out of instinct, only for him to keep them open so he can keep going. 

“Oh my god— fuck— wait!” you cry out. 

“What’s wrong, baby? Gonna cum?” Instead of letting up, he goes faster, letting the room continue to fill up with the filthy sounds of his fingers scissoring into your cunt, pushing you over the edge until you give him what he wants. 

And he gets it quick. You let out a sharp cry as you gush around him, finally cumming after holding it in from earlier.

“Fuuck yeah, there you go,” he rasps, fingers slowing down as he works you through it. 

He waits for you to catch your breath before leaning forward and kissing you a couple times, humming with each one. 

“Tired or you wanna keep goin’?” he asks. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath as you answer. “Yeah, keep going.”

“Atta girl.” 

He pushes himself off the bed to take the boxers off and your eyes widen at his cock that’s bigger than you originally thought it’d be. It springs out of his boxers with multiple piercings and precum smeared all over his darkened red tip. 

And of course, you stare for longer than you should.

“You alright?” he asks, sounding cocky as hell, and actually having the right to be. 

Taking your eyes off feels impossible— 3 rows of barbells on the underside of his shaft right below his tip, and another one on the underside of his tip. It almost feels wrong, he’s already long and thick. 

“Yeah— I just— holy shit.” 

“I know.” He says with full confidence as he gets back on the bed and situating himself in between your legs. “Gonna be fun watching you take it.”

He grabs the backs of your knees and spreads your legs further apart, getting a better look at how wet you still are, fighting back a smile knowing it’s from him.

He gives his cock a couple pumps, then looks at you, not sure whether you’re excited or nervous. “You ready?”

You look at him, then back down to the absolute monster he has in his hand, then back up at him. 

“Mhm.”

He stares at you for a few seconds, then casually shrugs. “Alright.”

You’ll get used to it.

He runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, tapping it over your clit a couple times, making you a bit more nervous after feeling the cold metal ball from his piercing nudging at your entrance. 

He pushes in, and you both have the same reaction to how easy it slides in despite how tight of a fit it was. You take in a sharp breath as he starts to sink in, inch by inch, with no resistance, all while feeling an immediate stretch and the added friction from each piercing. 

Once he’s halfway through, he slowly starts to rock his hips back and forth and you find yourself having to bite back on a moan, realizing those piercings were also rubbing back and forth against your walls. 

“You doin’ okay?” he raises a brow, clearly enjoying the sight. 

“You’re so fucking big,” it almost sounds like a complaint.

“I am,” he hums, leaning down and caging you in with his arms. “I’m gonna push the rest in.” 

“How much is there left?”

“You’ll be fine.” 

He thrusts right in and you're letting out a shattered gasp. At the same time, he’s humming in satisfaction since he got to watch the whole thing.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, giving you a moment to get used to how stuffed you are, stealing a few kisses while he’s at it since he’s not entirely an asshole. “Remember what I said, all you gotta do is take it.” 

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s pulling out all the way and sliding back in, working up a pace as he stuffs you over and over again, dragging those small metal balls right over the spot that made your toes curl. 

It still took you a little bit of time getting used to him though, all words dying at your throat once he started to actually fuck you like it was nothing. Feeling betrayed by your body for letting him stretch you so easily like this. 

Each drive of his cock has you moaning and gasping, making you cover your mouth trying to hold them in— something he did not like since he pushed your hand away. 

Then without warning, he shoves two fingers in your mouth. 

“Mmmh— you look good with my fingers shoved in your mouth like this. Now suck.” 

You do as he says, swirling your tongue around his digit a few times before he presses them down it, making you softly moan as you sucked on them. He pulls them out with a wet pop and starts muttering in your ear. 

“Don’t cover that pretty little mouth again, alright?”

Thrust. 

“Fuck— okay,” you whine back. 

“Good girl.” He gives you another rough thrust, pulling another choked noise out of you. “Don’t try to hold out on me thinkin’ snot and tears are gonna turn me off, cry on it if you have to. I like it ugly.” 

At first you wanted to cry from how fucking mean that was, only to realize that urge to cry may have just been from that one spot he wouldn’t stop hitting, which eventually stopped being overwhelming once you finally get used to him.

“See? That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” he asks, though it was more of a condescending remark rather than a question. “Bet this feels good now, huh?”

“It’s been a while,” you say in an attempt to defend yourself. 

“Yeah, no kidding— pussy’s fuckin’ tight,” he says all smug, getting harder at just the thought. “Feels good like this.”

He brings your legs together and throws them over his broad shoulders. Moans start to spill out of your mouth the moment he starts hitting at an angle that manages to hit your clit too. His hips crack against your ass as he picks up the pace, slick spreading past your thighs as he pounds down deeper, bed steadily rocking from all the force behind each thrust.

“Shit— look at how much of a mess you made,” he groans once the wet squelch between you becomes unavoidably louder. “Did you squirt or somethin’? You’re fuckin’ soaked.” 

“No. I don’t— nghh— who cares, just keep going.”

He looks at you in amusement, keeping the same pace as he pushes further back against your legs to go deeper, making you nearly squeal. “Is this what’s got you lying about squirting?”

“I didn’t squirt,” you say with an airy laugh. “Fuuck— just feels good.”

“Right,” he mutters slowly as he pushes back against you even more, slowing down until he’s just grinding against you. “What about this?” 

It’s a full blown mating press at this point.

“Mhm— yeahh.” Your lips curl into a small smile. “Better, actually.”

“Good,” he hums. 

He leans down to press his lips against yours while slowly picking up the pace again, soaking up all the sighs and soft moans he pulls out of you from the deep strokes of his cock, letting the base of it rub against your clit while his tip mushes against that special little spot inside.

The slow, lazy kisses go on for as long as they can, and for you, it’s when your teeth threaten to clash against each other each time his hips snap against you. By then, Sukuna’s going harder. He pulls all the way back, then drives back in— the force behind each thrust growing greater than the last.

“F-fuck— Kuna, that’s—” 

“What? Too much?”

“No, no— keep going,” you damn near start pleading with him, feeling a little bit of pressure start build. “Don’t stop— please, I think I’m gonna—“

Your cunt stretches helplessly around him, feeling every inch and vein he stuffs into you over and over again as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The sight’s nothing but obscene as he fills the room with the sounds of him pounding you senseless. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, honeyed and condescending. “Can’t take it?”

“I don’t– fuck– I don’t know.” Your words are cut off by sharp sudden gasps, feeling something unfamiliar build up. It’s not until he gives you one particularly rough thrust when tears start streaming down your cheeks. 

“You poor thing.” If you hadn’t known any better, he sounded quite pleased with himself. He leans down to lick a fresh tear streaming down your cheek before going back to business. “Look at you, getting fucked so good that it’s making you cry. You’re probably close, aren’t ya?” 

You take in a sharp breath, wondering how bad it would be if you did. You already thought you came. Instead, Sukuna’s right and he’s letting one of your legs back down, leaning in close and cradling your head while he continues to absolutely ruin you. 

“Cum for me,” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to your clit and starts rubbing over it with just the perfect amount of pressure, making clenching like fucking crazy. “Thaaat’s it— c’mon. Give it to me.”

He drags his heavy cock all the way out with a wet schlick, then slams back in— again and again and again— pushing you over the edge until your nails are digging into his back and you’re breaking out into a cry. 

