ACOTAR X "Can We Be Something More?"

ACOTAR x "Can we be something more?"

Headcannons

Summary: Telling your fuck buddy that you want to be more than friends. Includes: Azriel, Cassian, and Amarantha

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: Crackship (Amarantha x reader), Pet names (Pet, Sweetheart), Mostly Fluff

Azriel

Finding you in the hallway of Hewn City, you were dropping off healing potions and heading back to Velaris. Azriel, however, trailed after you, pushing you into the dark hallway, peppering your neck with kisses as he raised your wrists above your head with one hand.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your ear, nipping the lobe as he continued his conquest.

You couldn’t stop the moans escaping your lips, trying to quiet them as his other hand raised your leg to lift you, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist as he pressed you hard into the wall.

“Az…” you pleaded as his lips met yours, softly tugging your bottom lip. He stopped and tilted his head to the side.

“Not into it today?” Azriel muttered in confusion. You always loved him doing this to you. You always let him mark you. Why not today? Were you seeing someone else? Were you already bored of him?

You shook your head as he gently placed you back on the ground, yet still kept his chest pressed into yours. His hazel, golden eyes pierced your own.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” you murmured sheepishly, tearing your glance away from his. Using his hand, he lifted your chin to face him as he nodded, encouraging you to inform him of your thoughts.

“I want to be something more with you…” Your gut was telling you, no, screaming at you that you knew how this would play out. The infamous spymaster being with the likes of a healer? You two were opposites; he inflicted pain while you cured it. When you both started this friends with benefits situation, he strictly stated no feelings attached.

He placed his head on your shoulder, hunched over as he nipped the skin. You could feel heat on his cheeks. Was the spymaster…blushing? You went to say something, and in a moment he nipped again as if telling you not to speak.

Azriel took a deep breath, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, each beat a reminder of how vulnerable this moment was for both of you. His shadows laced around the both of you, perhaps protecting this moment from curious eyes. Slowly, he lifted his head, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“You want more?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of his words hung in the air between you.

You nodded, the words sticking in your throat. You had never felt this way before, not with anyone, and certainly not with someone as guarded and complex as him. Yet, for yourself, you couldn’t deny your feelings any longer. “Yes, I…I can’t keep pretending this is casual for me. I know what we agreed on. I want more, Azriel.”

Azriel’s eyes softened, the golden flecks in his hazel gaze catching the dim light of the hallway. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. “I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. “I was scared to think that I could deserve you.”

Your heart ached at his words. “You deserve everything, Az. You deserve to be loved, truly and completely. You’re not as bad as you think you are.”

His eyes closed for a moment with a sigh escaping those soft lips of his, as if absorbing the truth of your words. When he opened them again, there was a determination there, a resolve that made your heart skip a beat. “If you want more, then more you shall have,” he said firmly. “No more hiding, no more pretending. I want you, all of you. And I want to be yours.”

A wave of relief washed over you, and you pulled him into a fierce kiss, pouring all your feelings into the embrace. He responded with equal fervor, his hands roaming your back, anchoring you to him.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless with swollen lips, but the smiles on your faces mirrored each other. “Let’s get out of this hell first,” Azriel suggested, his voice husky. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk, like actually talk. I want us to do this properly.”

You nodded eagerly, your heart soaring. As you walked hand in hand out of the dark hallway.

Cassian

You both had met at Rita’s, sharing nights between each other after your first one-night stand with him. It started off small: alleyway hookups, bathroom trysts, to him coming over to your apartment, and even dropping off flowers at your job.

You currently lay in bed after a long session, your sore muscles protesting as you stretched. Noticing he wasn’t there, you crept out of bed and down the hallway, finding him on your couch lazily reading camp reports. When Cassian looked up and noticed you, he put the documents down and a smile planted itself on his face.

“Awake already? You passed out pretty fast,” he teased, opening his arms for you to come snuggle into his broad chest. You padded over to him, sitting on his lap and burying your face into the crook of his neck. Cassian wrapped an arm around your waist, his other hand moving to your chin to tilt your head towards him as he planted a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Working already?” you murmured against his lips, eliciting a groan from him as you reminded him. You looked into his eyes, seeing the warmth in them. To others, he was the lord of bloodshed; to you, he was sweet and gentle. Tender moments like these made your heart race.

He cupped your face with both his hands, “You’re so pretty,” he murmured, gently kissing your cheek, under your eye, the tip of your nose, and then your lips.

“Cass, can I ask you something?” you pouted as he smooshed your cheeks with his huge hands.

“Anything,” he smirked.

“Can we be something more?”

Cassian tilted his head in confusion. “What did you think we were?” he muttered, moving his hands from your cheeks to your shoulders. You looked at him, confused. “I thought we were just friends with benefits,” you murmured sheepishly, your cheeks turning pink at the words.

Cassian tried not to laugh as he looked at your features, as if taking you in. “Friends with benefits don’t bring flowers in front of your coworkers. Friends with benefits don’t bring their toothbrushes and important work documents to the other’s house. I honestly thought we were dating,” Cassian laughed a little as he looked at you, the shocked expression on your face.

“You mean, you thought we were already dating?” you muttered under your breath, looking at the kind expression on his face as he nodded.

“Perhaps we could have communicated that,” he murmured as he looked at your lips. “But I’ve been all in since that moment you let me bang you on the side of Rita’s, sweetheart.” He chuckled as he pinched your cheek just as you were about to huff at him for teasing you.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension melting away. “Well, in that case, I guess we’re official now,” you said, a playful glint in your eyes.

Cassian’s expression softened further, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “More than official,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “I’m yours, and you’re mine. No more guessing.”

A lump formed in your throat as the depth of his words sank in. “Deal,” you whispered, sealing it with a kiss.

Crack ship for this one: Amarantha

You’re nestled in the bedsheets next to the general of Hybern, the self-proclaimed High Queen of Prythian. Her long nails trail against your body as you stir awake from your last session together. You give her a sleepy smile, one that she returns along with a kiss on your lips.

“My queen,” you mutter gently, to which she raises a brow.

“Yes, pet?” She lines your jaw with her nail as she gazes into your eyes.

“Can we be…something more?” You manage to stutter out as she lines your bottom lip with her nail. If she wanted to, she could cut it open right then and there. Yet today she is gentle.

“Something more than a pet,” Her hand stops as she grips your chin to look at her, her eyes darkening.

“Are you that obsessed with me?” Her smile turns sinister. “Mother above, you must be sick in the mind to want to be more than a pet. You want me to be all yours, don’t you?” She croons as she plants a rough kiss on your lips. Small whimpers escape your lips.

“I want you to be my girlfriend,” you manage to pant out as she breaks the kiss, earning a feline grin from her as she leans into your ear.

“The only thing you will ever be is my pet, my concubine,” she purrs, her voice dripping with a dark amusement.

A laugh escapes her lips, a sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Girlfriend?” She muses, as if the word itself is a joke. “Oh, sweet pet, you are amusing. Why would I limit myself to such a mundane role when I have you exactly where I want you?”

You feel your heart sink at her words, but the power of her presence keeps you enthralled. “But I… I care about you,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

“And I enjoy your company,” Amarantha replies, her nails now gently scratching your scalp. “But don’t mistake my amusement for affection, pet. You are here for my pleasure, nothing more.”

You swallow hard, the sting of her words mixing with the lingering pleasure of her touch. “I understand,” you say softly, trying to mask the hurt in your voice.

Pairing: cc!geto x reader

Word Count: 14.6K

Warnings: dub-con, rough sex, mentions of violence, sexual trauma, murder, mind games, cannon typical violence, trauma, grief, loss, use of a safe word, toxic relationships, suguru in general

Suguru didn’t understand the type of murderers that chose methods like strangulation or stabbing.

Why get so close if it isn’t necessary? Unless, of course, one was, say, backed into a corner, with no way out but through. That he could rationalize. Beyond that, the serial killers of the world made no sense to him. The biting, the choking, the trophies. He wasn’t cut from the same cloth. Suguru Geto preferred his violence distant, whenever possible. He didn’t like the desperate noises, the injuries you could cause yourself in such close quarters, the filthy monkey blood that would splatter his otherwise pristine condition. No, not when it was so easy for him. He had to exert almost no energy at all. Most of the time, he felt nothing when considering taking a life, much less the anger it would take to keep your victim close.

Until now.

The sound that’s escaping you is probably supposed to be some combination of his name and some sort of plea, but really all that's coming out is gurgling. A desperate, pathetic attempt to find much needed oxygen as he squeezes your throat in the crook of his elbow between his forearm and bicep, the fingers on his opposing hand gripping the locks of hair at the crown of your head with force, holding your head up as he pounds into your quivering cunt from behind.

And there it is; that feeling he thought he’d never understand, that white hot anger that seemed to fester in his abdomen along with the tightening coil of his own release. Because even though he was moments away from choking you unconscious, even though he had complete and total control over your body in the present moment– you, too, held control of him. You, a pathetic fucking monkey, draining every rational thought from his brain via his cock, every grip and pull and squelch of your pussy taking little bits of his nature, his purpose and completely obliterating them, just by existing. Just by the way he can feel you trembling, quivering beneath him, your body ready to fall apart for his expert conduction again, like the weak little bitch you were.

Your nails come up to claw at the arm wrapped around your throat desperately, and he laughs as you wound him, hissing as the searing pain reverberates throughout his body. He does loosen up, though, just enough for you to gargle out his least favorite word:

“Blue!”

Stupid fucking monkeys and their stupid fucking rules. He did agree to them, though, and so immediately he stops, releasing you from his hold and pulling out of you immediately. 

You scramble forward frantically, curling in on yourself, your nude frame doing its best to protect all the most important parts of yourself, your forehead tucked into your knees, hiding from the world, hiding from him. He waits patiently for a moment, and then two, before he realizes that you’re not going to let him get back to his game that night. It wasn’t any fun if you weren’t interested, desperate for him as well, and it doesn’t take long for his cock to soften along with his pride.

He re-dresses himself, and then grabs you a pair of pajamas from the closet, throwing them across the corner of the bed in stride as he leaves the room, returning with a warm, wet cloth and kneeling by the bed in front of your frame. The thought that he would service a monkey in such a way was laughable, something that his associates would shame him for. The man who disinfected himself every time a monkey dared to touch him, knelt at the bed of one, fully ready to provide comfort, to fix what he broke–

“Just leave.”

What?

His face is blank as his mind spins, eyes flicking back and forth as your words swirl around in his head. Him? Leave? At the request of you?

In all fairness, you didn’t know the danger, the sheer power that you had bending to your will right now. This relationship was not one of love, there was no need for learning each other beyond common niceties. You knew nothing of the world that you lived in everyday, nothing of curses or jujutsu, nothing of his following or defection. Conversations between the two of you were short and sweet, an understood unimportant preamble to the sex you’d have a few times a week.

“Suguru,” You absolutely refuse to leave your armadillo shell posture “I’m not doing this anymore. Just go.”.

What was this feeling? This crushing tightness that was forming in his chest? He hadn’t felt anything similar since the disaster of a mission he’d taken on with Satoru as a teenager. Desperate, frantic beating of his normally metronomic heart.

“Y/n, I swear I didn’t–”

Yes he did. Do it, mean it, whatever the absolute lie he was about to spit was gonna be. He did. But you couldn’t know that. If you did, you’d never let him see you again, and for some reason he doesn’t like the thought of that.

“Leave!!”

****

There were times when he felt his body wasn’t made to swallow the things he did. Namely, curses. The taste was indescribable, a special type of hell everytime he shoved one of those god forsaken balls of death and chaos past his lips. He’d gotten better about it since he was a teenager, or at least better at ignoring the after effects. If he had a nickel for every minute of his life spent retching into the toilet after absorbing a curse, he’d have no need for the money collecting monkeys he kept around.

There were other things he shouldn’t swallow that he did. Sip after sip of bourbon when the day had been too long, until his face burned and the world spun sideways as he crawled into bed. His pride, occasionally, when a particularly rich monkey would think himself useful enough to exert some sort of control over him. Of course, he could remedy this later when the money ran dry, but in the moment it was tough.

Of all of these though, he found he couldn’t swallow the aftertaste of you. It was the worst late at night, in the cool dark of his room, as he tossed and turned and tried his damndest to get comfortable. A younger, more innocent, more ignorant version of himself spoke to him everytime he choked on the shattered glass of your memory.

You shouldn’t have been so rough with her.

That isn’t how you treat women, you know better.

I would never do such a thing. This isn’t me, this isn’t you.

He didn’t understand. You weren’t a woman, but a monkey. A lesser being than himself or his associates. A body for him to use as he saw fit. It most certainly was not his fault that you were so weak as to be affected by a bit of manhandling. If you were stronger, if you were a real person, you’d simply have fought your way out of it. Or, even better, you never would’ve given him the opportunity to put you in such a position.

