#just too close!!! same principle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

koiukiy-o · 2 months ago

Text

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation.

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape.

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic.

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets.

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture.

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @somniosu (send an ask or comment to be added!)

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader #guys a/n 2 #if you guys have any suggestions for a playlist for this series pleeeeasseeed drop it in the comments <3 #i have 7 songs so far but unfortunately my taste is too corrupt for this series :sob: ANY recs i will take them all HAHA (desperate)#if something isnt linked right pls lmk !!

254 notes · View notes

saetoru · 2 years ago

Text

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。what if you’re someone i just want around (i’m falling again)

synopsis. somewhere along the line, you started to hate suguru—that doesn’t mean you stopped loving him too

— word count. 9.5k (i am in misery)

— contents. post canon! au — fix it! (we all need a good fix it fic with suguru don't lie), this fic was started before recent manga chapters so the higher ups are still alive—just go with it ok :,), geto survives + lives free of kenjaku, exes to lovers, kind of redemption i suppose, mentions of blood, injuries, and weight loss (geto), mentions of canon character deaths (nanako, mimiko, nanami), mentions of wanting to raise children with geto and have a family, no gendered terms but reader has a personality and actual thoughts and feelings, references to the hunger games (you have movie night lol), BFF satoru (he is babie), there is a kiss y’all !! (scandalous i know :O)

— notes. i started this fic back in march and i had trouble with it and put it on pause for a while. i’m very glad i finished it in the end. i always like fix it! fics and this is self-indulgent and idk if ppl will read it bc it’s sfw but it’s ok if they don’t, i loved writing it. thank you koi for beta-reading this whole bad boy. mwah <333

the day suguru is declared a free man is actually the day he signs away his freedom for good.

you say nothing, but you know it’s the truth. satoru fights tooth and nail to plead suguru’s case—you think it’s perhaps a little too desperate for it to be in the best interest of suguru and not himself. but satoru has suffered enough, and admittedly—although you deny it—a small part of you does not want to lose suguru twice. you watch as satoru argues that suguru has already died once—surely he can’t die again? and losing control of his body and mind is paying for his crimes enough, is it not? he argues that there are no ideals left for a man like geto suguru to chase after losing himself to every principle he had left.

and then satoru wins.

you expect it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. you watch numbly as suguru is assigned under your watch. you should be happy. you love suguru—you never stopped. but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s not a free man, and now he drags your freedom with his. you’ll never break away from him, never cut through the ropes that tie your hands behind your back and bind you to him—and then you wonder for a moment, unsure if it’s selfish or selfless or some cruel in-between to think this way, if geto suguru was better off dead.

whether that’s for your sake, or his, you’re not sure.

and yes, he’s let off alive, and sure, there’s no real punishment for all he’s done, but you know deep down he’s as chained and shackled as he’s ever been. he’s not allowed to leave the house unless you or satoru are there to chaperone, and it’s never to be anywhere near non-sorcerers. he’s not to live in a place of his own until the higher up’s deem him trustworthy. he has to ask you to buy the things he wants from the grocery store. he can’t even step outside for a smoke unless you’re aware.

for a long time, he doesn’t speak much—can hardly muster a barely audible mornin’ back when you force a smile and greet him cheerily for breakfast. slowly, it turns into half-snarky conversations that get cut short by one of you leaving the room. finally, you’re civil—maybe even friendly. you’re not so sure where you stand with him as of now.

it’s not the same suguru you remember falling in love with, it’s not even close to the version of the man you fell for all those years ago. it’s hard having him here—some days you’re angry and want to throw him out, to scream at him for haunting you again just when you think you’ve moved on from the horrors of your past. some days you want to cry and cling to him, bury your face into his neck and thank him for being here again, for finding his way back to you. and some days you wish you never met him at all, that this would all be easier if it didn’t exist in the first place.

he’s not the same geto suguru you loved, but somehow, because life is as bitter as it is ruthless, you fall in love with this version just as hard no matter how much you deny it.

“i made your favorite,” you smile gently, placing a neat plate of french toast with freshly cut strawberries on the side. you even take great care to get the syrup-to-powdered sugar ratio he likes right, but he doesn’t make a move to reach for the plate. instead, suguru sits at the table stiffly, like he has to be here or there are consequences for that too. it almost makes you sad—even here, he’s not free.

“thanks,” he says quietly, “but i’m not hungry.”

“you said that last night, suguru,” you sigh, “and at lunch. and at breakfast. and at dinner the night before—”

“i’ll eat it later,” he cuts you off, playing with the ends of his hair.

it’s a lot shorter now. it’s you who finds his body battered and bruised after the smoke clears. he’s almost unrecognizable, not the same charming and perfect suguru you’re used to seeing. not the same silkened strands and smooth skin, not the same muscled and toned body, not the same chiseled jaw and soft cheeks. instead, he’s a shell of himself. his hair is matted in knots, his body is almost frail, and you notice the sunken hollows of his cheeks and dark undereyes as you lift him from the rubble a little too easily. but his body is his own—that much you can tell from the way the stitches have disappeared.

it takes shoko a long time to nurse him back to health—it takes even longer for him to open his eyes.

you waited day and night by his side, hand over his as he breathed slowly, unconscious and unsuspecting. it would be so easy, you think one night, it would be so easy to kill him and forget and move on.

you’ve already grieved him once before. you’ve felt and conquered the pain of loving geto suguru and losing him first to himself and then to death. but love is as selfish as it is selfless, and it’s under your mercy that you let him live—yet it’s under your cowardice that you keep him close.

“you have to gain back the weight you lost, suguru,” you sigh, “you’re w—”

“weak?” he finishes for you, eyeing you for a second and then grinning. it’s unsettling, a grin that makes your skin crawl and your heart stop for a moment before he’s reaching for the fork and stabbing into his toast. “is that what you wanted to say? that i’m weak?”

“suguru, you know that’s not how i meant—”

“you’re not wrong,” he hums, chewing on the first bite as he speaks, “i suppose i am pretty weak right now, huh? couldn’t even kill you in your sleep if i tried could i?”

your throat is dry as you shrug, “i suppose not,” you whisper.

“ah,” he grins again, “but that doesn’t stop you from locking your door every night, does it?”

suguru is still healing. his body is weak, and sometimes, he leans against the wall as he walks. his arm is healed—you’re not entirely sure how, but you catch him rolling the shoulder out every now and then like it’s sore and stiff. he’s lost a lot of weight—part of it is from being bedridden for as long as he was, injured and half alive, and part of it is from barely eating—save for the few bites you force into him. you never thought there’d be a day when you could say this—but the odds of you beating suguru in hand-to-hand combat are high, and the reality is an everlasting reminder that he is not who you fell for.

you swallow, letting out a shaky breath as he watches you closely, diligently cutting another bite from the french toast sitting on his plate as he stares you down like he can see past your soul. you don’t know what’s scarier—that suguru can still practically see yours, or that you’re unsure he even has one anymore.

“you tried coming in?” you ask, unsure what else to say. he merely shrugs, takes another bite, and sets his fork down.

“thought i’d check on you,” he pops a strawberry half into his mouth as he speaks.

“is that what it really was?” you raise a brow, “or was i right to lock the door?”

you’re not sure why you lock the door at night. maybe it’s because you don’t trust him, or maybe it’s because you don’t want him near you just yet. you’re not sure. you’re not sure how satoru can go back to his cheery self, how he can step through your door and boom a loud yo, suguru! before settling beside suguru on the couch with his feet on the coffee table as he rambles away. maybe it’s not real—maybe it’s satoru desperately pretending that if he tries hard enough, things can go back to how they were.

but you don’t know how he still has the energy to try, and you don’t know if you have it in you to try anymore yourself.

you and suguru stare each other down like that for a bit, the tension rising with every silent second that passes. you’re sure he doesn’t want to be here as much as you don’t want him around—but you’re also sure he’s glad it’s here with you as much as you’re glad it’s with no one else.

“you tell me,” he smirks after a bit, the hint of amusement making your fists clench. how dare he have the audacity to look at you like that in your own home? like he has the upper hand over you without trying? “what do you think i was there for?”

“i think you should stay in your room, suguru,” you say carefully, “i bought a new bed just for that room.”

“how sweet of you,” he hums. he sips the tea before him—it’s cold by now, but it’s just how he likes it, rose with one sugar. “you must have been excited to have me.”

“hardly,” you mumble bitterly—you can’t help it. you want him to feel hurt, even just a little. you want him to know that just because he’s back, it doesn’t mean you’ve waited all this time for him to be. liar, a part of you says, you’ve always waited for him, haven’t you? but suguru doesn’t seem phased—he doesn’t even blink.

“then tell me, why am i here?” suguru asks, his tone is as casual as ever.

i wish i knew, you want to say. i wish i knew but i don’t.

“because satoru asked you to be,” is all you can say.

he nods, pushing back his plate and standing up, offering you that same grin. “you’re right,” he hums, “that’s exactly why i’m here.”

it hits you why his smile is so unsettling once he leaves—it’s almost genuine, like he’s still loved you all this time. impossible, you tell yourself. suguru stopped loving you a long time ago. and you need to stop trying to figure out why.

————————————————

even despite telling yourself you don’t care what suguru thinks, a small part of you needs to prove to him you’re not scared of him. that you don’t fear for your own safety in your home, and that him being here is not some form of him haunting you. you don’t care. he shouldn’t get the luxury of thinking you care. he can come in and watch you sleep like the creep he is if he wants—you couldn’t bother to give it a second thought.

the first night you take a chance and leave the door unlocked, suguru slips into bed beside you. it wakes you up instantly, and before you can question it, his head tucks into your neck, and his hand grasps your shirt tightly. you notice the panting almost instantly—and then you realize, it must be a nightmare.

you fall into old habits, even after all these years, defaulting to care for him like it’s second nature.

“you’re safe, suguru,” is what you settle for saying after a moment of contemplation. it’s all you can really think to say, so you brush your lips over the top of his head as you murmur, “you’re safe,” over and over again.

as difficult as it is to have suguru around, as painful and cruel and aggravating as it is to be reminded of his distant existence even as he’s two doors down, this part feels natural. it’s almost like you’re back in jujutsu high, waking up to him sneaking into your room as he presses his weight over your body and wakes you with soft kisses along your face.

except this time, he’s not annoyingly demanding cuddles or telling you about his weird dream, he’s not stealing your blanket and demanding you play with his hair. this time, it’s not the same suguru—and this time, it’s not jujutsu high.

it’s your room. the one you got on the other side of town to leave the sorcery world behind, somehow still stuck right in the center of it no matter where you go. and yet, just like all those years ago, your legs tangle, and your arms wrap him up, and you murmur, “you’re safe,” while he catches his breath.

“but they’re not,” he mutters in between labored pants, making you pause.

and then you remember.

faintly, you recall the blonde and black hair from a distance, you remember bitterly wondering what’d it be like watching suguru fathering children of your own as you came to the reality that it would never happen. sometimes, you wonder if you hate nanako and mimiko for existing, for living as the dreams you never got to live through with suguru.

it’s selfish—to hate two children because they are what you do not have.

but then you feel something wet hit your neck, and then you wish they were okay—for his sake. and just for a moment, you’re selfless again.

“they’re not safe,” he mutters, making you sigh.

“they are,” you whisper, hesitating for a moment before letting your fingers slip into his hair. you scratch gently at his scalp, feeling his body melt into yours almost instantly—like it’s a response that’s natural to him. “they’re not suffering. not anymore.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” he scoffs. you shrug, letting your cheek press against the top of his head as you sigh.

“it helps me feel better,” you say softly, “‘s just how you learn to cope.”

it’s an understanding you both silently come to. loss on both sides. bloodshed on either ground. defeat no matter which ideal you take. to love is to bear the pain of mortality—it’s a lesson that you never cease to learn until the ends of time itself.

“the jujutsu world is one of suffering,” he grits, sniffling into your neck. you hum, pressing a kiss to his head as your eyes close.

“every world is one of suffering, suguru, you can’t erase them all. the sooner you realize that, the easier you’ll find peace.”

you fall into a slumber after that, faintly aware of the way he shuffles closer to you, faintly aware of the soft kiss pressed to your skin as sleep takes over your body and drifts you out of consciousness.

when you wake up the next morning, suguru is gone, and the door is closed. the blanket is tucked up to your chin, and your neck still tingles from last night.

————————————————

“get up,” you throw a pillow at suguru, waking him up with a start as he sits up. his hair is tousled and messy from sleep—it’s now long enough that he can put it in a bun without strands slipping from the bottom anymore. you chuckle as he glares at you, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he groans.

“the fuck was that for?” he grunts, holding the blanket up to cover his exposed chest.

it’s funny that he does that, in a way. it’s not as though you haven’t seen his chest…and then some too. it’s not like you haven’t torn his shirt off to stanch the flow of blood from his injuries before or feel the bare skin with your palm under the pale moonlight as the lingering scent of sex breezes through the room.

but somehow, even though he doesn’t need to cover his chest around you of all people, you’re glad that he does. truthfully, it keeps you slightly comforted to know that he’s aware you’re still technically strangers—no matter how well-versed you are in each other’s pasts. but you don’t ponder on it too much. instead, you grin, shoving aside the visual of the small glance you caught at his pecs, and you clap your hands to motion him to hurry.

“we are going grocery shopping,” you say casually—as though it’s not something to make him raise a brow in shock.

“me?” he points a finger at himself. you roll your eyes, and he challenges you with another raise of his brow. “aren’t i supposed to stay away from civilians?”

“yes, you,” you nod, pointing back at him, “and satoru has worked overtime to get you granted permission to roam around with me. he says you’re welcome, by the way.”

“tell him to go fuck off.”

