#It was accidental but now that I think about it...

[sixeyesonathiel]

the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself. 

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials. 

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil. 

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i��m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

[frownyalfred]

re: discussions today about Batman not giving a shit about the law or governmental authority, I like to think that he's the kind of person to throw a goon in jail for the weekend if he thinks it'll teach them a lesson, but he's also the kind of person who'll go bust that goon's ass out of GCPD general holding or the Gotham County Jail and beat the shit out of like ten different guards if it means getting intel to save someone in time.

maybe it's a prisoner swap with Penguin, or you're a goon who accidentally hooked up your thumbprint to a lock on the room where they're holding a kidnapped girl. either way, you're the most valuable person in the world to Batman right now, he is hanging outside of your tiny jail window, all of the people on your block are shitting their pants and two of the jail guards quit their shift on the spot as he walked you out. you will be back in jail by sunrise. however, you do get to ride in the Batmobile with Robin, you and Batman actually talk a little bit about the holding cells in the GCPD building (why Batman knows what the meal trays there taste like is never explained), and then by the end of it you realize maybe you should go back and get that GED after all.

[tsuy4n]

Okay so I’ve been obsessing over the Saja boys these days. Hyperfixation. New brain rot unlocked. Absolute serotonin. And after reading all these chef's kiss stories on here, my delulu brain said:

"What if Artist!Fem!Reader x Saja boys?"

And no, I don’t mean reader who just likes drawing.

I mean full-on webtoon artist. Sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, hasn’t seen the sun in days—that kind of artist.

The kind who sees hot people and thinks, "great bone structure. Gonna draw that."

So here’s the ✨vision✨:

Reader isn’t romantically impressed by the Saja boys. At all.

They try to flirt?

"You’re shaped like a Pinterest pose reference. Mind holding that flex for a sec?"

They're shirtless?

"Nice lighting. I need to sketch your obliques."

They do the sexy wink?

They're out here looking like gods and MC’s just collecting them like rare anatomy models.

"I’ve seen better. Your symmetry’s a little off."

How'd she got involved? Well, she didn’t even mean to meet them, really.

She just took a low-key staff job which is some basic behind-the-scenes work. Water duty. Carrying gear. Sweeping up glitter. Whatever pays rent.

But then:

Accidentally walks in on them mid-magic ritual.

Mistakes it for a stage rehearsal.

Doesn’t scream—just critiques the lighting and poses.

Becomes a walking enigma the boys can’t stop thinking about.

THEN her apartment burns down. Rent’s out of the question. And after a lot of suspicious looks and internal debates, one of the Saja boys goes:

"You can stay with us. Temporarily."

So now she’s:

Working for five hot demon idols

Living in their house

Still not impressed.

But wait—it gets worse (better.)

She thinks they’re just dramatic, overly aesthetic idols until she finds out:

They’re literal demons.

And their enemies? Obv the Huntrix which she thinks is another group that has... some similar name to that kpop group.

[Y/n]: "Like— Like Demon slayers?!"

YES. SHE STANS HUNTRIX. But she knows 2...

She has fanart. She follows a fancomic. She thought Mina, They said Mira but she thinks they mixed the name—pink hair, dual-scythe (technically a guandao, but whatever), was fictional.

Sneak Peek Scenes for Flavor:

1. The Huntrix Fangirl Reveal

The boys are bandaged, battered, and mid-complaint.

[Y/n]: "WAIT YOU FOUGHT MINA?! THAT'S SO COOL???" Abby: "She almost took my arm off!" Baby: "She stole my favorite jacket, too!" [Y/n]: *casually flipping through her webtoon collection* "Wait. The one with the dual-scythes and pink hair, right??"

Roman: "…Yeah, why?” [Y/n]: *eyes sparkling, playing along* "OH MY GOD YOU FOUGHT THE MINA?? SHE’S SO COOL!! I LOVE HER ???"

Dead silence. Mystery: *barks once in betrayal* JINU: *eye twitching* "You… stan the person actively trying to kill us?"

[Y/n]: "Okay first of all, she's not trying to kill me. Secondly, have you seen her design? Iconic. Her color palette? Perfect. Her character arc? Chef’s kiss. The drama. The trauma. The hair."

She pauses.

[Y/n]: *softly, reverently*: "She’s everything I wish I could draw." Abby: "You’re sleeping outside."

2. The Abs Incident

Abby: "Go ahead, babe. One-time offer to touch perfection." [Y/n]: "Okay." *Touches abs with terrifying focus.* [Y/n] *nods* "Good texture. I’m using you for a villain character. Thanks."

3. Rumi’s Breakdown (Huntrix Squad)

Rumi: "THEY’RE DEMONS! HOW CAN YOU STAY AT THEIR PLACE?! Not with just one—but all five?!!" [Y/n]: "Really? Wow.” Mira: *narrows eyes* "…You don’t look surprised." Zoey: Are you in cahoots with them?! Like—were you so BEWITCHED by their faces?! Because SAME. But also, betrayal??? [Y/n]: "Oh no, I’m freaking out inside. I just… this is PEAK webtoon content. Enemies to lovers potential. I’m living in someone’s AU."

4. When She Meets Mira

[Y/n]: "Oh my god. You’re real." Mira: "And you’re the artist who’s been drawing me in armor and… cat ears?" [Y/n]: "It was for the Patreon tier okay please don’t kill me."

5. Late-Night Kitchen Chaos

She just wanted rent money 😔Now she has demon roommates, stan wars, and probably develops an accidental crush on the villains.

Baby: "Most girls would kill for a moment alone with me."

[Y/n]: *without looking up from her sketchpad* "Can you move? You’re blocking the fridge light. I’m using it to shade your clavicle." Baby: "…Do I at least look cool?" [Y/n]: "Yeah. You’ve got the perfect bone structure for a mid-arc character death." Baby: "????"

And somehow, that’s still not the weirdest part of her week.

✨ [Y/n] doesn’t flirt. She doesn’t swoon. She just humbles the boys like it’s her side quest. ✨

On the side note: When I get into it imma start writing! (I’m into it.)

[nekonaps0]

Mixed text pt2

✦part1 part3

✦fem!reader

✦characters: second years

✦You meant to send your very spicy little message to your boyfriend. But you didn’t just text him. You accidentally dropped it into the dorm group chat…

Riddle Rosehearts

Your text:

“You looked so good yelling at Ace today. I think I’ve got a thing for authority. Want to punish me next?”

Group chat chaos:

Cater: “👀 Y’ALL KINKY”

Trey: “Cater, don’t encourage them.”

Ace: “IM SUING.”

Deuce: “Can I leave the chat?”

Riddle dropped his pen. He stared at the screen like it had personally insulted the Queen of Hearts.

“...What. What is this. What is THIS.”

His face turned a shade of violently red only seen in cartoons. He stormed into the kitchen where you were innocently making tea.

“Care to explain why my entire dorm now believes I’m a disciplinarian in the bedroom?!”

You apologized. Profusely. With kisses.

He eventually calmed down, sighing, fanning his cheeks.

“...I suppose next time, if you must send something like that, at least not in the group chat.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Your text:

“Next time I sit on your face, maybe I’ll let you breathe. Or not”

Group chat chaos:

Leona: “...Disgusting.”

Jack: “I AM INNOCENT. I DON’T DESERVE THIS.”

Ruggie choked on his lunch. Spit his soda. Dropped his phone. Cursed out loud.

“NONONONO—FUUUCK—DELETE DELETE DELETE.”

You get a voice note from him, sputtering:

“You just committed war crimes. Everyone saw it. Even Leona. I’m going to die. You killed me.”

But after a few hours of internal screaming, he texts again:

“...Not gonna lie though, if that’s a promise... see you tonight.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Your text:

“If I showed up under your desk in nothing but heels and pearls, would you finally stop pretending to read your contract papers?”

Group chat chaos:

Jade: “Fascinating.”

Floyd: “Shrimpy WILD today huh??”

Random Mostro Lounge worker : “I’m filing a complaint.”

Azul nearly threw his tablet into the Mostro Lounge aquarium. His face went beat red.

“No no no no—WHY did it go to the group chat—”

He immediately DM’d you:

“My pearl, I beg you… do not ever use that phrasing again where others can read it.”


“But also. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Please continue.”

Later that night, he’s “working late” in his office—door locked. Wonder why?

Floyd Leech

Your text:

“I had a dream last night where you tied my wrists with ribbons and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wanna try for real?”

Group chat chaos:

Azul: “Excuse me?!?!”

Jade: “Brother, you’ve become quite popular.”

Other students: “Please get a room. Floyd just starts cackling. Loudly.”

“OOOH SHRRIMPYYYYY~ You sent that to everyone!”

He immediately replied in the chat:

“Bet. I be there in a minute!”

Then he slid into your DMs:

“You gonna let me tie you up tonight or what~? Don’t worry, I won’t squeeze too hard. Just enough to hear you squeak.”

You never hear the end of it. Never.

Jade Leech

Your text:

“Tell me again how you pinned me to the tank last night. Maybe do it again when the Mostro Lounge is empty?”

Group chat chaos:

Floyd: “WHOOOOAAA~ You DIRTY lil shrimp!”

Azul: “I’m canceling both of you.”

Random student: “I’m not emotionally stable enough for this. AND IM NOT CLEANING AGAIN!”

Jade’s eyes twitched. Just once.

Then he smiled that eerily calm smile and typed calmly into the chat:

“Thank you for your attention. We’ll be discussing aquarium etiquette next meeting.”

He DMs you moments later:

“Dearest pearl, your creativity astounds me. Shall we give them something else to talk about next time?”

(You don’t know whether to be turned on or terrified.)

Kalim Al-Asim

Your text:

“You looked so good sweating at practice today. I just wanted to drag you behind the gym and have some fun.”

Group chat chaos:

Jamil: “I’m throwing my phone into the Nile.”

Scarabia dormmate: “Kalim. You absolute legend.”

Kalim read the message and blinked. Then beamed.

“Aww! You think I looked good???”

Totally missed the point.

Jamil came in screaming and tackled Kalim’s phone to delete the chat history.

Eventually Kalim got it and turned bright red, laughing nervously.

“Ohhh! I thought you meant—!!! Ehe… well… if you meant… the other thing… let’s talk after dinner?”

Sweetest himbo. 100% still flustered the next day.

Jamil Viper

Your text:

“I had this fantasy of you pulling my hair and whispering orders in my ear. Think you can boss me around outside the kitchen, too?”

