fictional-simper

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

He was intimately familiar with the feeling of a cold palm across his cheek, of the choking jab of a wand at his throat, he even knew the shock of a fist in his stomach; his father had taught him that much.

He also knew the feeling of a broken nose beneath his fist, the echoing ache of a black eye, the distinct burn of a split lip.

But not everything was so dark, he told himself, for he also knew frantic hands that tugged and pulled at buttons and zippers, the scratch of nails down his back, wet, messy, meaningless kisses; affection, surely.

He'd been touched plenty.

So he couldn't fathom why when your hand met his arm, he pulled back.

You'd leaned casually over him at breakfast, steadying yourself against his arm with a gentle touch to reach for the coffee and he'd yanked back so hard you nearly dropped the carafe and toppled off the bench beneath you.

"S-sorry!" you said genuinely, pulling your hand off of him and meeting his gold-flecked brown eyes that looked at you with alarm.

He held his arm close to his chest, protectively, like you'd burned him. Because, in a way, it felt like you had.

Your palm had radiated warmth, a gentle pressure, a rush of sweet serotonin that made his head feel like he'd sucked helium. It was perhaps the only touch he didn't have a framework of understanding for and his brow furrowed in confusion before he turned from you, intent on ignoring the feeling you'd stoked inside of him.

But it was as if his body was seeking you out after that, perhaps craving the unknown and unfamiliar, because suddenly you were everywhere.

He was leaving the quidditch pitch after practice, head down, fumbling with the fabric wrapped shoddily around his swollen fingers, cursing quietly as they twinged when he nearly ran straight into you.

You came up short in front of him, your breath caught in your lungs as you blinked up at him; he noted the tint of blush on your cheeks and the flutter of your long lashes.

Your eyes caught the movement of his hands and with a quick searching glance you slowly reached forward to help.

Your hand came to his large palm and though he didn't intend to, he jerked away again. Not far, but in some sort of automatic reaction to whatever it is that you were.

You paused, your touch lingering until he held his hand forward again and you gently adjusted the wrapping, careful, patient, and unrushed.

He forgot how to breathe.

Your fingertips brushed his palm, delicately danced around his swollen fingers and his pain was long forgotten as he felt something much stronger swelling in his stomach, a blooming, an unfurling, a hurricane of pixies.

You pinned the medical wrap with exceeding care and looked up softly and smiled.

"That should at least get you to the infirmary" you said quietly.

There was his furrowed brow again.

"Thank you..." he said with a lilt at the end, like it was a question, because you were a complete enigma to him.

"You're welcome, Mattheo" you said kindly, and then slid past him without another word.

He turned to watch you go.

You didn't want anything from him, he didn't think. You weren't coming on to him, though he wouldn't have minded it. So what the hell was your deal? He couldn't figure it out.

All he knew is that if that is how the gentlest brush of your fingers on his palm made him feel, he desperately wanted more.

Mattheo found small ways to get close to you after that; conveniently running into you between Potions and Divination, so you'd have a long walk through the castle together.

Then, bumping into you in Tomes and Scrolls after he'd heard you talking about a new book you wanted the previous night at dinner. He had to act like he knew what the hell you were talking about as you eagerly explained the plot; all he knew is that he liked the way you smiled, and liked the way being close to you made him feel; a contact high that he rode the entire afternoon by your side.

When you both returned to the castle, feet shuffling over the cobblestones at the clocktower courtyard you slowed beside him and he turned just in time to catch you as you threw your arms around him, looping them over his shoulders in a hug.

He froze, tense, his hands held out awkwardly on either side of you, unsure of what to do until you nuzzled in closer, your cheek against his and his body folded into you, his automatic defense system dropping and his arms circling you, daring to hold you against him.

He took a breath.

Another.

And he felt your warmth radiating through him in a type of magic he didn't understand but vowed never to stop seeking.

"So, you and YN, huh?" Theo mused as he twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers that night in the common room.

Mattheo cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You hitting that, orrrr?"

"What?" No!"

He wasn't sure why the insinuation infuriated him, though perhaps it had something to do with the glint in Theo's eye, like he'd thought about it himself.

The spinning stopped and suddenly Mattheo had Theo's full attention.

"Are you... with her?" he asked.

"I — no?" Mattheo answered, confused. Because you weren't together, right? Yet everything with you felt so incredibly intimate, stripping him bare from the inside out. It was more intoxicating than anything he'd felt for or done with anyone before you.

The thought alone made him panic.

Because he realized suddenly he didn't want to share you with anyone else.

On one of those afternoons where the sunset seemed to linger, sending bursts of peach and orange over the oaks and pines as they swayed in the warm breeze Mattheo walked by your side as you admired the wildflowers in the field past the greenhouse. Because, of course that's what you were doing; he didn't even know this field was here, but you saw beauty everywhere, even where he was sure none existed.

He knew he needed to say something; he felt like he had a swarm of bees in his throat that he couldn't swallow as the words danced and garbled in his mouth; he didn't even know where to begin.

"What...—" he tried, his feet stopping as he looked down at them and rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar furrow in his brow returning, scrunching his face in a permanent look of uncertainty you'd grown accustomed to.

"What are we? What is this?" he asked with a hint of exasperation.

You smiled softly and looked up at him in the pink-peach filter of the waning day. His face was both puzzled and pained and you reached up to smooth the ever-present crease in his brow.

He tensed, rigid beneath your touch before relenting, the confusion on his face giving way to compassion, his amber-gold eyes searching yours.

"What do you want this to be?" you asked.

I want you all to myself. I want to feel this way every single day. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. I want, I want, I want.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

Slowly, he reached for you, trying to emulate the way you touched him: reverent, unrushed; not greedy, not hungry, not harsh. He reached to cup your face and let the pad of his thumb brush your cheek, tender and sweet.

He felt pressure like building nausea in his stomach that he knew well enough now to call nerves, and a thumping in his chest he'd learned was care, a tremble in his hand that you taught him was the effort to be gentle and an ache in his bones that he knew was longing and perhaps the beginning of something akin to love.

He leaned forward, pulling you towards him, and he brushed his lips over yours.

Sunshine erupted inside of him.

You forgot how to breathe — a night's-worth of summer fireworks between your ribs.

Your palm came to rest on his cheek but he didn't pull back, and your other hand fisted his shirt but he didn't tense; you laughed against his lips and he laughed back, carefree and weightless and he realized all at once that he was never starved for touch, only for you.

​"Darling, could you please talk to us?" Comes a soft coo from the other side of your door.

​A heavy wave of guilt washes over you. You curl tighter into yourself, hiding away and biting your lip.

​You never wanted any of this. You hadn’t asked for it, and the last thing you wanted was to cause trouble for anyone.

​You certainly hadn't expected to make new friends this term—and you definitely hadn't expected them to be the Slytherin lot.

​"Alohomora."

​You dive under your duvet at the sound of the click, listening to the group shuffle into your dormitory.

