#Pathologic x reader

[shmowder]

sometimes I want the reader insert character to be the cool and capable person in the ship dynamic, you feel me?

A Sherlock Holmes-esque reader who treats Daniil like your own personal Watson. Completely blowing him (haha) out of the water when it comes to deducing skills and reasoning. It takes him much longer to arrive at the very same conclusions you've reached hours ago. You're like an encyclopedia of both everyday funfacts and obscure tadbits you've collected over the ages.

Artemy is the best surgeon in the town? Say less. Reader is actually the second coming of Dr. Frankenstein (college dropout included, but you still insist on the honourific). You've had to dig and sew more body parts for all of your wacky experiments than you could possibly keep track of. You're the textbook definition of a mad scientist, defiling nature every Tuesday before going out for brunch.

THEY should be the ones who are beyond impressed by your skills and wit. THEY are the ones fawning over your genius abilitie.

Dankovsky fixing his carvat and nervously brushing back his hair before entering any room you're in. The Bachelor of Medicine literally has to take 5 minutes of mentally preparing himself outside the door just not to make a fool of himself in front of you.

Artemy is not succeeding at suppressing his expression of astonishment when you casually stich up his wound with one of the cleanest stiching he's ever seen. Taken back at how "at home" you seem surrounded by stray organs and dead bodies, even a "scary hulking butcher" like him used to be queasy around blood. Which makes it ten times harder to swallow down the fact someone as classy looking as you, who supposedly came from one of the most prestigious academic circles the Capital has to offer, doesn't bat an eye at his line of work. Even calling some of his lines... amateur looking, offering to hold his hand through the incisions.

I'm fucking tired of the reader being their cutesy personal cheerleader, the one who comforts and encourages them. For once, they're the ones desperate to measure to a speck of your accomplishments.

[thanaticalism]

daniil dankovsky's penmanship is excellent.

it's almost contradictory to the widespread myth that doctors write in runes, which he'll reject before giving explanations as to why that is sometimes the case.

but yes, the way he writes is in itself a pleasure to witness. precise yet elegant strokes on greeting cards, letters, prescriptions... even strongly-worded messages to those who love to oppose him seem like a love letter at first glance.

however, that is where his penmanship fails; love letters.

somehow, every language fails him when it comes to expressing what should come naturally to him as a human being; his hands fail him, his pens fail him, the paper fails him... all of which he considers a betrayal and an utter humiliation of his character. how can a mere love letter conquer him as such?

he presses the tip of his fountain pen to the paper a bit too hard on the word "Дорогой/я", leaving a large puddle of ink behind that almost seeps into the leather-bound blotting pad. he's too formal in his writing— when he manages to write anything, that is. most of the time he ends up discarding the letter, brows furrowed in frustration and ears scarlet.

then he gets up and paces, overthinking the stylistics of love letters, the methodology of expressing one's feelings. how much love is appropriate in a letter? how many lines should he dedicate to his lover? is "dear" too casual? it's just not precise enough for his liking, the whimsical nature of human emotion. this is a laboratory, for God's sake, he needs exact measurements! he's become too used to them.

after going through the agony of writing, signing and sending the letter, it reads like a classic of his. the usual structure is there and so is the flowery language. but upon further inspection, it's easy to notice the moments he had to pause and pull himself together. it's in the way the writing goes from raw, vulnerable confessions to self-chastisement: “[...] and i find myself ruminating over the shape of your mouth at the most inappropriate of times. while my benefactors await the news of a breakthrough, i am longing for a time you were all i could sense, everywhere. my dearest; this is, of course, no fault of your own. i ought to restrain this craving for you until i can deem myself a man of wit once more.”

and there's news of him and his research that read like a report, but with a pet name that he knows will catch the eye. despite his struggle to write a love letter, he does not lose his intelligence while doing so. he mostly loses his patience, and perhaps some of his pride. he wouldn't admit it, but he is gladly giving up his pride for this. there's only so much a lab can offer him, and none of it is warmth.