You wouldn’t have caught his eye leaning on that lamppost outside the bar, laughing with your friends over a cigarette, the artificial amber light practically glowing against your all too exposed skin. When you noticed him staring, you wouldn’t have flushed a deeper shade of red than you already were from the alcohol. You wouldn’t have been enamored by the way he took your hand and pressed it to his lips, like some old-world prince. His refusal to sleep with you that first night wouldn’t have been the endearing actions of a man that cared about consent.

You wouldn’t have met at a coffee shop a week later to discuss boundaries and limits. His very clear communication wouldn’t have been a green flag. You wouldn’t have been grateful for him laying out the rules;

“Just sex. No feelings, no strings, no expectations.”

You certainly wouldn’t have agreed. Wouldn’t have let him invade your life, your space, your body. You would’ve known him, would’ve known the truth. No one on his side of the world didn’t.

But you and your ignorance. Always smiling, always willing, always pliant, always trusting. He wasn’t sure why you let him get away with as much as he did before he’d last seen you four months ago. You didn’t know what he was capable of, how much darkness he held in his hands, in his heart– but even so, you worshiped him all the same. Perhaps it was the nature of monkeys, to automatically bow to the stronger species. Something instinctual and primal, not fight or flight per say, but something akin to Darwinism. Survival of the weakest when tucked under the arm of the fittest.

It used to be, on nights like this, he’d call you up. Fuck you silly. Fall asleep with your pitiful frame sandwiched between himself and the mattress, his ear pressed against your chest to listen to your heartbeat. As insane of a thought as it was, sometimes it’s timing matched his own. He’d always come to his senses in the morning, but nothing put him to sleep quite like you. It was disgusting, really.

Call her. Apologize.

His teenage self should realize that he died at the hands of Toji Zenin circa 2006 and shut the fuck up. 

He most certainly would not be calling you. He would rather die than let a monkey have such control over him. No, he’ll find a new you. Monkeys had no distinctive features, just respective piles. Curse collecting monkeys, money collecting monkeys, monkeys to fulfill your primal needs. It would be fine.

He goes back to the source. That same bar that he met you at one year, six months and four days ago. Not that he’s counting. With his hair pulled half up and his faux-religious gear tucked away in his closet, instead dressed in a black t-shirt with cuffed sleeves and olive toned cargo pants, silver adorning his neck and fingers in excess. It feels strange to walk in leather boots after all this time, his feet accustomed to the flat surface of his sandals. He only ever dressed like this for you.

He has to stop that, he decides. His thoughts that constantly returned to you. He didn’t come to this bar to find you, but an adequate replacement. If he kept circling back to the plush of your lips, the curve of your waist, the scars on his right arm left by your nails, he’d only leave dissatisfied.

For whatever reason, though, he can’t stop. Not when he steps into the dimly lit space, absolutely filled with his pick of desperate, disgusting, degenerate monkey women. Not when they approach him, in various states of sobriety, cooing over his hair, his muscles, his smile. Not when he settles on one who has a particular eye color, wears her hair a certain way that reminds him of you. Not when he buys her a drink and can’t help but internally groan when she orders a Long Island Iced Tea like some sort of petulant brat with something to prove. Despite himself, he stays there, does his best to smile pretty for her, loving the moments that her mouth is attached to the rim of her glass, not for the same reasons he’d love it with you. No, there’s no fixation there, no automatic imagery of her lips pressed like that to his skin, but when she does that she’s fucking quiet, and he can look into those eyes, and if he squints and tilts his head, he can pretend she’s someone else. Someone smarter, someone sweeter, someone he once knew.

Fuck.

This was pointless. He felt no different.

****

What if he kidnapped you? Hypothetically, of course.

You wouldn’t be happy about it at first, sure. But he could teach you. Get you some glasses imbued with cursed energy and show you the fear that other people have for him. You’d obey him without question, and eventually you’d come around.

He doesn’t– Fuck!

He doesn’t want that, though. He doesn’t want your fear, your unwilling obedience. He wants it the way it was, but he can’t even rationalize what made it so different in the first place. It was a give and take. You trusted him with your body, no matter how he wanted to take you. You trusted him when he bent you in positions you’d never been in before, when he wanted to explore kinks you hadn’t touched, when you fell asleep against his battle worn frame and never once questioned the scars or the bruising.

Two weeks had passed since he gave up on finding a replacement for you, and humanity had felt your absence whether they knew it or not. Whether you knew it or not. He’d been more volatile than usual, somehow. Even the girls had grown quiet in his presence, all their typical demands squashed under the weight of his sharp gaze.

He’d never before felt this out of control. Even at his most vile and violent, he’d never been reckless. Every portion of his life was planned, calculated. So to be hit with such a wave of… whatever this emptiness you’d left him with was had him acting out in ways no one could’ve possibly predicted. Just that day he’d foregone using his curses for execution and simply beat a monkey to death with his fists, just to do something, anything with whatever it was he was holding. In the day it presented as anger; hot, sharp glass tearing at his chest from the inside out. But at night…

It seemed it was grief that had him pacing the halls of his temple, hands clasped behind his back, the moonlight from the large windows painting his face in flashes as he walked. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and–

You care about her, idiot.

Was it possible to kill one’s own inner child? He’d like to uncover the secret to that. That pretentious little dickhead had all sorts of stupid things to say. How could he care about someone that caused him to feel like this? It was an emotion so strong, so heavy that it threatened to buckle his knees. He was a special grade sorcerer, dammit. There was no logistical reason for a simple monkey to be able to buckle him simply by doing– well, nothing. The sick twist of his stomach wasn’t coming from you, but from your absence. 

His phone rings, sharp and shrill, cutting through the late night air like a blade, and when he fishes it out of his pocket he feels like he just took a black flash to the throat.

It’s you.

He answers without thinking, without pausing to consider the intricacies of his own values, without giving his ego a moment to relish in the victory.

“Hello?”

“S’g’ru-”

Suguru Geto knew fear. He knew fear like an old friend. He’d fought fear, exercised it, used it, swallowed and tasted it. Fear was typically comforting, familiar, but not this kind of fear. Not the palpitations that rattled his chest the minute he heard you sounding like that. You were injured, or broken somehow, or drunk– no, you would never get that drunk. You weren’t that sloppy.

“Where are you? I’m coming to pick you up.” He doesn’t ask permission.

“No, m’home- don't come. M’okay, pro’bly.”

Little lying ass monkey, you were. You hadn't spoken to him in months. You wouldn't call if you didn't need him.

“Y/n. Why would you call if you're okay?”

“ ‘M gonna die. I love you.”

The world stops turning. You're not making a lick of sense, and the logical part of his brain tells him you can't possibly mean either of those things, but that doesn't stop him from immediately producing his rainbow dragon.

He knows what's going on before he even enters your apartment. The cursed energy floods from underneath the crack of your door. Experimentally, he turns the knob, and is a little horrified when your door swings open with ease.

He finds you on the couch, remnants of your attempts to soothe your ailments spread across the surrounding area. Empty bottles of cough medicine, countless cough drop wrappers, tissues, sleeping pills. You thought you were sick. What you didn't know is no amount of Nyquil would fix the curse that was wound around your body, feeding off your life force.

It was humanoid in shape, but lacked almost any distinctive muscle mass, with gaunt white skin and a sort of permanent smile almost gauged into it's otherwise blank face, revealing row after row of razor sharp teeth. It's legs are locked around your hips, one arm hugging you from behind, the other wrapped around your throat, your tender neck wedged between what would be its forearm and bicep.

He feels sick. Some curses were inexplicable, or abstract. This was not that.

He wanted to be mad at you, he wanted so badly to hate you, but the truth was smiling back at him, and as egotistical as he was, he liked to think he wasn't stupid. You may have made this, with your lack of ability to hone your cursed energy, but he had given you the emotion in the first place. This was a monster of his own creation.

It's nothing to absorb it. A single outstretched hand is all it takes for its figure to tear to shreds, those shreds drawn into his palm and blended together into a glowing sphere. It's a silver sort of color, prettier than most, almost as if he'd carved it out from the surface of the moon. That doesn't change anything about it's taste, though.

He's disgusted by the way it settles in his stomach, perturbed by how violently it seems to land. Heavy and restless, fighting it's way back up, but he won't vomit. Not here, not now.

He makes his way to you, leaning over you with one hand supporting his weight on the arm of your couch. The other does some preliminary checking. Onyx painted fingers hover in front of your parted lips to ensure you're breathing, and then make their way down to your jugular to check your pulse. It's there, a little elevated, but persistent as ever. He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding before speaking your name, low and authoritarian in tone. You don't respond, most likely exhausted from the curse.

How long had you been living with it? Surely not the entire time he’d been gone. Most monkeys would have succumbed to a curse like that in days, sometimes hours. Stubborn girl.

He gives up on waking you, opting instead to lift you from the place where you’d cemented yourself to the sofa, cradling your form to his chest. You're limp in his arms, flushed and sweat-soaked head and arms lolling back without even a modicum of protest, so he shifts you until he's cradling you like an infant, the same way he used to rock Nanako and Mimiko when they couldn't sleep.

You've lost weight.

He thinks to himself as he carries you through your apartment to your bedroom and tucks you in, positioning you on your side the way he knows you're most comfortable, opting to cover you with only your sheet while the fever fades.

She's hurting. We can help.

That petulant fucking brat inside him that never fully went away. He, too, has lost weight. He blames it on heat fatigue when Satoru asks. He wants someone to push, to call him out on the lie, but no one ever does. He wants someone to carry him to bed, to help him, but he's too strong in the eyes of the world around him. So he dies, and rots, and returns to dust, into some sort of sustenance for the most deadly of carnivorous plants. Until he's nothing but a hazard and a disembodied voice living in the head of a man who's… evil? Misguided? Cruel? He isn't sure.

But we can help.

He leans against your doorframe, arms folded taught across his torso, dark eyes watching the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the fever flush painting your cheeks, the slight flickers in your expression as you sleep. Eventually, he can't take it anymore and his eyes flutter shut, head leaning back against the wood of your open bedroom door, frustrated.

It wasn't fair, the way you had him wrapped around your little finger. He’d spent the majority of his life serving monkeys, using his superior talents for their happiness and well being. Until he hadn't anymore, decided to reach up and flip the moon, turn the tides in his own favor. The question was no longer what he could do for monkeys, but what they could do for him. Until you came along. Now, here he was, back in the same position, just wrapped in different packaging.

“Blue.”

The quiet word shocks him out of his spiral, and an inquisitive hum escapes him as his gaze snaps back over to you. You're still sleeping, your eyebrows furrowed and face twisted up in pain, twitching ever so often. A nightmare, he presumes.

“Suguru, blue! Please!”

Fuck you for being able to do this to him. He straightens in the doorway, rolling his eyes at your inability to let that go. So dramatic that it had seeped from your body, amalgamated into a grade two curse and damn near killed you. Try pulling a white sheet over one underclassman’s corpse while the other tries to find reasons to live in the cold isolation of the morgue at your highschool. Try finding two girls, two babies beaten and battered and locked in a cage. Try getting your chest slashed clean open by a fucking monkey, the same one that just murdered your best friend, and then cry to him about how rough he was.

Even still, when he turns to leave, he feels an unholy pain in his chest, a sickness turning in his gut, a feeling he knew all too well; guilt.

So, despite himself, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he settles into subservience, kicking himself with every passing minute. It wasn’t you he was serving, anyway. Not really. No, every cleared bit of trash and wiped surface and completed dish– he’s only doing that to satisfy that monstrous guilt that plagues him. He doesn’t run to the store upon finding your refrigerator empty for you. He does it to make up for his transgressions. He doesn’t wash, dry, and fold your laundry for you, you stupid fucking monkey. He does it so the scars you left on him would stop aching. He doesn’t sweep and mop for you. He does it so he can finally kick off his shoes without stepping in your weird dirty monkey squalor. And that pot of coffee he makes as the sun rises? The eggs and fresh spinach he tosses into a hot pan? The toast he makes and smears with avocado and sprinkles with salt and pepper? That’s for him. He’s hungry, and tired. He only tosses a second plate on the counter and fills a second cup because he accidentally made extra. Nothing less, nothing more.

If it was any other ‘monkey’, you’d throw it in the trash.

Satoru should’ve killed that kid when he had the chance, but he doesn’t have time to ponder on it before you’re padding around the entryway to your kitchen. He thinks, only for a moment, that you sound so small sleepily meandering into your home. The word ‘cute’ bounces around his mind and he internally stomps it out.

“Oh. Uhm, Goodmorning.” You hum.