​The mattress dips beside you, and a cool hand gently caresses the shape of your head through the fabric.

"I'm fine. I just don't want to be any bother, please," you mumble into the dark.

Before you can protest, a pair of arms pulls you forward, and you crash gently against a firm chest, the soft wool of their jumper pressing against your cheek.

"Understood," a low voice murmurs, a hand beginning to track soothingly through your hair. "Would you rather do something else then? To take your mind off things?"

Lifting your head, you look up to find it's Tom holding you. Pansy is sitting right beside you, a worried look on her face that quickly melts into a soft smile. Over by the door, Mattheo, Draco, and Blaise are leaning against the frame, keeping watch, while Theodore and Lorenzo have made themselves comfortable on Athena’s bed.

Lorenzo catches you looking and grins. "Come on, princess. The better Riddle brother will do whatever you fancy."

"We should head down to Hogsmeade," Theodore suggests with a smirk. "Nothing a few butterbeers won't fix, right?"

"Oh, Merlin, yes—I want to pop into Honeydukes as well," Pansy says, her eyes lighting up as she looks down at you.

At the mention of sweets, a sudden, desperate craving hits you, pulling a small, genuine smile to your lips.

"Yes please," you murmur. "Can we go to Hogsmeade."

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Taglist?

You were standing outside the library complaining about the cold while digging through your bag for a quill you swore you had five minutes ago. Theo’s beside you because somehow Theo is always beside you lately, leaning against the stone wall half-listening while Mattheo talks about something behind him.

Then your scarf slips loose. And Theo reaches over automatically. No hesitation.

His fingers brush under your chin briefly as he fixes it properly around your neck, tugging it tighter against the wind.

Easy. Careful.

Intimate in the kind of way that only happens when someone’s been paying attention for too long.

“You never wear this thing right” he mutters.

And the tone is what makes it bad. Not teasing.Not smug.

Soft.

Like this is normal for him. Like he’s done this before in his head a hundred times.

You laugh quietly. “Sorry my scarf techniques disappoint you.”

Theo’s mouth twitches slightly. “It’s embarrassing, really.”

But he still fixes the fold near your shoulder afterward. One last adjustment.

Cedric sees it.

Standing halfway across the courtyard with his broom over his shoulder on the way to Quidditch practice.

And he stops walking. Because it’s not the scarf itself.

It’s the look on Theo’s face. Cedric’s seen Theo laugh at him.Mock him.Flirt with you just to irritate him.

But this? This is different.

Theo looks at you like he forgot anyone else exists.

And the second Theo notices Cedric standing there watching, his expression changes instantly.

The softness disappears so fast Cedric almost thinks he imagined it.

Theo steps back immediately.

You turn, brightening when you see Cedric.

“Hey—”

But Cedric’s still staring at Theo.

Theo stares right back.

Neither of them speaks.

Mattheo notices first.

His eyes flick between them once before he mutters “well this is awkward…”

Theo looks away first.

“Diggory.” Theo he says casually

“Nott.” Cedric answers flatly

And something ugly settles between them immediately. You can feel it.

Theo pushes himself off the railing.

“Better get to practice. Wouldn’t want another tragic loss.”

Cedric’s jaw tightens.

Theo notices that too, obviously. He always notices.

Then Theo walks past him, shoulder brushing Cedric’s on purpose as he leaves.

Not enough to start something. Enough to mean something.

Cedric watches him disappear down the corridor before finally looking at you.

You frown slightly. “What?”

Cedric shakes his head immediately. “Nothing.”

But the image won’t leave his head afterward.

Theo’s hands on you.Theo fixing your scarf.Theo looking at you like that.

And during the match later, Cedric hesitates for the first time all season.

Only for a second.

But in Quidditch, seconds matter.

Especially when the Snitch flashes gold past his shoulder and he reacts just a little too late.

The Ravenclaw Seeker doesn't.

And just like that—

The match is over.

The silence afterward is somehow worse than the cheering.

Cedric lands hard enough that his broom jerks beneath him, boots scraping against the pitch as he stumbles a step before steadying himself.

Around him, Hufflepuff players are still trying to process what happened.

A few disappointed groans.Someone swears under their breath.

His team is already looking at him.

Not just their seeker—their captain.

Cedric doesn’t hear the post-match chatter. Not the excuses. Not the reassurance. Not the way they’re waiting for him to say something, anything, to pull them back together.

Because all he can think about is one thing.

One stupid thing. A scarf. Your scarf.

Theo’s hands fixing it.

The way you looked up at him.

The way Theo looked back.

Cedric clenches his jaw so hard it aches.

“Diggory.”

He barely registers one of his teammates stepping closer.

“Captain… you alright?” That word hits harder than it should.

Captain.

He lets out a short, humorless breath.

“No.”

The answer comes out immediate—flat, edged.

A beat of silence.

The teammate hesitates, then nods once and backs off, quickly deciding that whatever is happening in Cedric’s head is not something they want to interrupt.

And for the first time since the final whistle—

Cedric doesn’t feel like a captain at all. He dismounts and starts toward the locker rooms before anyone can stop him.

The celebrations from Ravenclaw echo across the pitch behind him. Every cheer feels like another reminder.

He lost.

Because he couldn't focus.

Because Theodore bloody Nott got inside his head.

The castle corridors are quieter than the pitch. Cedric walks quickly. Head down. Broom slung over his shoulder.

He's halfway to the changing rooms when he hears it.

Laughter.

Of course.

He already knows who it is. Nobody else in Hogwarts sounds quite so pleased with themselves.

Cedric closes his eyes briefly.

Not today.

Merlin, not today.

He keeps walking. Maybe they'll leave him alone.

Maybe—

His jaw tightened.

The locker room corridor echoed with their voices, and despite every instinct screaming at him to keep walking, every word carried clearly enough for him to hear.

"...I'm serious," Draco was saying through a laugh. "I've never seen him miss that many catches."

"Maybe he forgot how to fly," Enzo offered.

"Nah," Mattheo replied. "He remembered how to fly. He just forgot there was a match happening."

More laughter.

Cedric's grip tightened around his broom.

Keep walking.

Just keep walking.

The loss already felt bad enough. Hufflepuff had lost to Ravenclaw by thirty points.

Thirty.

And Cedric knew exactly why.

Because every time he tried to focus on the game, his mind kept drifting back to that stupid moment.

Theo fixing your stupid scarf-

not that your scarf is stupid, hell he loved when you wore your scarf. But Theo-

The stupid little smirk he'd worn afterward. somehow Cedric had spent the entire match replaying it in his head like an idiot.

Which only made him angrier. Because now Hufflepuff had lost. And now he had to listen to this.

As he walked past the open doorway, Theo's voice cut through the laughter.

"Speak of the devil."

Cedric stopped.

Of course.

Of course they had seen him.

Inside, the four Slytherins were sprawled across the hall like they owned the castle.

