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xxspringmelodyxx · 3 months ago

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“𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑜𝓉…”

┗━⊱ 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒔𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 ⊰━┛

⊱ 𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔: 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐, 𝑺𝒖𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒆𝒕𝒐, 𝑲𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝑵𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒊, 𝑪𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒐 𝑲𝒂𝒎𝒐, 𝑻𝒐𝒋𝒊 𝑭𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒐, 𝑺𝒖𝒌𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝑹𝒚𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 ⊰ wc: 7.0k

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Warnings: Swearing, angst, comfort ⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿✿⋆·˚❀˚·⋆✿

Thank you to another anon for this request! I hope you enjoy! <3333

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Satoru Gojo⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

I sat quietly on the couch, staring at the clock. The day was nearly over, and Satoru still hadn’t mentioned it. My heart ached as I replayed the events of the day in my mind, hoping he would say something—anything—to acknowledge my birthday. But he didn’t. Instead, he went about his usual routine, too busy with his own life to notice how much today meant to me.

When Satoru finally walked into the room, I could barely look at him. Anger, hurt, and disappointment swirled within me. How could he forget? After everything we’ve been through together, how could he overlook something as important as my birthday?

“Hey, baby,” he greeted me with his usual bright smile. “I’m starved. Let’s get something to eat.”

I forced a smile, trying to mask the hurt that was clawing at my chest. “Sure. You go ahead and pick something.”

As we sat at the table later that evening, Satoru was his usual carefree self, talking about his day, his work, and everything else that crossed his mind. But I could barely hear him over the thoughts racing in my head. The man I loved had forgotten my birthday—the one day I had hoped would be special.

That night, as Satoru slept soundly beside me, I lay awake, formulating a plan. If he could forget my birthday, maybe he deserved a taste of his own medicine. Maybe then he’d understand just how much it hurt.

---

A few weeks later, it was Satoru’s birthday. I woke up early, just as I always did, and went about my morning routine. I made breakfast for myself, not bothering to prepare anything for him, and left for work without so much as a “Happy Birthday.”

The entire day, I ignored his texts, his calls, everything. I knew he was probably confused, maybe even hurt, but I didn’t care. Not yet, anyway. This was his punishment.

When I finally returned home that evening, I found Satoru sitting on the couch, a forlorn expression on his face. He didn’t even greet me as I walked in, which was unusual for him.

“baby,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did I… do something wrong?”

I glanced at him, feigning indifference. “Why would you ask that?”

“It’s my birthday,” he said, his eyes searching mine for some sign of affection. “But… you haven’t said anything. You’ve been distant all day.”

I looked away, the memory of my own forgotten birthday fresh in my mind. “Maybe I just didn’t think it was that important.”

His face fell, and I could see the hurt in his eyes. A pang of guilt tugged at my heart, but I pushed it aside. This was what he deserved. He needed to understand.

“I’m sorry, Satoru,” I said, my voice colder than I intended. “But you didn’t think my birthday was important enough to remember, so why should I care about yours?”

His eyes widened as realization dawned on him. “baby… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to forget. I’ve been so caught up with work, but that’s no excuse. I know I hurt you.”

I turned away from him, not wanting to let him see how much his words affected me. “I just wanted you to understand how it felt. To know what it’s like to be forgotten by the person you care about the most.”

Satoru didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost broken. “I do understand. And I’ll spend every day making it up to you. Just… please don’t shut me out like this. I don’t want to lose you.”

My resolve weakened. I had hurt him, just as he had hurt me, but the satisfaction I thought I would feel wasn’t there. Instead, all I felt was a deep sadness.

“Come with me,” I said quietly, taking his hand and leading him outside.

We walked in silence to a small clearing in the nearby park. The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the area. I had prepared a simple picnic, just some of Satoru’s favorite foods and a blanket to sit on.

“I didn’t forget your birthday,” I finally admitted, my voice soft. “I just wanted you to know how much it hurt when you forgot mine.”

He looked at the picnic and then at me, his eyes filled with emotion. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling me into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I returned his embrace. “I know you are. And I forgive you. But you need to understand that it’s not just about the birthday. It’s about making time for each other, about showing that you care, even when life gets busy.”

Satoru nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise I’ll do better. I never want to make you feel like that again.”

We sat together in the fading light, sharing the simple meal I had prepared. There was no need for grand gestures or expensive gifts. All that mattered was that we were together and that we had both learned something valuable.

As the stars began to appear in the night sky, Satoru took my hand in his, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for this,” he said softly. “And happy belated birthday, baby.”

I smiled through my tears, leaning into him. “Happy birthday, Satoru.”

And as we sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, I knew that this was a moment we would never forget.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Suguru Geto⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The day had started like any other. I woke up to the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains, the sound of birds chirping outside. I turned over in bed, expecting to feel Suguru’s warmth beside me, but the space was empty. He must have gotten up early, probably to meditate or attend to his responsibilities.

As I got ready for the day, I found myself checking my phone more often than usual. Every time it buzzed, my heart would leap, only to be disappointed by a random notification or message that wasn’t from him. The hours passed, and still nothing. Not a single mention of my birthday.

I tried to push the thoughts away, convincing myself that he was just busy. Suguru always had a lot on his plate, and I didn’t want to be a burden. But as the day wore on, that familiar ache in my chest grew stronger. How could he forget?

It wasn’t until late afternoon when I heard the excited footsteps of Nanako and Mimiko running through the house. They burst into the room, their faces bright with smiles.

“Happy Birthday, mama!” Nanako exclaimed, throwing her arms around me.

“We made you something!” Mimiko added, holding out a small, hand-drawn card filled with colorful hearts and stars.

I smiled, my heart warming at their thoughtfulness. “Thank you, girls. This means so much to me.”

But the warmth quickly faded as reality hit me. They remembered, but Suguru hadn’t. The girls must have noticed the change in my expression because they exchanged worried glances.

“Did… did Suguru say anything?” Nanako asked cautiously.

I shook my head, forcing a smile. “He’s been busy. It’s okay.”

Mimiko frowned, clearly upset. “But it’s your birthday! He’s supposed to know that!”

“It’s not fair,” Nanako agreed, crossing her arms. “He should be here celebrating with you.”

I tried to reassure them, not wanting to dampen their spirits. “It’s fine, really. Sometimes people forget.”

But as I said it, I knew it wasn’t fine. Not really. And I could see that the girls weren’t convinced either.

---

By evening, I had given up on hoping. I found Suguru in the garden, sitting under the large oak tree, his eyes closed in quiet contemplation. He looked peaceful, almost ethereal, as if the worries of the world couldn’t touch him. But I couldn’t share in that peace. Not today.

“Hey,” I called out softly as I approached.

Suguru opened his eyes and smiled up at me. “Hey, you. Come join me.”

I hesitated for a moment before sitting down beside him. We sat in silence for a while, the only sounds around us being the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city.

“I was thinking we could do something tonight,” he said eventually, turning to me with a gentle expression. “Maybe grab dinner, take a walk, or just stay in and watch something. What do you think?”

My heart sank. Even now, he didn’t realize what today was. “Sure,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “Whatever you want.”

Suguru reached out and took my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “Are you okay? You seem a little… distant.”

Before I could respond, Nanako and Mimiko came rushing into the garden, their expressions a mix of disbelief and frustration.

“Suguru!” Nanako exclaimed, her hands on her hips. “How could you forget Y/N’s birthday?”

Mimiko nodded vigorously, her eyes wide. “We remembered, and we’re just kids!”

Suguru’s eyes widened as the color drained from his face. He looked at me, then back at the girls. “What…? No, I didn’t forget…”

But the truth was written all over his face. He had forgotten.

“Suguru,” I said quietly, pulling my hand from his. “It’s okay. I understand that you’ve been busy.”

“No, it’s not okay,” Nanako insisted, glaring at Suguru. “You need to make this right!”

Suguru looked utterly lost, his usual calm demeanor shattered. “Y/N… I’m so sorry. I’ve been so caught up in everything else, but that’s no excuse. I can’t believe I forgot.”

The girls stood there, arms crossed, waiting for his next move. I could tell they were upset, not just for me, but because they looked up to Suguru so much. He was their protector, their guide—and he had let us all down.

I took a deep breath, feeling the hurt begin to ebb into something more manageable. “Suguru… maybe you should talk to the girls for a bit. I’m going to go for a walk.”

---

The days that followed were a blur of awkward silence and half-hearted attempts at reconciliation. Suguru apologized repeatedly, but something between us had shifted. We still lived together, went through the motions, but it felt different. The warmth, the easy laughter—it all seemed distant.