“Same to you.” He spares you a glance as he sets your– the extra plate on the dining table for you. The fever is gone from your cheeks and the dark circles under your eyes seem to have alleviated a bit. You’re still a mess, with your hair knotted up in a bird’s nest and your clothes wrinkled and bunching around your waist and thighs. One balled fist paws at your eyes in an attempt to wipe away the sleepiness. He’d never stayed to have breakfast with you before, but had he known what he’d been missing…

“Here, eat.” He orders as he pops your cup of coffee in the microwave to reheat.

You’re still for a moment, but he knows you won’t fight him. You had to have been starving; god knows how long it’d been since your last meal. There’s no sound at all as you make your way over to the table, climbing up into one of the high top chairs and nodding a silent thank you to him as he passes you a fork. He’s beginning to realize he knows a little more about you than he’d like to admit. When the microwave beeps he immediately adds milk and a heaping teaspoon of sugar to the cup before delivering it to you, as if it was common knowledge; second nature. He hadn’t ever been a part of your morning ritual, but he’d seen your disposable coffee cups in the trash, their insides coated with leftover whipped cream and caramel drizzle. It was a miracle your teeth hadn't rotted out of your head yet. He settles opposite of you, digging into his own plate and trying not to feel nauseated by the fact that he was eating food from the same plate a petty monkey frequently used.

As he chews, he watches you pick at your plate, your eyes scanning your surroundings between bites, trying to piece together a puzzle of muddled memory, most likely. It was a bit amusing, like watching a dog try to get the last of the peanut butter from the tail end of her kong toy.

“Is it not good?” He questions from behind the rim of his mug. Of course, he already knows the answer.

“No, it is.” You nod, trying to hold eye contact with him for a few fleeting seconds before returning your gaze to your plate, pushing around your eggs with your fork. You had told him once he had a hell of a stare, one that was almost overwhelming. “Great, even. I just…”.

You drop your fork, leaning forward to rest your chin against your clasped fingers, looking around you with more animation to the spotless surfaces, your eyes dancing from the counter, to the sink, to the fridge– looking anywhere but directly at him.

“I’m sorry, I don't know how to say this in a way that sounds kind. What are you doing here?”

He shoves another bite in his mouth to avoid smirking. Always so concerned about your own perception, you were. It would be an admirable quality in a sorcerer. It was one he used to possess himself, when he was separated from Satoru, of course. It got him pretty far, before it didn’t.

“You called me.”. Another sip of coffee.

“Oh.”.

He hums affirmatively, setting his cup down on the table. “You sounded bad off, so I came to check on you and you were burning a fever. I figured if you hadn't slept if off by morning I’d take you to the hospital.”.

Partial lies, partial truths. It didn’t matter. If he told you the full story you wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“…Yeah. Thanks, I guess.” You murmur, returning your focus to the task at hand; eating. He knew how hard it was after fasting for days, or weeks. Getting over the initial hump of that first meal was always the worst part for him. When you wanted something so bad, and yet the very act of indulging yourself nauseated you. Not because it’s bad, or gross, but because you’d denied yourself the pleasure for so long it felt unnatural, like it should be wrong–

He focuses instead on cleaning up after himself while you eat, washing dishes as they’re abandoned. The pan, the coffee pot, his plate, his cup, and then your own. All the while, he does his damndest to ignore the thick, heavy tension that settles in the air. There was a time when his presence didn’t cause your shoulders to tense like that, when you were comfortable enough to tease him, to tug at his hair playfully and flirt with him like he was some random man you met in a coffee shop. All of that seems to have washed away with his borderline violent plunder, and he missed it.

In those moments, he could forget. The blood splatter and the taste of curses and the ear splitting applause of religious nutjobs celebrating the premature death of a child. He could forget the hurt on Satoru’s face as he split from his path. He could forget that you were lesser than him, pretend that the two of you were cut from the same cloth, pretend that his intentions were pure as his hands and tongue explored the sweetness of your skin, and kiss away the sweat and the tears. He could pretend he was still good.

This version of you wouldn’t let him do that.

“Suguru, I appreciate your help, but I think it would be better if we didn't see each other anymore. I’m sorry for calling and disturbing your peace, I should've deleted your number months ago. I wasn't in the right headspace.”

You hadn’t moved from your seat, your legs nervously giggling with your feet planted on the wooden stretcher of the chair and your hands white knuckle gripping the seat.

“Y/n, you are my peace. Don't apologize.”. Another half lie as he finishes drying your coffee cup and places it on the rack, hanging your dish towel over the handle of your cabinet to dry.

“I–” You fidgeting stops as he turns to look at you, your brow furrowing as you caught him in the midst of his game. Usually, you wouldn't. A comment like that would leave you reeling, overthinking, pondering what he meant. But things were different now.

“Don't ignore my boundaries. I said we should cut contact.”

He purses his lips, locking eyes with you from across the room. You had no idea how badly you needed him. You’d only continue to produce curse after curse. You’d go to the doctor, and they'd diagnose you with some sort of nonsense. Idiopathic angioedema of the throat and airways. A bunch of latin derivative bullshit to say “we’re incompetent monkeys and we don't know why your throat keeps closing”.

It shouldn't matter to him, and yet–

We can help.

He crosses the distance until he's close enough to touch you, but doesn't cross that bridge yet, apprehensive that he may end up burning it instead. He leans against the dining table, his hands falling to his sides so that his fingers could swipe against the polished wooden surface, “Fine, but I think you're wrong.”.

Your mouth falls open as you chuckle incredulously, as if he was being ridiculous, “Dude, you hurt me. I couldn't breathe, I thought you were gonna–”.

“Thought I was gonna what?” He challenges you to say it, to call him out on the rage that had escaped him that night. When his narrowed eyes meet your gaze, for the first time, you don't look away, holding him there with the same lead-heavy stare he was famous for. It was unlike a monkey to challenge him. He almost respected it.

“Whatever happened that night, whatever was going on in your head, I didn't like it.”. When you finally speak, your words are monotone, even, not a hint of fear or submission in them.

“You didn't give me a chance to remedy it, either.”. He's just as resolute.

“I was afraid! You– it’s like you fucking snapped!”, You grab his forearm, four fingers lining up perfectly with the scarring you’d left there. Come to think of it, he didn’t know why he hadn’t used RCT to heal them. If he had, they wouldn't have left any marks, but at the time, he knew you might never speak to him again. In some inexplicable way, it felt like that may be the only part of you he got to keep.

He tries to deny it, the thought that he wants to keep you. Any part of you. All of you, if you’d let him. It’s a yearning that cuts deep, somewhere down in the recesses of his chest. In his dreams, sometimes, he’s back at Jujutsu High in his sweats and his t-shirt, and instead of Yuki Tsukumo rounding the corner, it's you. You chat with Haibara and wave him off and then it's just the two of you. You don’t prod him about what's wrong, you certainly don’t tell him it’s his choice to make, whether or not he wants to be a monster. In fact, you don’t say anything. You settle into his lap and his hands, more skin toned than red, find the small of your back and your lips, more glossy than bruised, find his forehead. In his dreams, it’s nothing but you and him and the idle hum of the vending machines and the rain doesn’t sound so harsh. Not when he’s wrapped up in you.

“Suguru.”, You sigh, effectively pulling him out of his thoughts, “I don’t know you that well, and I’m not gonna pretend like I do. You show up, we exchange pleasantries, we fuck and then you go home. But I’m not stupid, and there is something in you… that hates something in me.”.

His tongue swipes against his bottom lip, finally breaking eye contact to find solace by way of peering through the window above your sink. Fitting that the day would be beautiful, the sun would be lighting up the leaves and grass in vibrant verdant hues while he stood on the edge of losing the one escape he had left. The sky was the most vibrant shade of blue.

“Y’know, I kind of feel the same way about you sometimes.” He mutters, dejected.

Silence paints the room for a moment, and then, just as melodic and beautiful as your voice ever was:

“I don't understand.”.

So, he elaborates. “There's something in you that loves something in me.”.

He doesn’t miss the sharp gust of air you suck through your teeth. Finally, it seemed, he was making some headway. He turns to look at you, allowing a somber smile to grace his lips.

“That's the opposite of what I just said, actually.” You insist, but you can’t hide from his observant eyes. Everything about your body language tells him he’s successfully made the first play of backing you into submission.

“Is it?” He questions, his voice dropping an octave as he turns to face you, one large palm splaying out on the table, the other reaching forward to brush a thick strand of hair behind your ear, revealing the plush curve of your cheek to him. A shaky breath passes your lips, and he begs himself not to smirk.

“I-” You stumble across your words as his fingers continue from the shell of your ear to the curve of your jaw, landing just below your chin and tilting your head up to look at him. It’s a silent reminder. I will always have control. I will always call the shots. Now hold your head up, show me your face.

“You’re being mean, Suguru.” You breathe.

“No,” His thumb tugs at your pouty bottom lip, manipulating the flesh there to his pleasure, watching the way it bounces back when he lessens the pressure, “I’m being selfish.”.

Your eyes bounce around his face, searching for answers he knows you’ll never get. Answers you couldn’t comprehend even if you did manage to find them.

“If you can honestly look at me and say you want me to leave, then I will.” He almost whispers, his thumb swiping across your lip once more before his fingers leave your face entirely. “But don’t lie to me, y/n.”.

You turn your face away from him, eyes holding hard onto the wood grain of the dining table, tracing the shapes and patterns there as you try to calm the flush of your cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s about what’s good for me.”.

Your voice wobbles when you say it, and he adds another mental point to the board for himself.

“What would be good for you is a shower and some more rest.” He takes on his spiritual healer tone with a lack of effort that almost scares him, “How about we start there and circle back to this conversation later, hm? You shouldn’t make big decisions with an unclear head.”.

He frames it expertly, careful wording chosen to let you feel like the power was in your hands, but he knew the truth; the battle had already been won, and the war was his for the victory.

A hairbrush, two elastics, leave-in conditioner. A heated blanket, folded across the arm of the couch, plugged in and set to a low temperature. Two pillows from your bedroom, their casings switched so they were fresh.

Spoils of war, you could call them, now to be used for his strategy.

It was hard to think with you around, that fact alone making tension grow in his jaw, his hands cradling his head with his elbows on his knees as he waited with dwindling patience for you to finish your shower. His frustration consumed him, thoughts all fighting for dominance in the hollow white of his skull. He should kill you, he should protect you. He should leave, he should stay. He should hate you, he should love you. He fucking hates you. He loves you like he's never loved anything else.

When his ears no longer register the steady thrum of the shower head from the bathroom, though, they immediately cease, his whole being growing silent in expectation.

A few minutes later, you appear from the hallway, damp hair and the softest looking skin he thinks he's ever seen. If he didn't know the true grotesqueness of such a creature, he'd think you some sort of curse, sent to tempt him into straying from his destiny by way of how that oversized t-shirt swallows you whole. Part of him wants to nag at you for not wearing pants, but he knows it's irrational. He’d seen you in much less than an oversized shirt, your underwear and some crew socks before. Hell, thirty minutes ago he would've appreciated you stripped bare, but something about the situation was making him feel… weak. Susceptible. To what, he wasn't sure.

The smell of vanilla and something floral wafts through the air as he instructs you to sit between his spread knees, one hand motioning to the floor beneath him and the other beckoning you closer with two outstretched fingers. Hesitantly, like you’re scared, you saunter forward, and trembling breath escaping your lips as he guides you down with one hand on your waist and the other under your opposite arm. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to do it yourself, but rather you had to learn that his hands weren’t always dangerous, his grip wasn’t always too tight.

Wordlessly, he reaches for a few of the many tools he had laid out in his arsenal. This time, when his fingers traced your scalp, he made sure it was gentle. Cautious fingers applied the treatment to your still-damp locks from root to end, maybe overindulging you just a tad when he noticed the way you leaned into his touch. That was fine, though, he’d done worse to placate a monkey.

As he works your hair into two tight braids on either side of your head, his eyes happen to wander up into the darkened screen of your television, where he catches you watching him, heavy-lidded and flush-faced.

“Staring isn't polite.” He teases, his tone low as his fingers gather the hair at the back of your scalp as innocent and innocuous as possible. He knows your body too well, though, and loved the power he got from playing it like a master pianist. Goosebumps were erupting along your spine, and though he hated himself for it, he wanted so badly to lean down and trail his tongue along their path.

“Since when did we care about manners?” You respond, and his lip curls up at just how airy the sound is. He takes the remaining elastic between his teeth, fixing it around his fingers and making eye contact with you by way of your reflection, not missing the way you roll your lip between your teeth at the sight. So many monkeys worshiped him, but no admiration felt quite as good as yours. 

“You've always cared about your tact.” He points out, returning his gaze to the task of securing the last elastic as if he wasn’t just doing his best at eye-fucking you.

“Not with you.”.

“Is that a compliment?”.

“Depends on what day it is.” You throw your head back to look up at him, and it's all he can do to keep his cock from stiffening right then and there.