You’re gushing around his cock and he keeps drilling into you like he’s trying to work as much as he can out of you— just powering through it. This is the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life, you’re fucking sobbing and he’s just encouraging it with the way he licks a stripe up your cheek, groaning about how fucking hot you look crying on his cock. 

“Oh my g-god— I-I can’t— ffuck it’s too much—” your nails start to claw down his back as he drives you into overstimulation. 

“I know— I’m so fuckin’ close,” he husks out, and you can tell he’s not entirely all here anymore. “Shhiittt almost there— keep squeezing me like that, baby— yeahh just like that,” his hips desperately slam into you, deep groans start to rumble out of his chest as he chases his own relief. “Fuck— ffuuck.”

He lets out the most drawn out guttural groan once it hits him. He slams in, burying his cock deep inside of you and flooding your walls with so much cum that it starts to spill out while he grinds every last drop of it out. 

He pulls out but keeps you caged in underneath you, pressing lazy kisses against your lips with short uneven breaths in between, skin damp and glistening from sweat. It takes a moment to come back to reality, and for someone that doesn’t even know where to start, you’re surprisingly comfortable with the silence between you. 

It eventually ends, though. You’re the first to break it. 

“Did you still want me to go out on those dates you were talking about?” 

Immediately he lets out a breathy laugh. “If you don’t mind me trying to fight them, then sure.”

. . . . . . 

Six Months Later 

You walk step inside Sukuna’s office, giddier than usual with the small pink cake you bought after handing in your resignation letter to Yaga. His feet are kicked up on the cherry oak wood desk and you doubt he’s doing anything work related. But he’s the boss, who’s going to yell at him? He does sit up straight once he sees you, though, ready to hear the news. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to hear it right away since you just had to look at the wall shelves and catch sight of something that wiped the smile off your face. 

“Why is Yuji’s face crossed off in that photo?”

He rolls his eyes, “don’t worry, it’s whiteboard marker.” 

“But why would you do that?” you continue to interrogate Sukuna, because unlucky for him, you two are the best of friends now. 

Jin visited him earlier today and brought Yuji along. He started off the visit strong by pointing to Sukuna and asking his father ‘Does Uncle have a reezding hairline, too?’ and eventually took a look at the protein snacks he had in the corner, which made him look Sukuna up and down, and go “you eat too much.”

Sukuna rubs his temple as he grows annoyed again. “He called me fat and bald, so I told him we weren’t family anymore and crossed his face out to prove it.”

Despite the words that come out of Yuji’s mouth, the kid loves him in all of his grumpiness. 

“So you made him cry?” 

Yuji cried so hard that started dry heaving and nearly threw up. “No,” he grimaces. “He just pouted and said sorry.” 

The apology being, ‘No, PLEASE! I’m sorry, I'm SORRY,’ and, ‘I LIED— huhuhuhu my tummy hurts, yuji gonna frow up— I’m sorry’.

You look at him rather suspiciously as you grab a couple forks from his little snack station in the corner, but let it go this time. 

He takes your silence as an opportunity to change the subject completely. “How’d your boss take the news?” 

“Oh my god, he was distraught,” you reveal, still surprised over how panicked he looked when you turned in your resignation letter. 

He waves a dismissive hand, believing it’s the least he deserved for not trying to meet you halfway when trying to cut some of your hours down and refusing to demote you. 

“You’ll forget all about it after sleeping in tomorrow,” he reassures you before taking his first bite of cake. 

“Yeah— I,” you give a nervous laugh, “okay, so about that.” 

He stops chewing and just stares at you. 

“I’m gonna stay with them.” 

“What?” he almost snaps. “We’re going on vacation in a few weeks. I— what the fuck? What did you get a fuckin’ cake for then?!”

“We’re still going! He’s giving me that time off.”

“How charitable of him.” He snorts out a bitter laugh, then goes back to be mad. “I thought you hated that fuckin’ place?!”

“I did! But he offered to shorten my hours and said I could work from home.” 

That piece of information does nothing for Sukuna, who is grumbling profanities under his breath, acting like he’s the one being forced to stay there. His words start going in one ear and out the other after telling yourself he’ll get it eventually, and take a bite out of the victory cake since you also got a small raise, despite the decrease in hours. 

“Are you listening?”

“What?” you look up and ask, still chewing on the food. 

“Tch– nothing.” Sukuna takes his aggression out on the cake by stabbing the damn thing when getting more. “He shoulda’ given you all that before you tried to quit if you were that important. Hell— he shouldn’t have dumped all that work on you in the first place.”

“He’s a greedy old man that’s hungry for money,” you remind him. “What else would you expect from him?” 

Sukuna’s delusional and does this thing where he just assumes the world sees you the same way he does, and then when it doesn’t, he gets offended. Last week at the grocery store, someone reached for the produce in front of you and he snapped at them for not saying excuse me. Then he snapped at them again for not having any patience, given how you would’ve eventually moved.

“Whatever,” he gets up from his seat to grab a water from the mini-fridge and takes a sip, but before sitting back down, he stops next to you and gets at eye level. “If Mr. Crabs calls you while we’re gone, I’m ripping that phone out of your hand and cussing him the fuck out, you hear me?”

You suppress a laugh. “Loud and clear.” 

“Good,” he says, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Proud of you.”

The sincerity in his tone pulls a smile out of you. “Thanks.”

He glances at the door, notices it’s locked, then places a hand on your thigh when the sudden realization that there was no one that could fire him hits him. 

He gives it a squeeze. You already know what he’s thinking.

“Seriously? You can’t wait until we're at home?”

“I’ll make it quick.”

In bed, Dex still remained rather sterile, and it reflected in his habits and preferences

At first, Dex was hesitant; he hadn't thought about sex often, especially when the swarm of paranoia cluttered his fractured mind, but when he did, he was too insecure that he wasn't enough for them.

Dex delayed it as much as he could, until one night, when he was picking you up for a date, and you opened your apartment door wearing his navy blue sweater - you two missed your dinner reservation, and received a noise complaint.

Initially, Dex held back, and you felt it in his touch: he was stiff, hesitant, and at times, you swore his hands were trembling when he was placing them on your hips. He only liked wearing condoms because the thought of ejaculation inside of a person was too messy.

Dex came around to it after you begged for him to fill you up; now, he doesn't want it any other way, and cums faster when either of you talk about filling your insides with his seed.

Dex still hesitates to touch you at times, and winces at the bruises you'd have the following morning.

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry." His voice was small when he said it, and his finger barely brushed against the purplish blue hue of the bruise on your outer thigh. You swore a kiss would make it better, so he gave you a million. Then a million more.

When he is submissive (which is more often than you initially thought), he becomes a blubbering mess: his eyes are often forced shut, and his throat feels like it was stuffed with cotton after begging and whimpering for long enough;

however, when he is dominant (usually frustrated at someone who looked your way, or missed you entirely too much), Dex bends you at the waist. It doesn't matter how much you weigh - Dex has enough strength to make you feel weightless and featherlike, lifting you from the ground with a triumphant huff of his breath, and pressing you against the nearest surface.

"Mine." He grunted between low moans and heavy breaths. "You're only mine."

Dammed be the overwhelming desperation that makes his wet cock slip out of you because of a needy, clumsy movement, causing Dex to grunt softly beneath you. Before you can even catch your breath, he blindly searches for his cock, shoving it roughly back into your swollen ruined pussy, ripping a shaky moan from your lips.

