#just in case the presence of bob counts

[fanaticsnail]

Five Days

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,900+

Synopsis: Temperatures flaring between a marine and their prisoner brought the two of you to this moment. In charge of the former-admiral's prison transfer, the sweltering heat propels you to do something against protocol. You give in to your temptation, and allow him to give you what he threatened he would.

Themes: Aokiji Kuzan x f!reader, gendered terms used, mdni, 18+, smut, nsfw, inappropriate use of devil fruit, inappropriate use of seastone, coercion, swearing, unprotected sex, oral sex, marine x pirate, enemies to enemies that fuck, kisses, subtle Dom!kuzan x Sub!reader, pet names used, summer temperatures, tipsy writing, temperature play, pirate!kuzan x marine!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to a dear friend, @skullfacedlady who needed a reward for all her hard work in studying. I hope you enjoy your man like this, love. Come get him. This is a part of my October event, but I wanted to give Skullfacedlady a gift because I'm so proud of her.

The sweltering heat swelling the brig of the vessel stung and cracked your skin. The perspiration dripping beneath your marine hat did little to cool your face and body, especially due to the weight of your heavy uniform jacket. The remainder of the crew had made port, leaving you and another officer behind on the topdeck to keep guard of the ship in case there was an incident involving you and the detainee in their cell behind you.

As a lieutenant, prison duty was not your usual forte, yet it was your given task for the past five days. Drawing the short straw in the meeting with the other members of the crew had you seething: likely what had the temperature searing your veins with the slight simmer of rage. Standing with your back to the brig, you attempted to ignore the presence who continued to attempt to goad you into a verbal spat for the umpteenth time.

“Go on, little one,” the smooth voice calls from behind you, causing your lip to upturn in a twitched curl, “Take off your jacket. It’s hot out, and you don’t deserve to be more uncomfortable than you already are.”

Aokiji Kuzan, the admiral who served his severance to the marines in favor of joining Blackbeard’s crew, was a thorn in your bootheel the moment he stepped aboard. A fly buzzing in your ear would make for better company than the sweet-talking man in the cell. You were a marine, and he was a defector turned to piracy. These past five days, he had been pressing you with comments and flattery with a smoothness to his tone that you hadn’t experienced prior. Always balancing on the knife’s edge of being overly seductive, while a complete gentleman the next. It repulsed you, enticed you, agitated you, and aroused you. You hated it as much as you loved it, and that, in itself, drove you wild.

“The prisoner will refrain from speaking in the presence of a marine,” you offered monotonously to him in a practiced response, ignoring the trickle of sweat pasting your hair against the nape of your neck. The heat was bordering on unbearable now, the thick air stinging at your nostrils with the burn of the embers.

“Come on, honey,” he whispered softly, his tone almost harboring empathy, “It’s just you and me. I'm not gonna tell anybody, I promise-.”

“-You promise?” You cut him off, tilting your head towards him. Thankful for the shroud of your marine uniform cap, you were able to glare at him from beneath the shroud as you scorned him, “A promise from a pirate whispered through iron bars means very little to me. Especially from a deserter.”

“Ah, so that's it, then,” Kuzan nodded. His dark, tight curls now loosely framing his face with a wave-like bob to his motions. “You’re offended I renounced my orders and took to living for myself.” He chuckled, leaning back against the wooden hull of his cell with a cocky air to his tone.

Kuzan had long-since shrouded his heavy jacket, likely before the seastone shackles were placed on his wrists, halting his abilities. You were made vaguely aware of his powers, one of which was the ability to grow a prosthetic for his missing left leg from an element. He was exceptionally tall, far taller than you at full height. From his place sitting hunched against the cell wall, he could easily meet your breasts at his eye height.

Although his skin glistened with sweat from the heat, his demeanor was always cool and collected. The former admiral seemed to radiate a calm, and this agitated you to no end. The purse of his lips, the curl of that edge of his smile, the ease his eyes seemed to put you - all of those weighed heavily on you as the burning air entered your lungs and expanded your chest.

“Tell me what about it you're so offended by,” he quipped with that curious edge in his tone, “Let's put it to rest so you and I can really talk, officer.” Aokiji Kuzan took a moment to gaze at you. His eyes lazily drank you in with an almost entertained twinkle in his eye.

Turning your head back to face the wall in front of you, you took a deep breath to calm your nerves. His tone haunted you. That cool edge in the blistering heat did more damage to your already alight temper.

“I have nothing to say to you, oathbreaker,” you snarl viciously, your head upturning to add further emphasis to your attitude. “You will remember your place, and hold your tongue.” Expecting silence to be met with your order, you recoiled completely as he goaded you further.

“Why don't you come in here and hold it for me, marine.”

The way he spoke with such an air of confidence prompted you to completely meet your eyes against his. If you could strike him dead with your haki without causing a strike to your record, you would have done so in a heartbeat.

Before you had an opportunity to utter a word in rebuttal, he revealed his palms in surrender and fell his eyes to your feet in submission.

“Accept my apologies,” he uttered quickly, pausing only to take a heavy gulp of air through his lips. “It's hot, tempers flare, and I'm pissed off about the seastone. My devil fruit power would be useful right about now, and we'd both reap the benefits. Please,” he turned his eyes up, meeting them against yours with that honesty behind them that held you transfixed, “I didn't mean to offend you. I just-... I've been in here for a while, and it just seems to be getting hotter and hotter.”

You took a moment to search his eyes, your own forming an analysis regarding his demeanor. Kuzan meant every word, and you truly believed he meant no harm. In honesty, he had been a model prisoner through his entire ordeal. Well mannered, polite, and cooperative: Kuzan did not engage with any of the other guards in this manner.

In a sigh of good faith and understanding, you sigh through your nose before removing your heavy uniform jacket and cap, placing them on a mop handle reclining against the wall. Each button popped slowly, his eyes wandering over each one with interest.

“Apology accepted,” you crack a small smile, raking over your hair to remove it from your eyes and shake the sweat from it. “And it's not ‘officer’, it's ‘lieutenant’ to you. For those of us who still respect titles, you will uphold mine.”

Kuzan clicked his tongue in understanding before smiling at you. He drank you in as he would a cool glass of water, glistening with condensation from the ice melting within.

“Lieutenant,” he smirked at you, waving his hand against his forehead in a mock salute. You decided to match his energy, raising your own and uttering, “Severencer.”

Turning back around to face the wall, your jacket and hat removal now making you feel a little more at ease in the humidity in the brig. You continued staring vacantly in that silence, ignoring the pair of eyes that never leave your body for a moment.

Externally, Kuzan was doing just as you were: fighting off the heat as best as he could within the depths of the ship. But, likely unlike you, fighting off the heat of another kind.

He had never seen a woman as physically beautiful as you were before, and he is a connoisseur of women. Kuzan prides himself on loving women, appreciating them from afar, and hoping they would be as interested in him as he was in them. With you: the enemy on a vessel binding him for capture, wearing the very uniform he discarded to chase his own destiny; he was unbelievably angry.

You were so physically close, but unattainable by him. If he remained as a marine, and had you met under different circumstances, he may have had a chance of a different life with you. Kuzan calculated the statistical likelihood of having you in his arms after work, wailing for him in the thralls of ecstasy while he pleasured you, and the thought had heat pooling in his belly that rivaled the atmosphere surrounding the two of you.

Rivals bound to be enemies with one another: his end being met at the end of a rope with his legs helplessly dangling beneath him, likely a trial to hold him accountable first and made an example of. Would you be present? Would you even care? Those thoughts momentarily shrouded his mind before his eyes focussed on the curvature of your ass now more revealed without your uniform jacket.

If he was a man bound for death, he craved to have you near him, just once, in any capacity. Now he’d managed to convince you to remove one layer, how much more could he get away with before you stopped.

“Lieutenant?” he gently called to you, his voice holding an edge to it that felt like a purr, “May I trouble you for some water?”

Inhaling deeply, you clicked your neck in a rotation before turning around to face him once again. Your scowl had resettled on your face as you looked to the canister in the corner of the room.

“What’s wrong with the one over there?” you asked, curiosity momentarily piquing in your tone. His smile upturned dangerously, his full-lips goading you with the sinister smirk threatening to spill over.

“Evaporation,” he explained, gesturing to the vessel with his bound hands, “Tends to occur when it’s hot like this. Have you any to spare for a lowly defector?” Growling in response under your tone, you made to the other side of the cell and filled the jug left behind for those working security for the day.

Dunking the vessel into the barrel, you felt how physically warm the liquid was and scowled at it.

Noticing the expression on your face, Kuzan groaned below his breath. He could change it to make it cooler. He could change the entire room to make it cooler. He could think of a variety of things he could do with you to make the stay more bearable, but he held his tongue. Watching as you traveled over to his cell, he took a note of where the keys to his cuffs were on the ring you unhooked beside his cell door.

“Stay where you are, hands where I can see them at all times,” you stated in a low warning, “Make a move, and I will drink the entire container while you have no choice but to watch, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am,” he pursed his lips, revealing his palms beside his head with his knuckles scraping against the wood behind him, “I’ll be a good boy for you.”

Electing to ignore the connotations laced behind that comment, you took to the side of the cell and peered into the empty container to ensure it wasn't a trap before replenishing his supply with the fresh one from your jug. You both trailed one another with your eyes, the tension returning between you while the menial task was completed. Taking a moment to study him, you noticed how truly attractive he was. From his tall stature, to his dark curls, down his lengthy body, down to his remaining foot extended on the floor: Kuzan was incredibly handsome, and you hated how hot his gaze made you feel as it lingered on your body.

“Stop gawking at me like that,” you snarl at him, watching in the corner of your eye how high the jug raises the volume of the water. He continues to rake his eyes over your body: truly enjoying the display of flesh you’ve elected to reveal to him.

“Like what, lieutenant?” He slowly bats his eyelashes at you, tilting his head to the other side and pursing his lips innocently. Your glare hardens, your face falling stern and serious as you bore your eyes into him.

“Like I’m some meal to you.”

He chuckles at your choice of words, feasting on your body with each passing moment while shamelessly undressing you further with his eyes. Kuzan truly no longer cared whether you filled his water canister or not, opting to drink you in in lieu of water any day.

“Oh, lieutenant, you are a meal to me,” he uttered seductively in response, “And I haven't eaten this well in quite some time.”

Five days.

Five days of the heat swelling the room. Five days of being in close proximity of Aokiji Kuzan. Five days of tension between you rising. Five days of ensuring he remained alive and healthy for transport. Five days of thinking about him every night while you remained in your joined barracks with your fellow marines. Five days of being unable to release the tension pooling between your thighs to not be caught by your comrades.

Five days of tolerating his comments, his words, and the way he made you feel both validated and violated with his flirtatious comments aimed towards you.

“If I had my powers right now, I could cool you off,” he whispered huskily, his bottom jaw dropping as he gawked further, “Anything you wanted, baby. I would give you the world if you’d let me-.”

“-Stop it, prisoner,” you warned him, your temper teetering on the edge of your resolve, “Final warning.”

Chains rattling broke you from your simmering rage, his bound wrists rattling as he drew them down over his thighs. His lip curled high, both snarling and smiling at you with desire being the swelling embers behind his darkened eyes.

“Warning for what? I am offering you a reprieve from the heat,” he tilted his chin up, looking down through his eyelashes at you, “Remove my seastone, sweetness. Let me show you how good I can cool you off.”

Snapping, you discard the jug and allow it to roll to the floor, water tipping onto the wooden panels surrounding you. With all the strength you could muster, you gave in to your rage and approached him. Using your foot, you press it against his chest and shove him firmly back with your boot heel. Holding him firmly pinned against the wall behind him, you lean more pressure onto your leg and stoop lower.

Having the upper hand on a former admiral lasted for less than a heartbeat before he took his shackled wrists and nudged your foot easily away from his chest to fall beside his thigh. Given the position prior with your entire weight placed onto your foot, you fell unceremoniously onto his lap. Each leg easily took their place framing his thighs beneath yours, eyes now level.

There was no opportunity to scream, snarl, or growl a reprimand at him before his lips collided messily with your own. Groans and whimpers fell easily from his lips as he attempted to hold you flush against him with his bound hands. His kiss was lustful, passionate, and aggressive: his former cool-headedness all but fleeing him the longer his lips lingered on your flesh.

“Desserter-,” you snarl angrily into his lips, attempting to pull away from his hard kiss to no avail.

“-Kuzan,” he moaned into your mouth, tilting his chin and circling your face, “My name is Kuzan. Use it.” The short hair on his chin and upper lip grazed the skin of your face with his passionate exchange.

In lack of your better judgment, you had no choice but to whine into his lips as he ordered you. His admiralty tone still found purchase in your head and reverberated in your obedient marine soul. Temperatures finally flaring enough, you roughly grip his dark curls and yank them back. He released a gasped groan in response, his lips still attached firmly to yours as he didn’t fight the feeling of your hands laced in his hair.

“Take off my cuffs,” he barked at you, his chains rattling as he attempted to grip your thighs in heavy fistfuls, “Now.”

The way his words held your judgment in an anchor made you feel as if he was using some kind of haki to dominate you. You knew that wasn’t the case. The slick pool of arousal dampening your panties spoke in prologues to your neediness of him. Your fingers moved against their will, your mind screaming at you to think with anything other than your pussy as you drew your shaken hands to unclick his shackles: all the while his kiss pressed into your lips with vigor.

As soon as his seastone fell easily to the floor, you both pulled apart and took a moment to gauge the way the other was feeling.

You just unshackled a bound prisoner, simply because he had baited you with a few suggestive words. That suggestion led you to disobey a direct order and follow the way your emotions ran rather than to heed to your call as a marine and chastise him for poor behavior.

Kuzan knew he could run. He should use this time to escape now. Convincing a needy and repressed marine to unshackle him took a long time, but his charisma lucked out with you. He could push you aside, trap you within the cell, escape to claim his freedom with the nomadic lifestyle that came with piracy. But he couldn’t.

Not with the way your clothed pussy felt against his lap, and certainly not with the intensity the heat made the both of you feel.

That realization only met you both for the bat of a butterfly’s wing before he was on you again. Hungry lips swelling yours with the intensity of his bruising kiss, Kuzan pushed you onto your back on the warm floor. Your undershirt stuck to your skin with the sheen of sweat glistening in your skin, desire fueling your passions in the midst of the moment.

When his lips pried away from yours, kissing a hot trail down your neck, your skin began to tingle beneath his cool breath. The seastone now released from your prisoner’s wrists returned his devil fruit ability to him with full fruition. The tenth titanic captain of the Blackbeard pirates was cooling your skin beneath the intensity of his heated kisses. Each time he mouthed at a pinpoint of your body, the coolness shrouded your skin and shot relief to your soul.

“Kuzan,” you gasped his name as he mouthed at your pulse with the heavy neediness, “N-No marks, please-.”

“-I know, baby,” he whispered against you, moving down to mouth at your pale undershirt, “Nowhere visible above your uniform. I'm aware.” His possessive growl was ripped from his throat when his trail was halted by the material, “Remove this and give me something I can mark up. I want you.”

The air began to thin with his ability cooling the atmosphere around you both, but the thickness of passion between you continued to build in intensity. As you reached down and gently placed your shirt to the side, he hastily drew his hands to your belt and expertly unbuckled the fastenings with a few quick swipes. You gasped out a squeak in protest, but it was quickly stifled by his lips colliding with yours once more.

He used his body weight to stamp you to the floor as you shared breaths. As the heat of your needy exhales expelled from your lips, the cool vapors of his own replaced the ones you lost.

“Thankful we lost the cuffs?” he smiled against your lips before tearing them away and searing his eyes into your body. You curled your lip and bucked your hips up, trapping the back of his knee beneath your heel and switching positions. Pinning the prisoner beneath you, you glared down at him while circling your hands around his wrists.

“I'm regretting not chaining you down to this floor and riding your face until I'm satisfied,” you quip back at him. Left in your bra and panties, you felt his hands draw up and sneak his fingers beneath the hem and play with the flesh of your ass.

“I don't need chains for you to do that, baby,” he purred up at you darkly, “Take a seat, and I'll have you screaming for me.” He annuncified the statement by slapping your ass before molding the flesh beneath his hands.

You were unsure whether you should be offended at his words, or aroused further by them. He was your prisoner, you his guard, him an ex-marine admiral, you a lieutenant rising in the ranks. Weighing up the options, you quipped your head to the side and allowed passion to once again guide you.

Crawling up his long chest, you tugged your panties to the side and revealed your glistening pussy to him as to test how serious he was. Accepting your challenge, he gripped your thighs and immediately pressed you down onto his face and licked a fat stripe from your slit to your clit in one lengthy motion. You sucked in a silent scream when he continued to slowly and passionately collect your essence into his tongue without protest, romancing your core with each intentional glide of his skilled muscle.

“Kuzan,” you whined in a breathy gasp, causing him to chuckle up into you. His eyes never left your face as he used his hard grip on your much smaller body to rock your core against his face.

“That's it, pretty girl," he praised you, his hands disappearing beneath the material of your panties to press your body further against his lips. Muffling his words up at you, he continued, “Get off on your prisoner's face. Let me feel you.”

Given how pent up you had been watching over Kuzan for the past five days, the coil in your abdomen bound tight quickly. Stomach knit in heavy knots, your pussy fluttered against his lips and tongue and he mouthed at you. Alternating between latching onto your clit and swirling his tongue against it, before drawing his face down to fuck your needy cunt with his tongue while nosing at your clit, Kuzan’s eyes never left you.

You were gorgeous. Everything about you was gorgeous. From the curvature of your breasts, to the shape of your ass, to the partition of your lips, to the hue of your hair: he loved it all. And he hated that he did.

“More,” he growled up into you, “Give me more, lieutenant. Cum for me. Cum on my tongue.”

Focussing on your clit, he mouthed at the small bud while concentrating a small coolness onto you. The combination of the coolness of his devil fruit with the warmth of his tongue tipped you over that edge.

Dancing on the edge of ecstasy, one more rotation of his tongue around your clit and you were cumming hard on his face. Muscles of your stomach tensed and flexed as you rode through your high. His steady hands splayed on your ass cheeks as he guided you expertly through your release.

Just as you came down from your high, you were met with a crude shock to your large joy.

Ice bound your wrists and flung you to the wall behind you. Knees drawn up to your chest, black flush with the wall, he bound your body to the wood with his devil fruit. Your eyes rounded in shock, body still sensitive from riding through your bliss to process what was happening.

The prisoner bested you. He was going to escape, you were going to be punished for your insubordination, and your career was to be ruined. As he rose to his full stature, you had no choice but to watch as he dusted off his pants and produced a shard of ice to extend from his absent knee down to the floor.

You had released your prisoner, and after cumming so hard on his lips, he was going to leave you in your bra and panties against the wall for your superior to find.

Tearing your eyes away from his face and clenching them tightly shut, you felt shame wash over you like a cool bucket of water. Your body was still twitching in soft aftershocks as you heard the rustling of materials. Assuming he was donning his shirts and personal effects, you were shocked to feel his lips on your neck and bare chest flush with your own.

Your eyes reopened, quickly finding purchase on his thick curls as he hummed against your skin.

“Thought I'd leave you like this, didn't you?” he sighed against your skin, “No way, sweetness. Not when I haven't felt the way your pretty pussy wants so badly to take my cock. Nuh uh.”

“You-...?” Your breath was stolen from you as he dragged his cockhead against your sensitive entrance. His height at full stature was over nine feet tall, and the circumference of his cock was enough to have you whine as he rocked it against your panties.

“I know.” He nodded his head against your clit, “I'm big. But you can take me, can't you?” Tugging down your bra, he groaned in bliss as your breasts were freed from the shroud of the material.

The ice spread your legs, moving beneath the will of its master to hold them apart for him. He rocked his hips, against your clothes cunt, groaning as he did so. Ice cracked and swelled, dragging across your stomach and binding you to the wall. His lips traced down to your nipples: swirling, tugging, and releasing them with a taut pop.

“You want this, don't you?” Kuzan purred against your skin, “Tell me you want this. Big pirate making a little marine feel so helpless. Say it. Say ‘I want this, Kuzan’.” He drew his lips up to your neck once more, trailing a flurry of kisses towards your jaw while his ice toyed with the border of your nipples.

“Say it.”

“I want this, Kuzan.”

The words spilled from your lips before you could tell them not to. You were bewitched by him, possessed by a lust that you had never known. His smile was felt against your jaw as he drew his eyes up to meet yours. Tugging aside your panties once more, he lined up his cock with your entrance: soft beads of pearlescent precum beading in need at the slit.

“That's my girl.”

Those three words were all the warning he gave you before his lips bit and ravished yours. At the moment his rough kisses met with your lips, gasping and growling against your mouth: his cock softly rocked into your core. You whined desperately into his mouth as he pushed more of his cock inside to the ridge of his rim.

No matter how rough his kisses became, he was so careful with his cock pressing inside you. Kuzan knew how small you were in comparison to his stature, and he would never dream of injuring you in the thralls of passion. Although he was a pirate and you were a marine, he treated your body with the respect you deserved.

Five days of being close to you. Five days more for longing. Five days longer still for yearning. And five days longest for how many nights he fucked his fist to the thought of claiming you as his in the quiet of the night.

Finally passing that first ridge, your body took him like it was made for it. It was Kuzan’s turn to whimper into your neck, shuddering as he buried his face into your neck and cock into your pussy. Sinking down to half his length with little resistance, he became lost in the way your pussy sucked him in. Rocking against you, he gasped into your ear.

Eyes wide, you had never felt so full in your life. While he was your enemy, you had never felt a touch as gentle as his. He was so careful with his cock that you could take him, while he toyed with you with his devil fruit.

“Look down,” he whispered, “Look how deep you're taking me. How well you're taking a pirate's cock.” Doing as he ordered, you looked down and watched as his hips rocked in slow, languid thrusts. Cock disappearing within your cunt, you gasped out as you took him within you.

“Like being fucked by a filthy pirate?” He quipped, his cock sinking deeper, “Pretty marine getting her pussy destroyed by her prisoner. Come on, tell me you w-want m-more.”

His stutter gave out his hardened experior, his bliss truly being lost to him with each marriage of degradation and praise. He tried not to show how much he was enjoying this moment stolen with you.

As soon as he got you off once, he had no doubt he was going to flee from his cell and claim his freedom. But he was in love with the way you cried out for him. He was obsessed, consumed with longing for your release joining with his.

Sensing this dynamic shift while being bound to the wall, you decided to goad him into more.

“Does the filthy pirate want to show the marine who's boss?” you whispered against his ear, biting at the lobe and attempting to rock against him to the best of your restrained ability. “Does the filthy pirate want to fill his marine with his cum? Pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” he parrotted back, his hips snapping with more purpose, “Does this feel pathetic to you?” His pace increased, his desperation more tangible with each in-thrust.

Ice eclipsed both your nipples, only giving way when he dipped his lips down to roll your pebbled bud within his hot mouth to contradict the cold with the warmth. You mewled beneath his lips, your pussy fluttering beneath his harsh momentum.

Coil building further in your abdomen, you felt another orgasm approach you with a low build. Kuzan was nearing his peak, his cock already beginning to expel sticky waves of precum within your stomach. Kuzan was becoming sloppy with his movements, his balls sucking up into his stomach the closer he became to his release.

“Gonna cum, Kuzan?” Your question fled from your lips like a needy whine informing him you were reaching your end, “Gonna fill me up with your cum? Go on, pirate. Tarnish me. Ruin me.”

“Nnnnghh- fuck,” Kuzan growled into your neck, biting just below to collar to anchor himself to you, “Gonna cum. Gonna- fuck, I'm cumming. Ah-, shit.”

Ropes of viscous cum met with your cervix with his verbal confession, his hips rutting against your core and giving in to the feeling of your cunt fluttering around his shaft. As he met his peak, you met yours. Walls contracting around his shaft, you cried out for him while he filled you.

“Hhah- cumming,” you warned him, your pussy sucking him in with every wave of your secondary ecstasy. Milking him of his cum, your cunt squeezed his thick cock as you both met the waves of your highs in the arms of one another.

The dancing lights split your vision white, just as it did his own. You had never felt the way you did in the arms of this former admiral, nor did he buried deep within the pussy of a marine lieutenant. As you both finished, he slunk his head forward and collected you into his arms. Ice cracked like glass, the shards dropping to the ground and simmering like embers against the floorboards.

He ushered you onto the ground, sitting back on his calves and holding his cock deep within your pussy. Both panting and catching your breath, you sat within the shared breath with the man who ushered you into twin highs in close succession. Dwelling in the silence, your hearts beat as one as the heat dampened down between you both.

“You have a fifteen minute head start, former admiral,” you sighed, stroking his cheek with your palm. He blinked slowly at you, taking in your words while coming down from his high.

“What do you mean-?” He began, halting beneath your interruption.

“-It takes the average marine seven minutes to shake off haki,” you nodded, pressing your forehead against his and brushing your noses together, “You conquered me. I was helpless. Do you understand, pirate?”

Kuzan was taken aback, shaking his head and searching your eyes. You nodded against him, your smile slowly splitting up your cheeks.

“I conquered you?” he asked softly.

“Knocked me out completely,” you laughed in response. Gently pressing your lips to his forehead, you unsheathed his cock from your pussy and began to collect your things. “You have fifteen minutes to redress. Get to it before I catch you.”

“Catch me?”

You smiled as you gathered your uniform into your arms. Kuzan, the former admiral he was, was truly clueless when he was spent of his release. Balls and head both empty, he reached for you in craving of your touch.

“Kuzan,” you warned him, “You escaped your shackles after you found the strength to conquer me. You collected the keys, unbound yourself, and fled. You left me alive as witness to your escape.” Kuzan understood, nodding along as he came to terms with what you were expressing to him.

You were enemies. An ex-marine turned to piracy, and a marine in charge of his capture. Both of you knew how wrong this was, but your bodies couldn't help but to sing how right it could be. He could never give up his freedom for you, and you would never turn to piracy for him. No matter how your bodies felt together, and how easy the intimacy came to you both: you could never be together like this.

“Fifteen minutes?” He asked you, halting to cup your ass in his firm hands, “Is that all I'm worth to you?”

Rolling your eyes in response, you playfully slapped his arm while you scampered to find your uniform.

“You're lucky I gave you more than nine, pirate,” you snarl at him, “I gave you that extra six for making me cum twice.” Kuzan laughed, finding his effects and beginning to don them while you fixed your uniform up.

“I will see you again, lieutenant,” Kuzan whispered while fixing his belt at the waist, “And when I do, I am going to make you cum so hard you'll renounce your vows and join me in piracy.”

“And when I find you again,” you warn in return, “You're going to cry for me while I show you that quips and taunts are not all I can do with my tongue.”

Kuzan gulped, truly wanting to experience that thought while he shrugged on his heavy overcoat. You began affixing your coat once more to your persons, making sure each button was marine-issue ready. He watched on with a shudder to his jaw and a feral urgency in his eye that craved that meeting between now and then to become smaller.

“Until the next time, then,” Kuzan offered with an extended hand. Placing your hand within, he drew your knuckles up to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against it.

“Until I see you again,” you responded in kind, nodding to him as he released your hands with his kiss. The temperature began to fluctuate between you. The weather mixing with Kuzan’s abilities made for a more pleasant atmosphere between you currently, but the heat between you would continue to grow with every passing moment.

Both of you couldn't wait until the next time you saw one another again: both hoping you could truly best the other.

Only time would tell.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory

[ddarker-dreams]

Golden Girl.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: The psychological damage inflicted from Gojo Satoru's presence, canon-typical violence, Gojo and Geto are both kinda questionable in their own ways. Word count: 16k.

-Index-

April 1st, 2005. 

8:02 a.m.

-

You don’t get it. 

This campus is huge. Unbelievably so. If someone said you’d waltzed into the Imperial Palace, you’d believe them, and not just because you’re gullible. Although, that’d certainly play a significant role. 

Your suspicions strengthen after you walk over the third arched bridge. That’s an arched bridge too far. No school can have this many fancy-looking bridges, the schools back home are practically held together by chewed pieces of gum and scotch tape. Your jetlagged brain combs through the whirlwind you’ve endured in the past few hours. Did you give the wrong address to the taxi driver back at the airport? 

He did look confused, but you hadn’t given it much thought then. 

You go as still as a statue. 

… What if this is the Imperial Palace? If that’s the case, you’re definitely trespassing, right?

How do you explain that to any guards that might happen by? You can envision the headlines now — Foreigner Extradited for Trespassing, Sentenced to Life, No Chance at Parole. All those hours you spent working on your student visa would be for nothing! And you’d be in prison, which is a bummer, because you’re not rich enough to weasel out of the criminal justice system. 

You’ll have to join a prison gang, there’s no way around it. Would they let a fourteen-year-old in? In the event they don’t, you could always form one yourself. Leadership’s never been your thing, but it beats—

“Hey there,” a feminine voice calls out. “You lost?” 

You whip your head around to the sound’s source. Instead of seeing an intimidating guard ready to haul you off, there’s a girl about your age. She has brunette hair styled in a bob, a beauty mark beneath her left eye, and an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips. 

Unless the Emperor is issuing major budget cuts, this can’t be a guard. 

You consider her uniform. The high collar, sheer tights, long sleeves, and brown shoes match yours, but the skirt’s different. Yours flares out and cuts off right above your knees. This minor discrepancy makes you wonder if you’re breaking the dress code on your first day. You push the concern aside for future you to deal with.

“That obvious, huh?” You laugh. 

“Just a bit.” 

She introduces herself as Ieiri Shoko, a first-year student like yourself. You respond in kind, offering up your own name and grade. It’s a relief to know you won’t be arrested or wandering this complex for an eternity. She walks by you and turns on her heel, tilting her head. 

“Gonna come with?” 

You nod and happily fall into step beside her. She doesn’t seem to be in a rush, not that you mind. It gives you time to admire the idyllic scenery around each turn. There are lush green forests, gardens, and more traditional buildings than you can count. The only detail you find odd is how empty the area is. Besides Ieiri, there isn’t a soul to be found. 

“Ieiri-san, is today a holiday by any chance?” 

“Just Shoko’s fine,” she says, feeling around her various pockets. “And I don’t think so. Why? Too quiet?” 

“It’s almost like a ghost town.” 

Shoko smiles. “Enjoy the quiet while you can.”

Well, that’s a bit ominous, but you’ve yet to meet anyone in the jujutsu world who is 100% normal. You think it might be an unspoken requirement at this point. 

Shoko gives up on whatever she was searching for — a lighter, if you had to guess — and tucks the cigarette away. This reinforces your theory that those involved with jujutsu have one quirk at the bare minimum. By that logic, you must have some peculiar quirk of your own. Recalling your earlier Imperial Palace debacle, you realize it might be more than one… 

“Oh, by the way. All our classes got canceled,” Shoko says. 

You blink. 

“On… the first day…?” 

“Yeah. Something about a last-minute meeting,” she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I’m heading back to the dorms for a nap. I think yours is near mine, there are boxes with your name on them in the hallway.” 

What a relief! There had been no word on the packages full of your personal belongings you shipped here ahead of time. The hellscape that is checked baggage had no bearing on you. Immensely pleased with this revelation, you set aside the urge to explore and accompany Shoko to where you’ll be living for the foreseeable future. 

In keeping with the spirit of the rest of the school grounds, your room is spacious. 

Shoko left you to your own devices. You can faintly discern her presence in the room beside yours, laying down as she said she would. You thought you’d want to do the same, but something about the crisp morning air sliced through your exhaustion. You’ll ride the high and crash later. 

Adventure awaits — the exploration of the unknown, the sharpening of a faint, hazy image. 

You’re back outside again. It’s amazing how, no matter where you are, you can feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your cheeks. This serves as a grounding reminder that you’re real. Reality and the ambiguous nature of jujutsu are often at odds with one other, fighting to occupy the same space. Each side spins a convincing speech about why you should give it credence while discounting the other. 

Unlike a politician’s diatribe, there’s no changing the channel or turning down the volume. This invisible and perennial battle won’t ever gain total victory or retreat. There’s bound to be collateral, such is the nature of war. For some, it’s their life in a literal sense, for you, it’s sanity. Coherence. The incorrigible truth that two plus two equals four.

See, young kids aren’t given enough credit. They’re always watching, learning, and absorbing. They get the basic idea that two plus two equals four before they even know what numbers are. For instance, as a baby, you cry and writhe until your needs are met. There’s a framework. An adult in the vicinity plus wailing equals getting fed. Then later, it gets more complex. Not eating your vegetables plus getting mouthy equals timeout. So on and so forth. 

You accrue this network of information that makes life navigable. 

Then, while visiting some distant relative in the hospital, a massive hole gets blown into this previously steady network. Such was your experience. 

Something strange sat atop the IV in the small, cramped hospital room. The adults exchanged well wishes for the man surrounded by beeping equipment and blinking screens. Everyone present focused on this man, except you. You observed this thing, about the size of a sparrow, that flitted to and fro. Whatever it was, it had too many eyes. Each rolled in a different direction, like a bowling ball that couldn’t stop spinning. 

Eventually, a long yet thin appendage emerged from the unidentifiable creature. You stood petrified as it entered the man’s ear canal and sipped. The man groaned, beeps increased, and numbers flew high. It sipped harder. His screams grew louder. Everything got chaotic. People in white and blue entered the room. You heard words like ‘cardiac arrest’ and ‘defibrillation.’ Your parents dragged you away. 

The creature continued to sip. 

On the car ride home, you asked why no one stopped it. The creature plus its sipping equaled the man’s horrible pain. That’s what you figured, anyway. They asked for clarification. What creature? Where had it been? What did it look like? Since young kids are smarter than they’re given credit for, you recognized the tone that was directed toward you. Disbelief, but in a nice, adult way. 

If you insisted on the creature’s existence, they grew worried. When you told your friends — who in turn, told their parents — their worry grew. If every drawing you scribbled tried to depict the creature’s likeness, their worry overflowed. You overheard words like ‘traumatic experience’ and ‘coping.’ 

So, you stopped mentioning it. This stopped the concerned murmurings you’d overhear. You tried really hard to believe what they said about nightmares and mean imaginary friends. This worked well enough until you noticed similar creatures everywhere. On the playground, bus, graveyards, and abandoned houses. They weren’t all the size of a sparrow either. Some were tiny enough to be mistaken for gnats. Others were huge and salivated large pools against the ground.

It was around this time that you developed a second shadow. A spinning golden ring that could fit in the palm of your hand followed you everywhere. No one else could see it, but unlike the creatures, this ring didn’t scare you. Just the opposite, in fact. You considered it a guardian angel. 

If the gnats got too close, it’d slice through them. 

When the huge, drooling ones reached out their mangled hand, it’d cut through their wrists.

Later on, you’d learn this ‘guardian angel’ was called a ‘cursed technique.’ 

Smiling, you descend a flight of stairs. From today onward, you’ll be surrounded by people who don’t discount the equation you spent your early years erasing. They’ll be around your age too! You already like Shoko, she’s pretty and has a calming presence. You wonder what the others in your class will be like. How many will there be? Twenty? Your social studies class topped out at thirty-four. 

You hope you can befriend everyone. 

The gears turning in your head grind to a halt upon noticing the view. Maybe it’s how the morning sun casts a soft glow upon the verdure, or maybe you’re just easily impressed. Whatever the case, the sight stokes awe inside you. Trees line both sides of the gravel path ahead, their canopies inclining as if leaning down to hear a whisper. Smudges of green streak through the air, accepting any destiny the wind bestows.

What an image, straight from the pages of a fairytale book! 

You fish out your new phone, a hot pink Razr V3, recalling its camera feature. Even if the photograph isn’t award-winning, you want to preserve this moment. 

You can’t explain it. This intuition isn’t rational, it doesn’t adhere to that ever so reliable two plus two. It transcends. The fall of a domino, a flap of a butterfly wing. Seemingly unrelated yet intimately interwoven by invisible lines. 

Whether preordained or the consequence of chain reactions you’d have to trace since birth to understand, what happens next stains you its color. The soul grasps what logic dismisses. And right now, your soul says this moment in time and space should never be forgotten. 

As for why, your soul suggests you uncover that for yourself. 

Alas, you can’t actually stop time. Perception and reality don’t always agree. While it felt like everything came to a grinding halt, the wheels never stopped turning.

And so the powerful gust soaring from your right punches the air from your lungs. 

Gritting your teeth, you dig your heels into the ground. The sheer force pushes you back some inches. Next comes a hail of debris. Chunks of soil, sediment, and splintered wood descend. Recognizing this threat, your mind yells at your body to move. Those earthly implements are soaring faster than a bullet. However, the baleful gale restricts precise movement. You’re nothing but a bag of flesh and viscera to the indifferent swell. It’ll send you tumbling the instant your feet lift off the ground. 

Dodging isn’t an option. 

Those rocks… your cursed technique could dice them up, but then you’d get pelted with shrapnel rather than stone. 

Which is the better outcome? A body littered with numerous holes or a few craters? 

Your arms fly up to protect your major organs. You’ll endure what you can. 

Except, instead of enduring an onslaught, nothing happens. Nothing hurts, rips, or gets torn to shreds. 

The wind hasn’t stopped, but it no longer touches you. You jump back, out of the line of impact. The debris parts like the Red Sea and grants you safe passage. From this vantage point, you’re a witness rather than an unwitting participant. The unrelenting force rages on. You gape at the path of destruction it’s left behind, indiscriminately swallowing trees, foliage, and the ground. It looks like a meteor surged in a straight line through the forest. 

No matter what you’d chosen to do, if it weren’t for that abrupt opening, you would’ve died.  

Heart thumping wildly, you snap your head toward the direction this miniature storm originated from. Was it a curse? If it is, then you’re hopelessly outclassed. 

No, that doesn’t seem right, you think. You’re familiar with how it feels when a curse is nearby. Should it be close to your power level, it’s like getting splashed with frigid water. For curses above your abilities, that sensation gets amplified. It’s as if you’ve been plunged into the Arctic Ocean. Right now, you’re not experiencing either of those sensory nightmares. 

A silhouette walks through the dusty haze that destructive force left behind. 

“Whoops,” the person within says, “That was close.” 

You run over, swatting the dust lingering in the air. Anyone close to that force could’ve gotten severely injured. Concern seeps into your being as the figure emerges. 

“Are you okay?!” 

The first thing you notice is a head of white hair. Next is this person’s height, you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes. Eyes that were, for some reason, covered by circular sunglasses. There’s a sideways grin on his face, the absolute last expression you were expecting. From his uniform, you guess he’s a student like yourself. His most prominent feature isn’t anything visible. It’s the sheer aura he exudes, you’ve never experienced anything similar. There’s no hostility, but it’s intense. 

You inhale shakily. 

“Never better. You?” 

He sounds chipper. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, giving yourself a once-over. 

You pinch your eyebrows together while assessing your condition. The white-haired figure notices this and asks, “Ya sure? Nothing hit you, right?” 

“That’s the weird thing, though,” you frown. “I should be covered in dust, but there’s not a single speck.” 

His grin widens, like he’s in on some joke you aren’t. This plucks a cord of irritation within you. Narrowing your eyes, you take a step back. You focus on the cursed energy engulfing him, then compare it to residuals left behind by the force. The residuals in the path it carved out are too faint to properly discern. All you have implicating his involvement is a hunch. 

You remember how the gust itself felt, though. The ferocity that had every nerve in your body ringing funeral bells. 

Your eyes flit between the gaping maw and the sunglass-wearing stranger. 

“Want a hint?” He asks. You don’t miss the teasing lilt in his voice. 

“You caused that surge,” you deadpan. 

“Close enough, I’ll give half credit. Next question! What stopped you from getting buried in layers of dust?” 

You have no reason to play along, yet scampering off feels like you’d be conceding something. The competitive nature boiling in your blood refuses to admit defeat. Especially after he subjected you to that terror, without even apologizing! It’s the least he could do. What an inconsiderate jerk. You’ll knock him down from that high horse if it’s the last thing you do. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you consider the information you have to work with. Whatever he did had to involve his cursed technique. Did he apply a shield to you? It’s the most obvious answer, but that doesn’t explain everything. A shield would lessen the damage, not negate it entirely. 

How did he pull that off…? 

As you’re piecing this puzzle together, someone in the distance yells, “Satoru!” drawing out each syllable. The person before you winces but doesn’t lose his boyish smile. You sense another presence heading this way. After you turn around to face this new addition, two large hands settle on your shoulders from behind. You bristle and try shaking them off, but this weirdo doesn’t let go. 

An older man with a severe expression stands atop the staircase. His uniform is pitch black, denoting a different status than a student, if you were to guess. 

“One hour,” he huffs out, “One hour, I ask for you to sit still and behave. And what do I come back to? An entire tunnel running through the school grounds?” 

“It was for good reason, sensei,” this ‘Satoru’ insists. He squeezes your shoulders. “[First] here mistook a bug for a curse and yelped, ‘Kya, there’s a curse!’ I, being the good samaritan I am, dispatched the threat with what I thought to be an appropriate amount of force at the time.”  

You make a face. “Eh?” 

“Huh?” Yaga must find this explanation as convincing as you do. His countenance filters through multiple emotions. Confusion, frustration, disbelief, and then, finally, exhaustion. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that?” 

“I didn’t come up with anything! Tell him, [First]! Are you going to abandon your savior when he needs you most?” 

Yaga turns his attention to you, pity evident in his eyes. 

“Satoru did… sort of protect me from something… in a way?” You mumble. 

Satoru’s fingers twitch when you speak his recently learned name.

Yaga sighs. “We’ll discuss this later, Satoru.” 

And with that, the first teacher you’ve met walks away, shaking his head. His demeanor reminds you of a disappointed parent. Suddenly cognizant of the unwelcome contact on your body, you jerk your shoulders forward. This time, he releases you. You get the sense he could’ve easily held on if he wanted to.

“Man, you suck at lying,” Satoru whines. 

“Me? What sort of cover story was that? If you ever become a defense attorney, your clients are screwed.” 

He throws his arms behind his head and grins. “You gotta admit, the impression was solid.” 

“That was the most egregious part!” 

“I thought it was a nice touch.”

You roll your eyes. Before this back-and-forth drags on, there’s a specific detail that’s nagging at you. 

“By the way, how do you know my name—” 

“Suguru, how long are you gonna sit back and watch? Voyeurism is frowned upon, y’know,” he cuts you off mid-sentence. 

Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets at his not-so-subtle implication. Thrown back into a weirded-out limbo, you start slinking off. Forget trying to understand how he knows your name despite never telling him. These are the types your parents warned you about, you need to flee! Hormonal high school boys should be sectioned off until they’re no longer threats to society. Nuclear warfare pales in comparison. 

“She’ll never want to come near you again if you keep saying things like that.” 