(inspired by this and the thread under it about him being unable to write a love letter).

[sorcerous-caress]

But. Theoretically. If i were to write pathologic x reader, here's what I'm thinking.

heads up, this is gonna be like ethically kinda terrible with a side of medical malpractice.

[ Smut below ]

Okay so. you know Hysteria?

uh huh yes that one. and you know how pathologic time-period setting is kinda messed up but in general it is semi-medieval?

You see where I'm going with this?

So back in the old times, those terrible dark ages, uh doctors used to diagnose women who showed any signs of emotional outbursts with hysteria because they were ignorant and misogynist, right?

Both Daniil and Artemy do use "hysterical" to describe other people ingame, not just women, but men too. Especially when those people are disagreeable with them, then they just scoof and claim they must be experiencing hysteria.

One of the cures for hysteria is a series of sexual climaxes. It was what led to the invention of vibrators as a medical aide to doctor's who's hands were getting numb.

Now, with the plague and all, I doubt either would care to deliver that particular cure since a panacea takes priority. But if we just...sweep the plague under the rug and use an au where Daniil and Artemy came back to an actually functional and normal town. Maybe no polyhedron au?

Or no, no. just delayed plague au? so this would take place on Day 1, but the plague doesn't arrive until 4 or 5 days later whatever.

Logistics of how to make it possible aside.

Then I clearly see them agreeing to attend to someone with an urgent case of hysteria because that's what good doctors do.

-

In Daniil's case, it doesn't feel that hard to get him to agree. He is fully convinced that hysteria is a real serious issue, and based on his medical books and degrees, an organic and easy-to-deliver cure like this is the most preferable.

He'd be clinical about it, white rubber gloves and a clean disinfected towel covering the mattress. Hangging his snake coat on the frame of the bed as he orders you to undress and lay down to begin the operation.

A bored look in his eyes, he's the furthest thing from bashful or coy. Pouring a lubricant on his gloved hand, holding your thigh with the other to stabilise you when you're surprised how cold the lubricant feels against your hot skin.

His silence is unusually comforting, not a hint of judgment in his eyes. He truly makes you feel like you're in safe hands with an experienced professional. This is his job, what he spent years studying. He will never shy away from all the requirements that come with being a doctor, including making a nervous patient feel calm and comfortable.

The pace he builds up is gradual and calculated, thoughtful of you and your body language. He informs you of his next steps before he takes it, be it moving his hand faster, going rougher or softer or paying attention to other stimulating parts of your body. You're completely aware of his movements and what's about to come.

If you pay attention, you'll notice the focus in his eyes. As if he's recalling past information. What he learned about each part of the genital organs and naming them in his brain. Testing his knowledge, studying your body as he compares it to his memories of drawn autonomy maps.

Eventually, as you get closer to your release and sink further into the bed below, his body leans more and more over you as if he doesn't want to miss this moment. To witness the fruit of his hard work, be it for self-gratification or just ensuring that you're experiencing actual pleasure and not just indulging him out of politeness. He's not a child, his ego will definitely handle the hit if his performance wasn't satisfactory enough. He'd rather go through trial and error until he finds what makes you tick rather than stick with something average and good enough to get the job done and over with.

No. he's just as invested in this as you are, if not more. It's his pride as a doctor on the line, as a bachelor of medicine, you need to be experiencing the highest of pleasures the human body could get through this.

Looking straight into your eyes as your last thread snaps, hips spasming through your intense release. His hand doesn't falters as he drains you dry of everything you could give him then have the audacity to ask for more even while his gloves are fully drenched in your cum.

Daniil doesn't waste a moment before he gets up and disposes of his sulled gloves while you get your breathing under control. He swaps them for a different new pair, bringing a small bowl of warm water and a clean cloth with his as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

Cleaning you up, wiping down your thighs, and between your legs. The same mechanical focus in the patterns of his hands.