His hips resume their punishing rhythm, pounding upward in vicious thrusts that have you tensing and arching off his chest in a poor attempt to escape his overheated body. But his hands are tight on your hips, holding you captive as his cock rubs relentlessly against your G-spot.

Sobs, gasps, and small whines are all that escape your parted lips while you're just trying to beg him for a tiny break.

You have no idea how many times you've come, how many times you've dripped all over his cock until you've soaked the sticky sheets, all you know is that Dex hasn't come and seems to be on the agonizing edge for a long time, just pounding and leaking and whining and cursing because he can't fill you up and he's bringing you to his torture, ruining you as he's at it.

The sounds he makes in your ear are nothing but broken, pained with frustration as he sweats profusely and his freckled skin is deeply flushed, pretty blush trailing down past his shoulders and you feel another orgasm building inside you as his hand slides from your hip to your cunt, his middle finger beginning to make tight little circles on your swollen clit.

“Dex! Wait—wait,” you huff, whining, instinctively closing your legs, but you hear him refuse behind you, and a loud smack of his four fingers against your soaked cunt sends you shuddering, your thighs opening again thanks to the delicious sting.

“Open—” he commands, muffled in that hoarse voice, “keep them open, come on, come on baby, don’t close them, I don’t want it.” His voice is weary, desperation dripping from its tone, and you're sobbing, gripping his wrist because your clit is so sensitive to the touch. His hips don’t stop, his finger continues to abuse your flesh up and down, side to side, pressing while making circles, and he notices you squeeze his weeping cock tighter when he puts you under a restraint.

He starts thrusting rapidly into your cunt, some strokes of his finger softer than others, causing you to gasp his name and try to move your hips away from him, but he's still frustrated beneath you, accelerating his thrusts and slapping your pussy harder until the sound is so obscene and wet that you reach other orgasm, pain and pleasure merging into one, and you clench around him, coaxing a curse from him as the wave of pleasure tear your feverish tight body apart.

“Shit! Oh fuck—Ah, again, again” he sobs eagerly, feeling himself almost finish again but going back to the torture of not being able to, there are tears welling on his eyes and he's keeping his hand on top of your cunt as he fucks you, and the overwhelming stimulation is making you try to escape again, still fresh and tired from your orgasm and when his cock slips out of your quivering entrance again, he lets out a muffled sound, complaining and unable to bear how your body keeps trying to get away.

Regardless of your silent protests, he places his forearm around your neck, pressing against your throat roughly, causing your body to freeze on top of his. Your hands move up to grip his arm, his bicep, pawing and gripping at the muscles as you feel strange sensations rising towards your bladder and you force your throat to work, trying to spit out pitiful excuses of words as your body burns.

“S—Stop, Dex, please, please, I feel—” you mutter, a smack knocking the wind out of you, and you regain your voice while he's trying to merge with you. “M’gonna pee…” you sob, so embarrassed. “Dex, I’m gonna pee—please!” and you're not even sure if you're actually going to pee or it is just squirt, either way, both mean a mess on top of him, both mean shame when you're so overwhelmed and weak to think about the sweet benefits.

A burning tremor runs through every part of Dex's body at the your words full of panic and he has to swallow hard to speak.

For a split second, his thrusts cease and a quiet gasp escapes his lips. “Yeah? Are you sure?” he begins, his free hand traveling down your body until it rests on your stomach, and he's purring, talking again. “Do you promise?” he whispers eagerly, pressing his palm hard right over your lower belly, and you squirm, tensing as he starts moving his hips upward again quickly, stealing your breath and making your cheeks burn with shame.

He never thought about stopping.

You can feel his cock twitching inside you, intrigued by what's coming next. So hard and eager for it, Dex is humming when he feels you just can't take it anymore and he lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh, so excited he's lost his mind and completely forgot about his own impossible climax.

Now you're letting your tears flow, trying to muffle your pitiful little cries as you're feeling your limit break faster than you can bear and Dex is babbling softly in your ear, making it so much worse for you. His forearm finally lets you breathe and suddenly he's using both hands, letting them rest on your bladder, maintaining such pressure that you arch your back, trying not to make a fucking mess on top of him as your chest rises an falls because the sick bastard is kneading at your stomach, milking you.

“It hurts, right? The restraint... Worst part is that you're doing it to yourself,” he purrs amusedly, gently pounding upwards, nothing compared to what he's doing on your belly. “I'm not even doing it anymore... You love to restrain yourself when you're with me. It's sad.” he whispers and you sob because it hurts so much and he's right.

“My girl, you make me feel bad for this. But you won't leave until you do it.”

© machiavelliam | masterlist | 02 / 05 / 26

I LOVEEE DOING THAT DUMB SHIT WITH ENDINGS OMGGGGGG 😭😭😭WHO WANT ME😭😭😭😭

he can’t stop replaying your last words, your coldness cutting deeper than any punch. the way you said you needed space, freedom from him. freedom from the chaos he carries like a second skin. but the truth is, he’s not ready to let go. not yet.

tonight, something inside him snaps. a decision he knows is reckless, dangerous, but inevitable. he can’t stand another night without touching you, without reminding you, and himself, that you’re still his.

he’s dressed for the night like a shadow of himself. black tactical pants, worn but functional. a fitted black hoodie with the hood pulled low, the fabric soft but concealing. on his feet, silent black military boots that grip the metal of the fire escape like a second skin. his mask — the old black one with the angular lines — covers his face, hiding the desperation in his eyes but not the raw need twisting in his gut.

he moves with practiced precision, scaling the fire escape like a ghost, every metal step cold beneath his fingertips. the city hums quietly around him, the distant sirens and buzz of late-night cars fading behind the wall of silence he wraps himself in.

the window to your apartment looms ahead, half open, just like you always left it when you went to sleep. he slides the glass up with barely a sound, muscles coiled and tense as he slips inside.

dex stands just inside your apartment, the faint glow of the city bleeding through the cracked window you left open, a tiny flicker of hope that maybe this is some sign. that you’re still waiting for him in your own way, even if the silence says otherwise.

his heart pounds, heavy and erratic, like it’s fighting against the weight of what he’s about to do. every instinct screams at him to stop, to turn back and respect the space you’re trying to carve out for yourself without him, but some desperate part of him clings to the fact that the window was open—maybe you wanted him here. maybe.

inside, the air smells like you—your shampoo mixing with the faint hint of the lotion you always keep on your nightstand. his pulse pounds as he takes in the quiet sanctity of your bedroom, the soft rise and fall of your sleeping form beneath the blankets.

this is his moment. the place he’s been craving, stalking, aching for. and now, finally, he’s here.

you’re lying in your bed, skin warm beneath the thin cotton sheets, the soft curve of your tummy just visible, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath. your brown nipples, dark against the smoothness of your skin, catch the faint moonlight slipping through the blinds. your thighs spread lightly beneath the covers, familiar and soft, everything dex always loved.

you don’t hear the door open, don’t feel the weight cross your threshold — but dex is here. masked and fully clothed, the smell of his cologne and sweat lingering around him, he moves carefully, reverent almost, like you’re some fragile treasure he’s terrified to break.

he kneels beside the bed, watching you sleep, voice low, a rasping whisper. “you’re so fucking beautiful.”

he then climbs on the bed, over you. his hands twitch, uncertain, hovering just inches from your skin before he finally lets his fingertips ghost over your bare shoulder, trembling like a prayer. he’s terrified that the smallest wrong move will shatter this fragile moment—your breath, your sleep, the thread of trust left between you. the warmth of your skin under his touch pulls him in, raw and tender and achingly familiar, and he leans closer, letting his face bury in the crook of your neck, drinking you in. your scent is everything he’s missed—honeyed, soft, the way it clings to the curve of your collarbone and wraps around him like a lifeline.