Group chat chaos:

Kalim: “You mean like cooking instructions?”

Scarabia dormmate: “I am never using the kitchen again.”

Jamil saw the notification, stopped mid-chop, and stared in dead silence.

Then he muttered:

“I’m going to bury myself in the sand.”

He DMs you with:

“You sent that to the dorm. THE DORM.”

You apologized, and he replied:

“You better mean it. Because now everyone thinks I wear the apron and the crown.”

(He gets very bossy that night. RIP for your back)

Silver

Your text:

“I dreamed of you tying me up and whispering in to my ears with that sleepy voice. Maybe tonight I won’t have to dream.”

Group chat chaos:

Lilia: “My boy is all grown up 😭”

Sebek: “UNACCEPTABLE.”

Malleus: “What do you mean by... ‘tying up’?”

Silver dropped his sword during sparring. He froze in horror. Even Lilia’s teasing didn’t register.

“No. No no no. She didn’t.”

He messaged you:

“You meant to send that to me, didn’t you?”

When you admitted it, he covered his face and sighed.

“You have no idea what you’ve done. Sebek’s yelling, Lilia’s laughing... and Malleus asking questions…”

He doesn’t say anything else—until later that night, when he shows up at your room.

“...You said you didn’t want to dream, right?”

You sleep like a princess that night.

..............................................................................................................................

[shikiii-skadi]

What is Wrong with being a little Bad? || Prologue

SUMMARY: After a potion incident caused by your three disaster-prone friends, you're now stuck with an accidental villain arc.

WARNINGS: none

NAVIGATION: Twisted Wonderland Masterlist

PARTS: Prologue | Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

As usual, the three idiots you called friends had gotten you into trouble. It could have been an ordinary alchemy lesson with Professor Crewel, but Ace just had to make fun of Grim, comparing him to the shriveled gray tuber you were supposed to use for your potion.

Of course, Ace kept provoking Grim until he snapped and tried to burn the tuber. Only to accidentally set a table on fire. Professor Crewel was not pleased, to say the least. So now, as punishment, you, Grim, Ace, and Deuce had to stay after class and finish the potion within the next hour and present it to Professor Crewel. Which was a tough task in itself, even without the troublesome behaviour of your friends.

You were discussing the next step with Deuce when, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Ace trying to silently sneak toward the door.

"Ace!"  you scolded, causing him to freeze mid-step. "Don't even try to sneak off on us, or you will be glued to the cauldron."

"Geez, I wasn't even trying to go anywhere. Just wanted to check if we need anything from the shelf over there," he lied very unconvincingly.

"We already have all the ingredients we need," you reminded him, before practically feeling the mischievous energy emanating from the cat monster somewhere behind you. "Grim. Don't even think about trying anything."

Deuce shook his head, exasperated after witnessing you scold both Ace and Grim. "Seriously, it's the fault of both of you that we are in this situation."

"The Great Grim ain't done anything at all. Everything is Ace's fault!" Grim shot back immediately, puffing out his chest.

“You set a table on fire,” you reminded him.

Grim stomped his little feet in protest, while Ace only snickered. "Only because Ace made fun of me!"

You were about to launch into another lecture about why that was absolutely no excuse to use fire, but Deuce interrupted, his voice suddenly bright with excitement. “Wait—I think I’ve got it!”

Curious, the three of you crowded around the cauldron to see what Deuce had concocted. But something was off. The potion was a watery, reddish color. Nothing like the shimmering blue one Professor Crewel had demonstrated in class.

“The color’s way off,” Ace said, wrinkling his nose. “Even a blind guy could tell.”

After looking at the liquid in the cauldron for a few more seconds, you nodded. "Yeah, I have to agree... It was more blue and had this red shimmer."

"And Crewel's potion was more bubbly," Grim commented, but you had the feeling it wasn't really an observation and more a case of Grim just saying something to sound smart.

Ace shot Deuce a look. “Great job, Deuce. Now we have to start all over.”

"Excuse me? You didn't even do anything."

"Don't start another argument," you said, trying to be the voice of reason in all of this. And also to prevent any more tables from potentially landing in the crossfire. "Let's just try to get this over with."

While the three of you were distracted, Grim saw the perfect opportunity to "fix" your potion. He didn't want to spend hours making a new one, and a talented mage like him could fix this no problem, he thought wrongly.

Grim confidently grabbed a jar filled with bright green liquid and generously poured it into the cauldron. You only noticed what Grim was doing because his actions resulted in a dark green smoke that filled a good chunk of the laboratory in a matter of seconds, shrouding you in a green vision.

You coughed, waving your hand in front of your face, and stumbled blindly toward the window, trying to remember the way. Behind you, Deuce’s voice rang out, muffled by the haze: “Grim, you’re ruining the potion!”

"Don't just randomly mix stuff together," Ace said, followed by a cough, as if he wouldn't do the exact same thing.

You could barely see, but you heard Grim’s triumphant voice: “I’m fixing it! Just wait and see!”

"Stop mixing things!" you called out after hearing what sounded suspiciously like Grim throwing something else into the potion.

You reached the window and opened it, but it wasn't really effective in getting rid of the smoke. The sound of something heavy being dropped into liquid could be heard. The smoke thickened, then, just as suddenly, began to swirl and collapse, sucked back into the cauldron in a single, unnatural breath.

“There! Fixed!” Grim declared, sounding far too pleased with himself.

"You caused the smoke," Deuce retorted, before grabbing Grims' paw, stopping him from making things worse. Grim tried to wiggle free.

"Just stop, Grim," you said as you made your way over to them. But Grim didn't listen to anyone. He thrashed, and in the commotion, the little stepladder he was standing on, so he could reach the cauldron, tipped over. The ladder collided with the cauldron. Grim leapt away just in time, or he would have landed in the potion, but the ladder crashed into the cauldron, sending it toppling toward you.

You, on the other hand, were not so lucky. Instinctively, you tried to catch the stepladder falling your way, which meant you couldn’t get out of the way in time. The cauldron tips to one side completely, spilling its contents onto you.

You gasped in shock as the cold mixture made contact with your skin. Unlike before, it was no longer watery but gloppy, almost rubbery, as it stuck on you and your lab coat. Fortunately, your eyes were spared thanks to the protection of the goggles. You could feel an unpleasant prickling sensation on your skin just as the liquid suddenly evaporated. It was as if you had absorbed it.

Your friends asked you if everything was alright. You wanted to tell them that nothing was wrong. But suddenly, your annoyance about the situation turned into pure anger. "You incompetent fools! You should be skinned alive and eaten by feral animals! Why do I even keep you around?” you snap, barely recognizing your own voice.

Your three friends looked at you with startled faces. They certainly weren't expecting this reaction. Ace was the first to say something. "Ouch, where is that suddenly coming from?"

Deuce tried to help you up from the ground, but you ignored his hand, standing up on your own. "Don't touch me with your unwashed hands."

"I always wash my hands!" Deuce replied immediately, but you weren't interested in his words.

"Are you sure you are fine?", Ace asked, while Grim added, "Yeah, you are acting really weird."

You glared at them. "I was fine until we crossed paths."

Ace exchanged a nervous glance with Deuce, edging away from the cauldron as if whatever had effected you, might spread to him. “Okay, seriously, what was in that potion?” he whispered.

Deuce frowned, studying you with concern. “You don’t look hurt, but… you’re acting all… villainous.”

“We need to tell Professor Crewel,” Deuce said quietly. “Something’s really wrong.”

Ace hesitated. “Are you kidding? If we tell him, we’re doomed for sure! He’ll have us scrubbing cauldrons until graduation.”

“But my hench-human is clearly broken! We can’t leave them like this," Grim protested.

"I didn't say we should leave them like that. You can stop looking at me like that,“ Ace said, ”We shouldn't tell Crewel, we should tell the Headmage."

Even though Ace, Grim and Deuce were whispering among themselves, you could clearly hear every word. "Are you seriously going to the most irresponsible adult on campus with this?" you said, sounding almost offended.

"That's exactly why we should go to the Headmage. Crewel will only punish us more for this. The Headmage on the other hand..." Ace trailed off, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. You didn’t need him to finish the sentence; his expression said it all.

At that moment, you realize, with a new, almost sinister clarity, that the three accomplices you had gathered here were perhaps not such a bad choice after all. Ace was devious, Deuce mostly naive, and Grim a cat arsonist. And all three of them were dumb enough to be easily manipulated.

[daydreamgoddess14]

Slow Burn 🔥

Bucky x f!Reader

Allll the tropes - you can never have too much cake, friends! There's only one bed, injured on a mission, friends to lovers...

I am still under the influence of a heatwave 🫣 I also now appear to be writing sex acts I've never written before. It's like an unofficial mini-series 😂

Bucky Masterlist

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: face-sitting, oral (f receiving).

Alexei was going to pay for this. You weren't sure how just yet, but you'd think of something. Some suitable punishment for accidentally giving you enough explosive to level a whole building rather than just get you in the door.

You dug through your bag until your fingers closed around what you needed. An ancient tub of moisturiser. Picked up in a gas station more than a year ago, a totally unknown brand - probably banned from sale in the US. Probably not containing even a milligram of aloe.

Luckily it still smelled cool and fresh, still looked usable. Behind you, the bathroom door opened.

“How's the shower?”

“About as good as you'd expect.” Bucky grimaced.

You spun around with a wide grin just as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Your grin disappeared, taking your bravado with it.

“There was me hoping for a huge walk-in with one of those rainfall things,” you muttered.

“Afraid not. I wouldn't even touch anything if I were you.”

Your expression must have said it all because he followed up awfully quickly, “I just mean, like, the walls, not yourse-”

His low voice petered off, the tips of his ears went pink.

“Well, yeah. Obviously,” you scoffed, filling the awkward silence.

The whole place was gross.

You hadn’t planned on a motel.

It was just a quick job - plant the charges, blow the door.

Instead, half the bunker went up in flames.

The burn on your shoulder said enough.

Bucky had dragged you clear of the fire, complaining the whole way to the motel about you not wearing your suit.

“If I’d been wearing my suit, I’d be peeling melted polyester off my skin right now,” you snapped.

He didn’t say another word.

Not until you got to the motel and found, befitting your terrible luck, one full-size bed. Not even a queen.

You passed him as you headed for the bathroom, and you could swear his eyes flicked to your shoulder, just for a second.

You closed the door firmly behind you.

You were friends. Kind of.