“that’s ungrateful,” you say flatly, “his feelings will be hurt.”

“his feelings will find a way to cope,” suguru huffs. “i don’t want to be around…them,” he says bitterly.

you suppose it’s wishful thinking to hope suguru has let go of his past beliefs. perhaps he’s long abandoned the possibility of the vision he once planned on bringing to life, but you can’t say you expected him to revert back to the old suguru who fought alongside you and satoru. you yourself certainly have no intention of returning to the sorcery world after all the events, so you can’t say you’re shocked by the lack of change he seems to show. but then again, you suppose suguru has changed. whether he sees it or not.

he stays here and doesn’t put up a fight to leave even though he can now that he’s healed. he eats lunch when you tell him and even washes the dishes. sometimes, when you come home a bit late, dinner is even ready on the table as he sits and stares at you expectantly. his plate is empty like yours—like he’s been waiting for you even though he doesn’t need to. you suppose you can see he’s changed in the way he doesn’t scoff at the tv channels you surf through, he silently sits on the opposite end of the couch now and watches with you, and perhaps if you’re lucky, you’ll hear a light chuckle or a quiet sigh as the scenes roll on the screen.

you suppose this suguru is a step closer to your suguru every day he spends with you, but you don’t know if any suguru is what you need right now. perhaps that name should’ve been buried away as a distant memory, perhaps it should’ve only been something you unlock once every year on his death anniversary—when satoru clambers through your door drunk and unsteady as he clutches the hand that killed his best friend, only to share pancakes with you in the morning and pretend like you don’t notice the dried tears on his cheeks while he acts like he doesn’t catch the way your hand shakes as you cut into your breakfast.

but suguru is here now. whether it’s as geto, one half of the strongest duo in jujutsu high, whether it’s as suguru, the love of your life and the sole reason you exist, or whether it’s as geto suguru, the curse user and mass murderer who haunts your past, present, and everything in between.

so you simply sigh, grab the pillow again, and hit the top of his head before walking over to the door as you call over your shoulder, “i’m gonna wait for you by the door in fifteen minutes. be ready or face the consequences..”

“no thanks. don’t wanna,” suguru grumbles petulantly, frowning at you as you stick your tongue at him, smirking as if you’ve just played your ace.

“too bad,” you sing before swinging the door shut.

he’s at the door in exactly fifteen minutes, like he waited until the last possible second to join you as a move of spite. but you simply gesture him out the door and lock up, taking your sweet time as he stands there with an annoyed face. you stare at the doorknob once you’re done, taking a deep breath before turning to him with your best smile.

“let’s go,” you hum.

“after you,” he mutters.

—

he grimaces as soon as he sees the people going about their business, clearly unhappy with the idea of being around non-sorcerers, but one sharp glare from you has him sighing and trekking along. the grocery store, admittedly, is not as bad as suguru thinks—in fact, there are lots of things he doesn’t realize he misses until he watches you grab a shopping cart.

suddenly, he sees shadows. the silhouette of your figure climbing into the cart, the angry wave of satoru’s hands as he claims it's his turn to be pushed around, the figure of shoko pinching the bridge of her nose in irritation from the back—and then, he sees the dark shadow of baggy pants and a small bun. it’s him. suguru watches himself almost in slow motion through the remnants of his imagination as he gently shoves satoru out of the way and reaches to poke the tip of your nose before he pushes the cart with you in it.

it’s a happy memory—and it’s gone all too soon.

as soon as he blinks, the shadows have disappeared—instead, it’s you waving a hand in his face, concern written on your features as you call his name.

“suguru? hey, hello? are you with me?”

he exhales, pulled from his trance as he gently grabs your wrist from in front of his face and sets it down as he nods, “yeah, i’m fine. just thinking,” he mumbles.

for a second, you hesitate, like you almost mean to say something. but in the end, you only nod before turning to grab the shopping cart. but he stops you—grabs the handle and turns to you with a small smile on his face, making you raise a brow as he gently moves you away.

“what are you—”

“get in,” he grins, making you stare at him in bewilderment.

“what?”

“just get in,” he sighs, “you love it when you get to sit in the cart.”

“i’m not a teenager anymore—”

“get in, will you?” he groans, “always so damn difficult.”

“hey,” you pout, glaring at him with your hands planted at your hips, “that’s rude.” it’s cute. suguru stares at you with amusement in his eyes and a soft look on his face that you don’t think you’ve really seen in years.

“humor me,” he hums, “just get in, okay?”

so you do.

with a huff and a grumble under your breath, you fight back a smile and climb into the damn cart just like old times. you swallow and try not to let it get to you when he reaches over and pokes the tip of your nose and pushes the cart around, letting you name off the things you need from your list while he grabs them. and when he sneaks snacks into the pile, you roll your eyes and glare at him in the way you always did—the one that isn’t actually annoyed. fond. happy to let it slide because it’s him.

“we need candy,” you murmur, “that’s the last thing on the list.”

“okay. what kind?” he asks, turning the cart into the candy aisle and smiling softly down at you.

“doesn’t matter, satoru eats anything as long as it’s sweet. he’s more likely to die from sugar than fighting a curse, i think.”

“you buy candy for satoru?” he asks, making you shrug as you reach over and grab a few bags of candy off the shelves, setting them down beside you.

“he comes over a lot so i learned to keep stuff stocked up for him. you know how he gets when he’s hungry.”

suguru feels something he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. jealousy—specifically of satoru.

suguru is not foolish. he knows as soon as he meets gojo satoru that of the two, one of them is stronger and it’s definitely not himself. for the longest time, he’s okay with that, okay being the strongest only when alongside satoru—until he’s not. and even if suguru always had a bit more attention in the romance department than satoru, in his head he’s always known that perhaps satoru can keep you safer, more well off, maybe even happier. with smooth smiles and eyes as welcoming as an oasis, gojo satoru would never leave you in the dark pit of misery as suguru once had.

something about the thought of you and satoru keeping each other company through the lonely years, filling that empty spot suguru left behind, sharing moments over candy and empty wrappers makes suguru wonder for a moment if perhaps he’d be happier if he stayed. maybe he could have worn a heartfelt smile in a world that carves them off the faces of sorcerers with bloody knives as long as you were there to wipe the blood.

but before he can dwell on it, you snatch one more bag—this time of his favorite candy, placing it into the cart and grinning gently up at him.

“i haven’t bought this one in years,” you admit, “i almost forget how it tastes.”

“me too,” he says quietly.

“well,” you hum, “we’ll have to have some when we’re home.”

home. you say it as though it belongs to him as much as it does you, and then like you always have, without even meaning to, you wash away the dark stains of his jealousy with no trace left behind.

“yeah,” he chuckles, “we—”

“daddy, look! candy!” suguru is cut off by the gentle pitter-patter of two tiny feet running into the aisle, pointing at a bag of candy as a man follows close behind.

his breath hitches.

she’s small, the girl—she has two pigtails with soft strands of blonde hair falling out of the loosely tied bands. it reminds suguru of the first time he perfected tying up nanako’s hair, the soft giggles behind her tiny hand as she twirled in the mirror.

there’s another girl in the man’s arms—dark hair on her head as she curls into her father’s chest and tucks her head into his neck when she sees you and suguru in the aisle. she’s shy, he realizes, like mimiko, and suddenly he remembers the tiny fingers that used to hook into his pants when she got too overwhelmed by the people around her, waiting for suguru to scoop her into his arms.

perhaps in another life, suguru would redo everything differently—he’d be happy with you and satoru and shoko, and nanami and haibara would be there too, well and alive. but no matter what, he’d never redo nanako and mimiko differently. he’d never change a thing about them, not even the way nanako whines too much about small things or the way mimiko never speaks up even when something is clearly bothering her. he’d never change the way he saved them and took them in at the tender age of eighteen, too lost to be a father but choosing to raise them anyway. he’d never change the feeling of pure joy and unbridled pride when they climbed into his bed for the first time, shushing each other so as not to wake him—even though he’d awoken as soon as the door to his room opened.

because he realized that night that yeah, maybe he’d made mistakes in his lifetime, lots of them too. maybe he’d made a bad choice choosing the path he did, or maybe he didn’t. he’s never been completely sure—just that he had to try at least to make his vision for a different world come to life. but one mistake he never made was his girls. one thing he was always sure about was the soft clutch at his pants and the tiny hands reaching for his own.

suguru wouldn’t change anything about nanako and mimiko—except maybe the fact that they aren’t here, gone because of him.

“suguru?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand as he grips the cart tightly and pulling his gaze away from the family in the distance.

he blinks, meets your eyes, and knows that you know. with one glance at your face, he knows you understand. the world is cruel, one filled with suffering, he thinks. but then he remembers what you said, that every world is full of suffering, not just his—that it’s a truth he has to come face to face with.

but it’s hard. it’s hard when this man has his two little girls and suguru does not—it’s hard to watch someone have what he wants with no worries of losing it, all because of people and their own weaknesses. he thinks for a moment that he’s been right all along—that non-sorcerers are too weak for this life, that the jujutsu world has always suffered so they don’t have to.

but then the man speaks up, catching both of your attention.

“your mother used to love those,” he says quietly to his daughter, a pained smile on his face. instantly, you and suguru both seem to understand the weight of that single sentence.

every world has its own pain, suguru realizes. its own cruelties and unfairness, its own way of bringing suffering in its wake as it rips away the things closest to you from your begging fingertips, leaving them cold and empty and numb from the lost weight underneath them.

“let’s go, suguru,” you whisper, “we have everything we came for.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, clearing his throat so his voice doesn’t crack, “let’s go.”

suguru leaves the grocery store with you after you pay, and for a brief moment, he’s unsure. unsure whether he’s grateful to satoru for fighting for him to be able to come and grateful to you for dragging him along, or if he wishes he died along with the rubble, gone before you could find him and turn him into this.

“before you even think about hiding away in your room,” you say, grabbing the bags from the cart as you put it back where it belongs, “you have to help with putting away the groceries.”

“sure,” he says smoothly. he grabs all the heavy bags from your hand, and you make a move to protest that you don’t need him to take the heavier ones, that you’re fine and can handle them like you’ve always handled them.

but he walks off, and finally, you decide to simply follow.

————————————————

satoru likes to come and visit—you’ve started a routine movie night every week (unless he’s away, of course.) it’s fun, but it also means he makes your veins pop because he’s a headache like that—always makes himself right at home and eats your snacks like this is his place and not yours. he helps himself to your already limited candy and puts his sock-clad feet up on the coffee table no matter how many times you tell him not to.

you try sitting with legs as long as these, he always whines, earning a harsh glare from you as you smack at his shins until he ultimately caves and begrudgingly sets his feet down.

but then they always make their way back up to the coffee table, and you’re too busy enjoying his company to care—although you’ll never admit it.

satoru is endearing like that, swallowing the dark clouds from your shoulders whole and eating up your burdens with that side of responsibility that you don’t think you could ever stomach. satoru is just like that, you realize, taking the brunt of the weight and laughing off every concern until you can’t help but not take them seriously yourself.

it’s hard to remember that sometimes you didn’t just lose suguru, the love of your life, that night. everyone lost something. shoko lost someone to smoke with, yaga lost a student to scold, nanami lost a headache to avoid, and satoru?

well…satoru lost what you think might’ve been the only filled void of his miserably empty life.

it’s hard to remember that satoru lost his best friend—the only best friend he’s ever had (although you like to think of yourself as a close contender)—because he’s so good at letting you forget. he brings you ice cream (that he eats half of because it’s only fair he gets a share), and he sits and hogs your couch (that he argues you don’t really need as much space as him on because your legs aren’t as long), and he watches those stupid sitcoms that are dry with boring jokes (that you used to make suguru watch back in the day).

it’s hard to remember that satoru also lost as much as you because he’s so damn good at making you forget about your own loss, you don’t care to think about anyone else’s for a while. just a short while. just until he’s yawning that obnoxiously loud yawn and stretching those awkwardly long limbs of his before he claims he really should go and that being the world’s best teacher requires as many hours of beauty sleep as you can squeeze in.

and then he’s off. and it’s empty again. and just like that, you’re reminded of why he was there in the first place—to fill in that sick and painful void that geto suguru left in you.

it’s gaping, like he tore a chunk of you right out with sharp teeth, like you’re just a piece of meat for him to get his fill of. if suguru really loved you, would you be so easy to let go of? why couldn’t he smile? because you could—god, you could smile just from the sight of him alone, you realize a long time ago. him with his cigarette tucked between his lips, those death sticks as you called them, hung loosely from his mouth as he gives you a lopsided grin.

geto suguru is enough of a reason to smile. the world could crumble at your feet and leave you with nothing but rubble and dirt, and still, suguru is the core of the earth you’re searching for.

so why couldn’t you be the same? what is it you were missing? what about you was just not enough for him like the way he was enough for you?

it dawns on you one night, through bitter tears and shaky sobs, and that sick, twisted, pleading feeling in your gut that begs the wind to carry him back to you—geto suguru has never loved you the way you loved him.

and for that, you can never forgive him, you don’t think.

“you tryin’ to go bug-eyed?” he asks, settling down on the couch next to you, making you snap out of your trance. you shake your head a little, stare back at him for a moment before putting on that look on your face where you roll your eyes and pretend everything is fine.

“no,” you huff, “i’m just thinking.”

“about…?”

“satoru has rarely ever missed a movie night.”

“maybe he’s sick of you,” he shrugs, grinning slyly at you as you narrow your eyes with a glare, “there’s someone here to keep you company now so he’s probably taken his opportunity to run.”

“you’re hardly company,” you scoff, “freeloader.”

“hey,” he defends, shrugging as if it’s not his fault. you suppose it’s not. “i didn’t ask to be rescued. you can’t be high and mighty and petty. ‘s not how that works.”