I could tell he was trying. He left me small gifts, little notes apologizing again, and gestures meant to make up for his forgetfulness, but I wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. Every time I looked at him, I couldn’t help but remember the hurt I felt on my birthday, the sting of being forgotten by the person I loved most.

Instead of dwelling on the pain, I began working on something special. Each time I withdrew from him, it was because I was spending hours in my little crafting corner, crocheting. I decided to create something that would remind him of what mattered most—something that would mean more than words ever could.

I crocheted tiny versions of us: Suguru, me, the girls, and even his beloved dragon. Each doll took hours of painstaking work, and every stitch was filled with the love I still held for him, despite the distance between us. As the days passed and his birthday drew nearer, I worked in secret, pouring my heart into the project.

On the morning of his birthday, I acted as if it were just another day. I made breakfast, but didn’t acknowledge the significance of the date. Suguru watched me, his eyes filled with hope that today would be different, but I remained distant, giving him only short, polite answers to his attempts at conversation.

As the day went on, I could see the realization dawning on him. I wasn’t going to acknowledge his birthday. He tried to mask his disappointment, but it was clear in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he avoided meeting my gaze.

By evening, Suguru seemed to have given up. He sat on the couch, staring blankly at the television, but not really watching it. The once lively atmosphere in our home had turned somber, filled with unspoken words and lingering tension.

I felt a pang of guilt. This wasn’t how I wanted things to be. I had wanted him to understand, but now I was only adding to the pain. Taking a deep breath, I decided it was time to make things right.

---

“Suguru,” I said softly, approaching him where he sat. He looked up at me, his eyes tired and filled with a mix of emotions—confusion, sadness, and a glimmer of hope.

I began, pulling out a small box. I opened it to reveal the tiny crocheted dolls, each one representing him, me, the girls, and his dragon. His eyes widened in surprise, his breath catching as he took in the sight.

“I didn’t forget your birthday,” I continued, my voice trembling slightly. “Every time I ignored you, I was working on this. I wanted you to have something that would remind you of what’s important—of us, of the family we’ve built.”

Suguru stared at the dolls, his fingers gently brushing over the tiny figures. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked back at me. “Y/N… this is… I don’t even have words. Thank you.”

Before I could say more, I signaled to the girls, who had been hiding nearby. They came out, beaming, carrying a small cake with candles lit. As they started singing "Happy Birthday," Suguru’s face broke into a wide, emotional smile.

The girls’ voices were filled with joy, and as they sang, I could see the weight lifting from Suguru’s shoulders. When they finished, he blew out the candles, and the girls cheered, wrapping their arms around him in a tight hug.

“I’m sorry,” Suguru whispered to me as the girls giggled and clung to him. “I’m sorry for everything.”

I leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “I know, Suguru. I forgive you. Don’t do it again though, or else I’ll never make you crocheted stuff again!” I joke

He nodded, his eyes still misty. “I promise, my dear. I’ll do better. I never want to make you feel like that again.”

As we sat together, sharing the cake and enjoying the night, I felt a sense of peace settle over us. The tension had lifted, replaced by the warmth

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Kento Nanami⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

The day Nanami forgot my birthday, I felt the hurt sink deep into my chest, but I didn’t let it show. I had spent the entire day waiting, hoping he would remember—waiting for a text, a call, something to acknowledge the day. But as the hours passed, it became clear that he wasn’t going to.

When he finally got home late that night, he looked exhausted, his usual composed demeanor weighed down by the day’s work. He walked in with a tired smile, greeted me with a kiss on the forehead, and headed straight for the shower without a single mention of my birthday. Not even a glance at the beautifully set table I had prepared or the dinner that was now cold and untouched.

I swallowed the hurt, forcing a smile when he emerged from the shower. I knew that if he didn’t care enough to remember, I wasn’t going to remind him. Instead, I decided I would give him a taste of his own medicine.

The days turned into weeks, and I carried on as if nothing was wrong. I acted like the perfect partner, hiding my disappointment behind a veil of normalcy. I waited patiently, knowing that Nanami’s birthday was approaching, and I had every intention of “accidentally” forgetting it.

When his birthday finally arrived, I made sure to play my part flawlessly. I woke up early, just like any other day, and went about my routine without acknowledging the significance of the date. Nanami, ever the observant one, noticed the lack of celebration. He glanced at me throughout the day, his eyes filled with a mix of confusion and disappointment, but he never said a word.

By the time evening rolled around, I could see the weight of the day pressing down on him. But instead of confronting the silence, Nanami buried himself in paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was clear he was using work as a distraction, trying to avoid the painful realization that I hadn’t acknowledged his birthday.

He sat at the dining table, papers spread out before him, the soft scratching of his pen the only sound in the room. Every so often, he would glance at the empty space where I usually sat, but I stayed in the kitchen, letting the silence speak for itself.

As the night grew late, I knew the lesson had been learned. Nanami’s shoulders were tense, his movements growing slower as the exhaustion and disappointment weighed on him. He looked up as I approached, his eyes weary, filled with a quiet hurt.

“I’m going to the kitchen to grab something,” I said casually, as if the day had been completely ordinary.

He nodded absently, his focus returning to the papers in front of him, though I could see the conflict in his eyes. He was trying to push through the pain, to keep working, but the disappointment was too heavy to ignore.

A few minutes later, I returned with a small cake in one hand and a neatly wrapped gift in the other. Nanami looked up, his pen still in hand, and his eyes widened in surprise as he saw what I was holding.

“Happy Birthday, Kento,” I said softly, placing the cake on the table beside his paperwork.

His expression was a mixture of guilt and relief as he slowly put down his pen. “You… you didn’t forget?”

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “No, I didn’t forget. But I wanted you to feel what I felt.”

He stared at the cake and the gift for a long moment before finally meeting my eyes as he was hit with realization. His voice thick with emotion. “I’m…im sorry, honey. I’m so sorry for forgetting yours.”

I sighed, sitting down beside him. “It wasn’t just about forgetting the date, Kento. It’s about feeling like I don’t matter enough to be remembered. That hurts more than anything.”

Nanami reached out and took my hand, his grip firm but gentle. “You do matter. More than anything. I’ve been so consumed with work that I lost sight of what’s truly important. I’ll never let that happen again.”

I smiled, leaning into him as I spoke. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

As we shared the cake and he opened the simple, meaningful gift I had prepared—a reminder of our time together—I could see the relief and determination in his eyes. The tension that had built up over the past few weeks began to dissolve, replaced by a renewed sense of connection between us.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Choso Kamo⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

It was already midday, and I hadn’t heard a word from Choso. The hours had slipped by with no messages, no calls—nothing to indicate that he remembered what today was. My heart sank a little more with each passing minute, but I tried to push the thoughts away, convincing myself that he was probably busy.

I picked up my phone, deciding to reach out to him instead. Maybe he was planning something and just hadn’t had the chance to text yet.

“Hey, what are you up to today?” I typed, hoping for some sign that he hadn’t completely forgotten.

A few minutes later, his reply came through: “Hanging out with Yuuji! We’re at the arcade right now, having a blast. How about you?”

I stared at the screen, the pit in my stomach growing heavier. He was at the arcade, completely engrossed in his day with Yuuji. And he hadn’t even asked about mine.

“Glad you’re having fun. I’m just relaxing at home,” I replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of my words. I didn’t add anything else, not wanting to come off as passive-aggressive. But it hurt—there was no denying that.

The rest of the day passed slowly. I tried to distract myself with chores, reading, anything to take my mind off the fact that Choso had forgotten. But nothing really worked. The disappointment lingered, gnawing at me with every hour that passed.

By the time evening rolled around, I had resigned myself to the fact that Choso wasn’t going to remember. I decided not to cook anything special; instead, I settled for leftovers from the night before. I sat at the table, eating alone, the quiet of the apartment only amplifying the ache in my chest.

It was well into the night when I finally heard the door open. Choso walked in, his face lit up with a smile as he kicked off his shoes. “Baby, you should’ve come with us! Yuuji and I had the best time today,” he said, his voice full of enthusiasm as he headed toward the kitchen where I was tidying up.

I glanced over my shoulder at him, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you had a great day.”

He nodded, oblivious to my strained tone. “Yeah, we did! We hit up the arcade, grabbed some ramen, and then just wandered around for a bit. I haven’t had a day like this in a long time.”