Another student calmly strides out from behind a nearby tree. You squint, ensuring this isn’t an illusion. How long has this guy been here? Why couldn’t you sense his presence? Especially when he’s been so close, just a few measly feet back. The black-haired addition gives you a closed-mouth smile. Similar to Satoru, he’s rather tall. You’ll need a neck massage from all this looking up. 

“Geto Suguru. It’s nice to meet you,” Geto greets. 

You introduce yourself as well. 

“It’s your first day here, correct? How are you finding everything? Have any questions?” 

“None that I can think of, but thank you! It’s been uneventful, up to a certain point.” 

Satoru yawns obnoxiously loud, interrupting your exchange. “Look what you did, Suguru. She’s all prim and proper now. I might fall asleep.” 

You shoot him a scathing look but bite your tongue. 

“What? No need to hold back. Say whatever you want, I can take it,” he asserts, tilting his head enough for his sunglasses to slide down. Two pools of frosty blues bore through you. You freeze up at the sight. Snowy eyelashes, glittering, gemstone-like eyes, why would he ever hide them? You’ve never seen such a bewitching color. 

He strikes like a serpent at the opening you’ve given him. 

“All this staring’s gonna make me shy. You can take a picture, if you want. I don’t mind.” 

Any spell you were under withers and dies. 

“Actually, I was just thinking that you remind me of a celebrity,” you say. 

Satoru preens, interpreting your words as a compliment. Before his ego inflates enough for him to float away, however, you give him a smug smile of your own. 

“Ever heard of Sanrio’s Cinnamoroll? You two could be twins! It’s adorable.”

His shoulders droop and Suguru chuckles, the sound coming out muffled from behind his hand. You spin around, content, humming to yourself as you walk up the stairs. You block out whatever Satoru shouts in retaliation. His words go in one ear and out the other. Something tells you this is the best strategy for dealing with him. 

So far, you’ve met three classmates, and that was enough to exhaust you thoroughly. 

You wonder what everyone else is like. 

-

Later that evening, Shoko explains it’s just you four in your class. 

You finish chewing your takeout, swallow, and then reply, “Eh? Seriously? But this place is crazy big.” 

“Not many folks can use jujutsu,” Shoko says. She picks a mushroom up with her chopsticks and places it in your container. “Four students is a high amount, all things considered.” 

You plop the mushroom into your mouth. Savory flavors coat your tongue, warming your heart and your soul. Delicious food is the antidote to all woes. Presently, your biggest woe happens to have white hair, unfairly pretty eyes, and a knack for getting under your skin. Recalling your previous encounter makes you grimace.

“Hey, Shoko. Would I get in trouble for spraying Satoru with water?” 

Instead of responding, she stares at you, blinking owlishly. 

“What’s up?” 

“Haven’t heard any student but Geto call Gojo by his first name,” she explains. “We’ve only been here a few days though, so who knows.” 

You tilt your head. “Who is Gojo?” 

“Satoru. Gojo Satoru’s his full name.”

“... Ah.” 

You swipe a pillow from Shoko’s bed and slam it into your face. 

“I’ve been calling him by his first name?!” You whisper yell, heat rushing to your cheeks.

That’s far too intimate. This is awful, a tragedy, the end of your life that had just begun! 

Shoko rubs your back reassuringly as you process the harrowing information. 

-

This has been the first proper school day. 

Teachers have come and gone depending on the class. You and Geto have been taking notes, Shoko’s fallen asleep, and Gojo occasionally throws a wadded-up note at the three of you. Shoko’s collection piles up on her desk, Geto throws his away after reading them, and you chuck yours back at Gojo when the teacher isn’t looking. 

He catches it with a grin each time, as if you’re playing a friendly game of baseball. 

This guy really irks you. 

When it’s time to eat lunch, he’s the first to get up. 

“What does everyone want from the vending machine?” Gojo asks while clapping, earning your attention. “It’s on me.” 

Suguru requests Coca-Cola and Shoko, newly awake, says Oi Ocha. 

“I’m okay, but thank you,” is your response. 

Gojo swaggers over and you immediately regret sounding so polite. 

“First you don’t open my notes and now you won’t accept my generosity? Is this what it’s like to get bullied?” 

“I think bullying is typically worse than that,” you respond. His deep frown, although likely an act, still tugs on your heartstrings. Empathy is truly a double-edged sword. “... Georgia canned coffee, please.” 

Gojo points a finger at you. “Aha! I knew it! Something about you struck me as a caffeine addict.” 

(You throw a pen at him, which he easily sidesteps).

“Does the resident sugar addict have any room to talk?” Geto hums. 

“Plenty. When you eat sweets, it’s to enjoy the flavor. In other words, an experience! When you drink coffee, though, you’re only torturing yourself to keep your eyes open.” 

“Some people like coffee’s flavor,” Shoko chimes in. She rests her chin on her fist. “You would if it was sickeningly sweet.” 

You take in the sight of your classmates bickering. It stirs a warm, pleasant feeling in your chest, like walking outside on the first day of spring. Such a simple exchange instills a sense of normalcy, no matter how fleeting. Gojo’s larger-than-life personality, Geto’s sneaky ways of goading him on, and Shoko’s occasional wry comment; you sear it into your memory. 

There’s no real weight to the jabs everyone flings around, it’s like water off a duck’s back. 

“You’ll meet lots of interesting folks, I’m sure,” your jujutsu mentor, Ishimoto Akane, had told you. “Make the most of each day. Forgetting to live is the worst injustice you can commit toward yourself.” 

Smiling, you retrieve your pen/ammunition, intent on hitting Gojo with it eventually. 

-

Drizzle and heat olive oil in a pan. Add grape tomatoes, seasoning, and minced garlic. Stir occasionally until the grape tomatoes break down. 

A mouthwatering scent fills the dormitory’s kitchen. The clock reads 10:04 p.m, indicating how late this dinner is. You keep an eye on your pan as different shades of red smear together, forming the basis for your sauce. Content to leave it unsupervised for a spell, you walk to the drawer silverware is kept in.

The plates are up in an overhead cupboard. You stand on your tiptoes, straining your arm to grab a plate that has no business being up so high. 

“Need help?” 

You could recognize that voice in your sleep. Or, to be more specific, your nightmares. 

“I’ve got it,” you insist. 

“Yes, obviously, my sincerest apologies,” Gojo's cadence shifts to a somber, apologetic tone. “Please proceed.” 

You stretch your body to its limits, the muscles in your arm crying out for reprieve. Your fingertips brush over the plate’s outer rim. Mistaking this for victory, you pull it out at an awkward angle. The porcelain comes tumbling down to its imminent demise. Out of instinct, you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact. 

In the moments that follow, you hear nothing shatter.

Confused, you reopen your eyes to see Gojo Satoru holding the still-intact plate.

You stare at him.

He stares at you (from behind his sunglasses, despite the sun not being out). 

Remembering your manners, you say, “Thank you.” 

Gojo hums. The low note injects dread throughout your system, as you can guess how the melody will continue. You reach for the troublesome plate. In accordance with your premonition, he takes sadistic glee in raising it high above your head. It stays up there as if it were a full moon. 

You take a deep, deep breath. 

“Gojo-san, can I have that back?” 

“Say ‘Pretty please, Satoru,’ and I’ll think about it.” 

“...” 

He stares at you.

You stare at him. 

“From this day forward, you cannot have any more of my cooking,” you announce as if you were a politician making a new law known. 

In what’s an exceedingly rare occurrence, Gojo doesn’t have an immediate retort. You may be unable to see his eyes, but you can tell his expression fell at your proclamation by the muscles in his face. 

“Wait, really?” 

“Really.” 

“Really really?” 

“Really really.” 

Gojo silently hands over the plate with a bow. 

“For you, madam.” 

His melancholic act is so convincing and disproportionate to the situation that you can’t hold back your laughter. Gojo’s true strength is his ability to annoy and endear in the same breath. For this reason, your irritation toward his antics never lasts long. You’re sure he’s aware of this and uses it to his advantage. So long as it remains innocuous, you’ll play along. 

“Start helping by chopping that basil and I’ll reconsider your verdict.” 

Gojo gives a hearty salute. 

“Yes ma’am!” 

-

Geto plucks the manilla folder you’re holding and says your name. Perplexed, you glance at him.

“This isn’t worth rereading a fourth time,” he explains. “It won’t be anything near as dangerous as it’s been made out to be.” 

He closes it and slides it across the table. You watch through heavy eyelids, blinking off sleep’s seductive whisper. The contents within — census data, maps, photographs — each piece of information refuses to absorb into your weary brain. You’re amazed you had the cogency to slap some proper loungewear on and stumble to the dormitory’s shared living space. 

“S’gotta be somewhat important, though, if we got woken up at three in the morning over it.” 

Geto laughs airily at that. “You’d be surprised.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He means that anything involving the Zenins gets a fast track to becoming everyone’s problem,” Gojo adds from the doorway. 

You turn your head in the direction of his hoarse voice. He didn’t bother to fix his bedhead or put on anything half-decent. He’s wearing a gray v-neck and slacks, unlike Geto, who at least put on a pair of jeans. His trademark sunglasses sit ajar on his nose. 

Despite yourself, your heart skips a beat. He’s kinda cute.

Gojo gives you a lazy wave and grin. “Wow, you’re actually awake. I thought we’d have to drag you out of bed.” 

“In the spirit of maintaining harmony, I’m going to ignore that comment,” you grumble, getting up from the floor to sit on the couch. Gojo sits to your left, slouches into the armrest, and throws his legs on the table. What terrible posture. “Going back to what you said — who are the Zenins? Are they important or something?” 

Gojo furrows his eyebrows. 

Geto blinks. 

You glance between the two of them, feeling increasingly out of the loop. “W-What?” 

Gojo, being the fiend that he is, breaks out into unapologetic laughter. You gape at him, your cheeks going from cold to scorching. Geto shakes his head in disapproval over Gojo’s behavior. Still, a small smile works onto his face, further exacerbating your embarrassment. Gojo loudly poking fun at you is one thing, but you’re used to Geto having your back Or at least abstaining from either side.

Vexed, you shoot up, ready to storm off, but Gojo’s hand encircles your wrist. 

“My bad, my bad,” he manages through the occasional chuckle. “Come back. We’ll explain it to you.” 

You grumble beneath your breath yet ultimately acquiesce. 

Gojo peers at you from above his sunglasses. “Ever heard of the Big Three Sorcerer Families?” 

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Would we be having this conversation if I had?” 

“Man, that must be nice. I almost feel bad ruining your innocence like this,” Gojo sighs, ever the melodramatic performer. “Hm… let’s see… think of them as the lame, jujutsu versions of Zapdos, Articuno, and Moltres.”

Sitting patiently, you wait for him to elaborate. 

He doesn’t. 

“Geto-kun, care to translate?” 

“With pleasure. So, since cursed techniques are inherited, families often want them passed on from one generation to the next. The Big Three come from bloodlines that hold some of the strongest techniques. As you can imagine, this has granted them lots of influence and power over the centuries. How they leverage these advantages, well…” 

Geto trails off and clears his throat. 

“—They use it to advance their own agendas and snuff out any meaningful change,” Gojo finishes for him. 

You nod. 

“Okay, I think I get it! So they’re like jujutsu lobbyists?” 

Gojo bursts into another fit of laughter. “I like that! Yeah, let’s call them that. Most of those geezers aren’t even jujutsu sorcerers themselves. They just sit around in the dark and scheme. It’s pathetic.” 

Gojo doesn’t care about mincing words. He’s the type to call it as he sees it, for better or for worse. Rarely do you sense such acrimony festering beneath the surface of his remarks. This matter is different. He’s smiling, but there’s a tense underpinning to how he sets his jaw. 

“Wait, okay, so, there’s the Zenins, but… who are the other two?” You ask. 

“The Kamo and Gojo families,” Geto answers.

Gojo, gojo… that name sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? 

This reveal doesn’t knock the breath from your lungs. You’ve been able to guess for some time now that Gojo came from money. How much exactly, you weren’t sure, but his designer clothes raised your estimates high. Your rich kid radar is as accurate as ever. 

You point an accusatory finger toward the white-haired male beside you. “We have a double agent in our midst, Geto-kun.” 

“It would appear so. How should we proceed?” 

You stride over to Geto’s side, creating the appropriate distance between you and the traitor. 

“Imprisonment without trial,” you declare, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “Solitary confinement too. Cosplaying as the working class is a federal offense.” 

“Hah? What sort of kangaroo court is this?” Gojo complains. He removes his legs from the table and sits properly, then crosses his arms over his chest. Continuing your charade, you pay him no mind. Instead, you stand on your tiptoes, cup your hands, and whisper into Geto’s ear: 

“The convict is disparaging our blameless judicial system. Shall we add ten years of hard labor?” 

A malevolent gleam passes over Geto’s eyes. 

“Let’s make it twenty,” he whispers back. You nod. Great minds think alike.

You return your attention to the couch, intending to update Gojo’s sentence, only to find he isn’t there. Yours and Geto’s deliberation couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds! Where did your prisoner run off to? His presence vanished as well, leaving not a single trace. It should unnerve you how in control he is of every aspect of his being. Maybe it would’ve had you not known him personally. 

Warm breath fans against your ear from behind. “I’m taking this corrupt official hostage.” 

With that, your legs give out faster than your brain can register. Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as two arms lift you. The abruptness of it all has your limbs flailing for purchase and a squeak escaping your lips. Gojo takes care to ensure you don’t fall or harm yourself, but he doesn’t bother hiding his sadistic glee. You’re held bridal style against his firm chest. 

Trying to wriggle loose is a meaningless endeavor. Accepting your fate, you go limp, but not without requesting assistance. 

“Geto, are you really going to abandon me to the machinations of this criminal?” 

Geto walks over, consideration etched into his countenance, stoking hope of rescue in your chest. He reaches for you. It’s almost imperceptible, but Gojo’s grip tightens ever so slightly. However, his hand doesn’t pry you from the jaws of the beast. He just pulls down your shirt, which has risen to reveal a sliver of your stomach. 

Wow, what a gentleman.

“Did you ever consider that I might be a double agent?” Geto challenges, relishing in your visible frustration as much as Gojo. Such is the plight of those who wear their heart on their sleeve. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson alright,” you retort. The foreboding nature of your words isn’t lost on them. They await your next move, which you swiftly deliver. “Gojo-san, let me down. If you don’t, I will bite you.”

You can feel how he beams down at you. “Oh, I never would’ve guessed that’s what you’re into— ah, Suguru, a little help here…?” 

Geto assesses the situation. After thinking it over, he helps steady you, then uses his newfound leverage to pull you free. He takes great care in putting you down, holding you steady until your feet are firmly on the floor. Your balance rushes to restore itself. In the meantime, Gojo clicks his tongue, processing the weight of Geto’s betrayal. 

You give Geto a thumbs up. “Good work. No one ever sees a triple agent coming.” 

“It was a split-second decision,” Gojo dismisses with a wave. His impassive expression morphs into a knowing smirk, like he just had a seismic revelation. “Ah, I get it.” 

“You do?” Geto hums. 

“He does?” You ask. 

“Yes and yes. Suguru, you were holding out to see if she’d use her cursed technique, right?” 

Geto doesn’t respond immediately, indicating Gojo’s theory holds some merit. Gojo stuffs his hands into his pockets and slinks back to the couch. His gait radiates smugness, although you can’t imagine why. Is that supposed to be a ‘gotcha!’ moment? 

“I’ll admit, I am curious,” is what Geto settles on saying, his smile apologetic. Or it’s meant to come off as such. 

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.” 

Geto and Gojo exchange looks. 

“You should be careful who you go about revealing information like that to,” Gojo warns. You’re not used to hearing this serious timbre in his voice. “Some cards should remain close to your chest.” 

Even if he’s being sincere, you can’t help but feel patronized. You’ll be the first to admit it — certain nuances of jujutsu society are lost on you. Akane wasn’t the type to care for such details. She said worrying about all that bureaucracy would age you prematurely. You half agree with her. Certainly, you shouldn’t let that influence you in the areas it matters most, like combat. However, while you’re in Japan, you’re under their regulations. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that. 

You purse your lips. “Obviously, yeah. I’m not going to go blabbering it off everywhere. But, I mean, you two are my friends. This’ll be our first time on the field together. Knowing what cards you have to deal with seems useful to me.” 

Gojo turns his head to the side and a few seconds pass.

“Friends, huh?” Geto finally murmurs, testing the word on his tongue. His next smile reaches his eyes. “Who would’ve thought a little sincerity is all it takes to get you flustered?” 

Gojo snaps his head back at Geto’s taunt. “Sorry, what was that? Aren’t you the one who—” 

You clap to redirect their attention. 

“Hey, hey, cut it out already. We’re going to be together for the next few days, right? Let’s all get along.” 

“You just care about going back to sleep,” Gojo accuses. 

“Yes. Exactly. That is all I care about right now. So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m headed to bed.” 

You don’t wait for their response. As stealthily as you can, you sneak through the hallways, careful to avoid creaky floorboards. Upon returning to your room, you kick your house slippers off. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand says 3:53 p.m. Those two kept you up far later than necessary! If this assignment isn’t a big deal like Geto claims, you wish he would’ve said so sooner.

There’s always the option of sleeping during the car ride, but if there’s anything you know about Gojo, it’s that everything in his vicinity can be subjected to torment. You wouldn’t put it past him to draw on your face or blare the horn once you finally nod off. 

Your head hits the pillow and you pray for rest to take you soon. 

Meanwhile, back in the shared living space, Gojo stares at the spot you once occupied. 

“Satoru.” 

“Hm?” 

“I think I get it now.” 

“That so?” Gojo runs a hand through his hair. “As long as you don’t get it too much.” 

Geto chuckles. After a pause, he muses, “Neither of us would be very good for her.” 

“You gonna let someone else scoop her up?” 

“Are you?” 

“They can try,” Gojo smiles. There’s no kindness behind it. 

Although this conversation could last well into the morning, in an unspoken understanding, they leave it at that. 

-

“Emerge from the darkness, blacker than darkness. Purify that which is impure.” 

Ink blots descend from above as if the sky were weeping. The viscous teardrops curve downward, creating a dome that swallows the surrounding area. Geto and Suguru have gone ahead, leaving you to carry out basic protocol. You jog to catch up with them. Geto slows down enough to make rejoining them easier, unlike Gojo, who carries on. 

“So, this is the stomping grounds of the mean ol’ curse that sent Kenji Zenin packing?” Gojo hums. 

“He sustained some serious injuries,” you remind him. Gojo just shrugs. “A fractured sternum and twelve broken ribs… that’s not exactly a walk in the park.” 

“A Grade One sorcerer getting whooped that bad by a Grade Two curse? Probably deserved it.” 

You sigh, recognizing that Gojo won’t empathize no matter what you say. 

The three of you were driven from Tokyo Jujutsu High to Kaizu for this assignment. According to Geto, the information you received likely exaggerated the curse’s capabilities as a way for Kenji Zenin to save face. It looks better for him if the higher-ups deem the threat he faced severe enough to ship off two of the school’s most promising students to handle it. Regarding your inclusion, Gojo so kindly said, 

“You’re like the little garnish on top of the entrée.” 

You can’t find the energy to get upset if he’s right. 

There’s no denying the immense gap in your abilities compared to theirs. You could feel it in the air the instant you met Gojo. For Geto, all it took was hearing a description of his cursed technique. The potential for storing and controlling curses at will is beyond your comprehension. There are so many applications, and so many advantages… you’re utterly outclassed. 

Should this demotivate you? Perhaps. You’ll never be as strong as them, it’s delusional to think otherwise. An individual’s proficiency with jujutsu is almost determined at birth. That doesn’t mean it’s static, it just means you have to find ways to excel with what you’re given. Envy is a waste of time. You want to learn from them and hone your abilities. For this reason, you’ve avoided an inferiority complex. 

What could be better than learning from the best? 

The atmosphere inside the curtain is dingy. It’s like a dark filter glazed over your eyes, maiming any bright or vibrant colors. 

Grass crunches beneath your feet despite summer’s abundant rainfall. Nature itself flees the scene, retreating into the woods surrounding this derelict nursery. The briefing you were given went over the business’ murky past. In the seventies, there was an unprecedented boom in births around this area. Working parents needed proper childcare until their children were old enough to attend school. What few facilities existed nearby found themselves overwhelmed. Then an older, childless couple, Mikami and Fujikawa Tetsuo, purchased a plot of land outside the town with their retirement money. They cited the picturesque scenery as their reason for choosing this location, believing that the unpolluted air would be good for the children. 

The nursery was built and opened. For years, parents entrusted their little ones with the tight-knit staff headed by the Tetsuo’s. Nothing of note occurred until early in the eighties. On March 24th, 1982, a child was hospitalized after crying ceaselessly for three hours straight. The mother reported that when she picked her daughter up from the daycare, her daughter had been unusually distraught. She didn’t think much of it at first. Toddlers are known for being emotional. However, as time went by and her screams became hoarse, she felt something was terribly wrong. The little girl was given mild sedatives and IV fluids as her body began to suffer from dehydration. 

The next day, all seventeen children at the daycare suffered the same mysterious ailment. 

Each child underwent tests ranging from bloodwork to brain MRIs to determine what the inexplicable cause of this nightmare could be. Professionals in every area, ranging from renowned neurologists to child psychiatrists flew in from around the world. Naturally, an investigation was opened into the nursery and its owners. No formal charges were made against Mikami and Fujikawa, since no evidence of foul play could be found. Regardless, the community ostracized them and any employees present during the incident. 

Tragically, none of the eighteen children recovered. From the instant their sedatives wore off until they were administered again, they’d screech, thrash, and display aggressive behavior toward nurses and family members alike. Parents were faced with the impossible decision of keeping their child ‘alive’ through life support, holding out for a cure that may never come, or granting them a peaceful yet permanent rest.

Only one family kept their child on life support. He remained in a vegetative state and died from complications related to an infection two months later. The seventeen other families, who had grown close through the harrowing ordeal, turned the machines keeping their little ones alive at the same time. 

This report might be one of the worst things you’ve read. 

Scanning the area, you note faint residuals of cursed energy throughout the decrepit playground. The swings, slide, and both sides of the seesaw contain trace amounts. Did curses form as a consequence of what happened here, or did a curse initiate the disaster? It may not matter now, but all those families never receiving proper closure makes your chest feel tight. 

Painfully so. 

Considering the officials never found physical evidence, you believe a curse was the cause. What were the victims supposed to do? What could they do? Non-sorcerers can’t perceive curses, much less defend themselves. They have to be chewed, swallowed, and digested. 

You kneel at the playground’s edge, inspecting the planks of rotten and peeling wood. It must’ve been assembled by hand. Each piece was planned, cut, and dutifully laid down. All to hold the wood chips that’d protect the kids as they ran, laughed, and played. This place should’ve been a fond memory for them to recall throughout their life. 

Instead, it’s the reason they’d never got to have one.

“The cursed energy is concentrated in the nursery room itself,” Gojo determines. 

You follow his line of sight and squint. You could tell the building was submerged in cursed energy, but you couldn’t pinpoint an exact location. 

“It’s moving in the same pattern, like a grid,” Geto says. Another observation you couldn’t make. “Starting in the top left corner, ending in the bottom right, then starting the process all over again.” 

Standing up, you dust the dirt off your skirt. “Why would a curse do that?” 

From a tactical standpoint, moving predictably is reckless. Any combatants could use the knowledge to their advantage. Curses have some degree of self-preservation, hence why they don’t waltz everywhere without a care in the world. They’re intelligent enough to avoid spots that sorcerers frequent. Fly heads are the lone exception, but that’s because they lack the intellect necessary to care for their survival. 

A curse capable of inflicting such serious wounds on a Grade One sorcerer can’t be that weak. 

Gojo exchanges glances with Geto, a semblance of understanding connecting them. You’ve witnessed this wordless exchange before. No matter how much they bicker over conflicting values or petty non-issues, they maintain the ability to synchronize their thoughts and actions. 

“What is it?” You snap. As soon as the acrid words leave your mouth, you regret it, although they don’t react. Taking a deep breath, you try again. “Communication is important for these missions, guys. Keep me in the loop… please?” 

Geto parts his lips, but Gojo cuts him off. “There are eighteen cribs inside. The curse is fixing the blankets in each one.” 

You shiver. 

“... Oh.” 

“How do you want to go about this, Satoru?” Geto asks. “It can’t be as simple as walking in and exorcising it.” 

“Why not? Its cursed energy is consistent with what you’d expect of a Second Grade. We both know this job’s smoke and mirrors, anyway. Let’s wrap it up already and head home.” 

“Isn’t it strange the curse hasn’t been drawn out, despite a curtain being cast?” You point out. 

For the first time since exiting the car, Gojo looks at you. You stare back at the two black circles that obscure his omnipotent eyes. Something’s been off ever since you embarked on this mission. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, as its location shifts elsewhere whenever you try. His words have had an edge to them when directed at you. You’re used to his lackluster manners, but this is different. 

This cuts and it cuts deep. 

Are you that incompetent to him…? 

Gojo redirects his gaze toward the ramshackle building. 

“I’m getting this over with,” he says. Simply, decisively. Leaving no room for argument. 

Leaving no room for you. 

Massive tendrils of cursed energy coil around him, flowing unimpeded like water through a rushing brook. You step back solely from reflex. Anticipation thrums through the air and ignites every nerve in your body. You’re left wide-eyed and breathless as it gathers and grows, its potency hundreds of times greater than anything you’ve been able to achieve. It feels as though minutes have dragged by, reacquainting you with the surreal sensation you underwent upon meeting Gojo Satoru that fateful day. 

“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.” 

Up until this point in your life, you thought you knew destruction. What hubris, what naivety. Gunfire, grenades, tanks, bombs, missiles; they are nothing but ants before the looming skyscraper that is Gojo Satoru. 

This is destruction in its raw, purest form. 

This is what it means to be the strongest. 

… Somehow, you feel lesser than that ant. 

A speck of dust would be a more fitting description. 

You expect total disintegration when you reopen your eyes. You aren’t disappointed.

Concrete, wood, glass, steel, plastic, stone, and fabric alike were eviscerated. The ground where the nursery once stood is gone. A bygone era wrought with tragedy. The force behind this apex of energy blasted the wood partition around the playground, leaving nothing but a shadow to signify it ever existed. 

Gojo lowers his hand and turns away from the wreckage. 

“Don’t you think you went a bit overboard, Satoru?” Geto’s tone reminds you of the many scoldings Yaga has given the white-haired menace. 

“Just wanted to ensure the threat was dealt with, so Kenji can sleep through the night without wetting himself,” Gojo replies, smirking. “Alrighty then, who wants to sightsee—” 

“Naptime… naptime…” A garbled voice intones from the aftermath of Gojo’s attack. 

The deformed curse lifts itself like a marionette fastened to invisible strings. It’s tall, with an emaciated build and haggard skin. Long clumps of thick hair emerge from its scalp, greasy and matted. Each feeble step it takes is accompanied by a snapping sound, as if its joints are begging for collapse. The humanoid shape disturbs you most of all. Cracked lips, bloodied eye sockets, chunks of deathly pale skin sloughing off brittle bones; this curse looks more like a corpse than anything else. 

Most damning, however, is the sheer power it’s radiating. 

“Do… they… slumber…?” It croaks.

Suguru assumes an offensive position, but Gojo puts an arm out, stopping him. 

“Something’s off,” Gojo warns. If you thought he sounded serious before, that doesn’t compare to his timbre now. “Don’t attack it.” 

The curse’s legs give out. That doesn’t stop it from crawling on. Lanky fingers claw at the rubble, searching desperately.

Geto summons a handful of curses in its radius. He keeps them on standby while the three of you track every movement, every ebb and flow of cursed energy. The curse grabs and cradles the sediment in its crooked hands, then rocks the amalgamation as if it were a baby. 

“Did you hit it?” You whisper, knowing fully well the question is pointless. You don’t care. You need any semblance of control possible when confronted with the terrifying unknown. 

“I did. The impact inflicted zero damage,” Gojo removes his sunglasses and tucks them away.

“A special condition, then?” Geto proposes. “One that makes it impervious to all harm until…” 

You hear a sniffle. 

Then a whimper. 

And a gurgle. 

“Hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush, hush—” 

The curse repeats this mantra with increasing aggravation until its shrill voice is all you can hear. The cursed energy that enveloped it seconds prior flows out in multiple directions, like a heart pumping blood to the rest of the body. The energy is absorbed. Not a meager trace remains, every drop was sucked dry by multiple sources. 

All is still. 

All is silent. 

A bloodcurdling wail reverberates throughout the curtain. 

Eighteen appendages propel out of the curse in the middle, puncturing it from the inside out as if the limp mass was a cocoon. 

There’s no need for deliberation.

The three of you scatter in different directions. 

“Cursed Technique: Ophanim.” 

Two glowing, golden rings the size of wheels manifest by your side. The outside surface is adorned with closed eyes, each arranged individually on top of the other rather than in pairs. The two rings work in tandem to slice through the appendage barreling toward you. You recall them to your side, running at a breakneck speed to avoid the five fleshy appendages still seeking your demise. 

Gojo and Geto are in a similar predicament. Running, leaping, and dodging the seismic attacks that leave massive craters in its wake. A single hit from that would crush your body in an instant. Then there’s the disorienting wailing, originating from multiple locations throughout the curtain’s interior. You can’t pinpoint where the sounds are coming from. 

Adrenaline pumps through your veins, oxygen rushes with each sharp inhale, and your muscles strain to keep up with the demands you make of them. 

The sixth appendage, which your cursed technique cut through, lurches from above. Whole and better than ever. Unlike before, its momentum is lightning-fast. The change is so instantaneous that you have no time to respond accordingly. Death’s harbinger looms, engulfing your existence in its hungry shadow. Instead of slicing it off at the wrist, you propel your rings up, accelerating their spin at the cost of speed. Flesh and cartilage rips above you in the shape of a thin slit. 

The appendage plummets down. 

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear voices yelling out your name. 

An unpleasant, viscous substance coats you from head to toe. 

You grimace and wipe off what you can. Geto’s curses managed to cut the appendage off at the joint, preventing it from rising and trying to crush you again. Your rings barely managed to carve a hole big enough to span the width of your body. That doesn’t mean you’re safe just yet — the five remaining appendages that have you as their target are seconds away. Unlike the one you just faced, their speed is manageable. 

The more damage inflicted, the faster they are after healing, you think. This must be why Gojo and Geto are dodging instead of going on the offense.

However, since you remained still to avoid getting crushed by what your rings hadn’t cut through, the other five appendages are inbound. They’ve fanned out, blocking any angle you’d use to dodge. 

You dismiss your cursed technique. 

What can be done here? This curse is easily a Grade One. The centermost part is invulnerable and the eighteen limbs growing off it speed up when damaged. Summoning more rings so you can escape this attack means the next will come swifter, building and building to unimaginable speeds. You know your limits. The second healed limb was a hair below the fastest you’ve ever run. 

Gojo and Geto could handle the levels above that. Maybe there’s a limit to how many times the limbs can regenerate, reaching that could exorcise the curse. No curse is truly invincible, even if it seems like it in the moment. You must be the reason why they haven’t commenced a counterattack. They knew anything above a second regeneration would do you in. 

Is that really the only way? 

Something wet drips on your head.

You use what little time you have to glance up. 

Suspended midair is a small outline, made visible by the viscera that spurted from your cursed technique’s earlier attack. Sluggishly, you blink, wiping the blood from your eyes to ensure you aren’t hallucinating. The outline’s edges wriggle and squirm. You realize that it’s doing so in time with the incessant wailing. 

“What do you think you’re doing, spacing out in the middle of a fight?” 

Gojo must’ve warped in front of you.

You recognize the hand motion he’s making, and cry out, “Don’t! That’ll only make it—” 

“I know, I know,” Gojo launches a devastating blow that obliterates the five incoming appendages, reducing them to pitiful scraps. “I didn’t just run a marathon for you to give up and become a pancake.” 

“I didn’t give up,” you snap back. 

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “Good. Cause we need to hose you off as soon as possible.” 

You let out a noise in between a laugh and a cry. How can he crack jokes under these dire circumstances?

“Gojo—” 

“Ah ah ah,” The menace cuts you off, “Satoru. Call me anything else and I’m leaving you to handle this on your own.” 

While speaking his untimely quips, he continuously forms and releases his Cursed Technique Lapse, Blue. This forces the broken appendages into a cycle of stitching themselves together only to get destroyed again. It stuns you, how he can casually hold a conversation while performing a technique that’d use all your cursed energy to execute once. Never mind countless times in rapid succession. 

“Satoru,” you try again, to which he hums, “This… thing above me, do you think it’s…?” 

“The weak spot for this Ju-On ripoff? Yeah. Just noticed that. Suguru’s curses are self-destructing near them, so their invisibility’s useless.” 

The six appendages that tracked Satoru join the fray, granting Geto additional space to maneuver unhindered. Floating blobs covered in the innards of curses appear one by one like macabre lanterns in the night sky. You can’t stop yourself from admiring how effortless they make it look. It was all you could do to avoid the curses’ attacks, that required every ounce of your cognition. Meanwhile, they pieced together the curses’ gimmick and started countermeasures. 

“Anything broken?” Satoru asks. 

“Just a few sprains.” 

“Great. Now, I’m about to ask for a lot, but it’s nothing I don’t think you can’t handle.” 

You exhale shakily. 

“There’s another application of your cursed technique, right?” 

How does he know that? 

You’ll worry about this oddity later. 

“There is, but,” you stare down at your blood-soaked hands, “Why are you asking?” 

Satoru takes a moment to consider his response. The gory splatters are reforming faster and faster, you’ve lost count of how many blasts he’s used to cut them down. It’s almost imperceptible, but you can tell he can’t keep this up forever. Each subsequent use of Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue requires more energy than the last. If he’s a sliver off in his calculations, then the appendages will heal instantaneously and skewer your body faster than death can claim you. 

Geto leaps down from a hovering curse. 

“There are seventeen sources, just like you said,” he huffs, wiping the perspiration trickling down his temple. “Each one is visible now.” 

Seventeen sources? 

“This eyesore’s a distraction. Those screaming curses — they’re the real target here,” Satoru says. 

You consider the curse a few feet above your head. “So we should attack them, right?” 

Geto shakes his head. “We tried that. They didn’t sustain any damage.” 

“Seriously?” 

“This is just a theory, but,” Satoru takes a deep breath, “Seventeen of the eighteen victims from this place had their life support pulled simultaneously, right?” 

Huh. So he did read the briefing after all. 

This conjecture prickles at your skin like tiny needles. The screaming, the small stature these curses have, every detail comes crashing down at once. Maggots writhing beneath your skin would be more pleasant. 

It isn’t them, you tell yourself, because you have to. It’s an echo. The curse they left behind. 

You steeple your fingers. Cursed energy thrums around and through you, reverberating in your bones, and crackling throughout your soul. Simultaneously. That’s the key here. These curses can pull off their various immunities by using conditions to their advantage. 

The two warding off the original curses’ attacks before you are strong, yes, but this niche fits you well. 

If you’re able to perform it properly, that is. 

You accept every drop of cursed energy your body can handle. Once you’re filled to the brim, it’s expelled, rushing through the air like geysers. 

“Cursed Technique: Null.” 

Your ability is versatile if not simple. 

You can call forth golden rings that perpetually spin clockwise. Their size, speed, and sharpness are determined by you. At this point in your training, you can maintain two of these rings without sacrificing speed or sharpness. Should you bring out any more, they will dull and slow down for each addition made. Two could slash through steel, four could cut the same slab halfway, six would make a sizable dent, eight would leave a scratch; so on and so forth. 

There’s an additional application beyond this. 

Cursed Technique: Null — the pinnacle of the innate ability you inherited, Ophanim.

The sorcerer creates three rings around any object or organism. One spins around the target horizontally. The other two slant left and right respectively, all spinning counterclockwise. The closed eyes adorning the ring’s outside fly open. Unblinking, hypervigilant. If what they’re enclosed around is significantly weaker than the sorcerer, it can halt the movements of whatever or whoever is within. 

Your record is halting thirty mice for a total of two minutes and four seconds. 

Afterward, you can either dispel the rings or pull them toward the epicenter. The rings then slash through the target like a fruit slicer. 

You see the seventeen silhouettes emphasized with blood. 

As you will it, three golden rings surround each one. The cursed energy swaddling them hisses and resists your designs. Their wailing crescendos, culminating at an ear-piercing pitch. The fussing stops abruptly as the eyes on each ring open wide. Seventeen different targets, fifty-one rings… it is draining cursed energy from you fast. 

Four seconds. This is as long as you trust the halt to work.

That leaves the issue of cutting through them. 

These aren’t the used soda cans you’ve practiced on. They are curses, Semi-Grade One if you were to guess. You’re a Grade Three sorcerer. The chasm here won’t be bridged by a miracle, you’ll have to risk catapulting across and plummeting to your demise. Satoru’s likely unaware of your technique’s specifics, as even you required trial and error to determine this much. You never found documentation on Ophanim. Every unraveled facet is owed to you. 

These fifty-one rings are too dull. They won’t make so much as an indent.

What you need here is a binding vow. Your own strength isn’t enough. Risk, danger, and death breathing down your neck; these are the ingredients you require. There’s a chance it won’t work and you’re condemning yourself to an early grave. If you don’t try, though, you don’t know how long Satoru and Geto can keep those appendages down. 

Time to leap across. 

For every second I don’t exorcise these curses, ten of my bones will break, you think. Should I reach ten seconds, my heart will stop.

Cursed energy surges through you. It finds the prospect of your end tantalizing, but without providing itself, won’t have the opportunity to claim you. 

One.

(The rings gain immeasurable speed).

Two. 

(It hurts, but the curses will hurt too). 

Three. 

(Simultaneous incisions are made through seventeen curses).

The wailing stops. 

…

So does your breathing. 

-

August 15th, 2005. Grade One Curse  ‘The Caretaker’ and Semi-Grade One Curses ‘Little Ones’ were exorcised at 9:34 p.m. in Kaizu.

-

Hospital rooms aren’t renowned for their interior design. 

Flimsy pillows, scratchy gowns, thin blankets, bright yellow lights, ghostly white walls, it’s an affront to the eyes. You almost want to continue resting if that’s all you’ll get to look at. Considering how stiff your neck is and how your limbs feel heavier than a grand piano, you assume you’ve done enough sleeping. 

You prop yourself up as much as you can. This slight shift makes your body complain, nice and loud. 

Footsteps rush over to your bed. You hear your name spoken, intermixed with a relieved sigh. 

“You don’t stay knocked down for long, do you?” Geto muses. His smile is gentle and his eyes crinkle in delight. “Welcome back. How do you feel?” 

“Like I got run over by a train,” you rasp. 

You’re in desperate need of some vocal warmups. 

Geto grabs a water bottle from the windowsill and hands it over. While you gulp the heavenly elixir down, he continues speaking. 

“You weren’t out for long — two days. Well, two and a half days. It’s noon now.”

You relax after hearing this. Geto knew how to assuage any worries you might have before you dared to voice them. Everyone has their own way of bringing kindness into the world, this happens to be his. 

“Seriously? I was expecting you to say it’s the year 2010 or something. No flying cars yet?”  

“None that I’ve seen,” Geto’s laugh sounds light and airy. “Shoko’s reversed cursed technique is truly a marvel. It accelerated your healing, but I imagine the pain will linger a while longer.” 

You’ll have to cook Shoko one of her favorite dishes when you get back. You don’t want to think about how long it would’ve taken for you to heal naturally, much less if it’d heal right. Bones are finicky like that. You imagine yours weren’t happy at how you offered them up on a silver platter. 

She spared your family so much pain. You’ll forever be indebted to her for that.

Glancing around, you notice three mismatched chairs surrounding your bed. Geto follows your line of sight.

“Shoko and I finally chased Satoru out about an hour ago. He’s lived in this room since you were admitted. Didn’t sleep a wink either,” Geto gives you an expression you can’t quite place. “Around the forty-two-hour mark, he started making strange suggestions.” 

Heaviness seeps into the air, thick and palpable, like a noxious gas.  

“What kind of suggestions?” 

“Suggestions like killing the higher-ups, for starters.” 

Your thudding heart leaps to your throat. “... Huh?” 

“It’s not anything he hasn’t said in jest before. This time, however,” Geto fixates his attention on the intravenous line threaded into your arm. You can feel the weight of his stare. “He wasn’t joking.” 

It feels like you’re in one of those dreams that mimics reality so well, the line separating the two becomes increasingly distorted. You entertain the theory briefly. A single sweep of the room dispels the illusion. The loose thread on Geto’s shoulder, the sounds of carts rolling down the long hospital corridors, the lemon-tinged scent from cleaning supplies; could a dream be this detailed? 

You don’t think so.

Sensing your haziness, he clarifies, “I talked him out of it by speaking in your stead. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.”

“What… what do the higher-ups have to do with anything…?” 

How do they factor into the two plus two equals four equation? 

Geto pulls a chair over to your bedside, sits, and contemplates. Such a grave visage doesn’t belong on a fifteen-year-old’s face. It reminds you of a father preparing to explain why he and their mother are getting a divorce to their children. 

He weighs his next words on a scale only he’s privy to.

“Satoru had a gut feeling that there was more to the Kaizu mission. He must not have wanted you to have that in the back of your mind out on the field, since all it takes is one mistake to—”

He cuts himself off. His complexion takes a pallid shade.

You give him a gentle smile. Geto is more considerate than you initially gave him credit for. Ignoring the dull ache, you lean forward, placing your hand over his.

“It’s okay. You can keep going.” 

The tips of his ears turn red. 

He blinks rapidly, clears his throat, and then soldiers on. “R-Right. Well, you saw how he acted. With his Six Eyes, he spotted the remains of another sorcerer when he looked at the nursery. The briefing conveniently omitted the fact that Kenji wasn’t alone. This confirmed Satoru’s suspicions. He wanted to wrap things up fast to get you out of there, but… that curse proved challenging.” 

“I’m getting this over with.” 

Ah. So that’s why he came off that way, you think. Still… couldn’t there have been a better way? Why is blocking people out his go-to?

“We believe the Zenins — those in Kenji’s immediate circle, to be specific — hoped that you’d be… killed, to emphasize how formidable the threat he faced was. Since this job was assigned through the school, some of the higher-ups must’ve known and granted their blessing.” 

“... Oh.” 

The room’s air conditioning whirrs to life, billowing the beige curtains draped over the closed window. Outside, a cicada crawls over the glass pane. It pauses to recite its buzzing melody. Since it’s summer, you can expect to see and hear these insects until autumn’s chill sweeps away the heat. 

You hope Satoru witnessed a similarly trivial scene while sitting in this room.  

It’s important to remember just because you feel stuck, the world won’t stop spinning onward. 

“Would it be okay if I called you Suguru?” 

He nods without hesitation.  

