Kade's corner

Come join me in time-out to think about what we've done (gonned to our favs !!!) requests & asks -> OPEN (highly encouraged) (*´∀`)♪

[k4dewashere]

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Kade!

entp - cabin 7 - hufflepuff - writer & artist - 18

- idk this is just for fun - asks always open -

fandoms ; Percy Jackson, Genshin impact, Honkai Star Rail, Zenless Zone Zero, Wuthering Waves, Harry Potter, JJK, CSM + open to suggestions!

masterlist asks & rules (updated)

[k4dewashere]

BLOSSOMING ALONE OVER YOU

⟡ Pairing : Modern Setting Sunday x f!reader

⟡ tags : fluff, slight angst, birthday parties, hurt/comfort, non-established relationship, beta read by my lovely wife @/oddarling

⟡ Warnings ! : graphic description of panic attacks, throwing up, very brief mention of self-harm (blink and you'll miss it), smoking and cigarettes, alcohol

⟡ Wc ! : 2.1k words

Kade's note : In honor of me turning 18, I wrote this. Although I've been 18 for 2 weeks now, my life has gotten so hectic as of late wtf. I passed my driving theory last week and had my first driving lesson today— better late than never, tho. Not to mention, my finals start next week (*T^T). Thus, I offer you pure self-indulgence with my favorite character ever, Sunny! Written in one sitting too.

The party is too much.

The music is loud, invading your eardrums, turning all thoughts into a jungled mess. Your skin is crawling, an uncomfortable itch settling over it, begging for you to ease it with the blunt edges of your nails.

You never should've listened to your therapist.

Your chest is tightening, breath shortening, why did you think throwing such a big event for your birthday would do you good?

'Most of my patients and myself included, at your age, throw a big party with their friends and acquaintances or rent out a bar —after all, you only turn 18 once. It's a big event!'

Bullshit, you think, turning your gaze to where Himeko, your senior, is drinking copious amounts of champagne in an attempt to win a competition among some of your shared friends.

Your head is spinning, hands shaking as you too try to lift your cup to your lips without spilling any of its contents. Once the alcohol touches your tongue, you resist the urge to retch.

This isn’t going to work.

With tensed shoulders and unsteady steps, you weave your way through the dense crowd of people. Do you even know them all? There isn’t any way you'd be that sociable and yet hardly manage to remain calm in such an environment.

How absurd, the birthday girl having a panic attack at her own party.

Familiar faces turn, sending you joyful smiles and knowing eyebrows, thinking you're drunk rather than struggling. You don't correct them, quickening your pace as the swarm of people parts around you, hands landing on your shoulders, cups placed in your hands and 'happy birthday's yelled into your ear.

The kitchen is not as empty as you'd wish: Caelus and Dan Heng are slobbering all over eachother against the counter, a few groups of two or three speaking in hushed tones, you recognize some of them while others seem completely foreign. Perhaps strangers had snuck in.

Oh, Aeons, what if they steal something, poison someone?

Your heartbeat spikes in your chest, tremors running through your hands as you grip the sink and spill your drink in it. Clear tap water filling it, the cold feeling numbing against your burning skin. You stare as it rushes over your fingers and disappears down the drain.

In.

Out.

In—

Your breath catches halfway. The room is still too loud.

Laughter erupts somewhere behind you, sharp enough to make you flinch. Glass clinks against glass, someone brushes your shoulder on their way to the fridge, muttering a half mustered apology —you don’t even register it.

The kitchen suddenly feels just as suffocating as the living room.

Your therapist had taught you grounding exercises for moments like this.

'Name five things you can see'; the flickering kitchen lights, Caelus's hand tangled in Dan Heng's hair, condensation dripping down abandoned bottles, your own knuckles —pale from how hard they're gripping the sink, the window above them.

'Four things you can touch'; cold water, the metal edge of the counter, your sleeves, the pulse hammering beneath your skin.

'Three things you can hear' ; music, talking, your heartbeat—

Too loud, everything's too loud.

Your lungs refuse to fill properly, your throat burns as a muffled sob tears it's way through. Heat crawls up your neck. You can already imagine how you look — wide-eyed, clammy, trembling like some frightened animal cornered under bright lights.

Someone laughs again.

For one horrible second, you're certain it's about you.

"Hey, birthday girl, you good ?"

You jolt violently at the voice. One of your classmates stands near the doorway, brows raised with mild concern, though the lazy grin on his face tells you he probably assumes you're drunk out of your mind.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

"I-"

Humiliation crashes over you immediately.

Your classmate's expression shifts awkwardly. “Uh. You want water?”

Water.

Air.

Space.

You nod quickly, then, shake your head just as fast. No, no, if he comes closer you think you might actually fall apart.

"I just need—"

Your throat constricts around the words.

Outside.

The realization hits you suddenly.

You need outside.

Not the kitchen. Not the bathroom with people inevitably and constantly knocking on the door. Not another room filled with noise, bodies, and eyes.

Just out.

Without waiting for a response, you push yourself away from the sink. Your shoulder clips the doorframe as you move past him, muttered protests fading behind the ringing in your ears.

The hallway sways unpleasantly beneath your feet.

Too hot, too crowded.

Someone stumbles into your side hard enough to nearly knock you over. A curse slurs past your ear before another sound follows it, wet, violent retching.

You freeze.

A girl you vaguely recognize from one of your literature classes is hunched over against the wall besides your favorite potted plant, one hand braced against it—nearly knocking it down, her other hand shakily pressing against her mouth. Her friends gather around her urgently in various stages of horror and amusement.

"Oh my God—"

"Move her hair back!"

"She’s gonna puke again—"

The girl gags, your stomach twists violently in response.

'Help her,'

The thought invades your brain immediately, automatic and sharp.

'Get water, tell someone, do something! That's what normal people would do, right?!'

Instead, your body locks in place.

The sounds are unbearable, gagging, shouting, and music bleeding through the walls, laughter from another room totally disconnected from this moment. Your pulse pounds so hard your vision flickers at the edges.

Move.

Why can't you move?

The girl coughs again, and one of her friends finally notices you standing there.

"Birthday girl!" he calls, waving you over with a crooked grin, completely at odds with the situation. "Your party's getting dangerous!"

Several heads turn toward you at once. Heat floods your face and your lungs constrict painfully.

For one awful second, all you can think about is how everyone is looking at you waiting for you to react, to laugh, to take control, to be eighteen and fucking functional and normal—

Another retch cuts through the hallway.

Something in your chest snaps.

You turn away before anyone can say anything else and push blindly through the crowd, ignoring confused voices calling after you as you make a break for the back door, desperate for air before the walls close in entirely.

Cold air.

Please.

Your hands fumble with the handle.

For one terrifying moment it refuses to open and panic surges so violently you think you might scream—

Then the door jerks loose, night air crashes into you.

Cold.

Sharp.

Real.

You stumble out onto the porch, your grip on the railing hard enough for your fingers to ache, lowering your head as you force another breath into uncooperative lungs. The music is muffled out here but still audible through the walls. A distant, pounding thing that makes your pulse stumble every few seconds.

In.

Out.

Your hands won't stop shaking.

“You're going to splinter the wood if you hold it any tighter.”

The voice nearly startled the very soul out of your body, your head snapping upwards instantly.

He sits near the far end of the porch steps, one leg bent, the dim porch light catching his pale hair and gold-tipped eyes. A cigarette carton resting loosely in his hand, thumb pressing against the edges as if he'd been about to open it.

Sunday watches you quietly, your humiliation spiking instantly in answer.

"Were you—" your voice comes out unsteady, embarrassingly strained. You clearly you throat, trying once more with more so better results. "Were you here the whole time?"

"For a while."

Of course he was.

Wonderful.

You look away immediately, your pulse thundering against your ribs, of all people to witness this.

The sound of the cigarette pack snapping open makes you glance back just in time to see him slide a cigarette halfway out—

Then stop.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you.

A sigh.

Slowly, he pushes it back in. The motion so casual you almost think you imagined it.

"You hate the smell," he says simply, as if it answers all the questions swarming your mind. Something in your chest twists painfully. You open your mouth to insist he can smoke if he wants to, but your breathing catches halfway through the attempt. Air refuses to settle properly in your lungs. Tears flood your eyes once more.

Sunday is on his feet before you fully realize you're struggling again.

The movement isn’t rushed, but there's a certain urgency to it. He approaches carefully, measured steps quiet against the wood until he stops beside the railing, leaving enough distance so you don’t feel cornered.

"You're having a panic attack."

It's not phrased as a question. Your face flushes a darker shade.

"I know that," you snapped weakly.

A pause.

Then, surprisingly—

"I would be concerned if you didn't."

Pause. What?

You blink.

The faintest hint of amusement softens his expression, gone almost immediately.

"Look at me," he says gently. "Can you tell me five things you can see?"

You nearly laugh.

Your therapist had tried this countless times. Aeons, you tried it just before and failed miserably.

Usually it only irritated you. Still, something about his voice, low and even and impossibly steady, made it incredibly hard to refuse.

“The streetlight,” you murmur.

“Good.”

“The trees.”

A nod.

"The stars."

His attention never leaves your face.

"The porch."

Your throat tightens slightly.

"You."

Something flickers in his expression, brief enough that you almost miss it. But his next words come much softer.

“Very good.”

Your heartbeat is still erratic but less violent now. Less consuming.

“Four things you can touch.”

“The railing.”

“The fabric of my sleeves.”

“The cold air.”

You hesitate before the last one, he notices, naturally. And without a word, he offers his hand.

You stare at it for a second before placing your trembling fingers against his warm, steady palm. It closes around you carefully, like you're something fragile enough to bruise with simple touch alone.

"Three things you can hear," he continues.

"The music."

"A car passing."

You swallow.

"Your voice."

Silence stretches for a beat.

"Two things you can smell."

"The alcohol."

"And?"

You glace pointedly towards the cigarette back, peeking from his front pant pocket. A soft exhale leaves him in answer, not quite a laugh yet uncontrolled as one in equal measure.

"You say that like it's a personal failing."

"It is."

"There," he says quietly."You're thinking clearly enough to insult me again, that's progress."

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches.

The panic is receding now, dissolving slowly beneath the rhythm of his voice and the grounding pressure of his hand around yours.

“One more.”

Your eyes lift to his again.

“One thing you can taste."

Your brain stalls.

“I don't…”

Sunday kisses you before you can trail off any further.

Gentle. Careful. Like he was trying not to frighten you.

The world goes impossibly still.

His thumb shifts slightly against your knuckles as his lips move softly against yours, warm enough to steal every coherent thought directly from your head.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far.

You stare at him in stunned silence.

Sunday's expression remains composed with almost terrifying precision, though his voice lowers just slightly when he speaks.

“Better?”

Your face burns.

“You can't just—”

“I can,” he replies calmly.

A pause.

“Apparently.”

You make a strangled sound somewhere between outrage and embarrassment while he finally releases your hand.

For the first time since stepping outside, your chest no longer feels like it's collapsing inward.

Sunday reaches into his pocket again, removing the cigarette he never lit earlier.

He holds cigarettes the way clergy held candles.

That's how you know.

You ask still.

“…What are you doing?”

“You're eighteen now.” His gaze settles on you, strangely warm beneath the porchlight. “That should warrant some sort of ceremony.”

“You are not making me blow out a cigarette.”

“One must adapt to available resources.”

Despite everything, a startled laugh escapes you.

The corners of his mouth lift immediately at the sound —small, fleeting, but real.

Then he raises the cigarette slightly closer, holding it between his fingers like the world's most pathetic birthday candle.

"You're unbelievable."

"Mm." The faint curve of his mouth lingers. "And yet you're still entertaining this."

The cigarette hovers between you beneath the dim porch light.

"C'mon, make a wish."

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, feeling strangely breathless all over again, you lean forward.

Sunday watches you the entire time.

Your lips part softly as you blow against the unlit cigarette, the paper fluttering faintly beneath your breath.

A quiet silence follows.

Then Sunday lowers his hand.

“Happy birthday.”

@k4dewashere ✦ all rights reserved, do not feed my work to any form of AI

[oddarling]

Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new.

SYNOPSIS. Big bad Toji doesn't do well with words, so entering into a situationship with him, you had braced your heart for the worse. But one drunk night reveals a soft side you had long wished for. CONTENTS. situationship!toji x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, happy ending, beta read WC. 1.5k words AUTHOR'S NOTE. thank you so much for the crazy support on my suguru fic, i think you all need a hug so here i am with something cute, enjoy :)

Toji was all rough edges and sharp corners.

He wasn't soft, wasn't made to be.

Everything about him screamed violence, from the scar on his lips to the bulging muscles of his arms. The bruises that often littered his body didn't help much with that image.

So when you had gotten into a situationship with him, you hadn't expected anything else.

How could you?

You had first slept together while drunk, waking up the next morning with a pounding headache but an undeniable after glow. After that, one night had followed another and, before long, he had taken the seat next to you in class, had claimed for himself the leftovers in your fridge, had made your world his own like it was natural. Expected.

And you hadn't stopped him.

You hadn't dared. After all, the sex was amazing and you had found a weirdly sweet side to him.

The late nights spent together, the parties where you walked in hand in hand like nothing could stop you, the kisses shared between alcohol and smoke. Kisses that were much too gentle for someone such as him. Surely, no one would believe you if you told them about the hand on your cheek as he brought your mouth to his or the one on the wall behind you to protect your head after he had led you to his bed.

The big, bad Toji would never.

So, you kept your mouth shut.

You let the pictures in your phone go unposted, let the good night messages go unsent.

You let people gossip, about the size of his dick, the way he walks like it's heavy, about whether or not he eats pussy, about who he has fucked recently, and how good it must have been.

You let it all go over your head, headphones glued to your ears and thoughts already far away.

Perhaps, if you ignored them hard enough, it'd make the pain in your chest go away. Perhaps, you'd be able to stop responding every time he sent a halfhearted 'what's up' at two in the morning. Perhaps.

But for now, you'll stay stuck to your phone, the ringtone making your heartbeat spike as it goes off.

Most would call you a fool. You certainly felt like a fool, sitting around in your room, underwear just a little too pretty to call it a coincidence. The thought of him off at some frat party made you hope just a little bit more than usual that he'd come over.

It was stupid. Idiotic, really. He rarely ever came to you after a party, the people in attendance making sure to keep his attention for themselves. He felt far from you, his location off—for his parents, of course— and alcohol cursing through his veins.

He always got cocky when he drank too much, the liquid courage seemingly making him even more at ease. But there was also an unpredictable softness laced into his actions, a dangerous one.

It had been the cause of your downfall more than once.

Sweet nothings and whispered assurances amidst the chaos of the ongoing party, not ready to stop for anyone, especially not two idiots who were too afraid of feelings to do anything.

You closed your eyes, tears blurring your vision. For all the nights he had spent by your side, he was not yours, and wouldn't ever be, most likely.

Your ringtone pulled you out of your thoughts. Your heart began to beat wildly, the special sound you had picked for him resounding in your ears.

You looked at the time; 01:49.

Quite early for Toji to call it a night. Excitement was slowly replaced with fear, as you finally looked at the notification. But the smile that graced your face, wide like it hadn't been in a long time, showed unfiltered happiness that could only mean one thing.

The text, although riddled with drunk typos, was crystal clear in its intentions. He was coming over.

You could not answer fast enough, fingers shaking with excitement.

And, before long, the strong knock —if you could even call it a knock at that point— announced the boy's presence. You jumped around the house, energy bouncing off the wall despite the late hour. As you arrived in front of the door, you took a deep breath, doing your best to steady your heartbeat despite it all.

You opened the door, revealing Toji in quite the dishevelled state.

He could barely stand straight on his own, the wall being the only thing keeping him from the ground. His hair was a mess, his shirt drenched in sweat, his breath smelling of cheap alcohol. Yet, when he looked up at you, eyes shining bright—whether it was from the alcohol or the sight of you was still unclear, though you hoped for the latter— and a smile so boyish it made your heart ache.

You quickly reached to help him walk and he didn't hold back, dumping most of his weight on your poor back. He tended to lose a lot of his self-awareness when drunk, but surely this was a bit much. Did he intend to suffocate you?

You dragged him painfully over to your bed, dropping him as soon as you could to relieve your already aching muscles.

"God, you're so heavy," you complained, more to yourself than him.

Nonetheless, he answered, words slurred in his drunken state, "you don't complain when you're under me."

"You pervert!" you accused him, but it was all futile for he had a weird sense of pride in being called so. His smirk remained plastered on his face, not ready to move an inch.

"Come on, just get in here already," he drawled, arms wide open like it was your rightful place.

You didn't hesitate long before climbing in, his warmth just a little too inviting for your taste. Future you could deal with the consequences.

You breathed in his scent, your lungs filling with the smell that brought you comfort you could hardly find elsewhere. As his arms tightened around your figure, you let out a shaky breath that Toji would surely make fun of you for.

But instead, he simply brought down his head, letting his lips rest on the crown of your head. He didn't leave a kiss there, yet your heart jumped nonetheless.

You hoped he hadn't noticed anything, however, his amused little chuckle told you otherwise.

"How did you even get so drunk?" you asked, doing your best to change the subject.

"I played beer-pong with Sukuna."

Well, that explained a lot. If Toji was a tank in withstanding alcohol, Sukuna was an entire submarine. Five of them, actually. And Toji did have quite the competitive streak.

"With vodka."

You sit up abruptly at the confession, a multitude of thoughts travelling through your mind, much faster than you could process them. After a beat, words finally came back to you.

"Are you out of your mind? So you've just been taking shots of vodka? For God knows how many games of beer-pong you played? No wonder you're absolutely hammered!"

The boy barely reacted, only letting you rant to your heart's content. As you quieted down, he coaxed you back into his arms, shushing you and placing a patronizing kiss to your forehead.

"It's all good, don't worry. Nothing bad happened."

You were unconvinced but unwilling to keep arguing. He'd definitely hear about this again tomorrow morning.

You laid there as Toji turned quiet, already expecting his snores to fill the room, yet it never came. Instead, an unsure voice reached your ear, one you would swear didn't belong to him.

"You know…"

You didn't open your mouth, letting him follow his thought.

A beat passed. And another.

"I'm not good with words."

Ah. This.

You knew where he was going with this.

You should talk.

Toji wasn't exactly known for initiating conversations, certainly not difficult ones. Like, for example, completely at random, the dreaded 'what are we?' talk.

So instead, he brought you impossibly closer to him, letting you bask in his warmth. Not just today, but also every other time you had end up in bed with him. He gave you your favourite coffee every morning without fail. He helped you study on desperate study nights, making a joke right as the tears were about to spill.

The silent stretched, but his deep voice eventually cut through, not letting your train of thought continue. "Just ask me."

But how could you?

You couldn't even begin to imagine everything that could go wrong with such a confession. But to actually do it? Cross a line that you could never come back from? That was too much.

You just couldn't do it.

"Ask me who else I've been fucking."

That was the one question you couldn't dare even fathom to ask.

But as Toji let his gaze fall to your eyes, you couldn't stop the warmth travelling through your body. The quiet certainty that everything would be all right.

Because maybe, just maybe, the answer wasn't as scary as your brain would like to make you believe.

oddarling — all rights reserved. do not copy, steal or feed to ai.

discover more of my works in my masterlist !!

[oddarling]

Who's gonna kiss the black-haired boy? Who's gonna wipe his tears away?

SYNOPSIS. Suguru calls you crying. Why? Because his precious hair got cut off by a curse, of course! CONTENTS. bf!suguru x gn!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort (for poor sugu), short haired sugu >>> WC. 2.2k AUTHOR'S NOTE. inspired by the gorgeous art in the banner, credits to @xamallo !! short haired suguru can do whatever he wants to me :P

Suguru's hair is a life line for him.

It's central to his very identity, his sense of self. A trait that defines him, one he is known for, one people look for.

So, one night, when he calls you, weeping uncontrollably, as he mumbles something about his hair being gone, you're confused. You know full well Suguru would walk to the end of the Earth before he even considered cutting a single strand on his head.

"Calm down, baby, come on breathe with me," you try to soothe him, not being able to make out anything of what he's telling you.

He had left for a mission, confident as always, and you did your best to rack your brain to figure out what kind of curse would be capable to leave him in such a state.

"Breathe in, breathe out," you continue as shaky breaths followed your own through the phone speaker. "Are you okay? Is there anyone else with you?"

"S- Satoru's there," he stutters through hiccups, the boy in question laughing in the background. The sound gets louder and you understand he took the phone. Your boyfriend's indignant shout quickly follows, "It's not funny, idiot."

"Hi! Suguru's completely fine, he's just being dramatic," explains Satoru, finally letting your racing heartbeat slow down. "He just got his hair cut off by a curse."

Ouch.

That makes sense; if there was one thing that could unsettle the ever-composed Suguru, it was his hair.

You stay silent, processing the information, before Satoru continues, "I'll send him to you so you can see for yourself. Don't forget to take lots of pictures, you know, for science."

Oh, you will.

Sharp sounds come through the speaker and if Satoru's screams are anything to go by, he's getting chased around for his mockery.

Eventually, the call ends and you're left laughing on your couch, trying to imagine what your dear boyfriend might look like now.

The door clicks open softly, but not a word is spoken. You listen carefully, yet nothing comes. You can only hear the muted sound of his feet on the floor boards and the soft rustle of his clothes.

"Suguru?"

A beat passes. And then another before you can hear him clear his throat. Eventually, he talks, voice shaky and unsure, "yes?"

You don't get up, choosing to stay on the couch, as if going to him might scare him off. "Why are you still in the entryway?"

"No reason," he answers quickly. Too quickly.

"So, come here then."

Silence fills the room again and this time you don't disrupt it. He had always needed his time to open up, tonight would be no different.

You're right, just a minute later, he comes through the door. His shame was evident in his stance, eyes downcast, hands fiddling, leg slightly shaking.

The display tugs at your heart strings, the boy in front of you vulnerable and clearly distraught at the loss of his most cherished attribute.

You opt against teasing him, instead opening your arms to welcome him home. He doesn't waste a second to dive in them, hiding his face on your chest.

Your arms curled around his figure and you stay silent, giving him the time to process it all.

As time passes, you can feel him relax in your arms. His breathing slows, his grip on you loosens, and his eyes flutter shut.

Before long, you're also unable to resist the grip sleep has on you and you let your eyelids shut. But his voice breaks the silence, a pitiful murmur muffled in your flesh, "be honest, I look ugly, don't I?"

Your hand raises to settle in his now much shorter hair and you slowly stroke it, thinking over your words. "It's different."

Suguru only gives you a non-committal hum, clearly not entirely convinced.

You know your answer won't cut it, his brain needing much more reassurance than that. "It needs a haircut for sure, you can't just have this random chop—made by a curse of all things— determine your new look. But it's not bad. It could never be."

The boy stays silent, letting the words hang in the air, thinking them over. You expected him to protest, yet he doesn't, instead settling on a half-hearted complaint, "I'm never stepping foot outside for the next three months."

You laugh softly and it makes him smile, his mouth leaving a feather light kiss where it rests.

Silence returns, this time much more comfortable. He seems more at ease, the idea of his new haircut slowly becoming less repulsive.

Eventually, you pat on his shoulder to get his attention, getting ready to go on with the rest. "Come on, I'll give you a new haircut."

He doesn't move, not even giving sign of life.

You pat again and only receive a small hum, more denial than agreement. Nevertheless, you steel yourself, getting ready to push him off you.

You wiggle in his grip, moving from under him centimeter by centimeter. He tightens his hold on you, doing his best to keep you from leaving, but you end up sliding off the couch nonetheless.

Getting up to your feet, you walk to the bathroom, filling the tub up with warm water in hopes of helping him relax, even just a little. He could try to hide it all he wanted, he was doing a miserable job pretending not to be affected by the haircut he was left with.

You bring a chair into the bathroom, placing it at the end of the tub, alongside your scissors—the ones specifically there for when he asks you to give him a haircut— and hairbrushes. Behind you, you can hear Suguru walk in and the rustle of his clothes falling to the ground.

You don't turn around, instead choosing to give him the privacy he seemed to need after everything that had happened that night. He doesn't say anything, but as he settles into the warm water, he gives you the tiniest of smiles, a small thank you for your consideration.

You watch him get comfortable, study the way the exhaustion rolls off his body in waves. It starts in his arms, first wrapped around his knees, before finally letting go and settling at his sides, then his back, leaning back to rest his weigh on the edge of the tub, his feet sliding to the other side, his entire body now spread out to take the space available. Finally, his head falls back and settles on the border, eyes closed shut in utter surrender.

Music is left in the background, the lights turned off. The moment is much too precious to rush, so you simply card your hand though his hair, softly letting your nails scratch his scalp.

When Suguru opens his eyes again, you meet your gaze. You study him, savouring every detail of his amethyst eyes and relaxed features. The seconds stretch, the world allowing you just a little bit more softness for today.

The boy eventually nods, a silent agreement to let you do whatever you wished to his hair. A necessary evil, as one might call it.

So, softly like you might scare him off, you reach for the water, wetting his hair, little by little, making sure the water is warm enough, yet not too much.

You reach for the shampoo, the one that smells like lavender and always makes you burrow your nose in his hair. You spread it on your hands before carefully applying it to his hair in circular motions.

You keep going long after the product has coated the entirety of his hair, the motion more of a massage than anything else. Suguru lets out little pleased hums, and it's enough to tell you to keep going.

Eventually, you reach for the shower head and rinse off the foam that adorned his hair, careful to keep the water from going into his eyes and mouth.

You repeat the motions with his conditioner, this time focusing on the ends of his hair, their shortness still surprising you every time you card your hands through his locks. They fall back on the edge of the tub, uneven and abrupt, yet somehow still beautiful, still entirely him.

After rinsing it all off, you take a brush, untangling the remaining knots as softly as you can. The motions are practised, ones you have already done over and over again as he rested his head on your thighs. The comfort it brought him then is still evident in his features now, a familiar sensation through the chaos of change.

You rinse the rest of his body off, making sure not to leave any soap on him and walk away, reaching for a towel to hand him. He takes it gratefully.

He steps out of the tub, his movement slow and measured. He continues with light steps, going to sit on the cushioned chair who left for him in front of the sink.

The sight of the newspapers you carefully disposed to avoid it from being stuck makes him smile. The memory of the first time you had the great idea of cutting his hair over the sink still clings to his mind. What a disaster it had been.

He settles comfortably in the chair, his head tipping once more to rest on the edge of it, like the weight of it alone is too much for him to bare.

And so, comes the dreaded time of the cutting.

As you raise your scissors, you can't help the thoughts swirling around in your mind. You've cut his hair many times, yet the weight of his trust is one you can't quite seem to get used to.

Nonetheless, you're most grateful and abide without complaint.

This time, though, feels different. A different kind of responsibility place upon your shoulders.

You weigh your options with careful consideration. Asking him what haircut he wants would be very much counterproductive. You managed to get him to relax, you won't trade it for the world. So now, the choice falls into your lap. As you make up your mind, you approach the scissors slowly, like it might help you.

Your scissors cut once. A small lock of hair falls. A piece on the left, the side that was previously uncut, spared by the unlucky strike of the curse.