I turned back to the sink, scrubbing a plate a little harder than necessary. “I’m glad you had fun.”

Choso’s smile faltered as he noticed the tension in my shoulders. He walked over to me, placing a hand on my arm. “Hey… are you okay?”

I shrugged, not trusting myself to speak just yet. I could feel his eyes on me, searching for answers that I wasn’t ready to give.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern.

I set the plate down and turned to face him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Choso, do you know what today is?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. “Today? Uh… it’s Saturday?”

I sighed, the hurt in my chest expanding. “It’s my birthday, Choso.”

His eyes widened, and the color drained from his face as the realization hit him. “Oh, no…baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I was so caught up with Yuuji that I didn’t even think—”

“You didn’t think,” I repeated, my voice trembling. “You spent the entire day with Yuuji, having fun, while I sat here waiting for you to remember. But you didn’t.”

Choso’s face crumpled with guilt, and he stepped closer, his hands reaching for mine. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot your birthday. I didn’t mean to—”

I pulled away, shaking my head. “It’s like I’m not important enough to be remembered. Like I come second.”

His shoulders sagged, and he looked down at the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not second, baby. You’re everything to me. I just… I messed up. I’m sorry.”

I watched him, my heart heavy with the weight of the day. I knew he hadn’t meant to hurt me, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. “I needed you today, Choso. I needed you to remember.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. And I’ll spend every day making it up to you. I promise.”

For a long moment, we stood there in silence, the words hanging between us. Finally, I sighed, letting some of the tension slip away. “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “But next time, don’t forget.”

Choso looked up at me, his eyes filled with remorse. “I won’t. I promise.”

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as if afraid to let go. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his embrace soothe some of the hurt. It would take time to fully move past the disappointment, but I knew that we would get there. After all, love isn’t about never making mistakes—it’s about learning from them and growing together.

A few months passed, and Choso’s birthday was just around the corner. Despite his promises to make it up to me, the hurt from my birthday still lingered in the back of my mind. I decided that maybe it was time for him to experience what it felt like to be forgotten—just for a little while.

When his birthday arrived, I played my part perfectly. I woke up early, just like any other day, and went about my routine without acknowledging the significance of the date. Choso seemed puzzled, his eyes flicking toward me with an unspoken question as the morning passed in silence.

Instead of spending the day with him, I made plans to hang out with Shoko. “I’m going out for a bit,” I said casually, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Choso looked at me, his confusion deepening. “Wait, where are you going? It’s—”

“Just meeting Shoko for lunch,” I cut in, my tone light. “I’ll be back later.”

I didn’t give him a chance to respond before I left, closing the door behind me. As I walked to meet Shoko, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. He had no idea what was coming.

Shoko and I spent the day gathering everyone together at the park, making sure everything was set up perfectly for Choso’s surprise party. The weather was perfect—a clear, sunny day with just enough breeze to keep things comfortable. We set up tables under the shade of the trees, decorated with lights and streamers, and laid out blankets on the grass for everyone to sit on.

It was hard to keep the secret, especially when I received a few texts from Choso throughout the day, asking what I was up to and if I was planning anything. I kept my replies vague, letting him stew in the uncertainty.

By evening, the preparations were complete. The park was filled with our friends, all smiling and laughing as they waited for the guest of honor. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, with the smell of grilled food wafting through the air and the sound of children playing in the distance.

I texted Choso one last time, telling him I was on my way back and that I needed him to meet me at the park. He responded quickly, his messages a mix of curiosity and confusion.

When he arrived at the park, he looked around, clearly unsure of what was happening. I walked up to him with a smile, taking his hand and leading him toward the gathering.

As we approached, everyone jumped out from their hiding spots, shouting, “Surprise!”

Choso froze, his eyes wide as he took in the scene before him. The park was filled with our friends, all smiling and cheering, the tables laden with food and a cake in the center. Shoko was grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying the look of shock on Choso’s face.

“You… you planned all this?” Choso asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

I nodded, unable to suppress my smile. “Happy Birthday, Cho~”

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at me with a mix of awe and guilt. Then, without warning, he pulled me into a tight embrace, holding me as if he never wanted to let go.

“I thought… I thought you forgot,” he whispered against my hair, his voice trembling slightly.

I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my smile softening. “I wanted you to know what it felt like. But I would never forget your birthday, Choso.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with emotion. “I’m sorry for what happened on your birthday. I’ll never take you for granted again.”

I leaned up to kiss him gently, letting the warmth of his words sink in. “I know you won’t. Now, let’s enjoy your party.”

As we joined our friends in the park and celebrated his birthday, the lingering hurt from my own began to fade away. Choso had learned his lesson, and I knew that our bond was stronger for it. After all, love is about forgiveness, understanding, and sometimes, a little playful revenge.

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Toji Fushiguro⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

It was late, the darkness outside the window deepening with each passing minute. The apartment was quiet, save for the distant hum of city life. I sat at the dining table, staring at the cold meal I had prepared hours earlier. The candles had long since burned out, leaving only wisps of smoke and the scent of wax lingering in the air.

Toji was supposed to be home by now. He had left early in the morning for a mission, one of those jobs that could go on indefinitely. I knew how these missions worked—time blurred when he was out there, his focus entirely on the task at hand. But today, of all days, I had hoped he would remember to come home.

As the hours stretched into the night, I finally realized that he wasn’t coming back—not in time to celebrate my birthday, at least. There had been no message, no call, not even a sign that he remembered. The weight of disappointment settled over me like a heavy blanket, and I couldn’t shake it off.

I cleared the table quietly, putting away the untouched food. My movements were slow, almost mechanical, as if any sudden motion might crack the fragile calm I was trying to maintain. I blew out the last candle and headed to bed, my heart heavy with the realization that Toji had forgotten.

When I crawled into bed, the sheets were cold, and the emptiness beside me felt like a void I couldn’t fill. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in my mind. It hurt more than I wanted to admit, but I wasn’t one to dwell on things I couldn’t change.

The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the front door creaking open. Toji’s footsteps were heavy, and I could hear the rustle of his clothes as he dropped his gear by the door. He was back, finally.

I stayed in bed, listening as he moved through the apartment, his footsteps hesitant as he approached the bedroom. The door creaked open, and I felt him pause in the doorway.

“You awake?” His voice was low, cautious.

I turned over, meeting his gaze. He looked tired, his clothes rumpled and his eyes slightly red. I nodded, sitting up slowly. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

He came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back sooner. The mission…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“It’s fine,” I replied, my voice steady but distant. “You’re home now.”

Toji studied my face, his brows knitting together in concern. “Did something happen?”

I shook my head, forcing a small smile. “No. Nothing happened.”

He frowned, clearly picking up on the underlying tension. “You sure? You seem… off.”

I didn’t reply immediately, letting the silence stretch between us. Finally, I looked him in the eye. “It was my birthday yesterday.”

Toji blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I completely forgot.”

I nodded, looking down at my hands. “I know. You were busy.”

He reached out, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to forget. You know that, right? I just… I get so caught up in this stuff, and time slips away.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “But it still hurt.”

Toji’s grip tightened slightly, his face clouded with guilt. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

I met his gaze, my voice calm but firm. “I just…sometimes you need to understand that there are more important things than work. I am grateful for you working, but I’m even more grateful when you spend time with me.”

He nodded slowly, absorbing my words. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I promise.”

The week passed quickly, and soon it was the night before Toji’s birthday. He hadn’t mentioned it once, likely feeling guilty about what had happened on mine. But I had a plan, one that would show him I wasn’t holding a grudge, even if I had been hurt.

On the day of his birthday, Toji left for another short mission, unaware of what I had in store. I spent the day preparing, making sure everything was perfect. I arranged a quiet dinner at a small, secluded cabin outside the city—a place where we could escape from everything and just focus on each other.

—

When he returned that evening, he was not met with your wonderful kisses, or the beautiful sounds of your voice or laughter. It was just empty. Were you ignoring him?

He felt a pang in his chest. He didn’t realize how badly it would impact him to be alone on his birthday. It reminded him of old times.

“Doll? You here?” He asked, his voice filled with desperation. But all he heard was the sounds of the lights buzzing.

He slumped over, feeling his heart ache. Now he knew how you felt, and it was awful. He hated the feeling, but he knew he deserved it. Its all he deserved…

As Toji walked further into your shared home, he found a note on the table with instructions to meet you at the cabin.

You had arranged for a car to take him there, knowing he would be too tired to drive himself.