There was no need for this to be so… awkward.

You showered fast, following his advice and keeping your hands to yourself, and in the short time you'd been gone, he'd found the spare blanket and lay it on the floor.

“You can't sleep there,” you said before you were even fully back in the room. “It's disgusting. There's probably roaches.”

He didn’t look up. “I’ve slept on worse.”

You hesitated.

“The bed’s not that big,” you muttered. “Just don’t, like, spread out.”

He eyed the bed, then your shoulder.

“You should take that side. You’ll roll onto it otherwise.”

You arched a brow. “Since when are you the burn expert?”

“Since I carried your crispy ass out of a fire.”

You choked on a laugh. “My crispy ass? That’s what we’re calling it?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you for a second too long, then said, “get in the bed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it.

You took the side he pointed to and climbed in first, turning onto your side. He followed a second later, back to you, a careful few inches of air between your bodies.

The silence was too quiet. Too full.

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean don’t touch yourself earlier.”

You sniggered in the dark.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He didn’t reply.

You lay still, hyper-aware of his presence a few inches behind you. His warmth. The shift of the mattress every time he moved.

Eventually, his breathing evened out.

Yours didn’t.

You didn’t know when you drifted off. Only that when you stirred again, it was still dark - just the faintest sliver of morning pushing at the curtains.

You didn’t move, you kept your breathing steady, even as you felt the bed shift slightly behind you.

His arm reached across you, slowly and carefully, for something on the nightstand. He was trying not to wake you. A soft scrape of something plastic. A quiet lid twisting open.

Then the slow slide of your top strap down your arm.

The cream felt cool. Soothing on your angry skin. His fingers worked it into your skin, gentler than they had any right to be.

He was being careful. Methodical.

But he lingered.

His thumb dragged lightly just below the edge of the injury. Too low to be part of the job. Too light to be innocent.

You kept your eyes closed, imagining his hands moving further down. It was all you could do to keep your breath steady, let alone your hips.

And then, as if you weren't already in pieces, you felt him blow lightly over the burn. Your skin cooled and tingled and you couldn't help the sigh of relief that fell from your mouth.

Even to your own ear, it sounded like a broken moan of pleasure.

You clamped your mouth shut, eyes pinching closed with embarrassment.

His hand froze.

You could feel the way his body went still behind you.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low. Strained.

You didn't move. “Do what?”

“Make that sound.”

You could’ve died.

He drew in a slow breath, his fingers still resting lightly on your shoulder.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was.” You paused. “But then you started touching me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” he said softly.

“Shouldn't you?”

You rolled onto your back to look at him, the burn smarting against the rough bedsheets.

“I’ve thought about it,” you admitted quietly.

“Fuck. Me too.”

“So,” you said finally, but trailing off into nothing.

“So if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m gonna kiss you.”

You snorted, “no you're not -”

He dipped down quickly and caught your mouth with his.

You gasped, surprised by his boldness, and felt him go still above you. Before he had time to doubt himself, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him down onto you.

He resisted, just a little, and pulled back.

“Your burn,” he muttered against your mouth.

“‘s fine.” You leaned up to kiss him again, but he twisted away from you.

“Not like this,” he said roughly. Then, after a breath, “c’mere.”

He shifted, rolling to his back, hands guiding your hips as he pulled you with him.

You could feel how hard he was beneath you, the restraint in every movement.

“You sure?” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh, one hand skimming your thigh.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been sure since Berlin.”

You sank into his kiss, half sprawled on top of him, your hands buried in his hair, his mouth hot and hungry against yours.

There was a quiet urgency in the way he kissed you - like he’d been holding back for months and now didn’t know how to stop.

The kiss deepened, his hands everywhere and yet careful to avoid hurting you. When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.

He looked at you, really looked at you. His voice dropped.

“How’s is it?”

“Better than in my head,” you smirked. He rolled his eyes and gestured to your shoulder. “It’s fine. It's nothing.”

His fingers brushed down your arm gently. “I want this to be good for you. Easy.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile widening. “Are you saying I’m lazy?”

“No,” he said, leaning in, his mouth just by your ear. “I’m saying I want you above me. Comfortable.”

He lay back slowly, still watching you.

“Sit on my face.”

It wasn’t a question.

You blinked, heat licking up your neck - and not from the burn. “Bucky, I -”

“You don’t have to move. You don’t have to do anything.” His voice dropped, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me make you fall apart.”

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured our first time,” you laughed nervously, trying to reach for another kiss.

“No?” he grinned, pulling out of your reach. “Because I’ve definitely pictured it. Just relax, I've got you.”

His hand trailed down your thigh to the back of your knee, pulling your leg further over him. You shifted, your knees bracketing his hips, and sat up, peeling off your thin cami.

His eyes drank you in, dark and focused, but he didn’t reach for you.

“I could just stay right here,” you teased, rolling your hips against him. “Ohh, fuck -” you sighed. “Please, Bucky.”

His hands skimmed up your thighs, slow and steady. “Then lose the rest for me, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, wriggling out of your underwear as his grip tightened, guiding you higher up his chest.

You hesitated again, your breath shallow and heart pounding. His eyes were locked on yours - not teasing, just openly wanting.

“I’ve never…” you started, then couldn't finish.

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I want you to.”

He didn’t rush you. He just waited with all his quiet intensity focused entirely on you.

You moved up his chest slowly, his hands steady on your thighs, guiding. When you reached him, hovering just above his mouth, he looked up at you like you were something sacred.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered.

He lay back expectantly. “Not even a little. I knew you'd look perfect up there. Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

He hooked his hands around your thighs and pulled you down. You reached out to grip the thin wooden headboard to steady yourself.

As his broad tongue dragged a long, slow stripe through your pussy, your thighs clamped around his head, half in shock, half instinct.

“What if I fucking suffocate you?” You asked, horrified.

He rolled his eyes, and in them, you knew he was grinning into you.

“Do your worst, baby,” he said, muffled against you. His voice sent vibrations through your body, he held you a little tighter.

His tongue worked you open with a pressure that had you throwing your head back. By the time he swept it over your clit, your hands had given up clinging to the headboard for dear life, and were palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between your thumb and index finger.

“God, Bucky -” you rolled your hips, willing yourself to look at him.

He reached one hand up to cover yours, you swapped them so that yours covered his, kneading your soft curves.

He moaned into you, the sound enough to make you grind down against his tongue.

You reached behind and wrapped a hand around his thick cock, weeping and aching. He fucked up into your fist, each thrust in time with the flick of his tongue inside you.

When his lips closed around your swollen clit and sucked, your legs shook and your vision went white, his name tumbling from your mouth.

Your grip on his cock tightened as you writhed against his mouth.

Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted your back, your ass - he came hard in your hand, roaring into your cunt.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, shifting back on unsteady knees.

He pressed a wet kiss to your inner thigh, making you tremble again.

Still catching your breath, you lifted your hand - slick with his release - and brought your fingers to your lips. Bucky groaned low in his chest, watching as you licked the taste of him from your skin with deliberate, languid strokes.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes blazing.

He surged up suddenly, sitting against the headboard and dragging you down with him, hands firm at your hips. You slid easily down the broad plane of his chest, letting your legs fall to either side of his thighs until you were straddling him again, skin sticking to skin.

His mouth found yours in a messy kiss, all hunger, no restraint - tasting himself on your tongue.

You rocked your hips without thinking, still pulsing around the aftershocks, still needing.

“Bucky…” you breathed against his jaw, your voice raw. “I want more.”

His hand slid up your spine and he blew lightly over the warm skin on your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You nodded, pressing your lips to his cheek. “I want to feel you. All of you.”

He stilled, grip tightening just slightly.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, low in your ear. “Gonna need you to say it again.”

You smiled against his skin, grinding your hips against the hard line of him. “Please. I need you inside me. Want you to fill me up.”

A rough sound left his throat.

“God,” he muttered. “Thought you’d never ask.”

When he finally pushed inside you, you knew you’d never need to ask again.

[lazysoulwriter]

oh... - pedro pascal. ── .✦

content: fluff, a little slow burn, oblivious!reader, smitten!pedro, soft and romantic tone requested! thank you.

---

Pedro’s in love with you. Everyone knows it.

Your friends know it. His friends know it. The barista who makes his triple-shot oat milk latte at 8:02 every morning definitely knows it.

But you? You just… don’t.

Not really.

You think he's kind. You think he's funny. You think he's handsome in that unfair “handsome-and-he-knows-it-but-still-gets-all-bashful-when-you-say-it” kind of way. And you adore being around him. That’s undeniable. But the truth is, you’re used to people being nice. To men giving just enough affection to keep you in orbit, not enough to pull you in.

So when Pedro says things like “I missed you so much this week, mi amor, it felt like something was missing,” you just laugh. When he brushes hair out of your eyes during dinner and says “you’re so beautiful it’s making me forget what I was saying,” you smile and roll your eyes. And when he sends you flowers on random Tuesdays, with notes that say for no reason other than you deserve it, you assume he’s just… being Pedro.

You never quite realize he means it. All of it.

—

One night, he helps you carry a box of old books to your apartment, his hands all dusty and his curls falling over his forehead, and something about it just makes your chest hurt. You tell him to stay for dinner. He does.

You both end up sitting on the floor with pizza, a half-broken record playing in the background, laughing so hard you almost spill your drink when he does a dramatic reading of a cheesy romance novel you forgot you owned.

“‘Her breath hitched as he pulled her close…’” he reads in an exaggerated voice, “‘his voice low and raspy as he whispered—’”

You grab a pillow and hit him, giggling. “Okay! Okay, that’s enough, Shakespeare.”

He grins, eyes soft on you as you laugh, and suddenly the air stills. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you with something achingly tender. You glance over at him, your smile fading into a puzzled expression.

“What?” you ask.

Pedro shrugs, but he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle he accidentally found and never plans on letting go.

“You make me so happy,” he says quietly. “Just being near you.”

You blink. “Pedro, that’s sweet but—”

“No, listen,” he interrupts, sitting up straighter. His voice isn’t teasing now. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I thought maybe you knew. That maybe you just… didn’t feel the same. But I can’t keep pretending I only want to be your friend when all I ever think about is you. Every part of you.”

Your heart skips.

And for a moment, you’re frozen, caught somewhere between disbelief and breathlessness. Your mouth opens. Closes. And then—

“Oh…”

It’s soft. Quiet. Almost confused.

Pedro tilts his head, eyes searching. “Oh?”