“Suguru, earlier you said that you changed Satoru’s mind by voicing my perspective since I couldn’t,” you start, your cadence gentle. You handpick each word with great care. “Does this mean that, personally, you agreed with him?” 

His countenance is like that of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. This look doesn’t overstay its welcome. Once he assesses you, from your open posture to your soft stare, he’s back to his usual self. 

“Busted, huh? And here I thought you’d be too groggy to pick up on anything incriminating.”

“A corrupt official such as myself must remain vigilant,” you reply with a cheeky grin. Then, you reorient yourself to communicate what’s been gnawing at you properly. “There’s a lot I don’t know about these ‘higher-ups’ or ‘Zenins,’ that you keep referring to. What little I do know doesn’t paint them in a favorable light. For all I know, they could be irredeemable in every sense of the word. But…”

“... Even though this is a selfish wish, I’m making it anyway. Say they do have to go. That it’s 100% certain they’re just that bad. I don’t want you or Satoru to be the ones to carry it out. Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that? Doesn’t a part of yourself die with them?”

A lump grows in your throat. You force it down. 

“So, thank you for stopping him and yourself. Sorcerers are meant to fight curses, right? Protect those who can’t protect themselves. That sort of stuff.”

Suguru squeezes your hand gently, as if you were made of porcelain. 

It stops you from shattering. 

After a few minutes, your erratic breathing settles. He whispers your name like he’s making a promise.

“You’re right,” he says, a newfound resolve built into the very fabric of those two words. “Protecting the weak is what matters most. Tossing everything into disarray would threaten that. It’s easier to fix what’s broken than to demolish and rebuild from scratch.” 

… Is that what you meant? 

Exhaustion clouds your senses. You must’ve burnt through your scarce reserves of energy. You can vaguely discern Suguru running the pad of his thumb over your hand, before detaching himself. He readjusts your pillow so it supports your head better. After murmuring your gratitude, you sink into sleep’s warm embrace. 

Right as you’re traipsing the fine line between wakefulness and the unconscious, there’s a light sensation of something brushing your hair back. 

This unknown doesn’t inspire fear or outrage. 

Instead, it lulls you further into the recesses of peace. 

-

You’re discharged from the hospital later that day. 

An auxiliary manager from Tokyo Jujutsu High drives you back. You spend the car ride staring out the passenger side window, taking in the bustle of busy citizens and dazzling lights. It never fails to amaze you how people wordlessly maneuver around each other to maintain the flow of traffic. It’s a tempo that can’t be instructed, rather, one must adapt in real time without a conductor.  

Can non-sorcerers truly be considered weak? 

The description torments you as if it were a thorn in your side. 

Your fingers drum over the dashboard.

What does it mean to be strong, anyway? 

-

The next time you activate your cursed technique, you can summon and maintain four rings without sacrificing sharpness or speed. 

For the past few days, you’ve been playing around with different formations. Four rings orbiting your body provide considerable defense from projectiles and close combat. Then, if you let two out, you gain the means to attack. Lastly, ditching defense to pour everything into offense is a viable option as well. Your biggest obstacle is how mentally taxing it is to track and manipulate four rings at once.

It requires great concentration. This isn’t an issue if you’re alone, but you doubt that curses will play nice and let you stand perfectly still. 

You flip your My Melody notebook to the next page and scribble down, 

Two rings uptime — twelve hours.Four rings uptime — one hour. Four rings uptime w/ distractions — ten minutes. Maximum distance — one hundred meters. Maximum rings at once — sixty. Uptime on maximum rings — five seconds.

Thinking back to The Caretaker, you twist your lips.

If you’d been sent on that mission by yourself, would this have been enough to win the fight? You’re alive because you were with Satoru and Suguru. There’s no denying the infallible truth. You can’t always rely on reports to accurately grade a curse. There’s also the chance once certain conditions are met, the curse can gain strength throughout the fight, and—

“Cute handwriting.” 

“Eek!” 

Hugging your notebook to your chest, you jump back, indignation rushing through you like molten magma. Who snuck up on you? How did they do it? You can ascertain the presence of others in your vicinity well. You know when Shoko’s sneaking out through her window at night, if Suguru’s about to enter the room, or when Utahime is seconds away from busting into the classroom to lecture Satoru about levitating her lunch onto the roof again.

Squinting, you assess the assailant. Pearly white hair, round sunglasses, a lean and towering figure… 

“Satoru? You’re back?” 

According to Shoko, Satoru was called to Kyoto for business relating to the Big Three not long after they returned from the hospital. It’d been two weeks since then. You’ve gotten so used to having him around, that his absence felt pronounced. Shoko mainly lamented that her ‘walking free meal ticket’ was gone whereas Utahime rejoiced. You’ve never seen your upperclassman so ecstatic. 

Her hopes and dreams will be dashed come morning. 

“Just got in, yeah. Why? Oh! I know! You must’ve missed me terribly. Here, here. It’s alright. C’mere and tell me all about it— oof!” 

There is a barrier that separates Satoru from everyone and everything. 

‘Infinity,’ he calls it. The ability to slow down encroaching mass to such a degree that it appears as if it stopped. He can keep it activated for long lengths of time. One day, he intends to reach a level where he’ll never have to turn it off. Anyone else who proposed a goal like that would either be conceited or delusional. The amount of cursed energy necessary to pull that off is immeasurable. 

Satoru isn’t just anyone, though. 

So when he sets an impossible goal, it enters the realm of feasibility. 

His infinity is active once you leap toward him, lasting up until the very last millisecond. When you breach the threshold that denies access to anyone else, it recedes, rushing away to accommodate your presence. Infinity remains present, molding itself around your shape. The top of your head, the slope of your shoulders, down to your soles; for a fleeting moment in time, infinity chooses you over Satoru’s parameters.  

Your cheek hits his chest. He has to steady you so you don’t go tumbling back. While he does this, you snake your arms around him, squeezing him tight. In doing so, yet another anomaly occurs. 

You’ve rendered Gojo Satoru speechless. 

When you pull back, you notice his sunglasses are crooked. You straighten them out for him and nod in approval. Smiling ear to ear, you chirp, 

“Welcome home, Satoru!” 

He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“... Isn’t this a school, though?” He finally manages to get out. 

“Pfft, I didn’t think you were the type to get hung up on details like that,” you laugh. “Home’s anywhere you want it to be. For me, that’s here.” 

You gesture to the surrounding area. Tall trees sway per the wind’s wishes, their green leaves painted blue and silver by the night sky. The moon overhead serves as your silent witness. No matter where you are, it will find and pursue you to the ends of the earth. Crickets chirp, cicadas buzz, and frogs croak by ponds rippling with their young. The night air is damp, but the coolness granted by the sun’s absence makes it tolerable. 

“Honestly, I don’t know what to make of you sometimes,” Satoru tries painting a veneer of nonchalance over his words, but you can see through the cracks. You’re getting better at doing that.  “Suguru said you were as peppy as ever; I didn’t believe him. They checked for brain damage, right? How many fingers am I holding up?” 

(He holds up two). 

“Ten,” you reply without missing a beat. 

“Funny girl.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

You both silently size one another up. Or, in Satoru’s case, down, because he’s freakishly tall. You’re the first to break the supposed standoff. Laughter rings through the air, just yours at first, but it’s soon joined by his. The two of you stand in the middle of a forest at midnight cackling like a bunch of witches before a sabbath. 

You feel absurd and giddy in a way that only comes from being around Satoru.

Some point after the laughter dies off, you can feel Satoru’s eyes scanning over every dip and curve of your being. 

After reaching some conclusion, his shoulders droop. The dopey grin on his face shifts into something more neutral, more reserved. His hands find their way into his pockets. He kicks a pebble into the woods, and you both listen to it tumbling downhill until the sound fades away. The thickets shift from wildlife’s constant antics, accommodating what little fauna lives inside Tengen’s barrier. 

“I’m not going to take back what I said, because I meant it,” Satoru asserts. He doesn’t have to elaborate — you know what he’s referring to. “Had you… had that mission gone as they intended, I wouldn’t have hesitated.” 

An owl hoots on a distant tree branch. 

Chills nibble all over your skin like little bug bites. You hug yourself to stave the sensation off. 

“Even if you knew that isn’t what I’d want?”

“Even then.” 

“So, you’re admitting it’d be for your sake?” 

“Most things are.”

“I don’t buy that,” you frown. “You’re kinder than you realize.”

His eyebrows pinch together and his rosy lips part. It takes him a moment to dislodge the words stuck in his throat.

“... Not many people would agree,” he smiles thinly.  

“Fine, just me then, since that’s easier to prove,” you hold up a single finger and raise another for each subsequent point. “One, you always leave my favorite coffee cans where you know I’ll find them. Two, whenever we’re facing a curse, you step in front to guard me. Three, if I look all sad and homesick, you make stupid jokes to take my mind off things. And four, there’s what happened in Kaizu. You—” 

“I told you to use a technique you weren’t ready for.” 

You blink. 

He tucks his sunglasses away, removing yet another barrier. His crystalline eyes shimmer beneath the moon’s glow. 

“How much do you know about your mentor’s history?” 

Ah, yes, your mentor — Ishimoto Akane. 

She stands at 5’8, boasts piercing green eyes, short, tousled black hair, and a tattoo of a thorny rose that envelops her entire left arm. When it came to reading the room, no one could fail as spectacularly as her. She never minced words, found basic tasks boring, and doted over her iguana named Wormwood like he was the second coming of Christ. When she wasn’t pampering Wormwood, she could be found in her very disorganized garage, tinkering with cars or motorcycles. Her neighbors filed numerous sound complaints thanks to her speakers blasting disco at unholy hours. Somehow, she never got caught. 

For lack of a better word, your jujutsu mentor is eccentric. 

Most notably, she saved you and your parent’s lives from a curse when you were six. You’ve been joined by the hip ever since. 

As for her history…

“Um, well, I know that she’s from Omachi. She moved out of Japan in her late teens because ‘jujutsu sorcerers are an absolute drag,’ or something like that.”

“That’s a start,” Gojo hums. “Let me fill in the blanks. The Ishimoto family goes back a ways. They might not be as influential as the Big Three, but their connections are nothing to scoff at. They’re like little leeches, sustaining themselves off others. Arranged marriages are their whole thing. Akane was set to marry some third son of a Zenin bigwig. She dipped on the day of the wedding.” 

That sounds like your mentor alright. 

“Personally, I find that hilarious. Her family and the Zenins aren’t of the same opinion. They essentially disowned her. Anyway! Fast forward a few years. Rumors spread that the infamous Akane is popping up in Tokyo every now and then, with some kid by her side. Ring any bells?” 

You point to yourself and he nods. 

She took you on training trips under the guise of an ‘exchange student program’ in the summer, which your parents considered to be an excellent opportunity. You felt bad for deceiving them, but explaining the whole ‘fighting invisible monster things with emotion magic’ would’ve made for a rough conversation. 

“It wasn’t until a couple of months back that I ran into her. I came right out and asked what I’d been curious about — why did she come back? She just shrugged and said she was done being a teacher. That answer didn’t satisfy me. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that. I’m far worse though,” he boasts, fully looking and sounding the part. “In return for picking up her tab at an izakaya, she fessed up the truth.”

He steeples his fingers together, pantomiming a hand motion you’re intimately familiar with.

“Cursed Technique: Null, the advanced application of Ophanim. Akane’s convinced an ability like that, at its full potential, would be crazy strong.” 

She never said anything like that to me, you think.

You shake your head. This isn’t the most pressing matter now. 

“Satoru, what are you getting at here?” 

“That you shouldn’t think I’m kind. I wanted to judge your technique’s potential for myself, so I had you take on more than you could handle.” 

“You wouldn’t have let me die, though.” 

He chuckles mirthlessly. “And what a hero I am for that.” 

You purse your lips. You’ve never seen Satoru be this hard on himself. His cadence is the same — lighthearted, easygoing — but there’s an underlying acrimony to it. His smile doesn’t reach his brilliant eyes. He comes across as a spirit mimicking another’s likeness. This should unnerve you, maybe it will upon further reflection. 

Right now, however, you just want him to get across that you aren’t upset. What’s done is done. 

“It’s—” 

Satoru puts a hand up, stopping you prematurely. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t forgive me, not yet, anyway. You need to get better at looking out for yourself. You’re nice to a fault.” 

You glare at him halfheartedly. “What’s so wrong with being nice?” 

“Living in a world like this, where there are people like me.” 

“A world full of Gojo Satoru’s… that is a terrifying thought,” you murmur. His lips twitch upward, but he catches himself. “Bleh, what is it with you people and rejecting basic human decency! Akane was the same way. I’m fed up with it!” 

You storm toward him, your eyes narrow and jaw set tight. 

“I’m going to be who I want to be and that’s that. Maybe I’m naïve—” 

“—Oh, it isn’t a maybe, you definitely are—” 

You hush him by placing your finger to his lips, much to his surprise, if his wide eyes are of any indication. 

“—But you don’t get to tell me how to act or think or feel. That’s my business. I forgive you, alright? Now cut it out with the brooding. Let’s be real here. Doing that’s for you, not for me.” 

There’s an intensity to his stare you’ve never experienced prior. It makes your head feel light and hazy. Remembering yourself, you pull your hand back, heat rushing to your face. You may have gotten carried away. He isn’t wrong about you exercising more vigilance, but something about him critiquing a core aspect of your identity stings. The description ‘oversensitive’ can join the same limbo your ‘nice to a fault’ and ‘naïve’ proclivities hang out in. 

Finding your current predicament too overwhelming, you break eye contact. 

“Alright, alright, I get it, quit scowling. Remind me never to piss you off again, it’s scary,” he sounds more like himself, much to your relief. “I thought of a happy medium, just for you.” 

Satoru compromising? Did you die during that fight after all? You never thought you’d see the day. Shoko isn’t going to believe you. 

“And that happy medium is…?” 

His dumb grin makes a triumphant return. He knows he’s got your attention, no matter how cool you try to play it. 

“Keep being your sweet little self. If anyone tries taking advantage of that quality, and I mean anyone, come tell Suguru or myself. We’ll take care of it.” 

What is he, a member of the mob?! 

Whatever, it’s a step in the right direction. You think. Maybe. 

“I’m not a snitch,” you huff. 

“Fine, I’ll use my own discretion then.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re gonna have to get used to it.” 

You quirk an eyebrow. “How do you figure?” 

“Call it intuition,” he hums, smoothly sliding his sunglasses back into place. It makes you angry how cool he looks while doing so. “Or, better yet, love at first sight. Yeah. Let’s go with that, actually.” 

Wait, what? 

Your heart thunders against your ribcage and you gape at him like a fish. 

“You…! Y-You can’t just say something like that!” 

“But I did.” 

“Ugh, I’ve had enough. I’m headed to bed. Go find somebody else to mess with.” 

Satoru pauses, considering the words you’ve spoken without any real bite. Then he smiles. Not in the cocky, arrogant manner he’s infamous for either. The curvature is gentle. Almost sentimental. It takes you aback and makes you wonder if your eyes are malfunctioning. 

“I can’t,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It has to be you.” 

It has to be you, it has to be you, it has to be you… 

These five damning words loop in your head like a mantra. Who gave him the right to sound so sincere? 

“Sleep well. You get all grumpy if you don’t. Having one Utahime around is more than enough, I don’t need you getting on my case too.” 

Satoru turns around, pulling one hand out from his pocket to wave halfheartedly. You observe his retreating figure before snapping out of your daze. He drops a cryptic line like that and dares to casually waltz away, whistling while he does so! The nerve! The audacity! The whistling is off-pitch too! Jujutsu Tech seriously needs to consider adding music theory to the curriculum. 

You jog to catch up with him and his stupidly long legs. 

“Hey, Satoru!” You call out. 

He stops and looks at you from over his shoulder. 

“If you’re gonna watch out for me, I plan to return the favor,” you say, your tone leaving no room to argue. “You hear me?” 

He waits until he’s facing forward again to respond. For this reason, you can’t see his expression. All you can make out is the outline of him giving a thumbs up, the edges of his skin swathed in silvery moonlight. 

“Mhm. Loud and clear.”  

-

December 23rd, 2017. 

8:02 p.m. 

-

You assess the man in front of you.

Pearly white hair, bandages wrapped around his eyes, a lean and towering figure… it’s Satoru, alright. There’s no mistaking his remarkable cursed energy. You could sense it — sense him — even in your deepest sleep. Amongst those at Jujutsu Tech, you’re the only one who can tell when he’s about to warp out of thin air. It’s become a running joke of sorts. Gojo Satoru has the Six Eyes and you possess a sixth sense for him. 

Or so you thought. 

“Are you hearing yourself?” 

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Loud and clear, yeah.” 

“This isn’t funny, Satoru!” 

“I’m not laughing, am I?” 

“No, but,” you inhale shakily, wisely taking a second to tame your tongue. “You’re not taking this seriously— not taking me seriously.”

He frowns. You come close to regretting your words, falling just a few inches short. Arguments aren’t your forte. Determining when to surrender ground, bolster your defenses, or charge into enemy territory; this is a skill that requires practice. Especially when facing Satoru. You don’t want to consider him an opponent, but that’s what he feels like right now. An imposing wall blocking you from the road you have to take. 

You regret turning up the duplex’s heat. Chilly as it is outside in the throes of winter, the air in this room has become scorching. 

“Is that genuinely what you think?” 

And there it is. He already knows the answer, as do you. He simply wants you to have your confession on record. 

You grab the water bottle you left on the kitchen countertop, drinking enough to help ease the lump in your throat. This isn’t the time to cry. Not yet. Not before anything major occurs. The crisis hasn’t taken the stage, Christmas Eve holds that honor. Illogical as it may be, you don’t think you’ve earned the emotional release crying brings. That should remain a consolation prize to you in the future. 

The you who will witness the horrors Geto Suguru plans to orchestrate. 

The you who will learn how this decade-long saga ends. 

Can the human heart endure anguish worse than this?  

Tomorrow, this question will receive an answer, whether you want it or not. 

“... It isn’t.” 

“Good,” he says, somehow soft and firm. He opens up his arms. “C’mere.” 

You’re sinking into him before he finishes the word. He secures you against his chest and the two of you tangle together like you’d unravel should you part. Satoru rests his chin on the crown of your head, mindlessly tracing patterns into your back. Or so you think, until you recognize the distinct grooves and curves of the characters which form Gojo. 

He engraves it into you over and over again as if casting a spell. 

This action must soothe him. You count each thump of his heart, noting how it settles into a steadier rhythm as the seconds tick by. The world’s strongest sorcerer is made of flesh and blood just like you are. It’s easy to forget that those you love and admire are mortal, regardless of how well they hide it. Those close to godhood must act the part, lest their audience murmur in suspicion. 

“I don’t think I could do it, Toru.” 

He doesn’t need to ask what you mean. 

“Intentionally killing someone… could there be anything worse than that?” 

No, you desperately scream to your younger self, as if there were any way to make her hear you. There really isn’t. 

“I know.” 

“... Could you?” 

Satoru’s muscles stiffen. From this alone, you can glean his answer. From your lack of prodding, he must piece this together too. Talkative as you both are, it’s in these pockets of total silence that your communication shines best. Everything from the subtle hitching of breath to the twitch of one another’s lips reveals streams of information to sift through. 

You can tell he doesn’t want to let you go, but you manage to wriggle out of his vice-like grip, creating a few inches of distance.

Reaching up, you undo the bandages around his eyes. He leans down to aid you in your task. Once the last strip comes off, you fold the linen neatly and put it aside. Satoru’s pretty eyes follow your every movement. When your attention returns to him, it’s impossible to overlook how hard he’s straining to fight back a smile. 

He quickly abandons the farce. 

Large hands seek out yours. Subconsciously, you meet him halfway, automatically drawn to him as if you were both different ends of a magnet. His slender fingers interlace with yours. His countenance radiates such fondness, such unfiltered reverence, that you find yourself getting embarrassed.

“W-What?” You choke out. 

“Just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy alive, is all,” he hums. His grin widens at how his unabashed compliments fluster you. Shame isn’t in his lexicon. “You went from looking like you wanted to bite my head off to doting on me.” 

You roll your eyes yet chuckle nonetheless. He visibly perks up at the sound. He must’ve made you laugh thousands of times over the years, but he still treats each instance as if he’d experienced the most delightful composition. 

He whispers your name. 

“You trust me, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then do this for me, baby.” 

“But…” you trail off, unable and perhaps unwilling to reinforce your argument, “Everyone is going to be risking their lives. Nanamin, Ijichi, ours and Iori’s students; even Shoko’s going out on the field. How am I supposed to sit still knowing that?” 

“You don’t have to sit still, my little energizer bunny.” 

The deadpan look he receives has him (wisely) reconsidering his word choice. 

“I’m not asking because I don’t trust you, I’m asking because there’s no one I trust more,” Satoru tries again. You bite your lower lip. It’s unfair how much his rare glimpses of sincerity move you. 

“And this is all based on a hunch?” 

“Mhm.” 

Satoru lifts your left hand. He caresses your skin, his smile softening into something tender. An expression that’s exclusively for you. 

“Historically, my hunches are rather reliable.”

You can’t argue with the truth. 

Suguru appears to have some unknown design for Okkotsu Yuta, who is to remain at Jujutsu Tech during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The special-grade curse Orimoto Rika poses too many risks for him to be on the battlefield alongside allies. Since everyone down to the Ainu society is being called upon to deal with this threat, you’ve been awaiting your assignment. There’s no way they wouldn’t utilize every resource available. 

Satoru ruined this assumption.

He personally requested that you remain on standby at the school. 

He didn’t even tell you this himself. You found out from Maki of all people, who earlier asked why you were stuck ‘babysitting the exchange student.’ You were confused. This made her confused. Then you both remembered the menace that is Gojo Satoru and everything started adding up. 

His explanation upon answering the phone? 

“Oh, I was just getting around to telling you about that!” 

Needless to say, you didn’t share his enthusiasm. 

“Alright,” you sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on Yuta until everything is finished.” 

Content, he squeezes your hand. As he does so, the gemstone on your ring finger catches the light, mesmerizing you both.

You close your eyes and smile. 

‘Call it intuition,’ huh?

[callsign-mayhem]

heartbreak feels so good (part 3)

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female!Reader Word count: 6.2k CW: Shitty ex-boyfriends, slow burn, angst, fluff, use of Y/N

Part One Part Two

Whether by the grace of some mystical power or Elijah choosing to be sensible and avoid you, you managed to go three days without running into him on base. During these three days, you saw more of Bradley and Natasha than you ever had while working. You were an engineer and spent most of your days nestled underneath fighter jets or shoulder-deep in their engines, while your friends spent most of theirs in the sky. Because of this, it was rare that you crossed paths. 

While you’d found the past three days extremely pleasant, you knew their presence was only heavy because they were keeping an eye on you. 

On Monday, Bradley came into the hangar and told you that his jet had started making a weird noise whenever he took off. You spent most of the day attempting to pinpoint the problem, and he stayed with you while you worked, pestering you from his perch on an overturned oil drum.

Why did it take you so long to pinpoint the problem? Because there wasn’t one. After hours of taking things apart and adjusting things, you finally relented and asked him to start the engine while you were standing next to the plane. You listened intently for a few seconds and eventually held your hand up for him to cut the engine. 

Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you shouted: ‘I don’t hear anything!’

Bradley climbed out of the cockpit, looking confused. 

‘Huh, that’s odd. You must have fixed it without realising when you pulled that pipe out.’ 

‘Well, that’s lucky then.’ You played along. ‘I guess you can report back to Mav now.’

He seemed mildly disappointed. ‘I guess so.’

On Tuesday around lunchtime, Nat brought In-N-Out to the hangar. There was enough food to feed the whole squadron, so it shouldn’t have surprised you when Bradley, Jake, Bob, Javy, Mickey and Reuben waltzed in. You weren’t sure these guys even took lunch breaks, let alone took them all simultaneously. One thing you were sure of, however, was that Bradley was the only person on base who knew how much you loved In-N-Out. He’d discovered this after a particularly rowdy night out just before you’d met Elijah when you’d insisted he find a way to take you there even though you were both slaughtered and missing the rest of your group. He’d been the only one there, which led you to conclude that he’d orchestrated this group meal that had so clearly been intended to cheer you up.

I mean, come on. They weren’t even trying to hide it. It would have been flattering if not for the embarrassment. They were so concerned that you couldn’t cope with this heartbreak alone that they’d indirectly put you under a 24/7 watch. 

On Wednesday, Bradley and Nat were both waiting for you outside the hangar when you finished up for the day. They’d already changed out of their flight suits, and Nat had a beach bag over her shoulder. 

‘There she is,’ Bradley beamed, pushing his aviators onto the top of his head. ‘We’re heading to the beach for a swim. Thought you might like to join us.’ 

You had to admit, a dip in the ocean before dinner sounded nice. 

‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit, though.’

‘I have a spare.’ Natasha grinned. 

‘That’s convenient.’ You said, raising a brow.

She shrugged. ‘It’s always good to be prepared.’ 

Now, it was Thursday morning, and you were sitting outside on the tarmac, drinking coffee and watching the pilots start their drills. The sun might have been low in the sky, but from the way the air rippled above the runway, you could tell it would be a scorcher. After a delightful start to your week, you’d almost forgotten that you were supposed to have your guard up just in case. This wasn’t to say you’d forgotten about Elijah and all your negative emotions. It was more that you’d been too distracted to notice how your body and mind held said emotions, and it was only now that you saw him drilling with the rest of the pilots that you’d been reminded. 

As much as you hated to say it, he looked good when he dropped to the floor and started doing his press-ups. You had to find a way to get your mind off this undeniable fact that didn’t involve going inside before you’d finished your morning ritual. 

Nobody would have blamed you for opting to look at Bradley instead. Still, you felt guilty anyway, partly because you were only looking at him as a way of not looking at your ex and partly because it felt highly intimate, even though he had no idea what was happening. 

By the time you’d finished the last sip of your coffee, you needed a cool shower to bring you back down to planet Earth. To say you were flustered was perhaps the biggest understatement of the year.

Thankfully, time started to slip away the minute you lost yourself in your work for the day. Having something productive to do was massively beneficial. If nothing else, your heartbreak taught you that keeping your hands busy was the key to forgetting that you were in agony. 

Lunchtime came and went. The last time you’d so much as glanced at a clock, it had been 9:30 am. Now, at nearly 4 pm, you’d only put your wrench down because you needed the bathroom. 

There was only an hour left of your work day, and since you’d stopped and lost your momentum, you wondered whether anybody would miss you if you cut out early. The pilots had been in a training seminar all day, so you hadn’t seen anyone, and as much as you loved your friends for looking out for you, the peace and quiet had been soothing. Being able to zone out and focus on rebuilding part of an engine, scrubbing turbulence ducts or configuring navigation systems without half the squadron hovering over you had been damn near therapeutic. 

But you were ready for a well-deserved self-care night. 

After cleaning down, turning everything off and locking up, you made the short walk back to the main base and grabbed your belongings from your locker. Normally you changed clothes before leaving the base, but you didn’t want to risk running into anyone in the changing rooms, so you unzipped the top half of your flight suit and tied it around your waist. You always wore black tank tops underneath to avoid any noticeable oil stains. 

It seemed as though everyone else was still busy, as you didn’t run into anyone on your way through the building. In fact, you made it all the way to your car without so much as a ‘hey, Y/N.’ You were calm and content by the time you walked through your front door, more than happy to be alone with your own thoughts for the first time since the breakup. Part of you thought it was too soon to be this at ease, but you weren’t one for looking gift horses in the mouths. 

So, it was time to start your self care night. 

Step one: throw your dirty uniform in the wash. Step two: quick shower and hair wash.

Step three: run a bubble bath with your most luxurious products. Step four: pour yourself a glass of your favourite wine. Step five: relax in the aforementioned bubble bath and finally finish the novel you’d been trying to finish since last month. 

Step six: get rudely interrupted by someone buzzing your intercom thirty million times. 

Step six was supposed to be: get out of the bath, find your cosiest pyjamas and order takeout to eat while watching Gilmore Girls. 

This was not part of your plan. 

With a huff, you bookmarked your page (you were so close to being done that it almost hurt to put the book down) and grabbed a towel from the rack. The buzzing was constant, and you hoped whoever it was had either been mugged or stabbed. Or both. Because jeez. 

In your haste to get the buzzing to stop, you didn’t even ask who it was. Water dripped onto the floor where you stood, and you wrapped your towel tighter. Panic started to set in. What if it was Elijah? The thought of him seeing you like this after everything made you realise that opening the door in nothing but a towel was probably not a good idea. But just as you were about to run to your bedroom for your dressing gown, the knocking started. 

You froze. 

It wasn’t the usual three polite knocks that people usually make at somebody’s door. It was rapid and incessant, like the buzzing. Whoever stood behind that door really needed to see you. 

Heart racing, you peeked through the spy hole. Panic quickly gave way to shock, which soon gave way to a strange, warm sensation that tingled throughout your entire body, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. 

The strangeness of it all eclipsed your earlier decision to put on your dressing gown, and you opened the door without hesitating. 

Bradley was panting, clearly having run up all three flights of stairs leading to your apartment. He was still in his flight suit, the top of which was tied around his waist just as yours had been. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his neck, settling in the sweet spot where his collarbone started. His black T-shirt was soaked through. 

‘Bradley?’ 

Breathing heavily, he examined your towel-clad form and wet hair. 

‘What happened?’

You were lost. ‘What do you mean? Nothing happened, I was taking a bath.’ 

Bradley ran his hands through his hair, knotting it in his fists. He let his hands rest there momentarily while he caught a breath.

‘I came to see how your day went, and everything was locked. I thought something had happened.’

Now that he knew you were okay, his shoulders sagged, and he was able to offer you an embarrassment-tinged smile. 

‘I thought something had happened,’ he explained. ‘When you weren’t on base, I thought maybe you’d run into Viper, and he’d upset you. I don’t know. Guess I just panicked.’ 

You were simultaneously warmed and humiliated by Bradley’s thinking that something had happened and that it was his responsibility to come and fix things. It was like you couldn’t take care of yourself. You appreciated it, and at first, it was nice, but it was beginning to make you feel sheepish. 

You crossed your arms, which only drew attention to your very naked form. You felt your face warm, then your neck, then your chest. Paired with being treated like a child, it was a level of embarrassment you’d never had the misfortune of experiencing before. 

‘I can take care of myself.’ You murmured, unable to meet Bradley’s eye. 

He exhaled sharply. ‘I know you can, Y/N. Doesn’t stop me from worrying, though.’ 

Tentatively, you peeked at him from beneath your eyelashes. His gaze was locked onto your face in an attempt to stop himself from looking elsewhere. Bradley Bradshaw—ever the gentleman. 

You cleared your throat. ‘I can’t express how grateful I am for everyone taking care of me. Especially you, Roo. But I’d like it if you’d stop treating me like I’m going to break. I’m not that fragile.’ 

‘Oh, I know you’re not fragile, sweet girl. I just care about you so much.’

You couldn’t help but smile. ‘I care about you too.’

‘I can’t explain it. It’s not that I think you’re a flight risk,’ he smirked at his pun. ‘I just like taking care of you. I like knowing you’re safe and happy, and I like knowing that it’s because of me.’ 

You didn’t know which way to take this. It was a hard thing to hear for a few different reasons. For one, you weren’t used to hearing things like this from the men in your life, weren’t used to them wanting to take care of you. For two, it was coming from Bradley—one of your long-time best friends—and friendly wasn’t precisely the word you’d use to describe his tone. For three, you were standing in your apartment doorway in a towel with bubbles stuck to your legs, dripping water all over the floor. 

You couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped you, but Bradley wasn’t inside your head, so it seemed like you were laughing at his confession.

You apologised. ‘My brain is on overload right now,’ you explained. ‘And I don’t think this is a conversation we should have in the doorway while I’m in a towel.’

Bradley looked you up and down; although it was brief, you couldn’t ignore the hunger hidden behind it. It would have been easy to miss had you not been so well attuned to his mannerisms. Another addition to the list of things to be confused about. 

‘Yeah, I should leave you to it. We can talk some other time, when you’re fully clothed.’ He smirked.

Your blush deepened. ‘You gonna be at The Hard Deck tomorrow night?’

‘Is the sky blue?’

You chuckled. ‘Tomorrow it is, then.’

When Bradley got back to his apartment, he had no idea what to do with himself. He was sweating, covered in jet fuel and overthinking every word he’d just said to you, so the only option was an ice-cold shower. As he stood underneath the cool spray, he tried to imagine a world where things were simple. A world where you’d never met Elijah, never had your heart broken, and your whole perspective on love shattered. In this world, he wouldn’t have to wait for you to heal because it would have been him all along, and you’d never have gotten hurt. 

But you were hurt, and it had never been him. Judging by the way you’d laughed after his semi-confession, it might never be him, and this was harder to swallow than one of Penny’s homemade shots. 

He took his time in the shower, but all the cold water in the world couldn’t wash away the memory of you standing there in your fluffy white towel. This image was more powerful than everything else, and he was ashamed. It was more powerful than his anxiety over you not feeling the same, more powerful than the fear of losing your friendship. 

It wasn’t that he cared more about the thought of seeing you naked than getting turned down, or maybe not having you in his life anymore. It was more that his nerves were frayed after a really hard day at work, and he simply didn’t have the energy to dissect hidden truths and map out possible outcomes. His exhausted brain found it easier to latch onto the more simple thoughts and imagined scenarios, like coming home to you after a hard day, and having you take care of him in all the ways. Or sharing that bath with you and wrapping you in that towel with his own two hands before leading you to the bedroom and unwrapping it again. 

Pleasure and anticipation unfurled in his abdomen at the mere thought of your naked body beneath his. He didn’t need to experience it to know that skin-on-skin with you would be like finding out that heaven did exist and that it was a place on Earth. Or rather, a person. He tipped his head back and let it rest against the shower wall, and when he reached down to take his dick in his hands, the satisfaction transcended the guilt. 

It was only your name in his mind, repeating over and over like some kind of mantra.

Y/N. Y/N. Y/N.

It was the kind of news that felt like a swift kick to the gut.

Out of the entire Dagger Squad, Jake wasn’t your closest friend. You didn’t share deep secrets or have any inside jokes, and he wasn’t the first person you went to when you needed help or a cinema date. But he was still your friend, and you would miss him. 

Eighteen months abroad on some secret mission was a long time, especially when it was just him out of his entire squadron. You weren’t a fighter pilot, but you’d been sent away before as your skillset was rare amongst navy engineers. The six-month stint you did at sea was the scariest experience you’d ever had; nothing had topped it yet, and you highly doubted anything ever would. Eighteen months was inconceivable to you. 

Jake had known that he was going away for quite some time, but he hadn’t told anyone until two days before. He said he didn’t want his last few weeks Stateside to be ruined by everyone coddling him—he just wanted it to be normal. You could hardly blame him for that, but it made his news much harder to digest. You’d only found out about the mission earlier on that day, yet here you were getting ready to go to The Hard Deck for his leaving drinks. 

Natasha sat cross-legged on your double bed with her makeup bag in her lap and your hand mirror in front of her face. You sat on the carpet in front of your full-length mirror, where you always did your makeup. An 80s song you hadn’t heard in years played through your Bluetooth speaker, and you hummed along contentedly. 

‘What dress do you think I should wear?’ You asked.

‘What are the options?’

‘Either the new yellow one—with the corset top—or the white one.’

‘The one that looks like Marilyn Monroe’s dress?’

You smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess it does.’

Natasha didn’t wear much makeup, nor did you, so you were nearly finished. ‘I think the white one. Save the yellow one for a special occasion.’

‘You don’t think Hangman leaving for eighteen months is a special occasion?’

Natasha snorted. ‘No. I don’t think Bagman leaving for eighteen months is a special occasion. That yellow dress is for a first date or a wedding reception. He’d get the wrong idea and—’ 

Nat cut her sentence in half. Suddenly, she was extremely focused on applying mascara to an eye she’d already finished. 

‘And what, Natasha.’

She ignored you.

‘Natasha Trace.’

‘What?’

‘And?’

‘Oh, I just mean it might give everybody the wrong impression. You getting so dolled up

on a night that’s all about Jake. Especially now that you’re back on the market.’

‘I am not back on the market. I’m healing.’

‘Yeah, right. You just need to grow a moustache, and I can start callin’ you Rooster.’

You launched your lip gloss at her, and she ducked, howling with laughter. 

‘Hey, don’t bring Roo into this. He’s just very emotionally mature! It’s a good thing.’

‘Emotionally, maybe. But what about everything else?’

You knew it was a lighthearted jest, but you were still stuck on the other part. Did she mean that everyone would get the wrong impression, or was she worried about a certain someone? You hadn’t seen Bradley since he showed up at your door unannounced yesterday. He’d said…what, exactly? Not a great deal. Just that he liked taking care of you, liked knowing that he was the cause of your happiness. 

What was a girl to make of that? 

‘We’ve gotta be there in twenty minutes,’ Nat said, pulling you from your thoughts. ‘Best get that dress on, Marilyn.’

‘She’s not here yet, man. You’re gonna get a crick in your neck if you keep turning round to look at the doors.’ 

Bradley rolled his eyes in Jake’s general direction. He didn’t want to make eye contact because he knew he’d be met with that world-famous shit-eating grin. It was bad enough that he was pining after you, he didn’t need Hangman—of all people—giving him shit for it. After last night’s activities, he was all too aware of how pathetic he was. 

‘On a serious note,’ Jake continued. ‘What’s the deal with you two?’

‘There is no deal.’ Bradley replied. Because there wasn’t. 

‘Oh come on, you think I came off the back of yesterday’s milk truck or somethin’? You better not be about to tell me that you’re just friends.’

‘We are just friends. There’s nothing else to it.’

‘But you want there to be.’ This was a statement, not a question. 

‘It doesn’t matter what I want. She’s still getting over Viper.’

‘That clown. He’s so crooked, he could swallow a nail and spit up a damn corkscrew. I’m still pissed I didn’t get to run into him before my deployment. I’d have given him two matching shiners.’

Bradley had to smirk at this. ‘I think that’d add to what he’s already got going on.’

‘He’s got nothing going on. He’s the ugliest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen, and I’m sittin’ in front of you.’

‘You really can’t give it a rest, even if it’s your last night, huh?’

Jake winked. ‘You should know me by now, Rooster.’ 

Bradley sipped his beer. It was nearly empty, but he didn’t feel like pushing his way through the masses to get to the bar. Mainly because he was waiting for you to arrive so he could buy you a drink, too. 

‘All I’m saying,’ Jake said. ‘Is that when I get home and open my front door, I want there to be a wedding invitation waiting for me.’ 

Bradley’s heart constricted. It wasn’t that he’d never thought of your name, his and marriage in the same sentence, it was just that he’d never said or heard it said out loud before. It was like Jake had just come up behind him and ripped his stool out from underneath his ass. 

He was lost in thought, imagining you in a white gown walking down the aisle, when Jake suddenly wolf-whistled. Bradley’s head snapped up, and he followed Jake’s line of sight to the front doors. You were arm in arm with Natasha, and although Bradley wasn’t sure he believed in God, something out there must have been listening to his thoughts. 

It wasn’t a wedding gown, but it was the prettiest little white dress he’d ever seen. Your hair was done all curly, and a pretty white bow was clipped in the back to keep the top half out of your eyes. Bradley’s eyes must have been bulging out of his head because Jake elbowed him sharply in the ribs. 

‘Anybody ever tell you it’s rude to stare at a lady?’

He flushed from embarrassment and something else. The same something had taken over his body in the shower the previous night. 

When you and Nat got to the table, he did his best to organise his facial features into something that resembled composure.

‘Ladies,’ Jake bowed dramatically. ‘You both look gorgeous.’

Natasha squinted at him as though she was waiting for the catch. The catch never came, so at least Hangman was being nice to someone on his last night. 

You hugged Jake, but as quick as the flames of jealousy licked at his insides, they were put out. You looped your arms around his neck (obviously standing on tiptoes) and pressed yourself against him. He brought his arms up and wrapped them around your lower back, pushing you even closer. It was all warmth and skin and the strawberries in your shampoo, and he wanted more.

More. More. More.

Jake cleared his throat, and just like that, it was over. He missed the contact already, but not for long. The next thing he knew, you took his hand and led him towards the bar, Jake and Natasha following closely behind.

What had he done to get so lucky tonight?

The vibes at The Hard Deck were always lively. If pure, unadulterated joy had a physical form, it would be this bar on a Friday night with all your closest friends. Despite the sad and somewhat scary occasion, you were there to mark, it was still one of the best nights you’d ever had. There’d been good food, homemade cocktails, round after round of Penny’s special shots (that she wouldn’t reveal the contents of) and your favourite songs on the Jukebox. It was hard to tell if they were your favourite songs because they stood out to you or because you were listening to them here, surrounded by these specific people on this night.

You and Mickey were belting the lyrics of Africa by Toto when Bradley reached around and yanked the jukebox cord out of the wall rather unceremoniously. 

‘Hey!’ You yelled.

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he grinned. ‘I’m gonna play some real music.’

You were about to argue that Toto was real music when the meaning of his statement dawned on you. 

He was getting behind the piano. 

Since you’d disappeared from the face of the Earth for a while, you hadn’t experienced one of Bradley’s performances for a long time. Few things were more enjoyable than seeing him perform. Your whole body tingled with anticipation, as it did when you were about to drop on a giant rollercoaster or the first time you’d gone up in a jet. 

He was watching you expectantly, and you realised he’d just asked you something.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, do you wanna sit with me at the piano?’

Your heart soared. Nobody ever sat with him at the piano.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yes!’

He was chuckling as you followed him to the piano, and you wouldn’t have been able to wipe the smile off your face if you tried.

Mostly everyone drinking at The Hard Deck that night knew what was coming and had swarmed around the piano to await his presence. You were both pretty drunk and when Bradley sat on the bench and pulled you into his lap, you didn’t think anything of it. Had the two of you been sober, he probably wouldn’t have done it, and if he did, you wouldn’t have let him. Because friends don’t do that, and it would have been weird. 

Luckily, nobody in the bar was anything close to sober. 

‘I’m trying something new tonight.’ He announced. Then quietly—so only you could hear him—he said: ‘It’s for you, doll.’ 

You had the perfect view of his hands and watched, mesmerised, as his fingers danced along the black and ivory keys. He played with the effortless grace of somebody who had music in their veins and could do it with their eyes closed. You’d heard enough about Goose to know that this particular gift came from him. 

When he started singing—

Well. That was a whole other story. 

There's a little moonlight dancing on the sand There's a warm breeze blowing by the ocean as you're taking my hand. You need to know where I'm standing now. That I'm right on the edge of giving in to ya Baby it's a long way down.

His raspy voice was like some kind of drug to you. The second he started singing, you were transported from the room to someplace closer to heaven. And it wasn’t just his voice; it was the lyrics. You listened more closely than usual since he’d told you this song was yours. 