his hands move up, trembling but reverent, to cup your full breasts, his thumbs brushing over your clothed nipples, aching under his touch. he wants to worship you like a temple, slow and soft and careful, but the hunger beneath that tenderness claws at him, pulling him deeper into desperation. his lips find the skin below your ear, sucking lightly, murmuring your name like a prayer, a plea.

his hands reach out first — trembling as they brush your thick thighs, tracing the soft curve of your tummy, the part he always loved. his fingers curl around your waist, pulling you closer to him in the dark.

he pulls back, sliding his hands beneath your shirt.

then his lips find your chest — full tits rising and falling with your steady breath, brown nipples hardening beneath his mouth. he sucks one gently, teeth grazing the sensitive skin, reverent and needy.

his voice cracks when he whispers, “i missed you,” barely loud enough for you to hear, but it’s everything he feels—an ache that’s been gnawing at his ribs for too long. he’s torn between worship and want, between fear of breaking you and the primal need to claim you again. he hesitates, his hands trembling on your skin, caught in the storm of his own conflicted desire, draw a quiet moan even from your sleep.

they wander, worshiping your curves, the way your body fits like a goddamn prayer beneath his fingertips. his voice starts to ramble, desperate and tender, a broken confession whispered against your skin.

“you were waiting for me,” he murmurs, lips barely grazing your skin. “i know you were waiting, baby. i’m here now.”

he knows this isn’t like before. you’re not waiting, not really—not now. but he’s desperate to believe that maybe this touch, this breath, this moment is still yours. and slowly, trembling, he moves lower, trailing kisses and soft sucks along your neck, your collarbone, until he’s pressing his forehead against your skin, silent except for the frantic beating of his own heart.

you shift slightly but don’t wake, his worship continued — his mouth finding your other nipple, sucking harder, rougher now, his desperation bleeding through every touch.

his cock presses hard against your thigh, strained in his belt.

dex’s hands slide lower, over your belly—soft, just a little round where he always loved to rest his palm—before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the slick heat between your thighs.

he pushes your shorts down slowly, loving the way your skin reacts even without waking. thick thighs spread, exposed and soft, waiting. breathing shallow, fingers trembling where they ghost the curve of your hip beneath the blanket.

slowly, reverently, dex slips his fingers beneath the edge of your panties and shifts them aside, his breath catching when he sees the warmth glistening between your dusky thighs.

he slides a hand beneath your body, lifting your hips gently and after unbuckling his pants, he presses the tip of his cock through your slick folds. you’re still asleep, he lines himself up, hand stroking gently down your thigh, grounding himself. and then — with a low, shaky sound — he pushes in, slow and deep, his whole body trembling as your warmth welcomes him like home.

his voice breaks in a low, trembling whisper. “i love you. please ever don’t leave me again.”

he fucks you slow at first, savoring the feel of you so warm and tight, the way your body yields beneath his. then faster, desperate, nearly choking on his own need.

his hands cup your cheeks, thumb stroking tenderly as he buries himself deeper, moaning your name like a prayer.

you stir—eyes fluttering open.

“dex? what the… what are you doing?” you ask, voice raw, half-dreaming.

dex’s mask hides his face, but his voice is soft, trembling, pleading. “you were waiting for me… you always used to. you said i could always find you in your sleep. remember?”

he rocks into you again, deeper, harder this time — like the rhythm itself is an anchor.

“i know you still wanted me. i know you were waiting.” his voice is rough, torn at the edges. “i watched you fall asleep. no one else is here. it’s still me. it’s always me.”

his hand moves up to your throat, not squeezing — not yet — just holding, thumb stroking along your jaw like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

you’re wet, so fucking wet for him, even half-asleep, and he takes it like proof. like permission. like you were aching for this too.

his hips grind in deeper, a soft whimper catching in his throat when he feels your walls tighten.

“god, i missed this pussy,” he groans. “so fucking soft—always take me like you were made for it.”

your breath catches again, half from his words, half from the way his cock keeps hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. he’s still fully clothed, the texture of his hoodie rubbing against your exposed stomach, the weight of him holding you down in the way you used to love.

“why did you leave me?” his voice cracks as he thrusts into you, slow and deep, his mask damp against your skin. “why the fuck did you walk away?”

you blink up at him, breath hitching, the stretch of him inside you grounding and unbearable all at once. you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know — but because saying it out loud might shatter something permanent.

“don’t… don’t do that.” you plead.

“don’t shut me out. you said i could come to you. you said i could have you like this.” he begs, almost choking on it.

your hands come up, fingers brushing his jaw beneath the mask, the heat of his skin trembling under your touch. “i didn’t leave because i stopped loving you,” you whisper. “i left because you looked at me like i was… pure. like i was something holy…i couldn’t take it anymore.”

his rhythm falters.

“and i’m not, dex,” you breathe, lips parting around the truth. “i’m not that. i’m fucked up. selfish. angry. i’ve done things—thought things—i didn’t want you to see.”

he lets out a ragged sound, like a sob and a moan tangled together. “don’t say that. you’re mine. you’re everything.”

you shake your head against the pillow, tears catching in your lashes. “i couldn’t keep letting you love me like i was some perfect thing. it felt like lying.”

he thrusts deeper, desperate, his gloved hand coming up to wrap around your throat with a gentleness that shouldn’t make sense. “then don’t be perfect,” he growls, forehead pressing to yours. “be broken. be angry. be fucking cruel. just don’t leave me again.”

your eyes lock — and there’s nothing left to hide.

you reach up without thinking, fingers brushing the side of his mask. “take it off…”

he stills — just for a second. then he presses deeper, choking on a breath. “you sure?”

you nod, eyes meeting the black fabric. “i want to see you. all of you.”

his hand lets go of your throat just long enough to pull the mask up and off. his face is flushed, eyes glassy with emotion, jaw clenched like he’s holding back something dangerous.

you cup his cheek, and he leans into it like a starving man.

“you came back,” you whisper, and there’s no anger in your voice. just heat. just heartbreak and admiration.

“i never left,” he says, voice shaking. “you tried to lock me out, but you’re still mine. i know you are.”

his hand returns to your throat, squeezing just enough now to make your breath hitch, his other palm sliding down to your stomach, pressing gently where he’s filling you so deep.

you whimper, thighs tensing as he starts fucking you harder now — no less loving, just desperate, rougher, his control slipping.

“say it,” he pants. “tell me you’re still mine.”

you can barely breathe, barely think with how full you are, how he’s choking you and touching you and claiming you like you’re his goddamn oxygen.

“baby,” you whimper, softly, like it’s sacred. “i’m yours. i’m so fucking yours.”

“i’m not going anywhere ben…not now. not ever again.” you promise, body clenching around him.

a strangled moan tears from his throat.

and you don’t say anything — not with words. just a gasp, a moan, the way your legs wrap tighter around him. the way your body arches into his like your skin still knows the shape of him even after all that distance.

you squeeze around him again, and that’s all it takes for him to break.

his body convulses as he spills into you, hard, messy, overwhelmed. his head drops to your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, clinging to you, his breath hitching like he can’t get enough air.

and even after, he doesn’t pull away. just breathes you in, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other around your waist like he’s never letting go again.

a few moments pass. after catching his breath, he tears away from the crook of your neck, for a moment, he just stares—like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face, to convince himself this is real.

you smile — tired, aching, you still look at him like he hung the stars. your palm presses to his cheek.

