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ghostedgwen · 3 months ago

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hear it in the silence | j.potter

note : I've been writing this for about three days and it has concluded on 11.6k word count, which is crazy. But with such a fleshed out plot, I couldn't just wing it on about 2k words for my standard fics, and I didn't fancy having more series on my plate so here's one very long fic for JP to celebrate 800 followers further and cope with my own grief lol - enjoy.

warnings : grief and death, terminal illnesses - losing family members, reader had abusive parents and left her in debt, questionable themes of jp taking advantage of reader's predicament, fake marriage trope, just overall angst and lots of sad stuff but it has good moments slipped in between

James Potter feels like his whole world had crumbled apart, terminal Dragon Pox was the diagnosis. It was already too much he has to deal with his parents being sick but then, they ask him to assure them that when they leave, he wouldn't be alone. And you, you with your piling debt and threatening letters from Gringots can only fall into despair when the two grieving paths cross - and a deal is struck. He gets a wife, and you clear your tab.

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round, and he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown . . .

Diagon Alley smells like burnt sugar, star-anise, and smoke. You can no longer tell which scent is yours.

The oven’s been on since four. The air is thick with the scent of puffing pixie pies, their blue-glazed crusts still gently sparkling in the cooling racks. You rotate a tray of warm wandwood scones with steady hands and an aching back, ignoring the familiar twinge in your wrist - a brewing injury from years of kneading dough without proper rest.

The enchanted glass dome that displays your bestsellers glows faintly with golden sigils - today's highlighted treat is a fresh batch of Honeyduke-inspired fire-fudge croissants that puff steam in satisfying curls. A chalkboard near the till scrawls out notes in overly chipper handwriting:

Please don’t tap the jar of Charmed Cherry Tarts - they bite. Broomstick Biscuit special ends at sundown. Please remind ____ to eat.

You erase that last one quickly with the back of your hand, smudging away the concern Essie must’ve tucked into the notes.

The debt letters - from Gringotts, from old family contacts with clenched fists and colder curses - sit unopened in a toffee-colored cauldron bowl beside the register. They hum faintly. One of them pulses like a cursed wound, red wax seal still unbroken. The goblins have stopped pretending to be courteous - not that they ever were.

You left the last one unopened.

The wards above the till flicker as your morning protection spell resets, casting a soft violet shimmer across the room. It catches in the sugar that dusts your counter like frost. You stare at the floating menu quill scratching out the day's specials and feel absolutely nothing.

Until the door creaks open with the distinct jingle of spell-silver bells.

You nearly jump - but it’s just Essie, your apprentice, dragging her broom in behind her and mumbling under her breath. Her hair is twisted into a half-up knot with sugar pearls tucked in like constellations, and she’s wearing her favourite pink cloak with scorch marks at the hem.

"Morning," she yawns, flicking her wand to float the Fanged Brioche into the window display.

You nod, already elbow-deep in kneazle-cream batter for the batch of Custard Cauldron Cakes you need for the lunch rush. "Morning."

She eyes the cauldron bowl with the debt letters. "They sent more?"

You don’t answer, just tap your wand against the iron mixing bowl and watch the batter stir itself into stiff peaks.

"You know," she starts carefully, "there’s a program at the Ministry for -"

"No." Your voice cuts too sharp. You soften, slightly. "Just get the Skyberry Tarts prepped. I’ll open the register."

She mutters an understanding, "Alright, alright," and you hear her charm the stove to a low simmer as she sets to work.

The till clicks open. You count the galleons and sickles. Barely enough for rent.

The display case glitters as the floating pastry charms adjust themselves, casting brief illusions of glowing stars and festive flickers. Some customers come just for the theatrics. Most leave without buying.

It cycles on, one spell after another. You don’t notice the time pass - just the deepening ache in your legs and the strain in your voice from offering smiles like empty potion bottles.

By the time the shop thins out and the wards reset for the evening, you can barely feel your feet. The sun creeps low through the frosted windowpanes. You lock the door with a flick of your wand and collapse against the back counter, sliding slowly to the floor.

You lean your head back against the wall. Close your eyes.

The bakery smells like cinnamon and burnt hope.

And for a long time, you don't move.

The sign swung lazily in the breeze, a battered little thing that proudly read Back in 15 minutes in slanted gold script. You exhaled hard through your nose before disappearing into the back kitchen, apron strings snapping against your hips.

Essie was already wringing her hands by the cooling racks, her face creased in the worried way you had learned to dread.

“You can’t keep pretending it’s going to get better,” Essie said quietly. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was afraid of shattering something already cracked to hell.

You yanked open the icebox a little too hard. The bottles clattered. “We’re fine,” you said shortly.

“We’re not.”

Essie shifted from foot to foot, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “I heard from Malkin’s this morning. They’ve been getting letters too. The kind that come with curses stitched between the lines.”

You slammed the icebox shut and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing the hot burn behind them to settle. It didn’t.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snapped. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how deep in it we are?”

Essie took a cautious step forward. “Maybe you could - could ask someone for help. You have. . . friends, don’t you?”

A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it. Sharp and ugly. “No, Essie,” you said, voice low and shaking. “I had parents who gambled away everything. I had parents who drank themselves stupid and died brewing potions they weren’t qualified to touch. And now I have a bakery that barely scrapes by, a name no one dares trust, and debts that have more teeth than half the werewolves in Knockturn Alley. I don’t have friends.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t have anyone.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting could’ve been.

In the front of the shop, the door had creaked open.

Neither of you heard it - not over the ringing in your ears, not over the slow collapse happening between you.

But James Potter heard everything.

He hesitated on the threshold, the smell of vanilla and spellfire curling around him. He knew grief when he felt it - raw, ragged, clinging to the curtains and floorboards like cigarette smoke. It was the same cold weight that sat heavy on his chest these days, whispering things he wasn’t ready to name.

He thought about leaving. Thought about pretending he hadn’t heard the way your voice broke like that.

But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.

In the back, you exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face before smoothing your hair back into something that almost looked composed.

“I’ll take the rest of the deliveries,” you said, voice scraped raw but steady. “You stay here. Lock up when you’re done.”

Essie nodded mutely.

You stepped back into the front of the bakery - and stopped cold.

James Potter was standing there, unmistakable even in the simple navy robes, hair sticking up at every angle like he’d flown there backwards. He looked up from the display case with a polite sort of blankness - just another customer looking for a pastry.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Of all the people to walk into your bakery today - it had to be him.

You pushed a smile onto your face.

Professional. Untouchable.

If he recognized you, he didn’t show it - facial expression mastered over years of pulling pranks, he feigned innocence.

“What can I get you, Auror Potter?” you asked, voice calm, hands smoothing over your apron as if you could scrub away the tremor in your fingertips.

He didn't bother asking how you knew him - everyone did at this point. Starchaser James Potter quickly climbing Auror ranks, or whatever rubbish the Prophet blurted out these days.

James blinked at you, thrown for half a second - there was something familiar about the curve of your mouth, the sharpness of your gaze - but he shook it off.

Just a tired girl behind a counter.

Just another place he would leave behind when the real world came calling again.

“I’ll just have whatever’s hot and butter-y,” he said, flashing an easy, careless smile.

You nodded, turning toward the shelves without another word, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The waiting room hummed with too-white light and antiseptic silence. James stood still for the first time in hours, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him. His Auror robes were still singed from the mission he'd cut short, boots flecked with soot. He looked like he was ready to duel a dragon, but his wand was jammed too tightly into his belt, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than duty.

He couldn’t sit. Couldn��t stop moving. Each tick of the wall clock pressed deeper into his chest. The healer’s door opened once - then twice - and still, not for him.

The world dulled at the edges. Muffled. Like he was underwater, ears clogged, vision blurry with the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until someone said his name.

“Mr Potter?”

He followed the Healer into a room where the walls felt too close. Too still. Her voice was calm - rehearsed, maybe. She said words like progressed, like untreatable, like comfort-focused now.

His mother and father had advanced Dragon Pox. The magical immunity treatments had failed. There was no cure.

They had months left. A year, if they were lucky.

James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The sound in the room went static. The lights above buzzed like flies in his ears. The floor rocked like it might fall out from under him. He just stood there, barely nineteen, freshly graduated, a job he hadn’t even warmed into yet - and now this?

He left without remembering how.

He returned the next day.

Euphemia was pale, but smiling. Her hands had thinned, bones showing where soft skin once was, but she still reached for him like he was her world. Her room smelled like lavender, and there was a vase of sunflowers on the window ledge, yellow as his childhood.

“Don’t look like that, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”

James tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle.

“We’re not afraid, James. Not really,” she went on, voice low and steady. “We’ve had each other. We had you. You’ve given us everything.”

He shook his head, blinked hard. “Mum - ”

“What we’re afraid of is leaving you alone.”

She said it so simply, it cleaved something open in him. All his carefully stacked defences. All his grown-up bravado, tearing at the seems and ripping out stitches.

“We won’t rest easy knowing you’ve got no one left. Not when you've always carried so much. You never let it show, but we know. You’ve always been the light in our lives. We just want to know someone will carry that with you.”

He tried to brush her off. Said he had the boys - nevermind that they were all scattered around the world, all thirsty to find their purpose in this world and its brewing war. That he was fine. But she reached for his hand and stilled him with a look.

“Someone to come home to, James. Someone to stand beside you - not because they have to, but because they want to. You deserve that.”

James knew his parents' concerns too well. He's gonna be inherting that big manor, all to himself - with no one to come home to.

It lodged in his chest like a spell misfired. Her words, her softness, the knowing way she held him in her gaze. He nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because how could he promise her something like that?

How could he find love in the shadow of goodbye?

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The manor was too quiet. Every corridor echoed. The portraits whispered too softly to hear. Grief sat heavy on his ribs, like wearing a crown too big, too heavy, for a boy still learning how to carry himself like a man.

He still had the traces of his youth, barely smudged by an adulthood stamp. He's still the same boy in red robes running through darkened halls with his brothers as their laughter echoed, followed by the loud sound of dungbombs going off.

He walked the halls until his legs ached. Stepped outside when he couldn’t breathe.

The night air bit at his cheeks.

And then - her voice.

Not real. Just a memory. Echoes from earlier in the week. From a tucked-away bakery in Diagon Alley.

“I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone.”

He hadn’t meant to overhear. But now it's stuck on him like a gum he had stepped on during a stroll - he could get rid of it but that would require effort that he didn't manage.

You voice was stuck in his head.

It was sharp and tired. Raw and ragged.

He remembered her now - vaguely. Head Girl. Two years above. Always quiet. Always watching. She hadn’t looked at him like he was anyone special. And when she spoke, there’d been something in it he hadn’t known he needed until now - someone else falling apart.

Someone else with no one left.

And maybe - maybe two desperate souls can help each other out.

The bell above the bakery door chimed, soft and familiar, but you didn’t look up right away. Your hands were dusted in flour, wrists deep in dough. It was nearly noon, and you'd barely had a sip of your tea. The day had been steady - enough customers to keep you occupied but not enough to keep the intrusive thoughts out.

Your shoulders ached. Your back was killing you. (girl, same)

You muttered a quick greeting without turning around. "We’re out of treacle tarts. And the jam puffs won’t be ready for another hour."

A pause.

Then -

"That’s alright. I didn’t come for pastries."

Your hands froze. Not because you recognised the voice - not immediately. But because of the tone: uncertain, careful.

You looked up.

James Potter was standing just inside the bakery, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, hair a mess, robes too nice for this part of town. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come in.

The last time. Which had been. . . what? Two days ago?

He looked out of place. But not like a prince slumming it. Like someone who didn’t know where else to go.

"You again," you said, more confused than anything. "If not for pastries, come back for what, then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know this is strange. I just - can we talk?"

Essie, hovering by the front counter, raised an eyebrow at you. You waved her off. "I’ve got it. Go get started on the almond wands."

Essie didn’t argue. Just wiped her hands and disappeared into the back - she'd surely ask about it later.

You turned your gaze back to him. Folded your arms. "Alright. Talk."

James took a breath like he was about to dive into something very cold.

"I need a favour. A big one."

You blinked. "You need me to do you a favour."

That was the last thing you expected from James Potter.

He smiled, grim and lopsided. "Yeah. Mad, innit?"

You didn’t return it. "What kind of favour?"

"Marriage."

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the oven ticking behind you.

"Pardon?"

He took a step forward. "Not - not real marriage. Not like that. Not at first. I just. My mum. She’s sick, both my parents are. Really sick. And she asked me - well, she wants to see me settled. She wants to know I won’t be alone."

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head as he scrambled to explain himself.

"You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you’re proud. That you’re hurting. I heard you, the other day. You and your friend, in the back."

Your stomach dropped.

"You were eavesdropping?"

"Not on purpose," he said quickly. "I just - heard you. And something about it - about you. It stayed with me."

You looked away. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Shame, and something else. Something heavier.

"So what? You figured we’re both miserable, might as well be miserable together?"

James smiled faintly. "Something like that."

You should have laughed. Or told him to leave. Or hexed him, maybe - blacklisted him from your bakery for such an incredulous proposal.

Instead, you said, "And what do you get out of it? Besides ticking a box for your mum?"

"I'll handle the debt - you’d live at the manor during it," he said. "You’d be safe. Comfortable. No debts. No dodgy landlords knocking on your door."

"And in return?"

He met your gaze. "We pretend. Just for a bit. We give my parents the peace of mind they deserve, just before they go."

A long pause.

You looked at his hands - tucked into his pockets, knuckles white with pressure. He looked exhausted. Raw around the edges. Just like you.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either.

He stepped forward and slid something across the counter.

A small piece of parchment. Just his name and an address, perhaps a place to owl. His handwriting neat and surprisingly careful.

You didn’t pick it up.

He nodded once. "Think about it."

Then he left, the bell over the door chiming again like a punctuation mark.

You stood there long after he was gone, arms folded tight across your chest, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You looked down at the name.

James Potter.

You didn’t throw it away.

The letter comes just after dusk.

It’s marked in red wax, the goblin seal pressed so deep into the parchment that it’s cracked the paper. You don’t open it right away. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.

You read it anyway.

Final Warning. Immediate repossession scheduled.

Your hands shake. The bakery’s quiet - too quiet - and the ticking of the old brass clock on the wall sounds like thunder. Upstairs, a leak drips steadily into a teacup you’ve stopped bothering to empty. It’s all falling apart. Bit by bit. Month by month.

You’ve sold nearly everything of value. You haven’t bought new robes in a year. You haven’t paid yourself in longer.

You sit at the kitchen table, still in your flour-stained apron, and stare at the parchment like it might change if you just will it to. It doesn’t.

Essie finds you like that. She’s still in her coat, scarf looped once around her neck. Her wand glows faintly as she steps into the back, eyebrows raised.

Then she sees the letter.

You don’t say anything. Just slide it across the table.

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not sleeping,” she says, not unkindly. “And you look like you’ve not eaten properly in days.”

You press your hands to your face. The tears hit before you can stop them - stupid, useless tears that burn your eyes and your pride alike.

“I’ve tried everything,” you whisper. “I’ve given everything I have, and it’s still not enough.”

Essie doesn’t interrupt. She lets you break. Quietly. Without judgment - like she always did, she's younger by a year but you feel as is she's decades matured than you.

Then, she says the one thing you’ve been trying not to think about:

“Maybe it’s time to take the offer.”

You freeze.

“You could do worse than a Potter,” she continues, setting her bag down. “And it’s not like he’s a stranger. Not really - and more than anything, his offer makes sense and it's not for shady reasons.”

But he is, you want to say. James Potter is a ghost of your childhood, a flicker of a memory too golden to have ever been yours. You haven’t seen him in years, and even when you did - you were just someone in the corner of his world.

He wasn’t supposed to remember you. He wasn’t supposed to come into your bakery. He wasn’t supposed to hear you like that.

But he had.

And he offered you a lifeline.

You don’t answer Essie. You just nod, once, and disappear up the stairs to your flat.

The letter is short.

You write it with trembling fingers, the ink blotching in one corner.

If your offer still stands, I’d like to discuss it. - ____ ____

You don’t sleep that night, either.

The café sits at the edge of Diagon Alley, just before the shadows of Knockturn begin to creep in. The windows are fogged, the booths are cloaked in perpetual half-light, and no one looks too long at anyone else.