If I fall, can you let me down easy?

If I leave my heart with you tonight Will you promise me that you're gonna treat it right? I'm barely hangin' on If I fall, can you let me down easy?

The scent of your perfume floatin' in the air You're looking like an angel lying on a blanket with a halo of hair And those lips look too good to be true.

Once I taste that kiss, I know what'll happen I'll be at the mercy of you If I fall, can you let me down easy? If I leave my heart with you tonight Will you promise me that you're gonna treat it right? I'm barely hangin' on If I fall, can you let me down easy?

When the song ended, the whole bar erupted into cheers. He didn’t give them a chance to disperse, though. He launched straight into the crowd favourite: Great Balls of Fire. It used to be your favourite, too, but now. Everyone was dancing and singing along. His legs bounced as he played, and you giggled like a maniac, getting jostled about whenever he moved. You wanted to go and sit somewhere quiet so you could digest the previous moment, but you were too wrapped up in this one.

Everyone begged for an encore once he’d finished playing, but he told everyone he was desperate for another drink but might play something else later. You were still planted firmly in his lap, and you locked eyes with Nat from over the top of the piano. She raised a brow, and you gave her the universal ‘I don’t fucking know what’s going on either’ look. The crowd started trickling outside or to the bar. Somebody plugged the jukebox back in, and Africa resumed, although it didn’t sound as good as before. All you wanted to listen to now was Bradley’s song for you.

It was time for you to get up, which proved incredibly difficult. Bradley was warm and solid in a comforting way but also in another way that you weren’t quite ready to unpack just yet. You climbed out of his lap and turned around to face him. He was still sitting but had moved to the other side of the stool to face your direction. He gazed up at you with those big, puppy dog eyes, and you realised with a start that if you took one more step, you’d be standing between his legs. You could have rested your hands on his shoulders or the sides of his face. You could have leant down and kissed him.

Because of this, you didn’t know what to say, and this wasn’t good because the ball was most certainly in your court. He’d just said everything he needed to say with that song.

You decided just to be honest with him.

‘I don’t know what to say, Roo.’

‘You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get that off my chest, and I didn’t know how else to do it.’

‘I will say something,’ you assured him. ‘Just not right this second.’ It was clear that he was trying to hide the dejection he felt. You saw right through the fake smile meant to reassure you, and immediately, you felt as though you’d let him down. Thinking on your feet wasn’t easy when you were drunk, and you might have chosen to do things differently had you been sober. Now probably wasn’t the best time to deal with something like this, but now was all you had. You couldn’t bear letting him go home tonight, thinking you didn’t feel anything towards him.

So you took his hand in yours and tugged his arm. He got up silently, and you led him outside, across the decking and onto the sand. He trailed behind you down to the water, which was starting to come back in after low tide.

Your thought process had been that it might be better to talk out of earshot from the rest of the daggers and that words might come easier if you were somewhere more peaceful. This was, in fact, not the case, and the absence of commotion was only making things awkward. There was nothing to distract you from the longing behind his eyes, nothing to distract him from the way you nervously picked at the skin around your fingers.

It had never been this way with you and Bradley. Way before Elijah—which was beginning to feel like it had happened to someone else and not you—your friendship had been as easy as eggs on a Sunday morning. Thoughts flowed freely during lengthy but never tiring conversations. You didn’t need to guess how he felt and vice versa because both of you always just knew. You had inside jokes for days and more than a few secrets.

Just because you hadn’t grown up together and hadn’t known one another your whole lives didn’t mean you weren’t inseparable. The bond you shared was forged in everlasting fire the day you met at the academy. It was made out of some kind of magic, a rare kind that most people spent their whole lives searching for and never even coming close to.

As you thought about all this, you realised what a fool you’d been to neglect such a bond for somebody like Elijah. But even with all this, you’d never imagined the two of you would be anything more than best friends. When you had something as extraordinary as this, it was hard to fathom risking it when it was already perfect the way it was.

Or so you’d thought.

What if it wasn’t perfect the way it was? What if all those years of friendship were a prequel to something better?

A forever kind of something.

You took a deep breath and trusted that if you spoke your heart, everything would turn out precisely the way it was supposed to. And since you were speaking your heart, you started by saying his name. He’d been looking out over the water, but now he focused his attention back on you. You didn’t think you’d ever spent so many consecutive minutes in his company without him saying anything.

‘I wasted so much time looking for love in the wrong places,’ you started. ‘And when it ended the way I always knew it would—deep down—I listened to you tell me over and over that real love isn’t supposed to feel like that. I listened to you tell me that I deserved better, all while not believing what you were saying.’

It was hard to look at him now. There was so much riding on whatever you chose to say next.

‘What I’m trying to say is, I wasted so much time looking for love and the real meaning of it, when I should have been looking at what was right in front of my face the whole time.’

It wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say. You wished it could’ve been more eloquent—like his song—but this was what you had, and so you gave it to him.

He smiled broadly, and it reached all the way up to his eyes.

Oh, the things you’d have done for that smile.

Part of you was worried that these kinds of revelations would mess with your synchronicity, but you had no need to worry. There was no awkwardness, no clunkiness and no anxiety when he cupped your face in both his hands, and you reached up to loop your arms around his neck. You only felt overwhelming joy and an innate sense of rightness when your lips met in the most passionate of kisses. And when he tilted your head back further and parted your lips with his tongue, you were able to revisit that feeling you’d felt when he pulled you into his lap not half an hour before. It wasn’t something you could tame, and you highly doubted he could, either, though you could tell he was going to give it his best shot.

You just couldn’t imagine this getting old or wearing thin. If you and Bradley really were a forever thing, you knew that being with him would always feel as exciting and enticing as it did right now. You let one hand snake down his side, resting just above his hip. When you pulled his body closer so it was pressing against yours, he groaned into your mouth. You could’ve sworn you’d blacked out for a second.

‘Slow down, doll.’ He said between kisses.

‘Why?’

He pushed you away ever so slightly, and you pouted.

‘Because I wanna do this properly. I want to take you out for dinner, drinks, dancing, all of it. You can’t rush something you want to last forever.’

Ah. So he was thinking the same thing as you, then.

‘What if I’m impatient?’

‘Then I’ll take you to dinner now.'

He was making light, but you decided to indulge him. ‘Take me, then.’

Bradley laughed. ‘It’s almost midnight, sweet girl. We won’t get a table anywhere now.’

‘So take me to In-N-Out. And then take me home.’

His eyes were all pupil, and you knew that now you’d put the thought into his head it would be impossible to take it back out.

‘You’re terrible.’

‘It’s not my fault!’ You protested. ‘You’re standing there looking all delicious, kissing me like that!’

‘If I agree, you have to promise me one thing.’

‘Anything.’

‘At some point next week, you’ll get dressed up. You’ll let me take you to a fancy restaurant with overpriced cocktails and tiny portions, and then you’ll let me drive you home. When we get to your front door, you’ll let me kiss you goodnight, and then you’ll let me go home. We have to do it in a civilised manner at least once.’

You laughed. ‘Okay, fine. If you insist.’

‘I do.’

You kissed him again, and it felt like coming home after being away forever.

‘You know something, Bradley?’ You murmured. ‘I never knew heartbreak could feel so good.’ 

A/N: I planned on ending this series here, but now that the final part is complete, I've realised I have many more ideas for where this can go. Maybe some sequels or a whole other series off the back of it. If you'd be interested, let me know and I can tag you in future parts.

Taglist: primroseluna eloquentdreamer sgt-barnesveins daybleedsintonightfa11@sadgirlgiselle @sleepy-writersblock @lovelyygirl8 @my-therapist-hates-me

[writing-intheundercroft]

The Night Shift

AO3 Link

Pairing: Auror!Sebastian x F!MC

Word Count: 10,206

Rating: T (just some smooches but plenty of angst)

Summary: You're the lead healer in the St. Mungo's intensive care unit, and a painfully familiar face ends up in your ward.

A/N: Took a break from my long fics this week to deliver a long angsty Seb one shot. I heard Phoebe Bridgers cover Night Shift and became feral over it. Perhaps it needs a smutty part two???

Night One

“I’m so glad you were able to slip away from work for a bit.” Poppy says, pouring tea into your cup.

You smile up at the brunette girl, who still wears her hair in a cropped bob, albeit a bit more fashionable now that you’re in your twenties.  You miss Poppy’s presence in your life, but her career as a mazoologist and yours as a lead healer in the intensive care unit of St. Mungo’s has your schedules rarely crossing.  

“It’s nice to be out in the sunlight,” you say coyly, lifting the cup to your mouth. It's the truth–you haven’t been out to tea with a friend, dressed in a pretty lace gown in what feels like ages.  Your career usually has you in a tightly pulled bun, hair out of your face to focus on your patients, with bloodied aprons.  Magic can heal most ailments, but your ancient abilities make you the best bet for the most gravely wounded.  So much so that you’ve worked six nights a week every week for the past five years, sleeping during the day to make it to your overnight shifts at the hospital.

With few exceptions.

But there’s coverage today, giving you a rare Saturday afternoon off to enjoy the warm spring day.  You and Poppy are sitting outside a tea shop in Diagon Alley, catching up on all things personal, while people watching.  It’s strange, you think, to be surrounded by so many people.  You leave for your shift at seven thirty in the evening, when most people are getting home for dinner, and return to your flat far after everyone has left for work.  

Poppy had just started telling you a story about a wild herd of manticores she’d encountered on her travels abroad, when a familiar face walked up to your table.

“Merlin’s beard, I never thought I’d see the likes of you two ever again,” Andrew Larson grins.

“Andrew,” Poppy smiles. “It’s good to see you.”

There are obligatory kisses on the cheek as the handsome Ravenclaw pulls up a chair. “What are you doing in town, Poppy?”  

“Visiting my gran, of course.” She tilts her head towards you. “And catching up with friends.”

“And you, it’s like you’re back from beyond the grave.” Andrew shifts his attention, teasing you. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Just busy keeping people from their graves, that’s all.”

“I’ve heard.” Andrew elbows you. “Youngest lead healer in all of St. Mungo’s.”

“Yet being the youngest earned me the night shift.” You wrinkle your nose.  “And very few days off.”

“How’s the auror office doing?” Poppy quips, leaning her chin into her palm.

Andrew shrugs. “Busy; we’re working on a big case right now, but we finally got a few hours off to enjoy lunch.  I was just heading over to the Cauldron, meeting Sallow and Clopton for a bite.”

You swallow thickly.  It’s been five years since you last spoke to Sebastian Sallow.  At this point, you can’t exactly remember how it ended, except that the two of you had screamed at one another.  You were fairly certain you’d thrown a book at his head, and he’d knocked over your favorite mug in the process. You still had it, the handle broken off, now used as a quill holder at your desk.

“Oi, Larson!  Quit flirting, we’ve just gotten a message. All hands on deck at the office.” 

Both you and Poppy turn to the voice; Everett Clopton is standing a few paces away, wearing a smart suit.  He still has his gold wire glasses, but he’s grown into them. He’s wearing a hat, tipping the brim to you both in acknowledgement.

You hate the way your breath hitches when you see their companion.  Sebastian is also dressed well, sporting a tweed three piece suit, shiny black dress shoes, and a gold auror badge attached to his lapel.  He meets your gaze briefly before looking back up to Andrew, who’s moving the chair back to its proper table.

“Emergency meeting,” Sebastian utters gloomily. “Ruined a good lunch.”

Your stomach twists at the sound of his voice.  It’s no more than six words, but your insides feel like a wet towel being wrung out.  And Sebastian doesn’t even have the decency to look at you, avoiding eye contact with the person he considered his best friend for three years.  The audacity of him, to completely ignore the person who once held his fate in their hands–you feel the bile rising in your throat, swallowing down the anger that once consumed you.

No, you won’t let a tiny interaction with Sebastian ruin five years of hard work.  You stare at the cutlery on the table, willing him to leave.

Andrew Larson sighs, rapping his knuckles against the table. “It was good seeing you girls,” he smiles. “Hopefully I run into you again.”

The three boys–men, rather, you are all twenty three at this point–shuffle away.  

There is a heavy silence between you and Poppy, until she clears her throat.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

You nod, collecting yourself as you smile at her. “Perfectly fine.  It’s been ages, Poppy. We’re all over it.”

She grabs your gloved hand, pulling it towards her.  “You certainly are,” she says playfully, twisting the sparkling bauble on your left ring finger. “It’s gorgeous, by the way.”

“I never get to wear it,” you admit sheepishly. It’s been a month since your engagement, and you’ve hardly worn your ring; your fiance’s parents are perturbed that the announcement hasn’t been posted to the Daily Prophet yet. Despite having courted for the last year and a half, it still feels like everything has moved too fast, like you’ve fallen off your broom mid flight. For the most part, your engagement ring is safely tucked in its box atop your dresser, at the risk of getting bodily fluids on it during your shifts.

“He’s a lucky man.” Poppy echoes, sitting back in her chair. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

You’re doing fine, you think.  You’re at the top of your field.  You have a fine flat in a nice part of London, and a promise from a man that’s kind to you.  The kind of man who waited for you to get off your shift to bring you breakfast, and took you to a nice restaurant on your Friday nights off. You hadn’t expected a pretty ring from him, especially since you only graced him with your presence once a week, but then again, your last relationship had taught you not to expect anything at all.

A flash of brunette hair crosses your mind; you blink away the thought.

“I’m happy.  Very happy,” you say simply, holding your teacup up to your lips again. “So about the manticores…”

You jolt out of bed, a blue wisp of a rabbit bouncing around your bedroom.  It’s rare to get a patronus message at this hour; it can only mean an emergency at the hospital.  It also must be bad, considering they’re calling you in on your day off.

Without another thought, you tumble out of bed, rushing to your wardrobe to pull out your clothes.  Your unit specifically wears a deep purple–dark enough to hide stains.  Your shrug on undergarments and petticoats, and a burgundy gown with a high neckline.  Your hands know exactly how to tighten your hair into a knot within a minute, having perfected the craft over the five years of your career. Your wand is stowed in your dress pocket; you’ll grab an apron at the ward.  Grabbing a fistful of floo powder next to your fireplace, you step in, yelling out for St. Mungo’s.

The ward is in a flurry as you step out of the flames.  A nurse hands you a white cotton apron, which you wrap around your waist as you hold your wand between your teeth.  There are men all over, gashed and bleeding, as other healers take their information. 

“What’s happened?” You bark at an orderly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Auror ambush by some ashwinders,” he says dryly. “It’s awful.  Lost a few–even more are bleeding.  It’s dark magic, some sort of spell to keep the wounds bleeding.”

“Of course it is, those bastards.” You mutter. “I’ll take the worst of them.  Can someone bring me a coffee?”

He nods, pointing over to a bay of beds a few feet away. “Those three–they specifically requested you.” He hands off the charts, promising a caffeinated beverage.

You’re about to start flipping through the charts when you hear your name.  Your head flies up at the familiar voice, and you feel the blood drain from your face. You can see Everett Clopton waving his hands at you; Andrew Larson’s voice is yelling behind the curtain.  And just your luck, a pair of black shiny dress shoes are dangling off the examination table, twisted in an unnatural way.

Before you even realize it, you’re running to them.  The charts are promptly cast onto the side table when you duck behind the curtain, a gasp catching in your throat.

Sebastian looks awful.  

Correction–Sebastian looks dead.

“He jumped in front of me,” Everett panics, his hands on his head. “He shouldn’t have–we were talking, we thought we were out of the thick of it–”

“He’s been hit badly,” Andrew interjects.  His sleeves are bloodied from trying to apply pressure to a gash across Sebastian’s chest, the blood seeping through his shirt and vest. “You have to do something,” he pleads. “He’s the best of us–we can’t lose him.”

“Move,” you urge the two of them.  They scoot out of your way, and you make quick work of Sebastian’s clothing.

Years ago, tearing off Sebastian’s shirt would’ve been done out of passion, out of love.  You push those thoughts out of your mind as you rip through his white dress shirt, which is sopping wet with blood. Sebastian’s skin is cold and clammy; even his freckles are pale, disappearing from his face.

“Get me some dittany and shrivelfigs,” you screech at the other healers. “And the blood renewing potions, please.” You run your hand and your wand over Sebastian’s wounds, uttering a healing charm. “Vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur, vulnera sanentur,” you mutter under your breath.  The spell isn’t healing fast enough, Sebastian is still losing too much blood.

You let out the  blue wisps of magic from your fingertips as you channel some of your ancient magic into the healing spell. You’re still mad at Sebastian, of course, but you’ll be damned if he dies on your watch.  

To your relief, the wounds start knitting themselves shut faster, but the scars look awful, all purpled and raised.  Another healer is next to you, urgently crushing the dittany and shrivelfigs into a paste–an idea you got from the patient lying in front of you during your sixth year.  You’d been battered so often during Crossed Wands, the two of you had experimented with salves and balms to lessen the appearance of your scars. 

“He appears to be stabilizing,” the junior healer claims. “Good job, as always.”

You suppress the choked out cry that’s stuck in your throat as you think of Ominis, and how he used to scold the two of you for experimenting.  He’d be thankful now that you did.

“There’s others,” another healer urges you. “We must move on to the next.”

You don’t want to.  Sebastian seems to be stirring, groaning as the healer rubs the salve onto the gaping wound that streaks across his chest.  You can hear Everett and Andrew crying and laughing on the other side of the curtain, exclaiming your name for having saved their partner.

There’s so much commotion, you could swear Sebastian uttered your name, but when you look back, his head is flat on the table, eyes shut.  The color is slowly returning to him, now no longer pale and gray.

“We have to keep him for observation,” you instruct another healer, handing her Sebastian’s chart. “I’ll check on him later.  In the meantime, there are others.”

Without another glance, you move on to the next bay.

“Excellent work as always,” your boss pats you on the shoulder. “You saved six good men tonight with your quick work.”

“I should just move into the ward,” you mutter under your breath before taking a large swig of coffee.  

Your dress is stained with blood, fingers aching from all the healing you’d done.  From the twelve aurors in the ambush, three had superficial wounds (Larson and Clopton included).  Two had passed in the field, another before you’d gotten to the hospital.  But all six of the aurors you’d treated, Sebastian included, were now tucked into private rooms, safe and breathing. You were keeping them for observation, unsure of what kind of curse the ashwinders had used on them.  Your ancient magic managed to seal the wounds, but all were badly scarring.  They’d all have to stay until you could rule out the cause.

After a much needed shower and an owl sent to your fiance, regretfully informing him you’d not make it to brunch with his parents, you start making your rounds. Most of your patients are sleeping deeply, others dizzily asking what happened.  You save Sebastian’s room for last; Clopton and Larson, faithful companions, are sleeping in chairs outside of his room.

You quietly shut the door behind you, gulping as you stare at the man laying in the hospital bed. His chubby cheeks are long gone, hollowed and chiseled by age. You’d laughed at him when you were seventeen and he claimed he had a beard coming in; now you can see traces of stubble lining his jaw. His unruly chestnut hair has been brushed out of his face in a way you know he’ll hate.

But you don’t know that, not truly. Because you don’t know Sebastian anymore.

“Oh Sebastian,” you tut, sitting at a stool next to his bed. You hover your hands over his body, a misty blue glow emitting from them. No internal bleeding at least. He’s had at least three blood renewing potions, and his breathing is steady. You would examine the scars across his chest and torso, but the thought of undressing him in his current state is inappropriate to you. 

You’re about to get up, leave him to his slumber when you hear it. He whispers your name in his sleep, head falling to the side. And instead of him being the one with a gaping wound, you feel like a hole has been drilled into your chest. 

Maybe you’ll ask for tomorrow off.

Night Two

You’d asked for the day off again, but the request was denied.  Begrudgingly, you dress for your shift, tucking your hair behind your ears as you walk with your daytime counterpart down the hallway.

“You’ve missed all the commotion,” your fellow healer gasps.  She’s filling you in on the day shift, and all that’s transpired since you left in the morning. “There was a memory charm laced in with that blood curse from the ashwinders—some of them have lost weeks, years of memories. Not recognizing their wives or their children; we’ve had to close the doors to all visitors.”

“That’s a nasty curse.” You mutter, flipping through charts. Only someone sick in the head would mess with memory tampering curses—you wonder why no one has petitioned for them to be banned. The long term care wing at St. Mungos is filled with too many people who’d tinkered with memory spells, and you sincerely hope none of the aurors under your care end up there.

“Terrible, of course. But it made for an interesting day.” She hums. “You should’ve seen Rowle’s wife, security had to cart her out after he called her the wrong name. Think he courted her twin sister too.” 

You laugh with her as you walk through the hallway, until your heart fills with dread.  

“How is Sallow?  The patient in 213.”

She tilts her head. “Fine I think–oh, he was asking for you.  Do you know him?”

You fight back the red flush that’s creeping up your neck. “We were schoolmates.” You say. Nothing more. Sebastian can’t be more, especially after you’d done such hard work to forget him in the first place.

After your colleague has clocked out and you’ve checked all your other patients, you quietly rap your knuckles against Sebastian’s door.  It’s late enough at night that he might be asleep already, and you can avoid the entire awkward conversation.

“Come in!” 

Shit.

You open the door, and Sebastian is staring right back at you.  He isn’t scowling like you thought he would be–his eyes are bright, a beaming smile on his lips.

“They told me you were working the night shift.” he says happily, scratching at the collar of his hospital gown. “I stayed awake.”

“Right, Mr. Sallow,” You say curtly, eyes down at the chart in front of you. “It is late, you should be getting rest–”

“But I’ve been waiting for you,” he frowns. 

You look up at him, and instead of a grown man, you see the puppy dog eyes that got you in trouble the few years you had at Hogwarts. “Mr. Sallow, rest is essential to your healing. You’ve been through quite the ordeal, and you need to go to sleep.”

“Why are you talking to me like you don’t know me?” Sebastian asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Pet, it’s me.”

You inhale sharply, white knuckling the edge of the bed. “Sebastian,” you mutter (you hate how easily his name rolls off your lips still), “what year do you think it is?”

He rolls his eyes and chuffs. “It’s 1893, duh.”

“It’s not,” you sigh. “It’s 1898. You were in an ambush yesterday, and it seems the Ashwinders are using a memory curse as retaliation nowadays.”

He blinks at you for a moment, before he bursts into laughter. “Really?  I’ve lost five damn years in my head?  What have I missed? Don’t tell me we’re not married yet.”  Only Sebastian could be jovial about such a matter; all the others were utterly distraught at losing their memories.

“Sebastian, darling, we haven’t seen each other in five years.” you confess, moving to the edge of the bed.  Your voice is quiet, and although it’s been ages since you last called him darling, you think it might be too much on his poor heart if you don’t. The poor man just asked if you were married, for Merlin’s sake.

His smile fades. “What?”

“We…we went our separate ways five years ago.” You clear your throat. “It…it was a mutual decision.” you lie.  Was it a lie?  You honestly can’t remember.

“I would never,” Sebastian bites back.  “I would never break up with you.”

“Darling, it’s been a very long time,” you say softly, wringing your hands together. “And I’m okay–you’re okay.  We’re both doing well…just on our own now.”

“I can’t–this doesn’t make sense,” he jolts away from your touch, and you flinch. “Why would I ever agree to such a thing?” 

You can recognize the tell tale signs of panic on a patient’s face, so you hurry over to the cupboard, pouring a glass of water.  Sebastian is too far away to see you slip the vial of dreamless sleep into the glass, swirling it into oblivion.

“Here, drink this.  You’ll feel much better,” you assure him. 

Sebastian absentmindedly takes the glass, gulping down the water as he tries to make sense of the current situation. “It doesn’t make sense,” he mutters under his breath as he starts rubbing his eyes.  He’s fighting the effects, and he looks up at you, a deep set frown on his face. “You dosed me, dammit.” The glass rolls out of his hand and onto the bed, where you scoop it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, and it's sincere.  But you’re not equipped to handle Sebastian in such a state–you aren’t equipped to handle him, period.  It’s been five years since you’ve had to mind his temper, and your heart can’t handle the pain.  

Before you know it, Sebastian is knocked out, the dreamless sleeping draught taking over his body.  With his eyes tightly shut, you can finally examine him.  The scars across his chest are still purple, bruises lining his torso.  Your fingers dance across his skin trying to heal him, but alas, they stay.

You make notes on his chart, letting the other healers know he may be groggy and upset when he wakes in the morning. Even though they’ve put a no visitors policy on the aurors, you remind them to call upon Ominis and Anne to see if they can talk some sense into him.  

The last you’d asked Natty about Sebastian, he was happy.  He was climbing up the ranks in the auror office, and he’d finally moved out of Ominis’s spare room.  You’d cut her off once she started telling you how he was dating–that you didn’t need to know.

That had been two years ago.  You wonder what’s changed since then.

Night Three

Your pleas for a night off have gone unanswered.  Your boss tells you that you’re too integral to the auror case to be gone for more than twelve hours.  

There’s a note left by your fiance’s owl; he’s sad you missed brunch, but he’s excited to take you out on Friday, your next scheduled day off.  His mother is insistent the two of you sit for an engagement portrait that will be posted in the Daily Prophet to announce your impending union.  You fold the note and toss it onto your desk; when you have a free moment, you’ll write a letter explaining that you would like a lengthy engagement.

Planning a wedding and working the night shift is just too much work for you.  You twist your large engagement ring off your finger and put it in its box before taking the floo network to St. Mungo’s.

You’re barely five steps out of the fireplace before a body hits you.  

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Anne Sallow breathes, her arms enveloping you. “You saved him. He’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Anne,” you sigh into her touch.  Similar to her brother, it’s been ages since you’ve seen her.  She’s still thin and delicate, but her bangs are long grown out. “What are you still doing here?  It’s so late.”

“Ominis and I wanted to catch you,” she claims. “The healers called us in to talk to Sebastian.”

“Right, I asked them to.” you say, smoothing your apron. “How was he today?”

Anne winces. “He’s…he’s still pretty confused.”

You give her a sympathetic smile, biting back the sarcastic words you had in mind. “It must be awful.”

Anne pulls away, digging her toe into the ground. “He keeps asking what happened between the two of you.  I’m not sure what to say.” she admits.

You bite your lower lip. “You can tell him the truth.  That we ended amicably.  That we were fine.”

“If you were fine, you wouldn’t have disappeared for five years.” a voice says behind you.

It only takes you a second to recognize the rich voice of Ominis Gaunt.  Whirling around, you throw your arms around the tall blonde.  It’s been ages since you’ve given him a hug let alone seen him, so he chuckles into your shoulder when you grasp him.

“I missed you,” you pat his cheek.

“We missed you,” Ominis hums. “I’m surprised St. Mungo’s would call me; I haven’t been Sebastian’s emergency contact for a while.”

You furrow your eyebrows as Anne takes Ominis’s arm. Why wouldn’t he be his emergency contact?  Ominis is his best friend, and having been together with Anne for so long, practically his brother.

That’s a question for another time, you decide.

“It’s late, you two should be getting home.  Visitor hours are over.”  you remind them.

“I’m not leaving before you promise to see me again,” Ominis says sternly. “Five years is far too long.”

You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Of course. Ominis, I’m sorry.  I just thought that when things ended, the two of you were best friends…”

“That was my decision to make,” he says softly. “Not yours.  I decide whose side I’m on.”

Ominis’s words warm your heart, but they also leave cracks.  Ominis and Sebastian were a package deal when you met them, and you’ve spent far too much of your time with the boys driving them apart. 

After much coaxing, Ominis and Anne take their leave.  You’re finally able to start your rounds.  Rowle is starting to regain his memories and they’ve allowed his wife back into the ward.  Travers still has a nasty gash on his leg that’s festering, but he’s otherwise remembering things from last week.  Cattermole is fast asleep, so you avoid his room to let him get some more rest.

Your hand falters on the handle of room 213, taking a deep breath before you push in.  Just as you thought, Sebastian isn’t asleep.  He’s sitting upright in bed, arms crossed over his chest, frowning at you.

“You’re looking much better,” you offer, shutting the door behind you.

“You gave me a sleeping draught last night,” he accuses you. “That’s not fair.”

“You were getting hysterical, Sebastian.” you remind him, flipping through his chart.  Nothing particularly new, and no memories back.  He’s spent the entire day asking for you, the chart says, and fighting with orderlies.  It mentions Ominis and Anne arriving, and that the two gentlemen had sharp words for one another. Ominis was right—he isn’t Sebastian’s emergency contact anymore. There’s an unfamiliar name, a woman.

“Open your shirt, please.”

Sebastian waggles his eyebrows at you. “Are you sure we’re not together?”

You roll your eyes. “Your cheekiness, I didn’t miss it.” you mutter, hands on your hips. “I need you to take your shirt off so I can check your wounds, you idiot.”

Sebastian gives you a familiar grin as he unbuttons his pajama shirt; he’s flexing his muscles, you can tell.  A pinch to his pectoral has him yowling, and he stops.  You grin at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps we did break up,” he grumbles.

Sebastian’s breath stutters as your fingers prod at his scars. They’re still ugly and raised, but the color is improving. 

“I’m not sure there’s much more I can do,” you frown. “I think they’ll stay.”

“That’s fine,” Sebastian breathes. “You did always say you preferred when I was roughed up.” 

You give him a strained look. “Sebastian–”

“Please, listen to me.” Sebastian urges. “Ominis…he told me what happened between us. And I really, truly can’t believe we would let it get to that.” Your name is a gentle whisper from his mouth, and he pushes his brunette hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t mean to neglect you.”

You swallow thickly, backing up. “We were so young, Sebastian.  Let’s leave the past in the past, please.”

“Ominis and I haven’t spoken in two years.” Sebastian interjects. “He just told me.  Annie says we had a fight, and you were part of it.”

You turn around, shutting your eyes. “I don’t want to hear this,” you admit weakly.

Sebastian is rustling in his sheets; he lets out a low hiss as he adjusts his still healing torso. “If the version of me, the one that got cursed, isn’t talking to you, Anne, or Ominis…I don’t want to go back to that.  I don’t want to be that version of me.” Sebastian pleads. “If that’s the case, I don’t want to remember.”

“You have friends, Sebastian.” You remind him, turning to face him again. “You have friends, your job…” you trail off, picking up his chart again.  You pinpoint the section with his emergency contact; a woman who is likely sitting at home, worried sick over him. “You have a girlfriend, probably.  One who is desperate to see you.” There’s a lump in your throat as you try to imagine her, but your mind comes up blank.

“I don’t care,” Sebastian breathes. “She’s a stranger.”

“I’m the stranger,” you remind him. “Sebastian…I’m engaged. I’m getting married next spring.” 

That’s a lie–you and your fiance haven’t even discussed a timeline, but it seems more official to say it with a season.

The hope on Sebastian’s face crumbles, eyes wide as he stares at you.

“You’re engaged,” he croaks.

“Engaged.” The more you say it, the more it’s real. “He’s lovely.  You would like him.” Now that's an even bigger lie–Sebastian would’ve called him a prat if he met him. You appreciate your fiance’s softness and meekness, especially after having been with a firecracker hothead for most of your teens.

Sebastian is crumpled in bed, twisting onto his side. “I’d like to go to bed now,” he mumbles.  It was textbook Sebastian–whenever something didn’t go his way, he’d turn away from you in bed like a petulant child.  It’s almost a relief to see that he does the same thing at twenty three years old.

“If you ring the bell, someone will come to aid you.” You wave your wand, dimming the lights. “You can ask for someone else, if you’d like.”  

Sebastian doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, and when he does ring the bell for assistance, he requests anyone but you. It’s stupid to be upset over, it’s what you wanted–for him to stop pestering you.  

But you have a nice long cry in the potions ingredient cupboard anyways.  

The rest of your shift goes by uneventfully.  Rowle has regained his memories and will be discharged in the morning.  Cattermole finally woke up from his deep sleep and he’s on the mend, moved out of the intensive care ward. Travers has also been discharged, prescribed a salve to make sure the cut on his leg stays clean.  It leaves Roberts, Jorkins, and Sallow as your only three patients left from the case, and perhaps now your boss will let you take a night off.

Night Four

“I wanted to apologize for last night,” Sebastian says sheepishly.

“Whatever for?” You mumble, pressing a strip of gauze to his chest wound.  You’re trying a new salve recipe you’ve been working on, just to see if it’ll help break down the scar tissue.  His bruises are starting to go yellow, and if he works back up on his memory, Sebastian can be discharged from your ward.

“For being rude.” Sebastian sighs. “I’m…it’s starting to come back to me a bit now.”

You look up at him, eyebrows raised. “Is it?”

“We fought that night.” Sebastian swallows thickly. “You and me.  I can’t exactly remember what we fought about, but you threw a book at me.”

“And I hit your eyebrow.” You remind him.

“Lucky shot,” Sebastian rolls his eyes, and you have to suppress a laugh. He winces as you press the salve in; his body is still sensitive.

“I’m sorry for that.  I never got to apologize to you,” you admit, rubbing the mixture in. “But I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed about what?” Sebastian asks softly.

“For putting up with all of it,” you pat another piece of gauze over the salve.  Sebastian looks like a mess and he’ll have to sleep sitting up, but you’re hoping to salvage his handsome chest. There are a bevy of flower vases strewn across the room, and plenty of Sebastian’s favorite sweets piled on his bedside table.

“I see you had quite a few visitors today.” 

Sebastian nods, trying not to move too much. “Anne and Ominis again; he’s warming back up to me, I know it.” he brags. “Clopton and Larson too. I can’t believe I was paired up with two Ravenclaws as partners. That’s probably how I got all bungled up in the first place.”

“Everett said you were quite the hero,” you back away, admiring your work (and his muscles, he’s grown quite a bit since you last saw him).  “And they stayed the entire night when you first came into the ward, so I know they’re loyal to you.”

There is a silence between you two for a moment, until Sebastian breaks the tension.

“She visited earlier.” Sebastian echoed. “Rebecca.”

You turn away at the name; at least it’s not the girl you remember from your last argument.  “Rebecca is a lovely name,” you offer.  It’s all you can give him without treading into dangerous waters.  You’re engaged after all, and stuck patting balm into the chest of your former lover.

“She was distraught.” Sebastian hummed. “Hates the scars.”

You turn around, rolling your eyes. “She’s dating an auror, she should get used to it.” you scowl. 

“That’s what I said,” Sebastian laughs, trying not to move the salve covered strips. “But she wasn’t having it.  She was worried I would never look the same, so I broke up with her.”

You blink at him.  He seems completely unbothered.

“Sebastian!” You exclaim. “You shouldn’t break up with her over that alone.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Y’know, the boys filled in a few of the blanks for me.  Apparently, not very many people actually liked Rebecca and I together, so I guess it was impending anyways.”

You put your hands on your hips. “I cannot believe you broke up with your girlfriend because Everett Clopton and Andrew Larson told you to.” you shake your head. “She was your emergency contact, Sebastian.  You’ve probably been dating a while.”

“According to Clopton, I was planning on breaking up with her soon anyways.”

“Idiots, the lot of you.” You tut, washing your hands in the basin.

“We’d only been dating three months.” Sebastian interjects. “I put her as my emergency contact because I had no one else.  Ominis and Anne…well, they weren’t talking to me apparently.”

You don’t say anything, letting the water run over your hands.

“I guess I’ve been a real arse the last few years,” Sebastian echoes. “Everett said I hadn’t been quite myself since we…well, you get the gist.”

“Everyone is an arse when they’re eighteen,” you remind him. 

Sebastian snorts. “I’m sure you weren’t.”

“I think I might’ve been.” You chuckle under your breath. “Poppy always said I had a one track mind.  Only ever thought about myself, my career.”

“Well, it’s done a lot for you.” Sebastian offers. “Youngest lead healer in St. Mungo’s history.”

You roll your eyes. “The others think I’m a show off.”

“You’re gifted,” he shrugs, and a slice of gauze slips from his chest. “That’s all.”

“Lay back darling,” you advise him, stuffing a pillow behind his back to keep him comfortable. 

Sebastian does as you say, his hands balled up in fists at his side. “So, your fiance,” He trails off. “What’s he like?”

You purse your lips, pulling his sheets over his waist. “He’s nice.”

“Nice.  That’s it?” Sebastian snorts. “Surely he has some better attributes, you said yes to marrying him.”

“He’s calm, quiet.” you say, turning your back to put away the excess gauze. “He’s a junior secretary for the Minister of Magic.” turning back to Sebastian, you already know he has a smug smile on his face. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say,” you warn, wagging a finger.

“What?” Sebastian scoffs. “I would never say anything about an esteemed junior secretary,” he says dramatically. “Besides, you’re the one who thought it…”

“I didn’t think anything!” You laugh. “I just knew exactly what you were thinking.”

“And what is that?” Sebastian asks coyly.

“You were going to call him a pencil pusher,” you accuse.

Sebastian fakes a gasp, holding a hand to his chest. “My stars, I would never say such a thing.” 

“Stop it,” you laugh again, slapping his hand. “You’re ruining my hard work. I’ll have to do it again.”

“No,” Sebastian groans. “It’s cold.  I just want to put a jumper on, I don’t care about the scars.” he pouts.

“I need you to get better,” you hold your hands on your hips. “The auror office will have my head if I keep you here any longer when your colleagues are back home.”

Sebastian fumbles with the edge of the blanket. “And what would consider me healed?” 

“Well, I’d say besides the appearance, your physical wounds are fully healed.” You shrug. “But we can’t discharge you until your memories are back–or at least substantially returned.”

Sebastian is quiet, and he stays quiet until you finish putting away all your supplies.  You’re about to leave him, implore him to get some rest, when he clears his throat.

“Pet,” he says cautiously (he hasn’t used your old nickname since the second night of his stay).  

“Yes, Sebastian?” You ask, slipping your hands into the pocket of your apron.  When you look at Sebastian from the doorway, he doesn’t look like a twenty three year old man.  He looks like the Sebastian you used to know–the hotheaded eighteen year old who only ever got shy around you.

“Would you…could we be friends after this?” He asked lowly. “I know you said we haven’t seen each other in five years, and I know there’s some blame there on my end. But we’ve been through so much together, and you’ve saved my life.” he rambles. 

You once told yourself that if Sebastian Sallow ever came crawling back, you’d slam the door shut in his face.  The first year of your separation had been excruciating; the second had been dreadful.  Once you’d gotten on to your third year without him in your life, the pain had become bearable.  And once you’d gotten on to four years without him, you realized you didn’t think of him anymore.  In fact, you hadn’t thought of him at all until you saw him standing a few paces away from your tea table.

“Of course, darling.” You assure him. “Only if you promise me that you’ll actually sleep.”

Sebastian’s face lights up in a way you distinctly remember–the first time you’d seen it was when you arrived in Feldcroft to meet Anne when you were both fifteen.  He adjusts himself to the pillows as you wave your wand to dim the lights. 

You shut the door behind you, letting out a sigh when you’re out of sight.  You feel guilty calling Sebastian darling again–you’ve never even blessed your own fiance with his own nickname.  And despite your refusal of the situation, you can’t help the shiver you feel at the base of your spine when you hear Sebastian calling you pet again.

Perhaps being friends is not a good idea.

Night Five

Sebastian is asleep when your shift starts, and you nearly skip over his room.  But against your better judgment, you push into the door, knocking lightly.

The brunette man is slumped over, snoring lightly as if he were waiting for you.  At the sound of the door, he jolts, rubbing his eyes. 

“Why can’t you be on the day shift?” he complains sleepily. 

You chuckle. “I can leave you, let you get some rest.”

“No,” Sebastian clears his throat. “I’d like you to stay.” He shrugs off his shirt, proudly displaying his scars. “They still look like hell, but at least they aren’t purple anymore.”

You stride over, running your hands over them.  Your ancient magic was able to overpower the bleeding curse, but Sebastian will forever have a dip in his chest and bubbled over scars.  They’re at least turning pink, a much better place than they were a few days ago.

“They look great,” you pat his shoulder. “And once we get your memories back in order, we can get you home.”

Sebastian gives you a strange look. “Ominis came again during the day…filling in the blanks again.”

“And?” You ask softly, sitting in the chair next to him.

“Why did we break up?” Sebastian asks firmly. “Can you tell me? And don’t give me the whole spiel about us growing apart.  I want the details.”

You swallow thickly, looking down at your hands. “We were eighteen, Sebastian. I was careless, you were lonely, we were both focused on our careers and not on each other.” Truthfully, you had spent years thinking of the many ways you’d address this conversation, how you’d confront him if you ever saw him again. Now five years later and after having almost witnessed Sebastian’s death, the downfall of your first love is easily compounded into one simple sentence.

“You started working the night shift,” Sebastian says.

“I started working the night shift,” you echo. “I wanted to rise up quickly in the ranks, so I volunteered. I was working so many hours, and you were gone during the day at your job, so we barely saw each other.”

“I asked you to take time off.” Sebastian adds.

“And I said no.” you admit. “I told you that you were being insecure.  That my job was more important, because I was saving lives.” It’s one of the few shames you’ve compartmentalized over the past few years–that you’d ever downplayed the importance of his career compared to yours.

“I went out that night.” Sebastian whispers, looking at his hands. “And I didn’t come home until the morning.”

“It was my only night off of the week, and you came home at four in the morning, stinking of firewhiskey and perfume.” Your eyes shut, replaying the awful scene in your head.

“Did I?” he croaked. “Did I cheat on you, really?”

“No,” You shake your head, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “You said you could have.  You said you wanted to.” You add, rubbing the temples of your forehead. “That you were tired of living in half of a relationship, and that you’d wanted to kiss that girl.”

“You threw the book at me,” Sebastian says weakly. “And I smashed your mug.”

“I told you to go to her if you really wanted.” You admit. “And you left.”

“I stayed at Ominis’s that night.” he whispered. “I didn’t go to her.”

“I didn’t know that.  So I packed my things and left.” 

The silence hangs between the two of you, and all of the feelings you had at eighteen come flooding back.  After the fight, you apparated to Natty’s place, while Anne and Poppy had cleaned out your bits in the apartment. What was meant to be a one night stay turned into a week, and then more. After a month without word from Sebastian, you committed to the night shift, forsaking your friendships and social life for work.  Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, and before you knew it, you were promoted.  Sebastian Sallow was a blip in your timeline, a faded memory of teenage love.  He’d been just a memory until you saw him in Diagon Alley.  Your heart hadn’t felt anything but anger towards him until you saw his shiny black dress shoes.

“Did we throw it all away?” Sebastian asks sorrowfully.

“We became the people we needed to be.” You remind him. “Look at you, an auror.  A damn good one.  The kind that jumps in front of their partner to save them from a curse.” you assure him.

“And you’re a healer,” Sebastian inhales. “A bloody amazing one, that saved my life and five others.  I’m so proud of you.” Sebastian’s lower lip wobbles, and you know your heart is in danger.

“You seem to remember quite a bit,” You point out. “More than you let on.”