You sit there for a second, piecing together every look, every touch, every I missed you and every you’re so beautiful. All of it. All those moments you brushed off. They weren’t jokes. They weren’t sweet little nothings.

They were him. Loving you out loud.

You blink. “Oh.” Then again, firmer: “Oh.” And then—smiling, wide and stunned and full of sudden clarity— “Oh.”

Pedro just laughs, low and sweet, and leans forward to kiss you. “There she is.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[elfbotanist]

I take my sweet time whenever I replay dai cuz the first few days of the inquisition when it's just my lavellan, Solas, Varric and Cassandra is my favourite part of the game.

Travelling and camping together, enjoying the quiet hours before my lavellan takes the heavy mantle of the Inquisitor. We got Varric and Cassandra who are always arguing about something, my girl here has no idea about their history so she assumes they're together and gives them alone time as much as she can. Instead hanging out with Solas, this tall, handsome, stranger with a sing-song voice. Being alone with him is a little awkward at first. Especially since they've had arguments about dalish and Solas being an ass. But in those quite hours of the night at camp, the ice starts melting slowly as conversations flow again. A small story from the fade. A little unknown fact about a nearby herb. Accidental touches while picking dinner. "You first." "No. You, please."

Now it's Cassandra and Varric thinking they're together and giving them alone time.

"Things are obviously happening between them. Do you really wanna spoil their moment?"

"I— I just think they should sleep now. But I should not pry. And neither should you, Drawf!"

Road trip and double date!

[hearts4hughes]

ೃ࿔:･ bsf!rafe starts dating sofia and ghosts you

he was always yours…until he wasn’t.

you don’t remember when the shift happened—when lingering looks turned heavier, when brushing hands stopped being accidental. you just know it never went anywhere. because rafe was your best friend. he had been since middle school, since braces and bike rides and bad decisions with summer consequences. it felt safer to leave it unsaid.

until wheezie told you. “he’s been asking me weird stuff,” she said one night, legs curled under her on your bed. “like what kind of flowers girls like, or if i think scrunchies are still a thing. i swear, he’s gonna do it. he’s finally gonna ask you out.”

your heart did that stupid thing—clenched and soared all at once. you smiled like a fool and let yourself believe it. you started wearing your hair down more. painted your nails, let the hope live a little.

so when rafe texted “come by. got something to show you.” you thought, this is it. you wore that sundress he once said made you look like trouble and smiled at the mirror.

but he wasn’t waiting for you with flowers or reciting what he was going to say to you. he was with her—sofia. she was tucked under his arm like she belonged there. all glossy and sweet and brand new. her voice too loud and her smile too wide. the type of girl you and rafe used to giggle about.

“this is sofia,” rafe said, almost sheepish. “my…girlfriend.”

you just smiled, bit your cheek hard enough to draw blood, but smiled. “oh, wow. i’m happy for you.”

liar.

~

it was ok at first. sure, he didn’t sit as close to you anymore and he told you less and less (unless it was about sofia). but then he starts missing things. movie nights, beach days, your birthday, kind of—he texts sorry, things came up with a stupid champagne emoji and you stare at your screen until it blurs.

you try not to care. try to be chill—normal. the way he probably wants you to be. but it builds slowly and cruelly. every canceled plan another cut. until it snaps.

he shows up to your house to borrow a charger, of all things. you’re in the driveway before he even knocks, heart in your throat and fury in your fists. “so this is it?” you say, arms crossed. “you’re just ghosting me for some girl you met like—what, three weeks ago?”

rafe blinks and doesn’t answer right away. you take that as permission to keep going. “you forget everything we’ve been through? every night i sat with you when your dad was on a bender, or when topper left you stranded at that party? i was there. i’ve always been there. and now she shows up with her fake nails and new highlights and you just—what? forget me?”

his face darkens. “don’t talk about her like that.”

“why not? you don’t even know her.”

“i do.”

“yeah?” your voice cracks. “then what the hell am i, rafe?”

and he explodes. “she’s my girlfriend!” he growls, voice mean and low. the same voice he used to use on other people, but never you. “not you! she is!.”

you go still. just…still. your mouth opens, then closes. the world tips sideways. he sees it. the way you crumble, just a little. his expression shifts—regret, guilt, something softer—but you shake your head before he can speak. “don’t,” you whisper. “don’t say anything else.”

he steps forward. “look, i didn’t mean-”

“it’s fine,” you lie. “really. i hope you and sofia are just great.” you muster up the best faux smile you can and bring your voice up an octave. you’re getting good at it—pretending. “you don’t have to worry about me bothering you anymore.”

you don’t look back. you walk away from him, from that driveway, from everything that once felt safe and unbreakable between you. and when you get to your room, you let the door shut and the silence fall like it’s permission. then you cry—not loud, not dramatic…just quiet, painful little sounds that shake in your throat and make your ribs hurt.

you don’t text rafe. don’t check if he texted you. don’t even stalk sofia’s instagram. you just try not to hope.

~

a week passes. seven full days of radio silence. seven full days of heartache and shitty chocolates in heart-shaped boxes. you hate that you count them. saturday comes around once again. dusk spilling through your window like it’s sneaking in. you’re lying in bed, headphones in, not crying anymore, just numb. then, theres that knock.

it’s not at your door, it’s at the front door. you almost don’t check, almost pretend you’re not home, almost hope that someone else gets it before you. but something makes you move. you rise to your feet, stepping all of the candy wrappers and ripped up notes with rafe’s handwriting. trudging down the stairs, your stomach twists. your body knows before your mind does. and when you open it, he’s there.

he’s in a hoodie that looks like he’s slept in it. jaw bruised like he picked a fight and didn’t win. eyes bloodshot, hands twitching like they don’t know what to do if they’re not touching you. “can i come in?” he asks, voice hoarse.

you stare at him. this ghost of your best friend. this boy who shattered you with seven words. “why?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. “because i was wrong.” you don’t say anything, fingers playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. “i shouldn’t’ve yelled at you like that,” he goes on. “i shouldn’t’ve picked her.”

“you didn’t just pick her,” you murmur. “you left me.”

rafe frowns. “i know—fuck, i know. i thought—i thought maybe if i tried with someone else, it’d go away.”

“what would?”

“the way i feel about you.” your breath catches. “it’s always been you,” he says, quieter now. it’s a confession and it hurts to say out loud. “since freshman year. you had braces and wore those stupid cat socks and you punched topper in the face for calling me a daddy’s boy. and i think that was it for me. i was just gone.”

you stare at him. throat constricting around nothing. “then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“because you were my best friend,” he says. “and i was terrified of ruining it. of ruining us.”

you blink fast, heart hammering. “wheezie told me,” you whisper. “she said you were gonna ask me out. that you’d been asking her about flowers and scrunchies and stupid stuff and—i thought it was finally happening.”

rafe steps closer. his hands are shaking. “it was,” he says. “it was for you. all of it. but i got scared and did something stupid and i hurt you. i know that.” he runs his hands over his face. “but please—i need you to know, none of it meant anything.”

you search his face. the cracks in it. the truth bleeding through. “you broke my heart, rafe.”

he nods. “and you’re breaking mine just standing there.”

you inhale shakily. then you whisper, “say it.”

his brows furrow. “say it’s me.”

he steps forward, gently cups your face in his hands. “it’s you,” he breathes. “it’s always been you.”

that’s when finally he kisses you.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

becking - itoshi sae

you wanted to scream.

you didn’t even care what it would be at this point; whether it’s the sky, your phone, or the snappy waiter at the small and rundown restaurant you were just at, you were ready to snap, the thickness of your throat unbearable.

you had just fought your boyfriend itoshi sae earlier, and to say that you didn’t end the fight on good terms would be an understatement. you had slammed the door in his face, yelling at him to “never show your face in front of me again” and left, stomping down your apartment to eat at a small restaurant where he surely wouldn’t find you.

maybe it was too big of a reaction.

but at the same time, he shouldn’t have reacted so intensely at the loss of a mere soccer match. sae was passionate about soccer, not doubt. but he usually reacted calmly whenever he lost a match. sure, it was the champions league, but there was always next time.

or so you’d like to think. you messed up big time; you knew that. the champions league is a big deal in soccer, especially for sae, when his dream is to win the league. you were definitely being an ass with your reaction.

but you were too prideful to apologize. at least, you were too scared.

and now it was raining. fuck, you should have stayed inside. droplets of rain slid down your cheeks, and before you knew it, you suddenly began to tremble. who knew rain could be this cold? you contemplated on who to call, until finally, you decided that sae was the best choice.

but right before you could press the green ‘call’ button, you suddenly wondered if sae would have thought you’d broken up with him. sure, you didn’t directly tell him that you were breaking up with him, but with the rude way that you responded to the argument, it’d make sense if he thought that way. you thumb hovered above the green call button, but suddenly, a clap of thunder interrupted your thoughts.

shit.

your thumb had accidentally tapped on the green button.

“what.”

sae’s voice suddenly brought you out of your trance, and your phone nearly slipped out of your hand. “uh, sae!” you exclaimed. “it’s nothing. it’s just uh, y’know, raining outside right now. like, really badly. i was gonna call a cab but i clicked the wrong contact.”

“okay.”

and with that, sae hung up immediately. you sighed; maybe you should just walk home. no cab would provide service in this weather. for now, you’ll just have to wait for the rain to get lighter. you waited under the curtained roof of the crappy restaurant, though it looked ready to fall at any time. and it really did fall; right over your head. suddenly, rain was pouring onto your hair.

but the rain then stopped. you looked up, and—

“you came.”

“you called.”

sae’s teal eyes met yours, his clear umbrella held over your head, though the umbrella was only large enough to keep one person from the rain, which ended up with sae’s magenta hair being tainted with the rain. “you didn’t have to come,” you muttered. “i could have found a way back.”

“and let you get sick?” he asked dryly. you opened your mouth to argue back, but before you could, your mind flashed to your earlier argument.

“…i’m sorry.”

“you don’t need to apologize.”

you glanced up at him. “but i—“ he cut you off almost immediately.

“i lost, not you. i makes sense that you were mad at me after how i acted. now let’s go home.”

you nodded, following him. the umbrella covered half of you and half of sae as well, and although the rain continued to slide down your back, you didn’t feel cold anymore.