“says who? you don’t make the rules. i can be graciously kind and a jerk all at once.”

“complexity,” he nods, “i like it.”

“i’m not as complicated as you might think,” you grumble, crossing your arms as you stare at the time. yeah, satoru isn’t making it—which, he told you as much, but he’s strolled in at the last second too many times to count before. you figure today would be the same. “as long as you don’t skip movie nights with me, i’m pretty simple to keep appeased.”

“alright,” he props his feet up on the coffee table—seriously, what is it with asshole men putting their feet on your table? satoru is a terrible influence. “let’s have a movie night.”

“what?” you blink.

“movie night,” he repeats, “you said you don’t like skipping movie night—”

“well, i meant i don’t like satoru skipping movie—”

“well, it was me before satoru, wasn’t it?” he says with a smile. his eyes are closed, crinkled at the corners, but his voice is carefully neutral—like he takes extra care not to let you see any emotion behind it.

but that only means there is an emotion, isn’t there? is he jealous? does he hate the fact that you and satoru have a routine of your own without him? that you don’t need him to continue living your life?

good. he should be. he walked out on you all those years ago. he killed a village. killed his parents. you never even got to meet them—he never even got to take you home and introduce you to them before he ripped away every fantasy you ever had with him.

and now he’s back—he has the audacity to live, to laugh in your face with his existence that yes, geto suguru is here. and he was supposed to be executed, but your stubborn friend didn’t let that happen. he was supposed to be your husband by now with kids and a happy little home, and you were supposed to be his parent’s new addition to their family that they loved so much. but none of that is even close to happening, and it’s suguru’s fault, and the least he can do is show you some regret and maybe feel just the slightest bit bad that you now have to watch shitty movies with his best friend instead of him to feel normal.

ex-best friend? half best friend? you don’t even know—do they still consider each other their best friends? does anyone consider suguru anything? you don’t know what you consider him. but you think the least he can do is act just the slightest bit pathetic after making you feel so pathetic for so long just to even the score.

he should be a stranger. he feels like an old friend. but either is dangerous.

“alright,” you sigh, “let's bring back movie night. don’t fall asleep.”

“i get plenty of sleep nowadays,” he hums, “i have more than enough free time for that now.”

“how lucky of you,” you snort.

—

picking a movie with suguru is difficult. he actually has standards—satoru watches anything so long as he gets snacks, and he can make anything fun to watch with the way he comments from the side like a critic. suguru, on the other hand, actually cares about the quality of a movie, the metrics that make it good.

so you pick the hunger games just to piss him off.

“seriously?” he raises a brow, “this is your pick?”

“yes,” you grin, “i like these movies.”

“of all movies—”

“my house, my rules,” you grin cheekily, “you can pick the movies as soon as you start paying the bills.”

“wow,” he deadpans, “stooping to use my financial status against me? i thought you were better than this.”

“oh suguru,” you sigh dramatically, grabbing a bag of chips from the table, “you don’t know me at all.”

all things considered, you think it’s a rather enjoyable experience. it’s not as fun without satoru’s stupid comments that you pretend to hate, but suguru provides his own commentary that earns a giggle out of you here and there too—although his are not meant to be funny. but that’s the appeal of it, you think.

“she should have picked gale,” he mumbles. you raise a brow.

“peeta was always there for her, did you miss the rain scene?”

“so was gale,” he says smoothly, grabbing a chip from your bag and making you scowl.

“gale killed her sister,” you point out, “and a lot of other people too. he was ruthless. she needed peeta.”

“gale did what he had to do,” suguru mumbles.

suddenly, it doesn’t really feel like you’re discussing the movie anymore. it feels more than that. it feels sickening—the air is heavy, and your throat is dry and god, you just wanted a movie night and not this heaviness as you talk about stuff from the past without actually talking about it.

you blink before turning to your chips, playing around with the bag as you shrug.

“in the end he didn’t get katniss, did he?”

suguru studies you for a moment, stares a little too deep into you that you start to feel the urge to bolt to your room and go to bed.

“guess not,” he says quietly, “guess that’s the one regret he has, huh?”

you think for a second, as suguru stares at your eyes with something you can’t quite read, that you might cry. you might cry and throw that half-empty can of soda in his face for speaking in codes and making you question what he means and remember your past. you might cry because suguru could’ve always gotten you—in fact, he had you.

it’s not fair. nothing is, but you can’t help but dwell on it.

“i’m going to bed. it’s late,” you mumble after a few moments, standing. he only nods, staring at the tv as the credits roll. when you make it to your room and the door shuts behind you, you debate clicking the lock in place.

in the end, you don’t lock the door. suguru climbs into bed with you once more later that night, shaking slightly from his nightmare but calmer than usual. he’s still gone by the time morning comes, and you still never mention it.

it hits you one night that maybe he still has you—maybe you never let him stop having you, no matter what you say.

————————————————

suguru is good at cleaning while you’re away. you have to go out and do adult things like breadwinning and grocery shopping and bill paying. he dusts and cleans and even takes out the trash when you’re home to monitor him as he steps two feet out of your front door. sometimes, because you like to get on his nerves, you accidentally mess up a corner of the house just as he cleans it, laughing as he shoots you an unimpressed look.

“stop getting crumbs on the floor,” he mumbles, “i just vacuumed.”

“you make a good malewife,” you giggle, “vacuuming and everything. how cute.”

“don’t call me that,” he grumbles, sitting down on the couch.

“but you missed a spot,” you point to the crumbs you’ve sprinkled from your fingers as you snack away, making him glare. “failwife.”

“i’m going to divorce you and take everything,” he snaps, making you snort as you put your hands up in surrender.

“you don’t have to, you know,” you murmur, “clean, i mean. i can handle it.”

“i think i should carry my weight around here,” he shrugs, “since you are basically sugar babying me around for now.”

“dangerous curse user to the world, but sugar baby to me,” you tease, pulling a chuckle out of him as he rolls his eyes.

sometimes it’s nice to have his company. suguru is good with banter like that, he’s not annoying like satoru where you run in circles. suguru makes you laugh from your belly, makes the hiccups catch in your throat as you double over. he’s always been like that, always known how to make laughter pour from your lips and trickle down your chin. it’s comforting to know he still knows how. it leaves a small amount of bitterness that he’s still able to make you feel like this.

“by the way, next time you go shopping, take me with you,” he says casually, “i need to buy stuff for my hair. it’s growing.”

“you’ll finally see the sun just for your hair?” you gasp, “who knew that’s all it’d take?”

despite the playfulness in your words, there’s still shock. suguru is willingly stepping foot outside your house. he’s finally choosing to return to life after living like a recluse no matter how many times you and satoru have tried to beg him to get up and go somewhere. the most you can get out of him is a walk around the neighborhood before he goes back to wandering your home and hiding away in his room.

suguru is returning to life, his life, and you can’t help but wonder where that leaves room for you.

“my hair is my charm,” he reasons, “wouldn’t you agree?”

there’s a smirk on his lips when he asks—it’s like he’s seventeen and teasing you again, giving you that unfairly flirty smile that used to make you stutter as a kid. back when you were hopelessly in love. back when it was you, suguru, and the world in your corner. back when you had dreams of your future, practically giggling as you planned it away in a notebook.

suguru was always perfect like that, the kind of guy you could only dream about. he’s always been handsome—he’s always been the center of attention everywhere you went. you used to huff about it, about all the attention he managed to get from walking into a room alone. but then he’d smile, give you that tender look of his as he’d chuckle, and you’d be hopeless again.

he shouldn’t have that effect on you anymore after over a decade. but he does. it’s cruel, the way the universe works. it’s like there’s a magnet that pushes you together no matter how far you try to go, still pulled by gravity straight into his awaiting eyes and devilish smile.

“i cut your hair off once, i can do it again,” you huff. he laughs, it’s good-natured and kind.

“i was a bit heartbroken when i realized it was so short, i have to admit,” he says, “i didn’t look like me.”

“you looked good,” you say quietly, “i think you’d make anything work, to be honest.”

“yeah?” he grins, “any requests? i might consider it if it’s you.”

“oh shut up,” you roll your eyes, “how about shaving your head bald? let's see how much charm you have without all that hair.”

“i could charm you without the hair still, couldn’t i?” he winks.

it’s unfair how he acts like normal. like a few months in your home undoes everything he’s ever committed, all the atrocities he’s caused. the way he flirts with you feels like you’re his again. the way he’s aged and changed feels like you’re meeting someone new. you don’t understand how suguru is so natural with that—with seamlessly falling back into a rhythm with you like nothing has changed at all.

deep down, you know that suguru is just moving on with his life. he’s making the most of what he can. he can’t die, satoru would never let him have a peaceful death after all this. he can’t go back to the way things used to be, whether that’s his sorcery days or his curse user days, and he certainly can’t start over. so he’s making do with what he has—which is very little in reality.

it’s you, your home, and the biweekly visits from satoru and occasionally shoko. so he weaves you seamlessly into his life and treats you with a sense of normalcy you can’t hope to treat him with. maybe it’s because suguru was actually able to move on after he left.

it’s the part you hated him most for. for building a family with new people. for having two girls that he raised as daughters. for finding people to follow him and trust. suguru, after he walked away from everything he ever knew, actually did something with his life—even if it could hardly be considered good.

you? you fell deeper and deeper into a pit of denial until clawing your way back out was too impossible, until you had to leave behind everything you’ve ever known to get away from the remnants of his existence.

it’s easy for him to weave you back into his life because he chose to cut you loose. it feels damn near impossible to let him weave back into yours after he tore himself from the edges and frayed away.

“don’t do that,” you sigh, making him frown.

“do what?”

“you know what, suguru,” you pinch your nose in frustration, “stop acting like things are normal.”

“things are definitely not normal,” he snorts bitterly, “i think needing your approval to take the trash out is not equal to normal.”

“then why are you acting like…” you trail off, unsure.

“like what?” he raises a brow.

“like we never changed,” you slam your hands down on the couch in exasperation.

he stares at you for a minute, blinks once, then twice, and then furrows his brows.

“well, of course we changed,” he mumbles in confusion, “i know that—”

you shouldn’t have said anything. you quickly realize that. suguru is not trying to act like things are normal—he’s trying to be civil, and you’re just a fool. a fool who looks too deeply into everything and assumes what you want to out of things and god, you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of your one and only ex-boyfriend in over a decade who was once dead and somehow came back to the land of the living.

of course, he knows things are not the same. he doesn’t want what you think he does. it’s been years and suguru has moved on—he had already moved on all those years ago, and you’re the only one here that is still focused on the past. and now he knows it too.

you stand before he can finish, nodding as you stare down instead of meeting his eyes, pretending to adjust your clothes.

“right, of course you do,” you nod, “i don’t know why i said that. just ignore me, i’ll be going to my room now. i have…things to do, so i’ll be—”

“hang on,” he frowns, hand grabbing your wrist, “i don’t mean it like that,” he says gently.

fuck geto suguru for being so confusing and fuck him for being nice about it too.

“you can let go, suguru,” you pull at your wrist, “forget what i said, i wasn’t thinking—”

“i still feel the same,” he cuts you off, making your eyes widen, “if that’s what you mean. i never stopped.”

never stopped—that’s almost worse than moving on. how could he have felt the same all those years and still never come back?

“that does not help even a little,” you swallow the lump in your throat. “that makes this so much worse, do you see that?”

“i know,” he sighs, “i’m sor—”

“don’t say you’re sorry,” you grit your teeth, “we both know you’re not.”

“maybe not,” he admits, “i had to try. and that meant leaving—i’m sorry that’s not what you wanted.”

“it’s not!” you turn around, pulling your arm out of his grasp—suguru, for what it’s worth, takes the shove to his chest like a champ. “of course i didn’t want you to leave and kill a bunch of people and have an execution stamped on your forehead and live your life without me.”

“i know—”

“and now you’re back. back! in my house, eating my food and sleeping in my bed for half the night and i just have to act like this is normal. how is any of this normal?”

“it’s not,” he agrees. he’s calm. so calm, it almost makes you mad. why is he so calm? “nothing about anything in our lives is normal. it never was.”

“you ruined my life,” you blink back tears. he smiles sadly, taking a step closer.

“i guess i can take the blame for that,” he nods, hands finding their way to your hips. against your better judgment, you lean half your weight against his body. this is bad, very bad—but it’s also the best thing ever.

being close to suguru feels like the sun’s heat tearing through your skin—it’s warm. it’s pleasant. it leaves you parched and drained with a dry throat. but still, you need it to survive.

“why did you come back?” you ask tiredly. his hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow circles.

“i don’t know,” he hums, “i didn’t really get a say. maybe i was always meant to, who knows?”

you look at him at that—tilt your head to get a good look at his features. his eyes are more tired, and his cheeks are a bit more sunken in compared to the youthful flesh you remember him with. his hair isn’t as healthy, and his forehead has the slightest traces of pale marks from the scars. but he’s still suguru—and you have always loved suguru, even if he gives you every reason to hate him.

“you make my life unreasonably difficult,” you mutter.

he hums, smiling. “can i?” he asks breathlessly, pleadingly. you stare at his eyes, he stares at your lips. you know what he wants—but fuck, you can’t let him have it so easy.

“can you what?” you ask, raising a brow slowly.

“are you really gonna make me say it?” he grunts, lips almost curled into a pout. it’s cute, the way he looks longingly at your lips—it’s so cute and beautiful and dangerous all at once, just like suguru.