—

When Toji arrived at the cabin, the sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The cabin was lit warmly from the inside, a soft glow spilling out onto the porch.

He stepped inside cautiously, calling out my name. “Baby?”

I appeared from the kitchen, smiling softly as I wiped my hands on a towel. “Happy Birthday, Toji.”

His eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight of the cozy, candle-lit cabin, the table set with a simple but delicious-looking meal. He looked at me, his expression a mix of surprise and gratitude.

“You did all this… for me?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded, walking over to him. “I did. I wanted to do something special, just for us.”

He reached out, pulling me into his arms, his embrace tight and warm. “I thought… after what happened on your birthday… I didn’t think you’d want to do anything.”

I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. “I was hurt, Toji. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I wanted to show you that we can still make time for each other, even when things get tough.”

He nodded, his expression softening as he leaned down to kiss me gently. “Thank you, doll. I needed this. I needed you.”

We spent the evening together, just the two of us, away from the chaos of his work and the pressures of everyday life. As we sat by the fire later that night, Toji pulled me close, his voice soft and sincere.

“I’ll do better,” he promised. “I won’t let work come between us again.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of the fire and the steady beat of his heart. “We’ll be okay, Toji. As long as we have each other, we’ll be okay.”

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Sukuna Ryomen⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

Sukuna was never one to dwell on sentimentality. His world was one of power, control, and dominance. He wasn’t one to coddle or concern himself with trivial matters like birthdays. I knew this about him from the beginning, yet, somehow, a part of me hoped that he would remember—just this once.

The day passed quietly. Sukuna was his usual self—intense, brooding, and wholly consumed by his own thoughts. We spent the day in the manor, a place that felt more like a fortress than a home. The dark halls echoed with silence, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

I had learned long ago not to expect much from Sukuna when it came to displays of affection. But today, of all days, I had hoped for something different. A simple acknowledgment, a word, anything that showed he remembered.

But as the hours slipped by, it became clear that he didn’t. There were no subtle glances, no lingering touches, nothing to suggest that today held any significance for him. The weight of disappointment settled over me like a shadow, growing heavier with each passing minute.

By evening, I had resigned myself to the reality of the situation. Sukuna, the King of Curses, had forgotten my birthday. It shouldn’t have surprised me, yet the sting was still sharp.

I found him in the grand hall, seated on his throne-like chair, lost in thought. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression unreadable as he gazed out into the darkness beyond the windows.

I approached him quietly, my footsteps barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. “Sukuna,” I called out softly, my voice almost lost in the vastness of the hall.

He didn’t respond immediately, his gaze slowly shifting to me as if I were an afterthought. “What is it?” he asked, his tone indifferent.

I hesitated for a moment, searching his eyes for any sign of recognition, but there was none. I forced a small smile, trying to hide the disappointment that threatened to spill over. “Nothing. I just wanted to say goodnight.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the change in my demeanor. “Goodnight? Already?”

“Yes,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He didn’t question me further, simply nodding as he turned his gaze back to the darkness. “Very well.”

I turned and walked away, my heart heavy with unspoken words. As I made my way to the bedroom, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being forgotten, of being insignificant in the eyes of the man I loved.

The next morning, I woke early, my mind already working on what I needed to do. Sukuna’s birthday was in a few days, and while I had initially planned something special, the hurt from yesterday still lingered. I decided to change my approach—he needed to understand what it felt like to be overlooked.

For the next few days, I continued my usual routine, but I was distant. I didn’t linger in the halls where he might pass, didn’t seek him out for our usual conversations. I kept to myself, letting the silence stretch between us.

Sukuna, in his usual manner, didn’t comment on the change. He was too proud, too detached to ask why I was being distant. But I could see the flicker of curiosity in his eyes whenever we crossed paths, the subtle tightening of his jaw when I didn’t engage with him as I normally would.

The day of Sukuna’s birthday arrived, and I played my part perfectly. I went about my tasks as if it were just another day, not once acknowledging the date. I didn’t greet him in the morning, didn’t prepare anything special. I simply acted as if it held no importance at all.

As the hours passed, I could feel the tension growing. Sukuna wasn’t one to show vulnerability, but I knew him well enough to sense the shift in his demeanor. By the time evening rolled around, the air was thick with unspoken words.

I found him in the same grand hall, seated in his usual spot. His gaze was sharper this time, his expression more focused as I approached.

“My pet,” he called out as I entered, his voice carrying a subtle edge.

I paused, meeting his gaze with a calm expression. “Yes?”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what?” he demanded, his tone growing sharper.

I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head slightly. “Does it matter?”

His eyes flashed with irritation, and he stood, closing the distance between us in a few quick strides. “You’re hiding something,” he accused, his voice low and dangerous.

I met his gaze evenly, refusing to back down. “Am I?”

His grip on my arm tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to show that he wasn’t pleased. “Yes. You are.”

I sighed softly, letting the silence stretch between us for a moment before finally speaking. “It’s your birthday, Sukuna.”

His eyes widened slightly, the only indication that he was surprised. “You remembered?”

“Of course I did,” I replied, my voice steady. “But you didn’t remember mine.”

Sukuna’s expression darkened, his grip on my arm loosening as he processed my words. For a moment, there was only silence between us, the weight of my statement hanging heavily in the air.

“I…” he began, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.

“You forgot,” I continued, my voice soft but firm. “You didn’t even realize what day it was.”

He stared at me, the realization sinking in. For the first time, I saw something flicker in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“I didn’t mean to,” he finally said, his voice quieter than usual.

“I know,” I replied, my tone softening. “But it still hurt.”

Sukuna let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m not good at… these things.”

I stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest. “I don’t need grand gestures, Sukuna. I just need to know that I matter to you.”

He looked down at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before he finally nodded. “You do. More than you know.”

I smiled slightly, feeling the tension begin to ease. “Then show me. Don’t just say it.”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding again, more firmly this time. “I will.”

That evening, we didn’t have a grand celebration, but we did spend it together. Sukuna, true to his word, made an effort to show me that I mattered. It wasn’t in the form of gifts or elaborate displays of affection—those weren’t his style. But he stayed close, his presence a silent acknowledgment of the mistake he had made.

And as we sat together in the quiet of the night, I realized that, despite his flaws and his pride, Sukuna was capable of learning, of growing. It would take time, but I was willing to be patient. Because love, especially with someone like Sukuna, wasn’t about perfection. It was about understanding, forgiveness, and the small moments where we could find common ground.

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weltraum-vaquero · 5 days ago

Text

Swan song

Professor Viktor x TA Reader

[PART 1]｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆[PART 2] ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[PART 3] (coming soon)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[AO3 link] ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.

Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, romanticizing and eroticizing borsht, lab shenanigans, reader being filled with equal parts shame and lust

Word count: 7.8k

Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.

Notes: A little something something while we await season two ;] The draft for this post deleted itself twice now. If the formatting looks wonky (especially in the texting section), NO, it doesn't. Shut up.

He didn’t lie.

Which is all the more shocking, considering you attend his 8AM lecture on the very same day, and he seems more bright and alight than you’ve ever seen him.

When did he find the time?

Though there isn’t a daunting amount to your thesis just yet, you still want to believe you’ve written something quite substantial over the past months.

You toss one glance around yourself before you follow him into his office after his lecture, and you find the stack of papers you’d left on his desk last night looking positively devoured, in the most… academic way possible. Scribbles and notes litter the margins, the edges of the papers are already somehow lightly worn.

He must have read it multiple times.

“Coffee?” He offers.

“Yes, please.”

As he gropes the machine in search of its switch again, he cocks his brow at you. “And what was that for?”

You frown. “What was what for?”

“That… glance, before you followed me into my office.” The switch clicks, the light comes on. “Looking around like you were being followed.”

“Oh,” caught in the embarrassing act, you shrug. “I don’t know. Being cautious, I guess. Students have been looking at me a little funny, lately.”

“Much too late for caution, I’m afraid.”

Uh oh.

As he retrieves two paper cups, you’re left wondering what exactly that should mean.

“Why’s that?”

“I thought you were well aware of the fact that rumors would start, um… circulating the moment I made it public that I had hired an assistant.” Coffee trickles into the cups, a soothing little melody. Viktor leans against the wall beside the machine as he watches the cups fill. “I’ve always been adamant about not needing one. It is natural for people to have questions — and to come up with, eh, answers — when I suddenly do.”

The notion of the answers students might have come up with swirls around in your brain.

You wish they were right.