[cinder-stella]

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐲𝐲𝐲 ૮₍•᷄ ࡇ •᷅₎ა

suggestive, domestic, slice of life

<18+ NSFW>toji, sukuna, nanami, gojo, geto<18+ NSFW>

There comes a time in every relationship where the man in your life gets a little...antsy, so to speak. Maybe a little too helpful. A little too, “you look so good when you're angry.”

You got it: he’s horny. And bless his heart, he’s trying to hint at it.

So I present to you *drumroll*:

“What JJK Men Do When They’re Horny and Trying to Hint at It”

(In other words: how to spot the world’s most transparent mating rituals.)

➽───────────────❥

TOJI

He’s laid-back—at least, on the surface. Reclined in a chair, hand behind his head just enough to expose the edge of that deep, carved hipbone that should be illegal. He talks like nothing’s going on. Like you’re just hanging out. But his eyes…Oh, his eyes give him away. They drag over you like a predator. Just unhurried, lazy and oh so possessive.

And then he shifts just a bit. His hand grazes your exposed thigh and his gaze tilts up at you like he’s already imagined how you’d look in his lap. He licks his bottom lip without thinking then huffs a low laugh like he knows he shouldn’t be staring.

But he doesn’t stop. “You look good in those shorts.” The words are casual and loose. But his voice drops a full octave when he says it . Slow and low, skimming right down your spine.

“You mean the one i wear all the time?” You raise an eyebrow and shift to hide to way your skin reacts to his touch.

“Hm, I don’t recall.” Then, he leans back again. Opens his legs. Spreads them wide like a silent dare and rests one arm along the back of the couch behind you. (holy frick)

Ok, now you’re hot. Too hot. You feel your face flushing. Why did he have to be so sexy????

You’re watching his throat now. The way it moves when he swallows. The flex of muscle under skin.“I know what you’re doing, Toji.” You huff finally.

He just smiles like he knows exactly what kind of thoughts you’re having. And he’s in no rush. He’s going to make you stew in them.

RYOMEN

He smells you before he even registers that you walked in. Warm skin, soap, and a hint of something floral. He grins like a cat who’s about to pounce.

There you are, towel wrapped just tight enough to make his eyes literally devour you and he’s already plotting how to ruin your day in the best way possible.

“Oh? Playing dress-up with the towel? Trying to get a rise out of me?” he says, voice dripping with wicked amusement.

You give him a “really?” look and keep walking. Big mistake. Because suddenly he’s behind you, his heat pressing against your back, and holy shit his pants are definitely doing the cha-cha. They are really, going at it. I mean you knew he was a grower but damn.

He leans in close, voice rough. “You have any idea what you do to me just by standing there?”

Your eyes dart down and yep. There it is. The shameless hard-on. In all its glory. In all it’s sexy…girthy…long…delicious glory. (i’m sorry he’s just really hot.)

You bite your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but inside you’re thinking, “Okay, damn. I see you. And frankly? I’m impressed.”

KENTO

One thing about Kento, is that he stares.

Nanami’s just trying to mow the lawn like a responsible adult, minding his own business, when he catches you squatting down to pull weeds.

It’s innocent, right? Wrong.

Your shorts are cut so high that the curve of your ass is basically waving at him like a neon sign. And when you bend forward, your top shifts just enough to reveal the soft swell of your breasts almost right there in his line of sight.

He doesn’t mean to stare. Really. He’s just… caught off guard. He tries to look anywhere but there but the second his eyes catch that perfect view, everything goes south. Literally.

His jaw tightens, lawn mower suddenly sounds like way too loud to focus, and now…he’s definitely sporting an accidental hard-on. It’s almost as if he has to turn the lawn mower off completely to see properly.

Obviously you spot him, hands gripping the lawn mower a little too tightly, looking like he just swallowed a lemon. How could you not notice him. He’s just standing menacingly. And he looks really good doing it. Your eyes trail down his hot, muscular body. You stare at how sexy and golden the hairs on his arms look in the sunlight. Then you take a little peak at his package just cause. Oh, yeah. Smack. Right in your face. (i’m really trying to be civil here)

It takes a lot out of you not to bend over and present your whole being to him then and there so you settle for smirking and you call out, “If you’re gonna stare, at least help me pull weeds.”

He coughs, cheeks flaming behind those glasses. “I was, uh, inspecting the grass.”

You raise a brow. “Mhm. Suuuure.”

And the way his gaze flickers back down well, let’s just say you won’t be letting him off easy anytime soon.

GOJO

Gojo’s got a PhD in Testing Your Limits with a Minor in ‘Bothering You Until You Climb Him Like a Tree.’ He’s touchy at baseline but when he’s horny? Every single graze, every wink, every casually suggestive comment is an audition for what he really wants to do.

He’s behind you in the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing to help with his arms wrapped around your waist as he sways you side to side like you’re slow dancing in the middle of making eggs. His hands shamelessly roamed your body but not in a sweet boyfriend way. This says “I’m imagining bending you over the counter.”

You elbow him lightly. “Can I help you?”

“Just admiring the view,” he hums, leaning in to kiss your neck. “And imagining what kind of sound you’d make if I bit right here.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” he says, spinning you around and cupping your face like he’s about to say something profound. “Inside you.”

You choke on your own breath. “Why are you feral.”

He pulls you in for a kiss but it’s soft and misleading. His hand trails down, over your back, until it settles on your ass. He gives it a firm squeeze then a playful smack. You flinch, laughing in surprise.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he whispers, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re quite tempting you know.”

And then his hand makes its way to your neck. He applies just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. His lips brush yours again and the kiss deepens like he’s daring you to lose your grip first. (i just knowww he knows every single thing that gets you going…my goodness…im sweating)

You pull back, flushed with your eyes wide. “Are you trying to seduce me or start something you can’t finish?”

He grins. “Baby, if I start something, I’m finishing. Twice.”

SUGURU

You wake up from a nap like the embodiment of coziness—hair messy, cheeks warm and blanket still half-draped over your thigh. You’re radiating that soft, sleepy heat. That sleepy, warm, clean scent is just taking over the atmosphere.

When Suguru walks into the bedroom he smells it before he even sees you.

He stops dead in his tracks like he’s been hit by a tranquilizer dart. His eyes go wide, pupils blown and his chest rises a little too fast.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath like he’s in pain.

You blink at him, all squinty and half-conscious, still stretching with a yawn. What the heck was he on about?

He’s on you in two steps, crouching beside the bed like you’re some kind of relic. His nose brushes your shoulder, inhaling deeply like you’re a bath&body works candle.

“That smell…fuck, you’re so warm,” he murmurs, eyes practically rolling back. “I swear, I could sink into you and die happy.”

You blink at him again, a slow, sleepy smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re being so dramatic.”

But he’s not listening. His hand slides along your thigh, fingertips ghosting over the edge of your shorts like he was about to call a locksmith for your panties.

“You don’t get it,” he says, jaw clenching. “You smell like sleep and heat and…fuck—do you even know what that does to me?”

You giggle, which only makes it worse. His eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed.

And when you shift, just slightly, he groans quiet and deep, like he’s physically holding himself back from just. sinking. it. in. (hell yeah hell yeah hell yeah hell yeah—)

➽───────────────❥

In conclusion:

Men are not subtle. Especially not JJK men.

And if one more of them gets hard just because you walked past them in a towel or smelled like a nap…honestly that’s just hot asf, I can’t lie.

Ryomen’s pitching a tent like it’s a camping trip.

Toji’s staring like your shorts* are gonna evaporate if he concentrates hard enough.

Kento’s trying to pretend he's just “admiring the landscaping.”

Geto’s just one whiff away from dining on the kat like it’s a Michelin-star buffet.

And Gojo…That man touches you like he’s trying to trigger a sprinkler in your pants.

Anyway, hydrate. Stretch. Lock your door if Gojo’s anywhere within a 10-mile radius and you’re in anything less than a track suit.

And remember, just because he grabbed your ass and whispered “just admiring the view” doesn’t mean you owe him anything.

But you can laugh. Loudly. Preferably right before you make him beg. Cause it’s always better when they beg ;).

♡´ˎ˗✎

* means edit was made. this ain’t proofread 0~o

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Cassian, Winslow, You/Reader

WARNINGS/TAGS: Nagas/snakes, hypnosis, parental yanderes, kidnapping, infantilization, failed escape attempt, gender neutral reader

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Two writings posted in one day? Perhaps I felt generous. I've changed up my original plans for them a tiny bit, but not by much. I hope you like it!

The air in the forest is cool, but there's an unnatural stillness that unsettles you as you walk through it. It makes sense that you haven't seen another hiker, the place just feels... off.

It doesn't matter, though. You got several good photos of some plants, and a beautiful waterfall and lake with pristine blue water; probably the bluest natural water you've ever seen.

You have what you came for, but you want to get some more photos.

It started off as just a hobby, but when a local nature organization noticed your photos posted on social media, they were really interested in hiring you to take pictures for them. It was more comparable to a gig or freelance work, since all your pay is done by commission, but it's fun and makes you enough extra money that you don't mind keeping at it.

After snapping some photos of some mushrooms growing from a rotting log, you hear the sound of talking.

Maybe there are hikers, after all.

You see two people in the distance.

"Is the fresh air helping at all, my love?" a slightly deep voice asks. He has short black hair, and strangely bright yellow eyes. He has a scar across his left eye, rendering it milky white, likely blind.

Eyes that you know you've never seen on anyone else before.

Next to him, is a much more sullen-looking taller man. Taller by quite a bit, though they look the same age. He has longer white-blond hair tied into a loose ponytail, blue eyes, and... black scleras?

Surely you must be seeing things wrong. You use your camera to zoom in on them.

"I told you, fresh air does nothing," a more soft voice hisses, though there's no true anger in it. It sounds more... sad. Exhausted.

Zooming in on them doesn't help. You truly realize how tall they are—even the shorter one could still tower over you.

And then you realize the other part about them both that is unnatural.

They have tails. Tails like a snake, to be exact. The shorter man has a brown-gold tail, and the other has a light-brown tail, with darker brown-black markings.

That doesn't make sense. No way you aren't hallucinating. There isn't any poisonous fungi around here, right?

It's impossible, yet you keep looking through the lens at those two men.

You accidentally snap a photo of the pair, both of them whipping their heads in your direction immediately.

In a moment of sheer panic, you start sprinting away. Your heart races in your chest so hard it might just break out as you force yourself to run faster than you ever have in your life.

You look back after some time, and you're too distracted to notice the raised tree root, tripping over it and hitting the ground with a thud.