“yes,” you say, “yes i am. i deserve to hear it suguru, after everything you put me through. you…you left me. i wasn’t enough for you. i mourned you. i grieved a body i never even saw. do you know what that does to a person? to lose them not once but two times? the least you could do is tell me what you want,” your voice wavers just a little.

it shakes for the lost time. for the moments you’ll never have. for the memories you lost. for the past that’s tainted. time is cruel like that. but that’s the beauty of it all—the fragility. it’s like sand falling through the cracks of your fingers, every grain slipping from your reach but still soft and soothing against your skin as it falls. everything fades over time, everything starts to hurt one way or another. but it stops. it heals. it starts over. the sand fills the cup of your palms again, warm and delicate and just as beautiful as before it crumbled.

“can i kiss you?” he asks desperately, “please?”

“kissing me is not a temporary thing,” you shake your head, “not anymore. it’s for good. only for good.”

“i want to kiss you for good,” he nods, hands digging into your hips impatiently. you’re close. you’re too far. he can feel you, smell you, hear your unsteady breaths. but it’s not enough. he needs to devour you, taste you on his tongue, and melt you with his touch. “i won’t stop this time,” he promises.

“you better not,” you sniffle, tears blurring your vision. you hated suguru for leaving you. you hated him for coming back to you like this. you never stopped loving him, never will stop loving him—and maybe that’s what love is. when the darkness is worth trekking through for the afterglow of the light. “if you fucking leave me again, you’re dead to me. i don’t care how many times you come back to life. you’re dead to me.”

“okay,” he agrees through a shaky chuckle, “i suppose i deserve that. let me kiss you, yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he kisses you—years too late, he kisses you. it feels like you’re teenagers again. it feels different and foreign. you know this feeling like the back of your hand. you don’t understand what this sensation is anymore. it’s new. it’s old. it’s perfect. it hurts. suguru is here. he promised not to leave—you don’t know if you believe him, but you’re going to trust that finally, for once, you are enough.

you’re enough to make him happy. to give him a sense of purpose. to keep him swimming when his limbs start to sink.

finally, for once, you’re enough.

“i love you,” he whispers against your mouth, breathing the words into you like he’s offering you the air from his lungs, “i never stopped. i promise.”

“you don’t deserve to hear it from me,” you murmur back, panting against his lips, “not yet.”

“fair enough,” he chuckles, “you sure know how to leave a guy waiting.”

“i learned from the best,” you shoot back.

he grins—suguru smiles, heartfelt and real. life is full of misery, it’s painful, and nothing fucking makes sense. everything is cruel. everything dies no matter how carefully you water the roots. there’s always something, someone, ready to tear it from the earth. but if you keep planting the seeds, suguru will keep watering.

maybe something kind can bloom from that, something big enough for him to hide under the shade when the scorching heat of tragedy becomes too much.

in this world or in the jujutsu world; in this life or in the next. suguru is yours.

“why am i here?” he asks gently, his face digging into your neck. you hold him, cradling the back of his head as you hum.

“because i need you here. will you stay?”

“yes,” he murmurs, “i think i’ll stay.”

hi. i have been working on this since march. its still not how i envisioned it to be originally but that's okay. i had fun writing it and it means a lot to me even tho its kind of. well....cliche LMAO like everything i write. but. i enjoy the cliches okay ?? i do. kxljchskdf hope u guys didn't hate it </3

also the fic banner is …. not the greatest. just ignore it ok

#teepods.writings #fics.#geto x reader #geto x you #geto fluff #geto angst #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk angst #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru angst #geto suguru fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen fluff

6K notes · View notes

skelly-words · 1 year ago

Note

Hey! If cool I was wondering if you could write tentacle smut. I’m not too sure on the plot but wanted reader to be very much in some sort of public setting with loads of people just watching as she gets railed by a tentacle. The kinks I wanted to ask if they could be in there is Voyourism (public sex), public nudity, squirting and/ watersports and overstimulation.

If not that is totally okay! I just wanted to ask :) and am exited to see what you come up with if your comfortable with writing this

okay cool so....

Not proofread, tags in the ask + spit a lil bit, ass eating, idk futa shenanigans, ahhhh milk (i kinda scared myself w/ this at the end)

My brain immediately went to big networking conventions that businesses have where the important people from the different corporate branches come together to drink, schmooze, and brag about sales numbers to each other.

Your boss asks you to come with her to help with the demonstration. The travel expenses and hotel costs are all covered, so you agree to spend the weekend on Wall Street with her.

I hate this, but there's the slightest bit of lore, so i ECOURAGE you to read the other parts first -> masterlist

MINORS DNI, stay away 18+ only

The presentation room of the hotel caters to corporate mixers like this. Circular dinner tables decorated with charcuterie fill out the hall. Your knee bounces nervously as people begin to file in. Saturday had been boring, spent bumming around the all-inclusive spa while your boss attended other company presentations not too dissimilar from this one.

"Relax." Your boss whispers. She sits in the squeaky folding chair beside you. Her hand lands comfortably on your thigh, stilling your knee with her warm touch. "All you have to do is bend over the podium."

You nod and try to emulate her flippant attitude. The bounce returns to your knee anyway because nerves are impossible to hide. The minutes slip by as people settle into their seats. The dimming lights act as a cue to hush the small talk and side conversations.

“Ready?” She gives your thigh a heady squeeze.

“Yea, ‘m ready,” you mumble.

Her gait is steady and comfortable up to the front of the room, and you trail behind in the shelter of her shadow. You smiled unsteadily at the sea of unfamiliar faces. Your boss tapped her knuckles on the podium, clearing her throat to get the rooms attention.

“Thank you all for coming,” she begins. “My branch is testing a few new methods of increasing productivity today. It’s all based on the same principle, ‘a happy mind is profitable one.’

“Of course, we’ll begin with the demonstration, just to prove how much it’ll help you focus on the rest of the presentation.”

An interested hum sweeps through the crowd as she leads you around the front of the podium. You aren’t wearing panties, only a skirt, which immediately becomes apparent as she lifts your waist up to the podium. The sturdy wooden surface slopes slightly up toward the room, propped up for dozens of eyes ogle your bare skin.

The position makes blood rush to your head, almost dizzy from the heavy heartbeat in your ears. Your skin feels hot and sensitive. The skirt tickles, sliding down the gentle slope of your back. You wonder if they can see how wet you are, cunt aching from all the attention.

The speech sounds so far away, like all your senses are dulling to make way for the electricity running beneath your skin. From the corner of your eye, you see a couple workers wheel three tanks up to the front of the podium.

The terrariums are large and damp, too fogged up from humidity to see anything through the glass. They're pushed into a neat line, starting at your side and progressing to the front of the stage in single file. The tank closest to you is the smallest. It's the only one you can properly look into because the creatures have suctioned themselves to the wet panes. Their round bodies flatten into mounds on the glass, little mouths busily opening and closing. You watch them, mindlessly observing them inch in little circles, around and round, maybe spirals if you spent enough time staring. You shiver, imagining the pattern it could suck into your skin. From your position now, you wonder if you look anything like that mouth on the glass to that polite crowd of people.

You feel a warm hand skim over your ass, inviting your neatly pleated skirt to drape over your back completely. The gauzy brown fabric went well with your blouse, and you remember packing it for this conference a week in advance. It feels silly now, to think what you're wearing matters when it's really the demonstration that's important.

The first tank slides open with a squeak, and your boss pulls a writhing blue tentacle out with a cloud of steam following it. You can barely see what's happening in your peripheral vision and only when you turn your head to the side. She wastes no time at all, taking the companies limited resources into account, the conference room was only reserved for an hour. Her other hand traces up and down your back, nails first, to scratch gently through the layers of fabric.

"You're doing great, hun." She whispers the reassurance into your ear, low and husky so only you can hear it. In one motion, she presses the end of the tentacle into your butt. It's bigger than what you had at home, which is what you prepped for. Her hand flattens to soothing circles when the pain comes through in your groans. You quiet to a whimper as the thing flails, twisting to orient itself inside you. It still hurt, but you were adjusting quickly to the pressure in your ass as it slithers down to find your pussy.

Now, no matter how you turn, you can't see what's going on. The suckers drag against you, that much is easy to discern from the sense of touch. The rest of your senses besides that have gone totally useless, so you watch the hypnotic pattern that the specimens in the last tank trace in the condensation.

The blue tentacle pushes into you. It's fat, thick and showy so the people in the back can see. Your eyes might be crossing from the way it slowly stretches you out. A shiny blue slime drips from every pore, sucker, and gland on the thing, making you squish obscenely from every movement. In. Out. In. Out. And your boss is still talking, you can even see the slides she flicks through when your eyes roll back, but it all sounds like white noise as the monstrous size shoves into your cunt, slipping out to momentarily attach an oozing sucker to your clit. Then it squirms right back into your hole, so slick that it runs down the inside of your thighs.

It's hopeless to imagine paying attention to anything else.

"But that's when we ran into the issue of hygiene. Clearly, this doesn't fit corporate dress-code."

That cuts through your thoughts, followed by light chuckles. The second tank slides open with a thunk, and you don't have to crane as much to see the pink tentacle calmy wrap around her arm.

"Oh, f-fuck," you finally make a sound audible over the disgusting squelch of that blue monster. She's trying to press the thick bulb at the end of the pink one into you, leaning real close, almost cheek to cheek as she forces it further past your rim. A glob of spit falls from her lips, you groan as she smears it around with her tongue.

"Just relax for me." And you're not even sure she's talking to you in that raspy tone. The hand on your back has inched lower to keep you pinned in place, and it's making you sore from how the podium’s edge digs into your hips.

Your sounds fall freely now, turning to whines as she licks you to ease the stretch. The hand on your back lightens up as the fat plug slides into place alongside the blue one. An affectionate smack lands on your ass, rubbing her warm palm over the spot as she watches the pink tentacle unfurl and flatten.

You can't see it, only whine as the weight shifts and adjusts inside you. The blue tentacle stops moving as if to behave and play nice with a friend. The gummy feelers attach as the pink tentacle latches on. It cups your swollen pussy, cleaning up the appearance quite nicely to the audience's disappointment. But your moans grow louder, echoing to let you know the sound made it to the back of the room. The little fingerlings lining the pink tentacles interior are so active. They pinch at your clit, making it slip between the soft jelly limbs while the others started playing with the rest of you.

"...And when properly stimulated, this specimen can be prompted to release its reproductive material on command." That faint comment reminds you of the eggs.

Your gasp is mixed between startled and concerned when her hand begins to brush the tentacle wrapped around your crotch. Being stuffed with the twitching blue tentacle makes you wonder where all the slimy eggs will go.

At her light brushes, the tendrils start to pull you apart. They slip inside you, just barely, enough to make your legs start to shake. You can feel them start to pour in as her thumb pushes down, squeezing out the soft spawn like horrific toothpaste as she slides the digit up from the base.

The blue tentacle comes back to life now, helping push the pink jelly into your poor pussy. You can feel the tiny limbs scoop and blue suckers fuck the eggs up against your sore cervix. And still, nobody can see. Your boss stands over you. Her hand trails between your thighs, tapping in the drying slick that's become tacky. She tugs at the tip of the tentacle, pinching firmly at the pink appendage and peeling it back.

Not all the eggs made it inside, rolling down your thighs as the mess is exposed. She's slow with her reveal, trailing her fingers through the juices to try the combination. You've gotten quieter, trying to keep your whimpers silent now that it's easier to hear. She starts to pull at the plug, and you have to bite your lip to keep it down. It doesn't wanna come out of your ass, still pulsing from so recently releasing eggs. Still, she tugs, making you squirm and clench your cunt. You've been on the edge for so long, and feeling the stretch to your rim makes your thighs squeeze together. They can barely shut to rub around your throbbing clit.

"I might as well introduce the last one then." She gives up on freeing the pink tentacle with a frustrated sigh and finally steps behind the podium to reach the tank in your eyeline. "They fit perfectly under your bra, so we'll both be demonstrating."

Your eyes follow her hand, from the lid, to inside the tank, to the buttons on her shirt. You strain to look up at her because she's standing so close, watching with jealousy as that thing sucks on her nipple. Her breasts look bigger too, spilling from her bra when she tries to squish them back into her shirt. A glance back down makes you blush. A bulge starts to bubble from her pencil skirt. It wouldn't be very noticeable if it wasn't a few inches from your nose.

"My turn?" You look up at her from between watery lashes, bending to smiling crescents when she nods. She lifts your chest just enough from the podium to let the green lump latch onto you. It doesn't seem to mind being squashed against the wood when she lowers you back down. They feel good, sucking at your breasts in a perfectly alternating rhythm. You start to feel weird, hotter as your tits get sore. The mouths pinch a little, not enough to hurt, barely more than a warning bite. You groan, the throbbing in your ruined pussy is getting worse. It makes you imagine what your boss is feeling. The pre dripping into her underwear. You probably could take her cock too if she asked you. She's still giving a presentation, talking through a slide as the buttons on her dress shirt strain. Her hand slips back to your butt, where it was yanking the bigger plug out of you.

She braces the opposite hand on your asscheek, rocking the pink tentacle back and forth to coax it out. You can barely hold sound back, dissolving into pitchy breaths when the fat blue fucker decides to start up again. It starts slow, but that pace doesn't last. After packing you with eggs, it's eager to let its cum out. Every loud thrust makes the eggs probe deeper. You can feel it in your tummy, pressed flat to the uncomfortably hard podium.

Your sensitive nipples pulse in time with the relentless suckers. You can't even care to be surprised as they spurt milk, moaning instead from the toy twisting in your ass.

The pink tentacle finally slips out of you, put back in its tank where it belongs. But you're sore, hole left gaping for the blue one to fill in as it swells. It gets bigger in your pussy too, larger with each beat. Even as she talks, her fingers can't stop playing with you, either pinching at your skin or dragging a digit through your slit. Her microphone is ther only thing keeping her intelligible over your cries, strung out from the pleasure.