Even after this whole experience, he doesn't seem the least bit phased. If anything, you almost catch a hint of satisfaction in the way his usually tense shoulders are relaxed, the way his eyes seem brighter. Getting to play proper doctor for a small moment in time did better to his mental health than whatever detective act wannabe the kains are making him do in order to uncover Simon's murder.

Your throat is dry, it's obvious in the crack of your voice as you attempt to answer his post-operation inquiries about your state of mind and wellness. Daniil gets up and gets you the glass of water without having to be asked, taking care of his patients seem to come second nature to him. It's what he prides himself on.

He informs you that you'll be allowed half an hour of rest before the next operation commences. As much as he'd like to give you more time to recover, hysteria is a serious thing you see, and he needs to make sure this cure takes effect.

Leaving you with a blanket on the bed, even offering his coat if the material of the blanket wasn't comfortable enough. He sets an hourglass down as he moves to the desk on the other side of the room, occasionally glancing at the grains of sands trickling down as he gets busy going over his hypothesis papers concerning Simon Kain's immortality.

-

I'm thinking about Artemy's and how different his methods would be. tbh if Artemy ever needs that cock warmed then I'm free from 9am to 5pm, I gotcha king. but personal feelings aside, I think he'd contrast Daniil in a lot of ways.

I mean, you could read the above drabble as Artemy's pov with doctor Daniil, who just insisted he must be treated for hysteria, just sprinkle in some insults and arguments.

Or still on the x reader route. Artemy would make it more intimate, use his bare hands, put those golden fingers to use. He'd believe that skin contact is the key here, would probably strip with you too just to get you on his lap and work you over.

[twyrinedreams]

Could you pretty please do something with Daniil introducing his spouse of a few years to serafima and platon!! Where they assume his spouse doesn’t like them but in reality said spouse is actually just autistic and nervous around new people!!

(If it’s possible maybe his spouse also works at the same medical institution in the psychology department so they’ve seen them around before!! And btw loved your first post that’s some wonderful writing!!)

LOVE this ask thank you anon <3 I hope you don't mind this ended up being more about Serafima & Platon than Daniil's actual marriage, but if you'd like to read more about something like that in future I'd be happy to oblige! I am autistic and I adore reading about explicitly neurodivergent or at least heavily coded characters, of which I am a firm believer that Daniil also falls into this category.

Also I think Daniil would be fascinated with someone pursuing psychology, especially since if we consider Pathologic to be set in the early 20th century (vague), the field of psychology as a scientific discipline only really developed in the late 19th century, so this person would be a relative trailblazer, just like Daniil in thanatology! We love a scientific power couple ‎♡‧₊˚

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

The dutiful and dedicated workers of Thanatica were not ones to socialise outside of their circle, and were barely ones to socialise inside of it either. The fact that the work being undertaken by their team was controversial and widely despised tended to enforce this social isolation, whether it was desired or loathed by the individual. There wasn't much that could genuinely be done about it without changing perceptions surrounding their field of study, and so it was the general consensus amongst these talented scientists that it would be better to focus all available energy onto achieving their scientific goals than waste it trying to be liked by the people they shared a building with. If they managed to indeed defeat death itself, they would change the world forever, and the opinions of closed minded cohabitants would mean very little.

All of this context is important in order to understand why there was such a surprise when two colleagues by the names of Serafima and Platon observed that their studious chief of operations and Founder of Thanatica, one Bachelor Daniil Dankovsky, was repeatedly taking time out of his day to converse with a stranger from another organisation that operated inside the same building.

At first, nobody took any notice. Dankovsky would exit his office at 3.15pm sharp each day for a smoke break; this was an important part of his routine that had been established for years. One day, however, Serafima had set out early for a doctor's appointment and caught a peek of Dankovsky engaged in heated discussions with a stranger. At first glance the two appeared to be in conflict, which unfortunately didn't surprise her. She almost didn't look any closer, but then a detail caught her attention; soft creases had formed at the corner's of Dankovsky's eyes and the ends of his mouth were turned ever so slightly upward. He was having fun.