Draco and Mattheo looked delighted.

Enzo looked seconds away from saying something stupid. And Theodore—

Theodore looked far too pleased with himself.

"Diggory."

Cedric sighed.

"What."

"Bit of a rough match?"

"Go away, Nott."

Theo pressed a hand dramatically against his chest.

"That's no way to speak to someone who's concerned for your wellbeing."

Enzo nearly fell off the bench laughing.

Cedric rolled his eyes.

"I'm not doing this today."

"Oh come on," Mattheo grinned. "You can't blame us for being curious."

"Curious about what?"

Draco snorted.

"What was distracting you?"

Cedric froze.

Immediately. The four of them noticed.

And that was the worst possible thing he could have done. Theo's eyes lit up.

"Oh."

The grin spreading across his face was pure trouble.

Cedric already hates where this is going. "Drop it."

"The scarf."

Draco immediately loses it. Mattheo bends over laughing. Even Enzo has to grab the wall.

Cedric wants the floor to open up beneath him.

"A scarf?" Mattheo repeats.

"You're joking."

Theo looks delighted.

"You lost because of a scarf?" Draco wheezes.

Cedric's face burns. "Shut up."

Unfortunately for him, Theodore Nott has never shut up a day in his life.

Theo folds his arms.

"I mean, if we're being fair—"

"Don't."

"—she did look pretty."

The laughter dies instantly.

Cedric freezes.

Mattheo raises an eyebrow.

Draco slowly turns toward Theo.

Enzo's grin grows.

Because suddenly this isn't about Quidditch anymore.

Theo realizes what he said. A normal person might look embarrassed. Theo just shrugs.

Cedric stares at him.

Theo stares right back.

Neither looks away.

And for the first time all afternoon—

Nobody is laughing. The silence hangs for exactly three seconds.

Then Mattheo grins.

"Oh, that's bad."

Theo doesn't take his eyes off Cedric.

Cedric doesn't take his eyes off Theo.

Draco looks between them.

"Should we leave?"

"Absolutely not," Enzo says immediately.

Neither of them are listening anyway.

Cedric takes a step forward.

"You think this is funny?"

"A little." Theo shrugs.

Wrong answer.

Very wrong answer.

Cedric shoves him.

Hard.

“You think because she’s nice to you, you matter?”

Silence.

Real silence this time.

Even Mattheo looks up sharply. Because that was cruel. Theo’s face changes immediately. Not dramatic.

Just… wounded.

For half a second Cedric regrets it.

Then Theo smiles. And it’s honestly worse.

Small.Mean.Ruined around the edges.

“That bothering you now? That she’s nice to me?”

Cedric realizes too late he crossed a line.

But Theo’s already stepping closer.

“You wanna know the worst part, Diggory?”“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”“She defends you constantly.”

Cedric frowns slightly.

Theo laughs quietly.Mean this time.

“Yeah. Even when you’re not around.”

Cedric’s chest tightens.

“Every time somebody says you’re arrogant, or fake, or too perfect—she defends you like she’s trying to convince herself.”

Cedric grabs the front of Theo’s robe.

“Watch your mouth.”

Theo looks down at his fist.

Then back up.

“You should be more worried about where her eyes go when you walk into a room together.”

Cedric drops his broom.

It clatters against the stone floor.

Theo glances down at it.

When he looks back up—

Cedric swings.

His fist catches Theo in the jaw.

Not cleanly. Not enough to do real damage.

Theo's head snaps to the side.

Everyone freezes. For one second.

Then Theo lunges.

The two of them crash into each other.

A mess of yellow and green.

Shoulders slamming into walls.

Hands grabbing robes.

Trying more to overpower each other than actually hurt each other.

Cedric punches him again. Hard.

Theo’s lip splits immediately against his teeth.

Blood streaks down his mouth.

Silence.

Cedric’s breathing hard now, immediate regret flashing through him—

Then Theo smiles.

And there’s something genuinely wrong with it.

Theo wipes blood from his mouth with his thumb and laughs softly.

“Finally.”

Cedric stares at him.“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Theo hits him back hard enough to bloody his nose instantly.

Cedric stumbles backward.

Theo steps forward immediately this time.

“You wanna know what’s wrong with me?”

Another shove.Another hit.

“I’m sick of watching her look at you like you hung the bloody stars—”

Cedric swings again.

Theo catches him by the front of his shirt before he can pull away.

“—when you don’t even notice when she’s unhappy.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?”

Cedric slams him against the railing.

Theo laughs again through the blood.

That stupid laugh. That infuriating laugh.

Cedric wipes blood from his mouth, breathing hard.

Then says the one thing he knows will hurt him back.

"She's never going to choose you."

Everything stops.

Not the fight.

Just Theo. His expression goes completely blank. Dangerously blank.

Cedric immediately knows he's gone too far.

Theo's tongue drags across the blood on his lip.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Then he smiles.

Not a nice smile.

Not even close.

"Yeah?"

Before Cedric can answer—

Theo's fist crashes into his jaw.

Cedric's head snaps sideways.

The hit is hard enough that stars explode behind his eyes.

"Theo—"

Another punch.

Theo doesn't let him finish.

Years.

Years of jealousy.

Years of watching.

Years of pretending it didn't bother him.

All of it finally snaps.

Theo grabs Cedric by the collar and drives him backward.

"Say it again."

"You heard me."

Theo takes a step forward.

Cedric doesn't move.

"All these years," Cedric says. "All the flirting, all the stupid comments, all the games you play just to get a reaction—"

Another step.

"—and at the end of the day she still comes back to me."

Theo's jaw clenches.

Hard enough that the muscle jumps. Cedric should stop. He knows he should. Instead he doubles down.

"You're never going to be more than my enemy."

The punch comes so fast Cedric doesn't even see it.

One second Theo is standing there.

The next, his fist crashes into Cedric's jaw.

Mattheo actually winces.

"Merlin."

"THEO!"

Draco sounds half horrified, half entertained.

Theo doesn't hear either of them.

Cedric launches himself forward.

Theo meets him halfway.

They collide hard enough to slam into the wall.

Punches.

Shoving.

Grabbing at collars.

Neither thinking.

Neither listening.

Theo's lip is split wider now.

Cedric's nose starts bleeding again.

But neither cares.

"You're pathetic," Cedric spits.

Theo's eyes flash.

"You think I don't know that?"

The honesty catches Cedric off guard for exactly one second.

One second too long.

Theo's fist catches him square in the face.

And for the first time since the fight started—

Theo looks genuinely furious.

Not amused.

Furious.

The kind of angry that comes from years of wanting something you're never supposed to have.

The kind that hurts.

And suddenly Cedric isn't sure whether Theo wants to punch him... Or kill him.

Cedric manages to shove Theo into the wall.

Theo immediately grabs the front of Cedric's robes and pulls him with him.

Neither is winning.

Neither is backing down.

Until—

"WHAT IS GOING ON?"