You’re glad they’re not.

You look at Viktor.

“Do you mind it?”

The coffee stops pouring. Viktor does that thing again, spreading long fingers apart to grasp both cups. And he’s quiet — for a beat longer than he should be.

“No. There are more important things to worry about than… gossip.” He sets the cups on the table, then takes his seat. He hesitates for a brief second, craning his neck before he fixates on you, motionless. Waiting. “Do you?”

“Trying not to.”

The answer makes him… deflate, somehow. It’s barely visible, for just a fraction of a second his chest sinks, before his tone is back to his composed cadence.

“You will get used to it,” he assures. “Now, onto more interesting matters — your work.”

Thank god. You don’t know how much more of the awkward tiptoeing you could have handled.

“Yes.” Your heart leaps into your throat. Acting normal has never been so difficult. “What did you think?”

“Very impressive.” He slides the stack of papers towards you. “I have made some… suggestions here and there, should you wish to take them into consideration. But, I think you struck gold with your hypothesis. Should you need a conversation partner, guidance, anything at all — I would gladly be at your service.”

“Thank you, Viktor. I really appreciate this.”

At the sound of his own name coming from you, something in him shifts. Shifts with an unfamiliar near bashfulness, he stifles a little smile into the rim of his paper cup, the corners of his eyes crinkle, he settles into his seat a little further.

“But you never held up your end of the bargain,” you point out. That snaps him out of it.

“Ah, yes. I did not.” He continues to hide behind his cup, before he finally seems to decide to take a metaphorical leap, as he sets it down and stares down at it. “I fear the unfortunate truth may be that when it comes to research, I either work better with a partner, or that… Cecil is right and I need to slow down. Though I’d guess the former is more likely.”

“You used to work with, uh…” you’re not sure how to approach the topic, “Talis, didn’t you?”

“The five basic principles of applied arcanism are commonly referred to as Talis’ princies, you do not have to feign uncertainty to appease me.”

So you drop the attempt to tiptoe around the subject, and ask, plainly:

“Why wasn’t your name added on?”

Viktor scoffs. “Talis-Sidorov-Sviboda has a terrible ring to it. Or so he’d said. And admittedly… I was more of a conduit than the co-author of his idea. He said we would name the next big thing we would discover after me, but… well, you know how it is. I dedicated myself to teaching, he retired to lead a quiet life in his gaudy mansion with his sports cars and his purebred German shepherds after he married some businesswoman.”

Though his story does line up, those aren’t necessarily the rumors you’d heard. There’d been talk of more than just a mild dispute of names, and… well, there had been… something between Talis and Viktor. But that’s about all you know.

Under your gaze, Viktor grows suddenly uncomfortable — both with the subject and the fact that he might be able to tell you know more. He’s quick to redirect the conversation.

“As for my research: I have been studying the laminal hexoin cascade in stabilized hexgems in various matrices. And though bold, I have been attempting to figure out the ideal matrix — something that will allow for close to a hundred percent energy renewal and render all other sources of energy obsolete.”

”That is bold,” you say. Your other thought, you keep to yourself: it also sounds impossible. You suppose stabilizing hexgems 20 years ago was also something thought impossible — and yet, Viktor hadn’t shied away. If anyone is apt for the job, it is him. “Any luck so far?”

“Partially. They have been yielding favorable results, but not enough to be viable energetic alternatives as of now.” He takes his cup again, bringing it to his lips in a rushed movement, drinking a mouthful, rather than a sip. Once Viktor sets it down, his hand remains on the table, fingers tapping on the shiny surface once, twice— “I could use a theorist to assist me with a few things.”

The implication dizzies you. Is he…?

But then he slides another one of his drawers open, and retrieves a stack of papers. Slanted handwriting, barely legible — you’re by now intimately familiar with it: his cursive. It litters the pages, in different inks and in pencil, diagrams, sketches… just looking at it makes you hungry to read it.

He smiles as if he’s read your mind, again.

“I was thinking it could be you.”

—

You’re invited to his office for lunch break the very next day too. And though he assures you there is no pressure in having to read through his notes by then, you disregard it.

It takes you a reread to be able to make sense of all his scribbles, but… it’s brilliant. He’s brilliant.

It should stop surprising you by now — his ideas, his drive, his curiosity, his mind — but with every single time Vikror impresses you anew, he becomes something more distant.

As you’re marveling at his intricate weaving of concepts, it strikes you, unpleasantly, that this is the same man you’d wanted to devour just days ago. The man who’s made you coffee, the man whose sharp eyes fold at the corners when he smiles.

You’d have deified him, had he been your teacher. You still do, especially now, after you’ve seen more of what his mind is made of. The mere notion of him becomes terribly out of reach, and you’re plagued with guilt for that night. Guilt for having tainted such a man with your thoughts.

And yet, you still can’t help but think of his neck, the soft pink of his chapped lips, the hollow of his cheeks. You wonder what his mouth tastes like, and you want to slap yourself on the wrist for it. You should have, because minutes later, you wonder about worse things too. The scent of his skin, the coarseness of his body hair, how far up under his navel it might reach.

And when you finish reading his notes a second time and bring the paper to your nose to sniff it — hoping for a trace of him — you realize you have a problem. A serious one.

It torments you for the rest of the night, through the hours you spend writing up some suggestions and ideas, all the way to when you switch off the light, and hug whatever pillow’s within reach close.

When you get the urge to tilt your hips against it, you decide to get up and splash your face with water.

And you wish you could do the same thing the very next day on your lunch break, when you’re standing in the doorway of his office and he’s eating borscht. The sweet-tangy smell of vegetables, beef and beets makes your stomach growl, but your physical hunger is long lost on your otherwise preoccupied brain.

The beet red of the soup has pigmented his lips. They look kissed raw, puffy, ripe. A lavish speck of colour on his otherwise pale face, it draws your gaze and does not let it stay somewhere more respectful.

You want to taste them.

He does it for you, raspberry pink tip of his tongue darting over the plush of his lips before he swallows and finally greets you.

“Sorry,” you say, and it comes out tense, near horrified. You’ve caught him eating soup, for chrissakes, not being bent over his table. Oh, god. Why did you have to think about that? ”I’ll come back later.”

“No,” Viktor gestures to the empty seat across from him. He screws his thermos shut, and puts it away. “Please, I’ve been waiting for you. Sit.”

And you do, like the dog you feel like you are right now.

“Did you manage to find the time to read my notes?”

Oh, did you.

“I… followed your example and made some suggestions of my own. But on separate pages. Here.”

His reaction is more than what you’d hoped for. It’s more than the impressed raise of thick brows that had kept you fueled last night, it’s more than the smile you’d been hoping for.

“You are unbelievable,” he grins, and takes what you offer, pushing his glasses up his nose before he starts reading. You selfishly use the distraction to stare at his lips again. He mutters to himself as he reads, pink mouth molding around whispered jargon, nodding. “Yes, this… this is exactly what I’d hoped for, when I’d asked for your assistance. Your fresh set of eyes is invaluable. I hadn’t thought of approaching the modification from that angle.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the page for even just a moment, flipping it surprisingly fast, and taking it with him as he leans back in his seat.

And decides to torture you.

Viktor traces the pad of his own thumb over the curve of his bottom lip as he takes in your handwriting. The give of the flesh under his fingertip hypnotizes, the slight drag of rough skin on soft pink one, your mind is long gone.

You think of rough fingertips on his lips, on his chest, rough fingertips on the pasty white of his gaunt lower stomach, rough fingertips in coarse hair. Rough fingertips dipping between his milky thighs, rough fingertips on where he runs just as pink as he does on his lips, rough fingertips dipping, slipping on slick skin—

You need to stop.

And you most certainly need help.

“Is something the matter?”

It feels like you’ve swallowed your own brain whole when he speaks, because your skull rings hollow when you try to come up with a reply that isn’t incoherent babble.

“Wh— me? No. Why?”

And because embarrassment loves to stick around once it has made its presence known, the stars align for the next social disaster: your stomach growls. Loudly.

“Did you not have lunch?” Viktor asks.

“I… didn’t get around to it,” you admit.

“I won’t take up too much of your time, then,” he assures. If he knew just how much of your time he’s started taking up — and the fact that you wish you could give him what is left of it to him, too. “I would like you to work alongside me on my research. But if you don’t feel like you can squeeze another project into your presumably busy schedule, I understand. I would be glad to have you merely as… a colleague to consult with, as well.”

Is that even a question? He’s offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You would be an idiot not take it.