Than twice. A slightly bigger piece this time. On the right this, ridding him of the half cut front piece hanging pitifully.

Your hesitation lessens with every cut. You move your scissors with grace, making decisive cuts and careful adjustments.

You adjust his uneven bangs to properly frame his face once more, you create layers with the hair that had suffered the most, you cut the ends that had burned ever so slightly where the curse had struck.

Before long, you're admiring your work, quite proud of your save.

You finally put down the scissors on the ground, the clicking sound making Suguru open his eyes for the first time since you began your endeavour.

They settle on you, his trust evident in his eyes, even through the flicker of doubt.

His hand raises from his side, pushing aside your own hair and softly brushing your cheek.

Finally, his voice comes out, strained as he speaks, "thank you."

You simply smile, before helping him up. He moves to your vanity this time, sitting in front of your mirror. And so, he leaves you with the last step. The styling.

His gaze is kept downcast on the floor, not daring to face his reflection just yet.

You bring the hairdryer and a brush, quickly getting to work as exhaustion's grip on you too tightens. Before long, you're done, admiring a haircut that makes the man in front of you look so…

…hot.

There's no other way to put it, that's simply the truth. As much as his dark silky hair made him look ethereal, his short hair suits him just as much.

Yet, his expression is still fixed in a pout that seems stuck to his features as he discovers just how short his hair is left. Unfortunately for him, it only makes his lips look more delicious, tempting you like never before.

After all, not much could get him to show his expression so openly, let alone pout.

Before you can think better of it, you kiss him, a small peck accompanied with four simple words, "you look so fine."

He doesn't seem convinced, yet the pink at the top of his ears tells you he appreciates the comment nonetheless.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, his face in the crook of your neck, he still tells you, "For the record, I'm never cutting my hair that short ever again."

His stubborn streak only makes you laugh, your hand finding its rightful place in his hair as always.

You'll just have to enjoy the next few months before it grows back out.

And, who knows, with just enough compliments, you might get him to cut them again.

oddarling — all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, or feed to ai

liked it? don't hesitate to show support and discover my other works in my masterlist, thank you <3

[k4dewashere]

My lovely wife forsaw the future and blessed my chopped self some comfort after the hairdresser fucked up my social image *sob*

[k4dewashere]

2 HANDS ON ME

⟡ Pairings: various hoyo characters x nb!reader (minors have a platonic relationship with reader)

⟡ Starring : Flins, Durin, Wanderer, Wriothesley, Lohen, Illuga, La Signora, Sunday, Anaxa, Aglaea, Dan Heng

⟡ Tags : fluff, slight character study

⟡ Warnings : mentions of burns (Durin), bruises (Lohen, Wriothesley), wounds, scars (Lohen, Wriothesley, Illuga), self-neglect (Anaxa)

⟡ Wc : 3.0k

Kade's note : yeah, this is genuinely just me yapping about their hands for 3k words. Idk what else to tell you.

FLINS's hands are abnormally long, as expected of a fae. the tip of typical human hands only reach the upper thigh or lower hip. His hands, however, easily start mid-thigh, his fingertips brushing the top of his knee when standing upright. His skin is sickly pale, hinting towards an off-white but when exhausted, he struggles more to maintain his human appearance ; the ends of his fingers and the tip of his pointed ears slowly grow into a faint nuance of indigo, reminiscent of his original form.

Against popular belief, Flins's hands are cold. They do not possess a single hint of warmth his lantern form could suggest. When linking your hands together, they feel like walking through thick mist, but no water droplets taint your skin.

His touch is always fleeting, like the winter's breeze on a sunny day, reminding you it's cold presence before its return. At first, you simply thought the playful fae wished to tease you, but you soon came to realize it was an insecurity engraved deep into the metal caging his soul.

Flins is scared of his nature, and he is scared of hurting you with it. That's why his hold never lasts long. A permanent contradiction between his desire to keep you close to him until you inevitably vanish and he is left to wander once more in that immortal path he follows, and his wish to push you away to protect you from himself.

Warm would be underselling the feeling of holding DURIN's hands. They feel like cupping Teyvat's artificial sun in one's hands. Nonetheless, holding them doesn't hurt, it feels like fulfilling a thousand childish dreams.

Although comfortable, they aren't truly soft. His fingers are leaning towards the chubby side you'd often see on a child, a contradiction to his adult face and height. More often than not, he bears a few injuries on them, be it scratches, cuts, burn marks, and if those aren't prominent against his pinkish skin, it is the band-aids that cover them. Cute little things, decorated with a thousand animals such as dolphins and butterflies. Those injuries obviously come from his eagerness to learn more about the world he's been reborn into. To touch, to explore, to feel, to understand. Even he sometimes ends up with burn marks from going 'fishing' with Klee.

When the sun dips and he finally comes home after a whole day of running around Mondstadt, you never hesitate to sit with him on the couch, gently tapping the antiseptic on his cuts and patching up his hands. Never forgetting to tease him about the dirt beneath his nails before ordering him to take yet another bath.

WANDERER, whose hands are a pale pinkish color. They almost seem white until they flicker slightly and catch a hint of light, artificial or not, and gleam in an unnatural manner. They aren't quite long but not short, either. A reasonable size, although they are quite thin in width. His joints are quite visible as well, the thin artificial ball of his articulation coming into contact with the phalanges making a low sound, like shallow wood entering contact with another when he moves. One you can only hear when he runs his hands through your hair on an early morning or during those few deafeningly silent seconds when he comes to join you in bed.

They are cool to the touch, and although well polished, your fingers sometimes pause on an indent or two on his fingertips or open palm. Depending on how deep those are, you can catch a flicker of the translucent fluid that powers him up. In normal circumstances, it is hard to discern. However, when using his anemo vision, the fluid flows quicker and glows a lovely shade of cerulean.

All in all, when holding you, Wanderer's hands are firm but never harsh. As if you were a fragile china doll he fears letting go would break.

WRIOTHESELY's hands burn like the warmth that runs through one's hands after prolonged time in snow. His skin is that pale ivory shade hinting slightly towards a sand-like color, although you only know so from seeing more of his body beneath his usual attire. His hands alone do not suffice to discern the exact color of his skin. They are marred with too many scars of past battles and dark gray bandages. In fact, many cuts of his vary in shade : while some remain slightly lighter than the rest of him, long past the final stage of healing, others never fully do and stay a dark crimson or a variation of pink, making it impossible to tell which patch of him is truly the skin color he'd been born with.

They are of a normal size, although leaning towards width rather than length. His knuckles are a slightly darker shade than his ivory skin. Some of them in a slightly different position from yours, for they probably hadn't healed the way they were meant to.

Dark body hair grows on the back of his palm and the outer side of his forearm. It isn't too much, simply enough to notice it.

Ultimately, the inside of his palm contrasts nicely from the outside; it's soft and smooth but you rarely get the chance to simply hold them since he'd much rather placing them on your hips or around your shoulders. However, if you do manage to stop those teasing gestures and grab a hold of his hands, placing gentle kisses along the length of his marks, that man will melt on the spot.

LA SIGNORA's hands are elegant and graceful. A rich, healthy beige shade without a single blemish upon them. They are lukewarm and faintly smell of sakura bloom flowers due to the hand cream she had shipped to Shneznaya from Inazuma.

She has them manicured once a month at her favorite salon, often choosing a color that goes along her fatui uniform, such as deep crimson with a simple, timeless black or white lace design. They are soft to the touch and relatively small. When you both lay down on your shared bed after an exhausting day, she finds the action of running her nails on the back of your forearm or threading through your hair quite relaxing.

More often than not, she'll use the newly acquired nail size to gently nudge the skin of your stomach and revel in the way you jump and squeak at the action regardless of how many times she's done it.

LOHEN's hands are built for combat first, everything else comes second. His palms are broad, fingers strong. The kind that easily close around a weapon or an opponent's wrist. The skin is rough and layered with various callouses, especially on the tip of his fingers and the heel of his palms. They origin most likely from repeated impact rather than just weapon use. His knuckles are constantly bruised, and if not, they are in some form of healing stage from said bruises. Those appear in the form of faint yellows and purples, overlapping themselves as if the lighter ones didn't have enough time to disappear properly.

Sometimes, you happen to run across bite marks or crescent-shaped indents on his hands. Hadn't you known him better, you would've thought they were from constantly fighting around. However, they are, in fact, self-inflicted. Worst of all, he doesn't even bother hiding them, nor his other injuries, if anything, he often presses into them absentmindedly, like testing the pain.

Lohen likes sensation in whatever form it may appear. His hands always seek it ; whether it's tapping against a surface, squeezing something or someone, dragging his nails across skin just to watch it turn red under the sharp pressure and, of course, dragging his thumb against your pulse point, pressing just enough to feel it jump beneath his touch.

Despite all of that, there's a quiet calculated precision to how he uses them, he knows exactly how much force to apply, where to press to hurt, and, surprisingly, how to avoid hurting you when he chooses not to. Thus, when tending to your injuries, his hands become uncharacteristically steady and careful, his movements slower than usual. He doesn't comment on it, but his touch lingers a few seconds longer than necessary, like he's reassuring himself that you're still intact.

A subtle contradiction arises in his mannerisms, his hands can bruise, restrain, break yet when resting on you they feel anchoring rather than threatening, like a soft, cold breeze one may feel under the shade on a hot summer day. He understands pain intimately, so, with you, his hands are always hovering between inflicting and protecting, deliberately choosing the latter, most of the time.

ILLUGA's hands are solid and steady in a way that feels like they were made to hold weight —be it a weapon, responsibility, or you. They are slightly larger than average, with broad palms and thick fingers that don't quite match any of the elegance he might otherwise carry. The skin is rough, not from neglect, the callouses that linger it sit mostly along the base of his fingers and palms, earned through repetition rather than recklessness (cough— Lohen).

His warmth is consistent, not overwhelming, just enough to be grounding. His grip is firm and reliable, never crushing, never hesitating either, like he always knows exactly how much strength to use. There are scars but fewer than expected, sure, there are a few of those old, pinkish gashes that travel up his arms to his neck but mot much more. Some thin lines from cuts across his knuckles and perhaps one or two deeper ones along the side of his hands. They are all cleanly healed, though, suggesting proper discipline when treating them.

When he takes your hand, there's no teasing or fleeting touch ; he holds it properly, fingers interlocked securely. Additionally, he has a habit of resting his hand on you mindlessly, be it on your shoulder when standing beside you or the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd. It's not possessive, nor intentional, simply instinctual.

He rarely fidgets, but when he does, it comes in the form of rolling his wrist slowly or flexing his fingers like he's remembering the weight of his polearm.

His hands are not expressive in the way other's are, but they are honest. Everything he does not say tends to show in how he holds you, steady, present, and unwilling to let go unless you ask.

SUNDAY's nails are always short, although it is not because he cuts them, but because he has the nasty habit of biting them until he reaches the skin beneath. Additionally, the skin of his cuticles often peels. Thus, it is not uncommon to see reddened skin or dried blood where he must've ripped it off.

His hands are as soft as his pretty white feathers, smooth to the touch and comfortable to hold. They are lithe, his joints slightly more prominent when holding onto something with some amount of effort.

There is a certain grace in the way they move, like a bird dancing to attract a mate. They hypnotize you in the way they gently hold the thin foot of his wine glass, fingers gently circling the rim or how they move when maneuvering those golden, thorned ropes he uses on field. A measured action that hides both softness and strength.

All in all, you rarely get a proper chance to admire the pale, smooth skin of his hands because he'd much rather wear those dark, navy, gloves, much like he enjoys wearing that overly complicated outfit that is both unbelievably frustrating and highly appreciated in its asymmetric glory.

DAN HENG is a Vidyahara, by definition, he is cold-blooded, and thus, his skin is also quite cold ; thus, holding his hands is a must in your relationship.

His hands vary slightly depending on the form he's currently in ; in his typical, human disguise, they look underwhelming in their simplicity. Pale small hands, sometimes slightly clammy, short nails and visible joints. Nothing unusual save for the occasional paper cut from sorting through archives. In his Vidyahara form, however, his hands become slightly more interesting to look at.

His pale hands gain faint patches of scales along their length. Most often on the side of his fingers or on the back of his palm. They are a faint translucent color similar to that of his skin, although they gain a slight shade of cerulean. The tips of his fingers feel slightly colder than the rest of his hand, almost like touching marble, and his nails become sharper, akin to claws. Nevertheless, he always treats you with utmost care, controlling every flick of his wrist to avoid accidentally hurting you.

Speaking of scales, it is a must to speak about shedding seasons. While in his human form, the effects are minimal : it appears as fine, translucent flakes along his wrists, fingers or knuckles, similar to dry skin save for the ever-present shimmer the scales keep. In his dragon form, however, the shedding is more visible, thin slivers of old ones slowly begin to appear on the small patches of scales, occasionally peeling back.

When the shedding period approaches, the scales along his hands become slightly duller and rougher, losing their usual smooth sheen. Additionally, he grows more sensitive to touch for the new scales beneath are still delicate. He tends to hide his hands when it happens, a quiet embarrassment he rarely speaks about. However, if you help brush the loose scales away, he becomes noticeably still, unused to someone treating the process as something natural instead of strange. The newly revealed scales beneath are smoother, darker, and colder, glimmering faintly like polished jade under light.

Sometimes a thin scale catches on fabric or bedding, leaving behind a tiny iridescent fragment you’ll later find on your sleeve. During heavier shedding cycles, he prefers holding your sleeve instead of your hand, worried the rough edges might scratch you —though you often take his hand anyway.

The lack of care ANAXA holds for himself is most evident in his hands. They aren't dirty per se, but they carry a quiet sort of neglect one shows to an object deemed unimportant. His skin is pale to the point of appearing almost translucent, stretched thin over protruding joints, and darkened veins that trace along the back of his hands like fragile, branching features. His fingers are long and precise, built for delicate work rather than strength, often stained with ink or chemical residue. His nails are uneven, sometimes chipped, not out of carelessness, rather out of disinterest. When holding some sort of tools, his hands are perfectly steady, the only time they don’t betray exhaustion.

Now, his hands are starkly different from one another. The "normal" hand, as one would call it, is cooler than average, not unnaturally so, simply cold like his body is constantly put under pressure —which, it is. Sometimes, you can catch slight tremors when it stays idle, their intensity varying based on how much he's eaten or slept. The callouses on this hand are minimal, limited to where pens or instruments rest, mostly on the last joint of his ring finger. This is the hand he tends to use when interacting with you, brushing against your sleeve rather than your skin, adjusting something near you over touching you directly.

His altered hand possesses skin that is etched with bold, unnatural red markings, dancing between being too precise to be accidental and too invasive to be natural. The gem embedded within the back of his palm feels warm, wrongly so, like something alive where it shouldn't be. When you touch it, the temperature is inconsistent, warm at the core, and cold at the edges. Additionally, there is a faint pulse beneath the surface, not quite matching that of a human's. His fingers on this hand move with slight delay or over correction, sometimes too swift while others not enough. Once in a while, the markings might dimly glow or produce little, subtle heat. He rarely uses this hand casually, for he wishes to alter as little as possible with the markings.

He treats his own body like an ongoing experiment, and his hands are no exception. To you, however, his hands hold quiet symbolism. One closer to reason, control and undeniable humanity, while the other represents his defiance, curiosity, and self-inflicted transcendence. Together, they make his touch feel like a constant imbalance ; one careful, the other dangerous, yet both undeniably his.

Ultimately, he doesn't initiate touch often, still, he doesn't pull away when you do. When you take his normal hand, he allows it, although his fingers remain slightly tense at first. If you take his altered one, he stills completely, watching you closely as if awaiting some kind of disgust or rejection. When he finds none, his grip give a faint squeeze, the warmth of the gem seeming to stabilize for a few instants before going back into it's temperature frenzy. Afterwards, he is much more likely to stand closer to you, letting his hand brush yours, lingering slightly longer than before with feelings that feel blasphemous to name.

AGLAEAS's hands are warm, like slipping into a bath after a long day of labor. Speaking of baths, it is in the bathhouse that you most see her, often indulging in shared intimacy among gentle waves.

Due to the prophecy, Aglaea has long lost her vision. Relying strongly on her golden threads to keep track of the world around her. With you, however, she perhaps indulges herself a tad bit more. Choosing to run her hands through the arch of your brows, the slope of your nose, the line of your jaw, the steady bumps of your spinal cord. Memorizing it all. And those gentle touches leave warmth behind them, when she ceases, you feel her touch still.

Additionally, with her impaired vision, she is unable to properly paint her nails as she used to before. Thus, she relies on you to cradle her ivory, rosy hands in yours as you gently coat her nails in that familiar shade of gold.

When she does decide to leave the bathhouse and take a stroll around Okhema, she takes great pleasure in hearing you yap on about what you've done that day or what you're seeing currently with her at your side, hand in hand.

@ k4dewashere ✦ all rights reserved — do not feed my work to AI

[oddarling]

We were too close to the stars.

SYNOPSIS. What happens when you get pregnant after sleeping with your boyfriend's twin brother? Why are they both acting so strange and what can you do to get your lover back? CONTENTS. nerdjo bf!sato x fem!reader x fratjo!toru, angst, smut, dub con (she's drunk and thinks it's sato not toru), nipple play, nipple patches, lingerie, oral (f receiving), piv, raw (she gotta get pregnant somehow), pregnancy, angst with a happy ending (slightly bittersweet but it's really not much) WC. 8.2k (just try please) AUTHOR'S NOTE. tysm for the support on my nanami fic, you all clearly need a hug, unfortunately i can't hug you so here's some angst instead (fairly soft tbh), also wrote this in honour of my lovely wife @/k4dewashere who told me she hadn't read a single gojo twins fanfic

Sato and Toru. Twins, indistinguishable since birth.

Who knew, they might have already switched place once as babies without anyone realising. After all, who could keep track of two highly energetic baby boys? Not like it would have changed anything; what's a name in a lifetime?

Well, a lot actually.

Toru knew it well. The joy painted on your face, your eyes bright and your smile wide, all brought by one simple name. Two syllables. Sa-to.

And then the indifference. Not anger, not disgust, no, utter indifference. One simple name, two syllables. To-ru.

Not that you had ever bothered to actually pronounce it; Gojo this, Gojo that, the distance between the two of you evident.

It had never mattered to him before. Who cared if you didn't look for him in the crowd and instead your gaze settled on a different face. Well, it was technically the same face since they were identical twins, but different person. He was sure that same indifference was painted on his own face. After all, why go for you when he could go for literally anyone else, all of them sitting at his feet, waiting for just one chance to get close to him.

Until one drunk night. A mistake, that's what it was.

"Yo, Toru! Have you ever switched place with your twin?" came Toji's drunk shout. He could be such an ass when he was drunk. The same question, the one everyone couldn't help but ask. The one burning hot on the tip of their tongues.

"Of course," he had answered, "who do you take me for?"

And it was true, it had happened a lot. The brothers had had a close bond, they'd make deals, offering to take each other's place for the dumbest of reasons. A class one didn't like, a chore the other couldn't be bothered to handle. At the time, it felt like second nature. A secret handshake, a discreet nod, and all was settled.

Nowadays… well it's no use dwelling on it.

"You should do it again, I bet no one would be able to tell you two apart. You'd blend right in with all his little nerd friends," Toji snorted, his hand swinging wildly, the liquid in his cup threatening to spill.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Real funny, asshole," Toru had simply answered, rolling his eyes. "What would we even do that for? I already asked him to take my place in an exam. He said no."

That bitch, he muttered under his breath, not quite loud enough for his drunk friends to hear over the obnoxious sound of their own laughter.

A smirk grew on Toji's face, one that told the white haired man he wouldn't like the next words out of the fucker's mouth. "I can see plenty of reasons to take his place. Number one, his pretty little girlfriend. Number two, her ass. Number three, her boobs."

"And you'd think he'd agree to let me take his place to fuck his beloved girlfriend," he mocked, batting his eyelashes like a middle school girl. "No, dude, he barely even lets me meet her."

"He doesn't have to know."

One sentence.

One small, tiny, ridiculously insignificant sentence said half-heartily by some drunk idiot. Yet, it broke the dam.

Suddenly, it wasn't just a stupid idea, it was a very real possibility. 'What if's and 'maybe's clouded his mind, the thought alone bringing a warm sensation in his gut that he would rather not name. Perhaps, if he ignored it hard enough, waited to cool down—a cold shower might help—, he could stop the thought before it ingrained itself any deeper in his brain.

Yet, he couldn't. He wasn't able to—didn't want to.

And then the opportunity presented itself.

You, standing there, drunk enough to not distinguish up from down, and him, in front of you, watching you look at him with love in your eyes. He had hoped for that look. Wished it would turn to him and not his brother, just once. And there it was; no contempt, no judgement, just plain love.

Something in his chest twisted, hard. The pain was sharp and Toji's words came to his mind once more. You would say yes to anything he'd say right now. Your alcohol-induced state left you vulnerable in a way that was dangerous, dangerous for him.

So, when he opened his mouth, he said, "Come on, let's get you home. I'll call you an Uber."

And, true to his words, he had called for an Uber straight to your place. He had even shot your boyfriend a text, letting him know you were safe and on the way.

Coming back to the agitation of the party, a drink was shoved in his hands and he happily drank away at the gnawing feeling in his guts.

That night had ended with him black out drunk, swearing he wouldn't have such thoughts.

Yet just a few parties later, you were once more standing in front of him, too trusting for your own good. Your grin was idiotic, your teeth on full display. You could barely hold yourself up, choosing to lean on him instead.

His senses were filled with you. The hand on his chest, the scent in his nose, the voice in his ear, the face in his view. And, God, how he wanted to taste you. He would give you the world for just one taste, for you to replace the cheap alcohol that lingered on his tongue and just submerge him completely.

Bringing his hand up on your shoulder, he felt you lean into his touch, your head quickly following. Willing his feet to move, he brought you across the house to the kitchen, carefully preparing a glass of water.

The cool feeling against your lips felt refreshing, as you swallowed happily what was given to you. Looking up at him with wide eyes, it was more than he could handle.

Pure thoughts. His brother. His trust. He was counting on him, Toru couldn't forget it. Not now, not ever.

"I'll call you an Uber."

That night, he had sat on his bed, his cock hard and leaking in his hand, mourning what could have been. He was so close, yet so far.

But, as they say, third time is the charm.

He was sat on the couch, conversing with Toji about whatever drunk idea he'd had this time, when you had straddled his lap.

Your knees plunged in the couch, your thighs softly squeezing his with need, your weight on his now growing buldge. You had rocked once tentatively and your head had dropped on his shoulder at the sensation.

Toru, at a loss of what to do, could only stare helplessly as his hands carefully hovered your form. He looked around as the party went on, blissfully unaware of what was happening. All going on with their own business. Except one. One pair of eyes fixed on your drunk movements, a wink thrown for Toru as he mouthed, "Just do it."

Toji was an asshole through and through, and one look downwards told Toru all he needed to know about his… motivations.

But before he could worry any longer about the guy watching it all unfold, you put your hand on his neck, guiding him near you. Your voice filled his ears, a soft whine, "Babyyy…"

Fuck.

"Come on, sweetheart, I'll bring you upstairs."

He'd drop you on the bed, let you get the rest you so clearly needed. That was it. Nothing more was going to happen.

As he shifted to get out of the couch that had practically swallowed him whole, you tightened your limbs around him, your head still on his shoulder, your breath on his neck.

His arms settled under your thighs, supporting your weight as he carefully climbed up the stairs. Escaping the party, the noise became muted, almost like it was an entirely different world.

In the quiet, Toru could hear his pumping heart, much louder than he was willing to admit. Your voice was soft now, a barely there murmur in the stillness of the moment.

He could barely make out the words you said, although every 'baby' and small whine that left your lips made his heart twist uncomfortably. If he was a better man, it would probably make the tent in his pants lessen, but he could still feel how tight they were.

As he arrived in his room, he opted against turning on the main light, choosing instead to light a smaller, warmer one instead. The atmosphere was soft, enveloping the both of you in a soothing blanket.

He walked over to the bed, his steps faltering ever so slightly. But his hesitation didn't last long, for as soon as a small 'hurry up' left your lips, he had made his decision.

Your back hit the bed and you relaxed, your legs still snug around his hips. Your eyes were unfocused, slightly glossed over with the effect of alcohol. He ignored the pang in his chest and instead reached up to cup your jaw, kissing you with a desperation he didn't quite want to admit to.

Your hips moved, chasing friction, and he grinded suddenly in answer, the sensation making you moan. As your jaw dropped open, his tongue slid in, the kiss turning messy.

His hand trailed down, catching on the top of your dress and bringing it down just enough for your breasts to spill out. His kisses moved down, leaving behind a wet stripe from your jaw to your neck.

"No bra?" he panted, pulling away to look at your nipples, hidden behind two carefully placed nipple patches.

You could barely answer, your words coming out breathless and broken, "Don't t-tease, just take them off— please…"

"Patience, sweetheart," he chuckled slightly before getting back to work. He sucked at the soft skin just above your collarbone, leaving behind a small gift for you to hide tomorrow morning.

He continued his path to your nipple, anticipation bubbling in your stomach. Finally, finally, he'd remove the patches, showing your sensitive nipples the attention they so craved.

Yet, he did none of that.

His mouth settled on the plastic fixed to your nipples and he sucked. Hard.

You arched into his mouth, your hand settling in his hair, your nails scratching his scalp ever so slightly. The sensation made his eyes roll back and he only sucked harder making you squirm under him.

His hand covered your other nipple, pinching it through the gummy material.

It felt unfair, how easily you were falling apart under his hands. It was an entirely new sensation, different from the way your loving boyfriend usually made love to you.

It was filthy and downright sinful, from the look in his eyes, fixed on you, to the path of his hand moving lower and lower and lower.

But you couldn't deny the heat gathering between your thighs nor the way your underwear was sticking to your folds with wetness. His hand on your lower stomach, right above it, didn’t help.

He was so close to where you wanted him, your nipple in his mouth, yet the sensation was filtered through that damn piece of plastic. It was maddening.

"Satooo," you mewled, your head falling back on the pillow, eyes closing shut from pleasure.

Suddenly, you couldn't feel the boy above you anymore. The loss of his touch broke something in you, yet you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second.

"Sat—," you started before getting interrupted as he suddenly ripped off your patches. His lips latched onto one of the nipples immediately, his other hand coming up to flick the other one.

Your moan was immediate, your nerves sensitive from the previously light sensation. It was so different from the fullness of the feeling as he really took your nipple in his mouth, the difference startling yet so delicious.

"F-fuck, slow down— b-baby," you barely managed to get out, his tongue flicking your nipple hard as if to silence you.

"Shut up. Stop talking, just enjoy the ride," he spat, his tone harsh now. You were no stranger to dirty talk, yet the sudden switch in his behaviour made you clench your thighs.

Feeling your reaction only made him laugh, the sound hollow and almost cruel, "Oh, you enjoyed that, didn’t you?"

He had pulled away now, his gaze dark and full of lust. He watched your every move and reaction. The redness of your cheeks, the tilt of your head to the side avoiding his eyes, the gloss of your eyes from the alcohol… wait, was this a tear?