“hi,” you whisper, like it’s the first time. like you’re seeing him all over again.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a slow, shaky smile curling at the edge of his lips. “hi.”

you lean up, kissing him so slow and sweet it makes his chest cave. no lust. no desperation. just the kind of softness that says stay. he kisses you again — slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world now. and when he finally pulls back, you whisper against his mouth :

“i missed you.”

You return to the shared apartment expecting to find Dex cleaning his gear at the kitchen table or rummaging in the kitchen. Instead, the place is silent. Dex had left earlier, saying he had something to handle alone, but he’d be back later for date night. Now, the oven clock’s green digits blink 5:30 at you. Which technically isn’t too late, and while you’re aware Dex is capable of handling himself, a frown tugs across your lips.

An uneasy hour slips by with no word from Dex. Finally, you allow the worry to win. You call him twice, only hearing the hollow click of voicemail both times. You send a string of texts, unable to hide the urgency. Yet no response comes from him.

Waiting grows unbearable. You grab your things and head out to find Dex. The city offers no clues or whispers about Bullseye or Dex. The loud AVTF agents at every corner say nothing about him. When your phone vibrates, hope flares, then dies. It's just Matt checking if you're still coming tonight. You concede knowing that if Dex wanted to be found, you would have gotten to him by now, so instead you decide to help Matt.

Imagine the surprise when you’re at one of Kingpin's warehouses, and you turn the corner, only to face your (missing) boyfriend’s muscled back.

His dark blue suit stretches tight while he slams an agent to the ground, said agent already a casualty of Bullseye. You spot him first, giving you the advantage. Irritation flares in your chest, fueling more adrenaline.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

He turns quickly, flames igniting around his forest colored irises at the sight of you, “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You working with Murdock, behind my back, now?”

“It wouldn’t have been behind your back if you had picked up the fucking phone today!” You drive the butt of a knife hard into the ground. A loud thud marks its flight toward Dex’s face. He blocks it with his own knife, but you seize that moment to fling a second blade, barely grazing his suit. It only leaves a paper cut like sting on his skin.

“Are you serious right now?” His growls as he stalks toward you. Each powerful step sets your heart pounding. He’s all unleashed tension, muscles rippling like water, and the heat in his gaze nearly knocks you off balance. But before he can reach you, another voice cuts through the moment.

“Could you two please continue this lovers' quarrel after we’ve made it out of here?” Matt shouts, his voice strained as he takes down an AVTF agent.

Neither of you wavers. The space between you crackles with electric tension, fierce eye contact holding you both hostage. Your face tightens into a deep scowl before you stomp away, energy thrumming painfully in your veins.

It doesn’t take long for you to see Dex again. On your way to the meetup location, you find him. A terrifyingly serene figure in the chaos that unfolds around him.

Something metal bounces around, pinging off of different points, before it finds its resting spot in someone’s skull. Multiple agents simultaneously fall like dominoes as Dex’s small blades spin through the air. His movements remain unrushed, precise, and controlled.

A flame of desire flares in you as you watch his sharp eyes zero in on his target. You love watching him calculate the right angle for the weapon's trajectory. The act never fails to leave your breath a little heavy and knees a little weak.

An agent that had somehow missed the full reign of Bullseye stands up, aims his gun directly at Dex’s head, his hand tenses seconds from pulling the trigger, but nothing happens.

In a split second, before you even realize it, you’ve already neutralized the agent. As your eyelids flutter shut from the warm spray hitting your face, the unmistakable coppery tang of blood floods your mouth. When you open them, the world freezes, each second dragging while Dex’s blood-hungry gaze takes in the sight of you. Standing there, weapon in hand, covered in the blood of a random agent, all for him. All because you cared for him, you had dirtied yourself up for him.

Black pupils swallow his irises until they’re nothing but tiny circles, all while his chest heaves from his breathing amping into heavy pulls. In mere moments, his broad body is in your space. Immediately, everything fades from your brain.

Dex pulls the lower half of his mask up to his nose with a large, veined hand. Pale, scarred skin stands out against his deep blue suit. He grabs your jaw with the same hand, immobilizing you. While his tongue wets his lips, your gaze follows the movement.

“You killed that agent.” The huskiness sends a pulse through you.

“I’m aware. He had a gun pointed at your head.”

“I would have dealt with it.”

“Yeah, but I did it for you.” There’s no condescending tone, no annoyance between the lines, just blatant devotion to your man.

Dex’s eyes get glossy in a way you’ve seen many times before. It’s different than the murderous gaze he gives his opponents or the look of disinterest he wears in public. It’s vulnerability, bare and electric, a look usually confined to your apartment. Now, surrounded by chaos, it feels like a dizzying, overwhelming confession, leaving you breathless.

“You just killed someone for me.”

“I’d do it again.” At your words, long fingers dig into your face.

He bends, getting his face level to yours. Then drags his hot, damp tongue across your blood-stained skin, drawing a moan from you as your eyes roll back. He repeats until the blood’s gone, then slips his tongue between your lips. The thick mixture of his spit and the blood he’d collected slides from his tongue, settling heavily on yours.

Pulling back just enough to see your mouth, he whispers. “Swallow it.”

You follow his command with ease, even showing off your empty mouth afterward. His smile grows sinister from your display. In that moment, you become aware of how wet you are as another wave of arousal washes over you. Dex readjusts his balacalva, gently taps your jaw, then continues to the rendezvous point like nothing had just transpired. Taking a moment to compose yourself, you wait for your knees to stop shaking before you follow after him.

​

After what feels like forever, you’re back at the apartment. Dex stands with his back pressed firmly against the front door, visibly vibrating, with an ever-growing tent forming in his pants. His eyes, blown out again, peer at you from below his brows. A blush has spread across his cheeks and over the tips of his ears. Sandy blonde hair clings to his forehead from sweat, while some locs spike in retaliation from being in the balaclava all night. You don’t look much better than him. Pupils blown, a flush on your face, thighs clenching together, and you bite on your bottom lip, waiting in anticipation. You shift slightly, the feeling of his gaze becoming too much for you to handle in your current state.

Dex charges first. Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You take large strides backward into your bedroom, keeping the space between the two of you. Dex wasn’t usually too rough a lover, but tonight, tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way his frenzied eyes screamed out to the animalistic part of your brain, or maybe it was the way his smile had looked just slightly off all night.

He trudges into the bedroom after you. The walls rattle from the door slamming behind him.

“You were very mean to me today.”

“Me? You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried that something could have happened to you, and I had no way of knowing. But sure, I was mean.”

Acting like you hadn’t said anything, he continues, “Not only did you go behind my back to do something, but with Matt Murdock of all people? And of all days, too, it’s almost like it was on purpose.”

You ignore him, not wanting to entertain his delusions. He continues lecturing during his approach. You ease backward toward the other side of the bed.

“Then, when you do see me, you slice me open,” He shrugs his cut shoulder towards you. “That was very, very mean of you. I’m out there risking myself for your little friend Murdock, and that’s the thanks I get from you?” He gets more condescending the longer he goes on. Suddenly, he lunges, long fingers coming within inches of grabbing you. Instinct kicks in, you jump, scrambling up onto the bed.

Laughing sarcastically you chastise him, “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic. That little slice is quite literally the smallest wound you’ve ever had. It’s more of a warning than a wound.”