You arrive wrapped in your thickest cloak, wand strapped at your thigh. The moment you step inside, you see him.

James Potter - sitting in the back corner, hood drawn up, still managing to look unmistakably like himself. Like autumn sun and lightning storms. Like a boy who’s never known real fear until now.

His eyes meet yours.

You sit across from him. The booth is too small, too narrow - your knees almost touch beneath the table. Neither of you orders anything.

You clear your throat. The words feel heavier now, weighed down by everything they mean.

“I’ll do it,” you say.

There’s a pause.

And then James exhales - not quite relief, not quite gratitude - something older, something heavier. The tension leaks from his shoulders, from his jaw. You realise he’s been bracing for a no.

“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he says, voice low.

For a second, you think he’s going to reach for you. His hand twitches on the table, and your breath catches - but he pulls it back.

Then, from inside his coat, he pulls a neat scroll of parchment. Tied with a green ribbon. Thick and official-looking.

You blink.

“Is that - ?”

“The contract.” He grins, boyish and almost sheepish. “I wrote it up after I left the bakery. Had a feeling.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth. A flash of something wicked glints behind his glasses.

“Call it intuition.”

And maybe he’s arrogant. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you are, too.

But as your fingers close around the parchment, warm from his coat, you feel something almost like air in your lungs again.

A beginning.

Even if it’s the strangest one imaginable.

You arrive in a clean cloak, wand tucked tight in your sleeve, palms sweating despite every calming draught in your cupboard.

The manor looms quietly under the twilight - not cold, not cruel. Just. . . still. The way ancient places are. As if the walls remember everything.

James opens the front door before you can even knock.

“Alright, Head Girl?” he murmurs, and there’s that grin again, lopsided and golden, like this is all just a grand joke between the two of you. You elbow him gently.

“You’re lucky I don’t hex you for that,” you mutter.

But your smile stays.

"Relax, you look great, they'll love you." You pretend that your stomach didn't flip at the compliment. It was probably just to ease your nerves, not much to it.

You’ve rehearsed this story to death.

You were two years above him at Hogwarts. Head Girl. Known for your strict patrols and your no-nonsense duels with some Slytherins. He was a fifth-year nuisance, always in detention. You didn’t even remember him.

Not until he walked into your bakery, two years after you graduated, and said, “Your treacle tart’s going to ruin my life.”

You’d raised a brow. Told him you weren’t interested in love-struck boys with sugar on their lips. He’d come back anyway. Every week. Every Sunday without fail. Talking about literature, Quidditch, philosophy, muggle poetry and how you made the best almond croissants in London.

You tried not to fall. But the story goes - you caved.

It’s soft. Sweet. Just plausible enough to pass as truth.

And tonight, it has to be.

Euphemia Potter is already halfway to the door by the time you step inside. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, hair pinned up with little golden combs. She’s wearing something soft - silk, maybe - in forest green.

“So you’re the one,” she says, eyes crinkling, voice like warm honey. “Our Jamie’s treacle tart.”

You blink then laugh, it was a real one - the opener was too silly. “That’s me, apparently.”

Fleamont’s footsteps echo from the hallway - slower, but steady. He gives you a long look, then smiles as he extends a hand.

“Didn’t expect him to fall for a baker,” he admits, voice gravelly, “but I respect a man with good taste - and we Potter men are known to have exceptional ones.”

They welcome you in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like you’ve always belonged - which is weird given how everything in the manor screamed luxury.

You knew he was rich and it was no secret that the Potters were influential - and he is to inherit everything, but you didn't really expect this.

You grew up far from all of this, and this might be your first time witnessing such grand luxury.

Now, dinner -

You talk about pastries, your best-sellers, your Hogwarts days. You even pretend to distinctly remember James in the corridors - “a menace in too-big glasses, always running away from trouble.”

They laugh. You laugh.

And each time, it cuts deeper. Because it’s not a performance to them -

It’s not a deal. It’s not debt.

It’s real.

You excuse yourself after pudding. Say you need a bit of air.

James joins you seconds later in the garden, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a boy again. You could almost laugh bitterly - even their garden screamed luxury.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

You shrug, eyes scanning the dark blooms around the gravel path. “Didn’t expect them to be so. . .”

“Lovely?”

You nod. “Real.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and his arm brushes yours. “They are.”

He offers you his arm, gentlemanly and a little cheeky. You take it, because you’re supposed to.

But you don’t lean in.

You don’t think you could bear to.

Not tonight. Not when they believed every word.

You find James in the greenhouse, having been told by the house elf where he was so early in the morning. The morning hues were yet to bleed out, barely a sun peeking out but it was already bright.

It’s quiet, soft with the scent of damp soil and blooming citrus. Golden light spills through the glass, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He’s tending to something leafy and stubborn-looking when he hears your footsteps.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just says, lightly, “You’re early.”

You shrug and nod at him, “You’re always early.”

He turns to you then, wiping his hands on a cloth. There’s something different in the way he watches you - not amused or teasing, just steady. He nods toward the bench behind him -

“Sit.”

You do, without asking. And that’s when he pulls it from his pocket - a small box, velvet red and obviously old.

Your heart stutters.

He opens it, not with a dramatic flourish, but carefully. Like it presenting something heavy, yet important.

Inside, a simple gold band with a red gem in the middle glows under the greenhouse light. Thin. Elegant. The faintest shimmer of enchantment woven into its metal - and the gem that’s glistening like magic.

“It was hers,” James says softly. “Mum’s. She told me she’d like it to go to someone good.”

You blink. The weight of it hits before the ring even touches your skin, a family heirloom passed to every Potter bride.

You manage, “Then you’ve picked the wrong girl, Potter.”

He shakes his head. Smiling - not his usual grin, but something smaller. Truer, you wonder if how many of those he’ve had since the diagnosis.

“No. I don’t think I have.”

You reach out but he moves the box away from your touch, you frown as you watch him pluck it out, carefully moving as he slide the ring onto your finger.

It fits too well. And for one horrible second, you want it. Want this. All of it.

You look down at your hands. Then up at him.

“How are they?” you start, but the words catch.

James nods slowly. “Dragon pox. Started last year. Dad’s got it now too - not as bad, but. . .”

He trails off, sits beside you on the bench, his head hanging low in defeat.

“There’s no cure. Just potions to ease it. Mum’s pretending to make peace with it. But I think she knows.”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t touch him - can’t - but you shift closer, just enough that your knees almost touch.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, hoping your sincerity was bleeding into those two words. You keep your eyes on him, seeing how familiar he look - he looked like you with all the weight on him.

He breathes out. “They’re everything. And they asked me. . .” He hesitates. “They asked me to promise that when they go, I won’t be alone, they’re amazing and just want what’s best for me, I think they’re just holding on to see me happy.”

You understand then - what this is, so much deeper than a boy wanting to appease his parents. It’s a son who wants to give his parents peace.

There was a moment of silence, you turn away to not keep staring at him. Eyeing the plants.

“What about your debt?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like a threat, a burden for a burden.

You consider staying silent. But the ring on your finger glints in the light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.

“My parents made a mess,” you say. “Gambled everything away. Stole from the shop. Wrote my name on too many contracts and disappeared. I’ve been trying to pay it back ever since. The bakery keeps me fed, but barely.”

You glance at your lap, willing yourself not to sound too pathetic. Despite laying out all the

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admit.

Unsure what to say, he just swallowed the forming lump in his throat. Then he decided to part his lips, - "You're really strong, ____. You didn't deserve any of that, but you're still here."

You laugh a bit, nudging him with your knee. "Guess we both are - must come with being Gryffindors."

A long, quiet silence stretches between you.

It’s not uncomfortable.

The engagement announcement happens that night over dinner - nevermind the fact it wasn't all romantic how you got the ring on your finger.

James was the picture-perfect excitement, grin so wide you almost thought he was genuine about wanting to marry you.

James, lifting his goblet - cleared his throat. "Mum, Dad, we're engaged."

You almost smirk, he did not even make some grand speech. He just dropped it like that - that is so him.

Euphemia gasps like it’s the best news she’s ever heard - and perhaps it was. Fleamont claps James on the back - he sat at the head of the table and to his left was James - you sat next to him.

But Euphemia reaches for James’s hand over the table, and you can tell something’s bothering her - a look of worry paint over her wrinkled features.

“Just tell us this isn’t because of us,” she says. “What we said. About wanting to know you’d be alright.”

You glance at James. He hesitates - he appears to be losing it - the smile faltering and he seems like me might burst, at the reminder.

So you step in, a hand on top of his that rested on his thigh under the table, you didn't think much of it but he was shocked.

“It’s not because of that,” you say, voice even. “He didn’t pressure me. He’s been. . . kind. A gift I didn’t expect while I was struggling.”

Your words were true, you weren't lying and James could tell, he moved his hand to intertwine it with yours under the table, willing himself to be grounded by your warmth and your touch.

He exhales, exaspherated.

You meet Euphemia’s eyes and say, “I’d be proud to marry him.”

She smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at.

Fleamont raises his glass. James is quiet beside you - his grip tightened just slightly.

You don’t look at him.

You move in the next morning - the Potters were very eager to welcome you in as a housemate, Euphemia already discussing what tea to have with you every afternoon as that dinner progressed.

You felt warm all over, they were kind people - you somewhat felt goof to be giving them the peace they deserve, even if it is under deceit.

There’s only one trunk. Your life condensed into canvas and charm-bound compartments.

James carries it easily. Leads you up the stairs to his room - soon to be yours too.

You glance around. Quidditch posters, books on dueling theory, the faint scent of broom polish and pine. It is unexpectedly organized, with his personality - you expected a mess.

He clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward with how you eyed his room - his childhood room. “You alright sharing?”

You drop your trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been through worse,” you say dryly. “Sharing a bed with a man is the least of my worries.”

He laughs, nodding slightly. “So I’m not even a little bit intimidating?”

You raise an eyebrow, turning to give him a look. “I still see you as that troublesome fifth-year. You’re a little boy to me, Potter.”

James scoffs, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an Auror now. Very manly. Very brave. Very capable.”

You wave him off. “Yeah, sure.”

“Need me to prove my masculinity? I can take my shirt off. Show you the Quidditch captain physique. Maybe throw in some Auror combat moves.” James wiggled his eyebrows and you just laugh at him - shaking your head.

“Merlin, please don’t.”

He grins, but it fades slowly, leaving something quieter behind.

Then the night finally came, the time to actually share the bed - that gryffindor red bed.

There’s space between you. But it’s warm - and you could feel him right behind you, backs turned on each other as if facing each other would reveal things you dared not discuss yet.

Still, it's warm.

Not love. Not yet.

But maybe something like safety.

The invitation arrives tied in a red silk ribbon, dropped onto the breakfast table by a smug little owl who barely waits for a scrap of bacon before flying off again.

You stare at the embossed lettering. Your name in fancy script. An invitation to a Hogwarts friend's wedding. Someone you haven't spoken to in years - not really. Someone who belonged to a life you thought you’d buried somewhere between unpaid invoices and final warnings.

Hariett Selwyn.

James plucks the card from your fingers before you can shove it away - he inspected it.

“A wedding?” His eyebrows lift, and he reads it aloud in a falsely posh accent, smirking. “How charming. Perfect opportunity to show off my beautiful fiancée.”

You groan, reaching for your tea like it might save you - ignoring the compliment, safer to do so. “I’m not going.”

“Come on,” he says, already leaning back in his chair like the decision’s made. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” you echo dryly.

He grins, utterly unbothered. “We’re supposed to look like a real couple, aren’t we? Consider it . . .practice.”

You narrow your eyes. “I have nothing to wear.”

James shrugs like he’s been waiting for you to say that. He waves his wand lazily and a box appears, neatly wrapped, on the table between you.

“Handled,” he says with a wink.

You blink at him. At the box. At him again.

He has that shit-eating grin, you almost worried it was gone - James Potter now 18 years old with the weight of the world on him, he still has that youth in him after all.

“You’re insufferable.” You tell him without any bite to it.

“Thank you. Open it.”

Inside: a dress. New. Beautiful. Silky under your fingertips, clearly expensive - but not loud or garish. Thoughtful. Something you might’ve picked yourself, if you ever let yourself dream that way anymore.

You’re blinking too much. You cover it by rolling your eyes and muttering something sarcastic. James just smiles, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

You arrive at the wedding together - and you might as well be walking into a fairytale.

James is devastating in tailored formal robes, hair artfully messy, glasses gleaming. And you - you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin. It catches the light when you move.

When James looks at you, there’s a flicker in his expression he doesn’t bother hiding. You swallow all the butterflies down as if you could flush them out -

James Potter is straight out of a dream, no wonder girls swoon at the sight and mention of him.

People flock to you the moment you step inside. Champagne glasses pressed into your hands. Laughter and perfume and old, blurred memories swirling around you.

“You two look so in love!” someone coos, squeezing your arm. Probably in your year, you can't recall.

“About time someone tamed James Potter,” another one laughs - maybe another Gryffindor? Who knows.

James plays his part flawlessly. Arm around your waist. Whispered jokes in your ear. Smiling like you’re the only person in the world. Like he’s been waiting years just to be standing here with you.

At first, you fake it. Smile, laugh, nod in all the right places.

But the longer the night goes on - the easier it becomes. The lies sit lighter on your tongue. The champagne warms you from the inside out. For a few hours, it’s almost frighteningly easy to believe in this story you’re telling.

When the music changes, James holds out his hand with a theatrical bow -

“May I have this dance, Miss Treacle Tart?”

You roll your eyes but place your hand in his anyway, snorting at the name.

The floor tilts under you slightly - too much champagne, too many lies - but James steadies you without a word. His hand fits at the small of your back like it belongs there. His other hand twines with yours, easy and sure.

He twirls you under the soft golden lights.

You forget yourself for the berifest moment.

Forget the debt. The bakery. The past nipping at your heels like wolves - how everything has changed for the worse since Hogwarts.

For a dizzy, dangerous heartbeat, you forget where you end and he begins.

You laugh - breathless, lightheaded - and when you look up, you catch James already looking at you.

Soft. Something terrifyingly earnest in his hazel eyes. Right, they're hazel, so warm - the color of late autumn, all gold-flecked green and fading warmth, like the last good day before winter

The song ends. You pull away too quickly, mumbling something about needing air, needing another drink, needing space - just to put a distance between you two before it all collapse.

James lets you go without comment, just watching you with that same unreadable look -

Later, across the room, you feel his gaze again - heavier this time, more sure.

Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the champagne, you never did hold your liqour well - memories of your sixth-year, first time trying Firewhiskey, playing in your head.

You woke up in the Gyffindor common room on top of one Sirius Black, he had teased you relentless about how you quite literally passed out on him - said it was the first time a girl has thrown herself on him without getting a snog out of it.

You of course shut him up with a hex.

The bakery smells like sugar and cinnamon and something warm you can’t quite name. You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a smudge of flour at your temple you haven’t noticed yet.

You’ve only just reopened for the morning rush when the doorbell jingles - and there he is.

James Potter, grinning like he invented sunshine - or like it pours out of his ass.

He leans against the counter like he belongs there, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair as artfully messy as if he planned it. His glasses catch the morning light. He looks maddeningly pleased with himself.

You pretend you don't see him - but it never works.

He pretends you aren't pretending.

The girls by the window definitely see him.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye - the sharp gasp, the hurried whispering. You brace yourself.

Sure enough, a girl (eighteen? nineteen?) edges closer, clutching a pastry box like it might shield her. “You’re -” she breathes, wide-eyed, “you’re marrying him?”

You glance lazily over at James, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, utterly shameless.

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I still don't believe it either.”

The girl giggles and practically skips back to her friend. You see them both collapse into chairs by the window, whispering furiously.

James presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted. "You wound me," he says loudly enough for half the bakery to hear. "Here I was thinking you were the lucky one."

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, without looking up from the till. “A real catch, Potter. Just what every girl dreams of. A boy who can't iron his own robes and thinks treacle tart is a balanced meal.”

"Oi," he says, affronted. "I've improved. I even have investments now."

"Mhm. I'll believe that when you can go a week without blowing something up in the kitchen."

James turns toward the waiting crowd like he’s hosting a press conference. "For the record," he announces, "best baker in the Alley. Also my fiancée. Did I mention that? Fiancée. As in, tragically, devastatingly off the market."