“I was talking to Clopton about you.  We thought the ambush was over, we were trying to get to a floo point so we could get Larson’s leg checked out.” Sebastian says. “I told him how beautiful you looked, and that you looked happy.” his voice cracks. 

“Sebastian.” It’s not a warning, just a statement.  A week ago you would’ve never said his name aloud, let alone thought of it.  But it feels right rolling off your tongue.

“Everett said something about you being engaged.  It’s…it’s fuzzy from there on, but I remember the fight.  And I jumped in front of him, but not just to save him.” Sebastian says, his fingers drumming on his stomach.

“Why?” You almost don’t want to hear the rest. It might upend your life entirely.

“I jumped in front of him because I knew I’d be okay.  That you would probably be at St. Mungo’s when I got there.” Sebastian said weakly.  “And I’d get a chance to see you again.”

“Sebastian, we’re different people now.” You remind him. 

“We’re better now.” Sebastian says, giving you pleading eyes. “I was an idiot when I was eighteen; I thought I was being a man, but I wasn’t.  And I’m not going to pretend that I’ve been happy the past five years–there hasn’t been another woman who’s made me feel the way you do.” he confesses.

“It’s been too long,” you try to say, but you know it's no use trying to argue with him.  From your first fight in the Undercroft at fifteen to the fight that broke you two up, Sebastian has never backed down.

Before you even realize it, Sebastian has reached his hand out, taking yours. He’s rubbing your left ring finger–the one missing your large, ostentatious engagement ring.

“Don’t marry him,” Sebastian croaks. “Please, don’t marry him.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I understand you now.” Sebastian says. “I understand you in a way I didn’t when I was younger.  And that’s good–it’s good for us now.  It wasn’t the right time then, but we could try again now.” he pleads.

“Four days ago when you saw me in Diagon Alley, you could barely look at me.” You remind him. “I should have you committed to the memory ward at this point.”

“Four days ago when I saw you, I was sick to my stomach with how happy you looked.” Sebastian admits. “I saw you from a distance, smiling at Larson and Poppy.  I couldn’t look you in the eye after seeing you smile.”

You want to tell Sebastian that your fiance is a good man.  That he loves you, cherishes you, and doesn’t fight with you.  But you can’t help being nostalgic as you hold the hand of your first love, who is currently begging you to end your relationship to risk it all again with him. Whatever strength you’ve mustered together in the last five years is about to break as his big brown eyes implore you to stay.

“Your memory seems back to normal,” you change the subject, standing up quickly.  You tug your hand out from his, smoothing your clammy palms against your apron. “I’ll put you down for discharge in the morning.”

“Don’t,” Sebastian warns. “Don’t run away.”

“You ran away.” You remind him.

“And I regret it, every day.” Sebastian says mournfully. “You were my first love.  You were going to be my only love, and I fucked it up.”

“We both made mistakes, Sebastian.” You say, staring down at your feet. “You need to get some rest.  I’ll leave you be.”

He’s arguing as you step through the door, wringing your hands together.  The thoughts running through your head aren’t right–no, they’re crazy.  Except your feet keep walking towards the ward matron’s desk, gripping the stone top.

“Are you alright, dear?” she asks, frowning.

“I need to go home,” you confess, scribbling what little notes you have onto Sebastian’s chart. “There’s something I have to do.”

Thirty minutes later (your on call replacement is displeased to have been woken up late at night) you’re back in your flat.  Your mind is buzzing as you pace in the bedroom, thinking about the idea gnawing at your brain.

It would be insane.

You haven’t talked in five years.

He’s emotional after having been saved from the brink of death.

He broke up with his girlfriend on the spot, because she wasn’t you.

Sebastian is most well known for his unwavering support and adoration.  At least he was when you were younger.  Sebastian had always been encouraging, cheering you on through crossed wands, battles in the highlands, and even when you got your first job offer from St. Mungo’s. He’d been crazy about you–obsessed with you, even.  The two of you had been the couple of your year when you graduated.  

Sebastian had only ever faltered once, and it ended your relationship.

Don’t marry him.  

The words replay in your mind.  It makes you realize your stomach has flipped more in the last four nights than it has in years.  That your even tempered fiance, a kind but boring man, has not once made you feel what you’ve felt in the past week being back in Sebastian’s presence.

It is insane, you think. But you’d rather take feeling than nothing at all.

Digging through your dresser, you pull out the box holding your engagement ring.  

Night Six

It has been a long, long day.

What time you would have spent sleeping is spent assuring your now ex-fiance that nothing untoward has happened.  That you appreciate his kindness and companionship over the past year, but that you cannot lie to yourself. 

You cannot marry him because you don’t love him as you should.

You prepare for the night shift with a spring in your step, because when you get there, you’re heading straight to Sebastian’s room.  You’re going to tell him what you’ve done, and hope that he’s still feeling just as crazy as you. You pull your hair into its usual bun, wishing you could wear something a little nicer to what will be your reunion.  Sebastian used to love when you wore green; perhaps you’ll buy a green dress the next day you’re off.

When you get to the ward, it’s quieter than usual.  Holding your wand between your teeth again, affixing the white apron, your heart beats out of your chest as you approach room 213.  

This is it.  This is the start of the rest of your life.

You push through the doors of 213, but your breath stutters when you see the empty bed.  It’s stripped of any linens, and all of the flowers and candy boxes Sebastian’s colleagues sent are gone.

“Where is the patient in 213?” you whip around, grabbing the closest orderly.

They give you a curious look. “Discharged this morning–you put it in their paperwork.”

You swallow, and it feels like shards of broken glass are tumbling down your throat. “I…I did.”

“Isn’t today your day off, too?” They tilt their head at you. “Honestly, it feels like your head hasn’t been screwed on at all this week. Might want to take some focus potions, ma’am.”

“Uh, right.” You admit, turning red.  You were so excited at the prospect of seeing Sebastian again, you completely forgot that Fridays were your nights off from the ward. You were rather busy after all, imploding your life. “”Does it say who picked him up?”

They shrug, flipping through the charts again. “He was taken to his home in Diagon Alley by his sister and brother-in-law.”

You curse under your breath as you try to plot a plan.  There’s no way Ominis still lives in the small flat he had when you last saw him, and you have no idea where Sebastian lives.  The ward doesn’t have an address either, so you’re shit out of luck.

Unless…unless you were to find one of his loyal partners.

Apparition is frowned upon inside of St. Mungo’s, but you’ll take a scolding from the matron ward on Saturday. You immediately apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, where most of the ministry’s aurors spend their evenings.  You know this because you’ve been avoiding the biggest pub in Diagon Alley for five years, hoping not to run into your ex.

The crowd stares at you in your St. Mungo’s uniform; you push through throngs of ministry employees, all wearing fine suits and dresses from their day jobs.  Your eyes scan the room, heart losing hope by the second, until you spot Everett and Andrew sitting with a gaggle of your classmates from Hogwarts, Natsai Onai included.  Andrew elbows Everett at the sight of you, and Clopton beams as if he’s won a bet.

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, approaching the group. 

“Figured you might turn up.” Larson teased. “Gaunt, Clopton, and I had a bet on how long it would take.”

“What’s going on?” Natty asks, clearly confused. She says your name, tilting her head. 

“I need his address,” You gasp. “He wasn’t at the ward when I got there–”

“Anne and Ominis picked him up this morning.” Everett says, pulling out his wand and a paper napkin.  He aimed his wand at the scrap, delicately burning an address into the paper. “He doesn’t live far from here. Perhaps you’ll keep him from spending too much time at the pub now.”

“Who doesn’t live far?” Natty asks again, elbowing Andrew.

“Sallow, of course.” Larson winks. “You two had enough time to talk it through, yeah?”

“What the bloody hell–they haven’t spoken in five years,” Natty claims with wide eyes. She gives you a look, and you can’t do anything but shrug.

“Near death experiences will change you,” Everett says smugly, taking a sip of his tankard. “Well go on then, what are you still doing here?”

You mouth an apology to Natty; you’ll have to explain it to her someday soon.  For now, you’re pushing through the crowd, trying to get out the door.  Looking down at the napkin, Everett Clopton is right; Sebastian lives maybe a stone's throw away from the pub.  Your feet are pounding on the cobblestone of Diagon Alley, looking like a blue wisp to any passersby.  

Before you know it, you’re turning onto his street, with only the lamps in front of each door illuminating the numbers.  You stop, gasping for air, trying to find the right one.  Of course he’s at the end of the row, a dark green door with a gold knocker.  It’s late now, the sky pitch black, as you start pounding.

It takes only thirty seconds for the door to swing open; Anne is standing behind it, looking shocked.

“You’re here,” she breathes.

“I told you she would,” you hear Ominis yell from the inside. “Clopton owes me ten galleons.”

“Can I come in?” you ask.

Anne bites back a smile. “Of course you can.”

You walk into Sebastian’s home; despite having never seen it, it positively reeks of him. There are touches of him all over the house–from the books stacked in the hallways, to the shoes messily kicked in the parlor room.  He has trinkets from his travels on the mantle, and you can see he still leaves his teacups all over the house (something you once fought over–it seems endearing now).  

Ominis is in the sitting room, lounging on a chaise. “Took you long enough.” he says teasingly. “I was rather surprised you abandoned him last night.  He was absolutely bereft when we picked him up in the morning.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you admit sheepishly, digging your toe into the carpet. “I…I just had something I had to do first.”

“A break up and a make up in one day, you’re a busy woman as always.”

“Shut up.”

Ominis gives you a toothy grin; something he saves only for those he loves. “I missed you.” he stood, pulling you into a tight hug. “I can only hope Sebastian doesn’t bungle it all up and we lose you all over again.”

You press your nose into Ominis’s shoulder; it seems silly you ever thought you could live without this group of people in your life. 

“I thought you were mad at him,” you say, pulling back to look up at the blond.

“I was mad that he was being stubborn,” Ominis says softly. “That he wasn’t being himself, drinking every day and dating girls who weren’t right for him.  I told him he had to pluck up the courage to speak to you again, or get over it and make peace with his life.  He’s been rather stuck, as you can imagine.”

You have been too, you think.

“Is he upstairs?” You ask, turning to the slim staircase. Anne is standing next to the railing, giving a signature Sallow smirk.

“He might be asleep,” Ominis warned. “But he is. First room to the left.”

You squeeze his hand in thanks before walking up the stairs.  The floor creaks underneath you as you push in the door; Sebastian is laying in his bed, sleeping fitfully. You nearly knock a stack of books over as you kneel next to his bed; you also recognize the book on his side table, the spine dented from when you threw it at his face five years ago. It reminds you of the shattered mug you keep on your desk.  Perhaps you two have been subconsciously keeping pieces of each other around.

Sebastian stirs as you brush his brunette hair out of his face.  He opens one eye, then the other, blinking furiously as he tries to sit up.

“You’re here,” he groans, a hand flying to his torso. “Is this a good visit, or just a hospital house call? Because my scars are killing me now that I’m home.”

You give a watery chuckle. “It can be both, if you like.”  You pull the blanket aside, examining his puckered skin.  The scars will stay for good, but that’s fine.  You did always like it when Sebastian was roughed up anyways.

“You’re here.” Sebastian repeats, only this time it's softer.

“I had to go to the Leaky Cauldron to get your address from Clopton.” you admit, blue waves emitting from your fingertips as you try to take away some of the physical pain. “But yes, I’m here.”

“By the sound of our last conversation, I thought you were done.  That we were just going to have to live with our mistakes.” Sebastian breathes.

“I wanted to say more, but there was something I had to do first.” you sit on the bed; Sebastian adjusts to give you more room, taking your hands in his. “I had to give back the engagement ring.”

“You did?” Sebastian asks hopefully.

“Seeing you…being around you for the first time in five years…” You’re trying to compound all of your feelings in a simple sentence, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “It made me realize I just didn’t love him.” You confess. “I shouldn’t feel the way I’ve felt seeing you.”

“Pet,” he murmurs, putting a hand to your cheek. “You’ve saved my life. I can’t ask anything more from you.”

“Then can I?” You ask, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes as you place your hand over his. Sebastian’s hand is warm and familiar, fitting perfectly against you.

“Ask me anything,” Sebastian echoes.

“Let’s try again.” you whisper.  

Sebastian scoots over, making space on the bed for you.  You don’t care if anyone else has slept in it over the five years you’ve been apart; something about the way Sebastian melts against your touch tells you he’s only ever belonged to you in the first place. 

“Let’s try again.” Sebastian whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss to your lips.  It feels positively electric, like it’s awoken something that’s been dormant inside you for five long, sleepy years.  You take good care not to press too much of your weight onto a still recovering patient, but Sebastian does everything in his power to draw you closer.  His hands start pulling pins out of your hair, the tight bun coming unraveled as he weaves his fingers through your tresses.

“You’re still healing,” you remind him as he starts working on the buttons of your dress. “And your sister is downstairs.”

“I don’t care,” Sebastian murmurs into your skin, tugging your collar down to press a kiss at the base of your neck. “We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?”

You have, you think.  So you let Sebastian ravish you with kisses, blushing when you hear Ominis loudly call up the stairs that he and Anne are leaving.  You only leave the bed to unlace your dress, Sebastian eagerly watching as you strip the fabric from your body.  He groans in a good way when you press kisses to his chest, fingers dancing across the scars on his chest.  Not all scars would disappear, and there would always be reminders of the past.  But it was good to acknowledge them, to know that they were there, and that they were healed.  

The two of you stay awake the entire night reacquainting yourselves with each other’s body; the sun is streaming through Sebastian’s curtains when you realize you’ve been awake since Thursday night, running off adrenaline. Your eyes begin to droop as Sebastian presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Go to sleep, pet.” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

You’ll have to call in again, you think. You need an entire day of sleep after this week.  And the next time you get to the ward, you’ll turn in your official notice, asking to move to the day shift.

[blackdollette]

"on lockdown, like a penitentiary." | spencer reid

doin' time. - lana del rey

⊹₊⋆ synopsis: a jarring case meant that spencer had 24-hour surveillance on you. to protect you, of course...

fill out the taglist form! : @thirtyratsinasuit @auggiethecreator @oliviah-25 @sleepysongbirdsings @pleasantwitchgarden @emma-e-a @bellasprettywords

⊹₊⋆ pairing: victim!female!reader x spencer

⊹₊⋆ word count: 989

⊹₊⋆ contents: spencer is reader's "private detective", reader teases spencer, potential for smut

your hand reached out to the door handle, the echo of the doorbell’s ring resounding as you opened the door.

“good afternoon, miss. i’m doctor spencer reid, i work with the FBI.”

spencer flipped open his badge, showing it to you for just a second before closing it up and tucking it in his pocket. you had known this man for less than 10 seconds, but you already knew that he had terrible timing.

his eyes flicked to you, only needing one look before his cheeks flushed beet-red. 

“o-oh. is… this a bad time..?”

you stood in the doorway wearing nothing but your bath towel, hair tied up in a scruffy bun at the top of your head. you bit back a laugh as you watched his professional facade melt into one of embarrassment.

“uh, do you wanna tell me what’s going on, ‘doctor’?”

he noticed the sight mockery in your voice as you addressed him, also taking note of the towel that seemed to be struggling to stay in place on your body. he cleared his throat, reajdusting his collar subconsciously.

“i work with the FBI,” he wanted to punch himself as soon as he realized he already said that, but he continued. “...and there have been a few recent crimes in your neighbourhood.”

your eyebrows inched up your forehead as he continued to speak.

“this unsub, or criminal, in particular seems to target women in their mid-20s who live alone. i don’t assume you’re in a relationship,” he paused, the crimson stains on his cheeks only getting deeper. “i-i mean… i-it’s not like you wouldn’t… i’m not saying that you don’t… i-it’s just that, y’know, i don’t wanna assume anything but…” 

he was already making a mess of the situation, only because he was in the presence of a young woman that just so happened to be exactly his type. 

he swallowed hard, his adam’s-apple bobbing as he recollected himself.

“i am going to be your private detective for the next 24-hours.”

you scoffed, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms over your chest. “why? i’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

spencer nodded. “i’m sure you are, miss. but i’ll be in your corner, just in case.”

you sighed, opening the door fully to let him in.

“alright. come on in, doctor.”

he stepped into your home, giving you a little smile as you shut the door behind him. 

as the closed environment enrobed the two of you, reality began to rain on you. you gestured to your lack of proper attire, looking up at him with a smile.

“sorry about all this, by the way. i was just about to hop in the shower.” 

he nodded understandingly. “of course, no problem.”

you stroll over to the kitchen, taking his arm in your small hand and walking him into the kitchen. “can i get you anything? tea? coffee?”

you began rummaging through the cabinets, the towel slowly sliding down your chest as you lifted up your arms. spencer, being the observant genius that he was, found that the room seemed to be getting warmer by the second. it was unprofessional at best and completely inappropriate at worst, but he just couldn’t help it.

“n-no thank you.” he looks around the kitchen, desperate to let his eyes land on anything but you. “do you mind if i open a window? it’s… a little hot in here.”

he cringed at his own word choice.

you turned back to look at him. “is that safe? you know, with a crazy guy out to kill me and all.”

spencer ran a hand through his hair. “you don’t have to worry about that. under my watch, i promise that you’ll be alright.” 

an endearing smile lit up your face, making spencer’s thumping heart melt in his chest. you closed the cupboard, taking his arm in your hand once again. you didn’t know why, but you liked the feeling of having him in your grasp.

“come with me.” you began to lead him up your long flight of stairs, walking him into your bedroom and sitting him on your bed. to travelled over to your bedside table, starting to pick out a few bottles of bathing soap. for the first time, he was perplexed.

“u-uh… what are you doing..?”

you held multiple bottles under your arm, gesturing for him to follow you into the bathroom. “i’m gonna have my shower. i know i’ll feel so much safer with you around.”

his throat grew tight, nearly choking him. “oh. right. well, i can just wait for you out here.”

you rolled your eyes. “no, silly. what if something happens to me in there? you promised that you’d protect me.”

spencer was a squirming mess, his breath coming out in quiet gasps before he reluctantly agreed, following you into the bathroom. you shut the door, locking it behind you. 

he leaned against the sink, hands shoved in his pockets as he watched you intently. your placed the assortment of bottles onto the counter, reaching into your tall shower to turn on the water. spencer mentally cursed himself. why did the shower have to be made of glass? now he’d be able to see everything. and so would you.

hot water began to spill from the showerhead, your hand testing out the water until it reached the right temperature. you stepped inside, shutting the transparent door and finally slipping off the towel that had been begging for release.

spencer couldn’t bring himself to look. he was blushing like a school boy, beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. but to his luck, the clear glass began to fog up with steam, granting him a reprieve and deprivation.

he couldn’t help but trace his eyes over your body’s foggy silhouette, the steam in the room enrobing him in a warm blanket.

one thing was for sure: it was going to be a long day.

author's note: i REALLY wanted to make this smutty but I'm supposed to be studying for exams but i really wanted to get this fic out but like :((

[simp4konig]

Nikto x Reader Angst Drabble

You love Nikto. But Nikto does not love anybody.

Word count: 829

Allusions to smut! Readers are warned for mentions of NSFW.

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"I do not love you."

You're bent over, hands clutching the bedsheets, fingers bunching up the fabric in a shaky, white-knuckle grip.

Nikto, who had been thrusting into you, was still, as still as a statue, and, although you cannot see his eyes, you imagine them to be stony, the expression under the metal mesh plate of a mask stoic, unresponsive. Disgusted.

Five words. Just five single syllables, whispered in a voice that is hoarse from groaning, gravelly and rough like always. A voice which belongs to Nikto, the voice that you had hopelessly fallen in love with, despite how reckless of you it was for you to grow accustomed to it, to be comforted by it. To find solace in it.

You hadn't meant to let it slip. You really hadn't. It was in the heat of the moment, even though those feelings were anything but. Those feelings were a fire, and Nikto the fuel, a finite source that you should have known better than to extract from.

He would be gone for weeks, for nights, months at a time, deployed on missions with intel classified to you. You never knew what would happen, what was the goal, where, and why. What you would know is that Nikto survived each time.

And what you do know is that you're a toy for him to be used, abused, and reused, dumping weeks' worth of semen into you.

You enjoyed it. Nikto enjoyed it. Really, it was meant to be no strings attached — just a case of arriving at your apartment when least expected, the intensity of his gaze enough for you to realise his intentions, and you'd be bent over the nearest surface before you could do so much as blink, clothes discarded haphazardly on the floor and half-naked.

Nikto did not exert warmth. Not comfort, nor love. Stoic and stone-cold, his heart a hard rock incapable of oozing love for anything, his mind irreversibly damaged and traumatised, he was incapable of emotion, of feelings. Incapable of reciprocating your feelings.

Aftercare was nonexistent. Every careful caress of his scarred skin, every tentative touch on an area that is sensitive, even the merest of kisses that appeared too intimate, too affectionate, too full of care, were swatted, spat on, and chastised. Nikto's nose scrunched in utter disgust at the prospect of intimacy, and he positively felt sick to his stomach whenever you mistakenly kissed him, too lost in the moment for the consequences of such a mindless action to register.

You were meant to be a toy. And that's all you are. That's all you are, you repeated, was reiterated, was reinforced.

Yet, you longed for more. How fucking pathetic of you to think that Nikto could offer you more.

"I..."

Licking your dry lips, you swallow the build-up of saliva in your mouth, throat bobbing up and down as you do so. Although drool had collected at the corner of your mouth in pleasure, saliva built up from guilt, from shame, from humiliation.

You lie through the skin of your teeth, thankful that your facial expression isn't visible to Nikto from this position: "I— I-I didn't mean it in... in that way. You— you know that, Nikto."

Tears collect in your eyes. Why couldn't you have contented yourself with the sex? His presence? His existence? Why did you have to fall in love with a man who would never, ever love you?

"I meant— I meant I love what you're doing. W-what you're doing to me. J-just— it feels so, so good."

He grunts in acknowledgement, and you gulp a little too audibly for your liking, blinking profusely in the hope that you convinced him enough.

His callous fingers tangle themselves in your hair, fingertips scratching your scalp — not fingernails, because some are missing. It never warranted an explanation because you didn't deserve one.

The silence is deafening. For those seconds, you don't dare breathe. Your eyes are wide, panic-stricken, and you're mentally praying for any salvation, for any mercy — anything.

Finally, Nikto's grip on your scalp loosens, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and he resumes his thrusts, grunting into your ear again.

A quiet moan escapes your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to go away.

"Good," he laughs, laughing a cruel, callous laugh, apathetic. "And I love it when you keep that mouth shut. So keep it shut, or I'll cut that tongue out if you keep letting such shit leave that goddamn mouth."

You feel so pathetic. So ashamed. So humiliated.

And you are. You really are.

But you can savour his touch for a few moments more, lose yourself in the pleasure for a some more thrusts, orgasm some more, until Nikto decides that he is satisfied, and abandons your apartment to return to the barracks.

And who knows? Maybe this is the last time he will ever come back to you — abandon your apartment forever without a word of goodbye.

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Haven't written in a while, but this came to me as I was on c.ai, and the inspiration was so strong that I wrote this all in one sitting lolol 😝

Still obsessed w Nikto behind the scenes. I am on my KNEES 🛐, PLEASE GIVE ME MORE NIKTO CONTENT I AM IN NEED 😭🙏😭🙏😭🙏 IDC IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW ME OR KNOW ME TAG ME IN ANYTHING I NEED IT SO BAD 😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏

Anyways although this isn't my headcanon, it suits Nikto's character, and as tragic it is for me to imagine this, it's pretty accurate (I would say)... 🥲💔

[ladylooch]

A Visit To Manchester - [Lucie x Connor]

Summary: Connor takes a day trip home to tell his parent his surprising news.

Word count: 2.7k

Connor puts his SUV in park in the driveway of his parents Manchester, Massachusettes home. It is a massive, sprawling mansion in the town his dad grew up in. Connor smiles, thinking about his Grandpa Randy and the legacy he left behind for them in this town. He also helped his dad build pieces of this house and everytime Connor comes here, he feels his presence. Connor blows out a sigh, hoping his grandpa will help give him the strength to disappoint his dad.

Other sons may be excited to tell their dad about becoming a grandparent. Connor doesn’t feel that way. He knows his dad is going to be upset. It’s been itching at his brain since he and Lucie reconciled a few weeks ago. He wishes she was here. She had planned to be, but she woke up too sick and nauseous to sit in the car for the 4 hour drive down the East Coast.

So he is in this alone. Although truthfully, he thinks that is probably for the best, something he didn’t want to tell Lucie about. She’s already feeling enough guilt and worry about being a young mother. He doesn’t want to add worries about his family not liking her to that. Plus, Connor knows that isn’t the case. It’s just… complicated. Like this whole having a baby thing has been since basically conception.

Inside the garage, Connor’s dad, Miles, tinkers around his tool bench amidst his mom’s latest restoration project. When Connor pops his door open, his dad turns towards the driveway. He puts his hands on his hips, raising his eyebrows in a “what are you doing here?” way.

“Hey.” Connor calls with a wave before adjusting his hat on his head. He didn’t have time to shower before he left. He was too busy holding Lucie’s hair back from her mouth over the toilet. Fuck, he wants to get back to her as soon as possible. He wants to make sure she is okay. He thought he was protective over her before, but nothing matches the feelings he has about Lucie now that she is carrying his child.

The wind whistles through the circular driveway as Connor shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket to join his dad in the garage. He pulls them out again to clasp his dad into a hug.

“Good to see you, buddy. No Lucie today?”

“Ah, she’s not feeling well.” Connor fills in. “She says hi though.”

“Bummer.” Miles frowns. “Mom was excited to have another artistic eye on this piece.” He motions to the sanded down wood which looks to be a dresser.

“We can send her a picture.” Connor assures, knowing that would be a welcome distraction for Lucie. “What is mom wanting to do with it?”

“Paint it bright orange.”

“Yuck.” Connor laughs with his dad, both their giggles floating to his mom, Kailey, who stands in the doorway, watching their curled heads bob in unison with their laughter.

“Lucie would understand the vision.” She insists, coming to her son. She runs a hand up his back. Connor sighs, falling down into her embrace by bending his knees. He breathes in her familiar vanilla scent mixing with the wintry sea breeze. “Hi baby.” She says, giving him one more extra squeeze. Connor reluctantly releases her, but keeps an arm around her shoulder. The three of them turn their attention back to the stripped dresser.

“You really think orange is going to get this thing sold?” Miles wonders aloud.

“Yeah, the 70s are making another comeback!”

“Yuck.” Miles looks at her, blue eyes sparkling teasingly.

“You have no vision.” She quips back, narrowing her eyes playfully. “I bet this would look great in your bedroom, baby.” She directs at Connor.

“No.” Connor says immediately. “Not if it’s going to be orange.”

“You know, I had a kid so they would always agree with me. Now you’re siding with your dad?”

“Gotta throw him a bone once and a while.” Connor grins down at her. She groans, pressing her nose into his chest to hide her smile then walking off to run her fingers along the wood top, likely checking for places she may need to sand over again. “I have to finish this today. Dad and I are going to pick up this old crib tomorrow. I’m restoring it for your cousin, Caitlin. She’s having another boy.”

“Ah.” I fill in, swallowing hard. I wonder if that’s what Lucie and I are having. But truthfully, I don’t care either way. I just want a healthy baby- half me and half Luc.

“She keeps insisting she wants white, but I saw her eyeing a light blue one I re-did a few months ago that is currently in the shop. So, I’ll probably do that.”

“Nice.” Connor nods along, feeling his nerves begin to expand in his chest. He swallows hard, digging his hands back into his pockets. They ball into fists as he folds his bottom lip between his teeth. Silence settles between them and he takes the opportunity to look at both his parents. They seem to be in a good enough mood.

“Uh.” Connor clears his throat of the anxious mucus coating it. “I actually have something to tell you both.” His heart pounds in his chest. “Well, Lucie and I do.” He corrects himself. This isn’t only his news. It’s hers too. Fuck, he wishes she was here.

Across from him, his mom tilts her head expectantly while his dad’s eyebrows furrow. He knows. If his mom does, she doesn’t show it. But she’s always been the calmer one.

“We are having a baby.” Connor exhales the words. A heavy silence fills the garage for a beat and Connor immediately has to fill it. “In November.” His dad’s nose, bent from years of fighting in the NHL, scrunches.

“Lucie is pregnant?” He repeats back to the garage.

“Yeah. It’s early, but that’s why she isn’t here. She’s been pretty sick.” Connor rubs the back of his neck, eyes floating between his parents. His mom has a slow smile forming over her face and wetness collecting along her lower lids. Connor smiles back at her.

“Wow.” His dad scoffs. “We are so-”

“Happy for you!” His mom darts in. She rushes around the big bench, throwing herself into her son for a huge hug. She sways them back and forth, squeezing his cheek to hers. He looks at his dad over her small shoulder, who is definitely not pleased with the news.

“Thanks, mama.”

“Ah! I’m so excited! Screw Caitlin. I’m gonna get this crib for you and Luc.”

“That would be really nice.” He says, trying to look at her and not at the angry scowl across his dad’s face.

“So…” His dad starts, making Connor’s mom tense next to him.

“Miles.” She grumbles in warning.

“I tell you at the start of this season that you need to really dig deep and focus. Which you don’t do, ending up in a trade, and then to put a cherry on top, you knock up your girlfriend? Who is what? Barely 22 and hasn’t finished college yet.”

“Yeah. I did it just to piss you off.” Connor snaps back, annoyed at his condescending tone.

“Miles. Lay off.” Kailey warns.

“No, we raised him better than this.”

“Sure, but I guess the apple doesn’t fall that far from the tree.” Connor retorts, squaring his shoulders. Who the fuck is he to lecture him on unplanned pregnancies?

“Boys, I’m serious. Knock it off. Let’s go inside and talk about how we can support Connor and Lucie during this big milestone.” Connor and Miles stare each other down, almost daring each other to cross the line further. Kailey wisely steps between them, creating an obstacle just in case this goes sideways. Instead, Miles snorts, shaking his head before he walks off towards the backyard without another word. “He’s surprised.” Kailey immediately tries to justify. Connor looks down at her with disappointed eyes. “He’ll have to process in his time, babe.”

“I love Lucie, Mom.” Connor says, not understanding his dad’s difficulty in grasping this as a good thing.

“I know, hon. She is wonderful and good to you. We love her.” She nods and stops talking, like a few more words were behind that sentence. Eventually she sighs and says, “Did you go to an ultrasound yet?”

“Yeah.” Connor smiles widely, digging his phone out of his pocket.

They stand in the garage, flipping through the pictures he and Lucie have electronically and the video of a tiny blob wiggling in black and white.

“Ugh, this brings me back!” She chuckles, rubbing at his back. “Seeing you on that ultrasound was indescribable. So much joy and being scared shitless.” She shakes her head. “Your dad looked like he was gonna pull all those pretty curls out of his head.”

“I felt like the whole world shifted when the heartbeat played through the room.”

“Are you going to find out the gender?”

“Lucie is the mother of my child. Yeah, we are finding out.” He chuckles.

“What does she think it is?”

“Girl.”

“Oooo, the Woods aren’t really known for girls.” She murmurs, biting her lip. “But I’m with whatever Lucie thinks.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Are you hungry? I made some brownies last night. Your dad ate half of them but there are still some left.” Connor trails behind her as she continues to talk. She does her best to take his mind off his dad’s reaction and sudden escape from the conversation.

But it becomes harder and harder the longer his dad remains absent from the conversation. After a few hours, Connor hits the bathroom, then texts Lucie after washing his hands.

How you doing?

Not good. Are you on your way back yet?

I’ll head out soon. I’m sorry you’re having a rough day, baby. Can I grab anything on my way home?

Um some crackers? Maybe gatorade.

You got it. I love you.

We love you too.

Connor smiles at her mention of we. He inhales heavily, looking at himself in the mirror. He looks tired, slightly older than he remembers looking with dark bags under his eyes. Lucie hasn’t been sleeping well and when she’s up, he is up. Longer, dark stubble coats his jaw more than usual and he kinda sees what his dad’s concerns may have been. Lucie has been pregnant for 9 weeks and he is already feeling it- physically, mentally, and emotionally. He can’t imagine how she feels, having some of the same emotions with a lot more of the physical burden. With that in mind, he rolls his shoulders back, perking himself up for the four hour drive back to her.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out. Get back to Luc.” He says to his mom, heading to the fridge to grab a Red Bull.

“Okay, baby. Thank you for coming to see us. Keep me in the loop on how things are going, okay? I texted Lucie, but have her call me when she’s feeling up to it.”

“Will do.” He says, then wraps his arms around her, squeezing tight.

Connor stuffs his feet back into his sneakers in the mudroom, then pulls open the garage door while taking another hearty swig of the energy drink. He glances to the right, seeing his dad back to tinkering at the tool bench. Clearly that’s more important than being inside with him and his mom.

Dick.

His dad glances over at him, but doesn’t offer any words to Connor as he heads towards his car. Connor doesn’t bother saying goodbye either.

As Connor pulls out of the driveway, his dad’s identical blue eyes sweep over him with a disappointed tint. It lodges in Connor’s chest, burning him up with acid and the realization that he let his dad down. Connor swallows hard, turning the wheel with the heel of his hand then speeding off back to New York where his girl needs him.

He drums his thumb on the steering wheel, feeling his chest tighten and his throat begins to close up. By the time he hits I-95, he can barely see the road from his tears.

Connor may barely be a father, and he sure as hell doesn’t have all the answers, but he would never let his kid drive away feeling like he feels right now.

With an angry jab at the display on his center console, he calls his dad. The ring shrills through the surrounding speakers, making Connor’s blood pressure soar.

“Con-”

“I’ve got something to say to you and I’m man enough to say it, so shut up and listen.” He brings both hands on the leather steering wheel, white knuckling it. “This is a surprise to us too. We fucked up, okay. We fucking know that. We don’t need a lecture about it. And you’re going to be a grandparent, whether you like it or not. But I’m telling you right now, don’t bother stepping into that role until you’re fucking ready to. My kid deserves better than whatever the hell that was back there.”

“Buddy, I’m just-”

“I don’t give a shit what you are. This isn’t about you, dad. This is about us. We are starting our family. One that we really want. The love of my life is having my baby. She’s bringing life into this world for us, and if you can’t support that, then you need to stay away from us until you can show up the way that we need you to. The way that I need you to.” His voice waivers with that last sentence.

“I love you. I’m here for you.” His dad responds tightly. Connor can tell he is trying not to cry.

The line goes quiet and Connor does too. He swallows thickly, taking a hand off the wheel to wipe his cheeks.

“Babies change everything.” Miles says quietly. “You flipped my whole world upside down when we had you. I don’t know if you’re ready for that.” Connor narrows his eyes, huffing his exhale.

“I don’t have a choice. I have to be. Maybe you could learn something from that.” Connor snaps, then clicks end.

The whole drive back to New York, Connor’s body stays tense. By the time he pulls into a parking spot, his whole body aches. He unlocks the front door, immediately confronted with the adorable sight of Lucie sleeping, curled up on the couch, hugging herself. He smiles, going over to kiss her cheek and gently moving her hair off her face. She doesn’t stir, passed out from utter exhaustion. Connor glances over the back of the couch, seeing Lio making something for himself at the kitchen stove.

“Oh fuck.” Connor whines as he opens the fridge for a beer. He sees the blue gatorade sitting mostly empty on the shelf next to the Budweiser, reminding him of the missed stop he forgot on the way home.

“I got her more. And the crackers. She couldn’t wait.” Lio fills in, pausing Connor’s turn back towards the door.

“Thanks, man.” Connor sighs, popping the top off his beer bottle and flicking it towards the trash. It bounces off the side. Connor ignores it, too damn tired to walk over there and pick it up.

“How did it go?”

Connor shoots an annoyed look at Lio over the amber bottle of beer.

“That good huh?” Lio jokes. “To be fair, I’m not sure the conversation with my dad would go any better.”

“Yeah, but you’re you. And who the fuck would that kid be with?” Connor snorts. “It’s not the same. Lucie is going to be my wife.” Lio smiles, a genuinely sweet smile that has Connor smiling too.

“Damn, I knew this would happen. You two would meet and fall in love and change the whole world. That kid is so damn lucky to have you two as its parents.”

Just like that, Lio’s words soothe everything that happened today. Because he is right.

This kid hit the jackpot.

Connor is going to make sure they know that, everyday that he is on this Earth, getting to be their dad

Read Lucie and Connor here.

[vivalas-vega]

Hello again! It's Syd 🥰🩷

I sent an ask a few days ago but I just saw your post about sending more so here I am! (& good luck on your journey quitting vape, you got this!! 🩷)

Here's an idea:

(Could be with bob, nat, jake, roost, it's up to you really) Reader just got home from work and starts rambling about work gossip with her partner while getting undressed to take a shower. The partner stops paying attention to the story as she lifts her shirt and takes off her pants, ogling at the brand new set of lingerie they had never seen her wearing before.

Reader is busy walking around the room gathering her skin care products & pajamas while going off on a tangent about a particularly annoying coworker. Noticing her partner isn't responding, she playfully asks "are you even paying attention to what I'm saying?", finally turning to find her lover on the edge of the bed with a dreamy look on their slightly flushed face, reaching for her as they ask "is that a new set...?"

Could be just fluffy with a hint of suggestive or smutty😌 feel free to change it anyway you want it!

hello !!! thank you so much for sending this request in and I'm so sorry that it took me an unreasonable amount of time to post !!! but, my first Bob fic ! this just screamed Bob to me, I took some creative liberties but I hope I did your request justice!

focus / bob floyd x reader

word count: 1k (short and sweet!)

warnings: a little spicy at the end but otherwise pretty pg-13!

“Bob, you home?” you asked, shutting the front door behind you as you dropped your keys in the bowl and slipped out of your heels and coat. Excitement had been radiating throughout your body, threatening to rattle you apart from the inside out the entire drive home. You were sitting on a rather juicy piece of intel you’d been counting down the seconds to be able to share with your partner… the first and usually only person you told anything and everything.

“Bedroom, honey!” You heard him call out and you raced down the hallway, bursting into the room with sheer glee written all over your face. “Good day at work?” he asked, amusement creeping into his tone.

“No, not at all actually. Remember that case I’ve been working on I regretfully cannot tell you anything about? Client withheld something major and I spent the entirety of my day reworking the whole thing… after I’d just done that yesterday.”

“Then what has you so excited?” He watched as you took off your watch and earrings, delicately placing them in their respective homes atop your dresser. The book he’d been reading was abandoned the second he heard your voice echo throughout your shared home. If you were even remotely in his presence there was nothing else that could hold his focus, not that he would have wanted anything else to take precedence over you anyways.

“So, in the break room today I overheard something I definitely wasn’t supposed to, regarding a certain coworker and her husband.” you started, eyebrows raised as you watched the excitement on his face mirror your own as he shifted down the bed to listen with rapt attention.

“Please tell me this is about Denise,” he almost begged. This particular saga of workplace drama was a personal favorite of you two.

“Oh, is it ever. She was on the phone with her husband in very hushed tones arguing about the pick up and drop off schedule for their kids when she suddenly said ‘this has nothing to do with him’.” you continued, placing your blazer in the hamper.

“Him, as in the kids tutor, right?” he asked and you nodded. 

“Mmhm,” you confirmed. “But the real pièce de résistance of this story is who made an impromptu stop by the office today… with flowers.” You’d already discarded your silk camisole and were sliding your favorite slacks off… a beautiful shade of emerald green fitted perfectly to your body before flaring out and creating the illusion your legs were a mile long. They weren’t just your favorite though, and you were completely unaware of the way Bob’s eyes tracked their movement down your curves into their puddle on the floor where you bent over to pick them up and he suddenly felt as if the room had gotten warmer.

“Is that so?” he asked, while his attention was hung on your every word a few moments ago, if you’d asked him any follow up questions on what you’d just said he’d have no response… he was far more interested in the black lace adorning your body, particularly in the fact that it was unrecognizable to him.

“Mmhm,” you hummed again, still blind to the way your boyfriend was looking at you as you moved around the room, lost in your after-work routine of shedding your work persona before your shower. “It’s as if she’s unaware of the fact that we all know, or maybe she is aware and just doesn’t care. It’s incredibly ballsy. You know, I actually like her husband, of course I know nothing of their home life and I know better than anyone the public façade can be polar opposite from the reality behind closed doors but he does seem like one of the good ones.” You’d paused for his response, expecting agreement or a snarky quip but when you were met with silence you turned around to find his eyes far lower than you anticipated. “Bob? Are you even listening to me?” you asked, pretending to be annoyed but really you were anything but as you saw the lovesick look on his face.

His head snapped up, eyes wide like a man caught, “sorry sweetheart, I just… is this a new set?” he asked, swallowing harshly as his hands reached out and caught your hips, tugging you to stand in between his legs. He was looking up at you with pure adoration, the kind that knocked all the air from your lungs and rendered you almost speechless. Your first meeting by chance at the Hard Deck all those months ago had done nothing to prepare you for the man before you… timid glances and bashful smiles, earnest conversation and a chaste kiss to your cheek after walking you to your car. There was nothing timid or bashful about him now, nothing chaste about the way his fingers trailed up your sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake as his eyes raked your form, fire burning within those blue eyes.

“It might be,” you teased, moving to straddle his thighs and his arms were quick to cage themselves around you, locking you in place and keeping you from falling backwards.

“And you expect me to give a damn about Denise when you’re parading around this room looking like this?” he asked, pressing kisses along the column of your neck.

You gripped his jaw, pulling his face back and forcing him to look at you. “You’re damn right I do.” you shot back, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.

“My apologies, ma’am, but I’m afraid your beauty is a bit distracting.” he replied, pulling your hand away and kissing the inside of your wrist. “Besides… I think my attention would be better served elsewhere.” he added before continuing his path up your arm and to your collarbone where you couldn’t help but tilt your head back, a soft sigh falling from your lips.

“I think you might be right,” you agreed, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his head back to press your lips to his. The previous topic was entirely forgotten now with your excitement channeled directly towards the man beneath you… the one person you wanted to share everything with and the one person who could make you gladly abandon anything and everything for.

taglist: @callsignspirit @thegodessc @failuretothrivestuff @olliepig @cruelmissdior @underaveragefangirl @grxcieluvr @amatswimming @camilaricci @nolita-fairytale @dempy @pinkpantheris @aviatorobsessed @tiredqueen73 @pono-pura-vida @binnieslove @nik2blog @waklman @abaker74 @halstead-severide-fan @percysaidnever @memeorydotcom @eli2447 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @Genius2050 @stargazer-88 @chloeforde @kmc1989 @casa-boiardi (if your name is struck through it means I couldn't tag you, sorry!)

[mothdruid]

The Physics of Love - Part Three

series masterlist | part one | part two | part four

pairing.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x afab!reader (nickname Nova)

word count.