The corridor falls silent.

Immediately.

Professor McGonagall stands at the far end of the hall.

Looking absolutely horrified.

Theo and Cedric are still gripping each other's robes.

Mattheo looks like he's about to pass out from laughter.

Enzo turns away.

Draco suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating.

McGonagall's eyes narrow.

"Mr. Diggory."

Cedric releases Theo.

"Professor."

"Mr. Nott."

Theo lets go too.

"Professor."

A long pause.

"My office."

Both boys groan.

And as they start walking down the corridor toward what is undoubtedly the worst detention of their lives, Theo leans slightly toward Cedric.

Just enough that only he can hear.

"You punch like a Hufflepuff."

Cedric immediately tries to lunge at him again.

McGonagall's voice echoes down the hall.

"MR. DIGGORY."

Cedric stops immediately.

Not because he wants to.

Because if he keeps going, he's fairly certain he'll end up back on top of Nott before they even make it to the staircase.

Theo, meanwhile, looks far too pleased with himself for someone whose lip is split open.

Blood stains the corner of his mouth.

His tie is hanging halfway off.

And somehow he still manages to smirk.

Cedric hates him.

Actually hates him.

McGonagall turns slowly.

The kind of slow turn that makes entire classrooms fear for their lives.

"Would either of you care to explain why I found you attempting to murder each other in the middle of the corridor?"

"No, Professor," Cedric says immediately.

"Not particularly," Theo agrees.

McGonagall closes her eyes.

Just for a second.

As if she's asking the universe for strength.

Behind them, Mattheo finally loses his battle with self-control and snorts.

Loudly.

McGonagall doesn't even look at him.

"Mr. Riddle."

Mattheo straightens.

"I'm being completely silent, Professor."

"You have been laughing for the last seven minutes."

"Respectfully, Professor, it was very funny."

Enzo physically turns away.

Draco looks ready to disappear into the nearest wall.

McGonagall points down the corridor.

"Office. Now."

Nobody argues.

For once.

The walk is silent.

Mostly.

Cedric keeps staring straight ahead.

Theo keeps glancing sideways.

The tension between them is so obvious that even the portraits they pass start watching.

Finally Theo speaks.

"You know..."

Cedric already knows he's going to regret asking.

"What?"

Theo's grin widens.

"For a Hufflepuff, you hit surprisingly hard."

Cedric's eye twitches.

Theo continues.

"Still lost, though."

Cedric lunges.

Again.

"MR. DIGGORY!"

The entire corridor shakes with McGonagall's voice.

Cedric freezes mid-step.

Theo actually laughs.

Not a smug laugh.

Not a mocking one.

A genuine laugh.

The kind that escapes before he can stop it.

For half a second, Cedric just stares at him.

Because he realizes something horrifying.

Theo is enjoying this.

Every second of it.

The arguing.

The fighting.

The attention.

The fact that Cedric keeps taking the bait.

And somehow that makes Cedric even angrier.

"You are insufferable."

Theo's grin is immediate.

Cedric groans.

McGonagall groans louder.

And somewhere behind them, Mattheo nearly falls down a staircase laughing.

As they disappear around the corner toward what is guaranteed to be the worst detention Hogwarts has ever seen, Theo bumps Cedric's shoulder one last time.

Cedric immediately shoves him away.

Theo just smirks.

The fight may be over.

But neither of them is finished.

Not even close.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

the kitchen went completely silent.

you blinked. megumi froze mid-pour, water spilling slightly over the rim of the glass.

yuji wanted to die. he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “i mean— you don’t have to! it’s just… i keep thinking about it. the two of you together. it makes me feel… really warm. and kind of crazy. in a good way.”

he looked between you and megumi, eyes wide and cheeks flushed all the way to his ears. “i know it’s weird,” he added quickly, voice getting smaller. “but i can’t stop thinking about it. you both mean so much to me… and the idea of you two kissing… it doesn’t feel wrong to me. it feels… right.”

he stared at the floor, heart pounding, terrified he’d just ruined everything. you and megumi exchanged a long look. yuji swallowed.

“…sorry,” he mumbled. “i shouldn’t have said anything.”

the silence that followed was deafening. yuji wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. his face was burning, ears bright red as he stared intensely at the kitchen floor. you and megumi were both staring at him.

megumi’s expression was unreadable at first but then his eyes widened just slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

you were the first to speak. “…you want us to kiss?” you asked softly.

yuji nodded quickly, too embarrassed to look at either of you. “i know it sounds crazy. but i keep thinking about it. the two of you… together. it doesn’t make me jealous. it makes me feel… warm. really warm. like my chest is going to explode in a good way.”

he finally dared to glance up. megumi was looking at him now, dark eyes steady but clearly processing. you stepped closer and gently took yuji’s hand.

“babe,” you said carefully, “are you sure that’s what you want? you’re not just saying it because you think it’ll make us happy?”

yuji shook his head. “no. i mean— yes, I want you both to be happy. but… i really do want to see it. i’ve been dreaming about it. not just innocent stuff either.”

the last part came out as a mumble. megumi’s eyebrows shot up.

you bit your lip, clearly thinking. then you looked over at megumi, a small, curious smile forming on your face. “what do you think, megumi?”

megumi stayed quiet for a long moment. finally, he set the glass down and exhaled through his nose. “…i wouldn’t mind,” he said quietly, almost too casually. but the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed him.

yuji’s heart skipped several beats.

you turned back to yuji, still holding his hand. “if we do this… you’re okay with it? no weird feelings afterwards?”

yuji nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “i promise. i just… i want to watch. at least once.”

the air in the kitchen felt heavier now, warmer. you glanced at megumi again, then back at your boyfriend. slowly, you stepped toward megumi, who straightened up, looking slightly tense but not unwilling.

you placed a hand on megumi’s chest and leaned in. megumi hesitated for half a second before tilting his head down. then your lips met softly.

it was gentle at first—careful, almost testing. but then megumi’s hand came up to rest lightly on your waist, and the kiss deepened just a little. you made a quiet sound against his mouth that sent electricity shooting down yuji’s spine.

yuji couldn’t look away. his breath caught in his throat, heart hammering wildly as he watched his girlfriend kiss his best friend right in front of him.

when you finally pulled back, both you and Megumi were slightly flushed. you turned to look at yuji, his eyes sparkling. “…how was that?” you asked softly.

yuji stared at the two of you, lips parted, face burning crimson. he could only manage one breathless word: “…again.”

the kitchen fell quiet for a moment once more. you and megumi both froze, eyes meeting each other in a brief pause. a silent question passed between you. megumi’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, but he didn’t move, waiting. your heart hammered in your chest as you searched his face.

then, slowly, megumi leaned in again.

you met him halfway.

this time the kiss was deeper, with more hunger, like he had been holding back for too long. his fingers pressed into your waist as he tilted his head, sliding his tongue against yours with surprising boldness. a soft, surprised sound left your throat, which only seemed to encourage him.