How easy this was! His smirk only grew as he returned to your other nipple, hard and sensitive.

Before long, you snaked your hand down south, your clit throbbing for attention. However, he had other plans. He intercepted your wrist, pining it next to your head without a word. His teeth grazed your nipple, a silent warning that made you whine with need.

Nonetheless, he eventually let go of your arm, although you didn’t dare move it this time. He brought both of his hands on your hips, pinning them in place as he continued downwards.

Your impatience was becoming more and more evident as he took his time, not letting a single inch of your skin go without proper attention.

Your hand snaked down once again, this time settling in his hair as he placed himself between your thighs. His hands lifted your dress to your waist and spread you out, letting him take a proper look at your panty.

"Lingerie?" he raised a brow. "Clearly, you knew where this was going, sweetheart."

"Ngh— you know we—," you were unable to finish your sentence as his mouth was on you, your jaw dropping open with pleasure. Your hand tightened in his hair, tugging in a way that had his eyes rolling back.

He mouthed at you through your underwear just as he had done with your nipples, the sensation muted, yet oh so perfect.

His tongue lapped at the material, collecting your juices that had completely drenched it. He groaned as the taste hit him, his pleasure evident on his features.

Impatience did get the better of him, as his hand trailed down to move the material to the side, just enough for him to tease your entrance with his tongue.

The feeling was divine, your whole body jolting in reaction. Yet, he simply pushed down harder on your stomach, pinning you in place, a growl escaping him, "don't run, give me everything."

The knot in your stomach tightened at his unusually deep voice. It was so attractive you just couldn't help it, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

As his tongue travelled up to your clit, flicking it a few times, your moans became louder and louder, pushing him down into you, his groans soon following.

A finger circled your entrance, the contact unexpected, yet still enough to push you closer to the edge. He took your clit in his mouth, sucking it in tandem, and you couldn't hold back anymore.

"I- I- 'm coming!" you moaned, struggling to get the sentence out.

"Oh yeah?" he could only ask with a smirk before his gaze darkened and he plunged two of his fingers through your mess, straight to that spot in your gummy wall that made your eyes roll back. "Cum."

And you did.

It was powerful and all-consuming, a feeling like never before. Your back arched and your lips parted around a moan so loud you slapped your hand over your mouth, only for it to be removed.

"No, no, let me hear you, make those pretty sounds for me," he cooed.

His fingers kept pumping, helping you ride through your high, until you came back down, panting and spent.

You closed your eyes, only to open them as the fingers splitting you in two were removed, leaving you clenching around nothing.

You whined, not lucid enough to speak words. The boy above you simply shushed you as he pulled down his pants, revealing his boxers, a pretty little stain adorning them.

"You… you came?" you asked in disbelief. Sure, your boyfriend enjoyed your pleasure, yet he had never came untouched solely from giving you head.

The boy simply raised a brow at you, his voice teasing, "yeah, what about it?"

Without leaving you time to answer, he braced both hands on the bed next to your head and your heartbeat quickened with anticipation, heat pooling low in your abdomen once again.

Yet, you were quickly disappointed as he reached behind you to fish out a condom.

You pouted at the view of it, tugging him closer with your hands on his neck. He let you kiss him and you murmured against his lips, "No condom baby, you know I'm on the pill."

Fuck.

That was more than he could handle. He kissed you again, one hand braced on his bed, as the other held your jaw.

His hand travelled down, slipping in his boxers to pump his cock a few times, spreading the remnant of his cum on his entire length.

His lips stayed on yours as he finally discarded his boxers, rubbing his dick along your folds, letting it catch on your lingerie, the sensation making the both of you moan into the kiss before lining himself up with your entrance.

He pushed the tip in, the fullness of the sensation immediate. He let go of his cock after squeezing the base a few times for good measure, now pressing down on your clit and circling it a few times.

His hand then trailed up along your stomach stopping midway.

"So, I get to cum rightttttttt here?" his words slurred in his dazed state.

You were not much better, nodding fervently, babbling words through pants, "y-yes, yeah—always—right there, d-don't stop."

God, you were oh so perfect, it almost felt blasphemous. He was going to absolutely ruin you.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The two lines stared at you, mocking you. You willed them to go away, like this might all be just an awful nightmare. A sick part of your imagination that had taken over your subconscious mind.

The universe sure had a twisted sense of humour.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to your fate, leaving the pregnancy test next to the three others on your bathroom counter. All positive, the truth now undeniable.

And perhaps, if it came at a better time, you could have almost been happy. Sure, you were young, maybe too young, but you at least could've hoped for a blessing in disguise. But now? Now, it didn't feel like a blessing.

You had barely talked to your boyfriend. Or rather, he had barely talked to you, ignoring your sad attempts at reconnecting. You couldn't exactly blame him, even you could easily see that you were in the wrong.

But he deserved to know. Or, at least, you wanted to tell him, to beg him to care just a little bit. If not for your sake, then for your baby's. If it was even his.

So, you reached for you phone with shaky fingers. As you opened your chat with him, you winced seeing the last pathetic attempts of starting a conversation that fell flat on its face. Only the read notification was left, staring you in the eye, almost daring you to send another text.

Nonetheless, you wrote your message.

You : i'm pregnant

That would certainly get his attention but there must be a gentler way of letting him know.

You : hello, do you have time tomorrow

Who were you? His employer? No, that didn't work either.

You : what's up

Nope. He was your boyfriend, not your sneaky link. If he had already ignored every message under the sun asking for news, this one would certainly go unanswered too.

You : hey we should talk

Mmmh… it could work.

Perhaps a little harsh but it was undeniable that at the rate things were going, you were long overdue for a conversation. Although Sato had asked you for time to think, you couldn't simply go on ignoring the problem.

There wasn't much left to do now. Just praying and hoping that your dear boyfriend—was he still your boyfriend?—would answer your text.

Now that you were sitting in front of the dear boyfriend in question, you wished he hadn't answered your text.

His response had been dry, but it was a response nonetheless. Beggars can't be choosers, as they say.

You had quickly set up a little meeting in your favourite coffee shop, the one that had been a staple for your entire relationship. The thought of every coffee date and desperate caffeine-induced study night would have made you smile if not for the gnawing feeling in your stomach in fear of the conversation ahead.

Sato's gaze seemed indifferent, but the years you had spent by his side told you there was more hiding behind it. It was the same look he always got when he was stressed about exams or reports, the one where he tried to hide the turmoil of his mind behind practised expressions. Said turmoil was unfortunately harder to decipher and you were left guessing his thoughts.

It had been a while now that the both of you were just staring into each other's eyes. You had arrived first, your nerves leaving you restless. You had ordered, something soothing in the foolish hope that it would help. He had arrived shortly afterwards, also early. Perhaps, it was a good sign, maybe he too wanted to see you. He had taken his usual black coffee before taking his place across from you.

Both lost in thoughts, the silence had taken place instead between you. But not your usual understanding silence, the one that came from years of comfort by each other's side when you worked or even when you rested. No, this time the atmosphere was heavy in a way it hadn't been in a long time. God, you didn't think it had ever been so bad, even the awkward first date silence was better than this.

"So, you wanted to talk," stated Sato, voice cold. His tone made the unease worse, you could feel the chills crawling up your back.

"Y- yeah, I think we should talk." The silence fell once more, Sato waiting for you to elaborate.

Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, "I'm pregnant!"

You snapped your eyes shut, head hung low in shame. So much for being gentle.

"W-what do you mean," stuttered Sato. "Pregnant? That can't be. I-I mean it can, but it's very unlikely. With you being on the pill and all, the chances are quite low."

He was rambling now and in your panic-induced state, you could hardly stop him. His nervous ticks were coming back, the way he adjusted his glasses with the tip of his fingers and the dead skin he picked off near his nails.

"Last time you were ovulating we didn't even sleep together, you know, because of my exams and everything. And it's important to remember that stress most likely affects fertility and you know how I get before exams. I mean, it's not a proven fact or anything but there is some kind of consensus among scientists."

He was practically gasping for air at this point. His brain always returned to science in times of uncertainty like a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. It seemed to help him breathe in the tumult of life. You didn't have it in you to stop him.

"Well, we did sleep together that one time, but it's unlikely that you got pregnant from then, since you know…" he trailed off, embarrassment blocking the red of the thought. The slight red tint that now adorned his cheeks would have made you smile, but now was hardly the right time.

"Unless… I should redo my calculations, when was your last period again? And your average cycle length?" he asked.

By now, you were looking down in shame, unable to meet his eyes. You don't know whether he hadn't thought about it or whether he was ignoring the possibility entirely, too deep in the claws of denial.

He opened his mouth once more, but his voice faltered. "Toru…"

Your silence was answer enough for him, as he realized you had come to the same conclusion. When you talked again, your voice was low, unsure, "I'm sorry."

The three words barely began to cover the turmoil of emotions swirling in your mind and they certainly didn't help Sato, yet you couldn't help but speak them. You had no explanation, no justification. There was no excuse in this world that could make up for the hurt you had caused.

The moment hanged in the air, the world seemingly stilling just for the two of you.

"We'll probably never know who the father is," he stated after a pause. His voice was low, the hesitant tone making your heart break. "Since we're, you know, twins."

"What?" You had never thought of that possibility. Yes, currently, it's unsure, but eventually, right?

Sato's eyes were still avoiding yours. They were now fixed somewhere far beyond you, a deep hurt etched in them. Yet, weirdly enough, there was also acceptance in them. "It doesn't really matter, does it? Whether you have a kid with him or me, they'll be practically the same anyways."

The idea repelled you, and the fact he seemed so open to the possibility only made it all worse. "What do you mean, it's the same? No, it's not! Absolutely not!"

Your chest rose and fell quickly, your mouth hanged open, at a loss for word.

"Well, genetically, a baby of you and me, or him and you, would be the same," he explained, like that would make everything better. "Although it doesn't account for potential mutations that occur naturally over time."

"Oh how comforting! My boyfriend's baby will be mutated differently!" you spat, poison lacing you tone. The stress and unease from the last few days were really getting to you, not to mention your boyfriend’s questionable attempt at comforting you. You felt tears prickling behind your eyes but you pushed them away, refusing to break down. Not now. Not in front of him.

Sato seemed to startled at your sudden burst of anger. His hand reached out to yours before hesitating and dropping on the table. The unease that had seeped itself deep in your relationship was foreign to you both. Your lover in particular was clearly having a hard time navigating this new situation. When he spoke again, his voice was low yet sure, "As long as I get to raise them as my child, I will consider them my descendant in every way that matters."

His statement made you pause for a second. Despite searching, you couldn't find even an hint of doubt in his voice. His eyes, finally settled on yours for the first time today, were fixed, unmoving. You couldn't stop the hope bubbling in your gut, "So, you're saying you'll stay with me?"

"Yes, for as long as you'll have me," he answered without missing a beat. He sounded surprised… no, almost offended you even had to ask. The way he was so sure, so ready to choose you and your baby despite everything made you smile softly. Perhaps, the two of you could have a peaceful life together.

"Shouldn't we tell your brother?"

Well, there goes your shot at a peaceful life.

Your mouth went faster than your brain, the moment breaking in pieces before could even begin to bloom. God, you idiot.

"What? No," his tone left no room for discussion, yet now that the elephant had been addressed, you could hardly stop your train of thought.

"Doesn't he have the right to know? The chances that he is the father are pretty high, we can't just keep it a secret from him. He'll realise at some point anyway when I start showing."

Sato crossed his arms, looking unimpressed with your empathy. "He's dumber than you give him credit for."

Something in the way he was looking at you, his lower lip spiting out in a small pout, a bad habit he had never shaken off, made you laugh. A small giggle escaped you, and before long it had transformed into a loud bout of laughter.

The boy in front of you could only frown on confusion, your laugh not being what he had expected.

"I'm sorry," you tried to explain through your now unstoppable laughter. "I didn’t mean to laugh."

Despite himself, Sato couldn't help himself, your laughter contagious. Perhaps it was the stress, now replaced by relief, that had brought this wave over the both of you.

Your complicity was once again shining through, years by each other's sides unable to be erased. Maybe it would truly be all right.

"So you come here often?"

"Yes, Gojo. It's my class," you asshole, you almost added. "You'd know if you'd actually come to class for once."

"Oh feisty toady, are we? Well since you're in this class, I'm sure my attendance will increase," he flirted, throwing a wink your way.

You looked back down to your paper, not willing to dignify his blatant disrespect of your relationship with an answer.

"Sooo, are you going to remove your bag so I can sit down?"

You finally looked up at him, one eyebrow raised in question. "Mmmh, no, I don't think I will."

"How cruel, you're breaking my heart over here," he chuckled, a hand placed dramatically on his chest. With no reaction from you, he took your bag, placing it on the floor before taking the seat next to you.

"Come on, we should help each other. I heard a certain little boyfriend of yours stopped talking to you. You should really take the opportunity to upgrade, if you know what I mean," he smiled, gesturing at himself.

Your deadpan stare should have told him all he needed to know, yet he didn’t flinch. Whether he was ignoring the fact or just downright stupid was a mystery to you. Although you would probably go for the latter.

Did he really think reminding you of your failing relationship would help his case? Because it did not. It only made you want to punch him in the face, more than you already did.

"Come on baby," he drawled, "just admit you enjoyed it. Fucked you better than that nerd ever could. Nothin' to be mad about."

God, he could be such an ass. It only made you want to wipe the smirk off of his face, yet before you could retort anything you stopped yourself. You were falling right into his trap. It was attention he wanted, wasn't it? And here you were giving it to him right now.

So, you simply turned your head down, doing your best to stay focused on your work. Perhaps, if you ignored him hard enough, he'd take the hint and leave.

Actually, it turns out your dear boyfriend's twin could be quite persistent when he wanted to.

"Here you go," he announced in place of a greeting. Your usual order from the bakery near campus sat in front of you, ever so slightly warm. It was there, just sitting so perfectly on a carefully folded napkin, your mouth already watering at its sight.

Toru had clearly noticed the sparkle in your eyes as you noticed the pastry, for he only chuckled, "Just eat it, I didn't poison it, I swear. Scout's honour!"

The idiot wasn't even a Scout, the little gesture accompanying his words only rendered ridiculous with that knowledge. Yet, you couldn't help the little twitch of your lips at his nonsense. Maybe, he wasn't nearly as bad as you made him out to be.

Wait, no? What were you thinking? He was the reason for all your troubles right now. You could hardly afford the empathy his good actions were bringing out in you.

Nonetheless, you took the pastry. After all, it was already paid for, it would be a waste not to eat it. Toru didn't even like pastries, as he had told you the first time you had tried to refuse his gesture.

You turned back to the lesson, but the boy seated next to you did not.

His gaze, constantly fixed on you, quickly became a distraction you could never quite shake off. Each time you turned your head, he offered you a smile. Not teasing, not brash, not loud in the way only he knows how to be loud, just honest.

It always made something tingle in your heart.

So you always turned back to the lesson, telling yourself it was just because his smile reminded you of your lover's. That soft smile he gave you when you actually got the problem right. The one right before he starts to eat something sweet.

But perhaps it was his dimples or the shape of his smile that reminds you that their smiles are not all that similar. And maybe, just maybe, it is his smile that you find cute.

However you swore you wouldn't let him get any closer. You had to keep your guard up. You owed it to Sato and you owed it to yourself. It would only bring you harm to let someone like him make himself at home in your carefully crafted bubble of a personal life. Right?

"Hi."

"Fuck off."

As the door slammed in his face, Toru was quick to slip his foot through the entrance, leaving himself a small opening. He hadn't exactly expected a warm welcome—hadn't deserved it—but this was a bit extreme. "Come on, can you at least let me in? Please?"

Sato's face stayed indifferent, but the cracks in his face were visible to his one and only twin brother. It had once been a sign of their complicity, but seeing it now, Toru could hardly ignore the pang in his chest.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, serious in a way it never is. "We should talk."

Hesitation flickered across Sato's features. After a moment that felt like eternity, he finally opened the door and stepped aside, letting his twin in.

Sato's dorm was small yet personal, a glimpse into his life. The decoration was simple, pictures hanged on the wall and mismatched trinkets carefully placed on the shelves. Faces he did not recognise, gifts he hadn't seen offered, a scent he couldn't quite place.

Toru had always thought life had a way of making things happen, but perhaps that wasn't quite true. Maybe he just hadn't noticed what didn't happen—didn't pay attention.

"Here you go, coffee. I already added sugar," stated Sato plainly, his voice bringing his brother back to earth.

The latter took the cup, careful not to spill anything like it would break the sanctity of the room holding the fragile moment in its hands.

He took a sip, trying his best to ignore the way the man in front of him was staring a hole through his brain. As he finally put the cup back down, he decided against making an attempt at small talk. His brother's crossed arms and deadpan expression only confirmed that choice.

"So, you don't talk to her anymore?"

Sato didn't flinch, clearly expecting the topic to be brought up. "We talk."

That almost made him laugh, "No, you don't. With the way she desperately picks her phone up every time it rings and looks so disappointed afterwards, anyone can tell."

Sato's frown deepened, his lips parting once. Then twice, but nothing came out. Eventually, he scoffed, "Not your business."

Not denying it. Simply, deflecting.

If the years by his brother's side taught Toru anything, it was that this was weird.

Sato did not deflect. He had a carefully planned answer for everything that came his way, a precise explanation for his every action.

Toru weighed his options deliberately. He could help you make up with your boyfriend. He could also take you for himself. A damsel in distress, abandoned by her prince charming. Surely, another prince charming could take his place.

Now, if he played his cards right, all would go according to plan. He just had to nudge his brother in the right direction.

The silence stretched, the two boys thinking over their own actions. It was never sign of good news, the stillness unnatural.

Just as Toru was ready to make his move, like a feline pouncing on his prey, the doorbell rang. The moment broke, destroyed by the world that kept spinning around them.

"I'll go get it."

Toru was left alone once again and continued his discovery of the room. The desk sitting on the corner of the room stole his attention. The stack of papers was overflowing, threatening to fall.

At his feet, crumpled papers filled with messy handwriting hid the floor boards. He picked one up, opening it to find complex calculations in every direction. He was almost tempted to pocket it and sell it. Surely, there had to be some kind of great discovery among one of those discarded sheets.

He picked up another one, unfolding it to find text this time. Perhaps, the English class he took for extra credit on his degree. But, taking a look closer, it became clear this was no essay. The words in front of eyes seemed to blur, yet something clicked in his mind.

Suddenly, it all made sense.

Your awkwardness. The cold between you and Sato. His distance. The harshness of your words.

A baby.

Of course, the timeline matched perfectly. One drunk night, no condom, and an unlikely pregnancy.

The gears started turning in his head. This was a great opportunity. He would not let it go.

He carefully folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket, before taking his place on the chair as if nothing had happened. He put down his hands on his lap, willing them to stop shaking.

Before long, Sato came back, mumbling something about that 'idiot delivery guy'. He sat down too before continuing the previous conversation, "you were about to say?"

"Oh, I don't remember. It must not have been important," he stated, the lie obvious, yet Sato couldn't bring himself to call it out.

After all, his brother was the one who came to him, if he suddenly didn't want to talk anymore, well who was he to complain?

By then, it didn't take long for the boys to make up excuses of things to do and go back to avoiding each other. It had long become second nature.

Toru wasn't dumb.

Or, at least, that's what he's trying to make himself believe.

Yet, no matter how many times he repeated it to himself, he wished he could take some of his brother's neurons. Just a few, it would surely get him far.

After finding out about your pregnancy, he had spent his days and nights trying to figure out the best course of action. He had to be careful, he couldn't just say anything.

Clearly, the 'be yourself' route had not worked that great, if the glares you threw at him were anything to go by.

Well, it was time for a new approach.

"I think we should talk."

Your surprise was evident on your face. The amount of times you had heard that phrase the last few weeks was terrifying to say the least. Words seemed to escape you, so you stayed silent, waiting for Toru to elaborate.

"I would like to step up as the father of our kid," he stated, like it was normal. Like this was just another Tuesday.

You choked on air, the sentence more than you could manage. You had enough issues as it was, you didn't need your boyfriend's idiot twin brother to get involved too.

"No."

"You're not allowed to refuse me. I did my research," he retorted without missing a beat.

"Stop fucking shouting," you hissed, "we're in the middle of the classroom, you dumbass."

Tugging his sleeve, you marched out of the classroom, Toru following closely behind.

He was dumbfounded at your reaction. He hadn't expected an enthusiastic yes, but this was a little harsh. Was it so really so bad to have him be a father to his child?

Entering an empty classroom, you slammed the door behind him before turning to him, hands on your hips.

"Listen to me very carefully, because I'm not repeating myself," you started, making Toru gulp in fear.

"I can barely get Sato to talk to me and you think you can just waltz in here, like it was your birth right. Well guess what? It's not. You're not my boyfriend, you're not even a friend, you're just the weird guy that slept with his brother's girlfriend when she was drunk," the words landed hard. But you were not done yet. "You're lucky I didn't claim it was rape. I could have. It was rape. But I didn't. You know why? Because Sato asked me not to."

The silence was deafening.

For the first time in his life, Toru didn't know what to say.

Your hatred seemed to run much deeper than he had expected. One sentence had been enough to set off the ticking time bomb that was your heart.

And Sato… had protected him? Toru couldn't understand for the life of him why.

You were heaving, chest moving up and down as your breath was shallow with anger. You stared at him for a few more seconds before turning on your heels and stomping off.

He was left alone with his thoughts, a sudden fear taking hold of him.

You were right, it was rape. You were intoxicated. You called Sato's name multiple times. You could get the police involved.

Why had he never thought of that?

Why had that thought never even crossed his mind?

Tears started to fall before he could even notice them, something deep in his heart breaking. Had he crossed the line? Was there no coming back from that point?

Sure, he had done a lot of shit in his life, but never to that point. What could he even do now? How do you apologize for such an error?

It seemed he still had much to atone for.

The next week, morning sickness hit you like a truck. Actually, twenty of them.

And then there was midday sickness. And evening sickness.

To sum it up, you were always sick, always throwing up, and going out was absolutely out of the question.

Before long, you had become a recluse, just a few of your closest friends being allowed to visit you in any capacity. Mostly to bring you food or your special cravings. But nonetheless, you did your best to study for school while trying to shove down anything that wouldn't get back out where it came from.

Juggling it all felt impossible but there weren't many other options.

The outside world quickly heard of your sudden disappearance. In particular, one idiot named Toru Gojo.

To say he felt worried would be an understatement. Right after taking the great resolution of leaving you alone, you suddenly stopped showing up at school. One day, and then another, and another.

It didn't take that many days for him to seriously freak out. Who leaves a pregnant lady in distress all alone in her home? But what could he even do, surely you would slam the door in his face. Maybe slap him too if you had time.

So he did the next logical thing.

"Hi."

"Fuck off."

This felt like déjà vu.

"Listen, I know you don't want to hear me out, but please do. Your girlfriend, you know the pregnant one, she hasn't come to school in a week, and I'm kinda worried about her but I don't think I should go see her. She scares me a little bit," he explained as he watched his brother's face slowly fall.

"Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean? She's sick? And how do you even know she's pregnant? Wait no, that's no important right now, I'll go see her," he exclaimed, running around wildly to find his shoes and a jacket. He closed the door and added with a sharp glare, "You better not follow me."

In a record time, he showed up at your doorstep.

"Hey, are you okay?"

You were baffled as your boyfriend—who you hadn't seen in literal weeks—was standing in front of you, seeming very out of breath. "Are you okay? You sound like you're dying."

"I— I'm fine," he panted, "it's you."

"I'm okay," you simply replied, unsure how to feel about the whole situation. "Why are you here?"

Your voice was neutral, nothing like the cheery tone you usually used with him. It made him flinch and he looked down, searching for the words that would best convoy his thoughts. "I was worried."

His voice was so soft it made something break in you. You slipped aside, letting him come in without a word. You were soon sitting on your coach, the atmosphere tense.

"I fucked up. I'm sorry," he started, finally breaking the slowly thickening silence. "I have no excuse, I wanted to be a great father, perfect in all my duties and I didn't realise you just needed someone to be there for you."

His eyes didn't raise once, his fingers fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. Eventually, as the silence lengthened, he did raise his gaze, only to find you already looking at him, a small smile on your lips. Hope bubbled in his stomach at your expression. Perhaps he hadn't fucked up too badly.

"I'm very happy you came to that conclusion all on your own, but I must say; for such a genius, you can be the greatest idiot sometimes," despite the complaint, Toru felt relief flooding through him and he threw himself at you, tackling you in a hug.

"Thank you so much, baby. You have no idea how much this means to me," he laughed, peppering kisses on any bit of skin that was within reach. "Next time I'm being such an idiot please slap me across the face."

You continued to chat, finally catching up after weeks of distance, both of you clearing missing the mundane life that had been disturbed.

Eventually, the night fell outside, living you to go back to your old habits.

"You're sleeping over, right?"

"Oh, right, yes! I should just go get some stuff back at my place, I'll be right back."

And now, you knew your boyfriend was quite peculiar about his stuff. He was exactly a light packer, he just couldn't help himself. Nonetheless, you hadn't expected 'some stuff' to also include an enormous whiteboard with a five year plan for your baby.

"I just wanted to be ready," he explained clumsily as he tried to hide the board with his body. Unfortunately for him, it was far from a success, the board being much too big for that. He could feel like your gaze looking over every detail, a smile slowly growing on your face.

"Well, since we're here, you can explain it all to me," you eventually said, Sato getting five shades redder at your words. He didn't seem quite ready to admit that the weeks you had spent apart had not spared him of thoughts of you.

He did reluctantly move aside, letting you get the full view of the board, before beginning his presentation. The amount of research he must have done to reach such a point scared you, but nonetheless you were grateful to have him by your side.

It was you, him and his science against the world.

And maybe, just maybe you would be just fine.

Unless… "Why is it written 'paternity test' in the corner? I thought we wouldn't be able to know anyways?"

"Well… there are some tests that can tell the difference but they're very rare. Fortunately, I have a friend who's doing his research in Philadelphia about this topic so he was happy to have a test subject. I sent him some of our DNA. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I figured you wouldn't want to hear about me," he said sheepishly, rubbing his nape.

Your brows furrowed, considering this news. You had almost resigned yourself to never knowing who the biological father would be. Some part of you even thought it would be better not to know. That way, you don't know that it's Toru, you can always say that there's at least a chance the baby is Sato's.

Yet, the other part really wanted to know.

"We'll raise the child together no matter who the father is, though!" he rushed to reassure you, your lack of a reaction seeming to trouble him. "I don't plan on taking back that promise."

"Then, maybe we can do it. I think we're strong."

"Yes. Together."

"Together."

Somewhere in a lab in Philadelphia :

RESEARCH TWINS FATHER XVI : TEST 034

FATHER : TORU GOJO

oddarling — all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, or feed to ai.

discover more of my works in my masterlist <3

[k4dewashere]

DAME UN RATITO QUE NO QUIERO DEJARTE

Two people who learned how to leave without ever learning how to forget.