3.2k

warnings.

this content is meant for those who are 18 and older, fluff, kissing, alcohol consumption, lots of science talk in this part

authors note.

ahhhhhh!!! they kissed!!! fianlly!! i was smilling like a silly goose the entire time i was writing this chapter. it made me so freaking happy. also, Cranbrook is a real place and you totally check it out if you're ever in that area of Michigan! also no, this story is not based in Michigan, i just needed to think of a cool museum i like to go to.

starboy: I’m at the front of the Institute.

A smile grew on your face as you drew closer to the Institute. Bob had texted you only a few minutes ago. No matter how many times you had been here, Cranbrook never ceased to amaze you. Whether it be the seasonal display, the new mineral added to the collection, or even the ice age display they had, it was all fun and captivating.

You slipped your phone into your coat pocket, making your way to the front of the building. There wasn’t many people around, seeming how it was the middle of the day during the week. The two of you had decided to skip out on one of your tutoring session this week to make it work. Between Bob’s grad experiments and your full time schedule, it was hard to find time.

You had suggested doing it during the weekend, but Bob explained that he didn’t want many people around. It left you confused, curious as to why he didn’t want others around. There were only two things that you had thought of. One, he has social anxiety, and two, he disliked kids. And maybe even a third possibility of kids just plain out making him nervous. No matter what the reason, it didn’t bother you.

All morning you couldn’t stop daydreaming about your date today, which both of you were hesitant to call it that. Excitement was bubbling in you, the promising thought of being able to captivate him. Being able to explain all of the minerals to him, breaking down all of the make ups off them, what element made them appear a certain color, all of the things you loved about mineralogy. But some of that excitement was wrapped around the idea of him explaining the stars to you.

As you were coming around the almost barren fountain you saw him. You put a hand up high, waving to get his attention. He was wearing a denim jacket, burnt orange beanie covering most of his hair, a soft gray sweater underneath the jacket, and all of it complimented with black jeans and basic vans. It was all so him that your heart started to flutter. He smiled and gave you a small wave back.

“Hey,” he said once you got a little closer.

“Hey, I hope you didn’t have to wait too long,” you pushed your hands into the pockets of your long wool blended coat.

“Oh no, not at all,” Bob shook his head no.

The both of you sat there for a second, smiling a little awkwardly. Bob eventually broke the silence.

“Ready to check it out?” He asked, nodding up towards the front doors.

“Yeah,” you said with a smile.

The two of you headed up the small bit of stairs to the front doors. Bob quickly made his way up the steps, opening the door for you when he got to them. After thanking him, you both stepped inside the foyer. Bob held the next door open for you, his hand gracing the small of your back. A heat crept into your cheeks, nervousness pooling in your stomach. Even though you were excited, you could barely believe this was happening.

Bob went to the counter, talking with the employee behind the desk. You waited for him only a few steps away, just looking around. It wasn’t anything new, but you still loved the presence this place had. When you looked back over at Bob he making small talk with the employee, accepting one of the maps of the institute before heading back over to you. He adjusted his glasses a little before flashing the map.

“I got this just in case,” Bob smiled at you.

“Do you think we really need that?” You asked as the two of you headed across the lobby like area to a small set of stairs.

“Probably not, but it never hurts.”

The two of you stepped up the stairs, headed to the first section of the museum. Your favorite section. The mineral gallery.

Glass cases adorned every wall with more glass cases jutting out to create sections. Glimmers of light bounced off the minerals already. There were a few benches placed around in the clear areas. Two specimens were placed in the center walk way. The first specimen that was out in the open was a massive fossil, one that was still embedded into the rock it was found in. The second specimen was an enormous rock, half of it broken to display the clusters of amethyst crystals inside.

Bob felt a flutter in his chest when he watched your eyes light up, lips turning upward. You immediately headed down the center walk way, rounding the corner of a glass case into a small section. Bob took his time getting over to you, making sure to look at a few of the cases on his way over. He knew all of the minerals existed, but seeing them all in person was still astounding. All the colors and different types of crystalline structures they came in. Even though he was a space nerd, this always made him appreciate the earth a little more.

“What did you find?”

Bob turned away from the intriguing silvery gray mineral to see you peering around the corner of a glass case. It made his heart warm seeing you so comfortable. He was always so used to seeing you in a school setting. This was a nice change of pace, something he could get used to.

“I was looking at this,” he beckoned you over with a nod of his head.

You took a look at the mineral he was pointing at. A smile grew on your face as you took a few steps towards him.

“Muscovite,” you said while looking at him, “it a really weak mineral, flakes off in layers.”

“It looks pretty,” Bob looked back at it, taking in the layered effect of the mineral.

“Wanna hear something crazy?”

“Hmm?” Bob looked at you, ready for the fact you were about to tell him.

“Muscovite is used in a lot of make ups, especially the shimmery ones. They bust it up into a fine powder and boom, shiny glittery like substance.”

“Minerals are everywhere in our lives, even when you don’t think about it,” Bob looked at you we a small smile.

“Science is everywhere,” you replied.

“The essence of life is science,” Bob added.

The two of you continued your exploration around the mineral gallery. Bob learned about your favorite mineral, and you urged him to pick a favorite mineral. The both of you took pictures of each other with your mineral, setting them as your contact pictures. Bob couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled this much. There was just this infectious passion that flowed through you about every mineral. Even when you told him that ‘gold was overrated’, it felt only half-hearted like you didn’t want to actually say it.

All of it made Bob’s heart flutter and do back flips. He had met people who were passionate about science, but you were a lot cuter than most of them. The way your eyes lit up when you looked at one you loved. How sometimes a look of focus would consume your face while looking at one. It made him feel warm and fuzzy.

Once you two had looked over every mineral, you moved to the next section of the institute. It was now time for Bob to explain everything to you. Well, almost. The first section was meteorites and space rocks. Bob could tell you weren’t as excited about these minerals as the previous. But it was different.

“I mean, obviously space is going to make neat things. It just seems more exciting when it’s from earth,” you explained.

“How so?”

The two of you were standing close, shoulders almost touching as you two looked down at the collection of meteorites in a glass case. It took almost everything inside of Bob to not brush his shoulder against yours. Little did he know, you were hoping he would.

“I don’t know. I’ve been on earth my whole life, so seeing the cool minerals it can produce. Things that are so rare. It feels almost impossible that they came from the same place I’ve lived my whole life,” you paused for a moment, “space is so unknown, it’s like obviously something neat would come from it. Space has nebula’s for fuck sake.”

Bob couldn’t help but chuckle at that. He looked over at you and smiled, your gaze still focused on the meteorites.

“Yeah, nebula’s are pretty cool,” Bob said.

You broke your gaze for the little black rocks, meeting his eyes. There was this look in his eyes, one full of adoration. Those blue eyes always made your heart melt. They were like beautiful orbs of kyanite, deep but yet light at the same time. A hypnotizing shimmer drawing you in.

The two of you stood there staring at each other for a moment. The world around you starting to fade, both of you only focused on each other. Both of you had been waiting for weeks for a moment like this. Every soft brush of hands while passing an assignment back and forth, late night texts that elicited giggles and smiles, all the early morning coffees he started buying you. You could stay here forever in this moment.

There was a door off to the side, one that led to the constellation room. Without warning the door burst open, two young kids running out. It broke the two of you out of your moment. The kids came running around, coming close behind you two. Bob put his hand around your back, pulling you close to him and keeping the kids from running into you. Two parents followed out the door, trying to catch up to the kids.

One of your hands moved to his chest, steadying yourself against him. The fabric of his sweater was soft against your fingers, almost distracting you from how close you were. All you could do was stare forward, afraid of what might happen if you looked at him. Something soft touched your cheek then moved to touch your jaw slightly. His hand was softer than you imagined. It was guiding you to look at him.

“You okay?”

Your brain went blank, forgetting every word you had ever learned. All you could do was study his face. You had never been this close to him. It felt like you were looking at someone completely new. You were starting to wonder if he could feel the heat in your cheeks or the intense thumping against your rib cage. Eventually you nodded, letting him know you were okay.

A smile pulled at Bob’s lips, eye crinkling a little bit. His thumb brushed over the skin of your cheek lightly. He was assuming that this was all okay, especially if you weren’t pulling away from him. It felt like a good sign at least.

“Do you want to check out the constellation room?”

“Sure,” you said, finally being able to speak. “Are you gonna speak all space like when we get in there?”

Bob chuckled, leaning a little closer to you in the process. There was this boyish grin on his face, eyes twinkling with excitement. “Only if you want me to.”

Your faces were only mere inches away from each other. Someone could simply bump into one of you and the inevitable would happen. The fateful kiss that the both of you were secretly hoping would happen by the end of this date. Was it a date? Neither of you had officially called it that, or at least to each others faces. Mickey had definitely heard Bob gush about you accepting his invite, to which he only called it a date twice.

“I’d be more than happy to hear you talk space to me.”

Bob’s hand loosened from around your body, grabbing your hand instead. He guided you over to the door, opening it for you. But you didn’t let go of his hand, instead turning around and walking in backwards so you could watch him. Bob couldn’t get rid of the smile on his face, nor did he want to. He happily followed you through the short hallway, watching as you remained backwards and walked through the blackout curtains.

The room was almost pitch black. Little projected constellations covered the walls and ceiling. All of them were labeled, tiny projections of their names near them. You had barely any idea of what all of them were. The constellations you had learned during your freshman astronomy class had faded. Only the Big Dipper and Ursa Major stood out to you. But you were more than excited to have Bob tell you about them. After all, he did let you tell him about Muscovite being in makeup.

You tugged at his hand, pulling him a little closer to you. Bob happily stepped closer to you. The two of you had slowly wandered towards the middle of the room. Bob squeezed your hand, his free hand coming up to adjust his glasses lightly. Neither of you could make out the others eye color. All that was there was little glints reflecting in your eyes.

“Which one is your favorite?” You asked.

“Favorite constellation or star?” He replied, earning a barely visible eye roll from you.

“Both,” you said playfully.

Bob paused for a moment, looking around the room for his specific favorites. It wasn’t too hard for him to find them, his trained eyes knowing the exact shape of the constellation and exact brightness of the star. The constellation was the first one he found.

“There,” Bob turned your body the right way to see the constellation.

His chest was practically flush with your back. His left hand grabbed your left shoulder, pointing at the constellation with the other one. Sudden;y you felt hot breath on your neck and ear.

“Do you see it?” He whispered.

It was hard to focus on the constellations with Bob this close. But you found it, with the help of his pointing. You turned your head barely, eyes flicking down to where his lips should be for a second.

“Yeah,” the word almost came out as a whisper.

“It’s called Delphinus,” Bob’s eyes were trained on your face now, “it’s the shape of a dolphin, representing Poseidon’s messenger Delphini.”

“Is your favorite star in that constellation?”

“No,” Bob started to turn your body with his. Once he found it he stopped the two of you. “There.”

You saw the star immediately. It was a bright star, brighter than some of the other projections. The name attached to the constellation it was a part of was Lyra. The dusty old astronomy cogs in your brain started to turn.

“The swan,” the words passed your lips before you could think.

“Yeah, but the star is Vega,” Bob’s hand drifted down from your shoulder to your back, “the fifth brightest star in the sky. A lot of people over look it cause it isn’t the brightest, but it’s two point one times as massive as the sun. The sun just happens to be older. Plus, I like the bluish white light it gives off.”

Even though it was still dark in the room, it felt like Vega had brightened it up since Bob had explained it. You turned to him, who was still impossibly close to you. There were only a few layers of clothing separating your bodies, but nothing separating your lips. His lips were soft as they moved against yours. It wasn’t anything intense, but it was everything you had been hoping for in a first kiss with him.

Little fireworks were going off in your mind. His hand was resting at the small of your back, applying just enough pressure to keep you pressed into him. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, the denim of his jacket and wool from his sweater rubbing your palms. The wire frame of his glasses was bumping into your nose as the kiss continued. Lips melding together, two beings that were destined to be together finally connecting. It was a perfect science.

“I’ve been waiting to do that,” Bob whispered while resting his forehead against yours.

“Me too,” you replied, biting your lip with a smile.

The rest of the date went just as perfect. It was full of hand holding and giggles, the occasional photo being taken by one of you. Bob happily took a picture of you squaring up with the taxidermied grizzly bear, which became your contact photo. You took one of Bob with his hands up and fake yelling in front of the T-Rex, earning contact photo status as well. You had a hard time deciding on his contact photo, torn between that one and one of him in the black light space room. The goofy one just seemed more him to you.

Neither of you had planned on going to dinner afterwards, but it happened anyways. Since it was last minute it wasn’t anything too nice. A simple bra that was full of people having fun. It helped relieve the small bit of anxiety about it all for the two of you. Bob nursed a draft Blue Moon while you sipped on a draft papaya Cider Boys. You shared a tray of loaded nachos, order of soft pretzels, and plate of deep fried green beans.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you laughed, “you stole a street sign sophomore year?”

“I was really drunk,” Bob replied, “but it wasn’t only me. Without Mickey and Jake it wouldn’t have happened, I don’t think I would have even gone out that night if not for them.”

“Do you still have it?” You asked, then shoveled a heavily covered nacho into your mouth.

“Jake does,” Bob smiled at you before taking a swig of his beer.

“Your friends sound fun,” you held your hand in front of your face, not wanting to flash him the food you were chewing.

“They are,” Bob looked at his beer for a moment, “they are a lot of things, but without them I wouldn’t be here. Here in this very bar with you.”

“Oh really?” A playfully questioning look covered your features while you drank from your cider.

“Really,” Bob adjusted his glasses, “Mickey was the one who encouraged me to, well,” Bob gestured between the two of you and around the table.

Your face lit up, smiling brightly then biting your lip. It was something truly special, hearing that Bob had talked about you with such close friends. Your roommates were the only people that knew of him, but they were your closest friends, so it made sense. Thoughts of meeting his friends and introducing him to yours started to fill your mind. Were Bob’s friends like him? They didn’t sound to be like him. But it made you wonder.

“I’ll have to thank him if I meet him,” you replied.

Bob smiled and nodded, taking a drink of his beer. Him not saying anything worried you a tiny bit. Was what you said too much? Was it assuming something this wasn’t?

Bob noticed your worry immediately, even if it wasn’t that obvious. He set his glass down and reached across the table. The warmth of his hand encapsulated yours. You met his gaze, finding something soft and welcoming in it.

“They are, they’re a lot sometimes,” Bob told you.

“Trust me, mine are too.”

tags:

@wkndwlff

@thedroneranger

@callsign-sprout

@redbarn1995

[ay0nha]

Tomorrow Nevermore | Damon Albarn

SUMMARY: "You coming?" Lila's voice carried well, and at that moment, Damon realized he had to follow her as he had nowhere to be but beside her.

PAIRING: Damon Albarn x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 3.4K

A/N: OK. First part!! Thank you so much, @lundenloves​ ,  for always, Always helping and listening to me. This story has zero to little plot and will mostly be nonsense interactions. An inspiration for this story is the senses. Squint, and you'll find it. This part was inspired by hearing, and the song Lila hums is just a little nod at I Got Law (Demo)/Tomorrow Comes Today.

Damon heard her first.

Lila's hum carried and cut through the forgotten game on the television. It drifted with the mist from the bathroom.  Beside him, Jamie mumbled a curse about the loss of hot water, but Damon was far too focused on the tune. Three notes were repeated, a slow sequence, but stopped when she entered the door frame. Damon stared boldly but hadn't realized her eyes were on him.

"You alright?" The words tumbled from his lips in greeting. It was a mediocre cover, but it hadn't mattered. It was like she hadn't seen him at all, the way she moved throughout Jamie's apartment like it were her own.

"She's the American 'cross the hall—" Jamie spoke through muffled lips. The cigarette bobbed as he explained her presence. The pipes of the building were old, bursting when inconvenient and requiring half the building to go without usable water. "—Offered the shower, didn't think she'd actually take me up on that."

"A  fucking saint, you are..." Damon lit his own cigarette with a sigh of a laugh. "You even know her name?"

"Layla, Lila, something like that..."  He answered, hand waving with indifference. "Just moved here for school, work...don't know... she doesn't say much."

Damon hummed an acknowledgment; attention seemingly turned back to the match on the television. Yet, when he heard the patterned hum again, he almost forgot who he was routing for. Jamie groaned as the ball was in possession of the rival team, but Damon stayed fixated on the notes, memorizing them in case she stopped.

Forgetting the mirror, Lila eyed the master bedroom. It felt larger than her own despite the floor plans being identical measurements. It was decorated cleverly, posters from various decades adorning the walls, and the space so subtly played with that it felt staged. But there was obvious life—forgotten bottles on the windowsill, bed haphazardly made due to unexpected company, and laundry in desperate need of folding.

The windows were open, bringing in the soft humid air and honking horns. The view from Jamie's room was better than hers, but just by a margin. Maybe it was because of how her apartment reflected every penny she owned. In moments, she'd return to the handful of boxes that had scribblings of their content. Lila could hear her mother's voice, reprimanding her for not only relying on strangers but letting the boxes sit there for as long as they had.

"Love–" Jamie avoided her name with charm as she reemerged. "This is my mate Damon; came over to watch Chelsea lose." Jamie returned to the game, his job as host over while Damon's eyes remained on her figure, missing the jab.

Lila paused for a moment, holding onto her name for the moment. "Pleasure."

She moved with a confident air, one unbothered by anything around it, and reflected an intense understanding of how she inhabited her own space. Instead of bypassing Damon's stare, she held it unwaveringly.

"You staying for the game?" Damon's voice hadn't even sounded like this own. Jamie even noticed as his eyes went between his friend and his neighbor.

Lila had promised herself that from the moment she understood men–no– boys, that she wouldn't entertain them. Boys were different than men, but men were always boys. The idea made sense in her head, and if she had to explain it at a family dinner, she could, but just to play into the game, she'd refuse.

The enigmatic nature of it was purposeful. If men were destined to be difficult, then so was she. It only seemed fair in a life that she was forced to endure. It wasn't a form of protest—her decision to terribly unpleasant—it was only a bit of fun in such a dull society.

With a curl of a smile, she commented, "I'd rather die."

------

"Oh—" Damon stumbled on his words as if caught breaking into the building. He offered a hello but trailed off almost immediately.

"Lila." Only this once she'd give her name. It was his responsibility now to remember it.

"—Lila." He repeated her name with a bemused smile. He searched the tattered paper plaques of the apartment bells for hers. L. Elliot. He thought to press it first, before Jamie's. He thought of the excuses he would spew—my finger had slipped, Jamie said to ring you, there's takeaway—but he failed to justify any of them. But as fate typically played things out, she was leaving just as he became discouraged.

The rain had caught on his eyelashes in a poetic way that made Lila frown. It reminded her that she was on her way out, only stopping to let Damon into the building. She nodded her head to the door she continued to hold open, "Go on."

"Oh—thanks, Jamie hadn't answered..." There was a pause as Damon shuffled past her awkwardly. There was no point in entering as Jamie wasn't the type to leave a key under a mat. Damon hadn't understood why he explained himself, poorly at that. "I left something the other day..."

"Ok." Lila nodded, lips tight with feigned politeness. The air was awkward, Damon's doing, but she carried an envious relaxation. She moved on from it, leaving Damon to catch the door with nothing close to a goodbye.

The rain had come in patterns of harshness, and Lila wanted nothing more than to stay shielded in her apartment. She had only just unpacked her final box, and she thought that laying in bed would make her feel more welcome in the new city. Lila debated on turning around. Instead, she scrutinized how the rain became heavier and blocked the sun entirely.

The cigarette was on Damon's lips as he dismissed the no-smoking sign of the building. His fingertips felt for the possibility of a key on the door frame but was met with years worth of dust. Patting his pockets, he brushed off the dirt and sought solace in his lighter.

Damon had left early intentionally, hoping to catch Jamie on his way to the studio, but clearly, he hadn't made it home the night prior. So now, rather than picking up his casio, he pushed his way out the door of the apartment building with anxiety-driven frustration.

"Not there?"

The voice beside him startled him. But the fear dissipated into a more welcomed anticipation. The tip of Damon's cigarette became damp against the humid air the longer he waited to respond.

"Either that, or he's ignoring me." Damon teased his absent friend. Sucking a last breath harshly through the cigarette, he flicked the remnants into a puddle. He watched Lila's nose scrunch, either from the smoke, the littering, or the way the sky rumbled with thunder. "It will get worse the longer you wait."

Her eyes remained on the clouds, but Damon finally felt like she spoke to him directly, "What do you do when it rains?"

"What do you mean?"

"You rode that in, didn't you?" Lila nodded toward the bike next to hers. If she squinted, she could already see the rust forming against the used bike. "The yellow one, that's mine."

"There's a tube station a few roads over." Damon offered, nodding to the left, where the rain seemed heaviest.

There was a moment of hesitation on Lila's part. But she pulled at her collar, twisting the thin jacket around her body as best she could, transforming the reluctance into courage. She took a deep breath as though holding it would protect her from the pelting water enveloping her. Damon's breath caught in his throat, watching how she entered the storm rounding the stoop of the building to the left just as he unintentionally instructed. She moved quickly, legs only stopping when she hit a crossroad a block down and looked over her shoulder for him.

"You coming?" Lila's voice carried well, and at that moment, Damon realized he had to follow her as he had nowhere to be but beside her.

The earlier morning consisted of deprived businessmen on their way to work and others who were finally released from working overtime. Damon and Lila seemed to stick out beautifully, drenched to the bone with amused smiles to match. There was hardly room to breathe, the way the people jammed into the car, not bothering to wait two minutes for the next.

The sway of the train encouraged their chest to bump into one another. Around them, everyone's eyes were focused on something other than each other—newspapers, phones, books, or even closed for a stop's worth of reprieve, whereas Lila's gaze was comfortably on Damon. Instinctually, he avoided it, willing away the warmth that would expose him once it hit the tips of his ears.

However, when he glanced at her, Lila used the car's momentum to get closer. "Are you following me?"

"I'm not a stalker." A smile broke out at the question. Damon was learning quickly how compelling each exchange became with her. It was as if she had already seen the end and only guided the conversation to her advantage.

"That wasn't the question." Lila hummed.

"I–well—where are you going?" Damon should have denied his intentions; anyone in their right mind would have. But he was following her. There was no reason for him to go east but to follow her as she encouraged him to. He realized far too late after his question that Lila was teasing him.

"Class." She answered. Then, she gave him a knowing smile. "Let me guess, you too?"

Class. Damon had prodded Jamie again, but he was clever, waiting a few days to raise the question that took seconds to produce. Jamie was convinced she was here for work and mumbled something along the lines of a complaint— Probably just another work permit. She'll be gone before anything good.

"There are always new things to learn..." Damon shrugged with warmth. His voice came out soft since everyone suffocating them could be privy to their conversation. "...and you, what do you study?"

Lila used a rhythmic sway to her advantage, moving away from Damon. The thrill clouded her briefly, but there was her mother's voice again, another chastising comment for disclosing so much of herself so simply. Her imagined response felt teenage-like in comparison—that was the point of uprooting everything, wasn't it? That was an essential part of the draw; to unabashedly determine how to move through life. It was easier said than done as Lila's throat felt dry, trying to call upon the simplest answer.

"If you are following me, I have to warn you, the seminar I'm off to is very boring..." She began, artfully avoiding a sore spot. Thankfully, the announcement above was muffled, the words barely intelligible, cutting Lila off statically.  

She moved like she'd lived in London her entire life, never glancing at the map. The only thing that stood out from the rest was the softness of her accent. Damon held onto every word, listening intently. He had so many questions for her since he'd had time to formulate them between meeting her and now. But walking beside Lila, trailing up the stairs, and attempting to fight off misty rain, the questions were the least of his worries.

"Thanks for the lift." She spoke, using the awning of the university's building as protection.  "What do I owe you?"

Damon meant to move closer to be protected from the weather. But just as Lila had moments ago, he teetered away. The only difference was that he felt shy, nervous to answer the jokingly rhetorical question.

"That song..." He started, eyebrows cinching to work through the thought. "What was that song?"

"What?" Lila's laugh was breathy with confusion and curiosity. It was as if Damon had finally stumped her—someone who could seemingly find control in every interaction.

"...The other day, at Jamie's, when you were coming out of the shower..." Damon stopped to rephrase, attempting modesty on her behalf, "When you came out of his room, it was like..." He stumbled for a moment with reluctance but then hummed the three notes that had haunted him.

She shrugged, eyes still batting with genuine confusion. She hadn't remembered so clearly the way he had. Lila laughed again. She had a detached sense about her like Damon could do whatever he wanted and wouldn't get under her skin. She was untouchable in that way.

------

Lila's handwriting became more unintelligible by the hour. She worked hard to subdue her subconscious cry of boredom, but the battle was hopeless. At first, in her apartment, she shifted from room to room, hoping the minor change of pace would aid her, but nothing came to her.

There came de aesthetics when continuing education; the idea of touching original documents, reading overly verbose work from centuries before, and even writing about how the notions found within still persist. Yet, Lila struggled to find the motivation to feel like she made the right decision to enroll.

Everything was a distraction. The clock on her wall reminded her of the seconds wasted, and the birds chirping cheerfully felt deliberate, telling her that the happiness they found wouldn't be shared.  Then, there was a sharp whistle, one that begged for her undivided attention.

"Hiya..." Damon squinted up with a soft wave. The sun was uncharacteristically out, but he refused to question the luck that it had provided him with it.

"Following me again?" Lila teased once she found the greeting's source. Damon was getting used to not expecting a hello; the past few weeks of running into Lila intermittently had proved so.  "You need a buzz in?"

He shook his head, "S'alright, Jamie should be down sooner or later."

From his position, Damon missed her inner turmoil, how Lila held back her question of what he was doing. She was thoroughly bored, and by just the looks of who was below, she knew he could offer he something better.  

"Studying?"

"Trying to." Her tone seemed vindictive, but she hadn't meant to push her frustrations onto Damon's simple question. "It's impossible to sympathize with racists from the 16th century." Lila cringed, feeling as though she had only dug the hole for herself further by rambling. She was smart but refused to be arrogant, so to recover, she asked her originally intended question, "What are you doing?"

He smiled, happy she asked exactly what he was going to. "We're headed over to—

"You're late—" Jamie interrupted, gusting out the stoop's door, ready to chide his friend. But he followed Damon's eye-line before continuing, "—Love—up there brooding?" Damon cringed, hoping his friend's humor wouldn't divert Lila from the conversation altogether. "...enough of that, you're coming."

Lila needed fresh air; it was the reason the window was open in the first place. The project wasn't due for another few days, and she knew she needed to stave off the boredom to regain productivity.

"I'll only be borrowing you for an hour or two." Jamie had settled her fate.

The time had stretched into numerous hours. Damon knew Lila felt preoccupied with the work she left behind, but she hadn't made it known. She was pragmatic in that way, seeing ten steps ahead but never letting on what she was thinking.

"I didn't know he was an artist." A good one at that. Plenty claimed to be talented and claimed that their work was original and interesting. Yet more often than not, their work hadn't lived up to the promises.  But Jamie had surpassed any rumor Lila could think of.

The work wasn't demanding, but it needed to be precise. Jamie was set to present a growing collection he'd been working on. Too many friends had canceled with excuses not to come and help as if he asked them to help him move. So there the three were, walking across the parchment paper and painter's tape, doing work professionals should have been.

"He calls these doodles." Damon scoffed in agreement, his comment furthering how Jamie underestimated his own art. "This is what makes the people happy." It was an odd sort of compliment, but Lila understood. "Look at some of his notebooks—that's the real work."

The figures held expertise and clear talent. Yet, there was an aesthetic to it that was distinctly Jamie's. The progression of the collection showed how Jamie cared less about the audience and more about the original characters he created. Lila rarely admitted it and wouldn't now, but she was impressed.  Her mind gravitated, though, to Damon working beside her. He hadn't seemed overly quiet, but he seemed more reserved than what he typically put forth.

Therefore, Lila encouraged more, "I need to know—you're not hiding any hidden talents, are you?"

"None worthwhile."

Lila made a note to prod further later, not believing Damon in the slightest. Everyone had a party trick. Lila's needs working on, wiggling her ears wasn't as impressive as opening a bottle with your eye. Even the thought of a crowd became overwhelming; just the thought of a party caused apprehension.

It was like clockwork, Jamie's social hours. Every week, ranging the days of the weekend, there was music pouring under his door and into hers. It was a good reminder of sorts that the night had become late, and Lila would be better off sleeping. But the music only got louder the more tired Lila got.

Before she could dwell on the thought further, Jamie called her away to hold a frame steady to screw into the wall. It was slightly crooked, but Damon hadn't commented, too eager to hear the conversation shared between the pair a piece over.

"You get the letter?" Jamie filled the newfound silence, screw placed between his lips in concentration.

Damon's mind ran. Jamie had his own charm, less boyish than Damon's— more direct and creative. With drawers full of different textured papers and pens that would glide over them spectacularly, Damon could only imagine the letter Jamie wrote to Lila.

Knowing Jamie, it wouldn't quite be a love letter, but something close. It would be witty, full of inside jokes that Damon could never be in on due to his position—the neighbor's friend. He was far too detached to have done something of the sort.

"Unfortunately..." It was another thing on Lila's growing list to tactfully avoid. The letter that was slid under her down made her lose sleep—nothing like an eviction notice to rattle someone.

"This look alright?" Jamie called over his shoulder to Damon. "It needs to be bloody straight." He cursed, drawing Damon closer. "They're kicking us out in two months, told us in a fucking letter. This goes well, people buy the lousy art, and then I can get a better place, better building, better neighbors."

"Oh?" Lila smiled, welcoming the humor. The fresh air and environment were doing wonders. She'd leave soon, not accept their offer to stick around, but she finally felt contented for now.

"Yeah, you." Jamie nudged Damon forward, taking his place to eye the portrait properly. "Don't hear the end of it with this one asking if you're around and whatnot."

"No, I don't—" Damon fell into the obvious trap, stopping abruptly when he saw Jamie's chesire-like smile. "We done here? I've got things of my own to do."

"Yeah, like what?" Despite Jamie's concentration ahead of him on the next thing, he always held attention to taunt. "Playing that song over and over again doesn't exactly count as something." He then nodded to Lila, setting up a deceiving trap for both of them. "That's your fault, you know. The pair of you—doing my head in."

"That your secret talent, then?" Lila got it; Damon's literal party trick. Those memories of sleepless nights due to Jamie's parties sounded again in her mind. It clicked. The music seemed live at times, others like a sequence consciously put together. It was Damon, putting on a show of sorts with the song she had hummed just once that had stuck with him so firmly she'd forgotten.  It was the reason Lila smiled, "I expect royalties."

[antoine-roquentin]

This series is shaping up to be about covert attempts by institutional power structures to undermine the health and safety of the international working class. The previous part, Part 4, is here. You can find a cool easter egg by seeing who the magazine in the bottom right image was delivered to.

The above is a dossier compiled by a right wing business intelligence group and purchased by the CIA not long after the events I’m about to share occurred. It is hosted on the CIA’s website for declassified files, the Reading Room. It was prepared by Fulton Lewis III, an outspoken supporter of the Rhodesian government and the son of a Hearst-sponsored anti-communist radio broadcaster, sort of the Tucker Carlson of the 40s and 50s. We don’t have the CIA’s own assessments because those are still classified.

When we last left the crew of the spaceship Ramparts, they were dealing with infiltration, incompetence, hedonism, an inability to secure funding, and the heady addiction of fame. Things were about to get worse as their own interpersonal disputes had come to the fore. Keating had seen his power at the magazine get whittled away as incentives in the form of shares for other backers became necessary. At the time, Hinckle counted among his friends Howard Gossage, an advertising whiz kid who helped popularize Marshall McLuhan and did the Sierra Club's first campaign. He frequently went to Gossage for advice. The two came up with a plan to push Keating into the 1966 Democratic primaries for the 11th district of California (later held by Leo Ryan, a CIA critic killed at Jonestown, and now held by Nancy Pelosi) as a way of reducing his influence on the day to day operations of Ramparts. In the midst of a meeting, they had two staff members slip away and come back with signs that said "Keating for Congress" and "Keating the people's choice".

By the start of 1966, however, the election bug had spread through the offices, both because it allowed Ramparts to make the news it reported on as salacious as possible, and because the Democratic Party had largely denied ballot access to anybody who was anti-Vietnam War. Bob Scheer, the foreign editor, ran in Oakland, and Stanley Sheinbaum, the Michigan State University professor who'd exposed the CIA's role on campus, ran in Santa Barbara. All gained 40-45% of the vote, mainly by cohering those opposed to the war. One thing in particular all three did was bring together the black vote (for instance, Julian Bond, mentioned previously in the series, campaigned for Scheer). Their campaigns were run by a coterie of Ramparts staffers, namely CPUSA member Carl Bloice as well as Berekeley lecturer Peter Collier, and were endorsed by a combination of black and Hollywood luminaries, for instance Dick Gregory, the civil rights activist and stand-up comedian, and Robert Vaughan, Napoleon Solo on the Man from Uncle and both a murderer and a victim on Columbo (see him argue about Vietnam on Firing Line with William Buckley here). Some of the opposition research on the three came directly from CIA files and was given to the establishment candidates by LBJ's press secretary Bill Moyers.

With the elections lost, Ramparts needed a new spin on things to bring back all the anti-electoral politics radicals. Fortunately, in nearby Oakland, a new group had just been founded called the Black Panther Party. Huey Newton and Bobby Seale like to portray their group as their own innovation, two upwardly mobile college kids shooting the shit late at night. The group they'd been part of prior to the BPP, the Maoist Revolutionary Action Movement, described them as "adventurists" for their desire to put theory to practice and finally organize in the community instead of just talking about it. Whatever the case, Newton learned from Robert Williams' Negroes with Guns that California law, influenced by white supremacist vigilanteism, allowed anyone to openly carry a weapon even in the presence of police. He went to Chinatown, bought copies of Mao's Little Red Book for cents, and sold them for dollars in Oakland as part of a course in organized self-defence, then used the money to buy shotguns and M-16s for use by graduates of the course. By February 1967, Ramparts staff writer Eldridge Cleaver had made contact at a speaking event for Malcolm X's widow Betty Shabazz, where the Black Panther Party founders and their cohort were the only ones armed. Cleaver invited them to the Ramparts offices for a sit down.

Remember the bit from the last part about Shabazz' bodyguards? That was Seale, Newton, and Co. Their arrival caused  Hinckle's police buddies to get worried, and they put out an APB and surrounded the building, much to Newton's consternation. Hinckle suggested they go out for a drink, but nobody was buying it. Newton stared down a cop, who undid his holster. Seale put his hand on Newton, who told him off. "Don't hold my hand, brother." Seale released it, because that was his shooting hand. Newton taunted the officer. "You got an itchy trigger finger?... OK, you big, fat, racist pig, draw your gun!" All the Ramparts' staffers who'd come to watch as well as the officers' backup got the hell out of Dodge. Eventually, even the officer backed down. It was the first time the BPP had ever gotten the police to back down. It brought admiration from the entire Ramparts staff, who soon made the magazine the semi-official outlet of the BPP. And it brought Cleaver into their fold. They appointed him spokesman/Minister of Information within weeks. The following is the only news footage from that day shot after the incident, the rest having been lost, with Scheer in the background at one point:

And that wasn't even the most shocking thing going on at Ramparts. This series has previously mentioned the National Student Association as a bunch of debate nerds who essentially trained to have public speaking and organizing on their resume for future employers. The thing about the NSA was, it was a CIA front, and generally suspected as such. In 1947, there was an implosion of student politics' international facing groups. Those who had seen the Soviets fight in the Second World War generally accepted their claims to want world peace on their face, while the groups aligned with the Catholic Church teamed up with disparate right wing WASPs and Jews to fight back. The CIA had taken these students (to note, these were largely men in their late 20s or early 30s, grad rather than undergrad) under their wing and organized them into a front group that could report back on invitational events held in Eastern Europe. In turn, the top echelons of the NSA had to be sworn into legal secrecy as a prerequisite of participation, with the reward being entry into the old boys network of politicians and bureaucrats which virtually guaranteed a job.  

The CIA fucked up. In 1965, the elected president of the NSA was Philip Sherburne. He was sworn into secrecy on the source of funding for their new HQ and general operations, as was normal for the group. But he disliked that they had only one source of funding, and he wanted the NSA to be independent. At the time, the grassroots in the organization who followed international politics and hewed to the left had managed to get some of their membership into power, but they had felt straitjacketed by the CIA's complete control of NSA finances. Many wanted to join in on the anti-war marches. Sherburne and others, spurred on by abrogation of Juan Bosch's regime in the Dominican Republic and the electoral fraud that brought the American-backed opposition to power, worked to find alternative sources of funding. They sent one an NSA man as part of the operation, but he got cold feet and worked with Sherburne to expose it. In response, the CIA had a number of top NSA men declared eligible for the draft in Vietnam. Bureaucratic fights ensued, involving the lives of students in America, Spain, Vietnam, and elsewhere. Finally, Sherburne went above the CIA's head to vice president Hubert Humprhey. In response, the CIA went and cut all of Sherburne's independent lines of funding. Unbenkownst to them, Sherburne had made a relatively radical student named Michael Wood his outside line to donors. He'd told Wood not to approach certain groups because they were backed by "certain government agencies". Wood had surmised that this meant the CIA and gone and picked up the only book out on the Agency: The Invisible Government, by David Wise and Thomas Ross. When he saw that the NSA's funding for 1966 had the same donor groups backed by the CIA, he realized Sherburne had lost and stole the files.

Twice the New York Times had published articles critical of the CIA in some form. In 1965, Texas congressman Wright Patman, initially elected on his support of the Bonus Army and ever a thorn in the establishment's side, had investigated 8 charitable foundations and found them to be CIA cutouts. The NYT had written an article on this as well as replies from the funded orgs (Encounter Magazine and the Congress for Cultural Freedom). In 1966, spurred by Ramparts' articles on MSU, NYT reporter Tom Wicker wrote of the allegations and added details of other botched operations around the world he'd heard from sources over the years. This brought the ire of the agency. In 1961, in response to details of the Bay of Pigs invasion being published in The Nation before it occurred, President Kennedy told his aides to bother him when details showed up in the New York Times because it otherwise did not matter. The CIA had actually worked hard to kill the very same story before the NYT could publish it so by the time the invasion failed, Kennedy apparently exclaimed that he wished more details had been published in the NYT so that the invasion would have been stopped. CIA agent Cord Meyer made the postscript of Part 3 of this series as the handler of much of the CIA's work through cutouts and allied groups like AFL-CIO, especially in in regards to  the effort to influence the media known as Operation Mockingbird. Meyer and his wife, Mary Pinchot, were next door neighbours to the Kennedy's before JFK became president. Pinchot divorced Meyer after their child was killed in a car accident in 1957. She moved in with her brother-in-law, Ben Bradlee, later of Pentagon Papers and Watergate fame and played by Tom Hanks in the Steven Spielberg film The Post. In 1961, James Jesus Angleton, head of counterintelligence at the CIA, tapped her phone and discovered she was in a sexual relationship with JFK, including visits at the White House. When Pinchot was murdered in October 1964 in what was termed a robbery (a black man was arrested but acquitted), a friend of the family heard (he said) about the murder on the radio and phoned Bradlee first and Meyer second. Bradlee went to go find her diary and found Angleton sitting in her house (his garage) reading it. They later destroyed it. After that, Meyer became an alcoholic and compiled an enemies list of the CIA that included the Vice President. He was already fearful of a leak and told his subordinates to go after NSA staff but did not determine who Sherburne had told until his wiretaps of Ramparts phone lines informed him.

Ramparts, of course, knew that they had been tapped and kept phone calls brief. Scheer phoned Judith Coburn of the Village Voice and asked for her discretion. Wanting to break into a field dominated by men, Coburn felt like she was being called by a rock star, but nonetheless found it absurd that Scheer believed his calls to be tapped. She knew the CIA to be involved in assassinations like Lumumba's and thought their dealings with a minor org like the NSA were absurd. Ultimately, she helped by confronting a number of figures on their work. Eventually, a young WASP Harvard undergraduate who was on retainer from Ramparts named Michael Ansara got the call. His blog about it is excellent reading, located here. I quote:

One evening in the cold months of early 1967, my phone rang. A strange voice, obviously from New York asked, “Is this Michael Ansara?”

“Yes.”

“This is Sol Stern from Ramparts. Bob Scheer says you are our man in Boston.”

“Well . . . OK.”

“Listen I need you to do some work for us right away. I cannot tell you what it is about. I am calling you from a phone booth. Will you do it?”

“Well, what kind of work and are you willing to pay me for it?”

“It is research into two Boston based foundations. We will pay you $500.” 500 dollars was a lot of money. I had no idea how to research foundations, but I thought, what the hell. I could really use the money.

“Sure. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“I can’t tell you anything more than to find everything you can on the Sidney & Esther Rabb Foundation and Independence Foundation. They are based in Boston. I will call you in several days. You cannot call me. You cannot tell anyone what you are doing. You cannot mention the name Ramparts. Can I count on you?”

“I guess so. Sure. Yes.”

Ansara knew a much older man, an economist and lawyer who had sway in the Democratic Party named George Sommaripa. Sommaripa suggested Ansara go to a guy he knew at the IRS. Ansara did, and was told that under no circumstances could he have access to the files on two CIA cutout foundations. Chastened, Ansara complained to Sommaripa, who'd gotten the IRS clerk his job. A few days later, Ansara went back. The IRS clerk told him he could have any box he wanted, provided he did not go past the 990 form on the cover. He went past for the first two foundations and found that money came from an anonymous donor and in equal amounts went right out to the NSA. Ultimately, he pulled the files for 110 foundations, every single known group that the CIA used. He would look at the incorporation files for the foundations, see a lawyers' name, and look him up. Every time, the lawyer was an OSS operative during WW2, the predecessor org of the CIA. One of the lawyers had founded a firm with Sommaripa, a man named David Bird. Ansara confronted Bird, and Bird did not even stop to hang up on Ansara before phoning a contact at the CIA.

Left to right: Hinckle, Stern, Scheer.

A major corroboration of the story came from three students in New York who were disgusted by American foreign policy in Latin America. One in particular, Fred Goff, had been sent to the Dominican Republic with Allard Lowenstein (part 3) to observe the election of the pro-American candidate over the anti-American one. Goff had discovered that a man that Lowenstein had said he trusted on the country was actually a CIA agent, Sacha Volman. Another, Michael Locker, had done a paper about the CIA based on the NYT articles. Together, they walked in the doors of the AFL-CIO's American Institute for Free Labor Development and asked directly about the CIA, prompting a crashing sound and the institute's director, Thomas Kahn, planner of the 1963 March on Washington and the long-term romantic partner of Bayard Rustin, to scream at them.