he kissed you like he was starving.

his other hand came up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as he pulled you closer. the kiss grew hotter, wetter. megumi made a quiet noise against your mouth, almost a groan, as he sucked gently on your bottom lip before slipping his tongue back in.

yuji’s breath hitched loudly. he couldn’t look away. his face was burning as he watched his best friend kiss you like he wanted to devour you—slow, deep, and getting greedier with every second.

megumi pressed you back against the counter, his body flush against yours. one of his hands slid down to grip your hip, pulling you tighter as the kiss turned messy, completely lost in it now while yuji was breathing hard, eyes wide.

his cock strained painfully against his sweatpants, throbbing with every wet sound of your lips moving together. he couldn’t stop the flood of thoughts crashing through his mind.

he wished megumi would push you harder against the counter. he wished he’d slide his hand under your shirt and grope your tits the way yuji had imagined so many times. he wanted to see megumi bite your neck, suck marks into your skin, shove his thigh between your legs and grind against you until you were whimpering and soaked.

the thought made yuji’s mouth go dry. he imagined megumi dropping to his knees right there in the kitchen, pulling your shorts down and burying his face between your thighs while you moaned into yuji’s mouth. he wanted to watch his best friend make you cum, fingers deep inside you, tongue licking greedily at your clit.

“fuck…” yuji whispered under his breath, barely audible. his hand unconsciously pressed against his aching cock, trying to ease some of the pressure as he watched megumi kiss you deeper, hungrier.

he loved this. loved seeing you like this—flushed, wanted, desired. especially by megumi. his two favorite people.

when megumi finally pulled back for air, his lips were red and swollen and his breathing uneven. he stared at your mouth like he wanted to kiss you again immediately.

“megumi…” you whispered, dazed.

he didn’t answer with words. instead he leaned in and kissed you once more, slower this time but no less intense, like he was savoring the taste of you. his hand stayed possessively on your hip while the other gently held your face.

when megumi pulled away again, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes closed, breathing shakily. “…that was—” he began but couldn’t finish. you let out a soft, breathless laugh.

yuji could barely speak. all he managed was a weak, awed whisper: “holy shit…” his heart was pounding so hard he felt dizzy and his cock was aching, pressing painfully against his sweatpants.

“megumi…” yuji’s voice came out rough. “don’t stop.” both you and megumi turned to look at him. “touch her more. please. i want to see you touch her. like… between her legs. i keep thinking about it. i want to see you make her cum.”

both you and megumi froze for a second. but megumi hesitated only for a moment before his gaze darkened. without a word, he looked back at you, silently asking for permission. when you gave a small, breathless nod, he didn’t waste time.

he brought two fingers to his mouth, licking them slowly, coating them with saliva while keeping his eyes on you. then his hand slid down your stomach and pushed boldly into your shorts and panties. his long, slick fingers found your soaked folds and rubbed over your clit before pressing two fingers inside you.

you gasped, immediately clinging to his shoulders. megumi leaned in and kissed you again, swallowing every sound as his fingers began moving—slow at first, then deeper, curling just right inside your tight heat.

“mmh—!” you moaned into his mouth, panting against his lips as he fingered you right there in the kitchen. the wet sound of his fingers thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy filled the small space.

yuji let out a needy groan at the sight. his hand shoved into his sweatpants, wrapping around his aching cock as he started stroking himself. his eyes were glued between your legs, watching the silhouette of megumi’s fingers disappear inside you again and again.

“fuck… that’s so hot,” yuji whispered. he pumped his cock faster, breathing heavily as he watched you whimper and squirm against megumi. “megumi… curl your fingers more. she likes it when you hit that spot.”

megumi obeyed without question, curling his fingers deeper, rubbing that sensitive spot inside you like he’d already done it a million times. you cried out into his mouth, thighs trembling as you clenched hard around his fingers.

yuji’s hand moved quicker on his own cock, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss as he watched his best friend finger his girlfriend right in front of him.

“good girl…” yuji murmured breathlessly, completely lost in the scene. “let him make you cum, baby. i want to see it so bad.”

you cried out into megumi’s mouth, thighs shaking violently as his fingers curled perfectly against that sensitive spot inside you. the pressure built fast and overwhelming until you finally snapped.

“megumi—!” you moaned loudly, clenching hard around his fingers as your orgasm crashed through you. your hips jerked against his hand, pussy pulsing and gushing around his long digits while he kept stroking you through it, drawing out every last wave.

the moment your orgasm started to fade, megumi pulled his fingers out with a wet sound. before you could even catch your breath, he dropped to his knees right in front of you.

he yanked your shorts and panties down to your ankles. you barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you, hot and eager. his tongue dragged slowly up your soaked folds before latching onto your sensitive clit.

“ah—! megumi— too much!” you whimpered, legs trembling as you gripped the counter for support.

but he didn’t stop. he sucked gently on your clit, then flicked his tongue rapidly over it, groaning against your pussy like he was addicted to your taste. the overstimulation hit you like electricity, making your hips twitch and jerk against his face. every stroke of his tongue sent sharp, overwhelming sparks through your body.

yuji was completely dizzy.

his hand was still wrapped tightly around his cock, stroking himself in shaky movements as he stared with wide, glassy eyes. the sight of his best friend on his knees, face buried between your thighs, licking and sucking on your oversensitive clit while you moaned and shook was almost too much for him to handle.

“fuck… megumi…” yuji breathed, voice hoarse and awed. his head felt light, cheeks burning crimson as he watched megumi devour you. “she’s so sensitive right now… look at her…”

megumi hummed against your clit in response, the vibration making you sob. he pressed his tongue flat against you, licking broad strokes before sucking on your clit again, completely lost in making you feel good.

yuji’s hand moved faster on his cock, breathing ragged as he watched your thighs tremble around megumi’s head. he looked completely drunk on the sight.

“you’re both so hot…” yuji whispered. “don’t stop, megumi… please don’t stop.”

then megumi pulled his mouth away from your dripping pussy. he rose to his feet, breathing heavily. without a word, he unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants and boxers down just enough to free his hard cock. it slapped against his stomach, flushed and leaking. you barely had time to catch your breath before he stepped close again, lifting one of your legs around his waist.

“shh,” he whispered against your ear as he lined himself up.

then he pushed in.

a loud moan started to leave your lips as he stretched you open in one smooth thrust, but megumi quickly covered your mouth with his hand, muffling the sound. his palm pressed firmly against your lips while he sank deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

your eyes rolled back at the sudden fullness.

at the exact same moment, yuji let out a choked groan. the sight of megumi’s cock disappearing inside you was too much for him. his hand stuttered on his cock as his orgasm hit him like a freight train.