It simply wasn't fair. This was his divine punishment for the execution of that village, with her head cradled in his palms, looking up at him like he spun the world on his fingertips, even though those same fingertips had hurt her, hurt others, willingly stroked the flame of anguish over and over. Her lips are pouty and kissable and soft. So goddamn soft.

Doomed to be an object of his hatred. Doomed to be an object of his affections. He wasn't sure who was more cursed; himself, or you.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, and like the obedient girl you are, you’re almost immediately on your knees, your hands reaching out for him, though he's not completely out of the doghouse yet.

“What if I say no?” You ask, but it's obviously a pointless question, because your hands find purchase on his shoulders and you pull yourself up until you're standing in front of him, looking down at him with an unmistakable warmth in your eyes.

“You won't.” He tells you, his hands sliding along the backs of your knees, slowly inching upwards, noticing the tremble of your thighs, the purse of your lips. God he despises it, the way his hands ache with the urge to touch you, the way his stomach winds under the pin of your stare.

“I could.” You offer, your hands twitching, gripping the fabric of his shirt when his palms continue to snake up the backs of your thighs, defying any moral objections he may have.

“You could.” He agrees, leaning forward to kiss your abdomen over the cotton of that oversized shirt, squeezing the flesh of your thighs with deft fingers, listening for that little sigh you always let go of when he's working you up. “And I would stop with no argument. I don't think you want to, though.” His voice is muffled by the fabric.

A hum that sounds less affirmative and more apprehensive has him pulling away from you slightly, chin tilting upward to get a read on your face. You're not even looking at him, eyes transfixed on something off to the left.

“Do you want to?” He questions, his tone more serious, fingers squeezing your thighs to signal your attention.

You don't look at him though, keeping your gaze cemented right where it is, “No, but…”. A deep breath, and then you look down at him. He cocks his head, scanning your face like it would key him into whatever thoughts were going on in that head of yours.

“What is it?”

You shake your head and step away from him, smiling, but it's not genuine. It was the same smile you gave cashiers and bartenders, the same smile you wore when on the phone with your family trying to honey up your tone. You were placating him.

“Nothing. I just don't think it's a good idea, is all. You really should go home and get some sleep, you know. I imagine you're worn out from dealing with me all night.”

God, your voice was so robotic. So disingenuous. Like an automated customer service line. He’d much rather you yell, cry, cuss him. Anything but this. He was on the cusp of loosing you, and then retroactively loosing whatever tiny fragments were left of his mind.

“I don't understand.” He scoffs, a humorless laugh escaping him as you take another fair step back. He rises to his feet and meanders towards you, “We were doing so good.”.

“No, Geto, we weren't doing good, at all.” You surprise him yet again by standing your ground, not once faltering even when he's toe to toe with you, “You were playing some sick game of mind chess instead of apologizing, but you're playing by yourself. I said I’m done, and I meant it.”.

“You don't have any idea what you're fucking saying. You need me.” He leans down into your face, a smile that was more sharp white teeth than anything plaguing his features.

“I need you? I need you?!” You question, teeth clenched and eyebrows sky high.

“Yes, you do, y/n. You need me. You're weak. And if you knew what was good for you, you'd know you need to stay in my good graces-”

“Enough!” You spit, your hands pressing against his chest to shove him backwards, but not doing much in terms of actually moving him. 

“I don't need you. I don't need your manipulation, your avoidance, your indecisiveness or your stupid strength!”.

“Y/n. You're being ridiculous-”.

“No! You're being a dick!”.

You pause for a moment, chest heaving and nostrils flaring, cursed energy coming off you in waves. If you could only see half of the shit he’d seen. If you could only understand just how much chaos you were releasing into the world alone right now, you'd understand–

You draw a lungful of air and exhale slowly, never breaking eye contact with him.

“You know what I think? I think you're a man child who has no self control when it comes to his emotions and shows up here to make that my problem. I think without me you’d be a fucking wreck. I think I never needed you, but you sure as shit need me.”.

“If you would've apologized, even once, even if it was half-assed, I might've considered it. But you didn't, because admitting you're wrong even once means it is possible for you to be wrong. And you can't handle that.”

***

You've ruined him.

He's gone out of his way to make himself as easy as possible to find in the weeks since you've been gone for what might be forever. Staring security cameras straight in the lenses, slaughtering monkeys left and right with no real discretion he figured Satoru would've caught up to him by now. 

On some level, he knows why he hasn't. Satoru loves him, and maybe always will. Satoru also hates him, and maybe always will. It kills him to know that your name is on the list of people that hold that sentiment for him. The two most important names he’d ever heard, spoken, cried, moaned– both listed there in red. Etched into his mind with a blade sharpened by bone.

As for him? Well…

He never hated Satoru. Not once in all his years. But you?

A few months ago, he would've proudly said yes. Yes, he hated you. Of course he hated you. It was his entire life's mission to hate you, and everyone like you. Left alone with his thoughts night after night, though, he’d come to learn that the truth was much scarier than that, much more complex. He didn’t hate you, not at all. Even worse, he thinks that maybe he never did. That maybe from the moment he saw that earth shattering smile from across the parking lot of the bar, he’d never felt not an ounce of hatred for you.

No, the anger he was feeling had nothing to do with you, or your inability to control your cursed energy, or your ability to control him so effortlessly.

It came to him in the dead of night, while he was sitting in his open window, watching the stars. It wasn’t uncommon for him to do such things. The stars were pretty so far out in the country, and it sure beat watching his ceiling. He hadn’t had this much trouble sleeping since the summer after the failed star plasma vessel mission. Had he grown any since then? Physically, sure. He gained strength in terms of utilizing his cursed energy. Other than that, not much had changed. Not really. Excrosize, absorb, repeat. Spend all night chain smoking out an open window and know that no one will be there to greet you in the morning. No one that matters, anyway.

He’d realized at some point in your absence that that younger him in his mind had always just been him. It had always been this way, he had always been this way. It was easier to separate his thoughts into neat little bins and boxes, constrain his morals to black and white. It was all easier when there were strict rules. The world, unfortunately, was not that way. You knew that, Satoru knew that all those years ago. He felt stupid for taking so long to come around to the idea.

His anger was a black tarp, thrown over a pool for protection through the winter. He had no idea that when he pulled it back he’d find so many shades of blue water underneath. From the azure grief in Satoru’s eyes standing on a crowded Shinjuku street, to the cobalt light that painted Riko’s face as she watched the fish in the aquarium for what would unknowingly be the last time, to the indigo of your bedsheets the night he’d hurt you. Cerulean fear. Sapphire grief. Naval sorrow.

He didn’t know what to do with that. It was the whole reason the tarp had been thrown over it in the beginning.

What he did know was that he missed Satoru, he missed Riko, he missed you. All three he’d yearn for forever, in slightly different ways. You and Satoru would get along well, he thinks. You both loved to tease and taunt. You’d go back and forth for hours until– Who was he kidding? He didn’t know Satoru anymore, and he was on a sure path to losing his perception of you as well.

You visited him in his sleep, soaking wet and clawing your way up through the canvas tarp. Gasping for air, choking on his petulance, pulling your way out of his azurite chaos and stumbling away from him, freezing cold and barely clothed. Sometimes you look back at him, cyanosis painting your lips the most lonely shade of periwinkle.

During the day, he keeps himself occupied. He wears his robes less often, dressing like a normal man in his mid twenties. He ties his hair all the way back, takes his girls to feed the ducks at the local park and buries himself in books at the library. He doesn’t find solace in the isolation the same way he used to. In fact, sometimes he goes out by himself, blends into the crowd and just tries to pretend he’s like everyone else, if only just for a moment.

Today, it’s the grocery store. It’s crowded for a Wednesday. So crowded, in fact, that he wonders if there’s some sort of Holiday coming up he doesn’t know of. What day is it, anyway? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, really. Not in the end. Not when everything is gone and all you’ve left behind you is loss.

This is your grocery store. He knows because it's the only one that carries your favorite brand of water. It was expensive, and covered in false promises about the magical stream it was bottled from in some unheard of island in bumfuck nowhere. Once upon a time, he would tease you for it, telling you there was no point in wasting a fiver on the same tap water that came in every other bottle. But since his world had been washed in tanzanite, he found himself stopping by every now and then just to pick up a bottle. The first time he tasted it, he realized he’d been wrong yet again. There was something special about it, but maybe to him it just tasted like you.

He takes his time, meandering through isles, pretending to ponder products he has no interest in buying. Really, he's staving off having to go home, if you could even call it that. The girls had taken off to a friend's house, and he wasn't feeling up to dealing with the responsibilities of a faux religious guru. He smiles politely when the elderly pass him, waves at babies that make eye contact with him over their mother's shoulders. Here, in the crowd of unfamiliar faces, he’s just as alone as he’s ever been… but it’s easy to pretend that isn’t the case.

Eventually, he gets his fill of the societal clutter. It’s when the babies lose interest and the grannies seem less like they’re reminiscing on lost loves and more like they’re wondering why he’s loitering that he turns to make his way back towards the front entrance, grab his little reminder of you, and leave. Or, at least, that was the intention at first. All thoughts of that overpriced water vanished from his brain when he rounded the corner to be met with the loveliest sight for sore eyes.

You.

It’s as if his knees hadn’t carried him through countless battles before, the way they threatened to buckle beneath his weight. The room spun and his heart felt like it had been set on a live wire and– oh, fuck. Why did he feel like he was gonna puke?

Standing in the baking aisle, you had a cart full of groceries, each item he could probably name without even bothering to look into the cart itself. A cornflour halter dress that stopped just above your knees hugged the curves he’d committed to memory like the fabric was made for them. He watches your face as you peer up at a large bag of sugar on the top shelf. You always did like to bake, and he knows you well enough to know that you won’t ask a clerk for help. If he stands there for long enough, he’s certain he’ll watch you attempt to climb up there yourself or give up on the endeavor altogether.

It's taking everything in him not to throw the tarp back over the pool. It would be so much easier to lash out. Take you out with a single curse for daring to defy him, or turn on his heel and storm out. That had never gotten him what he wanted before though, and he’d be absolutely damned if let himself walk away without trying. 

So he swallows thickly, takes a deep breath to try and soothe his aching and oxygen deprived chest, wipes the sweat from his palms on the thighs of his jeans, and proceeds a step forward. It's hard, but the rest come easier, until he's standing beside and slightly behind you.

“It's this brand, right?” He reaches above you and grabs the bag you’d been eyeing.

You snap your head to look up at him so hard that he worries for the health of your neck, your eyes widening in shock and mouth falling open as you drink in the sight of him for the first time in months. He used to appreciate the honesty of your expressions, how easy it was to decipher what was going on in that head just by your body language. Perhaps ignorance was truly bliss though, because the anger in your tensed shoulders and the hurt swirling in your eyes was almost more than he could take.

And, oh fuck he needs his tarp back, that lovely dark cover of anger so that he can think you’re dumb. So he can pretend you're acting like this because you’re lesser than him, goad himself into believing if he just stares you down for long enough you'll cave.

Without it, every beat that passes feels like he's standing in a burning house, unable to move as the walls around him charr. The wood creaks and groans, warning him of it’s impending collapse. Smoke fills the air and deprives him of oxygen, and it's hot. So goddamn hot–

“...Yeah. Thanks.” You take the bag from him, drop it in your cart and turn to walk away all in one fell swoop. 

Immediately, his own footsteps fall in time with the sound of your flats clicking against the tile, taking anything other than a ‘hell no’ as a ‘go ahead’, a mindset that he was well aware was probably not the best. That's what got him here in the first place, after all, but he can't stop. Not now, not when you're standing two feet in front of him.

“How have you been?” He asks, casually, like you weren't actively trying to walk away from him.

“Fine.” You deadpan.

“Just fine?”.

“Yep. Fine.” The reply comes out curt and clipped as you pick up your pace, eyeing the exit with determination.

“Why not great? You haven't been feeling ill again lately, have you?”. It's a valid question. He’d, admittedly, stopped by your apartment a few times just to scope for weird amounts of cursed energy, swearing he wouldn't enter if nothing seemed weird from the outside. He also, admittedly, was disappointed that there had been none. Firstly, because it gave him no reason to pester you. Secondarily because you seemed to be doing better without him than with him.

“Why do you care?” It's a valid answer, for someone who can't see the curses they may create just from being emotionally damaged.

“Fair enough. How’s it going at work?”

You stop suddenly, spinning to face him, the wheels of your cart sputtering to a halt as you glare up at him. He can see that your patience is wearing thin. Another version of him would use the opportunity to push you just a little further, but he finds himself hoping the cracks and fissures in the dam you’ve built around your emotions don't give way despite how the pressure seems to be building.

 “Geto, what do you want!?”.