She didn't pry, deciding to go about her business. She couldn't see the stranger's face and it was likely that the chief was relishing being right in an argument or something similar. He could be slightly abrasive like that. Then the two were spotted together a second time. And a third. And a fourth. In fact, it became a semi-regular occurrence to see Dankovsky and this mystery person engaging in conversation when they crossed paths in the halls, from casual chats to heated debates.

Platon had done some digging at Serafima's nosy behest and discovered that this person was a psychologist working to develop therapies for disturbed individuals. Serafima had joked that they must have been testing their methods on the chief, and they had mostly forgotten about it until this person turned up to Thanatica's door requesting to deliver something to Dankovsky directly. They had both nearly fallen out of their chairs when they saw this stranger offer him a simple gold ring and watched him tug off his leather glove to place it snugly onto his ring finger, a satisfied and rare smile gracing his usually stern features.

His colleagues' stunned reactions did not go unnoticed, but he simply elected to ignored them as they stared slack-jawed, and the ring's bearer seemed to squirm ever so slightly at the room's atmosphere.

Serafima was the first to approach, dragging a resistant Platon behind her. "Chief, you're getting married?" She had tried to camouflage her incredulity, though it wasn't entirely successful.

"Getting?" was the confused reply that came from the mouth of the stranger, blanketing the group in a tense and muddled silence. If the question had been about the insinuation of marriage, Serafima could have understood; after all, the Chief? Married? The only thing he was married to was his work. But that's not where the confusion had lain, and it baffled her. Platon simply shifted on his feet, completely lost.

Dankovsky eventually sighed and placed an open palm on the small of the stranger's back, which nearly caused his co-worker's eyes to pop out of their heads on its own, but that was nothing compared to the effect of his following statement. "Serafima, Platon, I'd like for you to meet my spouse. They came to return my wedding band after having it cleaned."

Spouse? As in happily married and in a committed relationship 'until death do us part' spouse? That kind of spouse?

"Ho-H-How long?" Platon managed to splutter out, earning a raised eyebrow from both Dankovsky and his spouse and causing him to flush red and retreat a little, horribly embarrassed that his stutter had appeared in the workplace where he was usually able to keep it under control.

"Three years," Dankovsky's partner chimed in as if it were the most obvious fact in the world and didn't absolutely floor both of the people stood before them, though they kept their eyes trained on the floor instead of meeting anybody's eyes. "I had thought you'd already known, since I've noticed you watching us." Dankovsky, evidently unaware of this until now, having been focusing all of his attention during those moments on his beloved, scrunched his face up in displeasure and shot the offending employees a dangerous look, prompting very quick apologies and a swift return to their work. His spouse appeared conflicted, but did not linger after the matter and disappeared back to their own department after a few minutes.

Both Serafima and Platon felt terrible about their first encounter. The shock of discovering Dankovsky's martial status coupled with their obvious snooping had given off the worst possible first impression and they were convinced that they hated them both. The worst part was it wouldn't be unjustified. They wouldn't even meet their eyes when they spoke, they must have been so uncomfortable. That was the one chance they had to learn more about the Chief's personal life and socialise outside of their limited circle of colleagues and they had blown it.

That was until a week later when none other than Dankovsky's partner appeared upon Thanatica's doorstep once again. Daniil was the one to open the door for them, and when he inquired what he could assist them with, their simple reply was "I'm not here for you," brushing past their husband and leaving him bewildered at the entrance as he watched them stride over to Serafima and Platon's workstation, though their blunt nature seemed to subdue with anxiety once they'd arrived at their destination, faced with two relative strangers.