Her fingers swirl around your clit, so sensitive. The touch isn't any more than light nibbles on your chest, but it makes you gasp and jump against her hand. You start to cum when she twists harder. The moans inside you spill out in one cry as you squirt. The pinch to your clit makes you spurt all over the front of her clothes.

She gasps in disgust and yanks you off the podium. The flooring is carpet, soft enough for your sore ass when you slump against the sturdy wood.

Your boss brushes off the interruption like nothing, simply indicating the conclusion of the demonstration as the slides flick to a new segment. She steps carefully between your legs when walking back to her place behind the podium.

The front of your blouse is halfway unbuttoned, however much was needed to get those creatures on, and now you notice how swollen they made your tits. You whine as the blue thing keeps moving between your thighs. There's more leverage at this angle and you don't know if you should moan or cry. In a few stunted thrusts, cum starts to fill you up, thick ropes of it that still somehow leak out from between all the eggs and the fat tentacle.

The pretty blue sheen coats your inner-thighs and the conference room floor. Something’s still wrong though. The ache between your legs isn't gone, not completely no matter how much your sore body begs to stop. It's the milk, or the hormones that come with it asking for just a little more. The demonstration portion is over. You're done, everyone's supposed to be focused on the woman speaking.

You slip a hand to your clit, circling the bud with shaking fingers. Just one more, and you'll be fine. Your boss doesn't even notice the room's eyes drifting lower. The blue tentacle indulges you, lazily moving in your cunny along with a few pumps of its warm seed. You can look at the lump it makes in your stomach from this angle.

This time, the orgasm builds fast and you have to muffle soft pants against your hand as you cum. Your poor pussy hurts, but you still need another and the tight circles on your clit don't let up.

There can't be that much more time before the hour is up and she has to get these things off you. Yet, your wrist is getting sore and weak dribbles of piss leak out of you at each peak. You notice people in the crowd hiding their arousal, and that somehow makes your crazy mind even hornier. Your abused clitty gives a heartbeat to your thumb each time someone palms their crotch or crosses their legs, still trying to be politely discreet.

The lights brighten as the presentation ends and a few odd bursts of scattered applause break out at a few tables. You still don't have the decency to leave your needy cunt alone, finally closing your legs around the blue tendril still curled up inside you as the people leave the room to pick a brochure up.

I had another anon ask abt going to find a new tentacle with the coworker from pt.2, but I kinda decided they were aliens (pink and blue both would normally use a host for mating and the suckers kinda do the same thing but for food, ig they're all just parasites sorry if that's gross), so i added a new variety into this one for you <3

A/N- how'd she do that? i would've gone ngh~ *squish* IMMEDIATLY, sry can you tell idk anything about an office job? oh well, stfu and enjoy the smut then (this is way over the top 😭) Also why did i give myself the displeasure of two (2) unnamed characters, give me names for Ms. boss or i'll start adding y/n (a threat)

#skel replies sometimes #skel writes tentacles #tentacle smut #tentacular #nsft tentacles #tentacles #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia

929 notes · View notes

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 1 month ago

Note

Sending Zayne frisky pictures during work hours

Meeting him that night in a suggestive attire

Teasing him till he breaks

= no walking for atleast a day

And, I, thank you

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

— 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 the day with monastic precision—06:00 for procedures, 09:30 for lab analysis, 13:00 for final reports. The same sequence, adhered to without deviation, like liturgy. It gave shape to the silence. It excused his isolation. There was comfort in that—though he would never call it comfort aloud. It was discipline. Sterile gloves. Bloodied instruments scoured of memory. Silence. Always, silence.

And yet—

The message arrived precisely when the world was still.

He had just closed a file. His left hand lay quiet at the desk’s edge; a pen balanced between two fingers with surgical stillness. Then—vibration. A small sound, almost apologetic. Not urgent.

Her name.

That was all. A notification. A message. Nothing unusual. It might’ve been a follow-up question. A misplaced decimal. A joke. She had a way of doing that—disarming him, sliding into his thoughts with a kind of blithe intimacy, as if she had always belonged there.

He picked up the phone.

And at once, his breath faltered.

The image was not explicit. No, that was precisely the horror of it. Had it been vulgar, obscene—something he could discard with the sterile detachment of a surgeon—he would’ve felt nothing. But this? This was intentional. It was artful. A composition.

Her robe, half-fallen. Black lace visible beneath. Fingers at the knot. Lips parted. No face, not fully—but the mouth was enough. The expression there unmoored him more than any nudity could have.

He locked the phone. Too fast. As if caught. But there was no one. Only the hum of fluorescents and the sudden, suffocating thickness of air.

For a moment, he stood there—utterly still.

The pen had fallen. He hadn’t noticed. It lay near his foot like a desecrated instrument—dropped in a surgical theater, now unclean, now unworthy.

He peeled off his gloves and turned to the sink.

He did not need to wash his hands.

But he did.

Habit, he told himself. Reflex. Precision.

Lies.

The water ran for sixty-four seconds. He counted each one. Numbers steadied him, sometimes. The cold helped more. It shocked the system, drove the blood inward. His hands moved methodically—palms, backs, between the fingers, under the nails, up to the wrists—until the skin grew tight and flushed and borderline raw.

Still, she remained.

Not the image—he had closed the phone. But something in her lingered. Not in the eyes, but behind them. Not on the screen, but beneath his skin. She had entered him like a fever: slow, elegant, unannounced.

That robe. That fabric. That implication. That invitation.

A performance, yes. It had to be. Calculated.

And yet it felt—punitive.

As if he were being punished for something he had not yet admitted wanting.

He returned to his desk, sat, and stared at nothing.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe more. The edges of the room grew porous.

He imagined her wherever she was—still warm from taking the photograph. Did she check to see when he’d opened it? Did she wait? Did she wonder if he would reply? Did she hope?

He unlocked the phone.

Once. Just once, to confirm. To verify that he hadn’t hallucinated the severity of it.

It was worse.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not touch himself.

But he was drowning in her.

It wasn’t lust—not merely. No, lust would have been easier. Familiar. Physiological. But this… this was sacrament spoiled. A reverence that strangled, holy and profane. The kind that ruins men—not with sin, but with devotion.

Zayne did not believe in possession. Not in the romantic sense. People were not things. Emotions were not facts. Love was a biochemical distortion. Lust, a reflexive betrayal of reason. He had built his mind like a fortress atop these principles—brick by brick, evidence by evidence. Rationality. Discipline. Observable data.

And yet—

The thought of another man seeing her like this—her robe falling open line scripture undone, her mouth slack with suggestion—sickened him. Not out of jealousy. No. That would imply entitlement. He knew she wasn’t his.

But it would be… wasteful.

A desecration.

A crime against something he did not yet have language for.

She was—

No.

He could not name what she was to him.

He feared what it would mean if he could.

He stood abruptly. The chair shrieked against the tile. The sound was too loud, too human. He paced. Once. Twice. The door loomed, a threshold he could not justify crossing. Where would he go? Where could he possibly leave her behind?

She was inside him now.

And burning.

Another message arrived.

He did not move.

The screen glowed in the periphery, a silent commandment. He knew what it was. Knew it would not save him. Still, the light held a gravity—like confession. Like damnation.

He could ignore it. Pretend. Resume the script of the man he was before.

Instead, he tapped the screen.

And exhaled through clenched teeth.

She was standing now. Or half-standing—angled toward a mirror. The robe was gone. In its place, red lace clung to her hips like capillaries, veins blooming over skin. Her back arched just so, her head tilted. And on her shoulder—something blurred. A smear. Lipstick. Or a bite.

He gripped the counter’s edge until his knuckles paled.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even want.

It was reverence—terrible and holy. The kind of reverence that destroys. The kind that drips from Psalms and The Book of Job. The kind that made desert prophets wail beneath the stars and tear their garments in the face of God.

She had become an altar. And he—her heretic.

The thought struck him not with awe, but with shame.

Because he had known. He had always known. From the moment she first crossed the sterile threshold of his lab—unannounced, unafraid—something had shifted in him. Something tectonic. She was not simply beautiful. She was consecrated—and he had let her linger too long in the corridors of his restraint.

Now her image had become scripture.

And he was no longer a scientist, but a man unraveling at the feet of his own hypocrisy.

His fingers hovered above the keys.

A message bloomed in his mind:

My office. 8PM.

Simple. Clinical. Commanding.

But it rang like blasphemy in the stillness. To write it would be to cross a line—one he had drawn in blood and vowed never to breach. Not out of cowardice, but devotion. The kind of twisted, reverent denial that made monks tremble in their cells. The kind that gnawed holes into the soul.

No.

He could not write it.

To speak desire was to own it. To own it was to name it.

And once named, it would not be contained.

So instead—

He turned the phone over, face-down, as if shunning an idol.

He stood, methodically. Walked to the sink.

And washed his hands. Again.

Not for cleanliness.

Not even for control.

But because the ritual was the only thing left of him that still obeyed.

He loathed the warmth in his palms.

The water had long since cooled, yet still he scrubbed them together beneath the faucet, as if friction might cauterize the part of him that had responded—eagerly, hungrily, stupidly—to the sight of her. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. It was something darker. A recognition of sickness, as though desire itself were contamination and he’d breached his own sterile protocol.

He shut off the water, but lingered. Staring. As if the faucet might offer judgment. Or absolution.

Then the towel. Too rough. Too violent. He dried his hands with the force of a man punishing himself, and the fabric tore slightly at the edge. His grip again. Excessive. Undisciplined. He discarded it into the bin and returned to his desk, each step clipped with the weight of self-reproach.

The phone remained face-down. The screen black. Like an eye deliberately shut against sin.

He wouldn’t check it again.

He wouldn’t.

A knock broke the silence.

Zayne didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The door opened, uninvited—as it always did when Elias was involved.

“Still here?” Elias stepped inside, balancing two files in one hand, a tablet in the other. His tone was light, unaware. “Not even a coffee break. Do you ever stop?”

Zayne said nothing. Not out of cruelty—though it might have seemed that way—but because speaking required breath. And breath might summon scent. And scent might bring her back. He was convinced her perfume still haunted the air, like a spirit refusing exorcism.

“Right,” Elias muttered, unbothered. “I’ll make it quick.”

He crossed the room and laid the files on the desk. Zayne didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the phone—face-down, inert, yet radiating like an unholy relic.

It wasn’t a device anymore. It was a presence.

Not mechanical.

Not digital.

Something worse.

Organic.

Pulsing with implication.

“So,” Elias tried again, undeterred. “You doing anything tonight?”

A dozen answers flared in Zayne’s mind. All of them inappropriate. All of them true.

I’m planning to self-destruct. I’m planning to dissolve twenty years of control in the wake of a photograph. I’m planning to abandon the man I was for the promise of something I shouldn’t even want.

Instead, he rasped, “No.”

Even that single syllable felt like betrayal—spoken past a throat tight with disuse.

Elias looked at him more closely. “You okay?”

Zayne looked up.

Mistake.

Because at that precise moment, the phone vibrated again.

A brief pause. Short. Surgical. Inescapable.

He didn’t need to turn it over.

He knew.

“Another emergency?” Elias asked, half-laughing.

Zayne’s voice barely made it out. “No.”

“Well,” Elias exhaled, missing the weight entirely, “some of us are heading out later. You should come. You’ve looked like death all week.”

Zayne inhaled. Slow. Controlled. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

And then Elias was gone.

The door closed behind him, swinging like the last breath of something dying.

He did not move.

He let the silence settle again—let it congeal around him like a second skin, one that no longer fit. His hands remained still, his spine locked, but inside, everything was spiraling. Decay disguised as discipline. Reverence masquerading as restraint.

Then, slowly—inevitably—he reached for the phone.

Face-up now.

The light struck him like judgment.

He opened it.

And what stared back was not cruelty.

It was not vulgarity.

It was revelation.

She was lying down this time. Somewhere soft. Somewhere unseen. Her hair unbound—he’d never seen it like that before—and it spilled across the frame like silk undone. Light caressed her in places no light had the right to touch. Her thighs. Her stomach. Her breasts—bare now, the lace pushed aside, forgotten.

Her fingers rested between her legs.

Not crude.

Not obscene.

Intentional.

It was art. In its way. But it was also more.

A confession.

A provocation.

A dare and a liturgy all at once.

Something twisted in his chest.

Not a flutter. Not arousal. No—something deeper. A contraction. As if guilt had a physical shape and it had begun to devour him from within.

There was no longer space for denial.

This was not an accident.

Not a flirtation.

Not innocence.

It was orchestration.

She wanted him undone.

And what horrified him most—what sank teeth into the hollow of his stomach and turned slowly, like a ritual blade—was that a part of him wanted her to succeed.

He closed the image.

Then opened it again.

Longer, this time.

He told himself it was analysis. Confirmation. A study of composition.

He lied.

He knew better.

He could hear his own voice—cold, clinical, merciless—echoing in the recesses of his mind:

This is beneath you. You are not ruled by this.

But the image remained. And with it came memories he had not consciously summoned—like blood seeping through a gauze dressing long believed secure.

The pitch of her voice when she said his name—always softer than it should have been. The peculiar weight of her gaze when it lingered too long on his hands. And the smallest thing—the one that undid him the most—was that she always remembered. Every word. Every insignificant thing he’d ever said to her.

No one did that.

Not with him.

Zayne stood.

His entire body felt wrong.

The blood in his veins moved too fast.

His spine was too rigid, his breath too shallow—as if he had been occupying this form without permission and it had finally begun to reject him.

He paced. Not for relief. Not for order.

He didn’t count the steps this time.

There was nothing left to measure.