Dex, with unfiltered enjoyment, watches your legs wiggle from the unstable platform of the mattress while you dodge his fake attempts at grabbing you. He chuckles, low and rough. “A warning for what?”

“That I could do more damage if I wanted to.” You don’t intend for it to come out as cocky, but it does.

There’s a brief standstill before Dex lunges, his hands gripping your calves. He yanks your legs out from under you, making you slam down onto the bed. A squeal leaves you. Quickly, he pulls you towards him, wrapping you up in his thick arms, keeping you flush against his chest.

He drops his voice to a whisper as he places his mouth beside your ear. “Oh yeah? You gonna hurt me, honey? Slice me up real nice?”

The hair on your neck stands on end, goosebumps span your body.

“Is that what you want, Dex?” you ask, your voice a low, breathy challenge when you meet his gaze.

He pauses, lips twitching as he considers your question, eyes darting over your face. “Nah,” he finally says, the word drawn out, a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth. “I want you to apologize to me for how you acted today. Apologize for hurting me, apologize for going out with Murdock, apologize for it all. That’s what I want.” His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it.

Giving theatrics to the moment, you thrash against his hold, feigning resistance, knowing exactly how to push his buttons. “No,” you spit out, jaw set, eyes narrowed in defiance.

Dex lets out a low laugh, tightening his grip just enough to hinder your movements. “Now, don’t be a brat. I was going to let you off easy, but if you want to keep up this attitude, it’ll be worse.” His voice drops, threaded with warning.

You stand your ground, thrashing harder for show. “Let me go. I’m not apologizing for shit.”

He leans in, breath warm against your ear, voice barely above a whisper. “Ah, that’s okay. I don’t need your mouth to apologize just yet. I’ll settle for getting it from your body.”

Dex tugs your shirt over your head, but keeps it taut across your arms, letting it keep you immobilized. He shoves you hard enough that you hit the bed with a padded thud. He wastes no time in stripping off the remaining clothes. Using a knife, he slips it under the center of your bra, tugs the blade towards him, shredding the fabric easily. A groan slips from him at the sight of you lying bare before him.

“Fuck, me.” He sounds pained at the sight of your sex and thighs glistening underneath the warm light of the bedroom. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips in hunger. He drops to his knees to get level with your cunt.

A hiss leaves you when a targeted stream of cool air passes over your heated skin. Dex continues the action a few more times before his fingers make their way to your skin. Gently, he traces over the area with the tips of his fingers. Dex watches, transfixed, as more arousal leaks out of you.

With the tip of his tongue, he licks over the hood of the clit, down both sides, then where your inner folds begin, and finally, his tongue softly grazes the bundle of nerves. From just the small touch, electricity courses through your veins.

“I can’t believe you’ve been walking around like this and didn’t let me know. I would have helped you out earlier if you had said something. I woulda devoured you right there in that nasty warehouse.” Flattening his tongue, he encompasses your sex with a big upward lap. Dex gives a throaty moan at the taste of you on his tongue. Your mouth opens in an inaudible moan.

“What got you so hot and bothered?” He does a few more of the big laps before switching to small licks, dedicated directly to your clit.

“Was it our fight? I bet it was.” His drool drips down to your entrance, where it mixes with your slick, before he’s scooping it up with his tongue and depositing it through your folds. He repeats this until you’re fully soaked. Pulling back, he admires his hard work. The tackiness of your skin from his spit mixed with your slick, the way your hole clenches around nothing in a desperate show of need, and your flushed, stiffened clit begging for more. Again, he blows cool air, smiling as you jump from the feeling.

His mouth reattaches to you, and a loud moan leaves you as he begins suckling on your clit. Dex alternates quickly between sucking and swiping side to side with his tongue. He doesn’t allow you to get used to either feeling before he changes it.

It doesn’t take long for the menstruations to get you close, your moans growing higher in pitch. But the relief never comes. Dex jerks away at the last second, leaving you tensing at the ruined orgasm. He goes again, this time, harder and faster. Slurping noise mixed with whines while he edges you, over and over again, fills the bedroom. This time, when he pulls away, he tugs your skin with him, releasing it only when you hiss at the pain. Thick fingers prod at your entrance, scooping the fluid that's pooled, getting fully coated before they press inside of you. The breath is knocked from your lungs as the two fingers fill you in a single motion. The length of his fingers perfectly allows him to nudge the golden spot once they’re fully sheathed inside of you.

“Come on, honey, apologize, and I’ll let you gush all over my fingers right now if you do. I know how much you love cumming on my fingers.” He curls the digits to emphasize his point. His taunting voice makes you clench around him, betraying your stubborn denial to apologize.

“F-fuck you.” It’s a pathetic whimper that carries no fire with it. All your heat had been extinguished the moment his knees hit the floor for you.

His sigh makes him sound disappointed at your words, but his eyes reveal he’s enjoying the game. “Yeah, I thought so.”

The fingers rip out of you. He cleans the wetness off his fingers by smearing them on your thigh. Standing to full height, he disrobes himself of the Bullseye costume before he pulls you to stand with him. He’s nice enough to release your arms from the confines of your shirt before he turns you back to face the bed. His knee knocks the back of yours, causing you to collapse, and your arms jerk to catch yourself. Once you do, you realize now, you’re bent over for him.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Dex drags his tongue up your spine, starting from the small of your back. The sensation ripples through your nerves, electric and reverent, as his breath fans hot and teasing over you. He pauses to press a kiss at the nape of your neck, lingering there, lips parted, letting you feel the heat of his mouth and the scrape of his teeth. A shiver racks through you, making him laugh, a low, dangerous sound right at your ear. He continues his journey, mouth trailing a path of soft, open-mouthed kisses along the tops of your shoulders.

“Still not sorry?”

Not trusting your voice, you only shake your head. He hums, his lips brushing your ear. His hand slides down, fingers skimming over your ass and down to your cunt. Without warning, a sharp smack echoes through the room, heat blooming across your skin. The sting melts quickly into tingling pleasure, as Dex’s palm lingers, rubbing over the spot he’s just marked. He leans in, voice rough against your ear, “That’s for being stubborn. I’m going to give you more, unless you give me reason not to.”

Somehow finding the strength in your voice again, you command him, “Shut up and spank me again.”

He further spreads your legs to gain more access before he spanks you again, but instead of lingering, this time he rubs. His lanky fingers aggressively stroke between your legs, further abusing your puffy cunt. A strangled cry forces itself from your throat, followed by a gasping moan from the intoxicating feeling. He does it again, again, again, and again until your back is arching away from him while you're trying to squirm away.

“Stop it,” Dex growls lowly right into your ear. “You’re going to take this spanking, and you’re to enjoy it. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m gonna get meaner, honey.”

You can't stop the loud moan that bubbles up from his words.

Dex steps in close behind, hands gripping your hips, guiding you where he wants you. He presses the length of his shaft along your slick folds, teasing, letting you feel every inch before the fat mushroom head of it catches at your entrance. He stops there and uses his hands to pull you open, allowing him to watch your pussy beg for him to push all the way in.

Your wet, pink velvety walls contract at the small intrusion, producing more slick that’s started pooling around Dex’s flushed, leaky tip.

Dex mutters, “Mmm, fucking look at that.” Then louder he says, “I wish you could see how this sweet cunt’s fucking drooling for me.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbles from his chest as he buries himself deep, holding you there, letting your body adjust to the fullness. A gasped version of his name leaves your mouth as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate his size.