The problem was when it came time to do the story. Sometimes, the researchers were paid by Ramparts. Other times, they received cheques from the Interchurch Center, a strange agency that serves as a front for charitable giving from the Episcopal, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Reformed, Methodist, and United Churches in America. James Forman, mentioned in previous parts, once led a picket in favour of reparations from them. Ramparts staff demanded they talk to them by picking up pay phones that would ring at designated times, a dismal failure. Other times, Hinckle, Scheer, and Sol Stern would fly in, book rooms at the Algonquin, and order massive amounts of takeout and booze. 15 to 20 people would be in a hotel room trying to negotiate who would be writing the story by continent, or by year, or by foundation. At one point, Coburn broke into the NSA HQ and unwittingly stole the original deed to their land, where it remained undiscovered in Ramparts' files till the 2010s.

On New Year's Eve, 1966, Lowenstein was hanging out with the new members of the NSA leadership when he informed them that Ramparts was writing about their relationship with the CIA. "The usual sloppy Ramparts piece, lots of flash, little substance," he said. The CIA had known since at least Thanksgiving. A lower level NSA official who'd just been sworn in went to meet with Hinckle and Scheer. The duo, while nonchalantly throwing darts, offered the Ramparts donor list as an incentive to tell all, but he refused. Sherburne attempted to find counsel in a lawyer who'd once opposed the CIA's new Langley HQ on NIMBY grounds. Meyer had threatened the lawyer's brother, working in Bogota with USAID, but the lawyer persisted. Undaunted, Meyer got word to Douglass Cater, the first president of the NSA and now an advisor to LBJ. LBJ bumped it to Lowenstein and the CIA to develop a response, which was to hold a press conference with an article in Henry Luce's (the man, not the monkey) Time Magazine that this was all well known since the 1965 congressional hearings, that the money was not that impressive, that the Soviets had done much more, etc.

This could have killed Ramparts. The IRS was already looking for any sign of foreign influence as an excuse to shut down the magazine. It needed some sort of relationship with the establishment press in a way that would let it gain influence without keeping it from the areas it wanted to report on. At the very same time, both Time and the NYT were reporting on the survival of Ramparts: Keating had attempted a coup and lost a board vote 13-1, with Mitford and other backers providing anonymous quotes that while they disliked the "Animal Farm-ish" nature of the issue, they needed Ramparts to stave off a fascist dictatorship in America. Hinckle followed by setting up an astounding agreement with the New York Times and Washington Post: they would get full access to Ramparts' files on the CIA right now, before the White House could set up a press conference, in exchange for letting them run full page ads for days for their next issue.

The day the Times went to press, February 13, 1963, was termed by former CIA director Richard Helms in his memoirs as "one of my darkest days". The press pushed, smelling blood. President Johnson ordered a suspension and review of CIA funding for outside orgs. The CIA initially tried to find a way to blame a dead president, Truman, but realized that its own documentation on the program, written by Cord Meyer, claimed that then-director Allen Dulles did not have any responsibility to inform the president of what he had ordered. Switching tactics, they turned on their press weapon, known as the Mighty Wurlitzer, and claimed that the CIA would have been remiss to not conduct these operations. "I'm glad the CIA is immoral" was the headline of an article by Meyer's boss, Thomas Braden. He described $250 million a year the CIA believed to be spent by the Soviet Union on cultural subversion, to which a mere handful of dollars from the CIA could not compare. No evidence for the accusations was provided, of course. Finally, Helms pulled in a favour from Robert Kennedy and had him testify to the press that his brother had authorized the funding, carried over from the days of Eisenhower. 12 former NSA presidents (including Lowenstein) came out and said the relationship was above board. All had worked for the CIA at least once after they'd left the NSA, but that was not revealed in their letter.

The strategy was a half-success. All the foundations funded by the CIA fell apart and students around the world became suspicious of CIA infiltration. Much of what Ramparts found was investigated by Congress repeatedly over the next decade, culminating in the reforms that came out of the Church Committee, which Helms claimed in his memoirs was sparked by Ramparts and Watergate. Certainly press readership was high, and many stories were published in the NYT and WaPo confirming and furthering the work done. At the same time, the CIA escaped with only a few new rules on its behaviour. President Johnson was a paranoic and was more concerned about using the CIA as a tool against his domestic enemies. He authorized a much larger role for MHCHAOS in punishing his enemies (remember the cryptonyms? MH was the most illegal, as it meant the USA). Many of those fingered were considered liberals in good standing and were part of the labour movement, particularly AFL-CIO higher-ups. They fell in line with the rhetoric about communist subversion because they knew they'd be the ones punished if things went further.

Interestingly, a few months later, the NSA held a vote on integrating an anti-Vietnam War and anti-draft stance into its platform. Traditionally, the CIA had worked from the shadows to suppress these votes. This time, Allard Lowenstein whipped in favour of the anti- stance and it won. Lowenstein soon became a fixture in the anti-LBJ movement, leading the call to bring Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy into the Democratic presidential primaries. To a large extent, the organizations that were closed to the CIA had been products of decades-old relationships and worked in ways that nobody had bothered to improve. Within the CIA, a tension had always existed between bureaucrats with their own fiefdoms and up and comers with new ways of doing things. To a large extent, this scandal simply pushed the former out and made room for the latter, who would not do things like create financial records with the exact same dollar amounts going in and out, or act so bluntly when it came to manipulating staff. While the CIA may have suffered a little in the short term, it was an act of "creative destruction" that improved how the CIA did business. For Ramparts, on the other hand, things were going to get much worse now that they had drawn the ire of the intelligence community. While the magazine reached its peak distribution of 250,000 copies a month, it still did not bring in enough money to cover its expenses, and it was about to be faced with a much larger funding crisis: the Six Day War.

AFTER ALLEN DULLES RETIRED, the director bragged about the NSA operation. “We got everything we wanted. I think what we did was worth every penny. If we turned back the communists and made them milder and easier to live with, it was because we stopped them in certain areas, and the student area was one of them.”... Edward Garvey, who also worked at CIA headquarters, puts it more dramatically: “My God, did we finger people for the Shah?”... Stephen Robbins, despite his limited CIA involvement during his year as president, echoes Garvey’s concern: “It’s South Africa that keeps me up at night.”

[rinwritesfics]

The Wedding - Part 2

Plot: You’ve been invited to the wedding of the millennia, but as a senator it is determined that you need an escort. Fox offers to be your plus-one to keep you safe.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1130

Author’s Note: If anyone noticed the little clues in part one to the familial reveal in this one, you’re the best.

Part 1

Part 2

The journey to your home planet wasn’t particularly long. The hyperspace travel was only about three hours, but what usually was a breeze for you was suddenly too long for you. His presence was there, even if it wasn’t beside you, and that was all you needed to feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. It was definitely the opposite. You did like him, and it was certainly a little more than you should.

Admitting it to yourself made it harder to be comfortable around him than it should have.

Upon arrival, you almost sighed with relief.

What if he discovered you had feelings for him? You were in a position of power and he was supposed to be your guard. What kind of person would it make you if it came out? How would he even react?

You pushed away that thought as you both were escorted to your adjoining rooms and turned in for the night, bidding each other goodnight in the process.

Morning arrived and Fox was at your door bright and early, ready to escort you to breakfast.

“Fox, relax a little. People will start to suspect something is up.”

“I’m here to accompany you and ensure your safety.”

“I’m aware, but to everyone else you’re my plus-one. Please try to act like this isn’t another guard detail.”

“Senator….” He said quietly.

“Commander….” You replied in the same tone.

He sighed. “I concede.” He cleared his throat, then said your first name as if trying it out on his tongue.

“Thank you, Fox.”

You didn’t miss how his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed thickly as you led the way to the breakfast hall.

“Now, there will be a lot of people there and we will be expected to converse. I was thinking our cover is you were in the senate building as a consultant and we bumped into each other?”

Fox looked straight forward, but you could see his eyebrows shift slightly as he thought. Then, he nodded. “Seems reasonable enough.”

The dining hall was assigned seating, with chairs with tall backs and fancy silverware. You felt Fox tense beside you.

“Don’t worry, just follow my lead. Dinner may be a little more of a challenge with the etiquette of silverware, but breakfast is going to be fairly easy to pick up.”

His shoulders relaxed a little and you looked up at him. He seemed to notice and looked down at you.

“It will be okay. I won’t let you flounder.”

He nodded once, then turned back to walking both of you to your seats.

Fox pulled your seat out for you and smiled softly. Your heart thundered at both the action and the expression on your face and you had to remind yourself that this was all fake, he was just being polite. But damn, if it didn’t also set alight your heart and cause butterflies in your stomach. You smiled softly back and sat in the seat. As you were about to scoot your chair, Fox gently pushed it in for you.

The smile you gave him was a bit softer and when he sat beside you, he returned it. For a split second, you could pretend it was real. He chose you. He wanted to be around you, the good, the bad, and the ugly. But it wasn’t the case. You quickly looked away, missing the flash of confusion in his eyes at the act.

You both stood as the princess and her partner entered the room with guards on each side and after they sat, so did everyone else.

You watched Fox out of the corner of your eye as he subtly eyed the guards, but the moment passed without incident.

The first real test came from the people around you.

The man beside Fox squinted at him, then said, “You look familiar. Where do you work?”

Fox began to sputter slightly, so you leaned over. “My partner works for a private security contractor and is sworn to so much secrecy on it he’s not allowed to discuss the location.”

The man’s face blanched as he caught sight of you and your unimpressed look. “Sorry, senator.”

You pursed your lips, doing your best to hide your smirk. “Oh, don’t apologize to me, apologize to my partner.”

The man mumbled an ashamed apology and looked away, shoveling food into his mouth. Fox looked at you, an eyebrow raised and a poorly hidden smirk at the corner of his mouth that faced you. You smiled softly back.

Something told you very few people looked ashamed for treating him with suspicion and disbelief.

Breakfast was almost more than filling by the time it ended, and before you left the dining hall, the princess stopped you with a smile and saying your name. She walked over with her soon-to-be-husband and welcomed you and Fox, well aware the commander of the Coruscant Guard was more so your guard today than anything else. She then said only so the three of you to hear, “I’m glad you were able to find someone to accompany you. An event like this is more fun with someone beside you, be it a friend, partner, or… someone else to be your plus-one.”

“Princess, this is Fox. Fox, Princess Aundra and beside her is Prince Kealo.”

“Fox, huh? How did our senator rope you into attending the biggest event of the century?” asked the princess in a knowing tone, one that was a bit nosy and suggestive.

Fox’s cheeks flushed a bit. “I, uh, volunteered.”

The princess giggled and gently elbowed you. “I like him. You’re a good man, Fox.”

You sighed quietly and put a hand to your face. “Just because we’ve known each other since you were born doesn’t mean you have to embarrass me, cousin.”

Fox’s eyes widened and he looked between the two of you in shock. You surmised that wasn’t something he had read about. You mouthed an apology as your cousin laughed.

. . .

The wedding went off without a hitch and the reception came quicker than you had anticipated. Food and drink and toasts all transpired before the dancing began.

You were people watching for a few minutes with Fox, softly judging some of the ridiculous fashions in-season for your home planet when he fully turned to you. Your words died on your lips as you tried to figure out what he was thinking.

Fox stood, then turned to you with one hand out to you and the other arm bent behind his back. A small smile was on his face. “Seeing as I am your plus-one, would you care to dance?”

Your lips parted, but you placed your hand in his anyway, a smile of your own growing. “Okay.”

Part 3/Part 4

Taglist for this: @fakegingerr, @liana-07

[thismessymasterpiece]

Make You Mine

Summary - Neville Longbottom is head over heels... some may even say embarrassingly so.

Neville Longbottom x Fem!Ravenclaw!OC (?) This is a shifting story so the “OC” is myself, I do not know if that counts… (Is readable as GN!Reader from any house, however!)

Category - Fluffy as heck!

TW - One mention of Umbridge just existing because she deserves her own warning, written a long time ago (edited recently) so… possibly terrible writing

Please let me know if I missed anything!

Contains - Really corny fluff, do not say I did not warn you now :')

Word Count - 1,095

Author’s Note - Based around the song “Make You Mine” by PUBLIC so I recommend listening to it while reading, if you can :)

Also available on…

Wattpad

I just managed to sneak away from Umbridge, thanks to the twins. Honestly, I do not know what I would do without them most of the time.

Having just caught a break, I decided to go give a surprise visit to my one and only sunshine. Obviously, I knew exactly where to find him.

As I took my stroll to the greenhouses, I looked around the path, admiring the nature. Hogwarts had such an overlooked beauty. I could not believe how ignorant most people could be, I did not care what you told me, being at Hogwarts was a privilege. I could not understand why some would risk getting pitched out.

If only to remind me of things I should be grateful for, I arrived at the glass door to one of the castle greenhouses only shortly thereafter.  Within, I saw my sole source of happiness, bent over a pot on the long wood table inside.

I opened the door and was about to make my presence known when I stopped myself, taking in the scene around me. When I had thought that Neville was simply working on his plants in the comfort of his own silence, I was very clearly mistaken.

Somewhat loud music was playing from no particular, identifiable source, its tone wrapping the room up in a bright and warm aura. Magic, I thought, isn't it beautiful?

The true beauty, though, was coming from the boy standing a little bit in front of me. The boy who still hadn't noticed my being here. I couldn't blame him, necessarily. The music was quite overbearing, not really in a bad way but I was rather quiet in comparison.

I recognized the tune to be from his personal herbology playlist. He was very proud of it but he never let me listen to it. Typically, he noticed when I came in or was expecting me so it was switched off at the moment of my arrival. I had never really known why that was but it was then that I started to pick up on it.

As a new song came on, Neville started humming along to himself. Or, at least he thought he was by himself.

I leaned against a sink near the door with my bag still slung over my shoulder as I watched him and a small grin tugged at my lips.

When the song picked up, he really started to get into it, singing the words and moving around a bit as he went on.

As time progressed, he started twirling and dancing around the room, his head matching his excitement as it bobbed to the music.

I really had to hold my breath so as not to laugh at his passion when he sang into his wand, or makeshift microphone in this case.

"Put your hand in mine, you know that I want to be with you all the time." He sang out. I really couldn't help thinking that he wasn't half bad. Was that just me simping? Perhaps.

My smile only grew as he continued on with, "You know that I won't stop until I make you mine. You know that I won't stop until I make you mine. Until I make you mine."

He was still spinning around and singing, "Put your hand in mine. You know that I want to be with you all the time. Oh, darlin', darlin', baby, you're so very fine." I had started to pick up on why he wouldn't let me listen to this playlist and why he only seemed to listen to it when he was alone in this very greenhouse. It had never crossed my mind that the songs reminded him of me, much less that he got so excited about the thought of me.

I was grinning and most definitely blushing profusely as the song began to wrap up.

Neville really got into it at the very end. He did a pose, still with wand in hand, his fist balled around the handle, the tip pointed towards his mouth, when the music dimmed and slowed down gradually. 

"You know that I won't stop until I make you mine." Neville began to finish up, "Until I make you-" he jumped just about six feet in the air as he cut himself off. He had just turned and saw me watching him. In an instant, he had flicked his wand in the air and the room went silent.

"How... uh, how long were you there, Sunflower?" He tripped and fell all over his words.

With a sly smirk on my face, I simply stated, "Long enough."

He turned a deep crimson as he started fiddling with his wand and fingers. It was clear that he didn't want to know when he mumbled, "Meaning?"

"Meaning," I chuckled breathily, "I think you're only more adorable than before." I scratched the side of my head with my wand tip, throwing a convincing look of confusion into my eyes, "Which I didn't really think was possible."

He smiled lightly as he looked at the floor.

I took a few steps closer to the table and dropped my book bag on the surface. As I walked down the significant length of the table towards him, his feet shuffled in embarrassment.

"What? Are you embarrassed, Sunshine?"

He only blushed in response, his eyes now on my shoes which wasn't saying much considering how much shorter I was than him, he might as well just have looked at my face.

I put my dainty pointer finger under his chin and pulled it up so as to allow him a look at my eyes.

"You never told me that you spend so much time thinking about me in here."

He blushed again. I loved how I knew just the way to get him flustered.

"I like that," I added proceeding to go on my tiptoes to try and plant a kiss on the very tip of his nose. I pouted when I came over a foot short. He chuckled a bit.

When I tried again, I made sure not to fail. I grabbed his tie, which had been tucked into his matching uniform vest and slid out effortlessly as I tugged on it, which only gave me more hold on it. I dragged his face towards mine, him not resisting at all, and when he was stooped so far that I could reach while on my very top tiptoes, I landed the kiss. He laughed out loud this time.

"What? I don't give up! You know that."

"Oh, yes. I do. And you know I won't stop until I make you mine."

I chuckled at his little reference to the song he had been rocking with.

"Well, I think you've already got that."

dividers courtesy of the lovely @saradika-graphics and @cafekitsune <3

[saringold]

AFTERMATH (Part 2)

AU where Paper Mario is a sequel to Super Mario RPG, takes place after both games.

Summary: ♡♪!?, having heard about Bowser stealing the Star Rod and sending Star Haven into a panic, goes down to the surface to retrieve his body in the hopes of confronting his old traveling companion.

(Part 1 here)

(Part 3 here)

(Ao3 version here)

♡♪!? took a deep breath, steeling himself. While he knew full well that the Honorable Star Spirits wanted him to rest, let go of his negative emotions, and do his work in Star Haven until it came time to take ☆♤♩☽, Eldstar's, place, he simply couldn't seem to settle. If it had simply been a case where Bowser had kidnapped Peach, he wouldn't have worried, but this was different. Bowser had crossed a line, a line that he should have known was there, and even worse, this wasn't some stranger's work. This was Bowser, someone who he'd risked life and limb with. As cheesy as it sounded, their bond had been forged in combat and fire, and throughout it all, he'd really, truly thought that while Bowser was stubborn, he could also be counted on when it really mattered. He'd thought that while perhaps friends was a strong word, comrades seemed to suit them well.

It seemed that his positive opinions were quite misplaced.

☆♤♩☽'s dimming, the world terrorized by wishes, the guilt of not being present, the betrayal of his comrade... the cold, sharp dagger turned in his gut, icy feelings of betrayal flooding through him. He needed to do this, needed to hear from the Koopa King himself.

Taking another breath, ♡♪!? leapt from the Star Road, flinging himself toward the marble-like planet below. Below him, towns and forests whizzed by, the star not stopping until the familiar roofs of Rose Town came into view.

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Once nighttime fell, ♡♪!? carefully approached the Inn. He felt bad for borrowing this body unannounced, but it was the one he was most used to and he didn't have time to waste. Looking around the room, ♡♪!? quickly located where the toys usually were, but... oddly enough, the Geno doll didn't seem to be among them. He looked at a few of the various shelves, but to no avail. He was so engrossed in his search that he missed the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the stairs.

"H...hello?" echoed a tiny toad voice, and ♡♪!? turned to see Gaz peering at him with bleary eyes. "Who... who are you?"

♡♪!? blinked, somewhat panicky. He hadn't meant to wake Gaz, but now that he had... on the one hand, he could spend the energy to materialize himself just like all stars could, but he also didn't want to make his presence publicly known. His intention was to confront Bowser and be done with it, but if it got out that he'd come back, it might cause his other friends more pain knowing that he hadn't come to see them. As he wrestled with himself, Gaz's eyes blinked into wakefulness. "You... you're Geno, aren't you?"

♡♪!? blinked, then dimmed slightly. Well, so much for subtlety. He bobbed up and down slightly in a gesture of acknowledgment, glowing a little brighter at Gaz's widening smile. Suddenly, two small palms came up as if cupping him in his palms, tiny tears streaming down Gaz's cheeks. "Geno... You're back..."

The star jumped up to his head, almost bouncing on top of it, and Gaz let out a quiet laugh. "You're looking for your body, right? I think Mallow has it. We've been sending it back and forth to each other, and we've even become pen pals. If you wanna find it, you'll have to go up to Nimbus Land."

With a twinkle, ♡♪!? hopped off Gaz's head, standing before him once again. Suddenly, a warm glow surrounded his form, causing Gaz to look away. When the light dimmed, a vermilion-colored star-shaped being floated before him, the smile on its face reminiscent of Geno's. "Thank you, Gaz. I have some work to do here, so I can't stay, but thank you for taking such good care of my body. Although we must part once again, don't worry; I'm always watching over you."

A few more tears slipped down Gaz's cheeks, and the young Toad wiped them away. "Yeah! Don't worry, Geno! I won't ever forget!" With that, the star flew out of the window, deep into the night sky. Gaz approached the window slowly, staring at where his starry friend had gone as though he wanted nothing more than to follow.

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After a short while, ♡♪!? arrived in Nimbus Land, quietly infiltrating the palace. After a few moments of navigating the winding hallways, he came upon Mallow's room, where the fluffy prince was clutching something close in his sleep. As ♡♪!? approached, he could see that it was the doll that had served as his body throughout such a life-changing adventure.

Carefully, the spirit freed the doll out from under Mallow's arm, trying to ignore the guilt that coursed through him at the thought of simply grabbing his body and leaving. Normally, he wouldn't bother, but truthfully, he had little choice; it expended too much energy to be on the surface in his natural starry form, and even more energy to take on the appearance akin to the ones that the Honorable Star Spirits had used whenever they'd come to help Mario during his efforts to retrieve the Star Rod. Possessing a body was much less of a drain, and even though ♡♪!? hoped that things wouldn't come to blows, it would be much less of an issue if he had an actual, physical form.

Once the doll was out of Mallow's grasp, ♡♪!? began to settle inside, but couldn't stop the bright light emanating from the doll as he did so. Behind him, Mallow's soft breathing trailed off into a quiet "Huh?" as the light intensified. After a moment, wooden fingers curled and uncurled, the doll slowly hopping down from the bed as he became re-acclimated to this body. He stretched his arms and took a few steps, stumbling briefly but managing to catch himself as his so-called "muscle memory" kicked in.

Suddenly, behind him came the rustle of sheets, and as he turned, a young face filled with disbelief stared back. "G-geno?" Mallow asked, his voice barely more than a breezy whisper. "That's... that's you, isn't it? You're back, aren't you?"

The wooden face stretched into a small smile as Geno turned to look at his old friend, feeling that if he had the ability to shed tears, he might have done so right now. "Yes, Mallow. It's me."

In a rush, the little prince scrambled from his bed, embracing Geno in a tight hug. A few tears escaped, but Mallow sniffled determinedly, keeping the accompanying rainfall at bay. "Geno... I'm so glad you're back!"

"I am too," Geno murmured, a small smile spreading across his face as he returned the hug. After a moment, Mallow pulled away, giving him the wide grin that the young prince was known for.

"I've been hoping you'd come back. Gaz and I have been writing to each other and sending your body back and forth, and I have so much to tell you! But..."

At this, Mallow's cheerful expression became more serious.

"...You're probably here on some kinda business, right? Some important business?"

In response, Geno nodded his head. "Yeah. I... I need to talk to Bowser about what he did. I'm not sure if you've heard about it, but Bowser stole the Star Rod from my home, Star Haven. Even though Mario and Peach defeated him and returned the rod, I... I was away when it happened. It's my fault. I should have stopped him myself. I..."

Geno trailed off, and a soft, fluffy hand wrapped around his own. "It's ok, Geno. It's alright," Mallow said gently, trying to comfort him. "I did hear about it, but I don't think it's your fault. I mean, how could you know? I think it's really mean of Bowser to do something like this, but it all turned out ok. It's not your fault."

"Please don't blame yourself..." ♥☮♠☀, Mamar's, words echoed in the back of his mind, and Geno simply sighed. If he could convince himself to believe that, perhaps he wouldn't have gone on an unauthorized trip to the surface world, worrying his most precious people instead of enjoying the reunion. Alas... here he was.

Seeing the expression on Geno's face, Mallow swallowed. "You know... I've been doing a lot of prince stuff. It's been hard, but kinda fun! In fact, the other day..." Slowly, Mallow led Geno to sit beside him on his fluffy bed. A momentary reluctance filled Geno as he thought of his mission, but it was just as quickly quashed by warm feelings of familiarity. Certainly, he was here to demand answers from Bowser, but seeing as he'd already made himself known, it wouldn't hurt to spend some time with Mallow. As they got settled, the star found himself listening eagerly to Mallow's tales, his anger and pain momentarily forgotten as he let himself listen to everything that had happened since his departure, indulging in the familiar sound of Mallow's joyful voice.

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After a while, as the moon meandered ever-closer to the horizon, Mallow finally ran out of stories and Geno finally ran out of distractions to keep his negative thoughts and feelings at bay. "Mallow... I need to set out now."

"Mmmm... alright."

The two got up from the bed, Mallow looking at Geno uncertainly. "Geno... do you really have to go? I mean, I'm really glad you're here, but... wouldn't it be nicer to say hi to everyone instead of going to yell at Bowser?"

"Mallow... I wish I could. I wish it were that easy," Geno answered solemnly, meeting Mallow's gaze with his own. "But if I don't do this... I think it'll haunt me. You and others have told me that it's not my fault, but... I need to see him and ask him about it. I need to face him head-on."

The cloud prince sniffled, but nodded. "Okay. I understand. Just... be careful, ok? And... I really hope you don't need to fight. Bowser's a meanie, but..."

He trailed off, but his feelings came across perfectly clear. Geno smiled, placing a wooden hand atop Mallow's fluffy head.

"Don't worry, Mallow. I'll be just fine, and I promise that unless I really have to, I won't fight him."

"...You promise?"

"I promise."

[piastrinorris]

busy streets and busy lives • ralph penbury x reader

A strange day at work gets even stranger when you meet a man who claims he's from 1926. With no certainty as to when he can get back, you decide to take him in until that time arrives.

masterlist | prev. | next

Tags: Timewasters (series), modern!au, slow burn, mutual pining, idiots in love™, fluff, some angst, swearing and mentions of adult themes throughout, eventual adult content, alcohol content, drug content, penbury is a fanon surname

Word count: 8.5k

A/N: I've spent so much time on this because I wanted the events of this chapter to go perfectly after all this build-up lmao. I hope it's good enough for you guys. You all deserve the best, after all. <3

Only one more chapter to go after this! Almost the end of an era.

Hearing the shower stop thrumming, you smile at the closed bathroom door and start making yours and Ralph’s breakfast. A song plays from your shuffled playlist with a rhythm you can feel through every bone in your body. You start bobbing your head to it, which turns into a shimmy of the shoulders, quickly followed by shuffling feet and swinging hips. Before you know it, you're dancing and humming along all around the tiny expanse of your kitchen.

You had no idea Ralph was in the room now until you caught sight of something person-shaped leaning against your fridge. You stop with a bashful look, watching Ralph's gaze. He looks all the way down your body before looking up briefly to look back down again. If anybody else had ever looked at you in that way, you'd feel exposed, objectified, disgusted. But there's something about the way he looks at you, that causes your insides to swoop and your face to feel suddenly hotter. It's not even like it's the first time you've seen him do it, it's been his one go-to flirtatious move since you made it official with him, and it works every time.

"You know you don't have to stare like that, right?" You grin as you step over to him. "You can just come over and have me as I am."

"Even now that that is the case, darling, why would I ever waste an opportunity to savour how beautiful you are?" he smiles softly as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close for a kiss. Every time your lips connect, you feel a genuine spark that starts from there and jolts all the way through your body.

You feel the presence of his arms swinging by your sides, still unsure of where to put them. Reaching back down, you take his hands in your own and move them to rest low on your back. You feel his fingers nervously press into you as his breath hitches, and smile up at him sweetly in reassurance. Biting your lip, you push down on his wrists so that his hands sit on your ass cheeks and he yelps in surprise, his ears turning a fierce red. He looks at you with wide eyes, and you return it with a suggestive look. He licks his lips, nodding in understanding as he starts to relax. You guide his jaw to capture his lips into another kiss and you feel the tension keeping him stiff start to dissipate.

As you both relax into it, enjoying each others’ embrace, you rock yourself back into his touch, humming out a soft moan at the pressure of his palms pressing against you. You feel him tense up again as he breathes in audibly, but you shush him, leaning to look him in the eye and smile gently with a soft, “That feels so good.”

Ralph nods nervously, but it melts away as he sees how happy you look for him to be holding you in such a way. “Yes, it… It does for me, too.”

“Yeah?” You ask, moving in such a way that both you and Ralph start rocking from side to side, still cradling each other. “Good enough to call in sick, d’you reckon?”

He laughs softly, “Unfortunately, I fear Babs may have me skinned if I'm not in on time, we've got a special order coming in."

You pull a face, "Damn. S'pose I'd better work, too."

He moves his hands away from their place, to your disgruntlement, but it's to gently guide your hair into place with a, "I do so wish I could provide my old wealth to you. I'd spoil you something terrible."

You give him a resigned smile, "Tempting, but I'm not sure I'd survive in a world without WiFi."

"Of course," Ralph muses with a small smile, "and how could you possibly go on without knowing which of the female strangers was given a flower by the male stranger?"

"Oh, shut up, you'd miss our trash TV marathons more than I would, and you know it," you tease, poking him in the stomach.

He chuckles, “Maybe so."

Your shifts never used to drag quite like this. Even major rush periods feel as though they're in slow motion, they have done ever since you and Ralph made it official. You'd always felt it weird and a little co-dependent when others would talk about just wanting to go home and be with their significant other all the time, but now you get it.

At first, you reminisce back to this past weekend, when you'd gone out with the rest of your colleagues for one of their birthdays. Though Ralph was visibly sadder about you going out without him for the night, he certainly never made you feel guilty about it. Hyping up how beautiful you look, telling you to have an absolute blast and how he can't wait to hear all about it as soon as you get home, which you knew was going to be literal since you knew he'd stay up for you. And the memory of his lovesick little face as you'd kissed your freshly-applied lipstick all over it, smiling dazedly and sighing happily with glassy eyes while covered in your lipstick stains, is enough to lift you out of any funk. Especially when you also remember coming back to see him drifting in and out of sleep on the sofa, faded lip marks still adorning him.

You think back further than that, to the time when he'd run all the way to your shop from his after he'd realised halfway through the morning that neither of you had remembered your goodbye kiss. And then back to your very heated session this morning. Imagining Ralph bursting through that front door the way he had that day. Looking at you with all the adoration from the weekend. You know for a fact you'd be practically tugging him into your office, throwing everything off of your desk so the two of you can make out on it. 

You think about his hands, how they felt pressed against such a sensitive area. How easily he took to it. You start to wonder what else he'd take to that well. Whether he even knows what he's doing. Would you have to take charge? Do you want to take charge? Everything over the last half a year has consisted of you having to lead Ralph around, so you assume the same would be said for… Elsewhere, too. As much fun as it is to imagine Ralph pressing you against the wall and having his way with you, that’s not really your Ralph. Still nice to think about, though.

A grab of your shoulders has you jumping out of your skin with a yelp. The sales assistants working with you laugh loudly and you pull a face. “Couldn’t you have just gotten my attention in a nicer way?”

“We tried!” One raises their hands. “You were really out of it, almost called an ambulance on you.”

“Yeah, what’s got you that distracted?” The other asks, before adding with a smirk, “Or is that more hot and bothered?”

“What do you mean?!” You ask, but you can feel your face betraying you. Your cheeks could be actual furnaces right now.

They simply exchange knowing kooks and waggle their eyebrows at each other before gesturing to the front desk. “Total Karen. Says we have something on hold for her when I’ve checked ten literal actual times and seen we don’t. She’s all yours.”

After a twenty minute conversation that finally ends with the revelation that the woman had the wrong store entirely, you decide it’s best to keep busying yourself with work. Keep the not-safe-for-work thoughts… Outside of work.

By the time you’re home, you wonder whether you should bring up the elephant in the room. You wonder how, as well - whenever you’ve been intimate in the past it’s been Tinder matches or other dates where you can trust the other person to make the first move if they’re truly interested. But this is your Ralph, who you’d had to guide just to let his hands wander, and even then he’d needed encouragement to keep them there. He always talked about how infrequently he’d had any kind of positive interaction with anyone he’s been interested in - you can’t help but wonder, has he even?

You open the door and hear the shower running behind the bathroom door. Of course, you and Ralph have showered while the other is somewhere in the flat plenty of times over the last half a year, but with all that’s been on your mind today, there’s just something about the fact that his naked form is a door away from you.

You head into your bedroom to get out of your work clothes and into something comfier before you can even think about making dinner, and notice that Ralph has left that bathroom door ajar. You contemplate poking your head around it when a sound catches you completely off guard. Beneath the running water, it can’t be denied, Ralph is moaning. As you stay close to the doorway and listen intently, you start to hear more. Little gasps and hitches of his breath. Sounds that could only mean one thing - Ralph is touching himself right now.

Every one of them makes you feel the need to relieve yourself, too, which you consider briefly before deciding in the moment to just go for it. There’s been enough pussyfooting around over the last 6 months, and look at where that’d gotten you.

Taking a deep breath in, you tap your knuckle against the door, using all your willpower to remain a respectful distance away from the open part of the door so as not to scare him too much. “Ralph?” His classic half-yelp, half-squawk of surprise greets you as the water suddenly shuts off. 

You hear commotion as he quickly wraps a towel around his hips and pokes his head out from the doorway. “W-welcome, back, my…” He clears his throat. “My love. Erm, I don’t su- how long hav- I didn’t hear you coming in.”

You push the door wide open, leaving him standing in the doorway looking incredibly bashfully, not quite looking at you. You place a finger on his jaw and move it so he’s looking at you. Raising your eyebrows suggestively, you ask, “Do you want me to level the playing field?” as you reach down to grab the bottom of your shirt.

Ralph takes a deep breath in that hitches twice before he swallows hard and nods, taking a step closer to you. “Though, I should like to be the one to make that happen, if that would be alright with you.”

You reach out to take Ralph’s hands, walking backwards until you’re both further into your bedroom, and place them on your hips, grinning up at him. “Heads up, unless I tell you that it’s not, pretty much everything you could do would be okay, alright? Don’t need to check in all the time.” He nods, and you play with the wet curls that hang down the back of his neck. “And, um…” You start slowly, spinning your fingers around in his hair, “you… Obviously don’t have to push yourself, if you’re not ready, or if you’re not sure how, or -”

“I know what to do, if that’s what you’re trying to insinuate,” he tells you with a small smile. “For our 21st, Victoria decided to, ah, gift me a week’s worth of evenings with… Well, I’m sure you can imagine, given the context.”

You frown up at him. “Your sister gave you an escort for your birthday?!”

“Well, I certainly didn’t think so, at first. She had simply told me there was a young woman waiting downstairs for me to wine and dine her, and… Well, again, you can imagine how the night ended. And then, no less, Victoria told me she wanted to see me again the very next night, and so it happened again, and again, until one week later, she was never to be seen again.”

Your eyes widen, “Like, she di-”

“Oh, gracious, no! No, I saw Maggie in the town days after.” Ah, so this is the Maggie he mentioned the other week. “I approached her to ask her for another evening out, and that’s when she told me that she was… merely being paid to accompany me.”

You stroke his hair gently, pouting your lower lip out. “Your old life was such bullshit.”

“Yes, well. If only any of them could see me, now. Bully for me, eh?” Ralph smiles at you before leaning in to kiss you sweetly. 

You smile against his lips as you slowly drag your hands down around his shoulders, following the last few drops of shower water that remain on him down to rest on his chest. “Wouldn’t want them to. Want to keep all this just for me.”

“As you wish, darling,” he simpers back, and you feel his fingers bunching your shirt up. “As long as I get to say the same.”

“Of course,” you grin, lifting your arms up over your head. He pulls your shirt off of you, his hands carefully folding the garment as his eyes fixate on your body in total awe. He reaches over to place it down on your dresser, his gaze still never leaving your body, leaving you feeling totally enamoured at how respectful he’s still being towards even your clothes. He reaches around to remove your bra - doing so more efficiently than even you can - and drinks the sight of you in as it falls down your arms.

A shaky hand reaches out to hold your breast, his finger and thumb just resting inches away from your nipple either side. You moan out an oh and Ralph almost melts on the spot. He uses the other hand to cradle your neck as his kisses become far more open, far more passionate, and far more needy. He needs more than to just hear those sounds, he needs to taste them, breathe them, claim them.

He switches his hands to massage the other breast with the same amount of intention and love. Your hands blindly feel for where he’s tucked the towel around him and tug gently, in questioning. He hums affirmatively into your mouth and you unfurl the offending object, letting it fall to the floor and breaking your kiss to look down. It’s fully pressed against his stomach, smooth with a singular vein protruding down the side. Slender, but long. You can’t help but smile adoringly as it twitches under your gaze.

You look up at him with the same look in your eye as you reach down to run your fingertips along it. He starts to frown, and you immediately pull back. “Too much?”

“Oh, no, not at all! I’m just… A little puzzled, since you’re the one touching me.”

You start to feel your blood boil again. “When this Maggie,” you spit her name out venomously, “was ‘teaching’ you… What did she do, exactly?”

“Well, I suppose I know what to do with my hands, and with my mouth, and with… Well, the obvious,” he chuckles under his breath. “But… Once it was all over, for her, she would tell me we were done, and so I would have to… Relieve myself once she had gone.”

You feel your face start to contort with anger, but you manage to will yourself out of that. Instead, you keep your gaze fixed on Ralph as you sink to your knees. You watch his eyes widen as you take his length in your hand and slowly lick from base to tip. His fingers flex out and then into a fist again, so you guide them towards your hair. His grip seems intentionally gentle, and a part of you starts to wonder whether you can corrupt him into pulling tighter.

Again looking up at him through your eyelashes, you point the tip of your tongue and play it around the tip of his shaft, licking all around it with the occasional lap right at the top. He moans for you for the first time, far louder than in the shower. His grip tightens for the briefest of moments before he returns to his gentle ways. 

Spurned on, you finally wrap your lips around him and sink down, taking his cock in your mouth. His gasp stutters as a low moan rolls out beneath, and you have fun with moving at different speeds, turning your head, hollowing your cheeks, trying to move deeper until the tip of your nose nestles in amongst the mass of reddish-brown curls that adorn his length like a halo.

His knees buckle slightly when you reach out to gently caress his balls as well, and you pull away to check on him, wiping the drool off of the lower lip of your grin as you look up at him. “Everything good?”

He nods hurriedly. “Exceptional, truly, but I fear I may finish my part and neglect you in this.”

Your smile softens. “Baby, you don’t have to feel like you owe me. Besides, sounds like you deserve at least one night of selfishness!”

“Maybe so, but not tonight.” He offers his hand to help you stand up before placing a hand just under your ear to cradle your neck and head. “Tonight I wish to show you just how much I adore you. May I?”

You nod, “What did I tell you about asking, eh?” before shimmying yourself out of the rest of your clothes. You step back slowly, letting Ralph admire you. Any confidence issues you’ve ever had with your body melt with the way Ralph looks at you, as though you were a masterpiece at the Louvre. 

You sit yourself on the bed, shuffling back so that your head can rest with the pillows, and Ralph lays next to you, pressed against your side as his hand slides around your thigh. “Quite possibly the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he mutters into your ear as his fingers rub up and down until he notices you hiss with pleasure, going back to the spot he brushed past to cause that and starting to rub it in gentle circles.

“Oh, god, please, Ralph, right there,” you pant.

“Does that feel good, my love?” He asks in the same volume, and you nod.

“So good, fuck,” you moan, your hips squirming from side to side under his touch. You look over at him, glassy eyes and parted lips as he studies your face. You could count his eyelashes, he’s that close. Breathing in the air he breathes out, you could just move your jaw a fraction and kiss him, but this moment feels so intimate, so personal. Nobody else exists in the world right now except for you two.

“I’m so glad,” he whispers to you. “Because I wish to devote the rest of my days to making sure you know just how much you deserve to feel this way, always.”

You feel yourself start to well up with emotion, but that soon dissipates into pure pleasure as Ralph takes that exact moment to reach down and sink a finger between your folds, pressing it deep inside of you. You whine, gripping the sheets with the one hand that can hold them, bucking yourself against his touch, desperate to feel nothing else but him inside of you. “God, please, Ralph, more,” you cry out, and he obeys, adding another finger easily.

“You make my name sound heavenly, darling,” he simpers, pressing a kiss to the top of the shell of your ear. “Thank you.”

“- Make me feel heavenly, oh my god,” you whine, finally moving your head around but pressing your forehead into his face instead. “Want to make you feel this good, too.”

He tilts his head to press gentle kisses to your forehead before resting his own against yours and cooing, “You already have, my love, and I’m sure you will again. But, for now…” He pulls his hand away and moves to crouch down between your legs. Your breath hitches, echoing his from earlier, as he holds your folds apart with one hand and buries his tongue inside of you. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head as you moan loudly, and he surfaces to ask, “Is this what you want, darling? Or do you prefer more of this?” As he moves up to press kisses to your clit, occasionally lingering to suckle on it.

“B-both! Both are… Fuck, just don’t stop, please,” you stammer out, and you can feel his lips turn up in a smile against your core.

“Anything you say, darling,” he purrs as he alternates between the two. You feel yourself clench around his tongue, coaxing it in as much as you can, but the way your body moves as he massages your clit, your mind empties of every thought other than needing nothing but Ralph. 

You start to feel something rushing, moving to settle down at your core where your climax starts to build. You cry out, “God, Ralph, ’m so close, need - need you inside, now, please.”

“You need relief now?” He asks softly, and you nod, keening against him. “Then let go, my love,” he soothes as he sinks his two fingers inside of you again, sucking on your clit with much more fervour. You cry out in ecstasy as you feel yourself clench and gush around his fingers, your hands burying in his hair as he totally devours you all the way through your orgasm.

He resurfaces, looking up at you with his big, brown doe eyes. You try and smooth out how dishevelled you've left his curls, to no avail as his glistening gaze watches you with adoration. Panting, you smile down at him, “Holy shit, you’re perfect.”

He dips his head bashfully before taking his previous place of laying next to you. “Oh, please, as if I could ever accept such a title when lying next to the embodiment of it.”

You frown, your eyebrows knitting together as you look him up and down. “And just what do you think you’re doing there?”

The awe in his eyes is drained immediately, quickly replaced with sorrow. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“Well, surely you still need attending to,” you shuffle around to lay on your side, gently running your fingertips up and down his length again.

His breath once again hitches as he gasps sharply. “Oh, you don’t need to go to all that trouble, darling, I can just as easily do it myself and I won’t even make a mess of it, I’m very good at cleaning up after myself, an-”

You cut him off by pushing him onto his back, rolling over to take his member in your hand and start stroking it. “Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking about in the shower?” you ask seductively, resting your head in the crook of his neck and watching him twitch beneath your touch.

He swallows thickly before stammering, "Th- That delicious sound you w-were making, this morning, I was… Playing it o-ver and over, in my head… I thought about, p-perhaps, what might happen if I were to... To have kept on k-issing you. To have caressed you m-more, whatever it took to make that happen aga-again."