The lab behind the glass wall glowed with quiet sterility—unchanged, untouched—but it might as well have been another planet. He was no longer part of that world. That man. That silence.

He had crossed a threshold. A sacred line now blurred by heat.

He’d exiled himself the moment he opened the second message.

He could message her now.

He could summon her—

with a line, a time, a place.

He could lock the door behind her, speak in absolutes, claim her as if desire were proof enough.

He could pretend this descent was deliberate.

But he didn’t.

Because doing it would make it real.

Would transform the ache into action, the want into history.

And if it became real, then there would be no undoing.

No unseeing.

No forgetting.

No return to the cold safety of indifference.

Zayne—rational, clinical Zayne—had always relied on the possibility of erasure.

So instead, he sat.

And let the image devour him in silence.

Not as indulgence.

Not as pleasure.

But as punishment.

He stood. Then sat again. Then rose—

as though his own body had grown foreign, ungovernable.

As though stillness itself had turned against him.

The chair groaned in protest. He ignored it.

Paced the narrow span of the office like a prisoner retracing the same four steps—except this cell had no bars, only thoughts. No guards, only the self. And he, the most merciless warden of all.

Once.

Twice.

His fingers grazed the edge of a bookshelf, paused briefly at a drawer handle, then moved on. He was not touching objects—he was testing the world, searching for weight. But everything felt distant. Unmoored. Functionless.

Even the room seemed altered now.

As though someone had shifted it in his absence.

Not visibly—no. But fundamentally.

As if the space itself had turned on him in some slight, cruel way he couldn’t name.

He crossed to the window.

Of course there was no view. Just the sterile corridor beyond the reinforced glass-fluorescent lighting, shadows that moved like ghosts of routine. Reflections. Echoes. His own outline, faint and pale, stared back at him with too much knowing in the eyes.

His mouth was set in that same neutral line he wore before patients, before colleagues—impassive, unreadable. But his eyes….

He turned away.

He could not bear the sight of himself.

He opened a file on the desk. Reflexive. A patient’s chart—nothing urgent. He scanned the text, sought solace in numbers, margins, diagnosis. He had annotated it earlier that day. His own handwriting blinked back at him, unfamiliar.

But the figures lost their shape. The characters bled.

She returned—not in the data, but behind it. Beneath it. Her form slid between the lines, her legs replaced vital signs, the slope of her neck inserted itself into white space. Even the ink seemed to carry the impression of her skin.

He shut the folder. Too fast. Too violently.

The paper crinkled under the force of it.

He exhaled—slowly, deliberately—like a man attempting to bleed poison from his lungs.

It’s just arousal, said the rational voice in him.

The physician. The empiricist.

But it wasn’t.

It was longing, and it had metastasized. Not into want, but into need.

Not for her body—at least, not only—but for her presence. Her attention. Her voice when it dipped in pitch. Her gaze when it lingered too long.

Absurd.

Undignified.

Unacceptable.

And yet, undeniable.

He no longer craved her skin. He craved her awareness—the way she remembered things he said that even he had forgotten. The way she looked at him as if he were still human, not just useful.

It was not attraction. It was not obsession.

It was the beginning of a disease.

He sat again.

Not from fatigue—he was far past the luxury of tiredness—but because there was nowhere left to stand that didn’t feel exposed. The room no longer accepted him. It watched him now, complicit and unkind.

His hands moved to his tie. Without thinking. The knot loosened slowly, reluctantly, as if its unraveling might relieve the pressure beneath his sternum. The air hit his throat sharp, medicinal—too cold.

He glanced at the clock.

No—not the clock.

The phone.

It hadn’t buzzed again. Not once.

That should have brought relief.

Instead, it felt like absence—raw and echoing.

Like a presence withdrawn.

A silence that accused.

Had she grown bored of the game?

Had she sent that last image, and then—simply moved on? Gone back to her life? Her evening? Her mirror?

Was someone else seeing her like that now?

The thought struck him like a blunt instrument—no blood, just bruising.

A slow, spreading sickness in the chest.

He nearly stood again.

Instead, he forced himself down, fingers digging into the armrest like anchors.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it did.

He stared at the device.

Daring it to light up.

Dreading what would happen if it did.

Time no longer moved in sequence. It expanded. Warped.

He could not tell whether minutes or hours had passed.

It might still be afternoon.

It might be near midnight.

The light in the office was always the same—artificial, unfeeling.

So was the air.

So was the silence.

So was he—

or had been, until today.

He let his head fall back against the chair.

The ceiling stared down—blank, uncaring, the color of anesthesia. He could have been anywhere. In a morgue. In a chapel. Inside a dream.

The moment stretched.

Not a pause, but a void.

Then, unbidden, he remembered Elias. The offer. The bar.

Zayne rarely drank. Two, maybe three times a year. Alcohol dulled his thinking, made his mind heavy. Sluggish. But tonight—

Tonight he already felt impaired.

Hollowed. Humming with something he didn’t know how to hold.

And there was logic—cold, brutal logic—in sedating a wound before it turned septic.

The thought arrived like a prescription:

Leave the building.

Say yes.

Sit in a room full of noise and let other people’s voices drown out the one in your head.

He wouldn’t have to speak.

Only listen.

Only forget.

ANd if he drank—just enough—maybe he would sleep.

And maybe—if sleep took pity—

he wouldn’t dream of her.

He leaned forward.

Elbows on knees.

Eyes locked on the phone.

It didn’t ring.

It didn’t buzz.

It didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The stillness returned—but it no longer soothed.

It had calcified into something hostile. A vacuum that amplified the smallest things: the tick of his own pulse in his throat, the electrical hum threading through the walls, the dryness crawling across his tongue like dust.

And beneath it all—her.

Not the image.

Not anymore.

She had transcended the screen.

What she had sent him was not a photograph. It was a threshold.

And he had crossed it—

unwilling,

uninvited,

but entirely unable to look away.

He imagined her fingers parting the lace—

but not for a camera.

For him.

No performance. No angle curated for effect.

Just her. Unedited. At ease in her ruinous power.

The kind of intimacy that didn’t demand witness, only presence. A gesture not made to provoke, but because it felt good to do so. As if she were bored with subtlety now—done with the elegance of implication.

He saw her look at him through lowered lashes, amusement curled at the corner of her mouth. A soft laugh—not unkind—when his hands hovered, reverent, just short of contact.

Not posed.

Not choreographed—

just lazy, instinctual, indulgent.

He would touch her—

God, he would—but not in desperation.

In detail.

His hands would move like confession, slow and deliberate.

He would begin at her wrist, press his mouth there first—as if to repent.

Then upward.

Each inch of her arm a gospel to be read in flesh.

His fingers would find the fragile architecture of her hips, splay there with measured reverence. No grabbing. No claiming.

Only worship.

His thumb would brush that place where skin turned—

softest,

warmest.

The point of surrender. The place where breathing changed.

He would ask her—quietly, without accusation—

if she knew what she had done to him.

And when she smiled, he would kiss her like punishment.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But with a kind of relentless devotion—

the kind that pressed too long, too deep,

Until even pleasure began to ache.

Until reverence became unbearable.

He wanted her trembling.

Not from fear, but from restraint.

From the exquisite pain of being denied what she already ached to receive.

He wanted to make her wait.

Make her feel the weight of what she’d done.

Not because he was cruel.

But because she had undone him first.

ANd fairness had to mean something.

His mind betrayed him further.

He saw her mouth open against his neck, felt the pause—the sacred, breathless space before sound escaped her throat.

Her body tensed beneath his—not in resistance, but in surrender.

A tightening that begged for release.

That told him she trusted him enough to break.

And in the moment before he gave in—

before he pushed into her with all the ruin she had earned—

he would say something he hadn’t said aloud in years.

Not an endearment.

Not a promise.

Just her name.

Only her name.

His hands curled around the armrests.

He hadn’t realized how hard he was gripping until the fabric groaned beneath his fingers—tense, strained, as though the chair itself were trying to resist him.

He wanted to bury himself in her.

To forget who he had been before she touched him—without touching him at all.

He wanted to erase the space between their bodies until there was nothing left to deny.

His eyes burned.

And then—without warning—he stood.

Violently. Absolutely.

Both palms slammed down on the desk, a thunderclap in the quiet.

The sound ricocheted off the walls, louder than any alarm.

His breath was ragged.

His posture undone.

His tie hung half-loosened at his chest like a mark of defeat.

He couldn’t stay here.

He needed to move.

To leave the room, the building, himself.

He reached for his coat. The fabric felt foreign—cold, stiff.

He dragged it over his shoulders with frantic urgency, the sleeves bunching, resisting. He yanked them straight, uncaring. Next came the scarf—creased, tangled, irrelevant.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing fit right.

Nothing softened the pressure building beneath his ribs.

He just needed barriers.

Cloth. Movement.

Distance.

Anything to armor himself against this heat that wasn’t physical.

He crossed the room in long, agitated strides, shoulders hunched like a man pursued.

His reflection caught him in the window—

briefly.

Enough.

Pale. Hollow-eyed.

Mouth clenching against something unspeakable.

He looked away.

The door opened with a shove, hard enough to echo.

The hallway outside was too bright—obscenely bright. The kind of light that revealed things best left bruised.

He walked anyway.

The elevator waited at the end of the corridor.

It’s light glowed steady above the closed door—silent, expectant.

It looked like a mouth. A mechanical throat ready to swallow.

Maybe that was what he wanted.

To disappear into motion.

To be pressed between strangers, noise, anything.

To be drowned in the anonymity of other bodies.

To forget the shape of her skin and the sound he imagined she would make when—

No.

He pressed the call button harder than necessary.

The panel lit. The gears behind the wall groaned to life.

And Zayne stood there—

breathing like a man who’d just escaped a burning room.

The elevator didn’t come.

He stood motionless beneath its steady, indifferent light, jaw clenched, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. He didn’t press the button again—what would be the point? Even that motion felt laughable now. As if action could atone for thought. As if descending one floor might deliver him from himself.

The air was wrong. Too clean. Too still.

Every breath scraped against the back of his throat, as though filtered through gauze. The corridor hummed faintly with electricity—but beneath it, something else vibrated. Something internal.

A low, gnawing heat.

He felt it beneath his collar. In the hollows of his palms.

Between his legs, where logic had lost jurisdiction.

He hadn’t looked at the phone again. He didn’t have to.

The image was fused to memory now—a neurological brand.

Her bare body reclined, so deliberately unaware of mercy.

He hissed between his teeth—sharp, involuntary.

Then turned.

Slammed a palm against the wall.

Leaned into it, hard enough to jar his shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

He tried to count his breath, tried to impose rhythm, control—but it wasn’t breath anymore.

It was need.

It was humiliation.

It was rage masquerading as restraint.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, a breathless sneer. “You’ve dissected neural tissue under pressure, and this is what ruins you?”

The words came like vomit.

Bitter, involuntary.

They sickened him.

His forehead pressed against the cold plaster.

He could feel his pulse in his temple—erratic, defiant.

As if his own body had tried of obedience and now moved on its own terms.

The world narrowed into raw sensation:

the dampness gathering at the nape of his neck,

the sting coiled behind his eyes,

the bite of clenched teeth barely holding back—

what?

A cry? A confession? A fall?

He wanted to rip her from his mind.

Not because he hated her.

Because he didn’t.

He wanted her in ways that had no language.

No anatomy.

No cure.

There was no clinical explanation for this kind of ache.

No scan that could chart it.

No sedative strong enough to blunt it.

And the thought—

God, the knowledge—

that she wanted him too?

It didn’t thrill him.

It hollowed him.

He swallowed the sound rising in his throat. It hovered between a groan and a prayer.

She had sent herself to him in pieces—image by image, suggestion by suggestion—until her presence no longer lived in photographs, but inside him.

She was no longer a thought.

She was a condition.

A fever.

A state of being.

He didn’t know where she ended and he began anymore.

He shut his eyes.

Then—

a sound behind him.

Soft. Measured. Clicking.

He froze.

No.

No. No, not now. Not like this—

The sound came again.

Deliberate. Rhythmic.

Heels.

Each step unhurried.

Not mechanical, not rushed.

Intimate.

The air thickened. Grew heavy, as if sound itself displaced the oxygen.

He didn’t turn.

He couldn’t.

Not yet.

The steps drew closer.

One.

Then another.

Measured like a ritual.

Unhurried as a heartbeat beneath silk.

His body locked.

Every muscle drawn tight, every breath withheld like it might break him.

Spine rigid, hands still planted against the wall.

Was he hallucinating?

Had his mind—already scorched, already unraveling—finally abandoned logic?

No.

He turned.

And the world ended, gently.

She walked toward him with the kind of composure that made madness seem holy.

A trench coat belted at the waist. Loose.

The fabric moved with her—fluid, sinless, damning.

From the slit at its side, her leg emerged, then disappeared again.

A rhythm that mocked modesty.

her skin glowed under the corridor’s sterile light.

Her expression—

unreadable.

His hands fell to his sides.

The floor tilted beneath him—

or maybe it was just his blood abandoning reason.

The air thinned. Gravity stuttered.

He couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her hips moved—graceful, damning.

Not from the place where the coat parted with every step, revealing flash after flash of skin like a secret told in stutters.

Not from her eyes—

that unbearable alchemy of innocence and audacity.

As if she had always known.

That he would come undone the moment he saw her.

That she had planned for it.

Her hips swayed.

The coat parted.

Her eyes held him there.

His knees almost gave.

Not in some romantic, tragic metaphor.

In truth.

His body faltered under the weight of her—

not her form, but her knowing.

The way she moved with intention. The way she looked at him like he was already hers.

Like she could take him apart without ever touching him.

He kept himself upright through force alone—

jaw locked, breath dragged through nose like discipline could save him.