“Still not going to apologize?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear.

You can only whimper, your answer lost as he begins to move. Each thrust purposeful, claiming, his grip tightening on your waist to keep you exactly where he wants you. He watches your face in the reflection of the window, the way your mouth falls open, the way your eyes flutter shut with every surge of pleasure.

“Look at you. So stubborn, but so needy. At least your body’s honest for me.” He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs shake, and your breath turns ragged.

You try to conceal the pleasure, hoping to get your relief before he realizes, but the pressure builds too fast, and the feeling is too strong. You’re trembling hard enough in his hold that he’s fully aware of how close you are. The choking grip your wall have on his cock further confirms how fast you’re approaching the edge. Right as you begin to spasm, he pulls out, leaving you a whining, shivering mess.

“Come here.” He orders from his spot now on the bed's plush comforter. Clambering up to him, you slot yourself between his tree trunk thighs, facing him. You gaze down at his angry, painful-looking cock, catching the moment it twitches, and a bead of pearlescent precum dribbles from the tip. The veins on his lower abdomen bulge as they thump with hot-blooded arousal. Your mouth waters.

“Do you want help with that Dex, baby?” You peer up with big eyes, hoping to convince him to forgo the rest of the punishment.

“Not unless you apologize. You’ll be used with your face shoved in the sheets, until you earn the privilege of facing me.”

“That's not fair.” You pout.

“Save it, I don't feel like hearing it.” He manhandles you to turn around, face down, and ass fully presented in the air for him. When you’re in the position he’s happy with, he reenters you. The pace is absolutely brutal. Your whole body jerks from the piston speed of his hips snapping into you. The globes of your ass bounce off his pelvis, filling the room with the obscene sounds of skin slapping together. The headboard cracks into the wall, and if you weren’t actively turning into mush right now, you’d be worried for the drywall.

Dex shifts the angle, allowing him to bully your cervix repeatedly. The air is fully expelled from your lungs as you give a huge gasp at the change in position. To make matters worse (better), Dex’s huge bicep wraps around your throat right before he’s yanking you closer to him. The arm tightens, making your air supply nonexistent. You’re so fucked out that you can’t even close your mouth. Saliva trickles down your chin, coating Dex’s bicep. He moans, before he’s back to grunting as he ruts deep into your cervix.

A whisper of something ragged hits Dex’s ears. When he doesn’t pause, your hand comes up to weakly pull at his arm. Getting the hint, he eases the pressure off your throat, his hips slowing too.

A soft broken “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” tumbles from your lips. Your voice, raw with so much, lands beautifully in his ears.

“I can’t hear you.”

Tossing your head back, you cry out another string of babbled apologies. He bites his bottom lip, relishing in how your broken voice sparks more lust. It stabs through his gut, and he has to really focus on not filling you up. When he pulls out this time, it’s gentler, matching the softness of his hands as he turns you over.

Tears clump your lashes together as they rim your sex hazed eyes. Your face is flushed from the gut-rearranging position paired with the humiliation of apologizing to him, and spit sticks to your chin and cheek from where you had been drooling on his arm. He’d never seen such goddess-like beauty in the world.

Gently lining himself up with your entrance, he allows your walls to swallow him in at their own pace. Not shoving or forcing himself in, just following the way your body takes him.

“I don’t think you understand how hurt and worried I was today. I come home, ready for our Valentine's plans, and the apartment is empty, with no sign of you anywhere. So I call, you don’t answer me, you don’t even text to let me know that at least you're alive. I started spiraling. Every nasty, evil thought that I’ve ever had all returned in that moment. I was scared you had left, maybe you were missing, or fucking dead in a car trunk somewhere. All my emotions hit at once. The fear, the anger, the grief,” He pulls in a shaky breath, “The-the guilt I felt, it all weighed me down. I was going to find you, but I didn’t know, I-I didn’t know if I was going to find you alive or dead.”

Tears have started rolling down your face, and you can’t seem to control the “I’m sorries” that he’s knocking out of you with each thrust.

“Imagine my surprise when I track your phone and find you with Matt Murdock. Not dead, not hurt, not being held captive, but instead laughing and fighting alongside him. Like I don’t exist. Like we didn’t have plans, like you’re not-like you’re not mine, like you’re his instead. Remind me again, who you’re supposed to be with? Who has devoted his whole being to you? Who has killed for you and who have you killed for?”

The desperation in his voice as he begs for you to say his name makes you clench around him as you wail out his name. Big, hot tears fall faster down your face as you notice the tears rimming his eyes. Dex leans down, kissing your tears as they fall, and licks the ones that have already streaked down your face. His nose nuzzles your cheek before his lips slot against yours for a soft kiss.

“Oh, don’t cry, baby. It’s ok.” He coos, a loving smile tugging at his lips. His eyes are shining brightly with something you can’t place at the moment. Maybe pride or love or both.

Deft fingers rub across your face, up over your head, then back down to hold onto the back of your neck. He ruts harder against you, the tip of his cock constantly stimulating that gummy spot deep inside of you. You pull him against you, desperate to feel him as you drown in the overwhelmingness of being consumed by him. You watch the muscle flex under his skin as he complies with your need. When his bicep is near your face, you don’t fight the instinct of sinking your teeth into him. Dex’s eyes roll back as he hisses from the initial burning of ripped flesh. He soon follows it with a pleasure-filled groan when the spot pulses from the blood rushing to the spot.

“Oh, fuck.”

Removing your mouth, you lick at the small droplets of blood that gather at the bite wound.

“Want me to do it again?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You really are a freak, huh, sweet girl?” His lazy smile crinkles the skin around his eyes. “Bite me again. Harder this time.”

A gleam appears in your eyes, and you begin salivating.

“I want you to bite me, Dex. Want to feel your teeth-” A deep, harsh thrust from Dex short-circuits your brain ans the words leave your mind. You start speaking again, but the words are shaky from being forced out. “Fuck, baby. I want to feel your teeth in me. I-I want you to taste my blood. Dex, please, please.”

Dex guides your mouth back to his skin to stop your rambling. He mirrors you. Bringing his hot, damp mouth to your shoulder, he smells the mixture of lotion and sweat as he kisses the chosen spot to bite.

His eyes flicker to you at the moment you’ve gone back for another bit. He reels from the twisted pleasure of your teeth breaking skin. His mouth opens, and then his teeth sink into your perfect soft flesh. He savors the feeling of your delicate skin opening for him. The taste of your blood sends electricity down his body. The sweet coppery taste heavily coats his mouth as he lashes the spot over and over with his tongue. A guttural growl rumbles from his chest, and once again, he has to focus on not blowing his load right then.

“I want you to cum for me. You’ve earned it, sweet girl.” His calloused fingers rub small, quick circles on the bud. Your breath hitches immediately and your pussy clenches him so tight it almost hurts. Wet, doe-like eyes peer up at him. He knows you’re close.

“Come on, gush all over my cock, honey. I need to feel you fucking-” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence before you’re cumming so pretty all over him.

“That's it, fucking, Christ.” The words are grunted out lowly and raw. His orgasm hits hard.

All you can hear is deep animalistic growls as he keeps thrusting deeper and deeper into. His hands grip your thighs fiercely, the grasp already leaving bruises. It forces your legs to spread further, letting him get deep, and continue to fill you as your orgasm keeps going.