⟡ Pairing : Modern Setting! divorced! Anaxa x reader

⟡ tags : the holy trinity aka smut & fluff & angst, divorced! Anaxa and reader, co-parenting, does the kid count as an oc? named her Daphne as a reference to Greek/Roman mythology, reader has a dog (specifically a Samoyed), no use of y/n or pronouns (except for 'you') but reader has female anatomy, reader wears perfume, lowkey yearner4yearner, crack treated seriously, the concept of Anaxa having beef with his ex-spouse's dog will never be unfunny to me

⟡ Warnings ! : pwp, making out, make up sex (sorta?), drunk sex, (thus) dubious consent, fingering, dirty talk, mentioned exhibitionism (it's not Anaxa and reader), although you could consider fucking with your child asleep next door as exhibitionism but what do I know, SLIGHT degredation, a whole lot of bickering

⟡ Wc ! : ≈ 10.6k words, I know, I KNOW —its worth it I PROMISE (ﾟーﾟ*)

Kade's note : Writing a child calling Anaxa "dad" made me oddly maternal, I blame this for my temporary baby fever or wtvr. Mind you, this started from 'I want to write Anaxa and reader bickering' and went in a whole other direction, my bad. I'm genuinely devastated that the amount of chrysos heir fics has been dropping like my grades since the release of the new version, not to worry, though, we are fixing that (the fanfic amount not my grades —thats a lost cause). You guys have no idea how many times Tumblr crashed during this, I gave up on the dividers halfway through

Rain softly pattered at the windshield of your car, the dual wipers dancing from side to side every few seconds. Outside, the wind picked up, preparing a nasty thunderstorm. He could see you through the small window over the kitchen sink. Unmoving for a few long minutes, staring off into the waterfalls racing from his water pipes. Anaxagoras sat at the large kitchen table, polished dark wood smooth underneath his fingers as he slowly tapped them against the oak in a rhythmic manner. A huff echoed through the large house, pulling him away from his observation. He turned to his left where quite the frustrated eight-year-old sat. His daughter, fussing over English literature.

The old Swiss clock on the wall indicated half-past seven, ticking away in the comfortable silence of house. Anaxagoras' home was what one would expect of a Nobel prize winner such as himself. Many bookshelves lingering in the hallways and staircase. Their content varying from worn down encyclopedias, of which the title had to be rewritten by his own pen, to literature from the twentieth century, glossy and smooth. The furniture was old, yet well conserved. It's dark oak contrasting well from the pale birch tiles on the floor.

Although the house was sickeningly clean, details pointed at another, perhaps warmer, presence ; on the wall near the entryway, remains of colorful art he hadn't had the heart to entirely scrub off stayed, rain boots thrown haphazardly at the front door with no regard for their muddy soles, Legos on the living room's dark carpet and of course, school work scattered on a long kitchen table where only three vintage chairs had marks of usure.

“I don’t get why the Little Prince leaves his planet. It’s stupid. He should’ve just talked to the rose instead of running away.”

Daphne's chubby cheeks were puffed out, fierce eyes glaring at the book like it personally offended her.

"He leaves because he lacks emotional foresight. Much like humanity, he mistakes wounded pride for clarity.”

“Dad, it’s a book for primary schoolers. It’s not that deep.”

“It is always that deep. Simplicity is merely philosophy without ornament.”

Silence ensued, her eyes turning back to her paper, scribbling away. However, when he turned his gaze back to your car, he found it empty and before he could question it any further, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.

The smell of your perfume hit him before the sight of your face. Strong, infatuating, familiar. Your head peeked from behind the kitchen door as you opened it. Daphne's head snapping up from her paper at the sound.

"Are you guys doing homework?"

You asked, stepping forward into the room, yours and Anaxa's child jumping from her seat to entangle you in a warm embrace, as if awaiting rescue rather than affection. You picked her up easily, although Anaxa noticed delay in your balance, the fatigue behind your eyes, had you lost weight? Your gaze dropped on the paper they were currently writing, arching a brow.

"Isn't this due in two weeks?"

"Indeed, early preparation prevents mediocrity."

Your expression shifted. Subtle. Controlled. But he knew you well enough to see the fracture line.

“I thought we talked about this,” you said, quieter now. “No academic pressure.”

“There is no pressure,” he countered. “There is structure.”

“She’s eight.”

“She is capable.”

“She’s a child.”

“She is exceptional.”

Your jaw tightened.

“And she’s already skipped a grade,” you reminded him. “She doesn’t need to be optimized.”

"Mom,"

Optimized. An inefficient word. An emotional one.

“She deserves cultivation,” he said. “Potential left untended atrophies.”

"Dad,"

You adjusted Daphne higher on your hip, protectively. As if it were a reflex deeply etched in your bones.

“She deserves to rest.”

Silence stretched between you. Daphne’s fingers curled into your collar.

Anaxagoras felt it then ; that faint, unwelcome sensation in his chest. Not guilt, never guilt. Perhaps, disagreement.

“She was not distressed,” he said, quieter now. More deliberate. “She asked about the text.”

“She asks because she wants your approval.”

The statement struck with irritating precision.

“And you assume I would deny it?”

You didn’t answer, brushing your thumb through Daphne’s hair, as if shielding her from something invisible. The child visibly had given up on attempting to stop you, already half asleep.

“She is not humanity,” you said at last. “She doesn’t need to be corrected before she fails.”

His gaze hardened, not at you, but at the implication.

“Failure,” he said calmly, “is best studied in controlled doses.”

“She’s not a thesis, Anaxagoras.”

“No,” he agreed.

“She is far more important than one.”

You scoffed, turning on your heel to the hallway. Leaving Anaxa to gather the remains of Daphne's papers in her small, glittery, purple school bag. Lithe fingers danced across scribbled sheets, neatly tucking them into a plastic folder. Zipping the bag closed.

He found you in the entryway, his steps muted against the carpet so that you didn't startle. Your gaze was fixed outside, brows furrowing in slight irritation at the storm. Finally, you got into motion. Picking up Daphne's bag of belongings with one feet before reaching for it with your unused hand. The other still holding gently onto your daughter as not to wake her from her sweet slumber.

Anaxa stood in the doorway, watching in silent contemplation as you prepared to leave. The sound of rain against the roof formed a steady rhythm in the background.

He observed the practiced ease with which you handled everything, carrying your daughter, her bag, her boots and navigating your way out without a second thought. It was familiar, almost muscle memory at this point.

He didn't ask if you needed assistance, for you'd only roll your eyes at him. You'd always refused help, his especially, and that hadn't changed since the divorce.

He knew every one of your little habits ; the way you sighed when the weather was uncooperative, the way you always picked up Daphne's things first because she was more important, and a hundred other tiny details that came with knowing you intimately.

As he watched, Anaxa's stoic expression remained unchanged but his thoughts churned beneath the surface. He remembered these moments well, the rain, the sleepy child, the quiet. For two people who were no longer together, you had a strange kind of synchronization. Like a dance that you could perform blindfolded.

His eyes lingered on your face, on your tired but determined expression. It made him want to reach out and touch your cheek, to smooth away the worry lines that had started to appear.

You finally turned your head toward him, the message easily going through you. Anaxa lifted the school bag, which you took without gentleness, easing it onto your other shoulder.

"See you next week."

Your tone was curt, devoid of any emotion shimmering beneath the surface. Two years of "I'll pick her up on Friday" and "she left her violin case here" and yet the palpable tension between the two of you had yet to disperse.

Anaxa watched as you stepped out into the damp night, umbrella in hand. For a moment, he caught a faint whiff of your perfume, the familiar scent tugging lightly at his memory.

The light from the entryway illuminated you from behind, casting a halo around your silhouette. You looked tired, but there was a determination etched onto your face that he recognized all too well. It was the same expression you'd worn throughout your marriage, stubborn and unyielding.

As you disappeared into the rainy night, he couldn't resist the urge to call after you.

"Drive carefully."

You nodded without turning fully, just a tilt of your head beneath the umbrella's curve, and kept walking. Anaxa's eyes followed your figure as you gently fastened Daphne's seatbelt, closing the umbrella before climbing into the car yourself. Driving off into the dark countryside back into the city lights.

After the divorce, you had found a nice apartment to move into. It was closer to the university you worked at, and of course, farther from the house he kept living in. Although the drive back and forth was a lengthy one, he didn't find it in himself to complain, for he knew you'd always been a city mouse rather than a country one.

Fuchsia eyes watched your car until the taillights disappeared down the road, swallowed by darkness and rain. He lingered on his doorstep, the night air cool against his skin. Your image still vivid in his mind, the slope of your shoulders, the line of your jaw, the cradle of your hands around his daughter.

He didn't know how long he stood there, a few seconds, perhaps longer, listening to the rain and his own thoughts before finally closing the heavy door and stepping back into the quiet of his house.

He was greeted with silence as he passed the threshold, the absence after you'd left palpable. Without you and Daphne, the home seemed too big, too empty. Anaxagoras was used to solitude, preferred it even, but this was different. This hollowness was something he couldn't ignore.

He wandered through the first floor aimlessly, each corner sending a new wave of memories ; the couch where you used to sit and grade papers, curled up with your knees to your chest. The kitchen counter where you'd stolen his coffee because yours was much too sweet. The stairs where he'd watched you carry a then-infant Daphne to bed.

He stumbled into the living room, eyeing the abstract construction of Legos on the carpeted floor beside the coffee table. Kneeling, he gathered the unused blocks into their designated box, closing the lid. Gently picking up the unstable assemblage and Lego carton, he went up the stairs into his daughter's bedroom.

The box was placed back neatly with the other toys, Daphne's Lego bunny (or so he thought it was meant to represent) went on the desk where she could continue it the following week. However, as he was about to leave the room, Anaxa's gaze stopped on a pen laying on the wooden table.

He picked it up, twirling it idly between his fingers. It was one you used for grading, you'd always chosen this one brand, a habit you'd picked from college. Daphne must've stolen it.

Despite himself, he brought it closer, breathing in the faint scent of ink, —and your perfume. As he suspected, it was indeed yours.

A low buzz echoed through the silence, making him jump and drop the pen like it'd burnt him.

20:43 "We're home."

21:09 "Don't forget Daphne's science fair on Wednesday."

Cold, but direct as always. Below the messages stood three dots for a long while before untimely, they disappeared. A file sent instead with all the coordinates of the fair.

21:13 "She'd be really disappointed if you chose your papers over her."

Ouch, a subtle jab at their past history.

21:14 "I'd never choose papers over her."

The reply came instantly —too fast, almost defensive. The three dots flickered again, then vanished.

"I'll be there, front row," came soon after. No explanation, no apology, just a promise etched in a digital tone. He didn’t need to say more. He never did. The project photos in his gallery spoke for him. He'd already been preparing with her. Watching her run through her speech with that same focused intensity she'd inherited from the both of you.

21:17 "She practiced in front of me earlier today. 'Told me to tell you she used your favorite quote in her conclusion."

Then, silence, you didn't answer for a few long minutes and when you finally did, it contained no words.

21:25 [Photo]

He opened it, your daughter sleeping soundly, cuddling with your Samoyed. Her face squished against pure white fur. The picture was taken with a flash, Daphne and the dog closest to the camera while your torso was slightly noticeable in the dim background, only in your bra for you always ran hot when you slept. Daphne must've wanted to sleep in your bed again.

Anaxa stared at the photo longer than he should have. The way her face was buried in the dog’s fur, how one tiny hand clutched a fistful of white fluff like it was an anchor. His chest tightened.

He knew about your loneliness. He saw it in your eyes every time you came to drop Daphne off at his house. Saw it in the way you stood just a little too still by your car, as if giving yourself one extra second before returning to an apartment that echoed. Anaxagoras was no fool, he knew why you adopted that monster of fur and spit. You kept that thing around to keep you away from that loneliness that only came with having your daughter ripped away from you for half a month.

You said it was a great way to force yourself to go out, to avoid spending your days cooped up in your apartment grading papers.

You’d chosen this. Softness over solitude. Responsibility over retreat. Even if it meant living with a creature that shed on Anaxa's favorite coat during visits and growled at him for no discernible reason.

His gaze stopped on your body for a few seconds. He closed the photo, opening the conversation again.

"You always ran warm, but slept cold|"

The message sat there —unsent.

Anaxa stared at the draft, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, with a quiet exhale, he deleted it.

Too close. Too telling.

Instead, he opened the photo again and zoomed in, just slightly, on your arm behind them. The faint trail of dark hair along your forearm. The way your hand rested near Daphne’s foot, as if, even half-asleep, you were still checking she was there.

His fingers brushed the screen.

He remembered those nights ; the three of you tangled in sheets, Daphne small and warm between you both like a living promise. You’d tease him for sleeping in full sleeves while you lay shirtless like some sun-blessed deity unbothered by temperature or propriety. He'd argue it was dignified. You'd say it was stuffy. She’d giggle and pull at his shirt until he gave in.

Back then warmth wasn’t just body heat : It was permission to be soft. And now? Now, he hoarded moments like this one —a flash-lit photo sent without words, as quietly as a man stealing bread to survive winter.

Soon, the icon on the lower right of your profile picture went gray, indicating you'd left the conversation at that silent farewell.

He turned his phone off, then proceeded to turn off the lights one by one. Until only his bedroom remained dark and waiting for dreams that wouldn’t come alone.

Wednesday came by quickly. The weather had yet to improve for the streets were still flooded and the water pipes from Daphne's school often leaked a few droplets at the time. In front of the gym gathered many parents, discussing various topics among themselves. Some Anaxa recognized from other school gatherings, they politely nodded at him and he did the same. Still, there was no denying the silence which had stretched from all parents alike. For all recognized the Nobel prize winner whom had stayed on the newspapers for at least a few months. He ignored their chatter of disbelief, after all, a man who cracked quantum paradox before breakfast didn't exactly blend in. Regardless, he appeared as cold and calculated even if he was, under that mask, quite restless.

He'd arrived 20 minutes early, not because he was eager (he'd tell himself), but because punctuality was discipline. Not because he hadn't slept well the night before imagining Daphne's face if he missed her presentation (he'd never admit that). And certainly not because he'd memorized every line of her project or bought her a small titanium planter in case she won (absurd).

No, it was simply logical to be prepared.

His expression remained neutral, but his eyes lingered on the stage where the awards were supposed to be handed out. Searching for that familiar mop of hair. His gaze landed on her soon enough, standing near the stage with a few classmates. He approached her slowly, making sure not to startle the child.

"Daphne," he called out, voice calm and measured.

She turned and for a brief moment, her eyes widened in surprise. Then, like a sun breaking through clouds, she grinned.

"Dad!"

He knelt down carefully, his coat brushing against the polished floor. Ignoring the looks sent to him by the parents surrounding them.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," she said, clutching her project folder tighter to her chest.

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

She beamed under his gaze, the kind of warmth only children can give unconditionally. She leaned forward, whispering to him as if sharing a forbidden secret.

"Mom said you might not show up."

Anaxa's breath caught, but he didn't let it show on his face. Instead, he looked back into his daughter's eyes, a mirror of yours.

"I always come for you."

His eyes flickered to you, catching sight of your frame near a cluster of parents. Even from a distance, you looked good. Effortlessly so. A part of him wanted to look away, to focus back on Daphne, but he found himself staring instead. Each sharp line of your profile was familiar, the way you leaned slightly forward when you listened, the way your mouth curved when you smiled —even at strangers, the way your eyes never held anything halfway. Always intense, always all-consuming.

It was as if the whole gym had vanished, the noise of the crowd and the idle chatter faded into background. All Anaxa could see was you. Daphne tugged at his coat, breaking him from his thoughts, looking at him with a small frown

"Dad," Daphne whispered, her eyes flickering between both her parents.

He forced himself back to the present.

"Sorry, sweetheart." He offered her a slight smile. "I zoned out for a moment."

She seemed to accept the excuse. Her smile returning, even if she'd noticed the direction of his gaze and had a habit of being too perceptive for her age.

The child followed his gaze once more, commenting with a typical bluntness: "You're staring at Mom again."

Anaxa's eyes flickered back to her, surprised by her directness.

"I was just… observing."

"You do that a lot." She countered, unimpressed, in a tone that made Anaxa almost want to laugh. She was much too like you. Too direct, too observant.

"It's a bad habit." He admitted.

Daphne shrugged, the movement so similar to you that it made his heart ache.

"You should stop, it makes you look silly."

"Your father looks silly regardless, Daphne."

Your voice was calm, yet with that blunt edge your child also seemed to posses. Anaxa didn't move, not at first. He stayed on one knee, the weight of years pressing down in the silence between you. Then slowly, he turned his head. You stood there, lips quirked up like a challenge, the artificial light catching the curve of you jaw. Ethereal as ever, sharp as a blade wrapped in velvet.

He rose with deliberate grace, dusting off his coat as if mere fabric could shield him from that voice.

"I resemble historical portraits," he answered flatly. Your lips twitched, just once, at his comment but it was enough. A tiny crack in your composure was victory enough for a man who measured wins in millimeters.

"You both look silly." Daphne corrected her previous statement.

Anaxa looked at her, then at you and for the first time that day, something warm flickered behind his eyes.

"Perhaps we always have."

"Perhaps," you complied.

One of Daphne's friends passed beside you, and quickly your daughter had vanished amidst the crowd. He eyed her until the vivid color of her dress blended with gray variants. Then you spoke, and he turned towards you.

"I'm glad you came," you admitted lowly, "I brought extra ice-cream in case you hadn't. I'm relieved I won't have to over cap her sugar consumption today."

The words left him briefly speechless. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the honesty behind them. He had expected a dig, a dry remark… not this. He recovered quickly, masking his surprise with a scoff.

"Extra ice-cream?" He repeated, "For her, or you?"

"Mh, both."

The silence was somewhat comfortable, a silent admission. Anaxa let his gaze wander on your frame. Your marriage may have ended in legalities but the bonds you'd formed, the child you'd raised, those were permanent, indelible. For a moment, he almost asked if…

No. He looked away, until your voice called at him once more.

"Oh, by the way, are you free to take her back a little earlier this week? A colleague of mine invited me to a bar this Friday and I'd hate to decline for I owe him. I'd hire a babysitter, but I figured you'd want her if you weren't busy."

His eyebrows quirked at the inquiry.

"You?" he asked skeptically.

The idea of you, who spent most nights grading papers or writing essays, going to a bar was almost comical. You'd always been someone who preferred quiet comforts, what had changed?

"You're going to a bar?" He echoed, his voice not quite judgemental, moreso curious. "Why does your colleague think you'll have fun in an overcrowded, loud place with drunk people and noisy music?"

He tried to imagine you in such an environment, your grace and silence in the midst of revelry. It could not possibly fit.

"You hate crowds," he pointed out bluntly.

You simply shrugged :

"I told you I owed him," you rubbed the skin at the base of your ring finger, —where once stood the biding of your union, like you always did when you were tense or anxious. "He suggested going to the bar down the street and I agreed."

Anaxa's gaze dropped to your hand, the slow unconscious rub of bare skin where a ring once sat. A tell, one he knew too well. He exhaled through his nose, quiet, controlled.

"You don't owe him your discomfort," he said, his voice low. "You can say no."

Silence stretched as you tensed at his cutting words. He sighed, relenting.

"I'll pick her up Friday, just tell me whenever."

His eyes raised back to meet your face, your irises sharp with something unreadable.

"And if you change your mind about the bar… she would rather have you home."

Your fingers stilled where they rubbed your skin, dropping to your side as if caught in something forbidden. The air between the two of you shifted, thin, taunt. Not hostile, never that, but full of things neither of you dared to name.

Finally, you seemed to surrender, exhaling through your mouth.

"I'm not punishing myself." you said, voice low and measured. "I just… want to try."

A beat passed.

"Does that bother you?"

Not challenging, not defensive, just asking.

He looked back at you, really did. Not just the slope of your throat and your tidied hair, but into you. You who stayed up all night for fevers that weren't yours, who graded papers until dawn and still made Daphne's favorite breakfast. You who cried silently in the hallway leading to Daphne's bedroom when she lost her first tooth and said she was scared of growing up. And now you wanted to try.

Try to step outside your apartment, outside the silence, outside of your lingering relationship. The thought should've relieved him, it didn't.

"I'm not bothered," Anaxa said, voice steady, too steady, for a man whose pulse had just gone quiet beneath his ribs. "I'm glad you're trying."

A lie? No. An incomplete truth? Perhaps.

'I miss you. I notice every time you flinch when I speak. I still know what your silence means.' The words danced on his tongue but he said none of them. Offering what he always did instead, space wrapped in care.

"She'll be safe with me," he murmured. "As always."

Your gaze softened at his words, the barest hint of vulnerability flashing across your features, just for a moment, like a secret caught in the light. But then it was gone, hidden behind the mask of composure you wore so well.

"Good," the word was cold, almost distant but Anaxa had always been better at reading between the lines.

'Take care of her, take care of yourself, too.'

His mouth parted, ready to comment on your expression and just then Daphne called you both over to her colorful booth. The both of you moved without a word, falling into step with one another, walking towards your daughter. As you got closer, Anaxa tried to decipher Daphne's expression.

There was excitement, yes. Her eyes were bright and her smile was radiant but there was something else beneath it.

"Were you fighting again?" She straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting in a gesture that mimicked, quite intentionally, Anaxa's own stance when he was about to make a point. You both stared at her, speechless.

You found your voice first, tone flat. "Who said anything about fighting?"

"No one."

Daphne gave you a look. Anaxa had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"Then why would you ask us such a thing?" you questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Because you're not doing a very good job of not fighting right now."

"We're having a perfectly civil conversation." You countered, still in your signature flat tone. "No shouting or throwing things involved."

Daphne’s eyes immediately narrowed.

Anaxa exhaled through his nose.

“The stapler incident was not shouting,” he said.

You gave him a look.

“It was, however, a misunderstanding involving projectile office supplies,” he added.

Daphne blinked.

“You threw a stapler at Dad?”

“It was the only object within reach,” you said.

Anaxa corrected quietly:

“It was not ‘within reach’. It was deliberately retrieved.”

“I maintain it was emotional warfare.”

“Precision emotional warfare,” Anaxa agreed.

Daphne looked back at him, horrified.

"Wait— are you saying you deserved it?"

The both of you went still, before you turned back towards him.

"Are you going to answer that?"

Anaxa met your gaze, allowing the ghost of a smile linger on his lips —small, reluctant but unmistakably warm.

"I plead the Fifth."

Daphne groaned.

"You both do that when you don't want to answer!"

You folded your arms. "It's a legally sound principle."

Anaxa nodded solemnly. "And philosophically defensible."

She glared at the two of you, pointing you both with her pointer finger like a judge handing out a sentence.

"Just promise me you'll stop acting like two storm clouds about to crash."

Albeit a little begrudgingly, you both agreed, surrendering to her reprimand. She eyed you for a long moment, as if making sure you were sincere before, finally, regaining her grin. Illuminating her face like a sunshine.

"Good!"

With a laugh, she flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around the two of you with surprising strength. You both tensed for a second before relenting. Anaxa's arms came around her back, hesitant, then firm as you went around her shoulder, more accustomed to the display of affection.

For a moment, everything was silent save from Daphne's laughter and for a moment, it almost felt like the old days. Until, she pulled away leaving the two of you standing a little too close.

"Now come on," she said, tugging at your sleeves with impatient hands. "My group is about to present. I want you both to watch, and if you even think about arguing, I'll never speak to either of you again."

Anaxa snorted at the familiar threat.

"Yes, ma'am." You answered dutifully.

Anaxa's knuckles rhythmically hit the entrance door to your apartment, mindful of the chaos that would ensue from using the doorbell, considering the beast inside.

He could already hear Daphne's voice and the dog’s rattling nails against the floorboards through the door.

It opened quicker than expected, Daphne's smile dazzling as she stood on her tippy toes, hands on the doors handle. She was still dressed in what he supposed were her school clothes ; a cute little pinafore dress, her hair in twin braids.

You stood behind her, your hair slightly disheveled as if you had been repeatedly running your hands through it… were you nervous?

"You look," he paused, giving you another look over. "Dressed up." He said it like a remark rather than a compliment, and instantly saw the shift in your expression.

You bristled visibly at the implication, nerves giving away to annoyance.

"And you look exactly the same as always."

"I prefer the term 'classic' over 'unchanged'."

You rolled your eyes at him, returning your gaze to where you were slipping on your shoes.

"Right. Because your idea of classic is black turtlenecks and sarcasm."

"And black turtlenecks are a staple of the intellectual look," Anaxa retorted, his tone dry. "Unlike..." he gestured vaguely at your outfit. "...that."

You scoffed, making sure Daphne was busy playing with the dog so that you could straighten and kindly flip him off.

He didn't even flinch, his fingers simply curling around your wrist, lowering it with deliberate calm, as if disarming a dangerous weapon.

Your skins touched, a short lived contact, but enough to make the tension thicken.

He leaned in, slightly. A few respectable centimeters between you as he whispered, low enough only for you to hear.

"Save that energy. You’ll need it for the bar or your friend.”

Your eyes narrowed, a sharp retort unmistakably present on your tongue. You jerked your hand back, the echo of your warmth like a brand on Anaxa's fingers.

"And why exactly would I–"

Daphne's voice interrupted whatever comment you'd been about to make, effortlessly diffusing the tension that had settled over the apartment like mist.

"Okay, I'm ready!" She announced, stepping between the two of you with a grin.

You looked down at her simultaneously, the moment broken.

"Finally," he sighed. His gaze snapping to your face, noticing how you were looking anywhere but him.

Daphne laughed, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between you. She grabbed her backpack from the couch, sliding it over her shoulder.

Anaxa reached down, ruffling her hair.

"Let's go, then?" he asked, his voice softer now.

Daphne beamed up at him. "Yep!"

You bid them both farewell, kneeling slightly to kiss Daphne's forehead with a 'be good' and 'call me if you need anything' before walking them to the door.

The white pup followed closely behind the group as you finally shut the door behind him.

Anaxa paused in the hallway, Daphne's small hand in his, listening to the click of the lock behind them.

The dog barked once, sharp and insistent, as if protesting Anaxa’s victory.

He glanced down at his daughter instead. “Even he still resents me.”

Daphne giggled. “He just doesn’t know you yet.”

Anaxa smirked. “Give it time. Or don’t. I’m not chasing approval from a terrier with trust issues.”

She laughed harder, tugging him toward the elevator, her free hand punching the poor scratched button.

She stared at the lift while they waited its arrival, her face filled with childlike joy and her usual determination.

"Dad," she finally called out. "Promise me you'll check up on Mom tonight?"

Anaxa glanced down, caught off guard. She wasn't looking at him, just swinging their joined hands between them, but he saw the flicker of worry in her eyes.

He exhaled.

"I will," he said quietly.

Not because he thought you needed checking on, but because she did. Moreso when his love meant watching someone he cared for make choices that scared him even if they called it freedom.

Daphne looked up at him, some of the tension leaving her small frame.

"Even if you have work?"

Anaxa nodded, pushing down the pang of guilt that always came with that word.

"Even if I have work."

She smiled, that sweet, trusting smile that made him feel both incredibly powerful and terrifyingly vulnerable.