And an even bigger idiot to turn down more time spent with him.

“You don’t even have to ask,” you joke. “Yes. I would be thrilled, Viktor.”

This is his first smile you witness when his pretty boyishness doesn’t shine through. It’s a gentle quirk of his lips, no teeth to be seen, just tenderness. It makes your heart leap to be the cause of it.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you.”

Silence.

Just as you’re about to breach it — he does it first.

“Would you be free for lunch tomorrow as well?”

He watches you from below long, dark lashes as you give a breathless yes.

—

“I brought you something.”

It’s the last thing you expect as you step into his office at noon, upon exchanging hellos.

You’re alight. With curiosity, above all else. And with worry — why would he bring you something? What will you do to reciprocate?

“Thank you,” you say, though you have no idea what for just yet. “What is it?”

“I saw you eyeing my borscht yesterday.” There’s a glint in his eye that suggests more, so much so you can’t decide between flirting or digging a hole for yourself in the hardwood floor of his office.

The middle ground is standing in his office awkwardly as he unzips his backpack.

He retrieves two thermos bottles: the one you’re already familiar with, and another that looks older, more worn, and sorely lacks the sticker you’ve so come to love and fixate on and dream about. “I, eh, I made you some. In case you wouldn’t get the chance to eat before you came here.”

Your chest swells so much it hurts.

He made you soup?

“You… Viktor, this is… thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to. Have a seat.”

You practically jump into the seat across the table from his — a seat you’ve come to associate as yours, in spite of being well aware of the oppisite.

As he screws the bottle open and pours some steaming soup out into a paper bowl — god, he’d brought paper bowls — his eyes flick to you.

“But if you don’t care for borscht, you don’t have to—“

“I do care.”

And that rings true not just for the borscht.

It rings true for the soup he brings you the next day too, it rings true for every word that passes his lips. And it rings true for the time you start to spend in the insane coffee shop queue to surprise him with his preferred order and a slice of cake (a different one each day, until you figure out his favorite: cinnamon coffee), it rings true for the dark blue roughed up thermos he lets you take home the day you don’t finish the soup he brings you because you’re just so busy talking.

It’s November before you know it.

As the days grow colder, it’s not rare to be finding warmth by lavishing in Viktor’s attention as you ramble on about ideas — either for his research, or your thesis. All while he intently follows your thoughts with a smile, stopping just to shave another mouth-half-full’s worth off his cake of the day with his plastic spoon.

And once he savors the last bite, Viktor almost always flips it hollow side down, sliding it down the swell of his tongue within his mouth, removing it from between puckered lips. His cheeks hollow, he holds eye contact all the same, and it’s a mental image that haunts you. A mental image you project in your mind, nestled between the apex of your thighs. The thick of his tongue. The cushiony seal of his lips, the suction of his cheeks.

It never becomes any less distracting than the first time it happens.

You startle when Viktor speaks as he sets down the plastic spoon into the now empty packaging.

“I would like you to accompany me to the lab sometime soon. When would you be free?”

You’ve been before — but just a handful of times. Mainly for him to demonstrate or disprove certain guesses, or test conclusions you’d reached together.

“I’m free right now,” you suggest.

Viktor shakes his head. “I have a lecture in an hour.”

Right.

“I mean… I think we could make it in an hour.”

“I prefer to take my time.” Viktor leans back in his seat, stares thoughtfully at the clock on his wall for a moment. “Would seven PM work for you?”

“Uh…” you mentally go through your schedule for the day, “yes. It should. I might be a little late, though. How about… seven fifteen-ish?”

“Good.” The flow of the word is syrupy, yet his next sentence comes out surprisingly peppy with excitement: “See you then.”

—

Though you’re well into the final week of November, it never stops bothering you just how quickly the sun sets. By the time you get to the lab, the air’s gone cold, dry, and the darkness is heavy and thick.

Viktor waits for you just outside the university lab, under the halo of the street light — perhaps just a hint overdressed for the cold, in your opinion. It’s certainly trench coat season, though his is surprisingly long, reaching somewhere along the middle of his shins. The hand he hasn’t tucked in his pocket holds his cane and is clad in a leather glove. Around his lengthy neck, a red knitted scarf lays in chunky, impenetrable layers, reaching almost all the way to the swell of his top lip and his ears. You can hardly see his smile from underneath when he spots you — but his eyes give him away.

“Right on time,” Viktor’s tone has just as much pep to it as a few hours ago, perhaps even moreso. He rolls his shoulders, before he subtly nuzzles further down into his scarf, shying away from the biting cold. “Let’s get inside.”

He leads the way into the building, its warmth embracing you the moment you step in. The tip of your nose and your fingertips feel like they’re beginning to thaw, tingling just a hint. As you go to take off your coat, you notice Viktor isn’t in a rush. He rests his cane against the wall before he unwraps the thick, wide scarf from around his neck, folding it. He sets it on a nearby table, shucking off his trench coat, slender shoulders under a wool sweater. You watch closely as he then takes his scarf and stuffs it into the sleeve of his coat before he hangs it up.

There’s something stiff, painful, about how he moves. You wonder if it’s the cold.

“What?” He watches you with appeased amusement.

Caught red-handed, you jump, still halfway clad in your coat.

“Nothing,” you reply, scraping for a way to deflect from your obvious staring. “Not a big fan of the cold?”

“Never.” He says it like it’s a very serious matter. “I still don’t know how I made it through my first eighteen winters in St. Petersburg.”

“You grew up in Russia?”

He laughs through his nose like you’ve told him a half good joke. “What gave it away? The accent? The surname?”

“No, I just thought… Svoboda is a Czech surname.”

With how his smile turns knowing, self-satisfied, you’re suddenly back in his office again, uncertain and nervous and asking for a job as his assistant. He could taunt you with the knowledge that you’ve looked up his last name, embarrass you a little, play with you.

But he isn’t that man anymore — not to you. This time, he feeds your curiosity, albeit just with crumbs.

“My mother’s,” he clarifies. “Sidorov is Russian — my father’s.”

Oh.

“It’s nice that they used both their names. I’m assuming that wasn’t… common, back then, and back there.”

“It wasn’t, and they did not.” Viktor waits for you to hang up your coat, watchful gaze making your every movement feel loaded with static that’s about to snap. “I added hers when I changed my name.”

Changed his name?

The image of the sticker on his thermos turns up fresh in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder…

“Well? I was hoping we could discuss more in the lab, but if you prefer the coat hanger…”

Goddamn it. Focus. You need to focus.

“Sorry.”

You catch up, then slowly follow Viktor down the hallway, into the small lab he has been assigned. It’s one of the less grand ones, but it has all it needs — from a pretty new hexion accelerator to a humble whiteboard. It smells sanitized, sterile, ozonic.

You assume your usual seat by the whiteboard while he sets up. It still doesn’t feel… right to let him do all of that by himself, but he insists upon it, so, you stay out of his way. Viktor tidies up the space just a little, finding his goggles among the mess. He slips them onto his head, elastic pulling back his soft hair into a fluffy grey and brown mess. His cane thumps against the linoleum with every hurried step — though he doesn’t seem to be hurrying on account of you being there as much as excitement to show you.

Once he’s done, he sits in front of the accelerator, slipping his goggles on, and nods for you to come. Which you do — you’d be at his beck and call beyond just the academic context. For a moment, you pluck the inviting tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips out of their context, and you plant it atop your own bed, him in just a loose shirt, underwear, lax with freshly received pleasure. More comfortable than he’s ever been, all because of you. Beckoning for you. Come here. Smiling at you when your knee dips into the mattress, tucking his index under your chin as you crawl to him, reeling you in for a kiss.

“Come closer.”

God help you.

You comply with a wildly beating heart, stepping forward until you’re close behind his sitting form, watching the accelerator over his shoulder.

He smells nice. Like an indistinct, aromatic cologne, covering up the natural, gentle musk of his skin. You have to resist the urge to dip your head down and trace the tip of your nose along his spine, from where the bones of his neck show to where the scruff at the back of his head goes thicker, fuller. You wonder if he’d shiver as you let the scent of him imbue you… you wonder if he’d lean into it, if he’d tilt his head for you, let you dip your face into the slope of his shoulder, where his scent’s more potent.

The mere thought of him, vivid in your nostrils and clinging to your palate and the floor of your brain, rattles you with a shiver.