He looks down at you blankly, scanning your face with lilac irises. Beautiful. You have always been so god damn beautiful. Round, pretty cheeks and skin carefully tended every night by a myriad of products he didn’t understand beyond facewash and moisturizer. Baby doll eyes, pouty lips, decorated occasionally with what would be considered imperfections to most, but to him they were finishing touches on a master painting. Priceless. He doesn’t have time to kick himself for not allowing himself to relish in it more before now, he’s well aware that your patience is already paper thin.

“For you to talk to me.” He goes for the most honest answer he can muster, hoping that the unusual directness of his words and softness of his tone will let you know he’s ready. He’s ready for change, ready for you.

You, however, seem rather unimpressed with his new-found eagerness, and he can't blame you. A good man would’ve done this months ago, a good man wouldn't have walked away so easily. He's too late, he knows, but if there was even a snowballs chance in hell–

“Unbelievable.” you scoff, and immediately his large fingers grip your arm, desperate to stop you in your attempt to turn away from him.

“Y/n, please just wait! I know you’re mad, you have every reason to be mad–”.

“Let go of me!”.

“--but you were right. You were right when you kicked me out. You were right when you told me off, and you were right to cut me out of your life.”

“Great! So glad we agree! Can I go now?”

He ignores your request, growing more desperate with every passing moment, feeling so open and vulnerable and weak and raw–

“You’ve always been right. I know you don’t owe me anything, but if you could just give me a chance to–”.

“Geto, fuck off!”

Your voice cuts through the air like a siren, footsteps sputtering to a halt and conversations freezing in place as heads turn to look at the two of you. Embarrassment paints your features as you realized how much of a scene you’d caused but Suguru couldn't be arsed to care about what anyone thought but you.

“Please.” He chokes on the word, unsure of the last time he felt this winded. Not even in the height of battle was it this hard to breathe, “Please don’t make me leave.”.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice is quieter now, an attempt to de-escalate the situation and alleviate some of the gawking from the general public “I shouldn’t have yelled, but this has long since been over. You need to let me go.”.

“I can’t.” He hates how small he sounds, like a little boy begging his mother to stay up for an extra hour past bedtime. Not at all like the special grade sorcerer he was. He’d murdered his mother. Somehow you were able to quell that side of him. He needed you to quell that side of him.

“Suguru–”

“I can’t sleep, normally, but when I do– I dream. Of you. And maybe if you ever looked happy I could live with you just visiting me there. But you don’t look happy. You look miserable, a-and cold, and sick.” As he speaks, his knees buckle underneath him, almost against his own will, until they’re resting against the tile of the supermarket. His head bows, bangs falling to hang in front of his face, partially as a sign of respect and partially because he can’t fucking bare the heat of your gaze for another second.

For a moment, his eyes remain shut tight, and when he opens them again all he really sees is your feet shuffling nervously against the floor. “Suguru, people are staring.”, your voice is a mixture of a yell and a whisper.

“I need to be able to see you, talk to you, know you’re safe. I can’t live wondering. Like I said, you were always right. I need you. I need you, y/n.”. Something in the earth shifts, an almost gravitational pull keeps his eyes pinned to your feet, like his chin is too heavy to lift up to meet your eyes.

And then you reach down for him, and his breathing hitches, and he’s flooded with a hope that he hasn't felt since the winter of 2005, the same flood of endorphins washing over him.

Instead of falling into him like his body anticipates, you jerk him to his feet by his biceps with all of your might, wordlessly dragging him towards the exit, leaving his words hanging in the air like mustard gas. Sour, thick tears and panic.

“Your shopping cart–”

“Leave it.”

The drive home is stale. Your presence is an old habit that had never properly been sealed, left to fester in the back of the cabinet until it's almost unrecognizable from what it once was.

He's impressed with your cursed energy though, or lack thereof. Stolen glances let him know that there isn't much of it coming off of you at all. Or maybe he's seeing what he wants to. Or maybe, if he's lucky, there's a part of you soothed by his presence. One you don't want him to see, buried deep beneath the skin and sinew.

He doesn't have to ask where you're going, he could map the route to your apartment from damn near anywhere on this half of the country off of instinct alone, but he does anyway, just to fill the silence.

“Home.” A one word response spit through grit teeth, but it strikes a match behind his sternum anyway. He hadn't been there since the last time he visited the vending machines with Satoru.

It feels good.

It feels better when he steps through the threshold and starts to get a better picture of your life without him. He’d been gone physically, but your heart was painted in the tiny details.

His shirt laid across the arm of the couch, unwashed and inside out, deodorant staining the stitching on the underside of the sleeves. A mug on the coffee table, the faint pinkish ring of hibiscus tea dried to the bottom, the kind he’d make you after using your sweet little throat too hard. Piled laundry by the washer, dust buildup on the decor, curtains and blinds drawn securely shut, sealing away the sun the same way he used to when he slept through the afternoon.

You were missing pieces. Pieces he held.

It’s tense at first, while you buzz around your hive attempting to hide the evidence of your longing, eye looking anywhere but at the source of that very feeling, his hands tucked in his pockets and his eyes trying desperately to capture you, the same way he and Satoru used to all those years ago. He knew if he could just stop your frenzy, just for a second, you’d feel better; let the wall down just far enough for him to scale it.

Your own stubbornness keeps you from it, for a bit. It was obvious to him you weren’t ready to let go of that anger just yet.

He knew how you felt.

So he lets you clean, and stomp so hard your neighbors probably thought there was an earthquake, and order a pizza because someone had cut your shopping trip short. He’s never been in a position where making himself smaller was beneficial, but he does his best. Occupying as little space as possible, keeping his head low, stealing glances at you like an expectant puppy awaiting its treat for staying put so well.

Eventually, it does come when the pizza arrives, but not before he has to watch some asshole in the stupidest uniform he’s ever seen roll his eyes along your body with little regard for decency or tact, and has to fight every piece of flesh in his body not to get up off the couch. Maybe he lets one of his low grade curses chase him down until he’s around the block and devour him, but that’s neither here nor there. Irrelevant.

Because you extend the olive branch of his own plate, and he takes it. Acts grateful. Doesn’t tell you he’s a special grade sorcerer and grease and carbs aren’t conducive to keeping his figure the way it is. Doesn’t tell you he doesn’t eat much meat, that sometimes it looks a bit too much like flesh and gore. It’s all worth it for the way your fingers graze his as you pass it to him. Gentle.

***

From then on, he was playing a new game. One he’d never before played, and one he wasn't very fond of. He’d always been a sore loser.

It was part of his problem with Satoru all those years ago. The white haired beauty had forever been two steps ahead of him in almost every facet, whether that be skill or strength or sheer willpower. Satoru was always just a bit better in every way. An inch or two taller, a smartass retort just a second quicker, the bravery to kiss another boy just seconds before he himself had built up the confidence to do so. It was only natural that the only person who could be even more prideful than himself was Gojo. He knew he had no chance of convincing him to join himself in his defection; to do so would be convincing him they were on the losing side of history.

When the time came, he couldn't even look at him, knowing the ultramarine eyes of someone who once trusted- once loved him were boring holes in the back of his skull. But in a way, he'd finally won. The victory wasn't sweet. Going back on that decision would be to admit defeat yet again, so he never had.

Victory tasted a lot like curses sometimes, he decided, but not as intense. Less of an assault on your tastebuds and more of a kind of bile and acid constantly lodged in the back of his throat. Perhaps it was his urge to finally taste something a little sweeter that had him bending over backwards for you.

It was uncomfortable at first, practicing your stupid therapy terms. Boundaries strangled him. Coping Mechanisms felt like a serrated knife to his jugular. Repairing and Rebuilding felt like getting tossed down the stairs of some abandoned hotel by a first-grade curse at sixteen years old, every step knocking the wind from his chest.

It was helping, though. Whether he liked it or not. His first real reality check had come not from you, but from Nanako, who’d casually pointed out over breakfast how happy he’d seemed recently. He didn’t know if that word had ever been used to describe him, and he wasn’t sure he’d use it himself.

And still. This had to be at least close, right?

Here, on the couch with you, some old band he didn’t know emanating from the television, the screen just bright enough to cast shadows on the walls of your living room. There’s a faint acknowledgement swirling in the back of his brain that there was midday sunlight streaming in through the windows when he’d settled here with you nestled against the plush of the sofa, but he can’t care, not when your giggles are flooding his ears, your shoulders shaking against him as you scroll through social media. In the past fifteen minutes or so, you’d found an account full of cat videos, and he’d found himself entranced by just how easily you were amused.

He was learning a lot about you. You didn’t have many friends, but the ones you did were incredibly good ones (“Quality over quantity”, you’d said.) , you preferred fruity sweets to chocolate ones, you had the most irritating habit of getting in bed with your socks on and then kicking them off in the night. Each new detail was a brush stroke, your quail feather pen dipping into indigo ink and broadening his horizons, somehow without the slightest hint of knowledge about his world.

He wanted to tell you, to kneel at your altar and confess his transgressions, but he couldn't even expect God to have mercy on him, much less a monkey- human girl.

In another world, another life, somewhere far away from reality it’s different. He decides as he twirls his fingers through a loc of your hair, watching the way the lapis glow from your phone screen makes it shine. It's just the three of you; You, Satoru and himself. The two of you fight over who gets to sleep in the middle damn near nightly, and he ends up taking the spot for himself. He swears it's to stop the bickering, but the truth is he loves the way your individual breaths caress either side of his neck. It is because he feels the best trapped underneath the weight of the both of you. It's because he knows you'll fall asleep first and he'll get the last kiss from Satoru, but not before he watches one half of his soul trace the other one's sleeping features with his fingers-

“Hello? So far away.” Your voice cuts through the fantasy, and he’s ripped back into reality, clearing his throat as if he'd just been caught doing something wrong before humming in acknowledgment. You had a habit of making him feel raw, but right. Like a callous cut from a heel. Tender, painful, exposed, refreshed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You prod again when he doesn’t elaborate, and he chuckles.

“Just a penny? I’ll have you know, these are expensive ideas-”.

“A nickel then.”.

“Quarter.”.

“Okay, listen dude. I know the economy’s bad but holy shit.”.

He smirks as you discard your phone on the table and crawl up his body until you’re straddling his abdomen, his hands gently cradling your waist. It's the closest you’ve allowed him to get in a while, and it makes his skin itch. Though if he's honest, he doesn't know what to do when you finally let him truly touch you again. These days you felt more fragile than you used to, or maybe that wasn't the word he was looking for.

Not fragile, but delicate.

You were healing just as much as he was. Every time he saw you it seemed he made a new mistake. When he would move too fast and you’d jump, only to grab his hand and assure him you were okay. When he'd get a little too quiet, furrow his brow in thought and catch you staring at him like a deer in headlights. When he rolled over to hold you in the middle of the night last week and you’d awoken in a complete panic, desperately crawling away from him and gasping your safe word before he’d reoriented you.

“Blue!”

He didn't want to be the cause of your nightmares. And yet he couldn't bring himself to walk away. Not even for your own good. He’d done that before. This time, he was determined to do it differently.

Your hand moves to brush his hair back away from his face, and his eyes flutter shut almost as if to spite him. Vulnerable, raw. Hurts.

He's unsure if he's annoyed by or thankful for the shrill and sudden ringing emanating from the pocket of his hoodie, and at this hour there was really only one option for who it could be. And no matter how much he enjoyed his time with you, they would always come first. He can't explain why it is that he grabs the front of your shirt to keep you there as he shifts and produces his phone from his pocket and presses it to his ear. There's something in him that craves the pain, it seems.

Nanako doesn't wait for him to greet her before she starts.

“Are you coming home or not?!”

Somewhere in the distance he hears her twin chastising her for being so rude, and he cracks a fond grin at the sound, his eyes watching his own hands fiddling with the hem of your shirt as he argues with her. Yes, he's aware he’d been away quite a bit in the past week. No, of course he didn't hate them or wish them a slow and painful death. Yes, he would be home when they awoke in the morning. Yes, they could go out for breakfast.

When his eyes meet yours again your brow is furrowed, confusion twisting your pretty features.

“Who was that?” You ask, and he notices your shoulders growing tense. You didn't fully trust him yet, like a dog that had been wounded by a hand that was supposed to lead.

He flips through his repertoire of rules. Communication, honesty, vulnerability. Did it count when it came to his home life? Of course, he could never be completely honest with you, or at least not anytime soon. There was a large part of him that hoped he'd meet his end before he was cornered into breaking your heart like that. You were the only one that could make him feel real guilt. It was the one thing you possessed that Satoru didn't. Regardless, he had to at least try, to give you what he could.

“My kids.” His grip on you tightens as he watches emotion swirl in your eyes, unwilling to let you mentally or physically run from him until he could explain.

“They're not my blood. Fate brought us together when I was around nineteen. They were in a bad place, so was I. At the time, I think all three of us needed someone who understood… we just kind of never left each other.”