The elevator came with a robotic ding! and Daphne let go of his hand to press the 0 button .

"Thanks, Dad," she said, leaning into his side as the elevator's doors closed.

In the back of his mind, however, Anaxa couldn't help but wonder if you'd heard the conversation through your thin entrance door.

The rain tapped against the windowpane like a quiet insistence. Anaxa rubbed his temple, the glow of his monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. Another document signed, another report filed, duty, as always, unrelenting.

He glanced at the clock.

1:03 AM.

Daphne had been asleep for hours. They'd watched one episode of her favorite cooking show (a contestant crying because their caramel split. “She introduced the fat too abruptly. Emulsions require patience and thermal respect. Panic curdles more than cream," she had squinted at him. “…Why do you know that?” “Your mother preferred Swiss meringue. Italian is structurally superior but less forgiving”) and finished off her Lego bunny which now proudly stood on her nightstand. The house was still. Only the hum of old pipes and the occasional creak of settling wood broke the silence.

And yet, he reached for his phone : no messages —not from you, not from anyone.

But he remembered Daphne's request, 'check on Mom', and how seriously she’d meant it, as if sensing something neither adult would admit.

There were rules about ex-spouses calling late.

Boundaries.

Respect.

Civil distance.

He opened the messaging app, leaving his makeshift office.

Ring...! ring...! ring..!

A low and slurry voice answered, the faint background beat of the bar echoing from behind you, tugging at his heartstrings despite himself.

"...Anaxa?"

"You're drunk." Anaxa’s voice was flat, but beneath it was something sharp, protective, pained.

He already knew the answer.

You only let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh.

"Not drunk. Tipsy. There's a difference."

"A legally and linguistically unsound one," Anaxa muttered.

He could hear the distant thump of music, the laughter bleeding through the receiver and for a moment, he closed his eyes.

You wanted to try, he reminded himself.

But hearing you like this, your voice soft at edges you never let show, it made something in him ache anyway.

"How many drinks have you had?" he asked, leaning against one of his bookshelves in the living room, robotically tiding the mess Daphne had left. "And before you lie, remember I know your limits."

There was a pause on the other end.

Then you, almost sounding sulky, admitted:

"Four."

So, five, Anaxa translated. He sighed.

"I'm surprised you're even upright."

He could picture it too well. You, at the counter, flushed cheeks, loose collar. Vulnerable. Unprotected.

You muttered something that sounded awfully like "Shut up," followed by a sharp clink, glass, it seemed, and an indignant sigh.

"You're being childish."

"You're nagging," your voice shot back.

Anaxa pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're a grown adult. Act like it."

"Make me."

Your voice almost sounded sober. But not sober enough.

Anaxa wondered, where had your friend gone. Weren't you meant to drink together? Were you —

"Are you alone?" Anaxa asked, the words out before he could stop them.

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough for his jaw to tighten.

"Does it matter?"

Anaxa exhaled slowly, too slowly, for a man who was trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

“It matters,” he said, voice low and rough, “because if someone touches you tonight, and you’re too drunk to stop them… I won’t be there to pull them off.”

Silence.

“You always do that.”

Anaxa stilled. “Do what?”

“Act like I'm still your spouse.”

Another beat, and then:

“Even when I’m not.”

Anaxa was about to comment, a sharp snark on the tip of his tongue. Before he could provide his provocative comment, however, you'd already spoken once more.

"But if you really want to know. It didn't work out with him."

Anaxa's jaw clenched on the other end. He should've been relieved, he wasn’t.

He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Why didn't it work?" he asked, feigning casualness. "You were... getting along well enough from what I've heard."

"I just wasn't…"

You trailed off, and for a moment, you sounded oddly sober.

"You weren't what?" he pressed, trying to keep his voice light.

Again, that too-long pause.

"In the mood."

Anaxa closed his eyes, the implications behind those words ringing in his skull. Hearing that you had been touching, —were being touched by, someone else stirred up something raw and possessive beneath his skin. It felt too much like jealousy. He should've said something. Said 'good' and hung up. Instead, the only sound he made was his own, too-loud heart.

"It’s late," Anaxa finally said, voice quieter now, gentler. “You should go home.”

“Mm. 'Not ready yet,” you murmured, the fight leaving your voice. You sounded tired.

"Perhaps, in a few more drinks"

Anaxa’s voice sharpened.

"No." A beat. "You've had enough. More than enough."

He could hear you shift on the other end, the soft creak of leather, glass tapping wood again.

"Who made you my keeper?" You murmured, but it lacked heat. More like a sigh than a challenge.

"I did," Anaxa said simply. "The moment you gave me a daughter, and the moment you still let me care for the both of you."

Silence stretched between you, fragile and full.

"Go home," Anaxa said gently, the command melting into something like a plea. "Before you say something you don’t mean, or someone takes advantage of how open you are tonight."

Another pause. Then, a shaky breath.

"...I don't want to go home alone."

The admission hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Anaxa closed his eyes, he could feel his chest tightening.

And for a moment —he let himself imagine it: driving there, pulling you from the bar by the wrist, tucking you into bed while protests were being thrown at him in sleepy half-words, yet staying anyway.

But Daphne was asleep upstairs.

And boundaries were not made to be broken just because his heart yearned still for another. So instead —he said:

"I know."

A whisper. A wound.

"Then stay with someone who matters."

"You’re the only one who ever did."

The words slipped through the line like smoke, quiet and burning.

Anaxa stilled, his breath catching.

Even after everything, even with years between them and a daughter asleep in the next room, those words, they wrecked him.

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

He could’ve said I love you.

He could've said come home.

He could've said I never stopped.

But instead, he whispered. "Go to sleep."

And hung up before he could start begging.

The phone trembled in his hand, Anaxa didn’t move for a long time. Rain still tapped at the glass and Daphne slept on, unaware.

He sighed.

Then, hesitantly, he dialed an Uber for you. From the bar down your street to his house, instead of yours.

Because some promises weren’t spoken aloud.

And some hearts never learned to stay away even when told to.

He set the phone down, screen glowing with the ride confirmation: Driver en route. ETA 32 minutes.

Anaxa didn’t tell you, he'd let you wake up tomorrow in clean sheets, confused and hungover, wondering why you weren't in your own bed. Wondering why the air smelled like old books, chamomile, and him.

A soft knock came at the door half an hour later, quiet and hesitant.

Anaxa looked up from his desk. The monitor’s glow had dimmed; he’d been lost in thought, not work. He rose without a sound.

There, you stood, in the hallway, slightly unsteady, with eyes half-lidded and glassy. Still dressed in the clothes he'd saw you in earlier, slightly crumpled. Smelling faintly of rain and that cheap whiskey you claimed to hate.

"You…" You slurred slightly, blinking like you couldn’t quite believe Anaxa was real. "...you kidnapped me."

"I rescued you."

“You rescued me?” You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I was on a date.”

“A regrettable one,” Anaxa replied smoothly. “He left you alone in a bar. I'm certain he didn't even pay his half of the tab, let alone yours.”

“I could’ve handled it. I owed him.”

“You were intoxicated.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shot back, pushing past him into the house. “Did I violate your carefully structured expectations?”

Anaxa shut the door with measured calm.

"You answered my call."

"I shouldn't have."

"And yet."

You turned abruptly, nearly losing your balance. Anaxa caught your elbow out of reflex.

“Don’t,” you snapped, jerking away. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you get to swoop in and be —what? Noble?”

“I arranged transportation. Hardly heroic.”

“You always do this!” Your voice cracked louder now, the alcohol stripping restraint. “You insert yourself. You decide what’s best. You correct. You optimize.”

The word again.

Anaxa’s expression cooled.

“You were alone. Past midnight. Impaired.”

“I was trying to move on!”

The statement hit harder than the volume.

Anaxa stilled.

“With him?” he asked, too controlled.

“Yes!” you scoffed. “God, at least, he doesn’t look at me like I’m an under performing thesis.”

Silence. Measured and dangerous.

“I have never regarded you as under performing.”

“No,” you stepped closer, your eyes glassy yet sharp. “You just always thought I could be better.”

“That is not an insult.”

“It’s exhausting.”

The air shifted. Your hand shoved lightly at Anaxa’s chest, not hard but not playful either.

“You don’t get to drag me back here every time I make a mess,” you continued. “You don’t get to be my emergency contact when you’re not my husband.”

Anaxa’s jaw flexed. Touché.

“I am the father of your child.”

“That’s not the same.”

Another shove, this one firmer. He caught your wrist this time and you froze. Glare snapping to his face.

You were closer now than either of you had intended.

“You mistake intervention for control,” Anaxa said quietly.

“And you mistake control for care.”

The words hung between you, heavy.

Your breathing was uneven now with anger, alcohol, and something else perhaps.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” you muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m still yours.”

Anaxa’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

“You came to my door.”

“You called the Uber!”

“Because you would not have arrived safely otherwise.”

You stepped closer instead of backing away.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You always think you do.”

Your chests were nearly touching now but neither pulled apart, not yet. Your other hand fisted in Anaxa’s shirt without seeming to realize it.

“You don’t get to save me,” you whispered, voice suddenly fragile beneath the heat. “Not after you’re the one who left.”

Something flickered in Anaxa’s eyes, a rare crack in composure.

“I did not leave,” he said lowly.

“You chose your principles over me.”

“I chose stability.”

“You chose distance.”

You tried to pull away, your pride flaring too late.

Anaxa’s hand moved from your wrist to your waist, steadying you as you swayed.

“You are drunk,” he murmured once more.

“Stop being calm,” you snapped, breath warm against his collar. “Fight me properly.”

A pause.

Then, finally, something sharp in Anaxa’s voice.

“You wish for honesty?”

“Yes.”

“I disliked the very thought of you with him.”

The admission landed like a match to gasoline. Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

“I am aware.”

“Then stop acting like I belong here.”

“You are here.”

The tension snapped.

You kissed him first, angry, clumsy, tasting of whiskey and unfinished arguments. It wasn’t soft or careful, it was months of restraint collapsing at once. Your crashed into him, pushing the both of you against the wall opposite to the stairs.

Anaxa responded immediately, controlled hands at your waist, firm, pulling you flush to him despite himself. You made a frustrated sound into the kiss, half protest, half relief.

And when you broke apart, your breathing uneven, a hand on one side of his head while the other tugged at his shirt still, he leaned his head on the oak behind it, your leg between both of his, your pants echoing in the gentle silence of the house.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” you muttered.

“It was not intended to,” Anaxa replied.

Neither of you moved. A mistake, because the longer you stayed like that, the more deliberate the situation became.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

The phrasing intrigued him. Keep. As though this were a pattern rather than an anomaly.

“Doing what?”

“This.” Your knee nudged his thigh and he repressed a noise, disguising it as a restrained sigh. “Pretending we’re finished when we’re clearly not.”

He noted the dilation of your pupils. The uneven cadence of your breath. The heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt where your palm rested against his chest.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, a fractional movement, yet a tell all the same.

“We are divorced,” he said evenly.

“Yes.”

“And yet you are in my house.”

“You dragged me here.”

“I offered safety.”

“And I took it,” you shot back, breath catching when his thumb pressed, absentmindedly, into the curve of your waist. “That doesn’t mean—”

Your sentence broke when his hand slid higher not indecent, just certain. His fingers sliding the familiar path of your moles. Gods, he hated how his hands remembered how to hold you despite the years between you.

Upstairs, the house creaked softly.

You both froze.

Daphne.

The reminder cooled the air by a degree, your voice dropping to a whisper. “See? This is exactly why we can’t—”

Anaxa leaned in, not kissing you, just close enough that his breath ghosted over your cheek and yours his.

“Then leave,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt instead. He noticed, of course he noticed.

“You are contradicting yourself,” he observed quietly.

“Shut up.”

You kissed him again, less angry this time, more desperate. He turned you, controlled but not gentle, so your back met the wall instead. The shift pulled a small, involuntary sound from you that you immediately swallowed.

“Quiet,” he warned softly.

Your glare hardened, he could almost hear your thoughts.

“You’re the one—”

His hand covered your mouth, not harsh, not forceful, just there and your eyes widened.

“Daphne is asleep upstairs,” he said, voice low and precise. “If you intend to continue antagonizing me, you will do so silently.”

You bit his palm in retaliation.

“Provocation,” he murmured, removing his hand from your mouth only to re-place it at your hip. “You are extraordinarily reckless tonight.”

“You hate that I went out.”

“Yes.”

The immediate answer made you pause.

“You hate that I tried.”

“Yes.”

Your breath stuttered.

“And you hate that I didn’t call you first.”

That one took half a second too long.

“…Yes.”

The honesty cracked something open between you.

You pushed at him again, but it lacked force now. As if it were a habit. The last stand of pride you held on like a shield.

“Take me upstairs,” you whispered. Anaxa went still.

“You are impaired,” he said.

“I’m not unconscious.”

“That is not the metric.”

You exhaled sharply, frustrated. “You always do this. You turn everything into a moral equation.”

“And you,” he replied, stepping closer until your bodies aligned again, “reduce everything to impulse.”

“Maybe I want impulse.”

“So that you can regret it in the morning?”

“Let me do so.”

The air tightened. Carefully, his hands found yours, guiding you up stairs that had never felt so quiet. You followed, the feel of your presence intensified behind him.

As you passed Daphne's door, you both seemed to slow down. A mutual agreement dancing between the two of you : whatever this was, it would not reach her.

At the bedroom door, you hesitated. Anaxa’s hand slid from yours to your waist again, steadying when you swayed slightly.

You let out a shaky exhale.

"You first. "

And that's all he needed, he kissed you again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that remembered everything.

You stumbled backward into the room, pulling him with you, the door clicking shut behind you with a muted finality.

The quiet of the room hit different than downstairs, your perfume mixing with his in a blend he hadn't tasted in a long time. You kicked off your shoes, slightly unsteady but defiant regardless.

"You're still agitated," he noted.

"I'm drunk."

"Not enough to explain this."

You shrug, sitting on the edge of the bed —his bed, once yours too. His eyes following your every move as he remained standing.

"Stop looming," you huffed. "Either say what you're thinking or leave."

A pause.

"He attempted intimacy with you in the bar's restroom."

Your eyes snapped to his, blinking.

"…what?"

"You smell like cheap whiskey and antiseptic soap. Your shirt is wrinkled. You're irritated rather than embarrassed."

A beat passed through you.

"The conclusion was not difficult."

You snort through the quiet room.

"Welcome to modern dating."

"How profoundly unimpressive."

You leaned back on your hands, staring up at him, your lips quirking up in a lazy smirk.

"Jealous?"

"Disappointed in your standards."

You rolled your eyes, your breath hitching.

"Relax. I stopped it."

"Eventually."

"You're awfully confident for someone who wasn't there."

He shrugged, taking a slow, measured step closer.

"You are restless and frustrated. Picking fights with me for stimulation." He tilted his head, sharp fuchsia eyes never leaving your form on the bed.

"That suggests the encounter ended prematurely." He stated, satisfaction curling in his gut at the sight of crimson blossoming across your cheeks.

"You're insufferable."

"Incorrect, though?"

Silence. You refused to look away, fueling the steady staring contest you were both having.

"You want me to say it, don't you?"

"I would prefer it, yes."

"He tried something, and I realized halfway through that I didn’t want him touching me."

His jaw tightened despite his attempts at remaining collected.

"So, yes. I interrupted the evening. Such tragic loss for modern romance."

You sighed, your voice light as if speaking of the weather. Conserving your pride intact.

"And now?"

"Now, I'm annoyed."

"Because it was unpleasant?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Because it was unfinished."

And that hit Anaxa in quite the sore spot. He stepped closer until your knees were touching, slowly, yet surely caging you in against the bed.

"You could've changed the course of the Uber the second you noticed where it was heading, you didn't. You came here to remedy your predicament."

A scoff. "Don't flatter yourself."

"You're in my bedroom."

"You're the one who wouldn't stop looking at me downstairs."

His hands lifted from the mattress to your waist and this time, you didn't stop him. Instead, you allowed yourself to fall backwards, laying on the bed, your hair spreading behind you like a halo.

The air thickened. Anaxa stood frozen at the edge of the bed, his gaze crawling over you like a memory come to life. Your eyes, drowsy and heavy-lidded, the line of your jaw, your throat. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve pulled the blanket up and walked out. Instead, he stayed. And when you shifted, your hips lifting slightly as if chasing warmth, Anaxa finally exhaled.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured. Low. Pained.

“Like what?” You whispered back, voice rough . “Like I remember exactly how you feel?"

Anaxa's breath caught, sharp and involuntary.

The challenge flared up in your eyes. You reached out, almost lazily hooking two fingers in the front of Anaxa's shirt and tugging. Just once.

Anaxa knew that tug, had felt it a thousand, aching, desperate times before.

Come here.

He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't.

"You—"

"Shut up," you breathed. Your fingers tugging again in a slow and deliberate motion.

This time, Anaxa didn't resist. He went willingly, knee sinking into the mattress while straddling your hip, your hands wandering to his waist, slipping under the hem of his shirt to splay across his ribs.

Anaxa's eyes fluttered, heat spreading across his skin, his pulse skyrocketing.

How many times had you been here before?

"You need to sleep," he said, his voice rough. "And I need to leave."

“Don’t start pretending you don’t want this too. I’ve already had one frustrating evening.” You countered instead, you fingers slowly curling around his wrists, leading his dominant hand between your thighs.

"I need—"

"You need sleep." Anaxa argued, his voice rough yet fraying at the edges. He didn't move away, his palm pressing gently where it had been led, letting his thumb circle the sensitive bud once. A ghost of what you wanted.

"And what you need," he murmured, leaning in so that your foreheads were nearly touching, "is to stop punishing me with honesty."

His breath ghosted over your lips, eyes locking with yours, dark with restrain, with want and a love neither of you was strong enough to admit.

"But since you insist,"

His voice dropped lower, a faint whisper against your warmed skin.

"I'll finish what someone else was too weak to."

His hand slipped lower, purposefully fingers tracing the seam of fabric where heat pooled. You gasped in response, your hips jerking forward.

"Anaxa—"

"Shhh." He reprimanded, his index finger teasing as it pressed in slowly, restrained by the fabric of your panties, feeling you melt around him.

"Not a word." He murmured against your ear. "Not a sound, or I stop."

To which you bit on your lower lip, your eyes flickering to the closed bedroom door as if you had remembered the child sleeping soundly down the hall. Your hips chased Anaxa's hand once more, the dampness darkening the color of your underwear.

"You're soaked." He commented, his voice a mix of awe and reprimand.

He didn't move fast, never had. Even in passion he remained deliberate, calculating. His fingers hooked under the waistband, sliding it down the soft skin of your legs.

"How desperate were you?" He whispered against your neck as his fingers finally prodded your entrance. "Letting someone bring you this close, and walk away?"

"Funny, you didn't seem eager to walk aw—"

A slow stroke, deep and teasing drawing a low whimper out of you, Anaxa hushing you with a tender kiss on your red bitten lips.

"Quiet," he breathed. "For her."

And he almost smiled at the thought. After all, you were still parents first and foremost.

Your hands gripped his sheets, your hips chasing his fingers and their friction. The thought of you in that bathroom came to him once more. The idea of your body pressed against an uncomfortable sink.

Had that man simply tugged your panties aside? Or taken them off to gag you in a feeble attempt to keep you quiet?

Anaxa's breath sharpened at the implication, someone else's hands on your lace, your thighs, your silence.

His fingers slowed and you whimpered at the loss of stimulation.

“Did he?” Anaxa asked, voice low and dangerously smooth. “Take them off? Or just push them aside like a cheap thrill?”

You didn't answer, watery eyes avoiding his as you slowly nudged your hips forward hoping for him to continue. But he'd understood the truth in your silence, in the way your lips had shut to suppress a moan and something in him snapped.

He curled two fingers deep, pressing his thumb to your swollen clit with firm, rhythmic pressure.

Every thought twisted something sharp and furious in Anaxa's chest. He could picture it too well, the way that other man had touched you. The way he would've taken what he wanted and left.

Used you.

His grip tightened.

"Look at you—" he murmured, voice barely audible. "Wetting panties for… him."

You shuddered in response.

"Trust me, there was no competition."

“No competition?”

Your thighs trembled.

“Then remind me,” he whispered, voice tightening,

“why someone else got the first attempt, when I'm right here?"

His fingers curled upwards, your thighs attempting to close around his hand as he forced them open.

"When I know how you like it?"

Another deep stroke, your back arching off the bed with a silent cry from your lips —cut short by Anaxa's palm gently covering your mouth.

“Shh,” he soothed, eyes dark with both lust and something deeper, something possessive. “She doesn’t need to know how badly you’ve been missed.”

His thumb circled harder.

“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning down for another sweet kiss. “Did he do this?”

He quickened his rhythm, one finger slipping out just to drag through heat before pressing back in and you moaned into his hand.

No answer came, because there was no comparaison.

And he knew it.

So instead of dragging the moment on, he gave you what you'd been denied : full, unwavering attention. The kind only a lover who memorized every reaction could give.

Finally, you bit on his pale skin, your eyes rolling back as your body staggered in his hold.

Anaxa didn't pull away.

He let you ride it out, quiet, shuddering waves muffled against his palm while his fingers gently worked you through it. Drawing every last pulse from you like you were owed.

When you finally stilled, boneless and breathless, he gently pulled his hand free, lifting it to stare at the slick glistening in the dim moonlight.

Then, without a word, brought two fingers to his mouth and tasted.

Beneath him, you gasped, a soft, shocked sound, as if you were just remembering who you were with —what had just occurred.

He met your gaze, his eyes unreadable. Heavy with something beyond lust : hunger.

"Next time," he said softly, whipping the remains of your arousal off his sheets. "You won't come in your panties, nor on my fingers."

His thumb brushed the edge of your trembling lower lip.

"You'll come on my cock."

Your breath hitched, attempting to regain a normal cadence.

"Next time," you mimicked, "I won't ask."

Slowly, your eyes which had focused on his just a few seconds ago, danced down his frame. Until they stopped at his own arousal straining against his pants.

Instinctively, your thighs twitched wider. A slight movement, yet enough for him to get the message hidden beneath.

The invitation hung in the air, thick with want, soaked in surrender.

Contradictory as always.

He stared at the mess he’d made, your glistening thighs, reddened face, and for a heartbeat, he let himself want.

He reached down, unbuttoning his pants and taking them off before folding them and placing them on a nearby drawer. Pausing before turning back to you, your eyes following his every movement in quiet question.

"No,"

You flinched, confused, he didn’t move away, leaning over you once more to kiss you through his next words.

"I said I’d finish what someone else started. I never said I’d take you tonight.”

A soft thumb wiped a drop from your inner thigh. Letting himself drown in another tender kiss you allowed him to steal from your lips.

“You’ll wait,” he murmured. “Until you’re sober. Until you ask me properly.”

His hands found the outer skin of your knee, gently nudging your thighs closed.

“Until then, dream of me."

Morning arrived quietly. Anaxa waking first, as he always did. Although, for a moment, he didn't move, keeping his eyes shut. For awareness would require acknowledgement he wasn’t sure he was capable of.

The warmth against his chest shifted slightly ; you were still here. He could feel it, your arm draped across his waist, fingers loosely curled on the fabric of his shirt. As if, even in sleep, you required confirmation that he hadn't vanished.

Your breathing was slow and even. A far cry from the pants he'd drawn out of you the night before.

When he opened his eyes, the room was unchanged but that felt dishonest. For the weight against his chest was quite contradictory of such.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains in thin, deliberate lines, dust dancing across them. The faint, familiar scent of your shampoo lingering against his pillow.

You made a small sound and instinctively shifted closer. He stilled. This was the problem.

Not the argument, not the jealousy, God not even the divorce.

It was this.

The way your body still fit against him as if separation had been theoretical.

A floorboard creaked faintly in the hallway.

Daphne.

Anaxa gently removed your hand from his shirt, your fingers tightening into the fabric almost immediately, until the movement inevitably woke you up.

Your eyes opened with a slow blink, disoriented for half a second before recognition hit.

The shift was immediate, your body pulling back from his like it burnt, silence ringing loud.

"We didn't—" you began, voice rough from sleep.

"We did, just not all the way." He replied simply.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, staring at the ceiling instead of him.

"That was a mistake."

He sat up.

"Define mistake."

Your gaze snapped to his, giving him a look.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Turn this into a debate."

"It's not a debate. It's an assessment."

You pushed yourself upright, clutching the sheets around you more out of reflex than modesty. He could see the strap of your bra slipping off your shoulder and it took him great restrain to not snap it back into place.

"We are divorced." You repeated as if it would change anything that had happened in your drunken stupor.

"Yes."

“We said we wouldn’t confuse things for Daphne.”

“We did not involve her.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He watched you carefully now.

You looked more sober this morning. Softer, sure, but more guarded.

“It meant something,” you said quietly. “And that’s the problem.”

Anaxa did not answer immediately, because that, too, was correct.

Then a knock, light and polite sounded at the door.

The both of you froze.

“Dad?”

Daphne’s voice.

Your eyes widened.

Anaxa stood instantly, composed despite the circumstances.

“One moment,” he called, tone even.

You hissed under your breath. “Oh my God.”

“Composure,” he reminded, retrieving a discarded shirt and throwing it at you, efficiently calm.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you,” he replied quietly, “are panicking.”

“I am not panicking.”

“You are whisper-shouting.”

You glared at him.

Another knock, more insistent.

“Dad?”

“I will speak to her,” he said.

"And what exactly are you going to say?”

“The truth.”

Your head snapped toward him. “You are not telling her—”

“That you stayed because you were unwell,” he clarified smoothly.

You paused.

“…Oh.”

He held your gaze for a second longer.

“There is no scenario,” he added evenly, “in which I would destabilize her sense of security.”

Something in your expression shifted at that. He moved to the door, opening it just enough to step into the hallway and block the view inside.

You could hear the soft murmur of his voice, calm, reassuring and unbelievably predictable.

When he returned a minute later, you were already dressed. Sitting on the edge of the bed like a guest.

Distance reinstated.

“She would like to watch an episode of 'Nailed it!' with you,” he said.

You nodded, a beat of silence lingering the air.

“This does not necessitate catastrophe,” he finally commented.

You gave a tired half-smile. “You slept with your ex-wife.”

“That is not historically unprecedented.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. It faded quickly.

“This cannot happen again,” you said, softer now.

“Agreed.”

Neither of you moved toward the door.

Neither of you stepped closer either.

A stalemate.

“I don’t regret it,” you admitted.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Nor do I.”

And that was worse, because regret would have been cleaner.

Outside, Daphne’s footsteps padded down the hall again. Finally, Anaxa reached for the door. Pausing for a few moments.

“You could stay for breakfast,” he said, without looking at you.

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t pleading.

It was an offering.

Your voice was quiet when you answered.

“Okay.”

k4dewashere ✦ all rights reserved

[oddarling]

In all possibilities, in all timelines, you.