To make matters worse, you tumble down a hill and roll onto the cold rocky shore of the lake. Your head is throbbing, and you try to sit up only to get dizzy. You press the palm of your hand to your forehead, pulling it back and seeing red. With a wince, you notice the small scrape on your arm that's also bleeding, plus your knee hurts from when you landed on the rocks.

The voices come back from a distance, but still close enough for you to hear them.

"What do you think it was?" the softer voice asks. The one from the taller man you assume was melancholic—based on his slumped posture—though now you can clearly detect curiosity. "A deer?"

"I can smell its blood," the other voice murmurs. "Doesn't smell like deer. Whatever it is, I'm hungry," he states excitedly.

Oh god. You feel even dizzier than before, and not from your fall, either. You manage to stand, ignoring how unbalanced you are as you run towards a large boulder sitting near the shore of the lake. You hide behind it, praying they don't find you.

Your luck quickly runs out.

A hand grabs your ankle and drags you out of your hiding place, so quickly you don't even have time to react.

They both gasp. You look up at them both in fear, trembling underneath their gazes. You glance towards your camera; it didn't take a beating from the fall, somehow.

Not like it now matters. This is where you meet your death, you're sure of it. So you shut your eyes, and await the inevitable.

"A human," the taller one whispers. "Oh, Winslow, look at them...!" He coos, scooping you up into his arms with a scary amount of ease. His gaze softens. "A baby. Aren't they precious? They look so perfect... Look how little they are..." He sounds adoring, talking to you as if you're an animal who can't understand him.

But wait. Does he know you can?

"You're right, Cassian," the other one chuckles, running one of his claws gently across your face.

"My hatchling," Cassian shakily says. His grip on you somehow tightens. "I won't let anything happen to you... not like..." His voice cracks, like he might cry.

"Cassian," Winslow chides gently. "This time we won't lose them. I promise you." He looks down at you, smiling, but... it looks strange.

"Right. It'll be different this time," Cassian agrees, blinking tears away. They both seem to have this inside conversation, and your presence seems to have slipped their mind. Until the attention shifts back to you, anyway. "Our baby must be so scared," Cassian coos sadly, petting your head. "That was such a tumble you took..."

You continue to pretend to not understand them. Maybe if they realize you aren't comprehending their words, they'll leave you be.

"They probably have no idea what's happening! Poor thing..." Winslow sighs.

Cassian hums. You crack open one eye to see him staring at you fondly. When you first met gazes, he looked depressed; exhausted. Now he looks content and at peace, even.

You start to wriggle, trying to escape his hold. You manage to get yourself out, but your injuries don't allow you to run anywhere.

Winslow acts faster, grabbing you again into his arms this time, which are more thick and muscular. "No no no, sweetheart, don't hurt yourself!" Winslow exclaims. "It's okay, don't cry! Papa's here!" He bounces you in his arms, like soothing a crying baby.

And unfortunately, you realize he's not lying, because you can feel the tears streaming down your cheeks, burning the cut by your mouth as you sob.

They're much larger than you. There's no escape. Not right now, anyway. So you lay limp in Winslow's arms, sniffling, knowing it will help nothing.

"We're taking them," Cassian mumbles, but his tone leaves no room for argument.

Winslow pecks the side of your head. "Of course we are."

The exhaustion from the past hours suddenly catches up with you.

...

When you wake up, you hear the sound of humming, accompanied by a fire. You're wrapped in something that doesn't feel quite like a blanket... or any fabric, for that matter.

You struggle to move at first, feeling dizzy, until your vision finally focuses and you can see where you are.

The cave is somewhat dark, but there's a large hole showing sunlight, a large tree beneath the sunlight, roots reaching through the top.

Vines cover the ceiling and most of the walls, making for a very natural yet cozy-looking place.

You look down and realize the 'blanket' isn't a blanket at all. It's... a tail, leading up to reveal who you remember as Winslow. The memories from earlier flood back into your brain, causing you to shrink under his touch.

He's laying next to you, asleep. One of his arms is underneath your head like a pillow, and his tail has curled itself around you.

There's a fire crackling. You lift your head to see Cassian tending to it, cooking something in the flames. The heat from it warms the cave nicely. Your head starts to pound as soon as you've raised it too far off the makeshift pillow that is Winslow's arm.

Suddenly Cassian whips around at the sound of your slight whimper, moving faster than you would have ever guessed possible.

"Good morning, my little one," he whispers, brushing some hair off of your face, examining your forehead. "Poor dear," he sighs sympathetically. "Papa and Baba will take good care of you."

"Baba?" you repeat. You panic for a moment when you see Cassian blink in shock.

"Oh, Cass! They said 'Baba'!" Winslow gasps.

Oh, thank goodness. They both still have no clue you can truly understand them. You try your hardest to play up the innocent act. Winslow hugs you, cuddling you close to him and kissing your cheeks repeatedly, making kissy noises.

You get the impression these two have no experience with humans. If they did, they would likely notice your skin crawling at the interaction.

Then you're scooped up again into Cassian's arms. You squirm, kicking your legs against him, which makes his smile grow wider.

"So lively!" he chuckles. He holds you by tucking you into his arm as he feeds the fire more wood with his free hand.

"Are they acting fussy, love?" Winslow asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he gets up. He makes grabby hands towards you.

"I guess you could say that," Cassian replies, handing you over to Winslow. "I think it's simply normal, though. Maybe this is a sign they are hungry. Don't worry, sweetheart, food is almost done."

Food. You're unsure how your stomach feels about that.

After the events that occurred, you feel... hollowed out. Like all your energy is sapped from you. Maybe it actually is. You're a bit achy all over after you went tumbling down the hill.

What a horrible day. But you wonder, what did they mean before? About this time it would be different? What happened?

Maybe you don't want to know. In all honesty, you shouldn't care. You just want to get out of here.

Cassian stands near the fire, seemingly cooking meat of some sort, with vegetables on sticks. It smells heavenly, despite your nerves and lack of appetite.

"Look at what we're having for dinner, hatchling!" Cassian coos. "Doesn't it look so yummy?"

Well... it does.

Winslow hugs you tight, his chin resting on your head. You squirm uncomfortably in his hold again, but it does absolutely nothing except cause Winslow to pull you impossibly closer. It makes sense why you're unable to escape from him, considering he could probably crush a tree trunk with just his arms. He seems stronger than Cassian despite being shorter.

But not short compared to you in the slightest.

Eventually, Cassian pulls away the fire-roasted vegetables from the fire and sets them aside on some makeshift plates made out of bark from birch trees.

Then he turns to the meat skewered on a large stick.

"Food is served!" Cassian announces.

Cassian scoops you up from Winslow's arms again. He gently sets you on a cushion made of moss, and sits down beside you. "Dinner," he says. He smiles when you don't reply, assuming it's because you don't understand him.

Or at least that's what you hope he assumes.

He basically hand-feeds you, delicately placing bites of vegetable in your mouth. It's surprisingly tasty and well-seasoned. Maybe it's your hunger making everything taste better.

Winslow eats his much less elegantly than his partner, finishing it all relatively quickly. Only after does he look at you, his smile soft, but almost sad. "I'm so glad we can be a family again."

Family?

"Me too," Cassian smiles, but it seems melancholic, his eyebrows turning downwards as if reminiscing about something.

"What's wrong?" Winslow frowns, tilting his head. He knows exactly what's wrong.

"I should've protected them all better," Cassian sniffles. His blue eyes begin to gloss over. "It never should have happened."

"It wasn't your fault," Winslow soothes. "Don't ever believe that for even a second, darling."

"If I was stronger—"

"No, don't blame yourself." Winslow scoots over to hold his mate. "Please don't. You know we couldn't do anything."

Cassian nods solemnly. "Thank you..." He sighs sadly. "It doesn't make me miss our other babies any less. But this time, it'll be different." He then looks over at you. "Won't it, little one?" You feel a spike of embarrassment when he wipes your cheek with the pad of his thumb, catching a crumb left over. "Messy, messy," he tuts, but his tone is somewhat playful.

Winslow kisses your forehead. "They certainly eat like a hatchling."

You'd be more insulted if you weren't so focused on their previous conversation.

It's obvious they've had past children, though you can assume they were likely still eggs when they lost them. But who—or what—hurt them?

Whoever it was, you're sure either of them showed no mercy.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Cassian gently grasps your arm, lifting it up and squinting. You realize most of the injured parts of your body are wrapped neatly with makeshift bandages.

"These will need to be rewrapped later," Cassian murmurs. "Luckily they'll heal fast, considering how young you are... Humans scar much easier than our kind does, it seems."

Cassian shifts behind you. A tail comes slithering forward and wraps around you loosely, yet securely.

His tail is much softer and smoother than Winslow's, less scaly. You guess he's some kind of constrictor snake. You squeak when his soft tail squeezes you slightly, like an affectionate embrace.

As you sit there, stuck in the coils of a creature that can easily kill you, all you feel is dazed, exhausted, and confused.

Winslow places the leftovers into a pot, then moves it near the entrance to the cave. Next, he takes the dirty bark plates, exiting the cave presumably to clean them outside.

"Come here, baby," Cassian whispers, pulling you backwards until your back is pressed against his chest. "Baba's got you." It's a possessive hold. You try to squirm away, but it only causes him to hold you tighter. He's careful with where he touches, being mindful of your injuries. You bite your tongue to distract yourself from the stinging pain in your head.

He continues to speak lovingly to you as his grip gradually tightens around your form, like a snake would coil around its prey. It hurts, but not nearly as bad as some of the wounds you have.

Eventually he loosens his grip, letting you catch your breath as he cradles you instead. It makes your stomach twist with guilt when you realize he's crying.

"You won't leave us," he mumbles softly. He's so delicate and gentle; like he's afraid you'll break.

It's hard to imagine that someone who can handle you with such tenderness could snap you like a twig if he wanted to.

"We love you so much already," he sobs. His arms come up around you again, clutching you protectively, desperately. As if you could leave at any given moment.

Even if you wanted to (which you very much do), his tail's grip on you is strong enough to keep you in place.

...

You don't know how long its been since you were taken away. The sun is rising through the top of the cave opening when you wake up in the morning, but that doesn't tell you how many days you've been here.

A few, you've deduced. At least three, but possibly more.

Cassian tends to the wound on your head multiple times a day. It has a constant bandage over it now. Your sprained knee and scraped-up arm aren't wrapped anymore, since they've healed nicely according to him.