They shuffled around for a moment, looking very pointedly at anywhere except their eyes, before holding a small business card out toward Platon. "You stutter, but only outside of your work. I noticed that when I passed you in the halls from time to time. Am I correct?" they mumbled out, and Platon could only nod. "Since your speech troubles are situational, it's likely psychological in nature. I don't specialise in speech therapy, but a colleague of mine does. Speak to him if it pleases you. Or don't, I don't mind." They shook the card lightly in their hand, beckoning him to take it.

They may not have had advanced social skills, but it was clear that this person was highly observational and reaching out from the kindness of their heart. What may have come across initially as judgement translated into an awkward but ultimately good nature, and as soon as that clicked it became evident that this person held no ill-will toward either of the curious scientists. In fact, there was a great deal of respect there, and it had made them nervous upon their first interaction.

The more they came around to Thanatica, the easier it was for everyone to see why they had ended up together with Dankovsky. He needed someone who would pay attention and be straightforward with him, someone who was intelligent enough to stimulate his mind, and ultimately somebody who was kind. They fit the bill, and soon enough had won over his colleagues as well, even if their bluntness could at time ruffle feathers. Even with that being the case, at least they had more tact than Dankovsky himself most of the time, and that counted for something in Serafima and Platon's books, who grew to enjoy the psychologist's intermittent presence in their humble laboratory to the pleasure of their secretly doting husband.

[thegnomelord]

Random idea while I'm currently sleep deprived and don't know what to label:

The Ghost would love you like a dog.

Always at your shadow, following you, guarding you. At least he can do that right, good for something, big dumb brute that he is, baring his teeth and growling for you, tearing out throats for you just for a scrap of affection.

Ghost would love you like a dog.

Waiting by the door, by the foot of the bed, by your side, and hoping, silently, that you'll get lonely enough to invite him up. And he'll take care not to show his eagerness, not to be too exited and overplay his hand.

Simon Riley would love you like a dog.

Like his rotten canines are falling out, panting and drooling and messy, desperately to leave marks on you. Because he's a Riley. Everything he's ever loved left bite marks on him. And he'll be dammed if he let's the world take away you too.

Simon would love you like a dog.

You could stab him. Kill him.

Burry his body in the cemetery as a sacrificial lamb, so you aren't forced to linger when you pass.

And he'd forgive you.

Dogs are like that.

Loyal.

Dead dogs are just happy your hand is holding the knife.

[referencees]

Hey guys if you’re not tagging your stuff properly especially in fandom tags, people are gonna block you. Tags are the only way to filter content and when you don’t use them properly you mess up the filtration system on this site. The only other way to get your posts to go away is to block you.

I have blocked so many x reader fanfic authors because I just don’t want to see any x reader or character prompt stuff. But unfortunately a lot of these users are both young and new to tumblr and don’t seem to know (or maybe care) how this sites mechanics work. And they don’t tag any of their stuff properly so filters don’t work at all. So the only other way for me to get the spammy amount of x reader stuff out of fandom tags is to block every person that posts it. That’s literally the only other way.

If you don’t want to get blocked for really dumb reasons just tag your stuff correctly. Literally one x reader tag is all you need.

[mixtapedoh]

How about lonely boy, lee know, and forced proximity?

@eclliipsed — i am thinking of you, specifically while writing this <3

;༊ — lonely boy

pairing: lee minho x gn!reader genre: fluff, office setting word count: ~3.6k warnings: language, situational stress, han is here stirring the pot, a startling amount of homicide jokes

olive’s notes: a unique challenge of writing lino fic that i did not before account for or even conceptualize is that when i think of said silly little stray kids cat boy, i think of him almost 99% of the time as 'lino' and like 0.9999999999% of the time as 'lee know'. lee minho? you mean the actor? it's not clicking up here, asdfghj. all that's to say, if i make a mistake and call him lino instead of minho, i'm so sorry, feel free to stone me in the square on whatever day is most convenient for you <3.

☄. *. ⋆ lee minho x forced proximity...

— society, as a collective, just loves their 9 to 5, right?

i mean, if it were actually a 9 to fucking 5, maybe you wouldn't be screaming, crying, throwing up, gnawing on the iron bars of your enclosure.