“You’re not pushing me out. Fucking going to give it all to you.” Dex rasp.

Your walls spasm around his length, milking him for every ounce of hot cum he can give you and then more. You’re crying out his name in breathy, high-pitched moans until you’re calming down with a deep groan.

Dex’s body trembles as he keeps grinding into you. The movement creates a squelching noise from the fluids you two have created.

“Dex, Dex, no more.” You croak out, voice hoarse as you push weakly at his shoulder.

Dex collapses on top of you, caging you beneath him. Your hands trace the rugged lines of his scarred back. A soft smile spreads across your face as you both bask in the afterglow.

Parched, you whisper, “Dex.” He only grunts.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Mmnot mad at you. I wasn’t mad at you to begin with.” His voice is muffled from where his head presses into your neck.

“I’d beg to differ.”

He props himself up on his elbow to get a look at your face. “Then I guess you should start begging.”

His fingers run along the skin of your collarbone, down to the purpling bite marks, jaw, and over your face as he speaks. “You scared the shit out of me today, honey. I-I couldn’t find you, and even in that small amount of time, I went down some dark paths.” The sincerity hangs heavy in the silent room.

“I didn’t want anybody to track my phone while I was out. I can’t have anyone finding you because of me. I turned it off, and fucking forgot to turn it back on.” He says the last part bashfully and without meeting your eye.

“Now you know how I felt.” You whisper.

“I’m sorry for that. I know that it must have been hard for you, too.” His lips land gently on your temple.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, baby.”

He throws a cheeky smile your way, “You just apologized plenty of times while I was all in your guts, you don’t have to say it again.”

A quick laugh leaves you, “So much for normal couple Valentine’s Day plans, huh?”

Dex grumbles, upset that his normal couple plans got ruined.

“You can make it up to me next year.”

Sukuna’s not perfect though. He’ll come up and bug you after he gets a couple of drinks in him. His version of it. Which is, in a slightly lame way, just talking. Maybe a little flirting— saying that you smell nice, or that he likes whatever the fuck you did with your hair, yada yada. Sometimes you fold, sometimes you don’t. It’s different every time, he thinks of it as a little game he likes to play once in a while.

On this particular night, you had a little more to drink than what you usually had, and lucky for him, you didn’t actually crumble 5 minutes into talking about something as mundane as your job.

He wasn’t following you around and marking his territory on you like some dog, but he can admit that there were a few times he lingered around you. Not that you noticed, it was one of the very few times you let loose, so therefore you weren’t overly aware of your surroundings.

It wasn’t until everybody left when things got interesting though. You both just so happened to be spending the night at a shared friend’s house. Separate sleeping arrangements, of course. But you two were the last ones awake, in the basement, sitting and talking on the couch he was planning to sleep on.

It started with him asking about your dating life, if you had anybody you were seeing or not. You two were still drinking. Not too much, but enough for the conversation to inevitability turn suggestive.

Until he straight up told you that he enjoyed putting women in headlocks and fucking them until they cried. It was a piece of information that you definitely didn't mind being told, but it was only a matter of time before it'd circle back to you.

"Alright, what about you?"

“I don’t know,” you let out an awkward laugh, clearly flustered from the sudden pressure he put on you.

He just smiles, eyes drifting down to your lips. “I’m just asking what you like— nothing to be shy about,” he hums.

You take a moment to think about it, deciding for once to push past the shyness you tend to feel around him. "Alright, fine."

And without hesitation

“What about dick piercings?”

“I don’t— huh?” Your brain short circuits, already telling yourself that this can't be happening. It’s too good to be true. “I’ve never been with anyone that’s had one before, but I guess they’re nice.”

You really don't know why you say you guess. They are nice.

Your answer makes Sukuna look at you as if you’ve experienced nothing but back-to-back tragedies in your life, all because you've never been with someone pierced before.

“Yeah— feels good, too.” His response of course does not match his face or his tone, it sounds more like he’s pitching a sale. “Especially when you have a few of them stacked over each other like mine.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“That’s—“ your throat grows dry at the thought, “did it hurt?”

“Nah, felt more like a pinch.”

“And there’s… how many?”

“Five,” he says the number like it carries weight and meaning, and at this point, it does. “One right under the tip and the rest is a Jacob’s ladder.”

You try to imagine it and end up looking confused as you open your mouth to say something, only to close it due to the words dying in your throat.

It happens 3 times before he eventually cuts in again.

“Wanna see it?”

What kind of a question is that? Of course you wanna fucking see it. Why wouldn’t you? You still hold on to what little respect you have left though.

“That wouldn’t be weird or anything?”

“Maybe, but it was me who brought it up. Can’t blame you for wanting to see.”

He’s full of shit and knows exactly what he’s doing. But you go along with it because this is something you've thought about for years. Less than a minute later, he’s unbuckling his belt and zipping his pants down.

There’s a moment of (fake) reluctance when he palms his boxers and remembers that it’s not just the piercings you’re going to see. It’s also his cock, which, in his honest and humble opinion, is a work of fucking art. Especially when it’s hard, like right now. He almost feels like he has to warn you, but decides not to and instead asks if you're ready.

You weren’t sure. You’ve been internally screaming this entire time though, and knew you’d explode if you didn’t see it already, so you gave him a nod.

Then your jaw nearly drops as he pulls his boxers down low enough for his entire cock to spring out. Spring’s not even the right word to use, it was too heavy for that, and if anything, just settled right on his stomach.

It was long and thick, a couple prominent veins running down his shaft. Big, dark pink tip that had some precum dripping from it. And then the five piercings.

Holy shit

It didn’t help that his hand was loosely wrapped around the base, lids growing heavier the longer you stare.

“Oh my god?”

“Yeah,” he rasps.

“You’re fucking huge.”

“I know.”

You don’t really care that much about the piercings despite them being the only reason why he has his dick out right now, but he is not complaining. By all means, stare at it. Please.

Drool, even.

He huffs out a laugh as he sees a little bit of it collect at the corner of your mouth, and swipes it off with his thumb before raising it to his mouth and licking it clean.

“Sorry,” you say without an inch of shame.

“You’re good,” he casually says, not trying to ruin the romantic moment you’re currently having with his dick. “Probably from one of the drinks you had earlier.”

“Mhm.” Neither of you believe that, but just go along with it. “Do the piercings ever get caught in your boxers?”

“Never,” he shakes his head. “They’re smooth against everything. . . You can touch them. If you want.”

Your hand’s already reaching out before that sentence is even finished, and his abs involuntarily flex at the feeling of your fingertips brushing over the underside of his shaft.

You say nothing, because you can’t think of anything respectful to say, and just continue to trace up until you get to his tip.

He feels you pull back and takes a good guess at why you did as he watches you rub your fingers together.

“Shit, sorry— fuck, you’re kidding me,” he suddenly groans out.

You licked precum off your fingers, but didn’t realize it until after.

Your eyes widen in panic. “Oh my god— that was so weird, I’m sorry.”

“No, that was— it wasn’t weird,” he tries to put a response together, but he’s honestly just as shocked as you. “You're fuckin’ nasty— did it taste good?”

You can’t even believe you’re saying this right now, but, “Honestly, yeah.”

“Jesus,” he lets out a low laugh, throwing his head back for a moment to take a deep breath, which turns into a deep, drawn-out hum when he feels you wrap your hand around his base. “You’re fuckin’ killin me right now.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whisper at first. “We should just—“

He opens one eye. “Fuck?”

“Yeah.”