You hate to admit you're now a bit curious about these two nagas.

More specifically, what happened to their past children? Were they like humans? Naga hybrids, or full nagas?

Why did they take you?

These questions—and many more—swirl through your head while you eat another plate is prepared by Cassian. It's starting to drive you crazy, how curious you are. You want to ask them. You need to know, like an itch begging to be scratched. The only reason you haven't, is because you hope to still give them the impression you're just the dumb human (child?) they believe you to be.

Once breakfast is over, you've finished eating all Winslow has fed you, so he lays on a mattress made of moss and vines that hangs between two trees in the cave. It's basically a hammock.

Winslow seems more emotional, openly clingy, but more scary, despite being the smaller naga.

Meanwhile Cassian has the aura of a stern but caring mother. He's patient and nurturing, and clearly devoted. Terrifyingly devoted.

What makes your chances of escape worse, much to your dread, is the fact you've gathered Cassian is mostly nocturnal, while Winslow is mostly awake during the day.

Most of the time, Winslow likes sleeping on the ground, while Cassian prefers the tree or hammock.

It's hard to have them both sleep at the same time unless its a short nap. Not to mention, Cassian seems to rouse easily.

So you continue playing along with the child role. Hopefully they'll grow careless as you gain their trust and let you go do your own things.

You'll escape one way or another. You don't intend to stay and play house with them forever.

Something to your advantage you have noticed, is Cassian is much slower than his mate, probably about a similar speed to your own if you were to break out into a sprint.

Winslow, however, is quick and fast. From what you've seen, at least.

Hopefully you won't have to test those odds.

For that reason, you've decided the smartest course of action would be to attempt escaping during the night rather than day, since that's when Winslow will be sleeping. Yet that still comes with the next challenge; Cassian keeps his eye on you just as often as Winslow does, sometimes even more. He spends a lot of the time curled around you, watching you closely as you play with twigs or leaves he hands you.

He thinks it's adorable, seeing you play around with them like a baby with building blocks, or something to that effect.

At first you didn't even bother wasting energy trying to entertain yourself, but with Cassian's expectant gaze boring holes into you, you figured doing something wouldn't hurt.

Playing around with various objects helps the time pass, too. It's not much, but better than nothing.

Soon enough, nightfall falls upon the forest once more.

One thing you have learned during the small handful of nights spent in captivity is that Winslow has a habit of sleep-cuddling, clinging, and often mumbling in his sleep. Sometimes you can understand his sleepy speech, other times it sounds like a bunch of slurred mumbles.

Your sleep schedule has become pretty unpredictable, having two "parents" who only spend a few hours awake at the same time normally.

Regardless, you think this might help your potential plan. If Winslow is holding you tightly, all you have to do is somehow wriggle out of his arms and tiptoe around Cassian in order to get to the opening of the cave.

And then hope you make it out without being caught, considering you'll be traversing the forest in almost complete darkness.

You toss and turn in Winslow's grip, which makes his grasp on you tighten even further. It's less suffocating than Cassian's, but still not pleasant. You let out a frustrated sigh. If you can get him to loosen his hold, you can crawl out.

With enough shifting and shimmying around in his grasp, it works.

His arms slip away from you, leaving you free. Somehow. It must be fate granting you this luck. A chance opportunity you'd be crazy not to take advantage of.

Your feet hit the cold stone floor quietly. It doesn't stir Winslow from his slumber at all. Just as you expected, though. He's a heavy sleeper.

The challenge is going to be sneaking past his husband, who you know is wide awake and probably outside now. At night he usually is hunting or collecting resources.

Or keeping watch.

If your luck is consistent, maybe he'll be off doing something else and your chances of successfully escaping will grow significantly.

All you know is you have to at least try.

You make your way to the entrance, pausing every time the leaves rustle or twigs crack under your feet.

Walking slowly is painful. All you want to do is run. Run out and never return.

The air becomes more crisp and cool as you approach the front of the cave. With a last glance behind you to ensure Winslow hasn't stirred, you inch yourself forward through the last stretch of tunnel leading into the wilderness. Moonlight shines through the leaves above you. Crickets chirp softly. Your eyes begin to adjust to the dim light of the forest.

There's a path. You're positive this trail leads back to the road that passes through the woods.

The faster you walk, the louder your movements become, snapping branches and crunching leaves under you. And still, you continue to push forward until you're practically sprinting through the foliage.

Your lungs burn, your limbs ache, and your muscles feel weak, but adrenaline pumps through your veins as you fight against the pain to reach your goal.

Finally, you spot a small sign marking where the path splits off into two directions; one leading to town, the other going deeper into the forest towards who knows where.

And then...

"I smell them," Cassian's voice rasps. He doesn't sound far away at all. "Sweetheart?! Where are you?!" he calls. "Oh, they must be so scared..."

Then, Winslow's voice. "We'll find them, darling. I won't let them get far."

You panic, diving into the nearest bush to hide. Its thorns dig into your skin painfully. You have to bite your hand in order to not cry out in pain. Tears stream down your face, but you dare not make a single noise. Your breathing slows to almost nothing as you struggle to contain sobs.

"How could this happen?" Cassian whispers. Just from the sound of his voice, you can tell he's been crying, too. "I can't lose another one, Winslow..."

"We won't, love. We won't. It'll be okay."

You can hear Cassian's choked sobbing now. They both must be nearby. Very nearby. Too close for comfort, that's for sure.

But if they're comforting each other, that means you can possibly sneak around them while they're distracted.

It's worth a shot. Maybe the only one you'll have.

As silently as possible, you crawl on your hands and knees away from the voices, making sure to avoid stepping anywhere near them in case they hear movement. They don't seem to notice, so you move faster, hoping to put distance between you.

Unfortunately, with how dark it is out here, you stumble upon a rock and fall face-first onto the ground with a loud thud.

Cassian's tearful sobbing stops suddenly.

Your heart pounds wildly.

"Oh, honey! B-Baba is coming, stay where you are," Cassian cries, followed by a deep inhale, no doubt to scent you out, now that he knows the general direction you're in.

The way he says it makes you wonder if he even thinks you purposefully tried escaping. Does he truly believe you think of them as your family?

Of course, you don't listen. You take off as fast as you can, climbing over fallen logs and weaving through the dense underbrush. Anything to get farther and farther away from where you are now. However, the more you move, the louder you become. More twigs and dry leaves crunching beneath you, no doubt leading them to you even more.

But what else are you supposed to do? It's not like you have many options at this point.

You need to escape.

Even though Cassian isn't quick, Winslow is.

And boy does he live up to that observation.

In a flash of golden scales, you're thrown to the ground. The dirt cakes onto you, and before you can fully react, Winslow scoops you up into his arms, holding you as tight as possible without crushing you. You thrash and kick as much as you can, trying desperately to break free from his iron-like grip.

"Don't worry! Papa's here! Ssh ssh ssh!" Winslow hushes, kissing your forehead frantically, like a worried parent. He's looking over your body, checking for new injuries or cuts you could've obtained.

Cassian catches up, much more out of breath. You can tell from the tremble in his tone how angry he is, how concerned, how hurt and betrayed he feels. He kneels down to meet you and Winslow's crouched position, hugging you both so tight you wheeze.

"Let me go!" you yell. At this point, you don't care about being silent to them anymore. "I'm not your kid!"

That startles them both. They stare at you with wide eyes, jaws slackened.

"You can... speak?" Winslow gawks. His pupils shrink into tiny slits.

"Did you think all humans couldn't speak, or did you just assume I couldn't?" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter. Let me go!" You try escaping with even more fervor, trying to claw your way out, anything.

"Honey," Cassian whispers, trembling. It's as if you've broken him, and part of you hates it. "This entire time you understood us...?"

"Yes! And I have my own family! Please, let me see my family!" you wail. This isn't fair. You didn't do anything wrong. "They probably think I died..." The thought alone makes you choke up with tears.

Winslow frowns, turning his face to bury himself into your hair. "You are home," he croaks. His hug on you gets stronger.

"No I'm not!" you protest. You bite down on Winslow's arm, hard enough to draw blood. He recoils, which gives you a brief window of opportunity, allowing you to slip through their hands momentarily.

Cassian wastes no time in recapturing you. "Stop, please stop! You'll get yourself hurt!" he pleads. It's not long before you're completely trapped by his tail wrapping around you snugly once more.

"No! You stole me from my life! I can't stay here!" you cry, struggling harder against his coils. "Please!"

Cassian frowns, exchanging glances with Winslow, who looks more equally frustrated and hurt. His hand holds the bleeding bitemark. You refuse to feel guilty for it. Winslow looks ready to scold you, but Cassian puts his free hand on his forearm.

"They don't know any better, sweetheart," Cassian tells him, expression strained. "They're just frightened and overwhelmed."

Winslow's anger wanes a little bit.

"But, we saved them! Why don't they understand that?" Winslow asks desperately, as if you still can't communicate. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, looking down at you like he needs validation from you that he's done a good job taking care of you.

You don't want to give that to him.

"I don't belong here," you protest, squirming around angrily in your cocoon of Cassian's tail.

"You do belong here," Cassian argues. His expression turns upset to worried when he notices how hard you're breathing. "Breathe, dear. You're going to hyperventilate."

When your breathing only gets worse, he cups your cheeks and guides your head to tilt upwards, looking him directly in the eyes.

His eyes are glowing, colors swirling inside of them.

"Breath slow," he commands. "Follow Baba."

As Cassian counts up and down, demonstrating to you with exaggerated breaths, Winslow rubs your back soothingly with the hand that isn't injured, making shushing noises in hopes of calming you down.

And unfortunately, it works. You feel tired, so much so that even thinking is hard.

"Calm now, sweetie? No more fussing?" he coos hopefully. The strange swirls in his irises are gone now.

"...Mhm..." you murmur reluctantly, barely audible. Your eyelids flutter open and closed, feeling weighed down as if lead is tied to them. Drowsiness settles deep within your bones. There's no use in fighting against it. Not right now, anyway. Sleep wins over escape, apparently. You rest your head against his shoulder defeatedly.

"There we are..." Cassian whispers. "No more running."

Winslow looks around. "We should start heading home. I can carry them back, you look tired." Winslow holds out his arms expectantly.

Cassian hesitates briefly before handing you off to Winslow's embrace, where he proceeds to snuggle you closer into his chest.

"Are you sure? I did wake you up early..."