— but haha, as a general rule (collectively agreed upon at some point, or perhaps no one agreed so much as they were browbeaten into submission), more than society loves their 9 to 5, they love their workplace grindset culture.

gotta get those financial gains, amirite?

— which is all to say, you were simply enamoured, quite totally besotted with, completely captivated by and hopelessly devoted to your demanding, grueling, parasitic life-force of an office job.

and people had the gall to say you didn't have romance in your life.

clearly, they hadn't seen the zeal and devotion with which you dedicated yourself to your company issued computer, stacks of files, and white-walled cubicle.

after all, regular hours simply weren't enough for all the worship you had within you — you simply had to have both your mandatory overtime and your Implicitly Dictated and Oh-So-Reasonably Expected overtime hours as well <3 you did want to keep your job after all, and job security is such a silly little thing <3 corporate culture really is just soooo romantic in that regard <3 complete and utter devotion <3 commitment almost pious <3

until you managed to break away from the curse of Living in a Society and could live without bills, debt, responsibilities, more bills, more debt, and the desire for silly little (but financially substantial) hobbies to make this existence of yours worthwhile, your love affair with your job would simply have to stick.

— which made for the perfect little soup you were currently mired in. a thick broth of learned helplessness seasoned with intense loathing, a dash of interest in low stakes coworker drama, a sprinkling of compulsory people pleasing, a garnish of yes man energy, and an optional mix-in of untapped, constantly simmering rage.

so, of course you were best friends with han jisung.

— the universe really did do you a solid when they placed han jisung in the cubicle next to you.

perhaps the only employee that hadn't succumbed to the incessant humanity-sucking leech affectionately called a company, jisung was the only one who kept you sane when you were 56 hours deep in your work week and considering moving to a homestead on alaska where you would likely not even last a whole 72 hours — but, hey, you would at least get some sleep at the end of it when succumbing to the effects of hypothermia, so it didn't seem that bad of a gig, really (jisung always offered to cover half of the down payment cost, but at the end of the conversation, he'd just buy you a coffee and the two of you would call it even).

— and being friends with jisung was, all at once, both a blessing and a curse.

(because this is corporate living and existence is a fucking nightmare ~°~♫⭒~꘎ )

— poor excuses for jokes in your company chat box, sticky note battles during days when the mundane tasks you were assigned were mind-numbing enough to fell the strongest of corporate warriors, the constant "i owe you" back and forth when one of you went on a coffee or vending machine run and grabbed something for the other, and, of course, juicy gossip during your lunch break — all of these were the positives of being jisung's partner in captalist crime.

— but on the other hand, should either of your work be wanting in any regard... well... accountability is a word long enough to stretch between two.

— which led you to your current state of affairs.

"the next time you forget to delete your 'tongue-in-cheek' speaker notes on the powerpoint we're submitting for review from higher ups, i'm breaking your fingers so you can't type them in the first place."

but of course jisung just turns it into a joke about a hand kink.

— your punishment for 'distasteful' jokes left in the margins of official company output wasn't anything too severe — bless whatever cosmic force made it so that the generally easy going mr. ok taecyeon was the one to see jisung's fuck up, and not someone less forgiving — but it meant the next few weeks would be hell in the form of grunt work.

see, your company was expanding in the industry, and it meant that the building you were currently working in wasn't big enough to house all the ✨aspirational goals✨ it was just starting to believe in. thus, the majority of higher ups were going to move into a new office building... and for some ass-backward reason, so, too were all of the archives.

and someone had to go down there and box it all up, making sure it was properly labeled and in order.

sure, the company was just head-empty enough to have the desire to move physical archives to a new office building. but at least they wanted it all in order before they stuck it in a different dusty basement.

— the very first day you went to the basement and saw the sheer level of work the two of you had in store, you locked eyes with jisung and just knew that fucker was going to find some way to get out of it.