You throw a dish towel at his head.

He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

The bakery hums around you - the low chatter, the clink of silverware, the golden morning pouring through the windows - and for a few minutes, it feels almost terrifyingly easy. Like this was always meant to happen. Like there was always a version of the future where you ended up here, with him, like this.

James lounges at the end of the counter, watching you work.

“You look happy,” he says after a minute, voice lower, like he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear.

You blink at him, hands deep in the pastry case.

"I am," you say, and it's mostly true. "Feels good. Being here again. It's. . . grounding."

James smiles, soft and crooked, observing you as you continue to work. So natural, so in your habitat.

You clear your throat and reach for a new box. “We're famous now, you know," you tell him, more to fill the sudden quiet than anything. “Top gossip on Witch Weekly.”

James snorts. “Let them talk. They’re just jealous.”

"Of what?" you ask, deadpan. "Your charming humility?"

"My undeniable sex appeal, actually," he says, winking.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something.

Somewhere between boxing up an order and wiping the counter, you lose track of him. You hear a suspicious rustle near the pastry display.

You whirl around just in time to see James, mouth full, cramming a stolen tart into his pocket with the guilty look of a five-year-old.

"James Fleamont Potter!" you gasp, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

He backs toward the door, laughing so hard he nearly trips over a chair.

"You’re banned!" you call after him, chasing him halfway onto the street. "Banned for life!"

"See you at home!" he calls back, victorious, scattering powdered sugar in his wake.

You stand in the doorway, hair flying loose, apron dusted in flour, laughing in spite of yourself. Your heart is still racing, from chasing him out or something else - you dared not wander there.

The kitchen at Potter Manor's kitchens was all warm light and drifting flour when he found you.

You were kneading dough on the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, lips pursed in focus. You barely glanced up when he entered, dusting flour off your palms like you had every right to be there. Like you always would be.

James lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. Watching you with a look you didn’t catch - soft around the edges, almost shy. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like he thought if he blinked, you might disappear.

A wife, he hasn't really thought of that. He just got out of his Gryffindor robes and rucked it away, never to be worn again - it's all too fresh, a wife. . .

Finally, he cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, "I was thinking we could bake something together."

You arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Bake?"

He clutched his heart in mock offense. "I’m a man of many talents, I’ll have you know."

"You’re a menace," you said lightly, turning back to your dough. "And you’ll ruin your kitchen."

"Our kitchen," he corrected without missing a beat, flashing a grin so boyish you didn’t have the heart to argue - right.

You wiped your hands on a cloth and sighed, pretending to think it over. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Potter?"

He shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his messy hair, not that that ever worked in his favour. "Something for my parents. I. . . I’ve never really done that before. Baked for them, I mean. Thought it might be nice, you know, for once."

Something warm flickered in your chest at that. The sentiment, awkward and sweet, was so very James. It softened the place inside you that had been hardened by necessity, by all the pretending.

"Alright," you said, gentler now. "Let’s do it."

He lit up, the way only James Potter could - sudden and breathtaking, like a boy seeing Christmas lights for the first time - you ignore how your stomach flipped.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, nudging a mixing bowl toward him. "Start by cracking the eggs," you instructed, biting back a smirk.

James nodded solemnly - then immediately dropped half a shell into the batter.

You both burst out laughing, rich heir James Potter couldn't even crack an egg properly into a bowl after years of intricate Potions classes.

Somewhere down the line, flour ended sprinkled all over his messy hair.

"Right," he said, laughing breathlessly as you swatted him with a tea towel, "this is war, then."

"You started it!" you accused, dodging another cloud of flour he lobbed your way.

"You called me a menace."

"You are a menace."

He lunged for you, and you shrieked, ducking under his arm and grabbing a handful of flour to throw back at him. It puffed into his hair, turning it an even more chaotic shade of white, if that were possible.

"You’re going to regret that," he said, grinning wide and reckless.

"Big talk for someone covered in flour, Potter."

He chased you around the kitchen island, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When he finally caught you, it wasn’t with the triumphant crow you expected, but with a gentle touch - his hands settling lightly at your waist, holding you still.

You froze. Not because you were scared. But because it was so easy. Too easy.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse a drumbeat against your ribs.

For a moment, neither of you moved - just staring at each other like there was something settling in between. You neglect to notice how his lashes are painted white now, he blinks at you.

James’ smile faltered, slipping into something softer,, you pray to all your ancestors to calm your hammering heart in fear that he would hear it.

"I like seeing you laugh," he said, voice low.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t get used to it."

His mouth tilted in that familiar lopsided way. "Bit late for that."

You turned away under the pretense of rescuing the now-forgotten batter. Your hands shook just slightly as you picked up the whisk, you clear your throat.

James didn’t push. Just stood nearby, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him - you both pretend like you didn't get assaulted by the flour man.

"You ever bake anything before?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

He leaned on the counter, grinning. "Does nicking biscuits from the kitchens count?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

You laughed under your breath. "Hopeless." Yep, you both were.

"And yet you’re letting me help," he pointed out.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "That’s because I’m benevolent."

He nodded solemnly. "Saint-like, really."

You hid your smile as you handed him the whisk. "Beat that until your arms fall off - put all that quidditch and auror manliness to work."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a ridiculous salute before setting to work - slopping batter across the counter within seconds.

"You’re a disaster," you said, half fond, half exasperated.

"Disaster’s just another word for creative genius," he said breezily.

You rolled your eyes and bumped his hip with yours. He laughed and bumped you back, and you ended up side by side, shoulders brushing, working together.

Somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all.

Later, once the pastries were cooling on the rack - a little lopsided, a little burnt at the edges - you leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching James lick a smear of batter off his thumb.

You fought yourself from watching how his tongue darted out to lick it off, feeling your cheeks grow hot.

"You’ve got a bit on your nose," you said, pointing - distracting yourself from the image of him licking the batter off.

"Where?"

You stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out and wiped it away yourself.

His eyes stayed glued to you and for one charged heartbeat, neither of you spoke - like the world decided to pause so you can once again just look at each other, everything remains unsaid.

You cleared your throat and stepped back quickly. "There. All sorted."

"Thanks," he said, a little hoarse.

You turned away, fiddling with the edge of a tea towel. "S’pose you didn’t do half bad, for your first try."

"High praise coming from you," he said, mock-gravely.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "Don’t let it go to your head, Potter."

"Everything goes straight to my head, actually."

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it.You watch him pat his hair and the flour on it creates a veil of white in the kitchen, you laugh.

It was then you heard a soft noise behind you.

You turned.

Euphemia and Fleamont were standing just beyond the threshold, watching the two of you with matching expressions - fond, unbearably gentle, a little misty-eyed.

Euphemia had her hands clasped to her chest, her smile wobbly around the edges. Fleamont was clearing his throat, pretending not to be emotional and failing miserably.

You felt your chest twist sharply.

Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like pretending at all.

It felt terrifyingly, achingly real.

You straightened a little, brushing your flour-dusted hands on your apron, but Euphemia only shook her head, eyes shining.

"Don’t stop on our account," she said warmly. "It’s lovely, seeing the kitchen so full again."

James ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically bashful. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry.

"We’ll leave you to it," Fleamont said, giving James a meaningful nod before steering Euphemia gently away.

The kitchen felt too quiet once they were gone.

James scratched the back of his neck. "They like you, you know."

You huffed a laugh, blinking fast. "I can’t imagine why."

"I can," he said simply.

The inevitable was happening, the Potters were getting worse - Dragon Pox was not something one could just power through for so long, they were bound to break down.

They've done so well holding it together for James, for their dutiful son who did everything to make it seem like he wasn't breaking down with them.

As they got worse, so did he. You can only watch as the entire family crumbles down, too afraid to pick up the pieces yourself and put them back together.

You still saw yourself as an outsider, an actor in a role - forced to play.

Instead, you resorted to helping him assist his parents. Nevermind that the house elves were there, you wanted to lend a hand. He lets you.

He feels oddly at peace when you'd sit by Euphemia and Fleamont's bed, talking about how your day has been at the bakery while they listen in. Too weak to stand up.

He watches as you take Euphemia's hand in yours and his mother's eyes fill with fondness.

Like you were the daughter they never had.

James felt something heavy settle in his heart as the days dragged on that they remained in bed, being fed potions to maybe help them regain mobility.

After three days, they were better - not healed or cured from it, but just better. Enough to get out of bed, to have dinner altogether as a family again while you all pretend death wasn't just outside the manor doors.

After those three days of dread, wondering if that was the end - you found James in your bedroom. Sat on the floor, leaned against the bed with his head hanging low.

The room looked like hell, like a bludger was set loose and it made efforts to ransack everything. Only your items remained unharmed, you heave a sigh at the sight of him so defeated.

You decided to sit beside him, distance closed. Your shoulders right next to his and he flinched at the sudden contact.

He made a move as if he was gonna say something and you stopped him. "Don't be sorry, a simple spell can fix all of this," you shake your head and bite your lip, feeling the tears build up.

It was hurting you. So much, and you were just a pretend daughter-in-law, you could only imagine what he's feeling.

He's only 18, and his whole world is falling apart before his very eyes. You probably didn't have the right to cry, this pain wasn't yours.

Then complete silence. You looked around the room to asses more of the damage, it's almost unrecognizable. Like a battle had taken place.

"You're a good son," you tell him quietly in the dark, "they're very lucky to have you.

He laughs, void of humor. "A good son wouldn't lie to his parents just to ease his guilt. A good son would go to the ends of the earth to find a cure."

You felt the tears escape then, his words hurt for so many reasons. He doesn't see himself the way you and his parents saw him, too deep in his regrets.

"That's not - " you breathe out shakily "You're a good son for giving them hope. For giving them peace. Although this is a lie, the fact remains that you have me."

He was quiet for a moment, then he turned. In the dark, you see jsut how tired his eyes are, his cheeks glossed by tears. "I won't always have you."

You were unsure now. Would another lie be better? Would another scam on top of the damned deal patch all this up and wrap it neatly in one big bow?

You decided against it, you only give him a sad smile. He doesn't say anythign after that, a whole minute passes as you looked at each other, everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

Then, swiftly, he shifted his body and his lips were on yours. Your shock rattled your whole body, barely processing the fact he was kissing you as you began replying.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It tasted like grief, and salt, and something desperate you didn’t want to name - his hands grabbed you like you were a lifeline to hold on to.

You let him, you kiss him back like you were answering it all. All the questions he would throw at the void. Why me? Why them? Why now?

You kissed him like you were able to calm the brewing storm inside him. Then he pulled back, heaving as he desperately gasped for air. You were the same, lips swollen and eyes glossed.

You didn't realize you were crying in the kiss.

He retracts his hand, holding his head like a madman. "Merlin, I'm sor - "

"Don't," you dared not let him apologize, because that would make it a mistake. And it wasn't, not to you - at least.

"Don't apologize. Don't explain," you tell him.

You understand, to some extent, why he did it. But there was no need to unpack it, it was the least of your priorities. You threw yourself at him to hug him, that was a first.

He hasn't really had that - something he didn't know he needed until he got it. He broke down in your arms like a man come back from war, he lets you hold him together while his edges were crumbling to dust.

"I'm here, James."

The garden had always been Euphemia's favourite place in the manor, she used to tend to it every day - James has taken over in her absence.

Even now, when her hands trembled too much to hold a trowel, when her legs ached too much to carry her beyond the cracked stone path, she still insisted on sitting outside - breathing in the crisp afternoon air, the fading scent of late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges.

You wiped your palms against your skirts, smearing soil across the fabric, and pushed to her feet. You had been kneeling in the dirt for the better part of an hour, stubbornly trying to coax life back into the frostbitten flowerbeds.

Another lost cause, probably. But there was something oddly comforting in these small, foolish acts of hope.

"Come here, darling," Euphemia called softly, her voice a thin thread against the quiet.

You brushed hair out of your face and crossed the grass. The sun caught in the pale wisps of Euphemia's hair, haloing her like a painting. Euphemia patted the bench beside her, and you sank down wordlessly.

Euphemia's hand - delicate - found yours. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, steady circle. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you so gently, a mother's warm touch.

"Promise me," Euphemia said, voice almost inaudible. "Promise you'll stay with him."

Youblinked, throat tightening.

"He's always carried so much," Euphemia continued, her gaze far away, as if watching something only she could see. "Too much. Even when he was a boy - always looking out for his friends like the leader - he even gave us the gift of another son, our Sirius - "

You stay quiet. Yeah, the runaway Black has been visiting as well. If he knew the deal between you and James, he didn't say anything. Only exchanging greetings and thanking you for caring for his adoptive parents.

News of his adoption was no secret to all of Hogwarts. He was a Marauder, another headache for the Prefect that you were, four troublesome third-years, and then you were Headgirl and catching him snogging girls after dark.

He's changed a lot. Tattoos, longer hair - lots and lots of rings. But you also saw how he looked defeated. He's losing his parents again, how tragic.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The lie hovered at the back of your throat - Of course, I promise — but it stuck there, heavy and sour.

You couldn't do it. Not again. Not to her, and not right now - it was all too much.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

The money. The debt. The arrangement you two agreed on to be made because you were both was desperate and selfish and terrified. The fake love you had branded around like it was actually yours to hold.

You poured it all out into the trembling space within the garden.

When you finished, you couldn't meet Euphemia's eyes. Shame burned down your spine like a lash, throbbing.

But Euphemia only smiled. A wise, old glint in her tired eyes and it undid you. Tears falling even more now. She knew.

"Thank you for being honest. But if I may - it stopped being fake long ago, dear. For the both of you."

Your heart twisted, sharp and aching.

You covered your face with your hands - and then, without thinking, buried your head against Euphemia's shoulder. Like a child. Like you hadn't allowed yourselfto be vulnerable in years.

And Euphemia stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense, the way mothers do - holding you like you were hers, and you fell apart even more.

Your voice cracked open on the words you had never said aloud, even when they clawed at your ribs in the dead of night:

"Thank you," you whispered, choking on the sound of it. "Thank you for being the first mother I ever had."

None of you saw him.

James had come to call you for dinner.

But now he stood frozen just beyond the hedge - the golden light of the dying day catching on the frames of his glasses, painting him in shades of grief and awe.

He had heard everything.

Every word.

And for the second time in his life, James Potter didn't know how to move forward. Didn't know how to carry it all.

He just stood there, heart splitting open silently inside his chest, as the girl he had fallen in love with cried quietly against his mother's shoulder - not for herself, not even for him, but for a family she was terrified to lose.

It happened days later, when the worst of the storm had settled - when Euphemia managed a frail smile again, when Fleamont grumbled weakly about his porridge being too bland.

You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in soap and dishwater, when James leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching you like he had all the time in the world.

The elves could've done it - but you wanted to do something more than just exist within the walls of Potter Manor. A future daughter-in-law waiting to be.

"Come out with me tonight," he said.

You blinked at him, suds dripping from your fingertips. "James - we can't leave your parents - "

"We won't be too far, just the gardens," he interrupted gently and you frown at him.

"Is this about the," you look over your shoulders to see Fleamont cradling a tea between his hands on the counter. You lower your voice. "The kiss?"

"What"

You shake your head. "You don't have to make up with me for that, I told you it was truly fine - "

"Just say 'yes', you stubborn woman," he laughs a bit at the end but he was pleading.

You pressed your lips together, searching his face. No jokes despite his boyish grin. Then you gave in, no word needed to be said as he let out a satisfied hum.

The garden was transformed.

Hundreds of tiny candles floated in the air, bobbing like fireflies. The table was small, intimate - just two chairs and a scattering of wildflowers in jam jars. The night air was cool and sweet, stitched through with the scent of late summer roses.

"The elves were the rewal MVPs for this by the way," he commented, grinning. You snort.

James pulled out your chair with a dramatic bow. You laughed, cheeks warming despite yourself, and sat down.

There was a picnic basket between you. He opened it with a flourish - and there, tucked carefully inside, was your favorite pastry from your own bakery. The lemon tart you always made fresh on Sundays.

You blinked. "You stole from me."

"Purchased, actually." He grinned. "You're very expensive, Miss Future-Potter."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt so full you were surprised it didn't spill out your mouth and drop to your lap.

You ate under the stars - swapping stories, teasing, laughing - like it was the easiest thing in the world. No performances. No pretending.