SYNOPSIS. What happens when the man of your dreams—literally—, becomes your new bartender? Surely, this can't be just a coincidence? CONTENTS. immortal!Suguru x reincarnated!reader, yearning-ish sugu, alcohol, beta read WC. 4.2k AUTHOR'S NOTE. yeah so it was supposed to be short but here we are, hope you like it anyways :)

Ah that dream again…

That man again. The one with the sly smile although you couldn't pinpoint any of his other features. They stayed a blur in your mind, the mental image fragile and fickle, always eluding you.

He sat next to you, torso turned to face you while softly holding your hands in his with practiced familiarity. His voice was soft, dripping with affection but you couldn't seem to make out the words like an old song you've forgotten the lyrics to. Nostalgia took hold of you anyways, the warm feeling gently wrapping around your heart.

The scenery was the same. A park, one you didn't recall ever visiting but in that dream, it always started there. A wooden bench, your arms stretched out towards him, his fingers just barely holding yours. More than anything else, his clothes surprised you. He wore a coat and frocks, his neck adorned with a cravat. And your own weren’t much better. Why were you stuck in the eighteenth century?

You looked around for a second before it started to fade away like a mirage in the middle of the desert. You closed your eyes at the uncomfortable sensation, already picturing the next scene.

A small table in the corner of an almost empty restaurant, in the eighties this time. The menu was sprawled out in front of you, dishes presented in a language you didn't understand nor recognise. You opened your eyes and looked up, the man still right in front of you, a patient smile still dancing on his lips. His long silky hair cascaded down his shoulder, the very picture of poise.

You opened your mouth and you wanted to scream, to cry, to demand an explanation—anything, but the image of the man didn't waver. You've tried it before but your shouts didn't seem to ever reach him. Instead he slowly tilted his head to the side, a soft laugh leaving his lips like this was normal. Like you'd just made a funny joke.

But before you had time to ponder on the how and the why, the restaurant dissolved, this time replaced by the familiar shape of a landscape you know quite well—your hometown.

You're walking hand in hand on the large road leading to your house, isolated from the rest of the village. You couldn't help but look back at the familiar scene, the patient man by your side slowing to match your pace.

After a few beats passed, he softly tugged your hand to bring you with him up to the door. You turned back to him and realised he was talking to you once again. The words were still a blur but somewhere in the depths of your heart, you're sure you've heard them before, whatever they may be. You felt yourself starting to smile like an automated response ingrained deep in your brain and immediately stopped yourself. After all that man was a stranger, wasn't he?

Yet, when he opened the door and two kids that weirdly resembled yourself as a child jump up to him, you're not so sure he's a stranger anymore. He welcomed them with open arms and the sight warmed your heart despite your unease.

The two kids reached out to you and you brace yourself for the feeling of their hands, yet it never came. Instead, you woke up, still lying in the same spot you did when you fell asleep last night. The dream had never went that far, it usually ended before the door opened and it left you confused. Was this just another piece of your imagination? A twisted part of your brain that wondered if that man was really someone to you?

Perhaps he was, once upon a time. But how can one ever know? Past lives, that’s bullshit, right? So when had you met this man? Was he simply a random civilian passing you in the streets, whose looks had struck you and your imagination had just ran with it, picturing him everywhere you could think of?

Were you insane? Because at the rate that these dreams were coming, it sure at hell seemed like it. Your head started throbbing at the idea, yet you couldn’t put it aside, it was far too likely for your taste. But insane or not, you had a rent to pay, as your alarm clock very rudely reminded you.

With a sigh that could surely rival that of a man who had lived for thousands of years, you forced yourself to go and get ready for the day ahead. It was all a sad and lifeless routine, repeated over and over again, until your brain barely even registered it. Before long, you were standing at the bus stop, waiting silently despite not being able to recall anything you did that morning. None of it had ever mattered after all.

The bus finally arrived and you stood up, waving to the bus driver to signal your presence. It slid over and as the doors opened, letting a flood of people out, someone bumped into you. Not a slight bump that might make you smile politely at the mumbled apology that would surely follow, no, a full body slam that sent you waltzing for a few meters.

Oh, great. Just what you needed.

You had resigned yourself to your fate. A powerful meeting with the concrete, nothing too broken if you were lucky but a few scratches for sure. Hopefully, you’d still get to work on time.

Yet, it never came. Instead two strong arms caught you, although you weren't sure whose. No one was there at the bus stop with you, so who just appeared out of thin air to prevent your fall like a guardian angel?

You turned around to find a beautiful man, absolutely gorgeous with long ebony hair and piercing eyes that flickered for a second with a weird expression like they were searching deep in your soul. You scrambled to find your words and thank him, still in a trance, but he didn't give you time, instead straightening you up and walking away without so much as a look back.

You were left frozen on the side of the street, unable to process anything that had happened even as the bus' doors beeped loudly before closing with a strong noise. By the time your brain caught up, your bus was long gone.

You now had a throbbing migraine and were bus-less, pride-less, and possibly job-less depending on your boss' mood. Just great.

That night, the dream didn't come back.

You could imagine all of the scenery, the picture forever burned in your mind. They were so clear, a stark contrast to the cloud of confusion that surrounded it all.

You woke up groggy and lightheaded, already dreading the day ahead. Nonetheless, your alarm rang loudly and you didn't give yourself time to even contemplate staying in bed for just five more minutes. You were soon following your now mindless routine of preparations, and before long, you were sitting at the bus stop.

You usually stayed standing, after all, you had the entire day to sit behind a desk. But you felt more and more lightheaded and didn't want to tempt the devil. Another pathetic fall to the ground was not in your plans that morning. Who knew whether prince charming would show up this time?

As you were ruminating on the handsome gentleman that had come to your rescue—sure you couldn't remember his face or any of his features, but you just had a feeling he would be absolutely gorgeous—, the bus honked loudly and you startled. You hurried up, praying you wouldn't be late this time.

Oh well, that's corporate life for you, dreaming about a good-looking guy saving your life while looking at a bunch of grids all day long in an ice cold office. He didn't even have to be that handsome, anyone would do at this point, albeit ideally rich.

That night, the dream didn't come. Neither did it the day after and not again for almost a week.

It should probably worry you, but it was Friday and you promised your friends that "no worldly problem would cloud your mind, tonight." So, you only focused on the important things. Hot guys and margaritas.

After all, why else would you go to the club? Although the "hot" part wasn't always there, there definitely were guys… but that's not here nor there.

You were hyped up, feeling yourself after almost 30 minutes of looking at your wardrobe in despair, 45 minutes of your friends invading your apartment to convince you to finally wear that backless dress and another 40 minutes of make-up among shared laughter and just a little bit of alcohol.

A few hours later, you were slumped across the bar, half-sitting on a stool, half-holding up by some unknown miracle. Judy, your new found bartender friend seemed quite worried to leave you and your friends. But seeing her coworker seemed to put her mind at ease.

She smiled and simply assured you that you were in good hands. The man walked over with a soft, practised smile that convinced you, you were in fact in good hands.

The new bartender quickly got to work, making polite small-talk as he went. His movements were smooth, graceful as he flowed through practised motions, or perhaps it was your alcohol-induced state that had rendered your brain too slow for the chaos around. But who cared? That was the point, wasn't it? To get wasted beyond reason.

So when your friend extended her hand to drag you on the dance floor, you didn't hesitate. You simply sent a small smile to the charming bartender to end your conversation before turning to your friend, ready to make some more questionable decisions.

The rest of the night passed as it always did, somewhere between flashing lights, yelled conversations, and getting even more alcohol into your system. You knew you wouldn't remember much the next day anyway, just bits and pieces through your throbbing headache.

But when the morning came, you remembered far more. Most specifically, a dream. The dream.

Always the same.

First the park. The man held your hands just as softly as he did every other time. He still talked to you like he was afraid you'll break in half if he dared to be any harsher. You tried to fight the nostalgia which you had no explanation for. Nonetheless, your heart warmed and calmed down from your panic into a slow, rhythmic thudding.

Then, the restaurant. The man was still smiling and you looked around. Surely there had to be other people, it was a restaurant for fuck's sake! But nothing. Not a customer, nor a server. Despite your better judgement and the many other times you had already tried to, you shouted. The man in front of you didn't flinch, you weren't even sure he was alive. Yet, when you calmed down, you could hear his soft breathing that confirmed that the scene was not simply a picture, an isolated moment your twisted mind came up with.

Lastly, your hometown. When you looked at the man, he was already looking at you. Your gaze dropped down to your intertwined hands and you let go of his as if it might burn you. That might make the man stop smiling, finally, but you're not sure you want to check that theory. Instead you simply turned around and ran. The thoughts in your head were spiralling, going 100 miles per hour like you might find an escape to what you were sure was a dream but everything simply faded to black and you woke up in a cold sweat.

You panted like you actually were the one running away from the dream, now sitting up in your bed drenched in sweat.

For the rest of the day—that you were supposed to spend relaxing—, the dream plagued your mind. What kind of sick and twisted person do you have to be to imagine having children with a stranger? A stranger that looked an awful lot like your insanely hot new bartender?

The more you thought about it, the more undeniable it became. While both of the men's features were somewhat blurry in your mind, whether it was from the alcohol or from the dream, there was an unmistakable air to them—or, should you say him? The resemblance was definitely there, yet you couldn't explain it logically. After all, you couldn't recall either of their faces, who were you to say they were the same person.

The next day, it was the same all over again. Although you had a dreamless night, the pounding headache didn't leave you for one second. Not exactly the restful weekend you had planned but it would have to do, migraines had become your long time friend—or, more accurately, that weird acquaintance that won't ever leave you alone.

On Monday, however, you saw the new bartender again, and God was he fine. This time, with no alcohol in your system and no dream clouding your mind, you could study his features. But, his beautifully purple eyes soon caught your gaze, making you look away in embarrassment. Pink dusted your cheek as you remembered your place. This was a bus stop. You were just getting on the bus. He was getting off.

The moment was over as soon as it came, but your thoughts were still on him, stuck in that five seconds interaction. His eyes were profound, leaving you to wonder what kind of life does one live to reach such a level of depth. They seemed to hold the answer to every question you had ever formed deep in your mind, if you just stared at them long enough. Perhaps, they were more akin to a siren song, impossibly charming and undeniably tempting.

Tuesday soon came, and with it, a new meeting with the mysterious man. Although you had hoped to cross his path again, he had a way of surprising you with his presence, rendering you unable to do anything but get lost in his eyes. He looked over at you and you considered changing identity or, at least, moving countries.

He was long gone when you came back out of your trance, your thoughts bringing you to another multitude of questions. What was he doing here? Did he have night shifts every day at the bar? Was he leaving work as you went to work? Does that imply he lived near your place? Why did that notion make your heart jump this way? Are you sick? Is there something wrong with you? Well, you had the answer to that one. Yes. The more important part was, what?

On Wednesday, you gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror, ready to take over the world. And by taking over the world, you mean, not look into the stranger's eyes like it would bring you salvation.

Once again, your meeting was quick, but you did manage to avoid his eyes. You now, however, had another problem. His lips. More specifically, the picture of his lips burned deep in your mind, one you would be sure to recall late at night, deep in the privacy of your own bed.

Thursday only came with disappointment. You didn't get your daily dose of handsome man in the morning, and your mood was soured. Perhaps, you should be worried about the fact that this man's presence—or, lack of in this case—could impact you so much. But the image of his lips took too much space in your brain. All you wanted was for him to, for the fourth time, coincidentally cross your path. Not in a creepy way.

That night, after only two hours of overthinking, you sent your friends a message.

You : going to the club tmr?

To which you received multiple enthusiastic responses, mostly mentioning alcohol and letting loose. You agreed, reacting with hearts and gifs, although you knew you didn't exactly have the same motivations. But they weren't mutually exclusive, you could still party and have fun. Striking up a conversation with the hot bartender was just a bonus.

Friday rolled around, and with it much anticipation. Would he be there at the bus stop? And more importantly, would he be there at the club?

To your delight, the answer to both questions were yes. He smiled at you that morning, a sly smile that immediately brought you back to your dream. Every passing second seemed to only bring confirmation that those two men were one and the same. Your heart threatened to spill out of your chest at the rate it was beating, the sound deafening.

Later that night, you arrived at the club, immediately going over to the bar and greeting the bartender. He seemed to have recognised you and, before long, conversation was flowing smoothly.

This time, you had avoided alcohol the entire evening like it would kill you. You needed to keep your head clear. You had a man to study, and a dream to figure out.

The bartender, whom you quickly learned was called Suguru, seemed oblivious to the intensity of your gaze, or at least was kind enough not to mention it. He was simply doing his job, entertaining customers, while simultaneously keeping up with your conversation. The way he was multitasking was distracting in a way it shouldn't be: your eyes kept drifting to his hands, hard at work on drinks and other party tricks. It didn't take long for your gaze to travel back up his forearms, thanking all of the gods out there for his rolled back sleeves. His muscles and veins were softly trembling with each of his movements, making you feel hot and bothered.

"So, no backless dress today?" His voice brought you back to the real world, and you looked away, ashamed of your blatant staring. Although, if his comment was anything to go by, he had also been paying attention to you.

"Oh, no, I just wanted to wear something more… comfortable." In truth, you had gotten self-conscious at the idea that he would be there, your own thoughts quickly becoming your worst enemy. You hadn't given yourself time to ponder, simply choosing your go-to outfit for nights out. It had always worked fine at getting you free drinks in bars, why change a winning strategy?

He didn't seem entirely convinced of your answer but you didn't give him enough time to retort something clever, opting to tease him instead, "You were looking at my clothes? That's not very professional of you."

Your teasing didn't phase him in the least, quite the opposite: he simply cocked a brow and teased you back, "Hard not to, when it looks like it was tailored for you."

You ended up being the one flustered, a little too much for your liking. You quickly redirected the conversation, making sure not to give him the opportunity to flirt even more. Your futile hope of keeping the upper hand was quickly destroyed, along with your dignity apparently as your face was now a permanent shade of red. Perhaps, you could blame the heat, but your stuttering gave you away.

Suguru was most amused with the way the conversation was turning out. He could effortlessly return tenfold any attention or teasing you gave him, and your reaction? Well, that was just the cherry on top. He almost felt bad for the centuries of practise he'd had, over the course of life-times spent learning how to best fluster you.

It had been easy for him to recognise you, the mole on your back unmistakable. Really he should be thanking you for wearing that beautiful gown, the mole on full display. He had done so hundreds of times, always finding his way back to you, yet when it came to actually confronting you about it, well that was another story. How do you even go up to someone and just casually drop that you're immortal and they're your re-incarnated lover without sounding like a creep?

The right time would surely come. As an immortal being, he was hardly pressed for time. There had already been lifetimes where you had missed each other, where he had been unable to find you. He was instead stuck wandering the world. There were also lifetimes where he had met you late in your life, sometimes already in a retirement home. And every time, he would be careful not to spook you, carefully approaching much like one would approach a wild animal. So for now, he'd be content with just that.

The next week was a long one. At least, for Suguru.

Your quick meetings in the morning were little more than a bitter-sweet reminder of the distance between you two. While years of practice had taught him how to master the mask he now wore daily, he was still struggling not to give himself away. His heart rarely settled when you were in his vicinity: the knowledge that you were so close yet so far often sending it into a frenzy.

Getting to know over and over again was both a blessing and a curse. The honeymoon phase was always cute and heart-warming, but there was always an unmistakable pang in his chest when you would pull away, hiding the parts of you you didn't want to share yet.

However, Suguru knew better than to go against the natural order of things. And, so he bode his time. Asking questions he knew the answer to and bitting his tongue any time those three wretched words would threaten to spill.

Now that you had seen him, surely the dreams would soon follow, or perhaps, they already had. You would soon too realise the way both of your lives are intertwined, linked by the red string of fate. Only then, would you look at him again with that sparkle in your eyes, the one only he could bring out.

Another week passed, and then another, and another.

The dream never came back, and you never mentioned it. Especially not to Suguru, your now boyfriend.

He had asked you out quickly, to a restaurant that suited your tastes oh so perfectly. After which, you had taken a walk in the park, going to your favourites spot around before walking you back home. You'd dropped every hint known to man for him to put his lips on your own, but he had ended the night with a soft kiss to your forehead, and a promise of 'next time'.

Dates had followed each other, and at every occasion, Suguru had surprised you with the sweetest of things. From knowing you inside and out to planning romantic dates that always had you flustered, he was getting straight tens across the board.

Only a few months later did the dream come back.

When you fell asleep and woke up sitting on the bench, you were more confused than ever.

The initial panic washed over you, but you were quick to push it far away. At this point, the boredom was undeniable. Your brain had spent months turning over the problem in hopes of shedding light to what it meant and you had memorised it down to every small detail.

So you simply braced yourself. The park. The restaurant. The road that lead to your hometown. The house. The kids.

Except this time, it didn't stop there: no, at the end, the man turned to you and for the first time ever, you heard him speak words. Actual words that you could make out and understand.

"I'll come to you."

You woke up in a cold sweat, the panic coming back to you.

Was it a threat? A promise?

It was getting hard to tell now. But before you could ponder anymore on it, a sharp knock on your door brought you back. Hesitation and fear filled you, who would knock at— 3AM? Nonetheless, you walked over and looked through the peep hole to see… Suguru? You opened the door, unsure what to say.

"Who— who are you?" you finally managed to get out, stuttering in a way that would have surely embarrassed you, if you hadn't had bigger things to worry about.

Your question made the man smile, but something felt odd. His smile seemed sad, so unlike his usual sly one. For a second, his eyes seemed to turn sorrowful, before he quickly hid it. Instead, he extended his hand towards you, one you were hesitant to take. Despite your stalling, he kept it extended, like a silent offering.

"You say that every time, you know," he finally said, looking straight at you like he could decipher your soul and, for some reason, you believed he could. But before you could question him about what he meant, he lowered his voice to add,

"I really wish you wouldn't."

oddarling — all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, or feed to ai

[k4dewashere]

Placed inside, safe, and sound

drabble | f!reader x various f!characters | hurt/comfort | 2.1k

Thinking about the warmth that lingered the air after the bath, you both shared. She sat behind you on the plastic lid of the off-white, ceramic toilet, her gaze stuck to the wall between your frame and the mirror. A poor excuse from how her eyes begged to wander further down your form.

Grey smoke curled in the air as it chassed the ceiling, creating a particular blend of nicotine, humidity, and shampoo her senses knew already too well. This had become some sort of ritual. After any mission you both accomplished, you'd share a bath in your shared apartment. It was logical, after all. It saved on the water bill and avoided any of you staining some part of the house with blood while waiting for the other to finish. Besides, it was obvious that none of you cared about your scarred forms mirroring one another.

The water was long gone from the tub, leaving in its stead grime and dirt from both your bodies. She had followed the foaming trail of body wash that had trailed down the outside of your knee. Resisting the urge to touch, to feel your scarred skin beneath her fingertips. But now, all that remained on the white ceramic was a small poodle of bloody water and a mix of dust and dirt.

Today had been particularly rough, she sighed, her eyes finally falling on your half-naked form. Your hip was plopped against the sink, your frame dressed in only your matching black bra and panties. It wasn't anything extravagant, more practical than anything, really, a simple elastic band and stretchy fabric. No lace nor underwires for it had been picked in a hurry at a convenience store.

And to her, gone were the days when her cheeks flushed and heartbeat sped at the sight of your naked form. A sort of normalcy had settled, the domestic kind that could only bloom in a trusted environment, something she couldn't imagine without you. It was the kind of domesticity that only came from two women with scars rivaling one another. It only came from two humans with nothing left to lose, for every day might as well be their last.

She slowly brought the cigarette back to her lips, inhaling the smoke before blowing it in the opposite direction from you. She didn't normally smoke indoors, definitely not in your presence since you've made it quite clear that you despise its smell. But today hadn't been normal, and it seemed you shared the sentiment since you didn't say a word at the first flicker of her lighter.

Today's mission was supposed to be easy, the 'kill and go' kind of duty. However, things are never that simple. Especially in this line of work, and, especially with the feelings she felt for the woman 3 feet away from her. She flickered the ash in the drain of the bathtub, always letting the heat get closer than necessary to her fingertips. Today had been too fucking close. Your body before her proved of such.

The wounds had stopped bleeding after a while, but the limp in your movements was evident. Scratches traveled your legs, cuts littered your arms, interrupting the constellation of your moles. She'd seen you, meet the ground, and for one frightful second, she saw what she dreaded most, acceptance behind a wall of fear.

She'd saved you, naturally.

None of you had mentioned it ever since and you had remained silent for the better part of the day, but she wanted to talk about it, wanted to grip your shoulders and shake you until you understood how miserable she'd be if you left. She wanted you to feel how she felt ever since you walked into her life.

Not today, though, never today. Maybe tomorrow, if you even had one. If you both survived again.

It was silent but far from calm. Your wet hair from the previous bath often released one or two droplets of water that met the sink in a low 'plop'.

She watched as you racked your hands through it. It was darker than usual and already curling at the ends. You sighed, too focused on your predicament to notice her balant stating.

She took another hit, leaning against the backrest of the toilet as her eyes followed your hands, reaching for the straightener. It was a ritual she was familiar with. The pattern of your hair had always been too bothersome for you. 'It's too much work', you complained when she asked. Maybe that's one of the many things she loved about you, the routine. She loved how consistent, reliable, strong, you truly were. She never knew she needed that in her life until now.

"You know…" she started, her voice not a whisper, but not her usual tone either.

"You don't have to straighten it all the time, I like the way it curls."

She hummed, propping her elbows on her knees and resting her chin on one of her hands while the other twirled the burning nicotine.

She didn’t look away, her gaze traveling from the back of your head to the drain as she gently shook the ash off the cigarette. You scoffed, but it seemed softer.

"Please, you don't know what you're talking about. You've never seen it."

You were right, to some extent. No matter how damaging it, you always straightened your hair while still damp and sometimes even when it dripped with water.

You leaned towards the mirror, your back creating an arch she wished she could trace with the tip of her nail and watch as it caught on the ragged skin.

Your nakedness wasn't erotic, it never really was.

Finally, she allowed her eyes to wander. As if she hadn't memorized every single dip and shadow of your skin.

"I've seen it." She finally retorted, quiet. Smoke escaped her lips as it curled under the light of the mirror.

"That one time, when you fell asleep in the bathtub after that mission in the city center. Your hair was a mess, wet, wild."

A pause.

"I didn't wake you up on purpose." She added, plastering a smile on her lips in hopes to hide just how much she meant each word.

"It was beautiful."

She tapped the butt of the cigarette against the poodle of bloodied water, a faint scent of burnt paper briefly filling the room before slowly dissipating through the humid air.

She turned back to you, your mouth parting to release one of those bratty retorts you never run out of. Only for a loud curse to fend the air instead.

"Shit!'

It hit like a flare in the dark.

She halted for an instant, reaching for her weapon (which she stupidly came to realize had been thrown somewhere across the apartment). She quickly made her way to your side. But as her frame stood beside yours, all she noticed was the sharp hiss of water touching burning iron. That's when she saw it, the straightener, knocked over, contrasting over the white porcelain of the sink. Steam slowly rose from your forearm, where heat had kissed skin.

You squirmed, a string of charming words escaping your lips as your healthy hand instinctively tried to slap over the burn. She stopped it before you could worsen the situation.

"Damn it, stupid."

In one smooth motion, —without panic, she grabbed your wrist, pulling it under the freezing tap water even as you weakly tried to pull away.

"You always do this."

She murmured, watching as the burn became more prominent under clear water. She didn't let go.

"Always rush into things."

The statement hung heavier than the smoke that still lingered the air. This wasn't about burns, nor about hair. It was about everything.

You didn't answer, she didn't expect you to. The mark on your arm seemed to have settled on a proper Vermilion shade, and when you tried once more to break her grip, she didn't relent.

She could see the tension in your jaw. You were probably clenching your teeth so hard they could break, but you didn't even choke out a surprised noise. Through your pain, your healthy arm reached for support. Finding it in her cotton shirt, bunching up the fabric as you gripped it like a lifeline. Your face falling soon after in the crook of her neck.

It was more contact than usual. You both knew it. Especially her, she'd grown close enough to you to recognize the pattern drawing itself before her eyes. Maybe it was because of how easily you almost died today. Maybe it was everything altogether, but she knew you'd bottled up enough.

She let the tap run, the steam rise, adjusting her hold on your wrist with silent authority.

"No," she sighed, her gaze stuck on the wet strands of your hair. "You don't get to pull away." Her voice wasn't loud, it didn't need to be.

"You can clench your teeth from getting the living daylights punched out of you, walk home with a broken rib, and make yourself coffee as if nothing—" a pause, "but one burn? You fall apart."

She turned slightly, placing herself between you and the sink. Blocking the view of the mirror as if this moment couldn't even be witnessed by the two of you. She looked at you, really did.

"…I saw you today." There, she said it. And regretted it instantly when she felt your body tense. The words tumbled from her lips before she could stop it. "When you went down, when I thought you—"

She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip as her fingers slowly released their deathly hold over your wrist to softly trace over a cut from last week. Sliding her hands down your forearm, fingertips dancing off ragged wounds. One from last month, another from a few days ago. Some healed, others not quite but each painted in the canvas of her mind.

Nuzzled in her neck, you didn't answer. Your grip over her white cotton sleep shirt never relenting. For a moment, or perhaps longer, none of you spoke nor moved. Not until you shifted and slowly rose your head from where it rested moments before.

Your damp hair hung over your face, hiding half of it from her view. But it did little to hide the downturn of your lips and the tightness around your eyes. You didn't pull away yet, your burnt forearm having long given up resisting the freezing cold of the water.

After a beat, you breathed out. Your sigh slightly shaky, a mix between a scoff and a laugh. As if you, yourself, couldn't decide whether to shrug it off or finally snap. She didn't know which she wished for, either.

When you finally parted your lips, your voice was rough. She'd go as far as to say hoarse, but that would be too close to admitting how dampness had met her neck. Dampness she knew that wasn't from your hair.

"I hate this," you finally whispered out, never lifting your gaze to meet hers but staring at the mirror instead. "Hate how you… always see it."

The pause stretched as she waited for you to elaborate without her prompting your words forward. She'd learned to choose her words carefully so as not to frighten you away from opening up, akin to a wounded animal.

One breath, then another.

"I saw its face when it lunged at me, and I swear, just for a second, I wanted to let it take me." You swallowed, the grimace on your face making her wince. "Not because I was scared," she begged to differ, "Because, what if we're already ghosts? Awaiting fate's judgment? Just walking around pretending we'll live long enough to get old?"

Your gaze shifted, from your reflection in the mirror to the straightener on the side of the sink. Dancing across the wrinkles that had formed on her shoulder before finally meeting her eyes.

"And then you pulled me back," you croaked, your voice uncharacteristically small,"…like you always do."

A pause.

"Why do you keep on saving me if we already know how this ends?"

Her breath stopped. For a second, she felt the way your words carved themselves in her ribs. Not because they were new, but because she knew. Knew the shape of that truth like a blade in her own palm.

Suddenly, she moved. Almost foolishly, her hands rose, letting go of your wrist and waist to reach up, to tangle in the back of your hair and pull. Not enough to hurt, God knew you both had enough of that today, but to force eye contact. To stop your gaze from fleeting hers. Her voice became lower with something embarrassingly close to desperation.