“f-fuck—!” yuji whimpered, thighs shaking as thick ropes of cum spilled over his fist and onto his stomach. he kept stroking himself through it, eyes glued to where megumi was buried deep inside you.

his vision started to blur. the edges of the kitchen grew hazy, like he was looking through fogged glass, but he could still see megumi’s hips snapping forward, burying his cock deep inside you with every thrust. he could see the way your body jolted, your tits bouncing, your mouth open against megumi’s palm as you moaned helplessly.

more and more cum leaked out around megumi’s cock with every deep stroke, dripping down your thighs in shiny streaks. the sound of it echoed in yuji’s ears—the obscene squelch of megumi’s cock sliding through your soaked, cum-filled pussy.

yuji was barely able to focus anymore. everything felt like a fever dream. the only thing he could see clearly was megumi’s thick cock plunging in and out of you, pushing his own cum deeper inside your body with every thrust. more white leaked out, sliding down your skin, dripping onto the kitchen floor.

his hand kept moving on his cock, slow and sloppy now, milking every last drop as he watched the scene in front of him like it was the only thing real anymore.

yuji was panting hard, chest heaving, completely lost in the sight of his best friend fucking his girlfriend while his own cum continued to spill uselessly over his fingers. he never wanted it to end.

but then everything shattered.

yuji’s eyes snapped open.

he was in his own bed, chest heaving, body covered in a thin layer of sweat. his heart was pounding violently as reality slowly sank in.

it had been another dream.

just a dream.

his cock was still twitching weakly, completely spent. he could feel the warm, sticky mess inside his boxers and sweatpants. he had cum hard in his sleep again. the front of his pants was soaked through.

yuji groaned softly, throwing one arm over his face. his cheeks burned as the images from the dream flashed through his mind: megumi’s hand over your mouth, the way you moaned against his palm, the wet sound of megumi thrusting into you…

“fuck…” he whispered to himself.

he lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. the ache in his chest was back. his two favorite people. the thought of you two together made him feel so full and so filthy at the same time.

he slowly sat up, wincing at the cold, wet feeling in his pants. another ruined pair. this was becoming a problem.

he wondered if he would ever have the courage to tell you and megumi the truth. if he would ever stop just dreaming about it… and actually ask.

for now, he just sighed, peeling off his ruined sweatpants with a tired, embarrassed little smile. “this is getting ridiculous…” he muttered. but deep down, he already knew he’d probably dream about it again tomorrow.

You are well aware that this is wrong. That you shouldn’t do it, should leave your past behind you, once and for all. Should cuddle up to your boyfriend instead and shove these insistent, mourning feelings to the very back of your mind. 

Today, though, you couldn’t help yourself. Not any longer—aroused and aching, slick between your thighs. Restless with the need to come, to release your pent-up frustration, which has been building for months now. 

In truth, Tom is a good lover—great even. What he does, he does well. He just never does quite enough.  

Again, you should not let your thoughts stray this far. Not under any circumstances. But... with Mattheo, it felt different. Intimacy felt like a special connection you shared, both of you at your most vulnerable, and yet you never once felt unsafe in his arms. 

You felt cherished and loved, and now—with Tom, it feels distant. It feels as though being intimate with him is a chore, a necessity to keep your relationship above water when otherwise it’s drowning. 

Most of the time, he does not even bother kissing you, reassuring you, or encouraging you. It’s so shallow, you have never gotten to experience an orgasm with him. And he does not ask, either. When he is done, you are too. Left wanting as he turns around and dozes off—leaving you to your thoughts. Thoughts, which often include his brother, and, in the end, help you reach your high too—on your own. 

If anything, though, you feel ashamed. You left Mattheo for Tom for a reason. You sought maturity and responsibility—and found just that with Tom. He’s ambitious, has his goals set, and is hardworking. 

You found stability but, in exchange, traded love and affection.

Still, you chose this path for yourself. You are well aware, all things considered, Tom provides the traits you’ve wanted in a partner and has never denied you assistance with school-related work. Has been there for you and been a great companion. 

You should’ve never left his dorm tonight. 

And for a moment, you consider turning around. You consider returning to your bed, which has most likely cooled out by now, and try to be the girlfriend Tom expects you to be, deserves you to be. 

Another moment passes, and you blink the tears that have gathered at your waterline away. 

You are so unhappy. So desperate for a gentle touch that finally— 

You knock again. Harder. Louder. Please open, you whisper into the darkness of the night, the words forming a misty cloud in the chilly air surrounding you. Please, Mattheo. I need you. 

This time, a low groan—unmistakably Mattheo’s—rumbles from inside, and a second later, footsteps near the door. 

The lock turns, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

The door opens just wide enough that he can peek outside—and yet, the mere presence of him spreads instant heat throughout your body, warming you from the inside. 

His chocolate-brown eyes take no longer than a split moment to recognise your face, prying the door open further. 

“What are you—” his eyes rake over your body, not suggestively, but observingly. When he realises you are wearing nothing more than thin satin pyjamas, he takes hold of your wrist and pulls you inside. 

Mattheo switches on a small lamp, and it’s then when you are able to see each other properly that worry wipes the soft smile clean from his face. 

“Are you all right? Has something happened?” He asks quietly, insinuating—his eyes darting between you and the door. 

Even after all this time, he is still more worried about you than his own brother. Mattheo has always prioritised your safety over anything else, and the realisation makes your heart hurt. Tears finally spill, and you sniffle, turning away from him.  

Mattheo gathers you in his arms then, wrapping them around you gently, protectively, letting you calm down. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing his fingers along your spine and whispering soothing words near your ear. 

As soon as you calm yourself, you reluctantly part from the comforting warmth of his body, his thumb wiping away the moisture that has gathered on your cheek as his brown eyes, full of worry, gaze down at you. 

And then, when he sits you down on his bed, you spill your heart out to him. 

Everything you’ve been holding in for months leaves your lips, and with every sentence, your soul feels lighter. It feels as though your pain transfers to him—his eyes growing darker as minutes pass, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists beside him. 

When you are done, there’s a long, agonising silence. So long and uncomfortable, you question whether it was the right decision to let him in on this. 

But Mattheo—Mattheo only pulls you closer, wrapping his strong arms around you just as he did before. No judgement, no questions. Just quiet understanding and comfort.  

After his lips brush a kiss on the top of your head, he reluctantly lets go of you. His eyes bore into yours, with an intensity and emotion you aren’t sure you can handle coming from him. 

“Why?” he asks, quietly—but there is no trace of malice in his tone. “Why didn’t you come sooner? I could have— maybe I could have done something.” 

You shake your head. “Being here right now is a mistake, Mattheo, and you know it. I shouldn’t have shared this with you, let alone come to sit on your bed. Tom is asleep, I should— God, I should leave.” 

“Is that what you want?” he asks, curling a finger beneath your chin and tilting your head up, urging you to look at him. God, his eyes. The warmth of a crackling fireplace, intertwined with the sweetness of dark honey, staring down at you. 

No, I don’t, you want to reply, but the words do not form on your tongue—still, your lips part, though for a different reason entirely. 