“I thought I’d rather show you than tell you,” he explains, wrapping both pale, bony hands around the handles of the accelerator. Steam hisses from the exhaust, flooding the room with more ozone, and gently, but certainly, the gem starts to spin behind the glass panel, beginning to levitate out of its socket, illuminating the room.

God, you should have put on goggles too, it’s making your eyes hurt. It’s a welcome reminder as to why you chose to spend most your days staring down a blackboard rather than the thing itself. The screen right above it is more of a familiar sight to you: numbers, reading the rotations per minute, as well as energetic output, steadily increasing.

It whirrs, magic static whirling up around the blue orb, electricity crackles.

You can see the appeal of this over a blackboard. But you’d still take the chalk. Especially considering the deafening noise.

Nevermind the damn goggles. You need to remember to bring some ear plugs.

“Watch the panel.” Viktor raises his voice over the hum of the machine, and turns to you, watching you from behind foggy lenses with a smile. You wish you could see the way his crow’s feet deepen. It rumbles harder, so much so Viktor almost has to shout the next thing he says, which is a shame, because his usually playful lilt is lost in the noise of it. “Not to… spoil the outcome of this experiment for you, but I implemented the conclusions we came to last week, and, it is safe to say…”

With a well-timed click and tug on a lever, the machine disengages, and the gem drops back into its socket under the influence of gravity. Its violating light returns to a faint, blue glow, like an artificially lit aquarium; fluctuating and undulating gently in its intensity. The potential energy indicator’s numbers climb back up, steadily, but faster than what you’ve seen before.

Much faster.

You can’t help but grin with excitement. “It’s regenerating fast.”

Viktor smirks at you over his shoulder like you’re sharing a sacred, intimate inside joke.

“It is.“

You await the verdict with a bated breath.

“How much?”

Viktor’s smile only grows, like he’s about to give you a present. And, all things considered, this is going to be one, in months’ or maybe even years’ time.

“A thirty-seven percent recovery after usage within an hour.” Viktor spins in the lab stool to face you with the theatrical self-satisfaction of a magician who just sawed his assistant in half and is waiting for the applause. You nearly forget to step back to give him the space for it, so much so your knees knock together. But there is no chance for you to apologize, Viktor is unbothered, sliding the goggles up his forehead enthusiastically, his show of complacency ditched in favor of pure excitement. “That is more than I’ve ever achieved thus far. Thanks to y—”

His voice sticks in his throat, turning into a pained hiss.

His hair’s tangled in his goggles.

“Oh, wonderful,” he grits out sarcastically.

A frustrated half-sigh half-groan rumbles in his chest as he pulls again and only makes things worse.

“Could you get me a pair of scissors? I should have some in the third drawer over there.”

“Wait. At least let me try first,” you insist. Reluctantly, you step closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, Viktor lowers his head for better access like a feral animal letting itself be pet for the first time. He sits still, the sound of both your breaths suddenly loud in the tall, quiet room as you’re forced to step even closer. “Could you…”

You nudge his ankles apart with the tip of your shoe.

He listens.

After a stuttering, fragile exhale, Viktor spreads his thighs.

You take the space offered. And you try not to think about kneeling, about making a home for yourself between his thighs.

“Do you think you can do it?”

You wish he’d asked you that about any number of things, except for the goggles tangled in his feathery, soft hair.

But yes. You think you do.

It would have been a terrible shame to cut it — though some shorter, bluntly cut hairs that sit a little further back near the top of his head tell you his suggestion was not the product of a new idea. Carefully, you pull whatever hairs are looser from between the lens and the bridge of the goggles, though a strand remains stubborn.

You try to ignore the warmth of his breath on your shirt, the intoxicating, soapy, yet distinctively human smell of his scalp, and the mesmerizing ratio of grey to dark brown, the subtle heat on the sides of your palms and wrists, resting on his head for stability.

As you separate another few hairs from the stuck strand and accidentally tug at them, Viktor has no reaction. Beyond swallowing thickly, and sitting through it dutifully.

You wonder if he’d act just the same, had you bunched his hair into the spaces between your fingers and tugged — simply biting his tongue and chewing through the pain — or if he’s leaned into the force, moaning with it, and god, you’ve hurt him, and you haven’t even apologized.

“Sorry.” You sound twice as genuine — mainly because you apologize for much worse than the inflicted pain. “Almost done.”

“The scissors would have been faster,” he half-jokes.

His voice sounds different. A hint more… strained. He shifts in the seat, wipes his hands on his slacks.

“Would have been a shame, though. You have pretty hair.” The last part of the sentence positively escapes you, and once you hear it, you freeze. Your brain scrambles itself trying to add something that will fix the inherent following awkwardness, the horrifying realization you just called your boss pretty, the fact that it’s true, the fact that—

Viktor flinches with another accidental tug of his hair, and so do his thighs — jumping with the surprise, clenching together until they squeeze around yours. But they’re gone just as fast, flinching away with horrified urgency. Before you get to savor the supple flesh pressing into your own in another new perverted way, before you get to imagine his ankles locking behind you, tilting and rubbing your hips into the hug of his thighs.

You need. To get. A grip.

“Sorry.”

You continue on in silence, and thank everything above he at the very least can’t see the way your hands shake, because he’s staring at the floor like he could drill a hole into it with just his eyes.

You should have gotten the damn scissors. As if through divine intervention, the rest of his hair comes loose not soon after.

“Okay. All done.” You smooth the slightly crinkled, but now free strand back down into the rest of his soft hair.

Viktor’s dainty features come into view from below his face framing pieces as he tilts his chin up. His lips quirk into a gentle smile, his eyes sparkle in the faint blue glow, soft shadows under the hollow of his cheeks and the swell of his lip and the tip of his nose and the bone of his brow. You wish you could immortalize him in whatever way he’d let you — a sculpture, a painting, a poem. He looks ripe for kissing, eyes half-lidded and twice as dreamy as he peers at you.

You’re going to see him like this in your mind’s eye later tonight.

Nestled between your thighs, or kissing down your stomach, molten gold under long, dark lashes, sitting atop carved marbled bone.

“Thank you.” He says it quietly — like it would break the sudden holiness of the moment to say it any other way.

He’s so warm.

You could kiss him. See what the ozone of the room tastes like in the slick of his mouth. You wonder if he’d let you, if he’d suckle your tongue into his mouth in a show of submission, or if he’d bite your lip, licking your teeth, pressing, pushing, make you earn the privilege to taste him.

You wonder if he’d hold you, or if his curious hands would roam, tracing the front of your stomach, or your spine, or press to the middle of your breastbone like he wants to see where you’d split open for him down the middle like a ripe peach. You wonder if he’d let you dip a hand down the front of his slacks, you wonder if he’d tilt his hips into it like he’d been aching for it, aching for you. Scorching your hand with want, materialized in slick or straining hardness. You wonder which it’d be.

From where you’re standing, the distance between the apex of his chin and the space where his slacks stretch between his thighs is small — and your gaze takes the leap, searching. But the material dips and curves in such a way that you’re left none the wiser, and with nothing but a disgusting realization.

You’re staring at your boss’ crotch.

You step back from the heat between his thighs, painfully awake, aware. It squeezes and wriggles in your chest like you have a parasite lodged in the chambers of your heart.

You’re disgusting.

You need to put an end to this.

“You’re welcome, professor.”

With that, you’re practically bolting from between his thighs, to stash the scissors away again.

You’re neglecting your job, you’re putting it in jeopardy. Putting yourself in jeopardy, risking all the rumors circulating becoming a shameful truth, you’re risking the first man who ever kept up with you, followed you where you wanted to go and took you further — you’re risking it all because he makes you unbelievably fucking horny.

And it’s absurd. Embarrassing. You need to get a hold of yourself.

“I was… thinking, actually,” you begin, and want to punch yourself over how Viktor perks back up from where you’d left him. “About some things regarding my thesis that I’d like your thoughts on.”

“Oh. Of course.” You have got to be imagining the subtle disappointment in his tone. The second you let yourself believe it’s more than just a figment of your make-believe, is the second you will be doomed.

Viktor, with all his years and experience, would and does know better than to fall for his assistant. You know he does.

“What’s on your mind?” He prompts after your prolonged silence.

If he knew the half of it.

—

You’re late.

And it’s a direct, shameful consequence of last night’s lusting, the time you’d spent frustratedly tossing and turning and thinking of his mouth and his eyes and his scent, before you’d given in past midnight, and humped your hand into completion.