Just. . .you and him. It felt very real now, after the kiss was a date in the gardens - you can only guess that his parents were watching from the drawing room window.

Halfway through, James pushed his chair back and stood up. For a dizzy moment, you thought he was going to fetch more food - but then he turned to you and, without hesitation, dropped to one knee.

The world tilted.

You stared at him - at the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes, at the way he looked more sure, more himself, than he ever had before.

"This time," James said, voice steady, reverent, "I'm asking for real."

No contracts.

No debts.

No saving each other.

"Just me," he said, reaching for your hand. "Just you."

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision. You didn't trust your voice, so you just nodded. Hard. Over and over as he caressed that ring.

You felt like you could choke from happiness but finally, you found your voice -

"Yes," you answered, laughing through the tears.

James surged up, caught you in his arms, spun you once under the floating candles - avoiding tipping the table over. You were both laughing, crying, a little broken, a little mended.

Maybe the world was ending - maybe winter was coming fast and cruel - but right now, right here, you could pretend it was only this.

Only James.

Only you.

And it would be enough.

It is a small thing - nothing like the grand celebrations that the tabloids expected and theorized soon as they heard that the esteemed Potter bachelor was to be wed -

They called it a wedding to look out for, with the Potters being rich and all, but it turned out to be an intimate gathering. One that you prefered very much.

Euphemia is wheeled into the garden, bundled in soft blankets, a wreath of tiny white flowers tucked into her hair. Fleamont sits beside her, his hand resting atop hers, their fingers still finding each other after all these years.

The air smells of lilies and earth and late spring - the world on the cusp of summer, trembling at the edge of something new.

You walk down the aisle alone, lilies cradled carefully in your hands, heart rattling against your ribs like it might break free. Had Fleamont been strong nough, he would have been with you - he said so himself.

Friends sit at the front, close friends of James from Hogwarts - a few of the Gyffindor girls from his years, you managed to invite your Headboy counterpart and his wife, the Longbottoms, there was even Essie, your greatest friend who stuck through the hardest times.

Essie winks as you pass. You mouth her a ‘thank you’ as she wipes her tears away, happy to see you finally in the light after so long in the dark.

Sirius stands beside James, ridiculously overdressed in formal robes, grinning like he knows a secret he’ll never tell.

Remus lingers just a step behind them, hands clasped neatly, a rare and quiet warmth in his gaze, behind him was also Peter who just looked happy to be included.

And James - Merlin, James.

He looks like every good memory stitched into one living, breathing thing: black hair wild in the breeze, glasses catching the light, suit fitted perfectly to his frame.

When he sees you, the whole world shifts slightly off its axis. For a moment, it’s just you and him, like it always was meant to be.

You reach him, hand trembling when you slip yours into his. He squeezes gently, grounding you, steady and sure.

The ceremony is short. Sweet.

No grand speeches. No crowds. Just the two of you standing stubbornly in front of everyone you love, hearts bare and open.

James says his vows like he’s carving them into the very bones of the earth, voice low and rough with feeling. "You came to me in the quiet, and you stayed. I will never forget that."

You barely make it through your own. The tears come halfway through, thick and hot, making the lilies in your hands blur into nothing but white and green smudges.

When you slip the ring onto his finger, you are shaking so badly that James has to guide your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles, steady and patient.

When the officiant says, "You may kiss the bride," James doesn’t wait.

His hands cradle your face like you're something holy - and he kisses you like a man who has finally, finally found home.

There are cheers, and petals tossed high into the air, and Sirius shouting something wildly inappropriate that makes everyone laugh through their tears.

Later, under the flowering arch, Sirius gives a toast - half a roast, really - about how he 'he never expected a troublemaker Marauder to marry a proper Headgirl who always gave them detention, but he supposed it was fitting as both became Heads in their last years' and "Prongs here got himself a Head Girl, although older, eh? Guess you like 'em more mature, mate!"

You laugh so hard your ribs ache. James presses a kiss to the side of your head, rolling his eyes at the implication, murmuring something only you can hear.

Probably to insult Sirius.

There are tiny cakes, charmed lights strung between the trees, plates passed hand to hand. The air is heavy with lilac and laughter and the stubborn kind of joy that refuses to be dimmed by grief.

You dance barefoot with James under the golden wash of the lights, your dress trailing behind you like a whisper.

The grass is cool beneath your toes, the sky wide and open above you. James spins you once, twice, until you are dizzy with it, until all you can do is clutch his hand and laugh into his chest.

The world feels soft. Real. Precious beyond measure.

Euphemia watches from her chair, smiling like she is imprinting the whole thing onto her soul. Fleamont squeezes her hand. She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, a small, satisfied sigh leaving her lips.

It isn’t forever.

But for now, it is enough.

And for once - enough feels like a miracle.

. . . And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words.

end. masterlist | married life snippets ask

#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #hp marauders #marauders x reader #harry potter #harry potter marauders #harry potter marauders era #don't blame me

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ittybittyfanblog · 11 months ago

Text

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man. Anyway, enjoy! This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It's close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega, a little over a mile away from your apartment, for about, three? five minutes—no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets are any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar?

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even is this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they're in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were.

But then, what are they here for? The dangers you're more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack.

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle.

“Now, now— the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip.

“I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.”

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur.

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you.

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin.

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips.

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen.

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City.

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All hold significant power, all hold ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn.

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval.

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp—then, “sir.”

All in reverence.

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference.

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters.

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.”

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I suppose that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.”

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response—but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to.

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger.

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection.

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial.

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man—no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear.

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust.

Having been awake for longer than your captors are aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience.

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?”

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.”

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you.

In short, you have no idea where you are.

Fuck—this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own.

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic—

Wait a minute. Sylus.

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore.

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin.

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.”

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity.

And here, the opportunity presents herself.”

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.”

You feel it before you hear it.

“Perhaps not.”

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room.

Suddenly—

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise.

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness.

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You—”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool—lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him—as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction.

You meet his eyes. “You came.”

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.”

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud.

“Luke. Kieran.”

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.”

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly.

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state, at least.

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer.

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin.

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.”

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out.

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?”

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.”

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.”

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look.

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.”

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three.

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake.

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed.

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor.

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for.

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for—and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him.

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from.

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of.

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is now stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel.

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets.

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them.

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM.

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.”

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.)

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed.

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh.

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time.

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe.

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler.

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.”

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes.

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?”

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly.

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.”

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian.

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his.

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose.

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you—half-lidded and tender.

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.”

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.”

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.”

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #sylus #sylus qin #love and deepspace fic

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infamousbondagemurder · 11 months ago

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DUCK! THE CARBINE HIGH MASSACRE - EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW!

Hello!!!! i’m very autistic and I wanted to put my effort into something I could share with you all, so without any more unnecessary ranting here’s all you need to know about duck! the carbine high massacre. please comment anything I should add or any mistakes I may make, beware this is my first post like this so im a newby go easy on a gal!

Full film:

https://youtu.be/UScvX4bjExg?si=Cohq29YGoYCsOtBY

Trailer:

https://youtu.be/zNtUviDpyQg?si=23nQgFQo75OQ-RC_

Film soundtrack:

https://youtu.be/2ky9FrEj8Fk?si=DqRVcTdFQEtJ6owC

Website archived:

https://web.archive.org/web/20040815013848/http://www.duck2k.com/docs/carbine_comm.html

Other interviews unrelated to specifically this film:

https://youtu.be/gEbZVXdsX-U?si=cG5bTGb41ee-1fFh

https://youtu.be/WUjqIoDidr4?si=sDMMUzzKhIWImuL5

https://youtu.be/W04lj1BdK0o?si=DHRIixDEpn39KBne

Filming:

Duck! the Carbine High Massacre was a spoof about Columbine that was made soon after the massacre, infact only 6 months after. It was created by Joey Smack (Joseph Miller) and William Hellfire (William Apriceno) two (at the time) collage aged film makers. A lot of viewers received it as this as distasteful and terrible, but others find this to be one of the greatest movies of all time. Smack and Hellfire mainly made a living on creating fetish content for their small but loyal cult following, but unlike most of Smack and Hellfires other films this one was based on true events and NOT made for fetish content. (it only had a few titties here and there ;-D) A lot of people who had starred the movie had received a lot of back lash including piles of death threats.

Duck, along with most other Factory 2000 films was edited in Adobe premier and shot on VHS cameras including a broadcast Super VHS camcorder, a handheld RCA, and another unidentified camcorder.

The films first dvd release was in 2004, along with minor color corrections.

The whole budget was about 3,000$ along with inexperienced actors, most of them being Hellfire and Smacks friends taking some time off work.

On Columbines anniversary they had a showing of the film at CBGB’s where an interview with Court Tv was held and they had stated some of the reasons behind making the movie, what they would say to the parents at Columbine, and the reasoning behind making the movie.

It was here where they explained they were *not* making fun of the victims but instead the media in America’s portrayal of all the victims and the shooters on the news.

Interview:

https://youtu.be/QjPlPsGUuKI?si=gel6kBCbpzmUmiDE

The producers had gotten arrested for creating this film, not because of the crude nature but because they had brought fire arms onto school property .

Court Tv producers getting arrested:

https://youtu.be/i7LiNTkksJs?si=C8IbynDgwj9oP9YE

The film racked up $6,034 in the box office and the film was said to have helped pay Hellfires legal fees.

Experiences on set:

William hellfire stated that he did remember filming and creating most of duck because he was so drugged up on pain killers he was using to treat his cancer pains. He had no remorse or regret for making the film

Chris Perez hopped on reddit to describe his experience “Fun and loose. Everyone was really laid back and chill and we had a good time with the filming. There was a script, but we also improved a lot of stuff. Sometimes, Bill, Joe, and Todd would just give us a general idea of what they wanted us to do and say and we'd work off that.” He along with many others would receive blowback from the incident.

Misty Mundae said that the film was a "crappy little movie" which "has permanently staked its place in underground cult cinema"

Cast:

Derick- Joey Smack (Joseph Miller)

Derwin- William Hellfire (William Apriceno)

Retard- Henry Krinkle

Bible Girl- Misty Mundae (Erin Brown)

Play Girl- Lilly Tiger

Car Kid- Chris Perez

Spam Jock- Michael Ovum

Benchpress- Ryan Trimmer

Afro-American- Kendall "Shorty" Ward

Song Girl- Mazur

Goth Boy- Mike Roser

Goth Girl- Liz Bathory

No Info Boy- Michael Lema

The Principal- Larry Wellman

The Janitor- Rodney Sleurtols

Policeman- Karl Pitt

Plot:

With a running of 101 minutes Duck! the Carbine High Masscre was about spoof about the events that took place at Columbine on April 20th, 1999. The movie took place at Carbine high school where two bullied, neo-nazi, trenchcoat wearing high-school students, Derick and Derwin fail at a double suicide attempt. While walking home Derwin gets attacked by jocks and misses school the next day. After school it is then the two high schoolers plan a massacre against their school. The pair then bought several guns from a black market dealer. The next day the two boys bid farewell to their parents for the last time and head to school with the guns in arm. Once they get to school they head to the cafeteria trying to get the student’s attention, when yelling failed Derwin got onto a chair and yelled “What’s for lunch?” before the two began shooting. The two kill several people in gruesome manners before heading down to the basement and sharing a last cigarette before shooting each other.

Other films:

William Hellfire and Joey Smack typically made fetish films and soft-core porno flicks, some notable ones include (but are not limited tooooo!) Erotic Survivor, Silk Stocking Strangler, Vampire Strangler, TITanic 2000, and so many other underground gems. I, infamousbondagemurder sincerely urge you to watch these movies, buy the dvds, and support the living William Hellfire.

Here’s a link to watch more movies by William (unfortunately not ALL his movies are on this keep in mind. i also did not create this link so credits to the creator, which i’m not sure who the creator is)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-2iH0WjcolYtbat61F2zLs8SSw5dbMy15mnCnuq4suE/edit

What most people don’t know is Joey Smack starred in the semi-popular film Where the Dead go to Die, where he voice acted as the characters Ralph Stanley, Tommy’s father, and The legless war veteran. He dropped iconic lines in this movie such as: “You fuckin’ dog! What the fuck are you some sort of faggot cannibal! Aggghhh! Your eatin’ my dick!”

Dvd:

Hello! so I am basing this off of the DVD that I personally own, these details may differ from DVD to DVD so if you own a different sort of DVD, please comment anything extra that you have on yours.

Dvd includes:

* Deleted scenes

* Behind COURT TV- cbgb’s screening

* PRODUCER/DIRECTOR interviews

* TODAY is the DAY LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* KING GHIDORAH! LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* Original trailers

* Shooting gallery

* Film soundtrack

* And of course, this wonderful shitty movie :-)

Rest in peace Joey Smack:

On Saturday June 29th, 2019 Joseph Robert Miller, better known by many fans as ‘Joey Smack’ passed away. The circumstances are unknown and a mystery to all fans. There are rumors of suicide but there are no confirmations. I advice you to read his obituary and donate to catholic charities, diocese of paterson, the charity which paid his brother joshua's medical bills after his passing in 1998.

Joseph was loved by many and passed at the age of 41. Fans, family and friends all mourn him to this day. He was described by friends as a kind hearted true and utter weirdo, who had lived in his own world. he didn’t talk to many people but if you had been let into his select group, he would go out of his way to make friends laugh and smile with his warped sense of humor.

His memorial services were held Tuesday, July 2nd, 2019 from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. at Browning-Forshay funeral home on Lafayette Ave in Hawthorne.

Rest in peace Joey Smack, a truely great man who loved what he did and put so much love into all of his creations. Well wishes to his surviving family and friends:

Joey Smacks obituary:

https://emeto.neocities.org/joeysmack

CREDS:

Mainly wiki like a chud

Actors themselfs

The dvd

I’m dumb

#duck the carbine high massacre #duck! the carbine high massacre #joey smack #tccblr #william hellfire #tcctwt #tcc tumblr #tc community

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comatosebunny09 · 8 months ago

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soft kitty, warm kitty [ one ] | sylus

— summary: the one where the adorable stray cat you take in is not all that he appears to be. — cw: silliness, fluff, slight injury and blood mention, shapeshifting, hybrid au, self-indulgent af — now playing: carousel - evgeny grinko

There was this pretty stray kitty you’d been feeding and playing with outside your job for three or so months.

At first, it wasn’t your biggest fan. It spat, hissed, and swiped at you whenever you got too close—you learned to carry band-aids in your bag from thereon. But it still quietly nibbled on the food you left out when you were at a safe distance. You made a point to refill its bowls each time you came to work. Started leaving a cardboard box with a solar-powered heating pad outside to help it battle the glacial nights that often befell the city.

Eventually, it grew accustomed to you. With baby steps, it came closer and closer each day, sometimes perching itself on the bench you sat on during your lunch or smoke breaks to keep you company. With time, it allowed you to pet it. Its ivory fur was surprisingly soft beneath the street sludge and grime it accumulated throughout the time you knew it. It also had striking, scarlet eyes you brushed off as a genetic mutation. Plenty of weird animals inhabited the city, so an uncommon eye color wasn’t particularly unsettling.

The adorable stray only allowed you to touch it, reverting to its initial attitude when your coworkers got too close. It seemed to specifically take a liking to you, bunting its little cranium against your hand and ankles, marking you with its scent, grooming you with its barbed tongue, and purring like the low rumble of a Mustang.

Finally, you decided to catch it. You noticed a red, crusted ring adorning its tiny ankle. It must’ve been injured. You weren’t sure how long it would survive on the streets before infection set in, and your caring instincts were screaming at you to save it.

So, you did.

It was surprisingly easy to lure the little guy into a cat carrier with treats. It crawled into the bag effortlessly, almost as if it wanted to be rescued. That afternoon, you took it to the vet. They cleaned its foot, gave you cream and antibiotics to ward off infection, updated its shots—the whole nine yards.

It had also been revealed to you that your feline friend was a boy. The vet offered to neuter him, but you staved it off, promising to return later. You could barely afford the bill he racked up from his treatment alone.

With a warm smile, you cradled the carrier, holding your new companion in your lap as you rode the subway. The pretty, sedated feline purred nonstop on the commute home.

It took some time to adjust. Of course, you hadn’t expected his transition to succeed overnight.