Like a man seconds from collapse.

A sound escaped him.

Raw.

Involuntary.

Low in his throat—closer to a groan than a word.

Almost a prayer.

Almost a moan.

He didn’t even care.

He didn’t know what he was anymore.

Not a doctor.

Not a scientist.

Not the man who once measured everything in proof and principle.

Just a man—

bare, wordless, trembling—

reduced to one silent, devastating plea:

Touch me.

Let me touch you.

Just once.

Let me worship what I was never allowed to want.

But he said nothing.

Because nothing he could offer—no word, no gesture—

would be equal to this.

So he stood.

Trembling.

Waiting.

As she moved—unhurried, unstoppable—

toward the point of no return.

She drew nearer.

He wanted to speak. Truly, he did.

A protest. A warning. A plea.

Anything to wedge between this moment and its consequence.

But the words—so many, urgent and inexact—clotted in his throat like stones.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came.

Only air.

Thin. Unsatisfying.

His hand moved.

Just a tremor at first. A small, shameful spasm near the wrist.

But it betrayed him more than any cry could have.

A man in control didn’t shake.

A man in control didn’t falter.

Her gaze caught it instantly.

Of course it did.

She stopped just in front of him.

Close.

But not touching.

No—never that. She didn’t need to.

Proximity was its own form of possession.

She looked up at him—unapologetic, unhurried.

Her eyes held no urgency. No shame.

There wasn’t even cruelty in her expression.

It was almost passive.

Almost.

But at the corner of her mouth, something shifted—

a shadow of amusement, subtle as breath.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Something gentler.

More maddening.

She was enjoying this.

Not sadistically. Not with malice.

But with the patience of someone who understood exactly how men broke—and had chosen, gently, not to intervene.

She watched him come undone like one watches a fever run its course—not willing it, but allowing it.

Knowing it would break something.

But not caring what.

Zayne swallowed. Loudly.

It felt like dragging gravel through his throat.

His fingers twitched again. Both hands this time.

He wanted—

God, what did he want?

To drag her against him?

To fall to his knees?

To beg her to leave before he did something he could never take back?

His heart pounded—not fast, but hard.

Each beat landed like a drum struck by purpose.

War drums. Warning signs.

His vision blurred—not from heat or emotion, but from the sheer overload of sensation.

And still—

she said nothing.

That silence—hers—was unbearable.

Because it was full of knowledge.

She knew.

She knew what she’d done to him.

And worse—she knew he wouldn’t stop her.

The scent of her—warmth, skin, faint perfume—reached him like an affliction.

Subtle. Precise. Unrelenting.

It slipped into his lungs and made a home.

His throat worked. He tried again.

“I—”

But it died there.

What could he say?

I can’t.

You shouldn’t.

Please.

Useless.

His shoulders stiffened in shame.

But his eyes—traitorous, starving—remained locked on the small space between the lapels of her coat.

Just there.

A breath of skin.

The soft valley he knew, from memory now, led to lace and ruin.

The faintest smile deepened on her lips.

She hadn’t moved. Not an inch.

Not even a shift of weight.

And yet—

the entire hallway felt tilted toward her.

As if gravity itself had been rewritten.

That was when he understood.

With the brutal clarity of a man falling:

This wasn’t a whim.

Not a game.

Not even a test.

It was mercy.

In her language.

A quiet offering.

A chance to surrender before he shattered.

And still—

he did not move.

Not because he lacked the will, but because he had already offered it.

He simply stood there.

Trembling.

Held captive in the silence she had made sacred.

Waiting for her to decide whether he was worth the fall.

She tilted her head.

Barely.

But it broke the stillness like a whisper in a cathedral.

And then she spoke.

“Did you get my messages?”

The words were soft. Almost playful.

But tucked between syllables was something far more dangerous—a blade wrapped in velvet.

He flinched.

As if struck.

The elevator behind him chimed.

Sterile.

Emotionless.

Perfectly timed.

Perfectly cruel.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t move.

His breath hitched—

then held.

She hadn’t stepped closer.

She didn’t have to.

The silence between the crackled now—alive.

Charged

Like something pulled too tight.

He looked down.

Her leg—bare where the coat parted.

Light grazing along the line of her thigh, revealing everything and nothing.

No tights.

No stockings.

No pretense.

She had arrived like a secret.

Not offered—meant to be discovered.

His eyes climbed slowly.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t rush.

Each second felt like an offering, a moment suspended in something larger than choice.

And it undid him more than anything that had come before.

The muscle in his jaw twitched.

His fingers curled faintly, as if remembering what it felt like to hold nothing.

Then—without a word—she reached for the belt at her coat.

And pulled.

Just enough.

The fabric loosened. Shifted.

What lay beneath wasn’t vulgar.

Wasn’t loud.

It was intentional.

Burgundy lace.

Bare skin.

Soft shadows that invited and condemned in equal measure.

She didn’t reveal everything.

She didn’t need to.

He saw only what she allowed—and yet, in his mind, he traced the rest with the precision of a man who had studied her in dreams.

And something inside him—

snapped.

Not in rage.

Not in lust.

In relief.

His body moved before though could stop it.

No hesitation.

No stutter.

Only gravity, finally obeyed.

He stepped forward—not staggering, not rushed, but with the finality of a man who knew there would be no turning back.

One arm curled around her shoulders.

The other pressed firmly at the small of her back—anchoring her. Anchoring himself.

And then—

his mouth was on hers.

The kiss wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was starvation—

the mouth of a man who had survived restraint, only to discover that discipline had always been a slow kind of death.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning, heat after frost, absolution after sin.

She tasted like the only way out—

from the silence,

from the waiting,

from the nightmare he’d never woken from.

She yielded without surprise.

As though this had always been the ending.

As though his restraint had only ever been a curtain waiting to be drawn.

Her hand rose to his chest—fingers curling into the fabric of his coat—but he didn’t let her linger.

He turned.

Guided her back.

The elevator doors had already begun to close.

He caught them with one hand—forceful, unnecessary—and pulled them open like a man reclaiming something he’d been punished for wanting.

They stepped inside.

The light overhead flickered once, as if even the system knew this moment wasn’t meant to be observed.

The second the doors sealed, he lost what little remained of his restraint.

His hands seized her waist—possessive, not gentle—and he turned sharply, pressing her into the cold steel of the elevator wall.

Not thoughtfully. Not carefully.

With suppressed violence.

Not to harm.

To hold.

To tether himself to something solid before he fractured into vapor.

Her gasp bloomed against his cheek as her back hit metal.

He drank it in like a man starved of grace.

His hands moved—frantic, reverent.

He palmed her ribs, her stomach, the delicate underside of her breast through the lace.

The fabric was thin.

Too thin.

He hated it.

Wanted it gone.

But more than that—

He wanted to feel her through it.

To make her shiver beneath the barrier.

To know he could make her arch—not with skin, not with friction—but just from fingertips and will.

She leaned into him—arms sliding around neck, fingers threading into his hair with a trembling kind of care.

She tugged once.

He nearly lost his fitting.

His mouth found hers again—

but this time, it wasn’t a kiss.

It was a confession.

He kissed her like a man begging for mercy he knew wouldn’t come.

Tongue tangled with hers, breath caught between teeth, groans swallowed into heat.

There was no rhythm. No choreography.

Only want—

ugly and unfiltered.

He broke away—breathing hard, hoarse, wrecked.

Her eyes were already heavy-lidded.

Cheeks flushed.

Chest rising beneath the open coat like she’d been running for miles.

Zayne lowered his mouth to her throat—and bit.

Not cruel.

Not deep.

But sharp enough to leave something behind.

A mark.

A warning.

A memory.

Something she’d feel later and think of him.

His right hand slid down her thigh—fingers wrapping, firm, reverent.

He lifted. She let him.

Her leg curled around his hip, bare skin brushing the rough fabric of his slacks.

He was already hard.

Already aching.

And the pressure of her—right there, so close, so ready—

made his head spin.

Her head fell back—a soft thud against the elevator wall, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.

He stared at it—pale, perfect, impossibly delicate.

And then kissed it—not with hunger, but with the kind of urgency reserved for last rites.

Not lust.

Not control.

Devotion.

Her coat slipped open—fully, finally.

And there she was.

Not in parts.

Not in suggestion.

Not in memory.

But whole.

No lens. No barrier.

Just her.

His breath caught.

All words abandoned him.

He said nothing.

Couldn’t.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of her skin like it could steady the tremors in his hands.

It didn’t.

Nothing calmed.

Nothing could.

Her fingers slipped beneath his coat—dragged lightly down the back of his neck.

Nails grazing skin.

He shuddered.

It didn’t feel like seduction.

It felt like being claimed.

He kissed her again.

And again.

Each one rougher.

Each one slower.

Each one worse than the last.

They weren’t about pleasure anymore.

They were about surrender.

Each kiss another nail in the coffin of the man he had once pretended to be.

Her lips were swollen now.

Her thighs tightened around him—bare, trembling, unbearably warm.

He could feel her—not just body, but permission.

Every part of him wanted to tear the space between them into nothing. To sink into her until he forgot what it was to be alone.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

He held her tighter.

Not to take.

To remember.

This moment.

This body.

This surrender.

Because after this—

after her—

he would never go back.

His mouth hovered near her ear, breath unsteady—words clawing their way up his throat before he could tame them.

“You wore this for me,” he rasped, voice raw—gravel dragged through reverence. “This little thing under your coat… do I’d see it and lose my fucking mind?”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat like a lifeline.

Knuckles white.

Chest rising too fast against his.

He laughed—low, bitter.

Not mocking.

Punished.

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” His lips brushed her jaw. “You wanted to know what I’d look like when I finally stopped pretending.”

She whimpered—soft, breathless—and it undid something low and deep in his spine.

“You like being watched?” he murmured, lips dragging down the column of her throat. “Standing in front of that mirror… touching yourself…”

His mouth brushed her skin.

“Knowing I’d see it. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to forget.”

He pulled back—just long enough to spin her beneath his grip.

She gasped as her body turned, coat slipping from her shoulders like a veil in slow motion.

Her spine met his chest.

Her palms struck the elevator wall—a muffled slap of flesh against steel.

Bracing herself.

He pressed into her from behind—chest to her back, hips grinding slow and deliberate between her thighs. Cruel in rhythm. Worshipful in intent.

Her breath caught.

She tilted her head to the side—automatically. Wordlessly.

Exposing her throat like it belonged to him.

He nuzzled once—then bit. Not hard.

But deep enough to hear her moan.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice thick with grit and fire. “One look at you and I knew.”

His hand dragged slowly down her side, fingertips skating over ribs, waist, hip.

“You wore that lace, stood in front of that mirror, sent me that picture—just to end up here.”

His fingers dipped, teasing the curve of her thigh.

“To be bent over. Held like this. While I ruin you.”

He nudged her legs apart with his knee—deliberate. Decisive.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t hesitate.

His breath ghosted across her ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Keep them open.”

His hand slid upward—slow, unmerciful—along the inside of her thigh.

The skin there burned.

Velvet and heat and want.

She gasped when he reached her center—slick, soaked, shameless.

Zayne groaned—

deep and guttural.

The sound vibrated against her spine.

“Fuck—so wet,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You’ve been like this all day, haven’t you?”

She nodded—barely.

He watched the motion of her cheek against the wall, her lip caught between her teeth.

“I should make you say it,” he muttered, his fingers teasing slow, punishing circles just shy of where she needed him. “Make you admit how much you need me.”

She arched—pushing back against him, hips desperate, thighs trembling.

He smiled against her skin.

Slow. Dark. Inevitable.

“No patience,” he murmured. “Good. I don’t have any left either.”

And then—

he slid one finger inside her.

Deep. Slow.

Deliberate.

until he was buried.

She cried out—muffled, desperate, beautiful.

His breath faltered.

A curse broke beneath it.

Her warmth—it was obscene. Unholy. Alive.

She clenched around his finger like she already knew how to hold him when he fucked her.

He curled his finger—once.

She shuddered so violently he had to catch her—one arm braced across her stomach, anchoring her to him.

His mouth pressed to her neck.

“You feel like sin,” he groaned. “And I don’t give a fuck if it damns me.”

She was melting.

Bent forward, hands braced against the wall, body trembling with every slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers.

Zayne couldn’t look away.

Everytime he pushed inside her, her hips jolted. Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched.

And fuck—the heat of her, the way she tightened around him like she knew he belonged there—it made his cock twitch so violently he nearly gasped.

He pressed his chest harder into her back, mouth at her ear.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me feel all of you.”

Her answer was a broken maon—

half-swallowed.

Pleading.

He slid his hand higher, fingers curling again—deeper this time.

Her knees buckled.

“Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he whispered, his voice shredded at the edges. “So wet for me. So fucking tight.”

She whimpered when he twisted his wrist—just right—pressing against the spot that made her body jerk forward like he’d struck a chord.

His other hand moved to her breast, cupping it roughly. Thumb dragging across the peak until it responded—until it peaked against the lace.

She cried out—sharp, breathless, shattering.

He groaned, deep in his chest.

A sound that trembled out of him like pressure escaping a crack in stone.

His cock throbbed—hot, slick, restrained.

He was soaked—leaking for her, so hard he could feel every beat of his pulse in the shaft.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growled into her hair. “I’ve been hard since you sent that first fucking picture.”

His breath hitched. “There hasn’t been a second since that I could think straight. Could barely see straight.”

She arched.

Her legs trembled.

“You close?” he asked,

voice a rasp,

teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Yeah? You’re gonna come just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

She nodded—desperate, trying to grind back against his hand, chasing the edge he held just out of reach.

He smirked—dark, reverent, ruined.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured. “Taking it so well. Fucking dripping for me.”