You soften a bit and he mirrors you, melting back into the couch as you seem to relax some. He loves that feeling, he realizes. There's some sort of reward center in his body that seems to be triggered only by your approval. It feels like when he used to steal Satoru's expensive jackets in the winter. Warm. Heavy.

“Nineteen is really young to take on two kids.” You murmur.

He can't exactly wrap his head around the way you're looking at him, so he just pulls you down into the crook of his neck instead, wrapping his arms around your frame.

“You're correct. Of all the mistakes I’ve made, though, that's not one of them. I’d do it all over again for them.”

“You're sweet.”

He doesn't respond, too focused on the way your breath is fanning across his neck to argue with you.

***

He can't justify his actions.

None of them. He’d never made a single rational decision in his life, actually. Geto was a rollercoaster of contradictions and conundrums, but somehow things always worked out. He survived, preserved, weathered the storm time and time again. His foundation was solid, though the paint on his walls weathered and the windows of his soul were cracked and patched with trash bags and duct tape.

He’d always been strong. Resolute. Assured.

So why, then, was he here? Standing at the door of your apartment in the dead of night, trying to find the will in himself to knock? Like you might reject him? You had every right to reject him. You should reject him.

He needed you. Never in his life had he needed anyone, but he was certain the weight in his stomach would crush him if he couldn't see you. Quickly. You’d become a strange safe haven for his sensitivities, something he wasn't all that happy about. It was like being stranded on a sinking ship.

Alone, he'd be able to consign himself to his fate, nothing but indigo waves spanning for miles around him. He could find a sense of calm in the inevitable.

You were a lighthouse. A beacon of hope in the distance. You gave him the idea that there was a way out of his fate, and with it, all the anxiety of chasing that faith. You gave him a chance, choice, and raised the stakes to desperate levels. Without you, there would be none.

He isn't sure what's worse, but he knocks anyway.

It takes you a minute and a few more rounds of knocking, but just when he's about to turn on his heel the door swings open.

“Suguru?” The half question comes through a yawn as one of your hands moves to scrub at your eyes with a balled fist. He’d feel bad for waking you if you didn't look so angelic in your sweatpants and oversized t-shirt. Your knotted hair frames your face in a way that makes you look younger, softer, more vulnerable.

He immediately feels a little lighter.

“I-”

Right. Here he was, running to you for comfort, with no good excuse as to why. He didn't even understand it himself.

“I had a nightmare.” He can't look at you when he says it.

A small hum escapes you, along with a yawn, and then you’re stepping to the side, motioning him in. He hopes you're too tired to notice the tension in his gate, the way his skin bristles like he’s stepped past the barrier of a veil and directly into a domain, like there was a guaranteed hit barreling his way and he could do nothing but his best to protect himself. He’d walked the floor of your apartment so many times, slept in your bed, ate at your table– so why now did it feel foreign? Why did the click of your lock behind him sound like the cock of Toji Fushiguro’s revolver?

He shouldn’t have come here. Not in such a chaotic state. He should’ve waited until the sun was out, until the sky was painted a much lighter shade of blue; one that wasn’t so difficult to see through.

Your fingers find his wrist, tugging him lazily back to a bed he considered sacred.

He lets you.

He lets you get settled, guide him forward, pull him down to you with delicate fingers on his arms, his shoulders, his jaw– until you’re tucking him into the crook of your neck, undoing the hasty bun he’d made out of his hair on his way over, massaging his scalp with your fingers– soothing him.

“I’m too heavy for you, y/n.”

It was true in more ways than you could possibly conceive of, but you only pull more of his body weight over your frame until your drowning in his hair, his broad shoulders, his battle-sculpted arms. The large scars that form an ‘x’ on his chest brush against the fabric of his tshirt, and it feels like they might tear open once again.

“Don’t care.” You sigh out, dipping one hand below the fabric of his shirt you rake your nails lightly along his back. He shudders, watches the way the moonlight streaming in through the window dances across his forearm, illuminating the scars you’d blessed him with.

He didn’t know where all his scars had come from, to keep count would be pointless. He kept track of the important ones, though. The four on his arm, the two across his chest, the bite mark on the inside of his thigh from where Satoru had gotten just a little too rough back in the sweltering dark of his dorm room. Sex was always like that with Satoru, with himself. Less of an act of love, and more one of consumption, of control, of power– of revenge. Another game to win.

“You deserve better.” He argues, self assured in at least that.

“I don’t want better.” You’re just as resolute as he is.

He lifts his head to protest, but you silence him by pressing your lips to his. It’s a comfort and a curse, a gentle hand and a closed fist, a lullaby and a jolt of electricity that makes every neuron in his body fire off in quick succession.

How long has it been since you kissed him? Did it always feel like this?

“Please.” The pathetic word escapes him before he can stop it. Would humans always be his weakness? You brought new meaning to the idea.

Another kiss, and then two, and then three. Chaste, gentle motions that burned worse than any fire he’d ever faced. His whimpers sing a song of mercy, knuckles ice white as he grips the bedsheets behind your head, head diving forward for more, more, more–

He wanted to consume you, swallow you down like one of his curses, pull you out when it benefited him, telepathically know where you are at all times, trap you in his web of darkness and chaos and never ever let you leave him. He licks into your mouth and you release a gasp that makes his stomach clench.

“Suguru.”

It sounds like a warning. His lips tremble when he parts from you, and he just can't move back as much as he knows you’d probably prefer. He rests his forehead against yours, keeps his eyes shut, breathes in deep drawls of your breath, whispers an apology.

Your hands card through his hair.

“You're really pretty, you know that?”

He peeks at you through heavy lids “So I've been told.”.

You roll your eyes and he grins, sly but genuine.

“I’m trying to be nice to you, dickhead.”.

This time, he giggles childishly as your hands push at his shoulders, guiding him flat on his back so you can straddle is waist. It's almost ridiculous, the way the heat of your body turns his insides to a blended mess of organs and raw emotions. His heart swells, his lungs tighten, his stomach flips, his cock twitches.

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms stroking against his skin as you slide it up over his head and toss it to the side. His abdomen flexes under the soft skin of your hands. Your fingers dance along the scars, trace his rigid form.

Your mouth replaces your hands, wet warm silk gliding down his chest, swirling methodically, flicking over his nipples. He gasps for air, fists your hair, trembles against the urge to fight you, begs himself to take your worship. He had no problem accepting it from anyone else, after all.

“You’re shaking” You note, but don't stop your assault on his senses, licking one long stripe from his naval to his neck, the way his back arches is mortifying.

It feels like forever you stay there, exchanging spit, moans, blotting each other purple with no teeth. All suction, pressure, aching.

When he finally dips his fingers past the band of your sweatpants he's met with an obscene amount of slick. He circles your clit a few times, swiping your whines out of your mouth with his tongue, panting when you get impatient all too quickly, reaching down to guide his fingers into your body.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs, but he already knows the answer.

“More.”

Who was he to deny you?

It isn't long before you become insatiable, finding yourself sinking down on his cock with his sweats still gripping his thighs and your shirt still clinging to your frame, damp with sweat.

He loves the way you look when he splits you apart, lips quivering and brow furrowed as you struggle to accommodate him. He loves hollowing you out, carving a place for just him to nestle deep inside your pretty little body. He loves the way your pussy clenches, sucks him in, holds tight like he was meant to be slotted inside you, jerking against your cervix, painting you from the inside out with his precum.

He helps you, guides your hips as you bounce desperately against him, chasing your high shamelessly, melting his brain with every moan. Electricity strikes his body with each stroke, his muscles jerk in tandem.

You struggle when you get close, your thighs jerking against your own desire, pace stuttering. He thinks it's precious, the way you're edging yourself to tears with your sheer inability to keep up with yourself.

Eventually, though, he does find a bit of mercy within himself, flipping you over on your back, fucking into you steadily, toying with your clit.

You dig red stripes into his back as you come unglued, sink your teeth into his already bruised shoulder. He hopes the burn never fades.

When he cums, he doesn't pull out, stuffs you full of him, hopes you can feel it in your soul. Your legs lock around his waist, hips rut animalistically against him, making sure nothing goes to waste.

He can't win this game, he tells himself as he watches you sleep, traces your features with his fingers. There was no world in which you were safe. Not in this timeline, but maybe the next.

Which game was more childish? Thinking he could change anything for Satoru? Or thinking he could change anything for you?

He falls asleep with you nestled in his grip, sometime after the sky turns a bright baby blue.

masterlist

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something very exciting is coming @vallification

Forged in Fire: A New World

A/n: I know I had a similar series to this called Between Worlds, lately I just haven’t felt like writing it. UNTIL I GOT THIS WONDERFUL, SPLENDID idea. Hope you all like it, it’s a different kind of start which I kind of enjoy better? Makes the plot flow nicer than having to create a bunch of OC characters to get the plot going. Let me know what you think. 

Summary: You wake up in a strange place :) Soon to be an Azriel x Reader fic.

Part Two

Warnings: Mentions of Illness, Mentions of abuse, Mentions of blood. WC: 3.1k

The song of birds chirping outside, the rustling of leaves, and the sound of hushed footsteps around the room awoke you.

With a groan, your bleary eyes fluttered open, greeted by a room unfamiliar. Rubbing your eyes to push past the blurriness, you wondered why your head ached so much. You sat up, taking in the room. The giant chandelier was the kicker—you could never in your lifetime own one of those. Your eyes searched the room for anything familiar, anxiety creeping in your stomach.. A maid kept saying your name, but you ignored her. Your gaze constantly shifted around the room, the green walls were lined at the top with wallpaper depicting foxes playing in the tall grass. The russet brown canopy rested above a bed larger than any you’d ever owned, with silk sheets and a velvet comforter. There was a roaring fireplace in your bedroom. 

You weren’t home, in your crappy apartment, anymore.

A maid approached, her brown hair and pale skin accentuated by concerned green eyes. “Miss Y/n? Are you feeling alright?” Her voice was just a whisper, sounding like the autumn wind, and she smelled like spices. Normal people don’t smell like warm ginger and clove. 

You climbed out of bed in a sprint. Not caring about the fancy sheets that just fell onto the floor.

Where the hell were you? 

You sprinted down halls lined with various fall colors and paintings of people with red hair and golden eyes. People gawked as you ran by, soldiers whispering to each other as they glanced at you. Perhaps it was because you were wearing nothing but pantaloons and a white corset top. You didn’t care; you just wanted to leave. You wanted to be back in your crappy apartment. 

Your heart was beating faster than it ever had before, sounding like a war drum, until two strong arms caught you and a man that stood a foot taller than you grabbed your sides.

“Y/n, what are you doing out of bed?” His amber eyes seemed to pierce into you, his face a mix of concern and worry as his gaze constantly shifted from the people walking about the halls back to you. Your heart was pounding, and you were panting from running. Why the hell were these hallways so long? You just stared at him, his honeyed voice repeatedly asking, "What’s going on?”

You were about to respond when a sharp, metallic taste filled your mouth. Your eyes widened in panic as you choked, coughing violently. Your hand flew to your lips, and when you pulled it away, it was smeared with blood. 

Normal people don’t cough up blood when they run, do they?

The male's eyes widened in horror as he saw your blood-stained lips and crimson-covered palm. "Shit," he whispered, his voice trembling with urgency. Without a second thought, he scooped you into his arms, his grip tight and desperate.

Fear surged through you as you clung to him, your vision blurring. The strong, steady beat of his heart against your cheek was the only thing grounding you as everything else started to fade. The world spun around you, colors and shapes blending into a dizzying swirl.

"Hold on," he urged, his voice a strained whisper, filled with a mix of fear and determination. You could hear the pounding of footsteps and the frantic murmur of voices as he carried you through the endless hallways.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was his face, etched with worry, his amber eyes filled with a desperate plea for you to hold on. You tried to focus on his voice, his warmth, but the world spun faster and faster until it all faded to black.

******

You awoke again in the same bed. You were definitely not in Los Angeles anymore, you murmured to yourself. When you tried to sit up, a loud, “Don’t,” caught your attention. The male who had carried you was there, now without his fancy silk-lined coat. His hair was tousled a bit too much as he sat in a chair across the room, drinking a glass of whiskey. 

You stared back at him as you hesitated, then eased back into the bed, earning a hum of approval from him as he began to walk over.

“Why were you running around like a heathen?” he sneered, his voice tinged with anger, yet his face was full of concern. “What if Mother or Father saw you? Hm?” He drawled as he walked over to the side of the bed, taking a spot near your legs. “You don’t wake up for three weeks and now you’re running a dead sprint?” His laugh was dark and breathless, laden with worry. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his hands clenched the edge of the bed. It was as if he was trying to keep his emotions in check, to mask the fear that lurked beneath his harsh words. 