You hum out a low moan into his ear. "Mmm, do you like it when I moan, Ralphie?" He nods desperately, and a wide smile creeps along your face. "Good," you whisper with a kiss to the shell of his ear. "Because I like having you make me moan."

"Well, if you wish, I'd be more than happy to oblige again," Ralph smiles as he tries to roll over you, but you again push him back, this time moving yourself around too until you're sat on top of him, straddling him with a knee either side of his waist. 

"I want us both to feel good," you smile down at him, rubbing your palms up and down his chest. You trail your fingers down his torso to play in the trail of hair that adorns his stomach, shuffling further and further back until your lower lips start to mould around his cock. He breathes in through his nose, long and hard, and you lean forwards, sliding your hands back up his abdomen. "Do you want that, too?"

He nods, then his eyes widen in fearful realisation. "I, um... I didn't quite anticipate this happening so soon, and so I haven't... I don't have any..."

The concern that had filled your face quickly melts away. "It's okay, Ralphie, that's what that pill I take every evening is for. Though normally, I'd rather play it safe and have you protect yourself, too..." You grind yourself against him, biting your lip. "Tonight, I wanna feel you, Ralph. All of you."

He nods, "Ple- Please. Take all you desire of me."

You kneel up just enough to reach below you and aim his member until you feel his tip brush against where you ache for it most. You line yourself up before finally sinking down, burying him inside you. You let yourself sit atop his hips, savouring the moment. He runs his fingers up and down your sides as he admires your body, and you lean forward until you can reach over and hold the headboard for support. As you do, your breasts hang lower, putting Ralph in a total trance. His hands move to cup them again, this time taking your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

You let out a blissful moan as you grind yourself on him, revelling at how good it feels to be so full. You rock back and forth, letting that bliss consume you. You move one hand to envelope his, pressing his grip over you even tighter and whining at the added pressure. 

He bites his lip and you feel his hand relax beneath yours. You frown slightly at him, slowing your pace, but his expression of pure elation puts you at ease immediately. “Feeling good?” you ask with a smirk, regaining your momentum.

He nods, smiling mindlessly, though this time he holds your hips as though keeping them still. “I wan- want you - want to… Be the one on…” As he talks, you can almost hear his thoughts struggling to form coherently.

You smile softly at him, bending down one more time to press a long kiss to his lips as you lift yourself off of him, rolling over to lay back on the bed. “Like this?” you ask as you reach for his shoulder, tugging gently; no expectation of actually moving him, merely prompting him.

A warm, beaming smile spreads across his face as he moves over you. “Precisely, my love. Thank you.” He aims himself hurriedly, desperate to be inside you again, for you to complete him again. Whatever fates may lie out there, Ralph certainly doesn’t know, but after all those years of them turning their backs on him, he’s never felt so sure of where he’s meant to be.

As he pushes himself inside of you, he takes your hands in his, this time holding them against your pillow, either side of your face. Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively as you look into his eyes that bore back into you. Eyes full of love and of lust, of exhilaration and of tenderness, of willingness and of comfort. You wish you could give him any of that back, but all your face can do is contort with pleasure. You lift your head up, whining gently and pushing your lips out at him, to which he takes the hint and bends down to kiss you, his fingers flexing between yours as he holds you as tightly as he can. You feel the very edge of his neck chains drag against your skin as they swing, dangling between you. Every tiny little sensation feels magnified a hundredfold.

His breath becomes even more shallow as he breaks from the kiss, barely able to focus himself. You can tell he’s getting close, so you manage to wriggle your hand loose from his grip to reach down and start massaging your clit. 

Ralph snaps back into consciousness to look at you with a furrowed brow. “Am I not doing enough for you? Oh, darling, I’m so sorry, I -”

You cut him off by shushing him, “Shhh, shh, it’s not your fault, baby. Okay?” you soothe, and he licks his lips as he nods. His face softens at your term of endearment. “There we go. I just really want us to finish at the same time, that’s all. Do you want to do it for me?” you offer gently, and he quickly adjusts himself, holding himself up against the headboard while reaching down to rub just where you need him to. Your body grinds with his touch, still managing to move in perfect rhythm with him. His forehead rests on yours as you both look down, watching his every move as he ultimately pleases you, but Ralph’s quick to get back to kissing you.

What starts as sweet pecks quickly melts into sloppy, needy, desperate, open kisses. You mutter to him to kiss your neck, and the combination of the feeling of his lips, the tingling of his breath and the vibrations of his hummed moans that only get more intense as his hips move more erratically, all against the already sensitive skin of your throat drive you crazy. 

He moves back up to look at you, cheeks pink, ears red and chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “I think I’m… What should - Where should -”

You rest your hands on his shoulders, fingers pressing into the soft, freckled flesh of his back. “Just don’t stop,” you breathe back, feeling the build-up of your second orgasm fly through every single nerve. Breaths become whines, whines become moans, and the pair of you harmonise as you reach your peak together, as one. You bask in the warmth he fills you with, desperate to commit as much of it to memory as you can, knowing how rarely you’ll feel this exact sensation.

It takes Ralph a moment to recuperate as he simply flops down onto you, still inside you. You giggle, burying your face in his hair and kissing his head. “Enjoy that?” You ask in a soft, amused voice.

“Understatement of the century, my love. And I should know!” He exclaims, making you both laugh. He finally moves, pulling himself out of you - though still taking a moment to revel in the sight of his cum just peeking out from inside you - and laying himself next to you. You roll yourself on your side to face him, and he does the same. “It was everything I could have ever asked of you, and an infinite amount more. Thank you,” he leans in to kiss your forehead. “Thank you,” he repeats, kissing the tip of your nose. You giggle as he continues to thank you profusely, over and over, as he kisses you all over your face and down your neck.

“Alright, down, boy!” You laugh, lightly batting at the top of his head. “I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, I’m gonna need a minute before any round 2 happens!”

He returns to lay his head on the pillow next to you, pouting his lower lip out in an adorable manner. “I would never expect anything more of what you’ve already done for me!”

You reach over to stroke back some of his curls, grinning, “I know, you big softie, I was only teasing.” You huff out a long, exhausted breath. “Well! I think I need a shower after that.”

Ralph frowns, “Yes, I’m not certain now whether the moisture on my skin is from the shower I just took or from sweating, but I don’t want to waste any more of the hot water.”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure we’d both squeeze in there pretty easily,” you offer with a suggestive waggle of your eyebrows. Ralph looks semi-shocked at the thought, and you deadpan, “Ralph.” You gesture down your bodies and continue, “You cannot think anything’s still scandalous, surely.”

He dips his head bashfully, “I’m just not used to all of this! You’re the one corrupting me!” You gasp in mock offence, keeping your wide-eyed, wide-mouthed expression as he kisses all over your face again through his own giggles.

“Well, I’m gonna go get in the shower, anyway. If you feel like being corrupted any more, you know where to find me,” you tease, practically throwing yourself out of the bed.

As soon as you start running the water, you feel Ralph’s body pressing behind yours again, his arms wrapping around you and his face burying in your neck. Showering together feels like the most intimate thing you’ve done all day, the way you carefully explore each others’ bodies with the tender lathering of soaps, shampoos and conditioners. Once you’re out of the shower, and Ralph’s stood behind you to help you massage your favourite products into your skin, you consider teaching him all the fun of bending someone over a bathroom counter, but you decide to pace yourself. Everything you and Ralph have done so far today has been a big step for him to take, and the last thing you want to do is overwhelm him. 

It’s only when you’re both stood naked in your bedroom, trying to remember what’s stopping you from the default action of changing into pyjamas, when your stomachs growl in unison. You laugh loudly, “That’s it! It’s because we still need to eat!” You frown, “I don’t think we have enough stuff, I was gonna ask you what you wanted and then go and buy whatever we’d need, ’til I got distracted.”

“Whatever could you mean,” Ralph replies with a small, bashful smile. “Although… I was given a rather hefty tip from that large party that I helped today, and so I was planning on asking you to accompany me to a meal out, my treat.”

You smile with amusement, “A little bit backwards from my former dating life, to have dinner afterwards, but absolutely.” The comment seems to go over Ralph’s head as he looks through his dress shirts, though he keeps pausing to watch you decide on your own outfit. Once you do, he picks one that matches yours as closely as possible,

Ralph seems excitedly determined to show you where he wants to take you, which you eventually learn that he learned of this place from his friend Lauren, the one now dating Connor. It must have come very highly recommended, since as you queue up to join the waiting list, you see your friends already sat at the bar. 

They jump up and rush over, Lauren immediately greeting the pair of you while Connor talks to the host, who seems quite agreeable. When he joins you all, he tells you that he’s changed his and Lauren’s party from 2 to 4 so you can join them.

You all go back to the bar and order some drinks. As Lauren and Ralph excitedly catch up, Connor nudges you with a, “Look at us. Hey, look at us.”

Laughing, you continue the reference with a, “Look at us! Who’d have thought?”

“Not me!” Connor exclaims, causing you both to fall into a fit of giggles.

Lauren turns away from their conversation to look at you both in disbelief. “Did you just quote Paul Rudd, out loud?!” You both nod proudly, and she rolls her eyes in affectionate sarcasm. “Can’t believe I’m dating such a massive nerd.”

“Well, believe it, ’cause it’s truuue,” he singsongs teasingly, leaning over to plant an obviously very wet kiss on her cheek based on her reaction, making all four of you laugh.

“Nah, seriously, I never would’ve thought Connor would be that sappy, even if he was being a prick about it,” you smirk. “You kids are cute together.”

“High praise coming from the most anticipated couple of the 20s!” Lauren laughs.

“Oh, Loz, that’s quite the exaggeration,” Ralph comments with expressive eyes, but both Connor and Lauren rasp out in disbelief in the same tone simultaneously, to your amusement.

“It really isn’t, we’d all been waiting for you both to come to your senses for months!” Connor exclaims.

“Seriously, some of the girls were considering trying to hunt your lot down to add them to a group chat dedicated to playing Cupid!” Lauren laughs, gesturing between you and Connor as the four of you are called to go to your table. “Thankfully, as ever, I was the voice of reason that knew you and Ralphie’d figure it all out eventually.”

“And if things didn’t happen the way they did, you’d never have met me the way you did,” Connor grins as he sits in his chair, resting his elbow on the table and jaw on his fist as he watches Lauren take her seat, to which she beams back at him for. 

Ralph pulls out the seat next to Lauren, and you go to sit next to Connor when you hear him make a slight sound of offence. You look over and see him holding the seat out, gesturing to it. Pressing a hand to your chest, you stick out your lower lip in a look of affectionate appreciation as you take the seat, looking up at Ralph gratefully as he tucks your chair in before taking his place next to his best male friend.

“You’re such a gentleman, Ralphie,” Lauren comments sweetly, and Connor sighs, shaking his head with a sarcastic aura about him.

“S’pose I better get better at being more of a gentleman too, then,” he raises his eyebrows at Lauren, who mirrors his snort-laugh.

“Please, if I wanted a gentleman, I would have never gone for you.” The way they smile at each other fills your heart with a warm happiness. This moment right now, it’s one you’ve always convinced yourself isn’t real. You read about it, you watch it in movies and TV shows, but for years, your jaded mind had convinced yourself that every piece of media just recycled the same trope time and again. That this feeling of being with your person, who just gets you and who you just get, and seeing other people be with their people too, it’s all too good to be true. That’s why it only exists in fiction. And yet, here you are. Living it, and watching one of your best friends live it, too. You’re sure that your other friends have found theirs, too, but you just couldn’t see it for yourself until you’d experienced it.

By the end of the meal, you’d agreed with the pair of them to have another dinner party, this time all coupled up with everyone’s partners invited, too. Ralph rocks back and forth in his seat excitedly. “You got something you wanna say, Ralphie, or d’you need to use the little boys’ room?” Connor comments with a smirk.

“Well! I was rather hoping an opportunity to show off to you all would appear soon!” Ralph beams, practically vibrating on the spot. “You see, between Babs and Alex - you know, who I work with, you met Alex the night of my birthday,” he hurriedly explains to your confused expressions, and the three of you chorus an Oh! of realisation.

“You know, for someone who works in retail, you might wanna remind them the importance of actually introducing themselves to people by name,” you explain to Ralph, who nods in understanding and continues.

“So, as I was saying, Babs had been talking about how she always loved to cook, but she hasn’t any children to pass recipes and such onto, and I may have… Confessed my lack of cooking prowess, and know-how of all these appliances and whatnot. But Babs has been teaching me how to use things with as few… Gadgets and doodads as possible! And Alex has been teaching me things that do use them, since they feared that if I remained clueless about them, I may do more harm than good.”

“Sounds smart. Remind me at some point to bring Alex whatever their favourite thing is into the shop one day,” you nod, to Connor and Lauren’s amusement - though Lauren’s is largely still recovering from Ralph’s use of the word doodads.

“So, if it would please you all, I… Would like to be the one to cook for everybody.” Ralph looks at you all hopefully.

“It’s a sweet offer, but our pokey little flat’s got barely enough room to swing a cat around, I dunno if we’d be able to fit everyone and their partners to ours -” You start, and Ralph’s expression visibly saddens, which breaks your heart to see, but Connor salvages it.

“You can cook at mine, mate,” he offers with a smile. “Not really fair to offer up anyone else’s places since they’re not here. Just don’t go starting any fires and we’re golden.”

“Oh, drat, there goes my master plan!” Ralph jokes, making you all laugh.

On the day of the dinner party, just before you leave for Connor’s, you happen to notice one tweet amongst many others in Ralph’s mentions. Most of them speculate whether you and him are an item or not, now; you’d agreed with Ralph to try and remain as inconspicuous as possible, to avoid your fear of strangers’ judgement, especially when so many of them are so willing to openly confess their traction to Ralph on public social media.

But that remains a difficult task when you both get heart eyes every time you so much as think about one another.

The tweet in question comes from someone who had bumped into the pair of you a few days prior. They had recognised a few of Ralph’s instagram backdrops as being local to them, and so had made some bracelets in the hope of gifting them to him someday. Ralph had been completely bowled over at the notion of somebody handmaking a gift for him, and had been wearing them ever since, proudly showing them off to anyone he talked to. The tweet read: “pretty sure i saw @RalphOnTwitter wearing my bracelets in someone else’s selfie they got with him. it’s fine. i’m fine.” followed by a gif of someone totally freaking out.

Just as you’re about to leave the house, you call Ralph over and tell him to hand you his phone to pose for a quick photo in the mirror, as long as he hugs you for it. He happily obliges, and you’re thrilled to see his sleeve working in the exact way you’d hoped it would. After double checking that the icons of the instagram profile with the same handle match with the twitter account you were hoping to reply to, you add a hover tag over his bracelets as you post to Ralph’s instagram, letting him caption it:

With that, you mute his instagram and twitter notifications, wanting to salvage as much of his phone battery as possible, and hand him his phone back.

Once at Connor’s, Ralph insists on having total jurisdiction over the kitchen. You keep all the drinks out in the living room so as not to disturb him. It’s tough not to keep checking in on him all the while, not because you don’t trust him in the kitchen (well, maybe a little) but mostly you just don’t want him to feel as though he can’t ask for help if he really needs it.

Things seem to be going well for long enough that you allow yourself to relax and enjoy your friends’ company. Your former, single self always thought that people changed when they got into relationships, including your best friends. Not that it stopped you from being their friend, by any means, but you’d certainly noticed a difference in them. Something about all of that makes so much more sense now that you’re in the same boat as them, though.

In the middle of a conversation about everyone’s early stages of dating, Scott and his partner’s attempts to recollect their first dates are interrupted by a clattering crash sound, followed by the last word you’d ever expect to come out from behind the kitchen door at this exact moment: “Oh, fuck!”

All heads snap to look towards the kitchen at once. All voices call out the word, “Ralph?!” at once. Naturally, you’re the first on your feet, sprinting to find him standing with his head hung, looking at the pan that’s now laying face down on the floor, bits of food strewn all around it.

“Oh, babe,” you frown, stepping over to him while trying to wave everyone else away from the doorway for a moment. “It’s okay! Are you hurt? Was it hot?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t even get a chance to put it on the stove before I ruined it.”

“You haven’t ruined anything, my lovely, I promise,” you encourage him quietly, picking his head up in your hands to stroke his face with your thumbs. Quietly in part to keep Ralph focused on just the two of you for now, and maybe also in part so your friends don’t have to hear you use terms of endearment you’d have made fun of them for just months ago. “Is it just this to prepare, or is there more stuff?”

He shakes his head, “Everything else is on time to cook, but I won’t have time to prepare and cook these starters again -” He stops himself to look at you, startled and embarrassed. “Oh, heavens, I swore, didn’t I?! Did everybody hear?”

“Do you really think any of us give a shit?” You laugh, and Ralph finally allows a chuckle to escape his lips, too. “Guess I still had a little corruption left in me, eh?” You tease, and Ralph’s ears turn violently pink.

“There are other people just outside that door!” He hisses bashfully, and you laugh loudly.

“Exactly. So, why don’t you call them in here, go get yourself a drink and sit down for a bit, and we’ll get these starters remade in no time.” You look over to the counter and gesture to it with your head. “That the recipe for it?” Ralph nods. “There we go, then. Off you pop,” you grin, pulling him in for a kiss before guiding him out, allowing yourself a cheeky tap of his ass as he walks past you. He looks at you with faux indignation and you stick your tongue out at him in response.

Your friends all help you clean up and re-prepare the starter course while Ralph joins the other partners in the living room. Once everything is made and in the oven, you all leave, letting him go back and finish. He thanks everyone profusely, but you all wave him off.

“C’mon, babes, you’re officially one of the in-laws now!” Grace grins at him.

“Yeah, you’re family,” Anna adds, reaching up to pat his head as always, which he responds to by scooping your friends into a big hug.

As he steps back, misty-eyed, he takes a deep, shaky breath in. “Right, well, then. None of this is getting dinner back on track, now, is it!”

The rest of Ralph’s cooking goes off without a hitch, and it all tastes amazing. At first, Ralph remains bashful, erring on the side of self-deprecation as he insists that he’d rather people were honest with him, and not trying to save his feelings, especially since you and your friends deserve all the credit for the starter. Even he can’t deny everybody’s praise once it comes to the second course, though, to your delight.

The other partners all insist on doing their part by washing up while the rest of you veg out on the sofa, feeling bloated from finishing every bit of a three-course meal. You’re all talking about work, trying to figure out when you’re all next on the same day off when the others join you. Lauren, perching on the arm of the chair Connor’s sitting on, asks him, “Ooh, what are we all talking about? Have you told them what we were talking about?”

“Shit, yeah! Thanks for reminding me, babe,” he beams at her before turning to you all. “Well, we were thinking, ’cause we were talking about going on holiday together and stuff - oh, piss off,” he sneers jokingly at everyone else’s ‘aww’s. “But, like, obviously everything’s mad expensive these days, so we thought, maybe it’d be cheaper if we all went away somewhere together, since it’s getting warmer?”

“Like. Brighton, again?” Ralph asks.

“Well, we were thinking of maybe aiming for somewhere abroad,” Lauren explains.

Horrified, you and Ralph instinctively chorus a “No!”, causing everyone else to frown at you.

“Uhh, Ralph can’t go abroad, he doesn’t have a passport!” You explain hurriedly, and Ralph nods profusely, his eyes wide.

“Oh, well, it wouldn’t be any time soon, we can wait for him to apply for one!” Connor smiles at Ralph, though he remains uneasy.

“Yes, well… I, um… Flying is… Not something I would want to do, frankly, it’s, um… Quite terrifying! Yes, I’ve a paralysing fear of aeroplanes, I don’t trust them in the slightest,” he rambles, but Lauren’s not buying it.

Her eyes narrow as she looks at him. “You’re lying.”

Resting your elbows on your knees, you rub your face, keeping your hands over it as you think. Trying desperately to think of any other way around it, you just can’t think of a decent-sounding lie that’ll definitely waive everyone’s suspicions. You tilt your head over towards Ralph, not moving your hands, and mutter to him, “I think this is it, Ralphie.” He looks over at you in fearful questioning, and you nod in resignation, pressing your lips together. “Think we’ve finally gotta tell them.”

“Tell us what?” Connor asks.

“Oh, come on, you’ve got me on the edge of my seat now, what’s happening?” Grace asks, eyes wide.

“Is it a cult thing? Was I right all along?!” Scott asks, but Anna shushes everyone with a wave of her arm.

“How are they gonna explain if none of you let them talk?” She asks, raising her eyebrows at the others before looking to you, silently willing you to continue.

“Okay, well. This is going to sound insane, but I swear, you have to hear me out, and you have to believe me no matter how batshit it all sounds,” you start.

“About 80% of what Ralph says is batshit insane, but we still hear him out,” Scott points out with amusement, but he soon clears his throat. “Sorry. Carry on.”

You lean as far back as you can in your seat before sitting up straight. “Okay. So, you all know Homeless Pete, right?”

next chapter

[alleiradayne]

In Baldur’s Gate, Dragons Dungeon You! | Art Master Post

An SPN/D&D mashup that can be read on its own or part of the greater series The Way Things Ought to Be.

On a quiet afternoon a week shy of Christmas, Dean is interrupted while poking through the news for a case. Someone is pounding on the Bunker door. After a brief huddle with Sam and Castiel, they investigate to find Charlie on the other side, a box of books at her feet. She needs to use their archive for research and a place to stay while she does it. Of course, she's always welcome at the Bunker. And when Dean discovers her trove of Dungeons & Dragons books, she offers to run a quick campaign.

But the mysteries aren’t just in Candleekeep. Charlie seems to have one of her own. Except no one can put their finger on it. The campaign unravels--along with Charlie’s secrets--as she tells the story of The Scrivener’s Tale.

Chapter 7 - Ramble On

Summary: To Delimbiyran! Jack attempts to get to know Charlie better in an effort to help solve her mystery. Warnings/Tags: D&D, intrigue, the usual, Charlie Is Weird Again Characters/Pairings: Castiel playing Castiel, Dean Winchester playing Rawridan, Sam Winchester playing Mephisto, Eileen Leahy playing Fechin, Jack Kline playing Comet Shadowpool, Charlie Bradbury Pop Culture Reference Count: 5 Word Count: 4123 Song: Ramble On - Led Zeppelin

Before becoming God, Jack had always venerated the ways in which humans interpreted reality. All the emotions and responses to stimuli. The varied vehemences. Fear intrigued him. As a nephilim, he had experienced it far too often. But since foisting the mantle of God, he no longer felt fear. Or much of anything for that matter.

Fucking omnipotence.

Sure, he’d saved the world. Saved his family. A part of him missed the thrill, though. Not the threat. But the raw fear itself. Of the deepest and darkest spaces, the creeping, crawling presence lurking unseen in the vast ocean. Unspeakable horrors of unfathomable, otherworldly power.

Fear. The oldest emotion. And greatest of them all: fear of the unknown.

The Bunker door creaked as it opened suddenly, swinging just enough to admit a small shadow through. A tiny light bobbed about haphazardly in the darkness. Jack closed the cover of his book—The Shadow over Innsmouth—but otherwise remained still, carefully watching as the light and the silhouette descended the stairs.

Jack had overheard Dean and Castiel discussing Charlie earlier that week. How her behavior, even for her, had worried them. And though he, too, had noticed some rather quirky things, Jack was not one to judge. Despite his godly status and, thus, nigh all-encompassing knowledge, he had reconstituted the veil between himself and whimsical human nature. Free will, wholly.

But he was a mere five years old. A precocious, curious, kindergartner.

The flashlight disappeared down the steps towards the kitchen, and Jack slipped from his seat. Quick and quiet, he darted from the library’s darkness and through the war room. Just as he descended the steps, he caught the bobbing light as it turned the far corner, and he followed. As he suspected, when he reached the furthest intersection, a door around the next corner clicked shut, a soft snict snapping it in place.

He wandered back to the kitchen, deciding against pushing his luck. He hardly knew Charlie—well, he knew her, but in that weird omnipotent God way. Unhelpful at best. What would actually mean something to him was why. Why the subterfuge? Why the sneaking?

Why?

No, the irony was not lost on him.

Breakfast might help break the ice. She liked french toast and eggs. At least he could put some of that all-seeing-eye to good use. By the time he had everything prepped, Sam rounded the corner from the dormitory hallway, suited up for a winter run.

“French toast?” Jack offered.

Sam considered the mixing bowl, then shook his head. “Save me a plate, though. I’ll eat when I get back. For now…” He trailed off as he grabbed a banana. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Wait,” Jack started. “Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”

Sam’s face turned white as a sheet. “You okay?”

“Yes, I’m well,” he said with a wave of his spatula. “It’s Charlie. I overheard Dean and Castiel discussing her the other day, and I… I thought I… I just saw her, but I can’t remember.”

Relieved, color returned to Sam’s cheeks as he sighed. “Can you… see where she is right now?”

“You know I will not, Sam,” Jack admonished.

He nodded with a grimace. “Sorry, I wasn’t implying you should spy on her. We’re all worried, though. Eileen noticed, too.” He fell silent a moment, and an inquisitive squint knotted his brow. “Have you noticed anything else? Any other weird behavior.”

Jack set his spatula down and wiped his hands on a towel. “I… do not truly know Charlie. I know her standard quirks and mannerisms. But the only odd thing I’ve observed is…”

Nothing. It was as if he was attempting to recall a millennia old memory. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how far back he retraced his steps, from the kitchen to the war room, all the way back to the library, he found not even a hint of Charlie’s existence. It was as if he had wandered into the kitchen and began preparing breakfast for himself.

“You can’t remember again, can you?”

“No,” he replied. “And I assume you cannot either.”

Another grimace contorted Sam’s face. “That’s the thread, yeah. We’ve all seen her do something weird, but whenever we try to tell someone else or even attempt to think about it…” He paused as he snapped his fingers. “Gone. Like nothing ever happened.”

Jack scanned the counter as he searched his thoughts again, one last futile attempt to find something, anything. But nothing came to him. He considered the counter top, the eggs, the cinnamon, the vanilla and powdered sugar. The thick slices of challa. The syrup. Maybe Charlie would appreciate breakfast. French toast was her favorite after all.

“Let us know if you see anything,” Sam said, interrupting his thoughts. “Like, right away.”

 Jack nodded, resigned, a little defeated. “I will.”

With that, Sam vaulted the stairs for the hallway, out of sight. Moments later, Dean and Castiel joined him—much earlier than expected but welcomed nonetheless—and Jack remained quiet, granting the space and time owed to them. They discussed cases, travel plans, food, and music. A great many topics came and went but Charlie was not among them. Even when Sam returned from his run, their concerns with her never came up. Jack let the matter rest. He would do as Sam had asked of him. If anything, he would make a proper effort to get to know Charlie.

By the time she awoke and shuffled into the kitchen, the others had gone, and Jack was ready. A steaming cup of coffee and a warm plate piled high with french toast, topped with syrup, powdered sugar, and whipped cream sat on the empty table, waiting.

When she spotted the food, her eyes widened, darted to Jack, then back to the plate. She pointed and said, “Is that…”

“For you, yes,” Jack finished. “Everyone else ate. You’re the last one up.”

She murmured her thanks and shuffled across the kitchen to slump onto the bench. And Jack scurried around the counter and sat opposite her, elbows propped up on the table and chin in his hands.

Charlie had already dug in, stuffing her face full of toast until she could hardly close her mouth. Then she spotted Jack and froze. “What?”

“Do you like it?”

She set her fork down and straightened as she chewed. A swig of coffee washed it all down, and her mug returned to the table with a heavy thunk. “What’s going on?” she demanded.

Of course she would see right through him. “I’m worried about you. Everyone is. I thought we could talk.”

Another one of her narrow, side-long stares bore into him for a second before returning to her plate. “I’m fine, Jack. I appreciate the concern, but I’m good. Great, even. Just getting used to sleeping at the Bunker again.”

“I could help with that,” he offered. “If you’d like.”

Charlie considered the thought a moment between bites, then shook her head. “I’ll manage.” She took another bite and a sip of coffee, then pushed the plate back to him. She had cleaned it alarmingly fast, and though odd, the new memory felt rock solid to Jack.

“We should get everyone together early again and knock out the rest of the campaign,” she continued. “I’m damn close to narrowing down this cure.” She stood then and headed towards the door. “Meet us in the library?”

He nodded, and she left, hopping up the kitchen stairs with a surprising spring in her step. So Jack took the opportunity to give the kitchen a once over, table and counter top cleared and wiped down, but he resolved to do the dishes later. By the time he finished and headed to the library, it was nearly ten o’clock and the others had gathered, primed for a full day of Dungeons & Dragons.

Jack took his usual seat across from Eileen, character sheet and dice set out in advance. He gave Charlie one furtive look and, when she caught him, smiled his sincerest smile.

“So we left off in Daggerford,” Charlie began, her steely stare slipping back to her book, “and you had just portaled into an alley. Let’s say you slept the night at an inn, reprovisioned, and traveled the next day to Delimbiyran. You’ve just arrived at the ruins…”

The sun’s amber rays angled between crumbling pillars of pale gray stone and the skeletal remains of collapsed walls lining the narrow streets of Delimbiyran. Fallen structures filled the city, street after street, like the killing fields of war. Comet drew it all in, consumed everything in his view and his jaw dropped. A forlorn sadness settled in his chest the longer he thought as they navigated the city’s decrepit warren-like avenues. Time’s relentless march had consumed all, even a most mighty kingdom like Phalorm. And though Delimbiyran had risen from the ashes, it had lasted but a century before falling to ruin much like its predecessor.

Downfall. History repeating itself. Time. Ouroboros. Serpents seeking serpents, seeking themselves. Comet scribbled the mental notes rapid-fire, quick as the images appeared in his mind’s eye. Lyre was the only suitable instrument for such a retelling. Lydian, romantics, dramatics, mournful sorrow turning the wheel of ages. Poetry would flow from his fingertips, his vocal chords, his entire being. And the world over would know Comet Shadowpool, The Bard, storyteller and songwriter, keeper of memory.

Memory. Memories can be distorted, he thought. They're just an interpretation, not a record. And they're irrelevant if you have the facts. Good thing for him he was living it. A ballad in the making.

A ballad for the ages.

If only he could concentrate.

The hushed whispers crossing between Mephisto and Ramilir three feet behind him invaded his visions, fanning them apart as though pesky smoke.

Comet rounded on them with a snort. “Do you two mind?”

Ramilir had the decency to at least appear chastised. Mephisto, however, scrunched his nose in offense. “Master Bard, are you not enthralled? We are walking through history’s graveyard. Hey… you could use that. ‘History’s graveyard’.”

Comet squinted at him, scrutinizing him out of the corner of his eye. Damned tieflings. “I could…”

Too proud of himself, Mephisto nodded with a crooked grin and walked on ahead. Ramilir clapped him on the shoulder as he, too, passed to join Mephisto. “Take a breath, Master Shadowpool. Live in the moment for once.”

“I am,” he said as he trotted along to catch up. “But I also need to eat, and to eat I need coin, and to earn coin, I have to tell stories, and to tell stories, I need to compose songs, and to compose songs, I need to—whoa!”

The world pitched violently, and Comet’s stomach plummeted as a great yawning void opened up at his feet. But Rawridan snatched him back from the edge of the chasm, loose rock crumbling down into the endless abyss beneath Comet’s boots.

“You need to pay attention to where you place your feet,” Rawridan said, setting him back down. He leaned over the edge with an arched brow and an impressed frown. “That’s quite a few stairs.”

The chasm spanned a quarter mile, the cylinder drilled straight down but for the spiraling stairs along its edge. The last rays of the day’s light angled across the entrance, swallowed by the darkness not fifty feet below the surface. Gaps dotted the staircase, time’s cruelty rearing its head once more, and Comet swallowed thickly. “Please tell me that’s not the Haven.”

Castiel pointed to the map. “The sigils match,” he said, then pointed to the same sigil on the far wall above the first arc of stairs. “I do believe this is the entrance.”

“The window,” Fechin declared. “The stained-glass window in Machil’s study. It was a spiral staircase.”

Ramilir pinched the bridge of his nose. “I must have recalled it from the Princess’s memory. But why? Why would she know this place?

Fechin shrugged as she started down. “I imagine we’ll find the answers inside.”

Rawridan followed her with Castiel in tow. When Comet regarded Ramilir and Mephisto, they gestured him ahead. So he descended the first steps, and his head spun, the world tilting sickeningly as the vault wall rose overhead. Within those first few steps, a weathered mosaic came into view depicting dwarves, elves, and humans working together to forge what he assumed to be the Realm of the Three Crowns. Images of the silver circlet, the adamantine crown, and the golden crown from Castiel’s dream repeated frequently in each scene.

A stone step crumbled beneath his feet and the world pitched once more. But Comet recovered as the rattling bones settled between his ears and he leaped ahead to the next step. Rawridan was right, though he would never admit it out loud. Concentrate. One step at a time.

He counted each once of them, only to lose track somewhere around six-hundred-fifty-three when the last of the sun’s light receded. Ahead, Rawridan drew Moonbeam and held it aloft, while Mephisto cast his warlock’s lantern at the rear, the purple flames adding an eerie glow to the milky white light of Rawridan’s sword. The stairs continued for what felt like hours, and by then, Comet had lost track of time as well. If it were possible, he would have walked and slept at the same time. For numerous reasons. The least of which was the dizzying void to his right.

But as that thought occurred to him, Moonbeam’s pale glow refracted, glinting off of a metal shaft and blinding Comet and the others. When he lowered his hand from eyes, thunder rolled in the distance, and he leaped into action. They had finally reached the bottom, and they were no longer alone. Four elves in lavishly layered robes flanked by four fomorians stood before the tall archway to the next room, impeding their passage.

Rapier drawn, Comet hopped to the ground and fanned out with Mephisto beside him. Fechin hugged the furthest shadows, and Castiel advanced with his pike and shield hefted. Rawridan shouted an instruction as he, too, shifted forward, but the tallest elf stepped forward and raised a hand. “The Queen of Air and Darkness wishes only to learn the status of your mission. We have no quarrel.”

Rawridan tightened his grip on Moonbeam and shook his head. “Shame.”

The regal elf lay down his staff. “You must destroy the book. Do you know how?”

It occurred to Comet then that he had not the faintest clue how they were to destroy the book. He turned back to the stairs where Ramilir had frozen ten steps from the bottom. All eyes locked on him, and Comet knew the second he opened his mouth, he lied.

“We… have an idea.”

The elf’s face flattened at that. “You must destroy it. If you do not by the morning, we will return and take care of it ourselves as we did with Master Ryllin.”

A distant rattle echoed in the back of his mind, like old bones clattering across the ground. “You killed Machil?!” Comet demanded.

The elf said no more and, instead, retrieved his staff. He motioned in a wide arc to his left where a portal formed, small but spiraling ever outward until the fomorians could stoop through.

“Dawn,” the master wizard repeated. “Do not doubt that we will find you again.”

And with that, he disappeared. The portal winked out in the next beat, and the entire group heaved a collective sigh. Ramilir joined them, crestfallen. “I am very sorry to have dragged you all into this.”

Rawridan snorted. “At this point in the adventure, my only objective is to end the curse. Just to prove those prissy elves wrong. Righteous ponces,” he growled as he stomped towards the door. “Dawn,” he continued, mocking the elf’s tone. “Take care of it ourselves—sure, and I could throw you further than you could ever hope to cast your stupid fireball. We’ll see who takes care of it.”

Comet snorted a laugh through his nose as he sheathed his rapier and followed. Castiel fell in step beside Rawridan, and together the group headed through the open archway on the opposite side of the room. Their moment’s respite lasted not another fifteen paces before blue flames ignited to either side of the arch, and Comet freed his sword in its scabbard. But Rawridan and Castiel had only just crossed the threshold, tripping some sort of spell. Ornate sconces flanking the archway bathed them all in an eerie blue glow and flickered silently.

Comet joined Castiel and Rawridan in the next room after a breath. Cracks laced the walls of the partially collapsed room, and rot covered the floor in a thick layer. Leather scraps, rusted metal, and insect husks mingled with stone debris. And their only way through, another large archway, was blocked by a massive pile of rubble.

“Intentional,” Rawridan said as he approached and kicked a stone over. Beneath it, he had unburied a thick wooden club, hefty, and the last two feet wrapped in metal links and spikes. He yanked it free of the rubble by the handle and examined it. “Ah, a Rat Stick. I used to have one when I was a child,” he mused. “You can take out quite a few rats in a single strike with one of these. More humane.” When he turned back to the others, he spotted their aghast faces, then pitched the weapon back into the heap. He cleared his throat, then asked, “I’m assuming this was Machil’s work?” as he pointed to the rubble.

Castiel shrugged. “Possibly. Not that it matters,” he said as he rolled up the map and tucked it in his belt. “We’ll have to clear it to get through.”

Comet sighed, making way for those better equipped to help. With his lute in his lap, he plucked quietly at the strings, composing his ballad while Rawridan, Castiel, Fechin, and Mephisto cleared the blockage. Between the four of them—brute strength, nimble fingers, and lofty brains combined—they had only come close to caving in the hallway once. Castiel had taken the brunt of the damage, but the worst of it had merely dented his breastplate. And his pride.

Within the hour, the way was clear enough for them to pass, and together they entered what Castiel deemed the dining hall. Blue flame ignited once more, illuminating the longer space with the same eerie blue glow. Though a layer of refuse and dead insects covered the floor, the furnishings remained intact. Four trestle tables, a side table set with what appeared to be cups, and two dozen chairs stood whole, covered in centuries of dust.

Comet wiped at the arm of a nearby chair with his sleeve revealing finely lacquered wood. But another inch revealed dry rot and he backed away, afraid the chair might crumble with any further disruption. He shuffled over to the side table and found two dozen tea cups encircling a tea urn, all coated in a vermilion glaze.

“Which way?”

He regarded Fechin then only to immediately find the source of her question. Three massive archways led out of the room. Over the archway to the west, the word CANDESCA had been carved into the stone.

“Hm,” Castiel mused as he produced the map once more. His hopeful frown faded. “It indicates nothing—”

“Watch it,” Rarwidan interjected as he darted past Castiel. “Bookworm fading fast.”

Indeed, Comet wheeled about just in time to watch Rawridan catch Ramilir as he fainted again. And just as he had back at the Ryllin estate, Ramilir’s eyes glazed over a ghastly white, and he spoke.

“Destroy him!” he gasped. “End the final visage of the quill-bearer, the queen’s evil pawn! He has cursed you and I alike. Put him down and I will be free to rid you of your curse!”

As quick as it had come, the moment passed and Ramilir’s color returned, cheeks flush and amber eyes blinking open. Rawridan put him back on his feet and dusted off his robes, not that he had even come close to touching the floor. Ramilir shook his head, fingertips rubbing his temples, then sighed but said nothing.

“Quill-bearer,” Comet mused. “Haven of the Red Quill.”

“Can’t be a coincidence,” Mephisto agreed, following his line of thought.

At first, the connection frayed, far too thin to weave a thread. But the longer he thought, the thicker the fiber spun. “Wait.” Comet pointed to Ramilir, gesturing to his robes. “Roll up your sleeves again.” Nonplussed, Ramilir did as directed, revealing the curse’s text. It had spread, much to Comet’s surprise, covering the backs of his hands. But something he and the others had all failed to notice earlier stood out so obviously then.

Red. The ink glowed a dark, ruby red.

“Humor me,” Comet began, but distant thunder from deep underground interrupted him. When the rumble faded to silence, he spoke. “What if Zyrian, the Scrivener, wrote the tale about the Princess, but then was forced to imprison her by the Queen?”

Ramilir’s eyes widened a fraction. “The book.” He withdrew it from his sling. “The Queen has been tracking us through the book.”

“To what end?” Castiel asked.

Rawridan gestured back toward the entrance. “We have encountered the Queen’s forces thrice. We have been threatened by them thrice. Methinks it is worth entertaining the Princess’s pleas for help.”

Fechin flicked her fingers once, then nodded. “Release her to rid Ramilir of his curse. Then she can deal with the Queen on her own. I have no interest in their quarrel.”

“Agreed,” Mephisto added. “If it frees Ramilir, then I am all for it.”

“But how?”

Comet turned back to Ramilir as did the others. The acolyte’s hopeful smile drooped. “How do we free her? She demanded we kill the quill-bearer. But we don’t even know how to destroy the book.”

The riddle plaguing them reared its ugly head once more, temporarily forgotten. Comet, too, had found himself growing too optimistic for his own good. A final piece of the puzzle hid just out of reach, out of sight, he knew. But where?

He scanned the dining room once more and stopped abruptly at the labeled archway.

CANDESCA.

“Candesca?”

Shadows shifted overhead and Comet arched his neck, hand ready at his pommel to draw his rapier. Each fiery blue orb stretched and separated from its sconce, gathering at the ceiling’s center in a large ball. It lumbered end over end, roiling and rolling towards the labeled archway, then descended to pass into the next room.

Plunged into darkness, Mephisto raised his hand full of his purple warlock’s light. “Candesca it is then,” he said as he strode through the group and into the archway.

Gurgling growls interrupted Sam’s action, and Jack laughed as he rubbed his stomach. “I think I forgot to eat again.”

“I’ve got an idea for lunch,” Dean said as he stood, immediately heading towards the war room. “C’mon, kid.”

Before he stood, Charlie begged off for her room, claiming to have forgotten something she required for the campaign. Sam and Eileen watched her go, half standing from their chairs. Jack suspected one of them to follow her, but when neither did, he leaned over to Castiel and asked, “What just happened?”

Castiel sighed as he stood. “I’ve already forgotten.”

“But you saw her—” And just like that, Jack, too, had forgotten. What could be powerful enough to cause God to forget? Then again, he had given up a part of his power. Maybe the other shoe was finally dropping.

He stood then and followed Castiel into the war room, Sam and Eileen right behind him. “I don’t like this. I might have sworn off interfering, but I did not intend to completely blind myself.”

“I doubt you did,” Castiel agreed. “Something is definitely wrong. Sam and Eileen have noticed. Dean, too. Charlie is acting strange but we’re all unable to explain how. I’m sure we’ll eventually get to the bottom of it. Maybe Charlie will on her own. With her research.”

They arrived at the kitchen as Dean set out a tray of multi-layered sandwiches on the island counter. Jack’s appetite churned once more in his stomach. No amount of omnipotence had staved off human hunger. But before he could take another step, Charlie entered from the opposite door.

“Oh great, sandwiches,” she quipped. “Let’s get back to the table and eat while we play.”

With that, she darted back through the door without giving anyone a chance to respond. Dean shrugged, nonplussed, and grabbed the platter with both hands.

“Grab the beers, Sam. I think we’re gonna need ‘em.”

This series is complete! Reblogs are loved and feedback is welcome!