When you gave him his first bath, he wasn’t the happiest camper. He adorned your arms with angry, red streaks to illustrate his discontent. His coat was lustrous and white beneath the grime and fleas. And though he was initially a hissing, snooty ball of fluff following his bath, he purred continuously when he curled up beside you that night in your bed, seemingly grateful to be off the street.

You find with time that old habits die hard.

You bought him a red leather collar to compliment his eyes. With it came a bell and pendant, and your address was carved into it. The little guy loved to slip out of your apartment at night, often returning to the streets he was so accustomed to. He always came back, sometimes days after disappearing. He brought you little presents, ranging from dead mice to shiny, crimson gems that looked like they could’ve been worth a fortune. Snowball, as you had fondly named him, was truly a marvel. He was adjusting to domestic life well, but you didn’t stifle him when he wanted to spend his nights perusing the city and stirring up little cat mischief.

You were grateful for the company. You’d been living in the city for about a year, having relocated to its heart for your job. You didn’t have any family in the area, so you relied heavily on your coworkers for social interaction. Otherwise, you were on your own.

It was pleasant to have a little fur ball bouncing around your home, knocking things off your dresser, shacking up in your pantry, or hiding under your dining table, ready to attack your ankles. He brought excitement to your otherwise humdrum life, keeping you on your toes while curling up at your feet, expressing his gratitude for everything you’d done for him thus far.

You were content despite your solitude, looking forward to what your furry companion had in store for you each day.

You awaken to sunbeams coloring the space behind your eyelids. To the melody of birds chirping and cars occasionally easing by on the street.

A quiet smile rounding your lips, you reach beside you to pet through familiar tufts of white. Snowball routinely curls up next to your head on the pillow when you sleep. You haven’t yet opened your eyes, so you’re a little caught off guard when his fur feels slightly shorter than usual.

Still, you wear a smile as you fondly coo at your kitty, your voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t purr in response, which is strange given his purr motor’s always been broken. He never knows when to stop. Perhaps he doesn’t feel well today?

Cautiously, you pry your eyes open, your vision blurry from the sun's rays. Through the haze, you ingest a familiar wash of stark white. Your eyesight gradually corrects, and you can discern shapes and colors. Upon taking in the scene beside you, you stiffen, your silly little smile frozen in place.

On the other side of your bed, where Snowball would usually be roosted, quietly waiting for you to stir from your slumber, lies a tan stretch of skin. Recognizable red eyes watch you beneath short, swept lashes, blinking sluggishly, a humored cant to pink-petaled lips.

Reality slowly trickles in. There is very much a warm-blooded man beside you in place of your darling feline. Your smile melts away, traded for something of confusion. And once you’ve fully processed the moment, you do what any logical person would do given this situation: you scream.

The strange man beside you winces, a searing, heavy hand shooting out to cover your mouth. Your voice dies in the back of your throat, and the stranger takes you in with mild irritation donning his features.

“Must you be so noisy?” he grouses, the rough slide of his voice furling in your stomach. You blink owlishly at him, his hand still clamped over your mouth.

As the adrenaline spuming through your body tempers, and you’ve taken more time to breathe and assess your situation, you fully observe the intruder. And with a mixture of horror and confusion, you intake a familiar set of ivory, tufted ears twitching atop his head.

Again, you let your instincts guide you, and you do what one would typically do in this situation: you reach out to tweak said ears, confirming the familiar glide of silken fur beneath your fingertips. The stranger sucks in a breath, jerking away from your prodding. He fixes you with an iron gaze that pierces straight through to your soul. A look you’re all too familiar with, Snowball having pinned you with it at random times throughout your day.

You scream again, the sound of it muffled behind the meatiness of the stranger’s palm. Only, this is no stranger.

Is this—is this Snowball?

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus fluff #sylus fic #qin che #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus qin

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thatonegrimm · 28 days ago

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The Manager’s Guide to Demon Boybands: A Witch’s Oath

Signals, Sparks, and Shrugged-Off Magic

Chapter8/Chapter9/Chapter10

Performance Hall — Early Evening Rehearsal

The Saja Boys were halfway through a dress rehearsal when the mic packs started acting possessed.

Romance’s cut out every time he hit a high note. Abby’s buzzed so hard it sounded like bees were trapped in the speakers. Baby, somehow, had picked up someone else’s feed and was now mouthing along to a completely different song.

“How am I supposed to vibe with interference?” he grumbled, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently in time to the wrong beat.

Jinu crouched near the audio rack, staring at the wires like they’d personally offended him. “This… doesn’t look safe. Should that cable be sparking?”

She stood off to the side, phone pressed to her ear, her free hand flipping through the rehearsal schedule with surgical focus. She wasn’t irritated—she was already triaging. Which meant something worse was coming.

The light rigs above them groaned.

“It better not rain inside,” Romance muttered.

She paused mid-step.

She looked up.

And moved.

----------------------

It happened quickly.

A sharp pop cracked through the rafters. One of the massive LED light rigs tilted forward as the clamp holding it gave way. Steel wrenched sideways with a sound like bending bone. The support arm groaned. Tilted.

Romance was directly underneath it.

There were shouts. Abby surged forward. Jinu raised his arms, signaling the techs. Mystery didn’t shout—he just tensed.

But before anyone could do anything—

There was a loud snap from the rigging. A pulse shuddered through the cords. Just before the structure could fall, something yanked hard on the emergency tether—not a clean stop, but enough to redirect its momentum.

The rig lurched sideways and crashed into the floor at an angle. Dust and light haze filled the stage, but no one was hurt.

She stood at the edge of the stage, one hand still on her headset.

“Kill the feed to Grid 3,” she said, voice cold and precise.

Someone in the tech booth scrambled to comply.

It was only after the clatter died down that the boys noticed the glint of something—a thin piece of copper wire and an unfamiliar charm half-melted in the truss mount. Something old. Something embedded.

Romance stared.

You didn’t.

“Replace the clamp before you reset it,” you said evenly. “And check all the mounts. Every single one.”

Nobody questioned you.

----------------------

Backstage buzzed with nervous energy and bottled water.

Romance cradled his elbow, still wide-eyed. Abby paced like he could walk off the stress. Jinu was already scouring an equipment log. Baby sat cross-legged on the floor, uncharacteristically quiet.

“That was insane,” Abby muttered. “It just... redirected. It didn’t fall the way it should have.”

“Stage rigging doesn’t move like that,” Jinu agreed. “Unless someone rigged an override system. But we would’ve seen the wiring.”

“Or maybe someone snuck something into the clamps,” Baby said quietly.

“Like what?” Romance asked.

“I don’t know. A ward or something?”

Abby gave Baby a sidelong look. “You think someone protected the stage without telling the staff?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened this month,” Baby said.

They all turned to their manager.

She was calmly entering notes into her tablet.

“Manager-nim,” Abby said carefully, “what did you do?”

You looked up. “I noticed that rig mount yesterday. I filed a maintenance note.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t install the safety cables. I just made sure someone did.”

Romance tilted his head. “But that wire thing. That wasn’t normal tech.”

“If it worked, then it doesn’t need to be normal.”

There was a long pause.

Mystery, still watching from the shadows, finally said, “She’s just built different.”

Romance snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Human reflexes could never.”

“That wasn’t a reflex,” Jinu muttered. “That was... coordination.”

“Or ninja training,” Baby said, chewing slowly.

“Explains the clipboard discipline,” Abby added.

“Or the tea drawer,” Jinu said. “She has a blend for everything. That’s not normal. That’s tactical.”

They nodded.

A highly trained, deeply competent human. Possibly ex-military. Maybe magic-adjacent. But clearly not supernatural.

Definitely not.

----------------------

Later — The Dressing Room

Romance plopped onto the couch, still shaken.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” he asked the ceiling.

“No,” Baby said flatly.

“She didn’t flinch. When it fell. She just moved. Like she’d already seen it happening.”

“That’s because she’s prepared for everything,” Jinu said, still scrolling through stage schematics on his tablet. “She’s methodical.”

“Yeah, well, methodical people usually do flinch. That was... I don’t know. Surgical.”

Abby looked toward the hallway. “She was protecting us. Again.”

Mystery didn’t speak, but his fingers tapped the same rhythm on his sleeve—an old habit from another life.

----------------------

That Night — Your Apartment

You lit one candle. Quiet magic. Old comfort.

The tea steeped on the windowsill. Outside, the faint glow of the Saja dorm reflected back in the glass.

You opened your journal.

Journal Entry: Rehearsal Incident

Clamp sabotage appears accidental. Rigged emergency tether activated. Talisman embedded last night triggered at pressure point. Charm held. Partial discharge only.

No visible magic. No flare.

Mystery watched the fall.

Jinu saw the charm.

Baby almost said something.

Charm pattern will need upgrading. No more passive sigils in open environments.

You tapped the pen against the corner of the page. Then added:

Still lucky. They want to believe I’m just competent. Let them.

Note: Buy replacement charm core and Baby a new bag of spicy chips.

----------------------

Mystery’s Room — Late Night

He sat on his bed, one of your discarded hallway charms in his palm.

It didn’t glow now.

But it had.

Just for a second.

Just enough to feel warm where it shouldn’t.

He turned it slowly between his fingers, the etching faint but deliberate. Not random. Not cheap. Something old was pressed into the shape—something careful. Whatever it was, it hummed with the aftertaste of power. The kind not meant to be seen. The kind that watched back.

Across the street, the apartment window flickered with candlelight.

He didn’t need to see her to know she was awake.

She always stayed up late after something happened. Not visibly shaken. Just... more still than usual. Like she was calculating odds.

He didn’t know what she was.

But she wasn’t just a manager.

She didn’t ask stupid questions when the supernatural bled through the cracks. She didn’t blink at near-death experiences. She read things no one else could read. Moved like someone who had rehearsed disaster.

He told himself she was just experienced. Just unnaturally competent. Just calm.

But the charm in his hand told a different story.

Mystery didn’t speak, didn’t write it down. He didn’t even breathe too loudly.

But he stared out the window and thought:

If she’s hiding something, it’s because it’s something big.

And maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t protecting them from the world.

Maybe she was protecting the world from them.

And herself… from something worse.

AN: The Saja Boys are bonding over shared confusion and a complete lack of magical awareness over here.

Manager-nim? Unbothered. Moisturized. Blocking death in heels.

The boys? “She’s just really good at her job 🥲 definitely not magic.”

Meanwhile, Mystery is in the corner conducting silent arcane forensics with a hallway charm and a thousand-yard stare.

Everything is fine.

No one’s suspicious at all.

Totally normal manager behavior.✨

Taglist: @poem-bee @gremlinartstudio @wantstoliveinfantasy @lovely-maryj @buggaboobich @idkokfu @osball @tenaciouskittenpuff @venommie @honey-and-sweetdreams @luna-looniesblog @lyunsafebubble @tulnukaz @levifiance @mysteris-things @aerissblog

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #kpdh #kpop demon hunters #TMGDB #grimmstories

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sparklearchive · 5 months ago

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Darkermatters Reference Sheets

Allotpuns:

Winona "Winnie" Roll - Winnamon Roll

Moore "Mory" Ward - Forward

Strike Doubt - Striked Out

Siri Descent - Iridescent

Turner Newleaf - Turn a New Leaf

Tetris "Techno" Logie - Technology

Ruby Reel - Movie Reel

Rockie Roll - Rock n Roll, Rocky Road

Mina Roll - Mineral

Darlene Roll - Starring Role

Ray Ward - Reward

Cal Ward - Coward

Sky Ward - Skyward

Avalon "Ava" Ward - Onward, Afterward

Reavis Roll - Reversed Role

Dawn Ward - Downward

Rack Ward - Awkward (previously Backward)

#ref sheets #winona roll #moore “mory” ward #strike doubt #siri descent #turner newleaf #tetris “techno” logie #ruby reel #rockie roll #mina roll #darlene roll #ray ward #reavis roll #cal ward #sky ward #avalon “ava” ward #dawn ward #rack ward #darkermatter

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niningtori · 10 months ago

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i know it's over | oneshot

pairing(s): choi beomgyu x you, kang taehyun x you

summary: you love beomgyu — you truly do — you just wish he loved you back, but after a particularly humiliating night in which he shows you just how little he cares, you finally decide enough is enough. enter kang taehyun, a sweet boy who's the polar opposite of beomgyu; but while you begin to develop your relationship with him, beomgyu realizes exactly what he's missing.

genre: ANGST, romance, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end

warnings: toxic relationships

word count: 7.3k

notes: repost/rewrite of one of my first works (formerly titled: to know him is to love him, and i do) THERE WILL BE AN ALTERNATE ENDING (edit: jk no there won't be), YES the best friend's little brother!beomgyu au won the poll but i'm so hesitant to post it because i hate it so i thought i'd post this for now until i'm able to edit the other work enough to where it's not an actual eyesore.

you're tired. really tired. exhausted, even, as you stalk through the doorway of beomgyu's apartment. you practically tear off your coat, letting it land harshly on the living room floor with a slight thud. beomgyu rolls his eyes and picks it up with a sigh before hanging it up on the rack.

"i told you it was nothing. why are you freaking out?" he asks flatly.

"she was fucking you with her eyes, beomgyu!" you exclaim in frustration.

"and that's my fault how?"

"it's not your fault, but i'm sick of you entertaining women, let alone your actual fucking ex, while i'm standing right next to you!" his ex is just another fish in the barrel, or at least that's what he says, but the thought that they were intimate together at one point still makes you feel sick. truthfully, your boyfriend is handsome, so you've spent the better part of the past 10 months warding off the women who circle him like vultures. you wouldn't mind as much as you do if he seemed at all interested in helping you do so, especially when faced with his ex that you suspect he still has feelings for, but he does not. quite the opposite, actually. it's like he thrives off of the attention and, god, it hurts.

"i'm not entertaining anybody. i told her i have a girlfriend now," he, well, you would say argues, but it's said so nonchalantly it doesn't warrant the term.

"a girlfriend you proceeded to ignore while she hung off of your shoulders and laughed all night! i just don't understand how you don't understand how much it hurts my feelings. i'm a human, too! how would you feel if my ex, who was very clearly interested in me, hung around me right in front of you?" and it's like you're explaining empathy to a child.

"me? i wouldn't give a fuck because it's not that serious," he replies with a slightly irritated shake of his head.

it's always like this. always. you're always the one who cares more between the two of you. you were the one who asked him out in the first place. you were the one who initiated your first kiss. your first fight. hell, even your first reconciliation. you're not stupid, you know he doesn't feel quite the same way you do, but he has to feel something, right? otherwise, why would he say yes to you when he's rejected so many other women? your brain hurts trying to wrap your head around it all.

"you're missing the point! if you were me, you would—" you begin frustratedly, but you cut yourself off. "you know what? i don't even have the energy to explain this to you. i don't understand why i have to explain basic human emotion to you, and i really don't understand why i have to beg and plead for you to care about how i feel!" you all but shriek.

"you don't have to do shit, just leave if you're that fucking unhappy," he spits out angrily, which is the first real emotion — besides mild annoyance — you've seen out of him this entire conversation. he gets impatient when you're like this, which usually results in you relenting, but not tonight. you're far too hurt to let go so easily.

"you're right! i am unhappy! i just — why don't you care that i'm unhappy? what can i do to make you give a fuck about me?" you have a brave face on but you can feel your eyes getting hot and your voice trembling ever so slightly.

"you could try not being so damn needy, maybe that'd help."

your eyes redden even further and your lips unintentionally twist themselves into a sour frown. you hate it when he calls you needy because you do need a lot from him, it feels like. his time. his care. his attention and affection. yet you never seem to get it.

"do you not love me? like at all?" you ask. all of the venom in your tone has been sucked out mercilessly and you sound more helpless than angry.

"do you not realize how fucking crazy you sound?" he scoffs as if he can't fathom why you'd be upset. as if he's not watching you break down in real time.

"why won't you give me a straight answer?" you question, voice softer than it was before.

he does nothing but scowl, and that's enough of an answer as it stands. he doesn't care. never has. probably never will.

"then why'd you even say yes to dating me?" you truly don't understand. you thought you were different. you thought he saw something in you he didn't see in his harem of other suitors, and trust that there were many.