“I... I didn’t know where I was,” you admitted, your voice shaky. “I was scared.”

His expression softened slightly, the anger fading into something more like resignation. “You should have stayed in bed,” he said quietly, his tone less harsh now. “You’re not well, Y/n. You need to rest.”

The memory of coughing up blood flashed in your mind, and a shiver ran through you. “Why did I... why did that happen?” you asked, fear creeping into your voice. That had never happened back home. Why now? Why in this place?

He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled red hair. “You’re sick, Y/n, you’ve always been sick. You have a weak heart. Can you… not remember?” His last statement seemed like it was meant more for himself than for you. 

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the worry was plain to see. “Just promise me you’ll stay put,” he said, his voice softening further. “I can’t lose you again.”

You hesitated before nodding. “Can… can I ask you a question?” you muttered under your breath. Would he think you were crazy? The man looked awfully pissed off given the circumstances, yet you felt a deep connection with him.

He looked at you, his brows furrowing, but he nodded. You continued, “Who are you? Or rather, where am I?” His eyes softened into what looked like a pang of sadness.

“So you really do have memory loss…” he whispered to himself. “My name is Eris. I am your eldest brother.” His voice quivered, and you could see the pain etched into his features. “We are in our home in the Autumn Court. You remember the Forest House, don’t you?” he whispered.

Your hands trembled as you stared at the intricate designs embedded into the bedding. The Autumn Court? The Forest House? Like from that one hit series, SJM put out. You’d read the books—for crying out loud, who hadn’t? This had to be a terrible dream. Perhaps you were working too late last night. You shouldn’t have eaten that Chinese food you left in the fridge for too long. You looked up to find those russet-colored eyes piercing you, full of worry and concern.

“You don’t know who any of us are, do you?” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “The healers said your condition got worse, that we shouldn’t have brought you with us during the war. The environment would be too much for your heart.” He crept closer, his palm landing gently on your cheek. “Sister, please, I need… I need you to remember me. Okay? Please, try your best. I need you to remember the good within me.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, your own. His words resonated deeply within you, pushing aside your other thoughts of home. There was something achingly familiar about his touch, his voice.

“I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “I’ll try to remember.”

Eris’s eyes softened even more, his thumb brushing away your tears. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That’s all I ask. Now, I am reluctant to leave you, but I have a meeting in Hewn City.”

With both his hands, he cupped your cheeks, his touch gentle yet urgent. “I’m going to give us a better life.”

The way his eyes settled on you with concern, you could tell he didn’t want to leave you here. Given all the context, you had been asleep for three weeks, of course he wouldn’t want to leave. Eris moved away from you, grabbing the glass of water on the nightstand and bring it to your lips. You drank the water, but you could sense something else within it. Within moments you passed out yet again. 

That jerk, how dare he drug you to sleep. 

******

Eris entered Hewn City a few hours later, his steps heavy with responsibility. As he navigated the bustling streets, his mind raced with thoughts of the meeting ahead. This alliance was crucial, not only for the prosperity of the Autumn Court but also for the future of his family.

Finally arriving at the grand estate, Eris made his way through the ornate corridors until he reached the study, where he found Keir engrossed in paperwork.

“You got me that meeting with your high lord, right?” Eris drawled as he lazily collapsed into the armchair. Today was going to be a long day, he thought. First, his sister had woken up three weeks after passing out due to the cold. Beron, his father, suggested—or rather, forced—all of the children to go to the war camp, to prove a united force. Within days, your condition worsened, and you were bedridden. Eris would never forget that, the way his father would have just let you die there. You were a year younger than Lucien, at least you were Beron’s actual child. He should at least treat you as such. 

Of course, Mother cared about you; she had always wanted a daughter. A sickly one? Not so much. Beron always blamed her for how sick you were, claiming it was because she was ‘tainted’ from another High Lord. It only made the abuse worse on the Lady of Autumn.

“They should be here within the hour,” Keir grumbled, pulling Eris from his thoughts. Eris needed this alliance to work, not just so he could be High Lord, but so he could give all of his siblings a better life. Give himself a better life.

Eris sipped on the whiskey in his hand, feeling the familiar burn as it slid down his throat. He despised a lot of things: the biting cold that seemed to seep into his bones, Keir and his pathetic city that revolved around torture and sexist ideals, and above all, his father—enough to make him contemplate murder.

As he sat in the study, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him, Eris couldn't help but feel a simmering anger deep within him. The whiskey provided a temporary reprieve, numbing the edge of his rage, but it was always there, lurking beneath the surface like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt.

He took another sip, the bitterness of the alcohol mingling with the bitterness of his thoughts. With each swallow, he felt a flicker of defiance, a silent vow to defy the oppressive forces that sought to control him and his family.

Eris may have hated many things, but he refused to let that hatred consume him. Instead, he channeled it into determination, a determination to carve out a better future for himself and those he cared about, no matter the cost.

Within the hour, the Inner Circle arrived, though not in its entirety. Eris felt a flicker of relief that Mor was absent; her presence would only complicate matters further. He watched as they took their seats at the table, Feyre’s gaze piercing him with undisguised disgust, joined by similar expressions from Cassian and Azriel. It was natural—they all hated him. But Eris reassured himself that their opinions didn’t matter. All he needed was a powerful alliance.

As the meeting began, Eris steeled himself, his mind focused on the task at hand. He would do whatever it took to secure the support of the Night Court, even if it meant enduring their scorn and disdain. In the end, the only thing that mattered was achieving his goals and ensuring the survival of his family.

“What do you want, Eris?” Rhysand drawled with a look of boredom, his tone laced with skepticism. With a wave of his hand, wine glasses appeared in front of everyone on the table.

Eris took a moment to compose himself, hiding any hint of desperation that threatened to surface. “I need an alliance,” he began, his voice steady and controlled. “I plan on taking the throne soon. And I have a humble request of sorts.”

Rhysand brought the glass of wine to his lips, his violet eyes locked onto Eris’s russet ones without wavering. “My mother could handle herself in the attack, my sister, however—” he paused, his voice cool and measured, “I want protection over her.”

Feyre’s expression, initially one of disgust, morphed into confusion as she glanced at Rhysand, who didn’t return her gaze but instead settled a comforting hand on top of hers.

“I was unaware you had a sister, Eris,” Rhysand remarked, swirling the wine in his glass as he continued to observe Eris with an unreadable expression.

“She’s sick, a weak heart of sorts,” Eris continued, his tone softening slightly as he spoke of his sister. “Along with the resources to take down my father, I would want her protected. Perhaps to stay in the Night Court,” he suggested, his voice carefully measured.

Eris knew he was treading on thin ice, but the prospect of securing protection for his sister was worth the risk. He hoped that by appealing to their sense of compassion and strategic advantage, he could convince the Inner Circle to agree to his request.

Feyre was the first to speak, her tone cautious as she addressed Eris. “You want her protected here? I’m assuming away from Hewn City,” she observed, her gaze shifting briefly to Keir, who remained surprisingly silent during the meeting, apparently unaware that Eris had a sister. “What do we gain from this ‘protection’? It seems like you are requesting a lot, yet you haven’t mentioned what you would give in return.”

Eris understood Feyre’s skepticism. He needed to present a compelling offer if he hoped to secure their assistance. Taking a deep breath, he considered his response carefully, aware that every word mattered.

“I understand your concerns, Feyre,” he began, his voice steady. “In return for your protection over my sister, I am willing to offer valuable resources and information that could aid you in your endeavors. I also pledge my loyalty to the Night Court, and I am prepared to assist in any way I can to further our mutual goals.”

Eris held his breath, waiting for their response, hoping that his offer would be enough to sway them in his favor.

Feyre considered Eris’s words carefully, her expression never faltering as she weighed his offer. After a moment of silence, she spoke, her voice measured yet decisive. 

“You offer is intriguing, Eris,” she began, her tone betraying a hint of cautious optimism. “Protection for your sister in exchange for valuable resources and your loyalty could indeed prove beneficial for us. Especially if you are willing to give any information about Autumn court to us.”

Rhysand, who had been observing the exchange in silence, letting his mate take charge, finally spoke. His voice, though commanding, held a hint of intrigue as he addressed Eris. “Indeed, Eris,” he said, his violet eyes glinting with curiosity. “Your offer holds promise. But tell me, how sick is your sister?”

Eris noted the bored expression on Rhysand's face, recognizing the calculated indifference that often masked deeper curiosity. He cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. "My sister's condition is delicate," he replied, his tone solemn. "Her heart is weak, and she requires constant care and protection."

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, his gaze flickering to Feyre for a moment before returning to Eris. "Very well," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of finality. "We will discuss the details of your sister's stay in the Night Court further. But for now, let us focus on solidifying our alliance."

The paperwork was written right then and there, the terms of the alliance carefully outlined and agreed upon by both parties. Cassian, the general of the Night Court, seemed skeptical, his sharp eyes darting between Eris and the documents laid out before them. Meanwhile, Rhysand had discreetly spoken to Azriel, instructing him to have his spies gather any information they could find about Eris's sister in the Autumn Court, ensuring that Eris did not overhear the command.

Azriel nodded silently, his expression unreadable as he swiftly winnowed away, disappearing into the shadows to carry out his task.

Left alone with the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, Eris felt a sense of anticipation mingled with apprehension. This alliance could be the key to securing his family's future, but he knew that their trust was not easily earned. He resolved to tread carefully, mindful of the delicate balance of power that hung in the air.

Eris was just thankful you wouldn’t have to stay in the depths of Hewn City, while he had never been to Velaris. The city was spoken to be a safe place, safe from any enemies. Rhysand had ensured Eris that you would be protected as long as you would not be a threat. The place in which you would be staying was still to be communicated, though it seemed likely that you would be staying with their head healer at her cottage, to ensure your health was taken into consideration. Also, far away from any information that you could possibly overhear from what Eris had understood by the underlying threat. 

In four nights, you would be winnowed to the city of Velaris. His sister would be leaving the oppressive reign of Beron, a chance to give you for the first time in your three hundred years of life a chance for freedom- a fresh start.  

In four nights, the downfall of Beron would begin. 

Welcome Home (Drabble)

Summary: Azriel just resting between your thighs 😎

Warnings: A bit filthy, Soft!Azriel, Oral (F! Receiving), No plot just smut, shadow daddy a little pussy drunk, unedited

** Minors don't interact under the cut **

"I missed you so much, baby," Azriel purred against your lips, the exhaustion from his week-long mission etched on his face. His kisses were gentle, each a soothing balm to the days spent apart, and his hands settled firmly on your waist, tugging you closer as he led you to the bedroom. You tried not to smile between kisses, knowing that his long missions often left him in a tender, soft mood.

All he wanted was to love you, his pretty little mate, who was conveniently wearing a dress he could easily pull the hem up as he laid you gently on the bed. His touch was needy and hungry as he slipped your dress up to your waist, a hitch in his breath as he spread your legs.

"No panties? Baby, you're too good f'me," he groaned, his voice thick with desire as he settled between your thighs. He pressed soft kisses along your inner thigh, each one sending shivers through you. "So beautiful," he murmured between kisses, his breath warm against your skin, each word a tender caress that quickened your pulse.

Azriel was obsessed with your pretty cunt, the way it was already glistening for him as he brought his soft lips to your clit. Earning a soft moan on your lips as he gently kissed your soft folds. His big strong scarred hands spread your legs wider as they harshly gripped your thighs, ensuring he was holding back from devouring you. Azriel could taste your arousal, that sweet nectar from the gods that he thrived on, that he would look forward to on these missions.

"Azriel" You whimpered, your voice weak with desire as he was gently just kissing around your heat. As if hearing your pleas, Azriel's tongue was diving eagerly into your warmth. Your breath hitched at his every touch. You tried squirming or lifting your hips, but Azriel still held his meal, his blessing from the cauldron.

You looked down to see his pretty golden eyes half-lidded. Those gorgeous long eyelashes fluttering shut, and his moans that were filled with a mixture of adoration and desire that made your heart race.

"Ah…Azriel…baby…right there," you babbled, the words spilling from your lips in a breathless rush. But he didn't hear you; he was too drunk on your sweet nectar, devouring you like a man starved. His focus was entirely on you, each flick of his tongue and press of his lips sending waves of pleasure through your body, making you arch and gasp beneath him.

Azriel didn't seem to care by the way your body bucked and shuddered, by the deep and raspy noises that escaped your throat. His fingers soon joined his tongue, spreading you open wider, searching for that one spot that would make you jump and quiver.

Azriel would alternate between sweet slow kitten licks around your clit, piling on the pressure that would have you gasping for air. The build-up was agony, the promise of reaching your high just out of reach. From those sweet kind licks, he would move on to something more relentless. Leaving you arched wildly, thrusting your hips into his face, your back arching off the bed as the climax was fast approaching.