Thinking about him under you, about pressing your face into his neck, about pressing him into the mattress and rutting into him until he gushes and his tired body sings for you and his voice cracks. Until he breaks for you, until pleasure itself oils and unscrews all the biological cogs of his body and he comes out unstrung, reborn.

Viktor’s in a wheelchair.

And he looks worse for wear than you’ve ever encountered him before, slumping in the chair and massaging his eyelids with his thumb and index, seemingly gathering his thoughts. He’s dressed even warmer than usual, in a loose but thick, dark red sweater. There’s a colorful knitted blanket folded and set over the tops of his thighs.

Viktor doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in and sit near the whiteboard, simply resumes his lecture as he regains his mental footing. And he goes on for a while, not sparing you a single glance, as he goes through powerpoint slides today, instead of his usual writing and hand drawn diagrams.

He’s at it for a while, not as fast as his usual pace, but undeniably concise, certain. Until…

“The energy output increases proportionately to the spin, and, with powerful enough matrices, some hexgems can create force fields of their own. This is a particularly common phenomenon in unstabilized gems as well, though with the activation of their force field, those tend to also create… eh…”

Viktor stops, sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. He frowns, mumbling something in another language, which, judging by the heavy consonants and squeezed vowel, you’d assume it’s Russian. The word must be slipping his mind, so you decide to help out.

“A shock wave.”

Viktor’s gaze cuts. He’s looked at you with disinterest before, sure, but this…

He doesn’t even turn his head to look at you, just eyes you from the corner of his vision like something unworthy of acknowledgment. You wish you could swallow your words back up.

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you. A shock wave.”

You don’t say anything again for the rest of the lecture.

Once the door falls shut behind the last few students who have left the room, Viktor turns to you. You wish you could shrink; and it feels like you do, when he finally speaks.

“I appreciate your intention to help — but do not interrupt me again. I know what I’m trying to say.” He sounds utterly unlike himself, both spent and angry. “I don’t need help. Especially not in the middle of a lecture.”

“Sorry.”

That alone softens him up a hint. He looks away, rubbing his thumbs against the wheels of his chair, before he speaks again. Calmer.

“Just… do not let it happen again.”

As he slumps in his seat, massaging at his temples, you understand that his anger… might not have been as directed at you as you’d initially thought. He’d been snippy when his back hurt — having switched to a wheelchair must mean he’s in a lot more pain now.

And you understand his frustration. He’d just gotten himself an assistant a few months back, and started a new project — looking like he requires help in front of his students is certainly not doing his reputation right now any favors.

“But if there’s other things I can do to make your day a little easier, I’d like to do them.”

“No, thank you.” He shakes his head, before he grabs both wheels and advances to where he’d left his bag. As he starts packing his things, he stops again, quietly groaning somewhere in the back of his throat. “Where did I put my pen…”

Viktor eventually finds it right behind his water bottle on the table, tossing the both of them into his bag, shutting it tightly. You expect him to wheel himself over to the ramp that leads to the exit, but he just hangs his head, massaging at his temples again, before he looks at you.

“Actually, I’d like it if you went to my office and got me a silver tin box in the… fourth drawer on the left side of my desk. Do you have the key with you, or should I give you mine?”

“I have it. I’ll be quick.”

“Thank you.”

And you deliver on your promise. You don’t run, but you power walk there, and you’re back with (hopefully the right) tin box in the same lecture hall before his break ends.

Viktor takes it from you gladly, popping it open. It contains two foils of painkillers, one already half empty, a small ziploc bag of… gummies, and at the very bottom, some dark chocolate.

You must have pulled a bit of a face at the contents — particularly the gummies — because Viktor cocks a brow at you, before he faintly chuckles under his breath and pops three painkillers in one go.

After depositing the foil back in the box, he fishes out the dark chocolate bar. It looks to be the expensive kind, something Belgian — Viktor breaks off a piece, putting it in his mouth, before he holds it out to you.

“Peace offering,” he clarifies when you hesitate.

You’d be a fool to turn him down. You take some — it’s rich, buttery, and melts on your tongue. It coats your mouth with its taste, dark and aromatic and unfortunately not as sweet as you thought Viktor preferred. He’d always favored the almost disgustingly sugary cakes.

“Didn’t think you’d like something so bitter,” you say.

“I do not. It sometimes helps with my migraines,” he tells you. “Sugar makes them worse. A very… devastating discovery to make, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

You wonder if right now is the right time to be curious — and you decide it might be.

“Do the migraines also affect your leg? Or the other way around?”

“No.” Viktor shakes his head, popping off another piece of dark chocolate. “This,” he gestures at himself, the wheelchair, “was just a very unfortunate… overlapping.”

“Oh.” You grimace in sympathy. “Fun.”

“A punishment for it, more like.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Let’s hope my migraine eases up on me throughout this lecture.” He smiles at you — and for the first time you’ve known him, he looks old doing it. Exhausted. The face of a man who’s seen enough hardship for a lifetime, but has yet to cave under it.

You wish you could hold him. You wish you could melt it away, kiss it better, love it better. Whatever he’d let you.

You surprise both him and yourself when you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder and let your thumb rub a small circle over the wool.

Though he flinches at the first contact, once something in his brilliant mind unfurls and settles, so does he. Through the cracks, tenderness shines under the fatigue. Viktor can be soft — in spite of everything im his body and his past that protests against it. “Thank you.”

You take your hand away sooner than you’d like — but at the ideal time to keep it from being anything more than a friendly touch.

“I’m glad I could help,” you say.

—

Viktor isn’t there at all next week.

You come in on Monday to find his office empty during lunch break, and when you attend his lecture, it’s another professor from his department teaching it. The students don’t seem all too excited about the change either — and you leave before it even starts.

Heimerdinger is none the wiser about Viktor’s situation when you talk to him — in spite of their shared history. He simply tells you he’d taken the week off and had arranged for substitutes.

You consider messaging him… and ultimately end up doing so, after some internal debate. You simply text him to get well soon and that you hope he’s getting some well-deserved rest. He replies with just a plain thank you.

Tuesday is quiet. You receive a stack of midterms you need to get through from the substitute, and you do, by Thursday morning. Which is when Heimerdinger messages you.

Dr. Prof. Cecil B Heimerdinger

Good morning! I’m well aware this is on very short notice — but the substitute professor has unfortunately suffered a minor car accident. Not to worry; they only sustained small njury. However, I am finding myself forced to task you with Viktor’s lectures today. Do you think you could take care of that? Thank you.

-Cecil B. Heimerdinger

9:32

Just the thing you needed — teaching two full lectures, entirely unprepared.

Alright. You’ve got this. You’ve got this. You just need to find out what’s even on the agenda for today. You could text Viktor, right? If he answers on time, that is… he’s sick, he might as well be asleep right now. You could call, but… he said only to do that in the case of an emergency when he gave you his phone number.

Would this count as an emergency?

Your phone beeps.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

There should be a black flash drive in the third drawer on the left in my desk. It has all my lectures.

9:34

Today’s topic is LHC segments naturally occurring in unstabilized gems. Feel free to use my work laptop to familiarize yourself with the presentation before the lecture.

9:35

Thank you so much!

9:35

His answer comes a few minutes later, just as you fish the flash drive out of his drawer, and plug it into his laptop.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

Good luck 👍

9:42

It would be a lot easier to get caught up in the desire to snoop around on his laptop if you didn’t have less than 20 minutes left until the lecture. His background is disappointingly the default image, but some of his folders look undeniably tempting — not just the scientific ones, which take up most of the space. There’s some photo albums titled with the year and location: Germany 2011, Czech Republic 2009, among many others. There’s also a photo album titled Persichka.

Who is that?

You almost click it. But then you check your watch again and realize you only have 15 more minutes until the lecture, and decide against it.

—

For how utterly unprepared you are, it goes surprisingly well. You stumble, once or twice, but you’re glad to see that even by the end of the lecture, you still have most students’ attention.

After you dismiss the class, you don’t expect questions. But a good handful of them, a little under ten, approach your desk, whispering among themselves, before a hastily appointed representative emerges.

“We were just wondering,” she awkwardly begins, “if professor Sidorov-Svoboda is alright. And when he’s coming back.”

“Oh.” You hope they’re asking because they understandably prefer him, and not because you did a particularly shabby job. “He texted me just today — he’s doing alright. But I can’t give you an exact estimate for when he’s coming back just yet.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

With that, all of them turn to go. After the last student has left the room, you reach for your phone, and pray you don’t see any other day-altering messages today.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda

I did not mean for you to have to do this.