"i dunno. i was just bored, i guess," he answers with a shrug and your world as you know it collapses. the man you love sees you as nothing more than a way to kill time. he's picking you up right now just to toss you away when the next shiny toy presents itself, and so far, you've let him drag you around because you love him — that's how much you love him — but looking at him now, at how unbothered he is, you wonder if you've even got anything left to give.

"i really do love you," you manage to squeeze out with a bitter smile. your poor heart is on display for the naked eye to see, and it seems like he really couldn't care less, but that won't stop you from asking: "does that mean anything at all to you?"

"well, i'm sorry you feel that way," he says simply, "but that's not my fucking problem."

your heart sinks to your stomach and you feel like you're going to throw up. in this moment, as you watch the love of your life dismiss you like you're a fucking dog begging for scraps of food, you feel an overwhelming sense of clarity as you realize he doesn't love you. he doesn't even like you. he probably hates you, actually. like a mental montage, every moment in which he showed you that exact sentiment plays all at once in your head.

all those times you let him choose everything from movies to dinner because the idea of a compromise was inconceivable. all of those occasions, special and otherwise, where you were supposed to go out on a date, but he'd bail without a word and you'd forgive him with no apology. even something as menial as when you'd offer him your share of dessert because he ate all of his and you knew he wanted more, and he'd take it without so much as a thank you. how you'd sit and listen to him tell stories about how amazing his friends were, but he'd never even ask about your day. when those same friends would jokingly call you the perfect girlfriend, and you thought it was an indication of how good your relationship was, but in reality, it was a way to tease him because the thought of actually being with you was so abhorrent and ridiculous that it must be a joke. nobody likes a desperate girl, after all. all those times you told him you loved him and he'd just smile and kiss you deeper. memories like these flood your brain with a vengeance so cruel it makes your head ache, and in a way, you realize it's ridiculous to be surprised when there was so much proof of his feelings in the first place.

"oh. okay," you say with what you hope is a soft and unbothered laugh, but comes out more as a choked one. "i guess there's nothing left to say. i'll get my shit and go."

you hesitate for a few excruciatingly awkward moments before collecting yourself enough to start gathering your things, which are scattered haphazardly around his apartment from his bedroom to his bathroom. it's like a walk of shame, almost, and you feel even shittier when he plops down on the couch with a long suffering sigh as he begins to massage the bridge of his nose. you feel so small in this moment — like a petulant child who just got done throwing an unsuccessful tantrum — and you're now soaking in the sobering aftermath and sitting with the thought that he just watched you have a meltdown like he was watching a monkey putting on a show. how much more is he going to humiliate you? enough is enough, you think, so before you can actually finish collecting all of your belongings, you're scurrying out of the apartment. before you go, you glance back at him one last time.

"beomgyu?" you ask tentatively, tears clouding your eyes.

"yeah?" he replies with a sigh. this is it, you think.

"i don't want to see you ever again," you say firmly. before he can reply, if he ever intended to in the first place, you slam the door.

there's a lot to love about beomgyu. for one, he's handsome, which is obvious, but he has a certain allure you could never help but be drawn in by. he's always been a charming man, but even more so when he's talking to a woman he's interested in. as interested as he could be, that is. he's funny and comically pompous when he wants to be, but still somehow down to earth despite it all.

he's been described as a mood-maker, and while he grew to resent that term, you thought it was at least partially true, if only in the context of your relationship. when he's sad, you're devastated. when he's happy, you're over the fucking moon. his feelings are your whole world — or were, you guess, since all that's over now.

it wasn't all bad all the time, you think. there were times where you thought he really might reciprocate even a fraction of what you felt for him, and most of the time, that was enough. you could work with that. love looks different for everyone, you would reason. maybe he just had a funny way of showing it.

there were days where you'd laugh together and end the night lying in each other's arms while you'd cradle him like he was the most precious thing in the whole world because, to you, he really was. he was normally so boisterous when with his friends, but while he would never admit it to anyone else, he'd tell you about some of his insecurities while you gently combed your fingers through his long, silky hair. he'd speak of regrets and longing for people to take him more seriously. he'd never say it, but he wanted people to see you like you saw him. the real him. you'd let him cry while your hands cupped his cheeks and you'd shush him while he fiddled mindlessly with your hair like a child. you'd kiss the tip of his reddened nose until he laughed instead of cried. times like those, you'd really think you were someone special to him, but now you realize you were wrong. you were just an outlet for him, and anyone willing to be an emotional dumping ground would do the trick, too.

after a few weeks of moping, your sadness has begun to morph into anger and resentment. you spent nearly a year of your life trying to make an emotionally stunted man care about you, and that's not even counting the years of pining over him before you finally worked up the courage to ask him out. it was difficult to see it in the moment, but after being away from him for so long, it's crystal clear that he was honestly just an asshole who didn't really like you. nothing more, nothing less. maybe he'd find someone to change for someday, maybe he'd even work things out with his ex, but for whatever reason, you weren't her. that's just the way it goes, you guess. what really bothers you are the "what if's" of the situation. what if you were prettier, or smarter, or kinder; would he have seen you for who you really are? would he have grown to appreciate you if you had given him more to appreciate?

either way, there's no use crying over spilled milk now. you won't be going back to him any time soon, and he certainly won't come crawling back to you. you'll continue to think of him less and less until your time together fades into a distant (and unpleasant) memory. you smile at the thought.

the first time beomgyu realizes just how impactful your absence is, nothing in particular happens. it's a regular tuesday night a week or so after your "breakup" and he's bored out of his mind. he showers, listens to music, texts his friends and makes himself dinner, but something is missing.

as he sits on his couch, he realizes what it is: you. right about now, you should be pestering him to hang out and showing up on his doorstep to watch a movie. he'd roll his eyes at first, but eventually relent as long as he got to pick the movie, of course. he wouldn't say it, but he'd actually enjoy glancing over and seeing your reactions. you were comically expressive and every twist and turn of the plot had your eyes bulging and mouth agape, turning to him for confirmation that he was seeing the same things you were. when you watched inception for the first time, it absolutely rocked your world.

he's alone, but he puts on a movie, anyway. every so often, his head turns to the side with the corner of his mouth raised, but you're not there to give a reaction. he should be used to your absence by the third twist, but he still finds himself subconsciously turning to you throughout the rest of the movie. when the credits roll, he's half expecting to hear you chatter on about how crazy it was, but it's silent. the only time that would happen would be when you'd accidentally drift off in spite of how engrossed you were. you'd try to fight it off like a stubborn kid, but would succumb by the final act. he smiles at the memory before shaking his head in disbelief. what's wrong with him?

moments like these plague him more and more frequently, but the most notable one is the night before his first day at a new job. he briefly talks to his friends about his excitement, but he's too embarrassed to divulge just how anxious he is. times like this, he'd come over and complain for however long he needed. you'd sit and nod, asking questions during his pauses to encourage him to continue, always adding appropriate and thoughtful commentary.

his thoughts wander to how you're doing alone. you really love him, it seems, so he can only imagine how you're faring without him. he wishes you hadn't blocked his number so he could at least ask how you are. maybe you'd even tell him you miss him. not for the first time, he begins to wonder if he pushed you too far this time around. you've gotten angry and given him the silent treatment before, sure, but you've never blocked him and you've certainly never done it for so long.

he looks you up on instagram for the first time since your breakup. he's not terribly surprised when he sees he's blocked on there too, but all it takes is a switch to his photography account, which you had forgotten to block, to see what you're up to now.

the first thing he notices is a picture of you sitting outside with an ice cream cone in hand, sun encircling you. your smile is beaming and your eyes are crinkled and he can almost hear your giggle through the screen. the caption reads "ice cream date with my best friend!”

he scrambles through his memories to try to remember a time in recent history when you two did something similar, but he comes up blank. what he does recall, though, is you mentioning a new frozen yogurt place you wanted to visit with him for your birthday. he nodded in response, but he knew he wouldn't go with you, opting instead to get shitfaced with his friends. in retrospect, maybe you knew it, too. he had checked his phone the next morning and saw he had at least half a dozen missed calls and well over a dozen texts from you. when he finally texted you back, you took almost a full 5 hours to respond, which was uncommon. usually, you'd text back within minutes. it occurred to him later on that that was your version of the silent treatment, and it amused him that you could only hold out for a few hours. he honestly found it kind of cute.

he remembers what you did for his birthday. how you had secretly invited his friends over to his apartment to surprise him after an especially shitty day at work. he came home to an elaborately decorated apartment and all of his favorite people greeting him. he remembers how happy you looked when he opened up your present to him, which was the guitar he had always secretly wanted but could never quite justify buying for himself. you were so excited, any spectator would think he had gotten you the gift of your dreams and not the other way around. you were practically buzzing with excitement when he pulled you in for a kiss. his friends had whooped at the display of affection, and you giggled shyly at their reaction. what did he get you for your birthday again? anything?

he spends days pondering over this and similar circumstances, which eventually turn into weeks upon weeks. what starts as a nagging feeling that he may have gone too far in his neglect for you becomes guilt and anxiety. he recalls just how torn up you seemed the last time he saw you. to be honest, at the time, he was mostly just irritated. but he never thought you'd actually leave. all he can see is that awful look on your face when you finally ended everything, and all he can remember is the fact that he put it there. he knows in his heart that he has no right to feel this way, but he feels it all the same.

you would have never imagined you'd actually like somebody other than beomgyu, but taehyun makes it as easy as possible given the sticky circumstances. you met at a club your best friend dragged you to, both you and taehyun had to remain sober (designated drivers, of course) and ended up having a surprisingly engaging conversation amidst the blaring music and strobe lights. after that, the rest is history.

he can tell you've been hurt before, but he gently coaxes you into opening up as you spend more and more time with him. you're afraid of being overbearing and coming across as a lovesick puppy again, but taehyun is gentle and seems to enjoy your attention and affection, even if he's a surface level tsundere. more than that, he actually reciprocates it.

do you still think about beomgyu? of course. do you miss him? well, you'd never admit it to a single soul, but the way you see him in everything has to be an indicator that you do. it's getting better, though. more bearable.

a month or so into your relationship, you post about taehyun for the first time. you don't know why you're so nervous about announcing to the world that you have a boyfriend again, but happiness overwhelms your fear when you're met with nothing but positivity.

beomgyu is shellshocked, to put it mildly. the picture of you and your so-called boyfriend is sickly sweet. it's not over the top or anything—just a candid of you in a café holding hands with him while looking over the same menu. the caption is nothing other than a heart and squirrel emoji (why?) and both he and your best friend are tagged. his finger jumps to the boy's profile and he sees the same photo. he scoffs at the cheesiness of it all, but his heart aches at the way all of your friends have commented on the post expressing their happiness for you — they had never approved of him for reasons he's only now beginning to understand.

you always defended him in front of your friends no matter what he did or didn't do. you'd "comfort" him after your friends said something snarky and explain that they just didn't understand him. you'd say that if they knew the real him, they'd see him differently. at the time, he'd scoff and say something along the lines of "i don't need for them to see me differently because i couldn't give less of a fuck about what they think”. you'd be hurt, of course you would be, but you'd never say so.

more and more, like an outsider looking in, he can see just how awful he was to you. it's to his horror that he realizes this must be the case for you, too. the chances of you getting back together with him seem slimmer and slimmer, especially now that you've got that pretty boy on your arm. your words echo in his mind as if to haunt him: "what can i do to make you give a fuck about me?" leave, apparently, and don't look back.

he can't keep living like this.

a knock on your door is all it takes to ruin your night — you had actually had a really good day up until now. you and taehyun had gone on a breakfast date and napped together until he had to leave in the afternoon, so you're humming now in contentment while applying your nightly skincare, thinking relentlessly about the boy you think you might be starting to love. it feels different from the love you felt for beomgyu, but in a good way. you still think about him and wonder how he's doing, but you always derail that train of thought with a god-given force previously unknown to you. he doesn't care about you, you chant to yourself — it's almost like your daily mantra. in the midst of your thoughts, you hear a knock on the door. you smile widely when you surmise that it's probably taehyun again. you don't realize just how big your grin is until it drops.

standing before you is not your lovely boyfriend, but the man who made you question whether or not you were even lovable in the first place. he has a small smile on his face, and if you were to look a little more carefully, you'd notice that he actually seems a little nervous.

"hi," he says, breaking the silence. his heart is racing a mile a minute, and potential scenarios battered his mind the entire way here. what would you do when you saw him? smile? he could handle that. cry? he could also handle that, even if he didn't want to see your tears. what he is not prepared for is the blankness of your features when you ask:

"what are you doing here?"

his smile falters almost imperceptibly.

"i, uh, i just wanted to see you." you're merciful enough to give him a nod of encouragement to continue. "a-and i wanted to tell you that i haven't stopped thinking about you for the past few months, and that i, um, i think i'm finally ready to be with you," he finishes with a shaky breath.

you're quiet for a moment and squint your eyes as if you're deep in thought.

"but i thought you were dating someone now? your ex?"

"i'm not!" he says almost a little too quickly.

"i heard you were," you counter, not quite believing him. you heard he had been seeing his ex from one of your friends who happened to live in her apartment complex. she had seen his car in the parking lot a few times in the last couple of weeks and had no reason to lie to you.

"w-well, i've seen her a few times, but not seriously. i — to be honest, i was just trying to get over you, but i've finally realized that i can't becau—"

"so, just to make sure i understand, you're not over me so you're seeing her?" his eyes widen in shock before his head hangs in shame as he realizes exactly what he's done and how he must look to you right about now, but you're not finished. "isn't that what you were doing with me?" your voice is low and indifferent, but each word feels tailor-made to slash at his heart. "wow, i guess some things really never change, but don't worry, i'm sure once she moves on, you'll finally see the good in her instead of me," you spit out.

"can you listen to me? please?" beomgyu is so ashamed he wants to die. he fumbles for the right words, but when he accidentally makes eye contact with you, they die on his lips. he wishes you would give him time to process what you're saying and mull over what to respond with because you always knew he was bad with words, but he supposes he lost the right to your patience a long time ago.

"you want me to listen to you so you can fuck with my head until the next person rolls around?" the latter words are strangled by the tightness in your throat, and he can't help but wince. when he thinks it's over, you continue.

"nobody has ever made me feel as small as you have. i hated myself because of you," your lip trembles and before he can say a word, you're raising your hand to shut the door.

"wait, wait, wait! just let me say this," he pleads as he gently grasps the doorframe. "i... i love you." he almost thinks he hears you gasp, but he's too busy looking into your unreadable eyes to know for sure. he has never said anything like this to you before. you're completely silent for a few moments before breaking the tense atmosphere.

"j-jesus, i mean, i guess i just don't know what to say," you sputter and his eyes alight with what looks suspiciously like hope. "except maybe that... i'm sorry you feel that way?" you finish with a sardonic smile and a roll of your eyes. before he can respond, which he actually intends to do this time around, you slam the door in his face.

if you were to ask beomgyu if he loved his ex mere months ago, he'd say he didn't know for sure, but probably. they ended things rather messily, which seems to be a trend for him, but if he really thinks about it, he doesn't know what he liked about her after all. if he had to pinpoint it, he liked the thrill of the chase and the idea of never knowing how explosive things would inevitably get between the two of them. he liked the toxicity. only now does he understand that that wasn't love at all, but some sort of sick game of hurting and being hurt he doesn't want to play anymore. he doesn't want to hurt the people around him, especially not you, but it would appear that that sentiment has presented itself a little too late.

there's always been a lot to love about you. always. you're so kind and so incredibly patient, at least with the people you love. you're thoughtful and intentional with your words and actions. you're not perfect, but you try your best to be a good and fair person. and you listen. like, really listen. the kind of listening where you're not just waiting for your turn to talk, but the kind where you genuinely want to know what the other person has to say. even if he didn't know it at the time, beomgyu always did love you. was it in the way you deserved? obviously, with the way things are now, it's perfectly clear it was not.

even if he does bump into you, it's completely pointless. you made it perfectly clear that you want nothing to do with him. the last thing you said to him echoes in his head with an unspeakable viciousness.