Azriel's lips smacked as he lapped hungrily at your juice. Every touch, every curl of his fingers sends waves through your body. The pleasure blinding you, ensuring that you were seeing stars, robbing you of all sense of the world but the need for release. The coil within you tightened and loosened with each one of Azriel's movements, each flick of the tongue, and thrust of the finger had you losing yourself in ecstasy.

You swore under your breath, pressing your fingers through his dark silky curls, urging him on as you pushed closer and closer to climax. His tongue worked in harmony with his fingers as he would moan, the nails of his free hand that resided on your thigh digging in as he kept your legs spread open for him. Bucking his hips into the sheets. Azriel drank your juices that were currently streaming down his pretty face. With a final, deep thrust of his fingers and a swirl of his tongue, you cried out his name like it was a prayer made for him.

"Azriel...I..oh gods" you whimpered as you reached those waves of bliss. Your nails dug into his hair, your hips bucking involuntarily. Azriel relished every last drop of your orgasm, his tongue greedily lapping up your juices.

"Gotta clean up your mess baby," He moaned against your wet folds.

As your legs began to shake less, Azriel finally pulled away, slowly, removing his fingers from your messy cunt. Azriel's face was slick with your essence as he looked at you with a lovesick grin as he began to unbuckle his leathers.

https://www.tumblr.com/eevwrites/763921157935284224/going-off-from-this-ask?source=share

Okay, so I know youre already getting a lot of questions on this ask already. Honestly, you get Suguru's character down so well, I have two questions for you.

Do you think there's ever a small little voice from teen Suguru in the back of his mind at times? Like something trying to revert him back to his old self?

Also

How do you think Satoru and Suguru would react if the reader was compliant from the very beginning? I can imagine that Satoru would be pleased and would probably treat it like a regular relationship. I think Suguru would definitely be more on guard, still his nurturing loving self, but I think he would definitely put more security measures in place.

Thank you for always releasing amazing content! 💖

Ahhh. I love this question <3

Yes. I definitely do think he still has a little bit of his old self in him.

Don't get me wrong, nothing could ever make Suguru go back to jujutsu high. He doesn't regret leaving and he doesn't feel like he was wrong to do what he did. The higher ups used him and they continue to use every person, every child, who still serves their agenda. He and so many others that he cared for have had to suffer at their hand, and for what? To protect people who prolong the cycle? Defecting was a decision made by his ideals, taking over the cult and plotting to kill all non socerers was decision made by his anger, that combination is a tough wall to break through. His trauma and resentment blind him from any reason. It doesn't matter what anyone says, he will never suffer for someone else's agenda again. If he has to live with the pain of his cursed technique he's going to use it to do what he believes is right, what he believes will make the world better. The longer he stays away from JJT, the more cemented his decision becomes.

But I think in his anger and resentment, Suguru forgot the reason why he wanted to end the cycle in the first place.

Suguru left for selfish reasons, because he didn't want to be used himself, but if he was being completely selfish he could have just stopped there and maybe kill people who were actively hurting sorcerers when he stumbled across them. Instead, he made a plan that he thought would fix jujutsu society. He kept fighting to make the world better for the people he cared for. Nanami, Shoko, his girls and most of all Gojo - who he knew better than anyone else would be used until there was nothing left of him. He wanted to stop the system that would, just like he predicted, go on to kill every last person (except shoko, girlboss) he cared about.

And in order to do that, he had to leave them all behind. He had to leave everything behind. His innocence, his youth, his family, (his first love). He let go of all the shitty parts of his old life, but he also left behind the good parts, the best years and memories of his life.

He doesn't regret it. Not for a second. He's undeniably happier now; finally free. But like I mentioned in my satosugu analysis, the happiness Geto gets from killing non-sorcerers isn't real happiness, it's catharsis and a sense of control. It feels good, scratches an itch, makes things feel tolerable, but it's a band-aid on a bullet hole. It can cover up his pain, but it can't make it go away like being around gojo and his friends did back when he didn't know better about the world.

Gojo and Geto both would never give up their respective beliefs, but they both have that little voice in the back of their minds that wonders if they'd be happier if they did (gojo admittedly more then geto). They both just want to do the right thing in a system that makes it very difficult to pick out what is right and wrong.

So yes, I do think Geto questions his choice every so often. I think he still has repressed guilt and fear that he will never, ever admit to anybody, not even himself. Most of all, I think he misses his friends (boyfriend). But the more time passes the quieter the voice becomes and the easier it is to push down the grief, to do what must be done.

It's all that will save him from wasting away.

As for reader being compliant, just like you said, I think Satoru would be over the moon, Suguru would be suspicious. Satoru, at the end of the day, just wants you to love him and let him love you back. It's much easier to delude himself into thinking you're happy when you're complying, so he's just gonna sit back and enjoy it. Let you lavish him with kisses and call him a good boy.

Suguru is less trusting. He'll be sweet to you. Gentle and affectionate, constantly cooing to you in that syrupy, lilting tone that makes you feel all gooey inside, but he's always keeping a sharp eye. I think Suguru feels most confident in his control over someone when they snap for him. Whether that be falling madly in love, scared into obedience, or feeling eternally indebted, something has to happen that gives reason to believe their devotion. You just laid down and rolled over without so much as being snapped at. That's not normal.

I think he might start pushing you. Asking you oh so sweetly to do increasingly more humiliating things for him and Satoru to see if you break. If you want even a modicum of trust from Suguru, you need to prove to him that you're deserving of it, and even then, you'll never completely have it. No matter how obedient a dog is, no owner willingly opens the front door for them to run out, animals can never be completely trusted to come back.

Baked with Love (Geto x Reader) - Drabble/preview

Summary: You were a fresh out of college and happened to become roommates with one of the most dangerous curse user and his two adopted daughters. Could you cook your way into his heart? Takes place a couple years after the KFC breakup. 

a/n: There is not enough Geto fluff on this site :( Taking a break from writing ACOTAR fanfics! Also, not using Geto’s famous word because it makes me feel…weird..so I’m just using non-sorcerer a lot. Sorry! WC: 1.5k

****

After recently graduating from Tokyo University with a finance degree and landing a not-so-wonderful corporate job, you decided to splurge on a high-rise apartment with amazing views and a rooftop garden. Shortly after moving in, you occasionally heard two little girls playing in the apartment next door, either on the patio or through the thin walls. A nice family next door must mean a peaceful complex. Little did you know, the most dangerous curse user, who threatened the lives of non-sorcerers, lived in that quaint, peaceful apartment right next to yours.

A week goes by, and after starting your new corporate job, the nine-to-five lifestyle quickly begins to leave you stressed. To unwind from a dreaded day of spreadsheets and numbers, you picked up a new hobby: cooking and baking. However, one issue arose rather quickly. You end up making too much nearly every night, more than you can even bring to work. Sure, you could bring the dozens of muffins you made in five different flavors to the office, but what are the chances someone would actually grab a couple? You were new, after all, and didn’t have the proper work clique. Another thought: you could always drop some off for the peaceful family next door. With two small children, surely food wouldn’t go to waste.

So you decided to walk over, with a bag full of various breads and muffins. Tomorrow you wanted to try and make a cake so you needed the counter space. It was only eight in the evening, might be a little too late in the evening with little ones, but you knocked on the door regardless. After a few moments, a man with tired bags and gorgeous long inky black hair clad in a black shirt and sweats opened the door and gazed down at you with those soft violet eyes that reminded you of ube, perhaps you’ll make ube mochi later this week. 

“Can I help you?” His velvet-smooth voice, like honey, slipped through a polite smile that seemed almost trained. A voice that left your cheeks dusting the faintest shade of pink. Your eyes seemed to want to look everywhere but at him as he raised a brow.

Were you taking too long to speak? Why won’t words come out?

“Hi, I’m your neighbor… I just moved in next door. I happened to have baked too much, and I was wondering if you would like to take some bread and muffins off my hands.” Your words came out slightly stuttered, perhaps a little too fast, a little too loud, but the message got across.

That polite, trained smile tilted down for a second until he gave a shrug.

Suguru watched you stutter over your words, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. For a non-sorcerer, your nervousness was endearing.

“I see…” Suguru leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms across his broad chest, and looked down at you for a moment longer than necessary before shifting his gaze to the pink bag in your hands.

“Well, thank you. I’m sure my girls will appreciate that,” he said, the sweet, polite smile crossing his lips again, making your heart skip a beat.

“Of course, I just happened to have baked a little too much… wait, your girls?” The words slipped out of your mouth before you could catch them. You figured this was like an older brother or an uncle, but the dad? This man in front of you looked around your age… there’s no way he could possibly have children. He looked like a recent college grad. Who are you to judge, though? You swiftly chastised yourself.

Suguru chuckled softly, a light, amused sound slipping past his lips as he noticed your surprise. It was clear that you were probably expecting the girls' father to be some middle-aged family man, not a twenty-something. Yet, he found your surprise endearing, enjoying the way your cheeks dusted pink and how you seemed entranced by his every word. He had that effect on people, after all.

“Yup. Two little girls. Twins, actually—Nanako and Mimiko. Quite the handful, but they’re both sweethearts. I’m sure you’ve heard them from time to time.” Suguru spoke with a soft smile on his face. He wouldn’t dare reveal that they were adopted to a stranger; he might as well have you assuming that they were his legitimate children.

“Ah, yeah, that must be a lot of work… well, if you ever need any baked goods… I’m next door, so… yeah… feel free to knock,” you spoke softly, mentally cursing yourself for being so awkward. You work with people every day, how was this any different? How could you be fumbling over yourself this much?

Suguru enjoyed the way you stumbled over your words, amused by your bout of shyness. The way you seemed so awkward was kind of cute… no. Suguru had to remind himself that he hates non-sorcerers, that they are the reason why curses exist. That… this neighbor bringing him a giant bag of baked goods could create a curse. Suguru reminded himself to be polite, to play the role.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m sure the girls would love for you to spoil them with sweets,” he said, his voice smooth and polite. After that, he bid you goodnight. You bowed slightly before he closed the door and you entered your apartment. After shutting the door, you sank to the floor, leaning against it. Wanting to scream at yourself for being so awkward.

As you sat there, replaying the conversation in your head, you couldn't help but smile a little. Despite your awkwardness, he was kind. Maybe this could be the start of a nice neighborly relationship. You took a deep breath and stood up, deciding to focus on the positive. You had done a nice thing, and that was what mattered.

**** 

Meanwhile, in Suguru’s apartment, he debated what to do with the bag of baked goods. Should he throw them away? The three different flavors of bread, including a rosemary-scented loaf he presumed to be sourdough, made his stomach almost growl. The blueberry muffins looked a little too perfect, and the milk bread seemed as soft as a cloud. He should throw these away; the food was tainted by a non-sorcerer, after all.

Suguru debated for a few moments, finally deciding to just leave them on the counter. The twins would eat them anyway. At eight years old, they were both eating quite a bit. He was only slightly tempted to partake but decided to leave them there for the night.

It was currently nine in the evening as he made his way to his own bedroom. He double-checked to find both girls sleeping soundly in their room, leaving the door just a crack before heading to his own. As he lay in bed, he read through any documents that needed to be signed for the organization that his assistant had sent over.

As he sifted through the paperwork, his mind kept drifting back to you. Your awkwardness, your genuine offer of kindness—it was disarming. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had approached him so openly, without any hidden agenda. It was a refreshing, albeit confusing, change from the norm.

He shook his head, focusing back on the documents. Relationships with non-sorcerers were complicated, dangerous even. He had to maintain his distance. Yet, a small part of him couldn’t deny the curiosity about his new neighbor.

The next morning, Suguru woke early as usual. He prepared breakfast for the twins, trying to ignore the tantalizing smell of the baked goods still sitting on the counter. When Nanako and Mimiko finally shuffled into the kitchen, their eyes lit up at the sight of the muffins and bread.

“Geto-sama, did you make these?” Nanako asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

“No, our new neighbor did,” Suguru replied, watching their faces for any reaction.

“Can we try them?” Mimiko asked, already reaching for a muffin.

Suguru hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Go ahead.”

The girls eagerly took bites of the muffins, their faces lighting up with delight.

“These are so good!” Nanako exclaimed, her mouth full of muffin.

“Yeah! Can we meet the neighbor and thank them?” Mimiko added, looking up at Suguru with hopeful eyes.

Suguru smiled softly, their enthusiasm infectious. “Maybe later. For now, enjoy your breakfast.”

As he watched the twins happily munch on the baked goods, Suguru couldn’t help but feel a small pang of guilt. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge. Maybe, just maybe, not all non-sorcerers were the same. Or maybe, you were the one that was different from the rest of them. He pondered for a moment, what would you think of his lifestyle, would you be afraid of the blood on his hands, would you still look up at him with that awkward shy smile of yours?