"I'll be okay, love," Winslow smiles tiredly. "Besides, I'd feel better having them in my arms right now. I'm still processing that they could understand us this whole time..." he sighs.

Cassian frowns sadly, brushing the hair off of your forehead. "Me too... but that's a conversation for tomorrow. Let's go home"

[solarstranger]

You just know Bakugo mentally catalogs every little thing he learns about you. Especially your type/dating preferences

It's cute to imagine him comparing himself whenever you mention something you find attractive

And if it's a body part? He's suddenly showing it off more

and he tries to convince himself he's not doing any of that on purpose!!!! it's not his fault he's got superb acuity and is good at memorizing things. 😔

bakugou katsuki is a smart man.

sure, he may be as subtle as a gun when it comes to some—okay, most—things, but he can definitely be inconspicuous when need be.

things like his feelings, or whatever the fuck these sensations that never fail to spring violently up in his chest when he so much as looks at you mean.

and it’s not like he’s being obvious, he thinks. he’s not even doing any of this on purpose. it just so happened that the one time you told mina in passing during one of your weekly dinners that you thought guys with glasses were cute, his eye clinic ran out of his prescription contacts the day after when he was supposed to pick them up, and he was forced to start wearing his reading glasses to work.

or the other time when he heard you excitedly mention a band he hadn’t heard before in a conversation with sero, he accidentally clicked on their latest album that was featured in his spotify account’s new music friday and wound up listening to the whole thing.

or the other time when you praised kirishima about his arms looking so good, he was in the middle of sprucing up his workout regimen with his trainer, and ended up adding more exercises for his biceps and triceps.

all of which are things he’s kept to himself, because while he knows deep in his heart that these are all merely funny coincidences, it might not seem that way for dumbasses looking from the outside.

dumbasses like—

“man,” kaminari drawls, pointing at your tv screen from where he’s plastered comfortably on your living room couch, “i wish i had michael b. jordan’s guns.”

“that’s what you’re staring at?” sero laughs from the other sofa, mouth half-full with popcorn.

“what?” the electric hero asks defensively, glancing at sero with a pout, “there are two of them. it’s hard not to stare.”

“i agree,” you chime in quietly, nodding, “it’s admirable. he must’ve worked so hard to get those.”

“thank you,” kaminari huffs, vindicated, and tosses you a grateful look. you grin at the blonde in response, just as bakugou feels kirishima stir right beside him, turning towards you.

“bakubro’s been working on his arms, too,” the redhead adds proudly, before glancing back at the ash-blonde, a knowing glint in his eyes. “isn’t that right?”

“uh, yeah,” is the only thing bakugou manages to say after a beat, acutely aware of your curious eyes on him, and it takes everything within him not to shoot the man with a warning glare.

“really?” you ask, struggling to mask your surprise. bakugou feels himself flame despite himself. “i thought you were gonna focus on your legs?”

“i just felt like mixing it—”

“oh, he wanted you to—ow!”

as if on cue, kaminari groans dramatically, the pillow that mina just flung straight at him now lying flatly on the floor.

“i didn’t get that,” you frown, eyes darting between bakugou and kaminari. “what did you two say?”

“nothing,” kaminari croaks just as bakugou grumbles a “forget it”.

“do you guys mind?” mina interjects, but not before secretly flashing bakugou an apologetic grimace, probably on behalf of the man. “i’m trying to watch a movie here.”

so, yes. bakugou can not be as subtle as a gun.

but his friends apparently couldn’t.

a/n. this one's pretty stupid but i wanted to whip something up based on this ask because i fuck with this headcanon so bad. thank you nonie for the input!!!! had to throw in a little bit of bakusquad because why not >:)

[lululocomo]

After seeing the Xiaotian abduction post, my brain came up with a strange but in a way funny scenario.

Tripitaka is abducted again, but the pilgrims cannot cope with the Demon Lord, so Wukong leaves to ask for help from Heaven. Before that, he asks his pilgrim brothers to look after his cub. Xiaotian is a little tired of being constantly taken care of, and therefore, in the absence of Wukong, persuades the others to come up with a plan with him to save the monk. Or he'll just quietly run away from them.

And of course, the plan is ingeniously stupid. Xiaotian goes to the Demon Lord's lair and, provoking him, pretends to be defeated and allows him to be captured. Once inside, Xiaotian avoids the guards like a shadow and searches for the Tripitaka. But unfortunately, the Demon Lord's child gets caught. Xiaotian accidentally charms a young demon and he helps to find Tripitaka and free him... But he doesn't let Xiaotian leave.

And now the gods and pilgrims have to restrain Wukong from destroying and killing everything and everyone around him because the demon's offspring wants to make Xiaotian his mate.

And Xiaotian doesn't even understand what's really going on because of his poor knowledge of demonic customs. He just thinks that the young demon is obsessively friendly and out of politeness is waiting for his dad to pick him up.

Omg I love the idea dfgdf Wukong trust MK to protect the pilgrims but never expected for him to go on a rescue mission on his own- Poor MK who have no idea what's going on and just want to leave but can't 😭

Wukong would managed to free MK from this situation without killing anyone (but not without damaged ) and scolded Xiaotian for doing this plan without telling him first dfgdf and they both agree to not tell Macaque about it 😌

[lilywritings]

Little "time travel" au with gen!lilia and human reader!

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

I can't stop thinking about "time travel" ughhh i love that au, imagine you two are already very deep into your relationship in current time then

Poof.

You're accidentally transported to the past only to meet general Lilia the second you land ( you already knew how he was bc of his dream in book 7 but now you're legit in the past).

You choose not to tell him that you're actually together but rather his future "friend" ( he is not buying that ) you knew general Lilia would've NOT taken it well bc you're a human that magically popped infront of him at the worst time possible, a little before the war.

But the way you said his name , had a blessing upon you and the way you looked at him made him a bit hesistant and unsure so he pulled his magearm away from you and took you to his dear friends to get the truth out of you.

Lucky for you Levan saved your ass here from his wife and best friend bc meleanor would've fried you by now . A human trespassing JUST before the war!?

And what added the oil to the fire was the fact that malleus put a blessing upon you ( the one mentioned up) after the whole book 7 heartbreak. Meleanor sensed it was a draconia family blessing IMMEDIATELY and was VERY suspicious and angry at you.

So you explained everthing to them and made them sort off belive that you're from the future and searching for a way to get back after you mentioned Malleus. Nobody should've known that princess was about to have a baby and you even knew his name. Meleanor was thinking of zapping you right then and there but Levan held her off and made an agreement.

And thus they put Lilia to supervise you while they work on a way to get you back and think about your words.

Let me tell you something, Lilia HATED IT . why HIM!? THIS HUMAN THAT WON'T STOP STARING AT HIM WEIRDLY AND CLAIMING TO BE HIS FUTURE "FRIEND"!? he wanted to hiss at you at least.

While Lilia was having a crisis you took this situation to try and get closer to him and find out more bc your lilia didn't really talk about his past SELF! that much he is a man of secrets after all...

This was your chance to get to know his past self better and maybe try to open him up a bit and help him.

You knew what was about to come and you know better than to mess with the fate in this "time travel thingy" but was it really that?

Your mind was boiling at tge idea to spoil him ROTTEN & show him how loved he is. But you couldn't do that rn at least not so sudden ...

Ahh loving this fae is complicating.

After some time of looking at him training the troops & being busy but still having to take you with him everywhere he finally sat down with you to talk about how you're bothering him.

And truly , what made lilia irritated and bothered the most was. Your gaze.

Ah those eyes that never stopped looking at his directly, firmly ,not an ounce of fear in them.

The way you gazed upon him like he was a treasure that you couldn't bare to look away from not even for a second or he might just slip away and never return.

Whats that emotion inside your eyes?

Whats that warmness?

It feels familiar yet different ? Nobody has ever looked at him that way . He is not used to it and it makes his skin crawl.

Are you bewitching him human?

He still doesn't trust the fact that you're magicless ,not when you're doing something to him .

Your damned gaze made him feel ... something at least.

Yet he couldn't help himself to brush you away completely you were ... interesting?

On the other hand you were fighting inside bc of the fact that you couldn't shower him in love right this moment and tell him who you are... You must focus to find out more.

And just as he was about to say something your vision got blurry~~~

.

.

.

"Darling you've been sleeping for a bit too long aren't you going to wake up soon?

"..."

"I might even make you a meal how about that? Oh i know you're going to love this one♡"

You stirred awake and found yourself on your present Lilias lap.

"Lilia?" you looked up at him all confused ( Was that all a dream?Does he know, does he remember?)

You didn't even notice you fell asleep on him while he was gaming for god knows how long.

He was caressing your face at your call and cooing at your sleepy state. My how adorable you looked to him right now.

"Hm?"

"Did we perhsaps meet before?"

Lilia smiled wide at your question before bending down and kissing your forehead gently.

"Perhaps my love, perhaps~"

.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟̑ෆ.₊̣̇.ෆ˟̑**̑˟

Ps. I would love to know what do you think guys :3 (i had a bit of help)

[clairewritesfanfics]

Marks of the harem when you become a giant

Author's note: I was watching Totally Spies and there is this one episode called “Attack of the 50 Foot Mandy” where a girl named Mandy becomes mega-sized.

Content Warnings: mention of vore, the marks are pervs

Imagine if the GDA scientists’ enlarganator worked a little too well on chibi Reader.

A lot of inner masochists begin to surface.

No Goggles wastes no time and asks, “Can you put me in your mouth?” 

Sinister elbows him out of the way and sends him flying into a nearby building. You joke that he really does look like an angry little bee now. He huffs but lets you rub his head with your index finger.

Prisoner feels relieved because now he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally stepping on you. You call him cute and say that he looks like a dumpling from where you’re standing. 

Omni-Mark demands the scientists to fix this, trying hard to hide his arousal.

Shiesty is wigging out. First chibi, now Godzilla-sized? If you swallow him whole he can actually die happy.

Target and Viltrumite are frozen. The overwhelming sight of you towering over them has awoken something in these Marks.

Main Mark, Flaxan and Full Mask are working hard to cover you with billboards and whatever extra extra large pieces of fabric they can. They know what everyone is thinking, what a lot of degenerates want a peek, but they can barely tolerate sharing you with each other so there is no way they’ll let the world see you.

It’s the same for Maskless, Mohawk and Head Cap, but they’ll be destroying cameras and shooing away any perverts (like they're not the biggest ones).

Disclaimer: The image used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It was lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

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