"i'm sorry you feel that way." he didn't realize just how cruel those words were until they were falling from your lips instead of his. he didn't realize just how cruel he was in general.

he ponders over how succinctly you summed up your entire dynamic:

"i don't understand why i have to explain basic human emotion to you, and i really don't understand why i have to beg and plead for you to care about how i feel!" to be honest? he doesn't understand why you had to do that, either.

contrary to what one might suppose about him given his overall shitty personality, he had actually had a pretty good go at life. he was innately able to make the world sit and watch him go, and he wouldn't let anyone forget it. but what should he do since you don't want to watch him anymore? what should he do since you don't want anything to do with him anymore?

as he sits in the extremely uncomfortable chair of his new least favorite bar, he's confronted by this truth over and over again. he's not completely sure why he's even here — he hates this place, but he remembers you mentioning you liked to come here. in hindsight, there's no doubt that that was a way to hint that you'd like to come with him, but what use is it to recognize it now, after all this time?

not much, apparently. or at least that's what his conscience is telling him. he should leave, he thinks. he should stop coming here every night hoping he'll run into you because it's wrong to make you uncomfortable when you've said in no uncertain terms that you don't want him anymore. he should, he should, he should. and he will, really. in just a minute. that's what he tells himself, but he just watches the door as he gets drunker and drunker, still.

he's on the brink of literally passing out when he hears a sound he'd recognize anywhere: your laugh. he actually thinks he's hallucinating just because he wants to hear it so fucking badly, but it takes the sound of your voice to convince him it's real. you're actually here. he's incredibly drunk, so the idea of being tactful escapes him. he can't miss this chance.

you try, and try, and try some more, but you can't seem to forget beomgyu's last words to you. he loves you? you scoff at the idea. does he even know what love is? it doesn't feel like it — truly, it doesn't. if that's what his love feels like, you'd rather not feel it at all.

that's what you keep trying to hammer into your head along with the idea that you're doing well, and you are doing well. seriously. things with taehyun are better than ever and you can really see yourself building a life with him. everything feels so pure and brand new. your feelings for him may lack the intensity that you felt with beomgyu, but that was years in the making, so it's only fair that you nurture the love that's blossoming between the two of you while smothering out the embers of what used to be with beomgyu. it's only right, right? it should be, but the way you're so torn makes your head spin.

so you decide to go to your favorite bar and forget about everything for the night. it's been a long while since you've let loose, and you're excited. you're surrounded by your friends and you're ready to let go. it's only when you excuse yourself to get some fresh air that you realize fate has other plans.

when you're walking to the curb to take a seat, you feel a tug on your elbow and whip around.

"who —" you stop dead in your tracks as your eyes meet with beomgyu's misty ones. the ones you used to love so much.

"hey," he says weakly.

"what do you want?" you seethe while harshly yanking your elbow from his grasp. his lips purse and even in the dim lighting outside of the bar, you can see his eyes water even more. he's always been such a baby when he's drunk.

"i just wanna talk," he pleads. he sounds so out of it and looks so pathetic you almost feel bad for him. almost.

"i have nothing to say to you," you reply coldly.

"but i do." he sounds desperate to a degree that you sincerely never thought you'd hear.

"what, are you gonna tell me you love me again?" you retort with a roll of your eyes. you're obviously being sarcastic, but all he can think in his drunken state is how pretty your eyes shine even when they're impatient to look away from him.

"if you're not gonna say anything, i'm leaving," you snap, turning away, but beomgyu is awoken from his daze and gently pulls you back.

"n-no! i mean, yes. i love you, b-but that's not what i wanted to say."

"well, what did you want to say?" you ask, tone laced with annoyance.

seeing that you'll actually give him a chance to hear him out, he scrambles for a moment before clearing his throat. he’s so anxious that you can see his hands shaking as he wrings them.

"i just want to tell you that i’m sorry. i know i’ve said it before, but i want you to hear it again, and i’ll tell you as many times as it takes for you to believe me. i want to make it up to you — i really do — and i know that i can change. i'm — i just miss you so much i can't stand it. i-if you don’t feel the same way, or don’t care, or however it is, i understand; but i meant it when i said i love you, and i mean it now when i say that i'm so, so fucking sorry," his voice cracks as he finishes and hot tears threaten to find their way down his face.

"beomgyu..." you begin, not really sure what to say. what is there to say? and any hope he has of being with you is almost extinguished when he sees how much you pity him in this moment, but he'll hold on for as long as you'll let him.

"you said you saw the real me. you know i'm not all bad, right? i'm a piece of shit, but i can't be all bad," he pleads, tears now streaming unabashedly from his eyes. maybe if he can just find the right words, you won't leave him.

"beomgyu," you sigh, "i've never thought that about you. i know you're not all bad," his face perks up at this and he's tempted to bury his face in your neck and sob in pure relief. the pain he's been feeling for the past few months is about to be over because you understand him. always have. even though he's like this, you can still see the good in him. just the thought alone is enough to fill him with pure ecstasy. he goes to close the distance between the two of you to pull you into his embrace, but you gently place your hand on his chest before he can come any closer.

"thank you for telling me how you feel, beomgyu, but if you think you can fix everything with a few words, you're delusional." his face crumbles at this and a sense of panic and dread pools in his stomach.

"w-what? b-but you said —"

"i know you're sorry, and i know you'd probably try to make it up to me if i let you, but that's not enough. you really hurt me, okay? and it's just, you know, i'm finally happy now, and i have taehyun. i really like him, beomgyu. and he really likes me," you say with a fond smile, as if you're thinking of taehyun right now, and his heart shatters into a million pieces.

"it's okay," he smiles bitterly, tears still flowing freely. "i... i understand. i just want you to be happy. i want you to be so happy. you deserve it."

"but..."

"go back in," he sniffles. "you don't need to stay here with me anymore." he swipes at his eyes with his sleeve and tries to send you off with a smile, but it's so forlorn, you wish he'd just keep frowning.

"... okay." you turn away, and even though he told you to do it, he can't help but feel an even bigger lump in his throat now that you're actually listening to him.

"beomgyu?" you say softly, before you enter the door.

his damned heart can't help but flutter again against his will.

"yes?"

"don't wait for me anymore, okay?" and he knows you’re being kind, but it feels so final, it hurts more than any hateful words ever could. he should agree, but the ugly and selfish part of him refuses to lie, so he just shakes his head and waves you off. his love is ugly and his heart is broken, but it's still yours to have.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again to nobody but himself as you enter the bar.

“tyuuunn,” you whine into your phone’s speaker. you can’t tell how it's been since your final conversation with beomgyu, but now you’re drunk and all you can think about is taehyun. about his kindness, how happy he makes you feel, and how much you want to give him all of that in return.

“what is it, baby?” he coos. even in your inebriated state, you can hear the smile in his voice and it makes you wanna smile, too.

“miss youuu,” you groan. he laughs at your childishness, and you can feel just how much he’s doting on you. it’s a relatively new feeling, being cared for like this, but it’s one you welcome with fervor.

“let me pick you up from that stupid bar so you can stay the night. how’s that sound?”

“mmm, hurry up,” you pout, and he just laughs again. god, you’re gonna feel so embarrassed by your neediness come tomorrow morning, and he can’t wait to tease you.

taehyun is so eager to see you, he almost gets pulled over twice while making his way to the bar. he just can’t wait to see how cute you’ll look in his arms, all whiny and grumpy and begging for affection; and he’ll baby you, like he always does, because you deserve it. when he had heard about your appalling history with beomgyu, he couldn’t believe how someone could treat a person as sweet as you so cruelly. truth be told, you do have a bit of a softer personality, but that only evoked the need to protect and cherish you in taehyun. he can’t fathom the idea that somebody would see someone so pure and decide to take advantage instead of nurturing that innocence. his friends keep saying he’s a sucker, and they’re probably right, but he’ll happily be one for you.

he’s lost in his thoughts when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar you’re in, but his dopey grin drops the second he sees your dreaded ex stumbling away from the building. his face is red, and he’s feverishly wiping away tears and snot. taehyun is a smart man, so he can easily piece together what must have happened, but the thought that you were still thinking of taehyun in this moment comforts him. you had run into your ex, and instead of running back to him, you’re thinking of your new boyfriend. what a relief. taehyun has always known you were still a little broken up about your split with beomgyu. he came into this relationship fully knowing that, but he liked you so much, he really didn’t care. maybe it was rash of him, but he thought it was worth taking a chance. he thought you were worth taking a chance, and so far, he had been correct.

he parks and stays in his car. if he were a petty person, he might ignore beomgyu and just walk right by him with his arm wrapped around your waist. taehyun, however, is a good person. so good, in fact, he waits for beomgyu’s friend to pick him up before leaving his car to find you.

when he enters the bar, he scans the crowd before he finds you sitting with your friends. your phone is to your ear and it only takes a few seconds for his own to ring. he smiles when he sees your contact photo (the one you both took on a date to your favorite frozen yogurt shop) appear on his screen. he rejects the call and watches you pout before striding over to you and placing his hand on your shoulder. you turn around with a scowl, but your features immediately melt, and you grace him with a toothy grin. you excitedly squeal and wrap your arms around him. he matches your enthusiasm as he peppers your face with kisses.

beomgyu, who has very unfortunately come back to get his phone, watches it all and it’s enough to make him nauseous. he’s in such a daze as he watches you two that he barely registers his own friend honking at him to hurry up. he sees the afterimage of you leaning into taehyun’s touch and accepts the fact that you’ve truly moved on and won’t be coming back. he replays the last conversation you had and he decides he’ll hold onto your words forever. they’re all he has left, after all.

you’re so used to taehyun’s apartment that even though you’re drunk enough to see stars, you’re still able to navigate it with ease. taehyun sits you down on his couch and kneels while removing your shoes for you.

“so chivalrous,” you giggle.

“anything for my princess,” he replies cheekily with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“why are you so nice?”

“because i like you,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“i like you, too.” you whisper while your face warms. your gaze becomes heated, and he cups your cheeks while gently guiding your face towards his. his touch is soft, and his lips? even softer.

he doesn’t push for more. you’re drunk and vulnerable at the moment, so he graciously grabs some of his clothes for you to change into and waits for you to come to bed. when you do, you plop down and he pulls you into his arms. you smile at his earnestness. he locks his arms around you, and for the first time in your life, a man is making you feel so happy and secure you can’t help but melt into the feeling. you feel safe. you feel loved.

“i really like you, you know?” he whispers into your hair, and it’s all you can do to keep your heart inside of your chest.

“i know. i really like you, too.” and you do. things with taehyun are still new, but as his breathing slows, you realize this is how love should be, and you think you want to be with him for a long, long time.

notes pt. 2: yes there will be an alternate ending where she ends up with gyu :,)

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#niningtori #i know it's over #beomgyu fic #taehyun fic #txt fic #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x you #taehyun x reader #taehyun x you #txt x you #beomgyu angst #taehyun angst #txt angst #taehyun fluff #txt fluff #txt fanfic #beomgyu fanfic #taehyun fanfic

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starkeyisthelastname · 1 year ago

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Reader tutoring Rafe but his concentration is in her tits...👀

What and the fuck made you wear that low cut of a shirt?, he did’t know. He couldn’t focus on anything you were saying as those jugs were distracting him. He didn’t care about the bullshit that was coming from your mouth about the equation you were trying to explain. He wanted those fucking pair of tits in his face, and as a proactive kinda guy he was going to get them.

“Rafe, it’s your turn to do one.” Your sweet voice said, causing his blue eyes to glance back up to your pretty face.

Scratching the back of his head, he leaned back in the chair he was sitting in, manspreading as he hoped you glanced down at the forming bulge in his expensive shorts. “I’m gonna be real honest. I have no idea what are you talking about and I really don’t care.” He said, his tone cocky as he watched your face fall.

You frowned, wondering if tutoring Ward Cameron’s son was a mistake. Or why Rafe wouldn’t just take an easier math class, instead of the one he was clearly struggling in. You couldn’t deny that he was a little intimidating, but the money that you had been paid was too good to pass up as a struggling college student.

“What do you mean?” I’ve been going over these problems with you for an hour.” You said, crossing your arms over your chest which only amplified your breasts more.

Rafe ran a hand through his gelled hair, eyes glancing back down to where you lifted your tits up. “I mean- you and those fucking tits have me wanting to do some dirty shit to you. And maybe if you wouldn’t have that slut of a top on, then I could focus on this stupid shit.”

Your cheeks heated pink, glancing down at your chest as you saw the shirt you had worn in fact was showing ample cleavage. You were on the heavier chested side and sometimes just couldn’t help it, but maybe you should have settled for something else when getting dressed earlier. You couldn’t deny Rafe Cameron staring at your breasts though didn’t make you feel a little giddy.

You’d like to consider yourself a smart girl, always excelling in every class and doing well even outside of school. But after falling for his cocky charm and filthy words, he had your top down, tits pulled out for his pleasure.

“Shit…you listen good. Don’t you?” Rafe chuckled, squeezing your rack in massive hands. Those cerulean eyes darkened at your submissiveness, watching as your lips parted in almost a soft moan. He couldn’t help but lean down, taking the right one into his mouth to suck on harshly.

You were not very experienced, the secret was that you were still a virgin. Was it normal to get this turned on from this? You couldn’t stop the whine that left your lips, no matter how bad you wanted to conceal it. Watching one of the hottest guys to ever exist have his way with your chest had your panties feeling damp and you couldn’t deny you wanted more.

Pulling back with a pop, Rafe smirked up at you. “You are gonna be such a good slut for me in bed.” He winked, knowing he had you right where he wanted. “Don’t worry, you won’t be a virgin for long.” He laughed, watching your eyes widen at the secret you told no one.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron blurb #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey smut #obx #obx smut

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meiieiri · 1 year ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 [gojo satoru]

synopsis: in every other universe and lifetime he has yet to lead, megumi will always cherish the painfully brief time he felt the warmth of a proper family and would have gladly referred to himself as the son of the strongest.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader | song inspo: chemtrails over the country club, scott street | visuals: megumi’s jacket

warnings: angst-ish, canon-compliant violence (mostly caused by our pookie wookie megumi who doesn’t tolerate scumbag bullies), mentions of bullying, and possible (bc i’m delulu) character death. | a/n: i just want megumi to have one last moment with his dad please, gege, i’m on my knees here. also hehe, get the title? ya’ll get it? someone please shove that arctic-haired freak to the NORTH! 🥹

Nobara Kugisaki is the classic definition of an Instagram girlie with a passion for fashion.

Honestly, she could appropriately appraise clothes without a second glance, and she could differentiate big fashion brands just by the fabric and silhouette alone even without a brand logo.

It happened on a Monday afternoon while she and Yuji were having a quick coffee in the lounge. Yuji is currently playing one of his Nintendo Switch MMORPG games that he bought from the mall last Saturday while Nobara was scrolling through her phone, swiping left as she watches her mutuals’ Instagram stories. The trio is incomplete today since Megumi mentioned he’ll be running some errands with you and Satoru today.

After positively getting envious of Mei Mei’s supposed extravagant shopping trip in Ginza today, Kugisaki promptly mutes any stories from her for a full twenty four hours. Then, as she swipes left yet again, she nearly drops her phone on the ground which would pretty much set her off on a rampage because she just got its LCD screen fixed. But luckily, she holds onto it.

“Fushiguro has an Instagram account?!”

Yuji himself hits pause on the game he’s playing and leans over the table to see what Kugisaki is talking about. No way. Fushiguro? That sulky, couldn’t-be-bothered-to-care-but-I-actually-do-care embodiment of teenage angst having an Instagram handle? What would he even post on there?

Their questions are answered as Fushiguro’s feed pops up, and it’s filled with his pictures, but that’s not the issue. The two dunderheads didn’t seem to mind that in every photo, Megumi looked like a magazine cover boy, what caught their attention is the apparel he’s wearing.

“What the hell?! He’s wearing Arc’teryx?” Kugisaki couldn’t believe it. She zooms in on the candid shot of Megumi in what looks to be a ski resort and an audible gasp escapes her throat. No way. No frigging way. She does a quick image search and sure enough, she is redirected to Arc’teryx’s official website. See? Kugisaki never misses when it comes to fashion.

Yuji’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when he sees the price tag. “One thousand five hundred US dollars?!”

“And look at this! He’s literally tagged in Gojo and Y/N-sensei’s stories.”

Sure enough, the first they see is Satoru’s story which has a video of you picking out new clothes from the rack for Megumi to try on in the fitting room. You looked so cute and teeny tiny next to the teenager and Kugisaki giggles at the thought you walking around with two literal giants in the mall, one of them being your ward and the other, your arctic-haired husband of three years.