The sheer proximity of him wipes reason from your every thought, and when his face inches closer, you don’t dare stop him. 

Instead, you allow the relationship with Tom to drown, pulling yourself back above water in the same moment and sucking in the first breath of fresh oxygen in what feels like months. 

When his lips brush over yours in a gentle, encouraging motion—as though he’s giving you a trial, a promise of what’s about to come—you don’t pull away. You whimper but reciprocate his invitation, and that is enough for Mattheo to deepen the kiss. He’s holding you close, one hand at the nape of your neck, the other resting just above your jaw, drawing soft patterns on your cheek with his thumb. 

When he eases back, he swipes it over your lips, and you whimper again—but Mattheo pulls away, taking a moment to look at you—confirming by your hazed expression that yes, you do want this. That you need this just as badly as he does. 

And then, your back hits the mattress, and Mattheo’s mouth is on yours again, more feral and hungry than before, while he’s hovering above you between your spread legs. His hands are on your shoulders this time, and with the tip of his finger, he traces along your collarbone, revealed by the V-cut of your pyjama top. He follows the seam downwards, and you can’t help but offer yourself to him, arching your back to encourage him for more, whimpering into the kiss. 

God, how Mattheo has missed this. You, obediently spread out beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, drawing the sweetest sounds from your swollen lips, which send a concerning amount of blood rushing straight to his already semi-hard dick. 

All the while, your brain is screaming more, more, more, but all he’s giving you is barely-there touches, kisses that nearly make you beg for more. 

In reality, Mattheo wishes to devour you—but after all these months, not knowing whether he’ll ever get another chance—he's savouring you. Slow, deliberate affection, just like you deserve, not rushing you through it. 

His hips brush your thigh, and fuck—you nearly forgot what it feels to be desired—genuinely desired. He’s pressed up tight, trailing heated kisses down your neck, slowly undoing the buttons at the front of your shirt—rocking his growing erection against you, subconsciously so. 

His fingers carefully peel the satin aside, the pad of his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, and you gasp at the sensation. Never in all those months— 

“Poor thing. So frustrated, hm?” Mattheo rasps, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “So frustrated, even the smallest touch makes you writhe. God, whatever shall I do with you?” 

More. Touch me. Please. 

“Mattheo,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his brown curls. “I—” 

But he doesn’t let you finish your sentence. 

“Let me show you— please, let me show you how you should be loved. Let me make you forget about him, sweetheart. Let me make you mine again.” 

His lips trail a path of kisses along your sternum, down your tummy, halting briefly at the hem of your shorts, his eyes longingly gazing up at yours from below, a silent question swirling in the depths of them. 

Yes. I need this. I need you. 

As if he heard your thoughts, his fingers hook into the material of the only fabric still covering you, gently tugging it down your thighs alongside your panties. 

“This is a bad idea,” you try again, huskily, but there is no sincerity behind your words. He merely shakes his head, the corner of his mouth curving into a playful smirk. He knows you are lying. And when his thumb finds your clit—swollen, begging for attention, drawing slow, torturous circles over it—you don’t tell him to stop, no. You chase his touch, angle your hips to offer more of yourself, revealing more of your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes. 

Even in the dim light emitted from the lamp in the corner of his dorm, Mattheo can see your arousal—and subsequently can’t help but dip his thumb lower, collecting some of what has gathered at your entrance. He makes you watch when he brings it to his mouth and licks it clean, groans when he tastes you on himself. 

As though you were the forbidden fruit no man dares to touch—but if it’s for you, Mattheo doesn’t care. Doesn't care if he fucking burns for it. You will be his damnation, even after all this time. 

“Oh— oh God, Mattheo, this is— so perfect, but such a bad idea.” 

“Bad idea?” he repeats, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “You know what a bad idea is? Leaving you to yourself like this—soaked and so. fucking. sensitive.” 

The worst part is that he is right. And that you have wanted nothing more than for someone to take care of you, to pleasure you as you do them.

Your mind is hazy with lust, with the need to come, and you give yourself the last push, shoving any remaining thoughts of Tom into the take-care-of-it-later folder of your mind. 

Then, your lips part, Mattheo studying you intently. “Please, touch me. Make me feel good. Make me yours again.” 

Mattheo’s mind efficiently shuts off after he takes in those words and repeats them around five times in his mind to make sure he understood you right. 

Hell, he won't let any second go to waste.

He presses one last kiss to the inside of your knee, then grabs your thighs and spreads them apart, far enough for him to fit in between. He’s feral—almost as feral as you are. His head dips, tongue delving between your folds, gathering the moisture seeping from your entrance and bringing it to your clit before his lips wrap around it effortlessly. And God, months without this kind of affection have made you overly sensitive. This feels as close to heaven as a mortal may reach in their lifetime—and you force your eyes open to watch him, watch your ruination. 

You study him intently as he pleasures you, as though it’s the very thing he was made for, as though there is not a single thing he’d rather do. And there most likely isn’t. 

Seeing him like this—fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs, moaning against your pussy, savouring your taste on his tongue—has molten heat form in your lower stomach, and the familiar, yet almost forgotten tingles spread throughout your entire body, having you grab and tug on his curls, press him more firmly against you.  

Mattheo licks, sucks, drags his tongue through the mess between your folds, fucks you with his tongue, and is so fucking vocal about it. Praises you, encourages you.  

“Good girl. So fucking good for me,” he nearly growls, spreading your legs impossibly wider.  “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Just needed me between those pretty fuckin’ thighs, making you remember how good it can feel, hm?” 

You don’t answer. Can't answer when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive clit, kisses it, and sucks it between his lips again. 

You are about to come. God, you are about to come, and you don’t think you have ever felt this fucking good. 

Don't stop, please, don’t stop. 

He doesn’t stop. His hands leave your thighs, one of them intertwining with your own, reassuring you that he’s here to catch you when you let go, the other dipping lower, coating two of his fingers in your slick before he presses them against your entrance and pushes inside ever so slowly. 

“Come, pretty girl. Come all over my face like I fucking taught you.” 

Mattheo curls his fingers right against that sensitive spot inside you, and you don’t have any other choice but to follow his order even if you so wished. 

His teeth graze your clit, fingers pumping deep, encouraging you with a low groan—and the vibrations of it finally send you over the edge. A broken moan slips past your lips—swollen from biting into them—and your fingers fist his hair tighter, thighs clamping around his head as stars dance in front of your eyes. You shake, you sob, and as your climax rips through you, so violently you think you may actually skip the dying part and ascend straight to heaven—he is there. He holds you, he praises you, and most importantly, doesn’t stop. Not until he’s drained every last drop of pleasure and you whimper due to the sensitivity.

Brushing one last soft kiss to your clit, he sits up, taking in your spent form with pure satisfaction. 