"Because I don't care about how this ends."

A beat, her thumb brushing over your pulse point, leaning closer to your weary face, the scent of ash and smoke blending with your sweet body wash.

"I only care that you keep breathing until it does, and I'll save you over and over again, just to witness you bathe beside me."

HIMENO, Arlecchino, Acheron, Zani, Maki Zenin, SHOKO IEIRI, Trigger + any of your favs!

[k4dewashere]

Hiii!!

Not really a request or anything like that, but I just discovered ur blog and WHOA i love love love the way u write sm!!! (Especially the hsr stuff thats what ive been bingeing on ur blog) ❤️❤️

please dont go bald. <3

hihihi lovely anon,

tysm, I'm glad you enjoyed my writing! I often feel like my fanfics become a little boring due to their worrying word count and overwhelming details, so im glad someone finds it pleasant :,)

I promise there's plenty more from where that came from, and as a special treat, I offer two little snippets <3

[k4dewashere]

Can you please write something formula 1 au with Mydei🥹

NO, YOU AINT GOT NO MRS.

(but you got a sports car!)

Competitive spirits crash, but what rises from the debris isn’t what you'd expect.

⟡ Pairing : Formula driver!Mydei x nb!reader

⟡ tags : fluff, name something hotter than a man apologizing, short & sweet, well after some slight angst, beta read, Mydei is THE greenflag, requested,

⟡ Warnings ! : graphic description of car crashes, injury, slight anxiety, description of burns, perhaps some medical malpractice and safety negligence, low-key me hating on men the whole way through

⟡ Wc ! : 1.3k words

⟡ image credits : @ lol_leia on instagram

Kade's note : My sister is obsessed with Formula 1 so she was my main referee, I wasnt sure what trope you wanted so I kinda freestyled it. Loosely inspired from the man who walked out of the fire caused by a crash back in 2020, enjoy!

“Two laps remaining—”

You grunt at your race engineer’s voice, the adrenaline dances on your fingers as you grip the wheel tighter, making a turn that was much too sharp for anyone's liking.

You’re in second place, again, while stupid Mydeimos leads a few hundred meters before you. The crowd cheers all around you, spectating your ongoing losing streak. Frustration crawls up your spine, pressing your foot harder on the gas. Sweat gathers on your forehead, you’re so close, so fucking close, heat crawls up your gut as you see the distance between you and Mydeimos growing smaller and smaller until there’s nothing between your cars.

“Final Lap!”

You can hear the clamor, taste victory on your tongue as you cross the finish line, 305 remaining kilometers (that's very long, it seems weird?) between you and the cup. Mydei’s car still drives ahead of yours by a few centimeters. He takes the turn, and so do you. The sound of hot tires screeching against harsh asphalt, he takes the inner curve, and that’s where you see your chance at success. You slam your foot on the accelerator, taking the turn on the outer with all you’ve got. Risky, sure, but rewarding as you see your nose overtake his, with the sound of Mydei's brakes. You’re about to realign yourself on the track until you turn your wheel, and it doesn't obey. You turn harder, your car heading straight for the sides of the circuit. Behind you, you hear a crash and screams from the crowd; before you, you’re overwhelmed by the constant beeping of the control panel.

Overwhelmed, you get distracted from your impending doom until your eyes close on instinct and your car crashes into the sides of the circuit.

The first seconds are a blur, your mind scrambling for some pointer, anything that could tell you what happened. You feel sore, your hands slowly grasping at your surroundings until something collapses behind you. Still dizzy from the car crash, you blink lazily in its direction until you feel heat, heat that turns ablaze.

Outside your car’s wreckage, you hear the sound of med teams and race engineers, but one voice towers above all.

“Fuck, get off me, I’m alive, —something they clearly won’t be if you don’t fucking help them!”

A silent scream tears out your throat, burning pain taking over your left arm. That’s when your consciousness snaps into awareness. You just had a car crash, your arm is burning like the skin is being melted off your muscles, and the smell of gasoline fills the air. Your mind connects the dots, fire, your car and yourself are quite literally on fire.

Instinct reacts faster than you ever could, if there's one thing you knew, it's that the roof could squash you any second, and you did not want to test how long that took.

Shifting while half your arm is no longer usable, you use your right foot, kicking the door open, fire burns around you. The heat is unbearable as you will yourself out of the wreckage. Your whole body aches as you take a few steps away from it. Your arm has grown numb to the pain, but the remaining parts of your body still do feel the fire on your suit. You raise your gaze, meeting Mydei’s own crashed car and nameless doctors rushing over to your stumbling form. Through the crowd, he stares you down.

Third-degree burns are nasty. You look at your arm, where dead skin cells greet you back, slowly getting covered in white as you bite your lip to remain quiet. The white lights of the hospital blind you as the nurse besides your bed gently changes your bandages.

Your fingers didn't hurt at all. The doctor had explained very gently that they no longer held any nerves that could alert you of any pain. The area around your forearm, though, hurt like hell due to the remaining nerves under the damaged skin. You sigh, the nurse beside your finishing up the process and silently leaving you to your devices.

You don't like this room, it's too silent, too calm, and most importantly, away from the action of the circuit. You're about to reach for the TV remote with your healthy arm when you hear a knock.

“Hey,”

Wait, you know that voice—

Your head snaps in its direction, and lo and behold, Mydei leans on your doorframe. You glare, why's this fucker here?

You had heard from your team that the major cause of your car crash had been Mydei's car, which had scraped the left side and wheel of your car. Leading to both your accidents. The other was your own disregard for your engineer's recommendations, which you chose to ignore for your ego's sake.

You look at him, really look at him. His hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail to avoid any contact with his bandages. His golden eyes stare into yours as you keep your judging glare. He got off much better than you have. His arm isn’t dried beyond compare, it's just broken. He had been discharged several weeks back while you still rot in this hospital bed. Your eyes land on his healthy arm, your brow raising at what it's carrying. That looks like a box your grandma keeps her needles in. What's he gonna do? Poke your eyes with knitting needles?

“What's that for?”

You ask, rather impolitely. He simply stares at you. Face devoid of expression, and it provokes you even more.

“I brought you pomegranate jam cookies.”

He says, his voice monotone and unbothered.

“Because I felt like you deserve an apology after my misjudgment caused you harm. It never was my intention.”

You pause.

“What?” You supply usefully.

Professional F1 driver Mydei is apologizing? To you?

He sighs, walking into your hospital room until he stops at your bedside, his gaze avoiding your bandaged arm.

“I'm sorry for crashing my car into yours and causing irreversible damage to your arm.”

You gape at him like a fish so long the silence turns awkward. But hey, you've been in this field for a while, and you could guarantee half the men have such repugnant arrogance, so for once in your life to have one of those you considered the most egocentrical bastard to offer an apology to you? Now, that's something that leaves you speechless.

“I'm allergic to gluten,”

You sputter. Refusing to be disarmed so easily.

“No, you're allergic to Kiwi. I asked your manager.”

Your disbelief must be written all over your face because Mydei simply sits on the stool beside your bed, cookie box in hand.

“Listen, I don't know what's going on in that brain of yours, but please do know that my actions hold no ulterior motives. I baked these cookies with my healthy arm —which was a pain, I'll have you know, I'd hate for themse to go to waste.”

You hesitate, but he doesn't seem to take no for an answer, thrusting the box into your lap, ever mindful of your injured arm.

Your gaze drops on the warm box. It smells divine, and you've been living on hospital food for the past month. Your restraint doesn't last long before your arm cracks the lid open.

“If it makes you feel better, I think your turn was very well maneuvered.”

You choke on the sweet delicacy, regaining your composure with record speed.

“I took the turn too quickly, I should've waited a little longer.”

You huff, but you can't help the tug of remorse in your gut. Here he was, apologizing to you when you were just as guilty as he was.

“I must apologize too.”

You sigh, munching on the euphoric sweet in your hand. The pomegranate balancing greatly the sweet cookie.

“You crashed because I got too confident and ignored how close your car would get to mine.”

He snorts beside you. And you try to refrain your face from heating up.

“cough but still, you're more responsible than I am.”

You answer, he doesn't rebuke, and when you turn to meet his gaze, his eyes are on your arm. You contemplate speaking up, but for once, the silence isn’t awkward or filled with unresolved tension. This silence is simply… there.

Your eyes remain on his downcast ones, he looks quite remorseful. But when his gaze snaps back up to yours, his expression changes. Veiling whatever hints of sadness may have been adorning his face with a familiar grin.

“So, when are they discharging you? I may have lost my comp car, but my motor’s still intact.”

@ kadesworld ✦ all rights reserved ✦ reqs open

[k1ttzly]

ALWAYS ask a dottore fan what happened on the great December 3rd.

[k4dewashere]

LUCID DREAMER, INSOMNIAC

(I'm losing sleep, would you call me back?)

You've always known that a career as a lyricist is just as susceptible to unemployment as any artistic job. Just as those bands that started their music careers in basements or garages, you started yours in your childhood bedroom under the disapproving gaze of your parents. Leading you to today, a moreso successful lyricist under one of the most awaited uprising artists of the decade : Mydeimos. Thus, due to your contract, you were always given VIP passes and invitation to high social events, expanding your web of connections on a higher level.

Anaxagoras was one of those recurring faces amidst the crowd, and through expensive parties buzzing with various illegal substances and copious amounts of alcohol, you stumbled into his bed. What should've been a one time thing became recurrent, a call here, a kiss there, and slowly rose a mutual agreement.

⟡ Pairing : fwb!Anaxa x lyricist!nb!reader

⟡ tags : fluff, emotionally constipated Anaxa, reader isn't any better, fleeting touches, sexual(?) tension, a few kisses but not much more, Anaxa is implied to be part of high social circles but I couldn't pinpoint an exact career so I left it vague (its free to interpretation), beta read, Anaxa's pov, sleep deprived reader & author, underpaid reader

⟡ Warnings ! : I truly hope Anaxa isn't ooc. I tried to portray his character as best as possible, mentions of substances and alcohol (they drink wine like dignified members of the high society, btw), me crashing out at trying to understand how financial contracts work

⟡ Wc ! : 6.1k words

Kade's note : Have you noticed that I love challenging myself by writing complex characters?

Each week passed, and once again, Friday came at both a leisurely and rapid pace. Ever since the light from the sky had faded into a starless night, the city's life shone brighter, snuffing out any remains of the nebulas and stars visible above.

Slowly, the incessant symphony of middle-class automobiles honking in the traffic outside Anaxa's apartment had blended into the sound of sports cars racing across empty streets. The avenues grew hungrier in need of release, people draped in silk and downright outrageous clothes walked down to the nearest club in a hurry for what good time the city offered.

However, amidst the delightful composition going on outside, Anaxa's phone remained silent, not a text, not a call echoing through the rather cold atmosphere in his abode.

He was a busy man, but once the 18th hour hits on Friday, work became slower, and Anaxa grew busier. Over the weekend, the empty space of his bed became warm, with yet another stranger whose face would become smudged amidst the many others in his memories. He wasn't a slave to lust. Oh no, that would be absolute blasphemy. He was simply acquainted with convenient methods to keep his mind sharp and remain both in control and efficient. Though, that doesn't mean he’d allow anyone to even step in the entryway of his apartment. 

Anaxa's standards were obscenely high. He wanted someone who wasn't too much to leave him more drained mentally than physically. He wanted someone quiet yet energetic enough to leave him breathless, someone with proper hygiene (because, yes, apparently, even the rich sometimes weren't taught proper self-care), someone who would look decent enough besides him and most importantly, someone who'd be gone by dawn and forgotten by the time he stepped into his office on a fresh Monday morning. 

Though, with you, his downfall was absolute. Suddenly, he didn't mind the cologne that lingered on the sheets and his clothes from the night before. Now, don't get him wrong he still was quite open about his dislikes and boundaries but for you, he accommodated. You wormed yourself into his ruthless logic guided heart, remembering each single detail from how his brows creased when he read the newspaper or tasted a rather foul wine, the way he liked his tea and the exact temperature the kettle should be adjusted to. You stayed, and somehow Anaxa didn't quite mind it. 

Before he knew it, he'd forgotten about other one night lovers and cleared his Friday evening for your timely arrival. However, tonight, there seemed to be a change of events, for he didn't receive any messy call demanding whether you could barge into his penthouse with that annoyingly tired face. The clock struck 10PM and his phone remained silent, each notification shut down with ruthless efficiency that gradually became more urgent. Not you, not you, still not you. Where were you?

As much as his logical mind remained calm, he couldn't deny the slight tremor in his fingers with each swipe. Had you decided he was no longer worth your attention? Were you too tired to entertain him? If so he'd simply suggest you lay in bed, but you should have told him. Unwanted anxiety rose in his gut as he bit on his nail —a habit he'd tried time and time again to discard and if caught, he'd stubbornly deny it. 

He hated this, how dare you forget about him. Did you not think of him as much as he did of you? His face soured, as if lemon extract had settled on his tongue at the hypocrisy of his mind. Getting enraged for something he did himself? Aeons, how far he’d fallen, calm and collected Anaxa getting worked up over a night lover. 

The book in his lap rested uselessly against his thighs as he filed through notifications until the screen turned black and suddenly lit up with a familiar interface and your name on the caller's ID. Ignoring the way his chest squeezed at the sight of your call, he answered with efficiency that suggested he hadn't been glued to his phone ever since nightfall. 

“Name,”

His voice remained leveled as he spoke through the receiver. 

“You never call this late, do you need something?”

The jab at your tardiness was barely concealed beneath his tones of indifference. 

“Hey”, your voice was airy through the receiver, he noted with an arched brow, you sound tired. “I'm just finishing up, Mydeimos' manager had me work overtime on some lyrics. Am I disturbing you?”

Anaxa's finger stilled from where it was tapping against his knee, the sharp edge of his blunt nail slightly digging into his skin. Work —of course it was work, not him, never him but the city's restless hunger for Mydeimos’s next hit. 

“Disturbing me? Please,”

His voice remained smooth and detached, practiced indifference wrapped in velvet sarcasm.

“You're a more than welcomed distraction,”

He offered, his thumb tracing idle circles on the crescents indented into his skin, leaning back into his chair like some regal consort awaiting their emperor's call. 

“Though I do recall you promising lyrics by midnight last week...” 

He let that hang there, just enough accusation to sting without outright reprimand because honestly? The thought of those half-finished verses scattered across your desk instead of beneath his hands had been gnawing at him all day too; those fragments weren't meant only for Mydeimos's ears after all.

But then again, when have we ever done things simply or purely for one person, it’s always about our personal gain, isn’t it? 

“Oh, well, you know how that works.” With each pause, the sound of your steps hit the wet pavement, Anaxa could only imagine your figure wandering the busy streets, exhausted from the day of work behind you. “I know it's pretty late, but would you like me to bring you dinner? I heard that restaurant you like just had a refill on seafood. I could bring you that octopus carpaccio and fig deserts from Mem's bakery”

He hummed, his lip slightly twitching upwards. 

“Would that be enough of a peace offering to allow myself into your evening?”

Ah, there it was. Anaxa's eyes gleamed at the proposal with the slightest hint of interest. 

“You’re trying to bribe me,” 

It was just a statement, almost an idle musing.

“—with food not less.”

In truth, he was tempted. The figs deserts from Mem were his favorite and octopus carpaccio sounded divine. 

You spoil me too easily. 

The words were at the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them back with a grimace. He bit the inside of his cheek, feigning nonchalance. 

“You'd have to bring those and your lyrics both, for a 'sufficient' peace offering.”

You chuckled on the other side of the line, the sound of cars passing by muffling the pleasant hum of your voice. 

“I'll make sure to take out that bottle of wine you seem rather keen on drinking too.”

He added, his eyes wandering to where stood proudly the Vino Nobile he allowed himself to indulge into only when you were there to share it. His voice dropped lower, something almost like surrender threading through his usual dry amusement. 

“What time should I expect you?”

“Hm, about fifteen, there shouldn't be too much traffic.”

Anaxa let out a slow exhale, the corner of his mouth tipping up just slightly —fifteen minutes. Plenty of time to light candles he’d never admit to having ready for you. To pour that wine into glasses instead of drinking straight from the bottle like some desperate fools.

“Fifteen,” he repeated it back, deliberate as if testing the word on his own tongue —sounding much too eager already. 

“Try not to be late.”

A pause, before adding,

“Or do, I rather enjoy watching you grovel when Mydeimos’s demands steal your punctuality again.”

The teasing lilt was unmistakable now; playful cruelty wrapped in silky-smooth sarcasm because Aeons forbid either of you acknowledge this for what it really was —your version of wanting.

As soon as the call ended Anaxa pushed himself from the chair with deliberate grace, his steps measured and his anticipation rising through the atmosphere of the apartment.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur. Candles were lit and positioned —the ones you said you liked, the ones you said made the whole apartment taste like summer. The wine was poured into fine crystal glasses, one for you and one for him.

He even took a moment to tidy up the room, neatening the papers strewn across his desk and picking up a discarded shirt.

Ridiculous.

As the clock struck the fourteenth minute, a gentle series of knocks echoed through the apartment  —you remembered Anaxa hated the sound of his doorbell but hadn't had the time to change it yet. 

Anaxa froze mid-step. Knocks. Not the doorbell. Not a flimsy excuse of "I was in the neighborhood." Knocks. The kind you used when you actually wanted him to know it was you, not just some phantom from his past or one of those fleeting lovers who never bothered to learn how he preferred things done.

His fingers twitched at his side before smoothing back over his shirt like none of this had rattled him at all (it did). He took exactly three measured breaths before striding toward that door and wrenching it open with deliberate nonchalance.

And there you stood in all your exhausted glory, damp haired from the rainfall outside, guitar strapped messily over your chest as if thrown on in a hurry and arms laden with takeout bags. Though, despite any logic, none mattered more than your gleaming gaze flickering through your lashes upon meeting his silver irises.

“You're early,” he noted dryly, leaning against the doorframe, blocking the entrance because rules were rules after all.

“Shoes off,” he reminded, fingers tightening on the frame just for a second before he stepped aside with exaggerated reluctance, gesturing grandly toward his apartment like some kind of begrudging royal escorting an unwelcome guest inside (which was ridiculous because you both knew damn well you were anything but).

He hummed as you passed past him, close enough to feel your damp sleeves brushing against his bare forearms, close enough to smell rainwater on your figure, clinging stubbornly in that familiar blend of your silky locks still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and stage lights —even though you did not indulge into such repugnant habits. 

You barged into his home as if it were yours, your laugh like a lazy, slow burning fire as you set down the bags on the kitchen counter with casual efficiency.

He shut the door, taking his time to flip the lock with one hand before taking slow strides towards you. Each one calculated like a hunter stalking prey — finally stopping right behind your frame, his breath just barely ghosting across your damp neck beneath your shirt.

“You're dripping on my floor,”

He noted, eyeing the small droplets of water that had made a messy trail across his wooden flooring.

One slender hand came up to idly tug at damp fabric where it still clung stubbornly to the small of your back. Anaxa's head dipped down, lips hovering just above shoulder, the barest brush of skin against skin. His other hand came to rest on your hip, thumb making circles against the bare sliver of flesh between shirt and waistband. 

"Take this off."

His voice was a low, hushed command. There was no mistaking the edge to it; not when he'd gone through the trouble of lighting candles and opening a bottle of wine.

You freezed against his pull, the ghost of a smile on your lips as you willed yourself to relax under his unexpected touch. 

“Oh? What about your octopus, you hate your carpaccio hot.”

The tone of your voice was casual but Anaxa knew better, it was teasing, it was bait. He grunted behind you, shuffling closer, feeling your wet strands tickle against his cheek. 

“Let me rephrase, then.” Anaxa murmured against damp skin, lips curving into something dangerously close to a smile. "First, you take this off." A sharp tug on the fabric punctuated his words before trailing his fingertips along your spine in deliberate provocation.

"Then we eat cold octopus like barbarians while I critique your lyrics properly.”

He let silence hang in the air, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. 

“Or would you prefer Mydeimos’s manager hearing about how well his star lyricist follows orders?”

“Careful,” you answered in a low tone, turning in Anaxa's hold, your guitar strap sliding from your shoulder down onto the floor with a muffled thud (ouch). “You're starting to sound invested.”

You tilted your head at him, your eyes reflecting the candlelight like molten metal.

“Is this really about obedience or do you just enjoy watching me unravel?”

Before he could react, your fingertips had already reached up. Tracing the gold accents of his eyepatch, descending down the small chain which ended at his earring, your hand curling at the back of his neck. Touch feather-like. 

“Don't think I've forgotten how much you hate being touched first.”

A shiver ran through Anaxa at your velvet coated threat, sharp and unexpected. 

Instinctively, he jerked back—just enough to break that infuriatingly tender touch and shoot you a dark glare. He hated how effortlessly you could make him falter, despising his own body for betraying him so easily.

A muscle ticked in Anaxa's jaw as he clenched his teeth for just a second before spitting with acrid sarcasm.

"You talk too much.”

“I’m a poet,”

You grinned, turning your back to him as you stepped back, your teasing touch discarded as if the jerk you'd received had been enough of an indication of Anaxa's displeasure at the sudden touch. You fleeted, as if to show a cornered animal you were no threat. He hated it. 

His eyes burned into your back as you hooked your fingers underneath your soaked shirt, pulling the fabric off your body, silver eyes tracing each freckle on the expanse of your back like a constellation. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose as you folded the wet shirt, setting it aside and falling rather ungracefully on his velvet couch. Finally, he forced himself to move. Picking up the two expensive glasses and pouring the expensive wine into them, his movements were slow, deliberate, as if pouring the wine himself gave him control over whatever game you two were playing. 

"Here." Anaxa shoved one glass toward where you were sprawled across what had indeed become your spot on the couch (when had that happened? Since when did you just... claim spaces within other people's lives?). 

"Try not to spill my vintage all over yourself this time.”

The jab was automatic but there was something almost fond laced beneath those biting words because watching your pretty eyes crinkle at corners whenever liquor hit your tongue after a long day always made something stupidly warm coil inside his chest  —even though would rather die than admit such thing aloud ever.

You chuckled, taking the glass with exaggerated flourish, your gaze following each and every move from the man before you with that annoyingly lazy kind of interest. 

“You are awfully hospitable tonight.”

You drawled as you leaned back onto the couch, swirling the wine before taking a long measured sip. It was good, as always, smooth and rich on the tongue, leaving a pleasant aftertaste. Your gaze lifted to meet Anaxa's, your lips curving into a knowing smirk. 

“Almost sweet, even.”

"Don't get used to it,"

He retorted, shifting to lean back into the velvet couch opposing yours with familiar ease. His eyes flicked across your bare torso with practiced nonchalance before settling on the food spread out before you.

He picked up one of the delicate plates, idly picking at the octopus carpaccio with a precision more suited to dissection; pale fingers deftly carving through tender flesh with elegant efficiency.

"And for the record, I'm still planning on judging your latest lyrics tonight so don’t get too comfortable.”

“I don't doubt it,” your answer came easily, gaze following each deliberate move of Anaxa's hands. Taking another sip, your lips parted once more. 

“Though, I must admit, Mydeimos' manager has been getting on every one of my nerves. Making me work overtime regardless that I still haven't received last month's pay.” You sighed, “How incompetent.”

Anaxa’s fingers stilled mid-cut.

The fork clinked against porcelain as he set it down with deliberate care, too controlled, too precise for someone who usually didn’t bother masking his irritation. His silver eyes narrowed, fuchsia pupils sharpening like a blade unsheathed at the mention of unpaid labor.

“...He hasn’t paid you.”

The words came out flat, a statement more than a question, before his voice dipped lower into something dangerous.

“And yet Mydeimos is still touring under a contract that includes your lyrics?” 

Anaxa exhaled through his nose before adding icily: “Tell me you at least have legal copies saved somewhere.”

If there was one thing Anaxagoras hated more than being touched first without warning, it was incompetent fools exploiting people smarter than them (and you had always been smarter, annoyingly so)

You hummed in answer, gaze turning to the large floor-to-celling windows, eyeing the stretch of the buzzing city behind them.

Anaxa’s jaw tightened, fingers curling around his wineglass so hard the crystal threatened to crack. Taking a step further, standing in front of you with a rather sour face.

"Disgraceful." The word was sharp, final, as if he'd already decided exactly how this would end. His free hand reached for your wrist without thinking, thumb pressing into pulse point as if checking for damage done by stress alone which was ridiculous because you both knew Anaxa wasn’t that kind of man who fussed over such things.

"You should let me handle it. I have a friend in litigation who owes me favors and I do so enjoy watching incompetents squirm when cornered properly."

The offer hung between you like an unspoken dare, one that tasted suspiciously like concern wrapped up in vengeance.

He could see the surprise in your eyes, your eyebrows lifting at his unexpected touch. You were used to Anaxa's sharpness, accustomed to the biting edge that always lingered beneath polished syllables but the sudden, uncharacteristic show of care was new. 

He could see your subtle shift on the navy couch, like a part of you desperately wanted to pull away and scoff at him like you always did. Anaxa's silver gaze remained on you like a perfect equation, after all, you had always been his favorite variable and he relished in experimenting what outcome you'd come up with next.

"And just what do I have to give in return for this... assistance?” your next words were slow, uncertain, and he couldn't help the quirk of his lips at the question. 

He could tell you were surprised. That much was almost endearing. You might've been smarter than most, but still so easily disarmed by even the faintest gesture of concern. He wondered idly just how much of this had been an act, all your sharp retorts and casual touches.

“Oh? Now you care about quid pro quo?” His voice dropped to a velvet murmur as he leaned in closer. Close enough that the scent of wine and expensive cologne tangled with damp rainwater clinging stubbornly between you. 

“Fine. I want all of your lyrics, the unfinished ones too.”

He paused before adding, “And maybe another hour tonight where I don’t have to pretend this is purely transactional.”

Your eyes widened, something like surprise and want flashing across your features before you forced yourself to feign nonchalance.

You leaned back into the couch as if seeking space you didn't really need, one leg crossed over the other with practiced ease.

"A heavy payment," You murmured, fingers tracing idle circles on your thigh as you tried to regain your usual composure. "More than what my lyrics are worth, isn't it? They're just ink on paper.”

Anaxa's lips curled into something dangerously close to a real smile, one that held no warmth, only the sharp satisfaction of knowing he'd struck true.

"Just words?"

He echoed, leaning back with deliberate laziness while his fingers finally, finally, retreated from your wrist, though not without one last lingering brush against skin.

"You forget I've heard you hum them under your breath when you think no one's listening." A pause, his silver eyes flickering over to yours with muted amusement. "Or perhaps that’s the payment I’m after all along,”

He could feel excitement curl into his gut at the sound of your breath hitching. He knew he had you right where he wanted.

"Tell me it doesn't unravel you too. Knowing someone else holds pieces of yourself they could twist however they please."

Because if there was anything Anaxa understood better than power plays or clever bargains, it was how fragile trust truly became once given freely and too much of that had already been handed over between these four walls.