“There’s another one!” Itadori says excitedly. The next is a story you took, it’s a photo of Megumi and Gojo, their backs turned and their hands fully occupied by shopping bags, seemingly unaware of the camera. In the photo, they’re checking out new sneakers in Onitsuka Tiger’s storefront window. In a flash, Kugisaki switches off her phone, and immediately begins to head out the door. “Hey, where’re you going?”

Nobara knows that particular galleria, it should be in Tokyo Midtown. “Out, maybe I could borrow Gojo-sensei’s or Y/N-sensei’s credit card!”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to come along?”

Gojo chuckles under his breath. It’s honestly amusing how you won’t normally ask that, given his newfound title as the strongest Jujutsu sorcerer of this generation. A skirmish with a grade two cursed spirit? Pfft. That’s practically child’s play to your white-haired boyfriend. A rogue grade one cursed spirit that turned out to be a special grade? Maybe you’ll sneak some bandages in his bag just in case. Bottom line is you wholeheartedly trust Satoru will always make it out of a mission in one piece.

But here you were seemingly more tense than usual which is incomprehensible because today’s hardly dangerous mission is simple.

Track down the son of Toji Fushiguro.

“I think I got it, babe.” Satoru leans his head in through the rolled down car window to plant a kiss on your forehead. He pats your cheek lovingly, setting off in the direction of the house after taking one last confirmatory look at the address written down in the file sheet. “Well, let’s hope he’s nothing like his dad. Promise you’ll check on me if I don’t come back in an hour?” he teases.

You lightly slap his wrist. Sometimes you wonder how you fell in love with this literal man-child. He’s just so insufferable. Gorgeous in every way but insufferable all the same. “I’m pretty sure a six-year-old boy isn’t gonna try to murder you. If he does, let the record show that I sympathize with him completely.”

“You meanie!”

Sticking his tongue out at you when you blow him a kiss, he disappears into the small street adjacent to the neighborhood’s main road. Coming here, Satoru was uncharacteristically nervous. At the rest stop earlier, you watched the scene tensely from the convenience store window. For once, the obnoxiously loud sorcerer was quiet, hands in his uniform pockets, his cerulean orbs trained on the pavement, his foot kicking the asphalt pebbles on the ground, deep in thought.

To be honest, he had no obligation to make the journey here even if this entire affair was born from Toji Fushiguro’s final words that sounded almost like a desperate plea. “In two or three years, my kid will be sold off to the Zenin clan. Do whatever you will with that.” Satoru doesn’t know why — he’s not exactly the brightest when it comes to his interpersonal relationship skills so he could be wrong about this — but those twenty one words sounded more like four simple words: “Please save my son.”

And so, in a matter of only thirty minutes, you spot Satoru from afar, his hand protectively around his would have been assassin’s six-year-old son as they walk back to the car. Looks like the little boy had made his choice.

And you could see with the way Satoru protectively held Megumi back from crossing the street on a green light that he has also made his choice. Just thirty minutes ago, you were bantering with the version of Satoru that would be reluctant to go out of his way to help someone, now, you were face to face with someone new, someone who has been changed almost in a blink of an eye.

Stepping out of the car, you make your way towards the pair, a faint smile on your lips at the sight of Megumi’s tiny backpack slung over Satoru’s shoulder. Your boyfriend gently nudges Megumi over in your direction, introducing him and you crouch down to meet the little boy’s hesitant eyes. “Hi there, Megumi.” Your voice is as carefully gentle as a psalm, you didn’t want to overwhelm him more than he probably already is. “I’m Y/N.”

“Hello.”

“Ice cold,” Satoru whistles, ruffling Megumi’s hair. But you figured that would be the case. A quiet breath of laughter comes from Satoru when you smile endearingly at the kid’s curtness.

As the three of you settle into the backseat, you and Satoru share a fond look when Megumi who has acted all guarded and silent the entire ride home from Chiba begins to drift off to sleep, his arms hugging his backpack but he was dangerously teetering off the seat, so Satoru gently picks him up, allowing him to lay his tiny head on his shoulder.

“He’s gonna stick around with us for a long time, huh?” you whispered, rubbing Megumi’s back as he slept soundly in Satoru’s arms, the three of yu blissfully unaware of just how much your life has changed. You came to Chiba and there was only you and Satoru, now, you were three. And though you know Satoru doesn’t intend to step in as a guardian, you could tell he was slowly settling into the inevitability of that fact. This boy needed a new start, a home, and people to guide him as he grew.

“…Yeah, he will,” Satoru answers, his eyes filled with wonder himself. Earlier when he first met Megumi, he told him to become strong enough to keep up with him.

But for now, maybe this was enough.

For the most part, Megumi is a good kid.

He diligently helps you with the housework without needing to be told twice the same way he diligently trains under Gojo’s tutelage. He studies hard despite only being in primary school, and he’s well-mannered in every way…at least to you, the kid won’t pass up the opportunity to scowl and call Satoru a lanky freak when he’s being pestered by him.

Because he’s so young to be sleeping in Tokyo Jujutsu High’s dormitories, you and Satoru settled into the idea of renting an apartment near the campus premises. Since you and Satoru are eighteen years old now, it was high time that the two of you start growing into your roles as functional adults which means leasing an apartment, paying the bills, growing your careers and taking your relationship to the next level.

Of course, you and Satoru both piled in cash when it comes to raising Megumi. Satoru mostly shouldered rent, monthly utilities and Megumi’s tuition, being a rich guy like him, those were practically small beans to him. You, on the other hand, shouldered the groceries, Megumi’s clothes and other needs.

One day, while on your way to pick up Megumi, you pass by the trendy Daikanyama district due to a road closure leading to the Ebisu district where Megumi’s primary school is. The inconvenience is nothing short of serendipitous as you and your boyfriend really did need a quick breather and some time for yourselves.

“I feel like I’m gonna turn into a wine dad very soon. Who would have known enrolling a kid would be that tough?” Satoru huffs, his hand protectively around your waist as you walked past boutique after boutique. “Like how am I supposed to know what his blood type is for the school clinic record?”

You hummed, sneakily stealing a kiss from him to which he responds to by pulling you closer, and pretending to bite off your ear. “For all the school knew, Megumi is ours. That would explain why they felt a little icky towards us when they saw how young we are back in that parent-teacher meeting.”

“Mmph, fair point. A cute son will come from a handsome father after all—“

“—Oh please. You’re okay at best.”

“You didn’t say that last night when I had you all folde—“

“—Please do not finish that sentence in public.”

Digressing, Satoru sighs, planting a contrite kiss on your warm cheek as the two of you leisurely walk down the picturesque lane of Tokyo’s very own version of Soho. Once you reach the main road, a certain outerwear apparel store catches your eye. You stop in front of the store window, looking curiously at the displayed winter items. “Megumi’s birthday is coming up soon, no? We should get him something nice.”

“Hmm? Oh right, the 22nd is coming up,” Satoru hums thoughtfully, leading you inside the store. There, the two of you split up to look for a nice gift for Megumi. There, he is approached by a staff member who asks if he’s looking for anything in particular. Satoru clears his throat, nodding. “I’m looking to buy a gift for my son.”

Somehow, you heard that from across the store and you shoot Satoru an amused look when he refers to Megumi as ‘his son’.

“Right, and how old might he be? We have a batch of new arrivals that came in today. They’re perfect for kids aged four and above.” At that, you rejoin Satoru and the sales staff leads you to check out the items at the front of the store. You and Satoru sort through the rack and find one that the two of you agree on: a fleece two-toned gravel winter jacket.

After paying for it, the two of you rush to get to Ebisu elementary school. Making your way to the gate, Megumi instantly spots you and Satoru, the latter being very difficult to miss since he pretty much towered over everyone else.

“Hi, kid, d’you have fun today?” you crouch down to give Megumi a hug. Between you and Satoru, you were the more clingy one towards Megumi, there’s hardly any hesitation in your heart when you pull him in for a warm embrace or carry him in your arms. Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind one bit, but if Satoru did any of the those things to him, he’ll probably headbut him.

“It was fine,” Megumi says shyly once you pull away. “Oh and I got a hundred on the math homework you helped me with.”

“You did?” you smiled. “I’m so proud of you, Megumi.” Satoru smiles, going to ruffle Megumi’s hair only for the little boy to duck away from his hand and hide behind you.

Chuckling at the kid’s antics, Satoru concedes, putting up his free hand in surrender while his other one held onto the gift bag you got. Megumi reads the name of the store: “The North Face”. Following Megumi’s gaze, Satoru grins, handing Megumi the bag. “Here, we got you something. Call it an advanced birthday gift.”

Megumi’s expression screamed: “You didn’t have to.” but you don’t miss the look of surprise and gratitude that shined through his features. You gently nudge him to open it and his breath hitches in his throat when he sees the gift you got him — the first gift he’s ever received.

“Happy birthday, Megumi,” you and Satoru greet the little boy, with Satoru helping Megumi to try it on.

That was the first time Megumi initiated a heartfelt hug and the first time he ever included Satoru, his little arms trying their hardest to include the two of you, so you decide to help him out, and your and Satoru’s arms engulf the little one.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know what happened, but I’m headed there now. Alright, see you soon. I love you.”

Everything happened so quickly. One minute you were in Tokyo Jujutsu High’s teacher lounge organizing the first years’ missions for the next few days when you receive a call from Ebisu elementary school, informing you that Megumi got into a horrible fight and was now in the school clinic ready to be picked up, the next you were dashing out the door hurrying over to the school with your heart pounding in your chest.

There, you are the quintessential picture of a frazzled mother looking for her son in the school clinic.

“Y/N!”

“Megumi,” you breathed, your eyebrows knitting together in worry. Gathering him into your arms, you sit on the tiny hospital bed. “What happened? They said you got into a fight? And where’s your jacket?” He was wearing the jacket you got for him this morning when you and Satoru dropped him off, actually, he’s been wearing it a lot, indicating it’s one of, if not his favorite jacket.

Before Megumi could even speak, it looks like the kid that he got into a tussle with had already tattled on him to his mother and now said mother is furiously berating you and Megumi, not caring if anyone else in the clinic could overhear the scandalous remarks she’s throwing your way.

“I want full disciplinary action against this boy!” the middle aged woman all but screeches to the school’s principal, pointing an accusatory finger at Megumi who doesn’t flinch but you hear him sniffle. He’s never been yelled at like that before.

“Ma’am, please, let’s settle this like two rational adults—“

“—Oh I will, I can’t say the same about you! Are you not the least bit ashamed that you couldn’t teach your son good morals?” She then theatrically goes to place her hands on her son’s shoulders. And you have to be honest, with that bruised lip of his alongside his bleeding nose, Megumi had done some serious damage to the boy.

“I — Megumi is a good kid, not once, have we ever seen him hit someone for no reason—“

“—So you’re saying it’s my son’s fault yours is emotionally unstable? This boy doesn’t need a good talking to, what he needs is psychological intervention!”

“Alright, can everyone just please calm down?” The principal, too, seems visibly uncomfortable with the vile words the other parent was spewing at you like machine gun fire. “We’re all here to fix the problem, not make it worse.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you could tell this conversation has reached an impasse. Clearly, there’s no way you could reach a mutual understanding of what should be done to resolve the issue.

The older woman looks at you in disdain, grumbling under her breath at the humiliation of being scolded, “What should I even expect from an irresponsible woman who got knocked up before she was even an adult?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my wife or my son that way.”

Megumi looks up, tears in his eyes when Satoru strides in, his normally shining blue eyes dark with a fury that cannot be quelled. You can’t even feel the butterflies that went wild in your stomach when he accidentally referred to you as ‘his wife’ without so much as a stutter because you’re honestly this close to chewing the vile woman out. It didn’t matter if she insulted you, but if she does so much as insult and make your boy cry, you and Satoru will give the weasel a matching patch on her scalp where there should have been hair had you not ripped it out.

But now was not the time to prove her right.

People have always judged you and Satoru for being acting parents at such a young age, often giving you rude stares when you’re out and about doing the most menial of things like shopping at the supermarket or spending some time in the kōen, people found your current situation disgusting, borderline immoral, which is why you initially had trouble looking for an elementary school that would properly entertain you, Satoru and Megumi and not dismiss you three as a bunch of kids playing house.

“Satoru…” you rub your boyfriend’s arm soothingly.

“Babe, she insulted you and ‘Gumi,” Satoru whispers sadly. “I can’t just let her do that.”

All of a sudden, Megumi’s voice cuts through the tension in the room. “Daisuke was being mean. He ruined Hana-chan’s project and made her cry.” At that, the kid named Daisuke bites his lip, his skin turning pallid at the revelation. “And when I told him to apologize, he and Kaito…” Megumi whimpers, trailing off. He averts his gaze from your and Satoru’s, feeling guilty.

And right then and there, the story becomes even clearer when an unexpected witness comes to Megumi’s defense.

“Megumi-kun? We found your jacket, it’s not too damaged, but you may want to have your mama and papa wash it when you get home.” The school nurse walks in and hands you the ruined jacket, it had been cut all over but since it’s fleece, the damage isn’t too bad, not only that, it had crayon marks all over it and it smelled of the dumpster.

“…Daisuke and Kaito ruined my jacket and I punched him,” Megumi sniffles. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t apologizing for punching Daisuke, that much you could tell, he was apologizing to you and Gojo for supposedly not taking care of the gift you two got him just last week.

The vile mother scoffs at your son’s apology. “Save your breath, you little liar—“

“—He wasn’t talking to you,” Satoru glares at the woman, effectively shutting her up. “Come on, we’re going home.” With that, Satoru, being careful with him given his sprained wrist, carries Megumi out the clinic. You offer the principal a polite nod, indicating that you’ll cooperate with any sanction she seems fit for Megumi, Kaito and Daisuke, before following Satoru and Megumi to the parking lot. A melancholic smile appears on your lips when you hear Satoru reassuring Megumi that you’ll just wash and mend the jacket once you get home to which, Megumi only buries his face in the crook of his father figure’s neck.

If there is one good thing that happened today, it’s the fact that you proved to yourself and to each other that, no one in this world is allowed to hurt or insult your family.

Satoru wakes up to an empty bed and he doesn’t pretend to wonder where you are. He stays like that for a full minute, simply staring at the ceiling while your side of the bed slowly loses its warmth. He knows you’re hurting, and he knows just how much this entire ordeal has taken from you. First, you had to deal with him being sealed in the Prison Realm, now this…

You really just couldn’t catch a break, could you?

Slowly, Satoru gets up and pads across the hallway, entering a painfully familiar room. The owner of the room has only since recently moved out, but for ten years, this room is one he normally frequented with you, whether it be on Christmas mornings to greet the little prince that occupied such a special place in your heart or on nights when the three of you just simply needed to hold each other, searching for comfort, while you slept.

The door creaks open and Satoru’s eyes well up with tears, his heart plagued by the same emotional turmoil that was haunting you day in and day out. “I just want our boy to come home…I want our son back,” you cried as you held the jacket Megumi had outgrown, the same one he wore almost everyday that winter when he first came to live with you and Satoru.

Instantly, Satoru sits next to you on Megumi’s bed, hushing your cries, kissing away each agonizing tear that slipped from the confines of your sorrowful orbs.

“He must be so scared,” you sniffled, picturing Megumi in the darkest crevices of Sukuna’s soul, trapped and alone. “I don’t even know if he’s alright, if he’s even slept at all or if he’s being tormented by Sukuna day in and day out. What if he’s in pain? What if he’s cold?” you sobbed into your husband’s chest, your cries growing more desperate with each hour Megumi isn’t home safe.

“Shh, shh…I know, sweetheart…I’ll get him back, I promise I’ll bring him home.”

Or he’ll die trying.

Somewhere in the void, Megumi Fushiguro is in a state of catatonic stasis. Is this what limbo feels like? He just wants to sleep, to give in and let Sukuna’s soul consume him.

It’s so cold…so…cold.

No! He can’t give up, more than his desire to tap out and just live and let die…he wants to go home where he belongs.

You and Satoru must be so worried about him and he was worried too, what if something had happened out there while he was here? What if…something happened to the two of you when he hasn’t even done a thing to thank you both for all the love you’ve given him throughout these years? So with his last inch of consciousness remaining, he spends it on a silent plea.

“Mom…dad…please come find me.”

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