He looks gorgeous like this. Chin soaked with both his spit and your arousal, lips swollen and reddened, hair a mess. In that moment, you realise you’ve missed him more than you thought. Not just because he always puts you first, but because he’s genuine with his feelings, careful with his words, and gentle with his affection. 

“Fuck,” Mattheo exhales a long breath, a grin spreading on his face. “You did amazing. So fucking good, just like I remember.” 

You whisper something in that sweet, velvety voice, and Mattheo doesn’t quite catch it but leans down to kiss you again anyway. You taste yourself on his lips and can’t help but lose yourself in the feeling of it. 

Now, that the bliss of your high is slowly fading, you are feeling courageous. More than. 

You reach between the two of you to palm his erection through his underwear, and his lips still against yours for a moment—but then, a wicked grin lets them curve upwards, and he lets them crash against yours again—coaxing you, making you feel bold. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you finally circle his waist with your legs, and you can’t help but grind against him. Dragging your soaked pussy over his erection, still covered by the annoying piece of fabric he hasn’t bothered taking off yet. 

Mattheo growls, the muscles in his jaw flexing. 

He is holding back. 

Reluctantly, you drop your head on the pillow beneath you, staring up at him, your palm brushing over his cheek affectionately.

“Mattheo, I want you— I want you inside me, please.” 

Fuck, he thinks. You don’t know what you are asking from him. Once he feels your warmth around him, there is no fucking way he’ll ever let you leave again. No fucking way. And you are asking so sweetly, having come all this way here to pour your heart out to him—you deserve a reward. 

His underwear is discarded somewhere on the floor, and not too long after, his toned body is framing yours, his hard cock dragging over your cunt as he slowly works his hips against your own. 

“Please,” you whimper, and he adjusts himself just slightly, allowing his length to slip between your glistening folds. With every oh-so-gentle thrust, his weeping tip bumps against your still overly sensitive clit, and your nails claw at his back, moaning his name. Anything to get him to lose his patience. 

You fucking need this. 

“Mattheo. Please, I am begging you. You are my only, please let me have this.” 

He curses under his breath, and yet, he straightens himself, hand beneath your neck to make you look at just how hard and needy he is for you. You moan at the sight of his soaked cock, caused by both your and his own arousal. 

“Watch us when I push inside you. Watch how pretty you look when you take me.” 

His hand fists your hair at the back of your head, supporting you—and then, with a throaty groan, the head of his cock slips past your entrance, having you both gasp at the same time. He's going slow—savouring every inch as you both watch him disappear inside your slick walls, pussy clenching tightly around the welcome invasion. 

“So— so good, fuck, Mattheo— more, please, more.” 

You think you hear something along the lines of “greedy fucking girl" before he lowers your head, braces his arms on either side of your face, and then drives home. All the fucking way, until the head of him nudges against your cervix, and you shriek in both pleasure and pain. 

And Merlin help you, you want more. Harder, rougher. Give me all of you, Mattheo, your eyes damn near beg. 

But he—he already looks fucking broken. Like the porcelain doll your grandmother displayed on her windowsill, with tiny cracks all over her once perfect exterior. They did not make her any less gorgeous, though—if anything, she looked like someone loved her properly. 

And you love Mattheo, too. You’ve left your marks on him, on his soul, having him panting and breathing and moaning above you, thrusting so slowly, so carefully, you might as well tell him to break you too. 

Your legs tighten around him. Encouragement. Please, please, don’t hold back. 

Mattheo breathes out a pained whimper, meeting your eyes. 

“I won’t— sweetheart, I won’t last long like this, fuck. It's been— been a while.” 

Oh God. 

You shouldn’t ask this. Hell, your mind should stay put for just once. Don't let your thoughts wander. But you ask nonetheless. “How— how long?” 

“Nine months.” 

You ended things between you nine months ago. 

“Oh God, Mattheo. Don’t tell me—” 

He nods. He nods, kisses you slowly and desperately, and then looks at you with an expression so close to hurt, you wish you had never asked. 

“I want you. I only ever want you. And if I can’t have you, then I—” 

“Mattheo— hey, look at me,” you shush him, cradling his face in your hands. “You have me. All of me. I belong to you, just as much as you belong to me. I was stupid not to realise it. I am yours. All yours, from now until the end of time.” 

“Hmph—” he whimpers, increasing his pace, hips snapping against yours furiously, knocking the air from your lungs with every harsh thrust. 

“Fuck, baby. Don’t say those things when I— when I am so—” he groans, a crease forming between his brows, concentrating. His cock twitches inside you, and it’s the only confirmation you need. 

“Give it to me. Please. I need you. All of you. I need this.” 

His thrusts grow erratic, deeper and rougher just as he knows you love it, and it takes everything in him to hold back. Hold back just a little longer to get you where he needs you. 

He knows. He remembers. After all these months, he remembers, knows your body better than you do. Better than anyone—including Tom—ever could. Because they don’t care. But he does. Mattheo does and always has cared about your pleasure, your safety, your comfort. About you. 

“Fuck, you are strangling me, baby. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

You only nod, breathing heavily, just like him. And then, his thumb is back on your clit, drawing perfectly tight circles around it, all while locking his eyes with you. 

“Tell me,” he rasps, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Who does this wet, tight pussy belong to? Hm?” 

Lord, you haven’t been to a confessional in ages, but perhaps it’s time to visit one some time soon. Very soon. 

“It’s yours, Mattheo— fuck, it’s all yours,” you cry out, scratching his back as he slams into you, growling at your confession. His hips stutter just as you lose yourself in the bliss of a second, even better and more wrecking climax than the first. Only through the thick, hazy clouds enveloping your every sane thought do you feel as he empties himself inside of you, gently letting his body collapse on top of yours afterwards, sucking in deep breaths. 

The waves of your pleasure almost drown you, but when you calm down, you reemerge, unharmed, feeling blissfully satisfied—brushing your fingertips along his spine, soothing him the same way he did with you. 

What does not reemerge is your relationship with Tom. 

And it won’t. Never again. You are home, and you are happy. You are exactly where you want to be. 

In your lover's arms—in Mattheo’s arms.

・・・

bonus ending:

“No. Off. Keep those off,” Mattheo drawls from his side of the bed, arms tucked beneath his head as he watches you get dressed the next morning, nodding towards your panties just as you are about to step into them. 

“Mattheo,” you warn him, but he gestures you over with one hand, sitting up on the bed. 

You do as he says for once, intrigued by the sudden change in his expression. He gently, carefully kisses you when you stop at the edge of the bed and then smiles at you. 

“Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he purrs, and reluctantly, you do. 

Mattheo’s fingers dip between your folds, coating them with your combined arousal of the previous night, now beginning to drip out of you. You hiss, sore, but lean into his touch anyway—though he withdraws as quickly as he began, bringing his glistening fingers to your lips. 

You open them, but he shakes his head. 

Instead, he draws an M on your lips, smirking when he admires his work. 

“For when you kiss him good morning. One last time.”

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

—