He pinched her nipple—a tug, just enough.

She nearly collapsed.

“I’m gonna eat this pussy after,” he whispered, the words so low they barely existed.

“When you’re shaking…when you’re overstimmed—face down, ass up—I’m gonna spread you open with my tongue and keep going until you’re crying.”

Her whole body locked.

He pushed deeper, twisting his fingers just right—once.

She wailed.

The sound split from her chest—

cut off and strangled at the throat.

“Not yet,” he hissed, his breath shaking against her skin.

“You don’t come yet. You wait.”

She moaned—high, needy, broken.

But she obeyed.

He leaned into her fully, panting against her neck, his cock throbbing—painful now, slick inside his soaked boxers.

He was losing it.

Every inch of him flushed and trembling, the pressure unbearable. His own arousal smeared hot against the inside of his slacks.

He was going to snap.

He knew it.

If she clenched around him again, he’d come untouched.

But he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

because he needed her to break first.

She was breaking apart.

Every muscle in her back tensed beneath his chest, her breath reduced to shattering whimpers.

He felt her thighs twitch around his hand—desperate. Aching. Lost.

Her cunt clenched around his fingers, tight, greedy, rhythmic—each pulse a plea.

Zayne could barely stand.

He was seconds from coming—without friction. Without mercy. Just from the sound of her falling apart on his hand.

Still, he didn’t let her come.

Not yet.

Not until she earned it.

“You gonna fall apart for me, baby?” he rasped into her hair, his voice nothing but heat and grit. “Gonna soak my fucking hand?”

She whimpered, nodded—

hips rocking helplessly back into his hand.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” His fingers curled deep and slow.

She cried out—louder this time.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s how deep I’m gonna fuck you. I’m not gonna stop. You’ll be shaking, crying, begging me to slow down—and I won’t. Not until I feel you come all over my cock—just like this.”

She gasped, legs threatening to give.

His palm never stopped—fingers stroking through the slick obscene heat of her, pressure building perfectly.

“You gonna cream for me, sweetheart?” he groaned, voice breaking against her ear. “Right here in the elevator, huh?”

His hand flexed.

His breath stuttered.

“You want to be my filthy little mess?”

She nodded—frantic, wild, one hand lifting from the wall to claw at his wrist.

Begging, wordless.

Zayne closed his eyes.

Her body was vibrating with the force of her need.

He kissed her neck—once.

A vow sealed in skin.

Then he whispered it,

low and final,

the only benediction she needed.

“Come for me.”

The words were still on his tongue when it happened.

PING.

The sound sliced through the moment like a scalpel.

He froze.

So did she.

The elevator doors began to open behind them—

bright light, footsteps, motion, reality.

Her body clenched—tighter than before—but still held,

suspended on the edge.

Zayne didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The world had just walked in on his damnation.

And she—

trembling, soaked, panting—

was still waiting for his permission.

#zayne lads #doctor zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #love and deepspace #lnds zayne #lads #zayne smut #zayne fanfic #zayne fanfiction #smut writing #smut fanfiction #smut

265 notes · View notes

bettystonewell · 2 months ago

Text

COUPLE THINGS #2

Putting You x Dean Winchester through everyday relationship stuff - 1300 words

Pasta and Pie

It’s a rare moment when you can cook in the bunker. Not just make a meal, but cook from scratch with fresh ingredients.

Pasta that’s not al dente after two minutes in the microwave, but the kind you put in a pot and boil. Nevermind it’s dried and came from the local grocer in a plastic bag that’s flakey and easy to break. It’s the thought that counts.

Yes, you bought tinned tomatoes, but you picked up some mushrooms and onions to counteract them. A carrot and a small zucchini like your mom used to do for you because both Winchesters need their vegetables. They’re growing boys, after all.

You’re just chopping them up fine for Dean and countering again with bacon and minced meat.

“Meat man,” you whisper with a grin and place everything at the ready. You reach under the steel bench for a bowl, and up top for a pan, swinging overhead. Stretch behind for a knife just as Dean walks in.

His hair still holds the water from his shower. It’s dishevelled, but it’s clean, free of monster guts.

“Feeling better?” you say as he pads over to you.

His bare feet slap on the polished floor as he crosses the room. “Yeah,” he croaks.

His fingers grip your waist. They shuck up your shirt. Palms smooth over your skin. Toned chest covered in a simple Henley reminds you Dean Winchester has a heart. He nips your jugular from behind, tugs on your chin, then demands a kiss from your lips.

“What’s all this?” he says, when he pulls away just enough. Breath touches your nose, fresh with mint, cooling and sweet.

“I told you I was making pasta. Got you pie for dessert, too.” You wink.

“Oh, yeah?” His hand finds your ass. Taps you once. Smooths the skin beneath through the soft material you wear.

There’s no need for stiff jeans or FBI gear when there’s snow days afoot. Rest and recuperation is key. Your bra was gone the second you got back from the store.

“What if I want you?” he husks. Plants another nibble below your ear and behind it.

Hmm. You hum. “Later.” You grab an onion and slide the wooden chopping board close.

The blade glides through the skin. Chops it clean in half, and you’re soon peeling and dicing the layers into sizable chunks.

“You’re going to cut yourself,” he says, and your knife hits the wood with a dull thud.

“What?”

“Just. Here.” Dean’s calloused grip pries the handle from you. Snatches the second half of the onion, and starts chopping with you in the middle. “See. You gotta keep your fingers clear of the blade.”

“I know that.” You just find it awkward.

Any retort you had gone as you watch on, however. His hands, steady. His glide smooth.

“Who taught you how to do that?” you say. You can’t recall him ever using onions on his Dean Deluxe’s. Just store-made patties, lettuce, cheese, tomato. Sauce.

His “Lisa” is quiet. His eyes stay on his hands as yours did, making quicker work of the vegetable than you ever could.

Your tongue pokes at your cheeks. Swipes up and down. He never mentions them, though you know of her and Ben, of course.

They were still together when you met the guys. At least Dean was trying to make it work. You saw what Crowley did to her. Saw the pain Dean felt when he let them go, and you picked up the pieces of a broken heart years later.

You’re left unsure whether to ask about her or pass the moment off and forget it, so “She teach you how to grate, too?”

You’re an idiot.

His, “Yeah,” crackles on the end.

He looks your way. Eyes almost amber in the bunker’s light. “Same principle.” His voice deepens, and he flashes a grin. “Keep the fingertips away from the sharp bits. Makes ‘em small enough to hide in the sauce.” He cocks a brow.

“A wise woman.”

“She is.” He nods. “Never fed me bacon, though.”

“No,” you exaggerate. Full of fake disgust. Eyes widen, but you can’t help the smile. “Guess she wanted to keep you ‘round.”

You shouldn’t have said that.

“And you don’t?” He squeezes your waist with his arm.

“It’s bacon!” You nudge him back with your hips. “If you don’t want it—”

“No, no, no. I never said that.” He drops the knife. His hand grips your wrist and turns you to him next. Pauses. “I want you ‘round.”

“Yeah?” Your grin widens. Even more so when he repeats you. Your hand finds its way to his chest.

It rises, heartbeat holds firm below the warmth of his body. He leans down and gives you another quick kiss. “Lisa was in my past. You know that.”

Your nod can only be curt when his lips still sway next to yours. Eyes flutter close, breath breathes him in. His soap, toothpaste, his musk. You’d never be able to describe it to anyone, but it’s the best in the world.

“I know,” you say. “I’m thankful for that.”

He pulls back. Blinks, pouts. His throat bobs up and down. The question of why plays on his features, his brow, the dimple just above his chin.

“She shaped you into who you are.” You pat his tummy. Palm thuds on the one too many burgers. The whiskey gut on a beer diet.

The worth he never gives himself credit for flashes through his eyes, and just as he’s about to pull you in and kiss you again, you open your mouth, and swoop in for the kill. “Now I’m gonna ruin it with more bacon.”

He takes another pause. His brows furrow, then relax when his grin pulls them down to squeeze his cheeks as his fingers squeeze you.

He leans in and ghosts your lips. “And I’m gonna ruin,” he starts and you’re breathless now, heart rate climbing fast, “that pie. Where is it?”

You snort first. He follows. You give him a soft smack, landing on his pectoral. It shakes beneath your palm as an airy snicker hisses past his front teeth. The bellow that comes next flitters through your ears and into your own chest, now warm like the bridge of your nose above it.

“Is it here?” Fingers creep under the elastic wrapped around your waist, spreading more warmth into your skin. You’d melt if it weren’t for his arm holding you upright. Your grip on the steel bench helps as his breath comes back to take yours again, interrupting the shake of your head.

You could stay like this for minutes, hours. Mould into and let him carry you away to the stars or some other poetic place bordering on lust and lecher, only he pulls back.

And though you’re partial to continuing, wanton for a different kind of feast, when he says, “Later?” gaze flicking down to the shelf below your chin? You nod with your eyes. Bite grazes your lower lip. Tongue rubs the upper. It’s a promise.

“So.” He clears his throat, lets you go. Puts his hands on his hips and scans the counter. “Want me to grate the other stuff?”

“If you like.” Your thumbs rub your fingertips, nails scratch your palm, willing your brain to think. For the high to subside enough to continue the task at hand.

“I’ll start on the mince,” you say and move to the fridge to get it. Heart in a flutter, making itself known in your chest. Mind aware of the tall hunter, grappling with the lid of the slicer that won’t quite fit. It’s a son-of-a-bitch, or so he says. Heaven help the carrot and zucchini that are about to face his wrath.

Heaven help you later.

This one is thanks to a poll I remember answering a couple of months ago, regarding which SPN character could chop an onion correctly. I voted for Rowena on account of the potion making she no doubt has experience in, but I can also imagine Dean commandeering a knife in this instance. Hoping to do a Sammy one next - Beth ❤️

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @middleearthislife

If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

#making pasta with dean #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #supernatural x reader #couple things #jensen ackles

321 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 1 year ago

Note

can we get sleepy reader x sleepy remus where they just the most perfect night routine designed for sleep

Can I get a nighttime routine with sleepy remus is the real question (pleasepleaseplease)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 613 words

Remus likes to keep the thermostat low at night, so you’re burrowed under your thick comforter, lying on your stomach with one of your legs stuck out awkwardly to touch his. Your boyfriend is sitting up half out of the covers (you don’t know how he can stand it) and sipping chamomile tea while he reads.

Ordinarily you’d be reading too, but you’ve fallen into a stint of obsession with sudoku. The light from your candle warmer casts an orange glow over your notebook, your bedroom pleasantly saturated with the smell of bergamot and caramel. You’re partway through your sixth box of the nine, and you’re starting to doubt your ability to finish tonight, though you’re loath to leave a puzzle half done.

It’s the fault of the warmth emanating from Remus underneath the covers, and the light sound of pages flipping, and the pleasant ache in your muscles from the stretches you make him do every night even though you don’t love having to get up and do them either. It’s the softness of your sheets, and the chirping of crickets outside your window, and worst of all the unbelievable plumpness of the pillow squished underneath your elbows, where it’d be so easy to drop your forehead down to rest above your notebook for only a minute…

“You’re getting tired.” Remus sounds amused.

You turn your head, and he looks it too, his eyes honey-gold in the warm light. There’s a soft curve to one side of his mouth.

“I thought nothing could distract you from your reading,” you accuse.

“You can.” He folds the corner of his page, closing the book. His mug clinks as he sets it on the nightstand, empty. “Ready to turn the lights off?”

“I haven’t finished the puzzle,” you argue.

“It’ll still be there in the morning.” He puts his book next to his mug.

“And you’re not at the end of a chapter,” you say as he takes the pen from your hand and the notebook out from under you, piling them neatly on top of his book on the nightstand.

“Silly as it may sound, the same principle applies to book chapters as sudoku puzzles.”

You can’t find it in you to argue further, humming your acquiescence as you turn onto your side and cozy up to him. Remus smiles and slides down beside you underneath the covers. He lets you worm your fingers under his ribs, touching the tip of his warm nose to your cold one.

“One of us still needs to turn off the candle lamp,” he whispers.

You groan. Resignation finds its way into your boyfriend’s expression even before you make yours as pleading as can be, eyes big and pitiful.

“Can you do it?” you ask sweetly.

Remus sighs as he gets out of bed, and you press your lips together to quell a smile. A few seconds later, the candle warmer’s light clicks off and he’s slinking back in beside you, long limbs still warm.

“Thanks, handsome.” You take one of his hands in yours, kissing it and pulling it with you as you roll over and snuggle your back to his front.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, a smile in his tone. He slides his other arm underneath you. The room is nearly pitch black, only some silvery-blue moonlight bleeding in from the window along with the cricket sounds, and Remus’ cinnamony scent blurs together with the ones from your candle.

“Night,” you sigh, already half gone. “Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Remus’ voice sounds considerably softer now. He lays a soft kiss on the back of your head, palm splaying flat over your chest. “Night, darling.”

932 notes · View notes

asce-of-hearts · 1 month ago

Note

So actually, I was thinking that the reader and Kakashi are soulmates, but somehow reader doesn't believe in that concept, and she wants to find someone naturally and meet someone naturally. So Kakashi is really frustrated by the fact and doesn't want to disclose it to the reader that he has discovered that they are soulmates. Because she will run away or something. So then he is really sad or something. So you know everyone, his advisor and Shikamaru and all, they come up with a plan that he should hire the reader as private chef since she is a chef by profession. (And I am a chef by profession.) So that's the fetish. So they suggest that she should be hired as private chef for Hokage residence. And then gradually there are some instances and then they come closer. It's a lot of smut and all. That's just the general idea.

COMPATIBILITY

Contents: Kakashi x gn!reader soulmate au scenario