Your fingers stilled against your thigh, something too quick for Anaxa to decipher passing your features. For a moment, your familiar mask of lazy indifference slipped and revealed something darker, more vulnerable. And it took every ounce of self-control for Anaxa not to rip these cracking edges apart. You opened your mouth, witty retort at the tip of your tongue before your eyebrows furrowed. With a huff, you closed your mouth once more. “You're far too good at getting under me skin,” you begrudgingly muttered, refusing to reveal how impressed you were at his smart use of words to disarm you.

“Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Only those foolish enough to think I was trying to be gentle,” Anaxa purred, lifting his wineglass for another sip while watching you over the rim with unblinking silver eyes. “But you... you never mistake my intentions.” His voice dropped lower then. Something almost like approval threading through dry amusement.

“It’s why you keep coming back despite knowing exactly how much I enjoy peeling apart every layer until there’s nothing left but raw honesty between us.” A beat passed before adding mockingly.

“Or have I been wrong about your preferences all this time?”

Your eyes narrowed at the jibe. In some ways, this was familiar ground —the sharp and biting sarcasm. But there was something else beneath it too; something too warm and dangerous.

You crossed your arms over your chest and Anaxa could hardly resist stealing a glance at your soft skin.

"You really think you've got me figured out, huh?"

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and something else pulling his gaze back to yours. "Go on then, by all means, Mr. All-Knowing, enlighten me.”

Anaxa’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. The kind that said he knew exactly how much this was unraveling you. He set his wineglass down with deliberate care before leaning forward, one hand supporting him against the couch while the other slid at your hip. His gaze wandered across your half-naked frame.

“Let’s see.” His voice dripped with faux contemplation. “You prefer control until you don’t —until it becomes too much and suddenly my hands are the only thing keeping you from drowning in it.” Anaxa tilted his head just slightly.

“You like being called out when you lie but hate admitting when someone sees through the act entirely.” You could barely contain the indignant sound that left you, unfortunately for you, encouraging him on.

“And most of all? You crave having your lyrics stolen, because deep down? You want to know what they sound like coming from my mouth instead of Mydeimos’s stage.”

Finally, his eyes met yours, almost tauntingly soft.

"Am I close?”

Your eyes widened, but you quickly tried to mask your surprise with a smirk that didn't quite meet your eyes. "Not bad," you managed to reply, trying to keep your voice light despite the heat rising on your cheeks.

Too goddamn close.

You leaned back against the couch, trying to regain your composure, but it was hard when every word out of Anaxa's mouth felt like a blow straight to your heart.

"But you forgot one thing," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "You've somehow missed that I'm not usually this easy. I give you what you want because I want you to have it.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part,” he murmured, leaning forward until the space between you crackled with something electric and unspoken. “You think I haven’t noticed how carefully you dole out every scrap of yourself? How every concession is measured like some grand sacrifice?” His fingers tightened against your hip.

“But here’s what you missed—” A pause, Anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose before adding with brutal honesty.

“I don’t want your restraints or your performances. I want whatever pathetic little truth you're still trying to protect.”

He leaned forward, closing the already minimal distance between you until there was nothing but heat and the subtle scent of expensive wine. Your faces were mere inches apart now, he reached up with deliberate slowness until just the tips of his fingers lingered right beneath your chin, tilting it up in a silent demand for you to meet his eyes. His voice dropped to a gravelly murmur, barely audible over your breath mingling into the air.

“And we both know what the truth is, don't we? You—”

He started, his hands like magnets attracted to your warmth as he caged you in, a humiliating and desperate attempt at finally getting you to admit what he so dearly hoped wasn't just an illusion of his.

“—Love me.”

Silence rang loud, muffling his ears as he willed his body to remain calm regardless of his racing heartbeat, because as much as he demanded your truths and lyrics, he'd just offered his heart to you and the sting of being shut down would be like no other.

Until, a smile rose on your lips, subtle satisfaction rising in your irises. Anaxa knew you were tipping into dangerous territory, were saying the honest truth, without any weil of sarcasm. Because for once, you felt like you could admit his statement in whatever this setting was without sounding too much like caring.

"I do."

You answered.

"And I know you do too, love me.”

He could deny it. He should deny it.

But the truth burned through him like wildfire with every passing moment. He wanted you, and you knew it just as well as he did.

And so, without a moment to stop and think this unexpected confession through, he dived in. Catching your lips in a mix of yearning and hate.

Anaxa's hand gripped the side of the couch with bruising force, the other having wandered to tangle into your hair. He closed the distance between you in a single, swift motion, capturing your lips with the desperation of a drowning man. Begging for you, let him have another taste of your warmth, and maybe, maybe, something more.

A week went by, and Anaxa still hadn't heard of you. You'd left his apartment last at dawn after having spent the night warming his side.

As much as he tried to rein the foolish feeling of betrayal racing through his limbs with each passing hour, he couldn't. Minutes felt like torture under your heavy silence.

Had he pushed too far? If so, why hadn't you stopped him, cursed him, put an end to whatever charades you were playing? So many questions and so little answers were messing with his brain. He'd taken unnecessary tardiness at work and couldn't focus on anything but the feeling of your soft lips and warm hands.

Monday mornings usually went by well for Anaxa. He'd wake up at 6 AM to the sound of his blaring alarm and the sight of sun stretching through the horizon. Though, this morning had been deplorable. He woke up with a horrendous headache and stuffed nose. He hadn't even fully registered his bodily condition before he realized the light outside his window was much much too bright for it to be 6 AM.

He rose up like he'd been shocked, scattering ungracefully for his alarm clock only to realise it didn't glow those ominous bold red numbers. Only the pitch black screen met his gaze. Furrowing his brow with growing frustration, he reached for his phone on the nightstand, just to realise that it'd been drained of any battery. A groan left his chapped lips, rising to his feet in a hurry and wandering over to the kitchen where the battery-powered clock informed him of what he'd dreaded most. He was late for work. And not by a few measly minutes (even though that was already truly unacceptable), no, Anaxagoras was 3 hours, 47 minutes, and 02 seconds late.

He was late.

Anaxa was never late. He always arrived before anyone —always.

He ran his hands over his face, groaning irritably at the realization. Three hours. Three and a half hours since he was supposed to walk through those polished glass doors, and he was still struggling to feel remotely human.

His gaze fell from the wall clock to the kitchen counter, debating whether work was even worth rushing for. Sighing, he rubbed his tired eyes. Before whatever dumb decision he might do, he needed coffee. Preferably in a high dose, too. His fingers fumbled with the machine, eyes still bleary and half closed.

As the sound of the coffee maker grunting filled the kitchen, Anaxa finally regained some semblance of consciousness and critical thinking. He eyed the papers scattered on the kitchen counter, clearing out a clean stack of papers concerning work. The remaining papers were on various subjects, but one made him sigh at his own idiocy. Of course, how had he forgotten? The letter from the landlord lay there before him like a bad coffee stain, and suddenly, it was evident. The dates, matching that of last week's Sunday, were written in big bold letters amidst various information concerning repairs of the distribution board.

He sighed, the explanation to today's fiasco flashing through his mind. Anaxa slumped against the counter, hands coming up to rub at his temples. He felt like he'd been hit by a truck, or two. His head was pounding. His nose was stuffed. His throat was dry. He was pretty sure he had a fever.

And to top it all? He still missed you.

Stupid.

He leaned forward, pressing his head against the cool granite counter with a low curse. How pathetic that he was still so caught up in this... situation.

Anaxa's fingers twitched against the granite, remembering how your mug was still sitting in the sink like some kind of taunt.

He didn't need to look at it. He already knew what he'd see if he turned his head: that stupid little light blue ceramic mug, shaped like a cute shark you'd brought at his apartment last month when you were bored between break hours. He remembered how your lips had curled around its rim just a week before that night.

His throat tightened with something raw and ugly as panic hit him square in the chest. What if you weren't coming back? Not for coffee. Not for anything else either.

You couldn't be doing that, could you? No, not after you'd chased him like a desperate fool—

A pause.

Was that it? His mind ran a thousand miles a minute, trying to come up with another possible reason for your abrupt disappearance and lack of contact.

Anaxa’s breath hitched, sharp, like a blade between ribs as logic dawned upon him.

Of course. It made perfect sense now. You had always been the one to chase, always the one who demanded entry with your infuriating charm and those sharp eyes that saw too much. And Anaxa? He'd spent your entire history playing hard to get like some petulant child refusing affection until it was shoved down his throat.

So this was it, then? A test of devotion in all its cruel simplicity. One final game where you waited on him to prove how badly he wanted this, wanted you.

The thought alone sent heat flooding through veins hotter than any fever ever could.

"You insufferable bastard—"

He muttered hoarsely, reaching for the keys. Being played irked him; losing when it mattered hit a nerve. And this moment, this one, hit it hard.

An hour later, he'd reached the foyer of the apartment complex, scarf raised to the top of his cheeks. Keys in hand, he stopped at the mailbox. Twisting the lock open, he was met with the sight of a rather large envelope. He tilted his head in question. Anaxa had many connections, yes, but he wasn't expecting any letter. Additionally, it couldn't have been something administrative due to the rather imposing thickness of the envelope.

His pale fingers reached for the muted beige letter. Hands flipping the mail, trying to find the name of the sender, but nothing. He huffed, thinking it may be an error or a prank from the wealthy kids living a few floors below him. But the name on the front of the envelope was definitely his. With a sigh, he dug his nail into the delicate paper, ripping it open with ruthless efficiency. Inside, he was met with papers varying in format and state. Some were run down by time and frustrated hands, others a large A4 paper format neatly folded in half. All, however, possessed one similarity. They all had your writing all over them.

All the papers contained notes varying from small chicken-scratches of impromptu ideas to actual full unreleased songs. Everything stood there in his hands, but something was missing. There was no letter from you, no explanation. You'd done what he asked, sure, but what now?

It was... a lot more than he'd expected, to say the least.

He'd wanted your lyrics, and here they were. Pages upon pages of raw words that you had written just because you felt like it. You had given him everything : rough drafts scribbled on bar napkins, polished verses with precise corrections in red ink. Words that Anaxa suddenly had in the palm of his hand. It was more than he could've hoped for…

But still nowhere near what he really wanted.

And you, despite everything even without a letter, even after a week of silence, even after all those nights Anaxa had let you dance around him but never truly showed his yearning, had trusted. Trusted with lyrics and words and thoughts that were never meant to be shared with eyes other than your own, trusted that Anaxa would do something with them, trusted that he would keep them safe.

So what the hell was he supposed to do now? How was he even supposed to begin to respond to something like this?

Chase.

Anaxa's mind supplied. He should respond. He should chase. Because that was what you usually did when something, someone, mattered to you. You chased.

The problem was, Anaxa had never chased in his life. He took what he wanted with calculated precision and deliberate calm. He'd never had to chase, never had to hope, because men and women had always been tripping over themselves to give him whatever he asked for just for the opportunity to share his bed.

And now, now, you were forcing him into a position he'd never been in before. He'd never had to work for something before. Never had to actually earn someone's affection which was ridiculous because he shouldn't care, because he and you had always been nothing but transactional, because you were friends with benefits at best and strangers with occasional benefits at worst.

This was absurd. He was Anaxagoras, he didn't chase, he claimed. And yet here he stood in some sterile hallway with nothing but your words in his hands and a hollow ache where pride should be.

He could walk away right now if he wanted to. Let Mydeimos keep those lyrics for all their worth because what were songs compared to the satisfaction of your unsaid confessions?

His thumb brushed over one particularly smudged line, some half-finished verse scribbled between coffee stains and sharpie corrections like it had been written during late nights when thoughts bled too easily onto paper.

A muscle twitched along his jaw before he muttered under breath:

"...Fine, but I swear on every star carved into my skin, if you're not there waiting when I knock? I'll— ”

Whatever remaining curses he may have muttered, blasphemous enough to make a scholar blush, were lost to the sound of his quick steps through the foyer and the slam of the front door behind him.

@ kadesworld ✦ all rights reserved

[irdkbutdontask]

My biggest fear is probably my parents finding out about my obsession with gay ships of any kind

[k4dewashere]

Claw marks by panicbaby defines Phainon so well.

The metaphor for holding onto something so hard he leaves inevitable indents into the very skin of his loved ones. For he knows that in each cycle they'll be stripped away by his own hands.

In every life, every reincarnation, he hopes for a better outcome. Each death haunts his very soul and leaves into him the same scars his desperate hold left on others.

He is mad. He is furious at the Aeons above for making his friends endure all of this even if they never truly realise they are only copies of code. Phainon is a good man. Many can agree on that. However, that isn't the full extent of his character.

Phainon is full of unquelled rage. Rage at the Flame Reaver for killing his childhood friend, his desire for revenge only becomes highly concealed around others, for he acquired the level of maturity necessary to hide his destructive behavior behind a mask of perfection.

The 3.3 voicelines are the breaking point where he slowly seems to dip into a more... gloomy state, he becomes detached, violent. Aglaea's death is simply the climax of this tension provided by Phainons rather off-putting behavior during previous patches.

After that, he seems detached— cold. That's when we tip towards Flame Reaver's behavior.

Phainon's failure of the trial of Strife may have been forseenable and easily brushed over, for we all knew from the start it was Mydei who'd inherit the War God's coreflame However, it has a deeper meaning. Both Phainon's and Mydei's character trailer encourage two different points of view and behaviors concerning death and war.

While Mydei manages to channel his rage and control his strife (for lack of better terms), Phainon's trailer is all about his revenge against the ones who are wronging him. First Flame Revaer, then Nanook. That is what makes him unworthy of Strife.

Speaking of unworthy, Phainon repeatedly seems rather insecure about being the rightful deliverer and bearer of Kephale's coreflame. Aglaea is often shown comforting him that he has all that is required for him to be the perfect vessel. That is where a deep misunderstanding lies.

Phainon isn't scared of the simple act of acquiring the coreflame and being worthy of that. No, Phainon is scarred of the world he will create onwards. The dawn he will rise, will it be spared of war cries and loss, or will it be painted crimson due to his own thirst for vengeance?

All this to say, Phainon is truly a complex character with many layers, all intertwined. His desire is for everyone to live and for each of their wishes to come true. He is as selfless as they come, but that doesn't erase this everlasting rage that builds each column of his very being.

(This is literally just me rambling with no linear idea whatsoever, I just couldn't stop myself — also, this was written pre 3.6)

[redacted-thought]

LOUVRE HEIST

SYNOPSIS. A Louvre heist? Surely the work of the Crows, although it definitely isn't Kaz's work... CONTENTS. the Crows stealing but what's new?, crack fic, beta read WC. 1.9k AUTHOR'S NOTE. I had to, anyways first post hope you like it :) ps. hope there's a bilingual person out there who reads my fic and gets the french reference lmao

“Come onnnnn,” said Jesper, drawing out the last syllable in a way he knew would annoy Kaz. “Please let me plan our next heist!”

“No. Just leave the planning to me and you can just shoot people, it’s the only thing you can do well besides gambling anyways,” replied Kaz dryly.

Jesper gasped in mock offense, “You know damn well I stopped gambling. Wylan makes sure of it. But it’ll be fun, I swear!”

“No. And that’s final.”

Oh Saints, how did they end up here…

Who knew Jesper could be so convincing? Making Kaz agree to such a request was impressive, Inej had to give him that. But right now, she was definitely regretting what could only be described as a lapse in Kaz’s judgement.

Jesper was now sitting at the head of the table, in Kaz’s spot. He was dressed just like the plan maker down to replica of his cane which he had found Saints know where and his black hat.

“So, Inej, any important information?” Silence was his only answer. “Did I do it right? It’s totally how Kaz talks, right?”

His eagerness only made the Suli sigh. “No. The Louvre is open to the public, you could have just walked in to find out the layout. But I don’t have any information since you insisted on going into this blind.”

“Heh, you’re right. Makes it more fun to guess,” he said with a wink. “Now, onto planning we go.”

He dug out dice from one of the many pockets of his suit and proceeded to throw them onto the table. The first one landed on three, “We’ll dress up as construction workers, andddd,” the second one landed on five, “and go up a ladder!”

He then searched another pocket of his suit, before pulling out a packet of cards and mixing them. He presented them in front of Nina, gesturing her to take one. “Oh, a queen of spades, we’ll take the jewels of the queen!”

His happiness resembled that of a young child, but the rest of the Crows were very much not convinced.

“And lastly,” he continued, dugging out another set of dice from yet another pocket of his suit and throwing them, “nine! We’ll ride away on motorcycles. So what do we think?”

Kaz spoke first, “I thought you said you stopped gambling.”

“Well, Wylan said I should satisfy my gambling needs by gambling on lower stake events,” answered Jesper joyfully.

“Lower stake?”

“Yes, lower stake. Like what the cooks will prepare for lunch, or—”

“My life?” offered Matthias.

Nina laughed, but quickly stopped, realising she was the only one. “Oh, sorry.”

Silence fell once more on the room, everyone hesitating to speak in front of Jesper’s bright smile. They were all waiting for Kaz to speak. Even with Jesper dressed like him, sitting in his spot, and presenting the plan, they all knew Kaz would be the one calling the shots.

The man in question only sighed before giving a small nod. “Fine. We’re leaving tomorrow at dawn. Inej, get us some construction vests. Nina and Matthias, you take care of the ladder and motorcycles.”

“YES! I knew you’d agree,” he said, jumping out of his seat and hopping to where Kaz was sat, seemingly wanting to hug him. A sharp glare stopped him and he redirected towards the door. “I’ll go get my guns!”

The door slammed shut behind him and the remaining Crows looked over to Kaz in shock.

“Demon boy, I swear you better have a back up plan up your sleeves,” grumbled Matthias.

“I have twenty-three.”

“See, this is going great already,” Jesper was over the moon.

But the other Crows only looked at him, not entirely convinced that it was such a good idea.

“Can't this thing go any faster? We'll get caught at this rate,” observed Matthias.

“Don't worry, it'll be fine,” answered Jesper like that would help soothe anyone's worries.

He did his best to stifle his laughter through the silence only interrupted by the beeping of the automatic ladder. He couldn't help it, the situation was just so damn funny.

After what felt like an eternity, the ladder finally arrived on the second floor where the queen’s jewels were exhibited, ready to steal them — as the card had decided.

“Come on, let's go in. After you,” Jesper curtsied, letting Kaz take the lead, as always.

“You're still the one in charge, you better have a good idea to break the glass.”

The silence was loud.

“The glass… right. Um, surely we can just break it.”

Everyone looked over at Jesper who was doing his best to divert the attention of the group. “Oh- waouh- would you look at that… crazy stuff. Haha.”

He went on to walk further into the gallery. “There's so many things to take. Well better get to work, amiright?”

The Crows only blinked at him before Kaz gestured for him to go ahead. “Please, since you want to be the leader so bad, by all means, lead.”

“Well there goes nothing,” Jesper concluded before smashing his hand against the glass, his hand bouncing back comically, not a dent left on the window.

However, he had not accomplished nothing, the commotion had managed to draw the attention of the guards standing off to the side.

“Tout va bien?”

The Crows looked at each other embarrassed, unsure how to proceed. Kaz tightened his grip on his cane and Inej grabbed her daggers, both ready to pounce at the first sign of hostility from the guard.

“Umm, just looking around, we don't speak french though,” said Nina, stepping forward before Kaz or Inej could kill the poor guy.

“Yeah! There were some issues with the alarm, so if you hear some weird noises, it's normal, don't worry,” added Jesper, looking very much not confident.

The guard, although sceptic, did leave them alone with not much more than a raised eyebrow, mumbling something about ‘ces putains de touristes’. The six stealers all let out a breath. Crisis averted.

“That would not have happened if you had let demon boy do what he does best,” grumbled Matthias.

“Oh, you flatter me, Matthias. You've definitely gone soft,” teased back the ‘demon boy’ in question. “Now, Jesper, how exactly do you plan on stealing the jewels if you can't break the glass?”

Jesper was left speechless, stammering to get an answer out. Wylan decided with a sigh that it was time to put him out of his misery. He opened his bag, taking out a bunch of stuff that left the rest of the group confused. “Step aside.”

He placed it near a few of the exhibits before going back to the Crows. “Brace yourself, we need to be quick once this is done.”

They all awaited the explosion that was sure to come, and prepared to run once it had occurred.

“No mourners,” said Jesper quietly.

“No funerals.”

BOOM.

Chaos ensued.

Wylan was packing his equipment, doing his best to not damage any of the tools.

Jesper was off running in every direction trying to collect as many jewels as possible.

Inej tried her best to keep the guards away, reluctant to use her daggers more than necessary.

Matthias was already halfway back onto the ladder, ready to leave with or without the rest of the crew.

Kaz was standing off to the side, sighing dramatically and muttering something about ‘regrets’ and how Jesper was ‘ruining his reputation’.

Meanwhile Nina was thriving on the chaos, very much enjoying the scene unfolding in front of her. “So where do we put those jewels?”

“What do you mean where do we put them? We take them with us,” answered Jesper, confused and slightly out of breath from all the running around he was doing.

“No, I meant a bag, you did take a bag, right?”

Jesper had in fact not taken a bag. He looked to Kaz in hopes that one of his twenty-three backup plans included a bag. But the latter only sighed, “I overestimated you, though I had estimated you very lowly.”

The blaring alarm interrupted their silent debate, as Matthias urged them out, menacing to leave without them or the jewels. The Crows all ran very quickly, Jesper the last, still collecting more and more jewels adding  them to the ever-growing pile in his arms.

Just as he was finally reaching the ladder, a crown fell onto the floor. He immediately turned around, seemingly already too attached to what he had just stolen, although his accomplices did not seem convinced by his sense of priority.

Through the chaos and the complaints of the teenagers, Wylan was the only one who had noticed security approaching the scene of the crime. “RUN!”

Jesper looked back at the crown he had unwillingly surrendered, hesitating for just a second, before running towards his friends.

“Goodbye, my dear, you will not be forgotten,” he promised the lone jewel sitting on the floor, making the five others roll their eyes in exasperation.

Once they had all boarded the ladder, Matthias activated it and so began the slow descent. The scene was truly comic and Inej almost expected elevator music to start playing in the background.

But instead of soft music, they suddenly heard shouts from the room they had just left. Guards had apparently found the missing jewels. About time…

They were screaming through the window, and in the sea of chaotic shouts Jesper vaguely recognised something like “Nique sa mère, ils s'échappent!” Insults seemed to be the only French he knew from all his time in Paris. Meanwhile, the six teenagers were getting away. On a construction ladder. Very slowly.

This could surely qualify as the slowest chase in history. They should probably be receiving some kind of award at this point. And so, once they reached the ground, they only had to take the scooters parked in front, to swiftly make their escape. But wait—

“Why are they pink?” deadpanned Kaz. He turned to Nina and Matthias, his gaze piercing.

“It was her idea,” pointed out the latter immediately.

“Way to go, throwing me under the bus,” whispered Nina harshly, before clearing her throat to answer Kaz. “Anyways, we didn’t think we'd actually get to that point of the escape.”

“Fair enough. Not like we have a choice now,” said Kaz, resigning himself to the idea of taking those motorcycles. “Wylan, take Jesper, you'll go first. Matthias and Nina, you go after. Collect any fallen jewels. Inej and I will get rid of any… unwanted company following us.”

And just like that, they managed to swiftly make their escape, Jesper celebrating with a few gun shots in the air. The poor boy didn't even get the chance to shoot at someone or something all day...

But Inej had just one final question, she just had to ask. “Be honest, you had something to do with how well this went.”

Kaz cocked a brow, unable to answer,  flabbergasted in a way he hadn't been in a long time, “No, that was all Jesper.”

He looked ahead to where the rest of the group had stopped and joined them carefully. No one had followed them and so, they stripped off the neon yellow vests to discard them in some already overflowing trashcans.

A strange looking man passed them, eyeing the vests with dry amusement only parisians could pull off.

“Ah, vous aussi vous avez rendu les armes? Eh bien, voyons combien de temps ce nouveau ministre tiendra.”

redacted-thought — all rights reserved. do not copy, steal or feed to ai.

[k4dewashere]

Kinktober day 05 ✶ mdni !

✦ "Sticky situation,"

aka honkai star rail characters and where they like to cum !

featuring : anaxa, phainon, mydei, dan heng permansor terrae

kade's note : In honor of anaxa and dante coming home with both their lcs and anaxa's E2 (in 110 pulls, no less) — I'm on a roll. Wrote this on two hours of sleep and prayers while transferring flights. Thus, no beta read since my darling beta reader is asleep, and I want this posted by dawn :,)

wc! : 652 words

✶ Anaxa

Anaxa likes to think he is a sensible man, one of the seven sages of the Grove of Epiphany, a blasphemer aiming to reach apotheosis, a scholar with a cool facade and a wall of nonchalance rivaling that of a statue. However, you alone allow that well-put-up façade to crumble.

Behind the closed doors of his personal study at the Grove, you'd often find yourselves indulging in something much more sinful than researching the gods. Something that would involve your body hitting against the edge of his desk, sending research papers flying as he'd slide his shaft between your folds, the lacy band of your panties rubbing against his arousal when he drives forward with vigor one would question his frail body capable of.

But when all is said and done, and Anaxa feels his climax near, he would stop his thrusting and allow his warm semen to squirt onto your awaiting pussy, pooling at the bottom of your undergarments. He’d slap your panties back into place and dress you up again, forcing you to feel the squelch of his cum between your lips for the remaining working hours you have at the Grove.

✶ Phainon

You cannot look me in the eyes and tell me this man is not a boob man — I mean, look at him. Are we really debating this? Phainon adores your chest; let him have his way, and he could die a happy man. It’s in the way his scarred hands, from overuse of his greatsword, linger over your soft skin, holding both your breasts together as he moves between the soft, gentle curves. How your tongue would poke out your parted lips to grace his dick with enhanced stimulation, and your pretty eyes would gaze upwards at his frame.

Yeah, safe to say, Phainon will not only cum on your chest in a matter of minutes; he'll even take his sweet time rubbing his softening tip against your nipples, painting them a pretty shade of white.

✶ Mydei

Ass. No questions asked. The king of backshots™ — and you can’t change my mind. As sweet as our darling Mydei is, none of us can deny that, under the adrenaline of a barely finished battle, there are few better ways to release the remaining tension in his shoulders. For him, it'd be the arch of your back when his gauntlets would squeeze your waist, turning your skin white as he'd take you from behind with strength that'd make your face fall onto the pillow with muffled moans.

He'd pull out in a rush to heed your wishes to not have him come inside and stroke his dick over your ass and soaking, gaping cunt. Sending white webs between your cheeks, letting the semen slide down to your clit.

✶Dan Heng

Is this even a question? Inside, of course! Dan Heng literally acquired the Coreflame of the Earth Titan — you know what that means? It means proliferation, aka breeding!

No matter how much he whines and promises he’ll pull out, he can’t resist the delicious grip your cunt has on him.

The way you’d squeeze around him each time he pulled out and the whine it earns him are enough to send him spiraling. Please, forgive his terrible impulse control when he grips your hips and fucks you ten times harder as he feels his climax near and under your displeased moans, he'll purposefully apologize into the juncture of your neck, all while fucking his cum into your awaiting womb.

kadesworld ✦ all rights reserved