— on your lunch break you tried to beat him to the punch and defend your honor against the soul crushing weight of undue punishment. but alas! you had already taken vacation days in the last month (damn that kpop concert - did you really have to be that devoted to your ult group??) and han hadn't had a day off for the last 6 months.

how the hell did you end up doing the punishment work for actions that weren't even (mostly) yours?

han jisung better move to that alaskan homestead after all, nowhere else would ever be safe from your wrath... once you got out of this basement, of course.

— the most you were given was help in the form of lee minho — who would have thought that he of all people would be your saving grace?

maybe he'd help you plan jisung's murder. they were friends, true, but anyone who was around han long enough would not be opposed to plitting his demise. it was part of his elusive charm, after all. everything wonderful about him also lent itself to fodder for plotting his demise.

convenient, really, given the circumstances you were in.

— but back to lee minho. perfect performance lee minho. always last to leave the office lee minho. infuriatingly not suffering from looking chronically fatigued or daunted, overwhelmed, or simply fazed by the overzealous work culture you found yourselves in, lee minho. curt and focused but lacking of an edge that would make him unapproachable lee minho. impossible to pin down, the vitruvian man of corporate dreams, somehow the bosses favorite despite failing to do any of the sucking up some of your other coworkers engaged in almost religiously lee minho.

he didn't frustrate you; he didn't even really baffle you, but he didn't exactly occupy your brainspace in a way that could be described as indifference, y'know?

maybe this was something you could blame of jisung, too. he always talked about minho an ungodly amount, waxed poetic about how it was a shame that minho worked in a different department — how the two of you really would get along famously, but damn, if he couldn't convince either of you to spend any of your (perhaps two (2)) hours of off-duty life in the same place at the same time.

social lives, after all, were laughable, where the both of you were concerned.

— the day you walked down there and saw minho already elbow deep in a filing cabinet seemingly older than your parents (which, lamentably, was the worst organized filing cabinet you'd ever seen, and was regrettably representative of 95% of the work ahead of you), you laughed out loud and took the moment to convince minho to take a picture for you, so you could tell jisung that he was missing the Historic and Long Anticipated Meet Up, and that was the moment you realized that you were so deep in the basement, phone service was a pipe dream.

it wasn't a concern, really — you were both benefiting from the random employee benefit of free spotify premium, so your downloaded content was enough to get you through the long hours of organizing and packing, and hey! being in the basement meant no one really expected any more out of you than your required hours and whatever mandatory overtime you had left to complete.

— so really, jisung had been stupid as hell to avoid this punishment. it was effectively less work than you were used to (though tedious) and you were far enough away from your desk that the thought of the work piling up in the world above wasn't eating at you that much (at least not any more than usual; workplace anxiety and you were well acquainted, at that point <3)

— and minho! — god forbid you say anything complementary about that bastard han jisung while he left you (more than) 6 feet under, doing work that was, by many rights, his punishment — but he had been right when he said you and minho would gel.

he didn't disturb you, for the most part, but working in the same space for full work days with nothing to do but listen to podcasts and check the dates on dusty files meant that Annoying The Only Other Person In Your Vicinity became a welcome distraction from wallowing in the fact you were moving at a pace slower than desired. and he responded quite well to any question you threw his way - no matter how brain-dead, invasive, or embarrassing. in fact, he'd hit something back - put the ball in your court in a question almost more ridiculous, leaving you to question how jisung hadn't forced the two of you together sooner (but fuck jisung; all my homies are blaming this comedy of errors on jisung and are in this basement actively plotting his demise).

— and it didn't take you long to realize charming minho is almost exactly like getting a neighborhood cat to endear itself to you.

pspspsps at random (bat a stupid ass joke his way);

give him space but respond to his random bids for attention;

have a snack drawer (one of the first emptied out file cabinets furthest to the back of the archival area) and occasionally offer something sweet as a reminder that the snack drawer exists and is for joint indulging;

entertain him with logic puzzles and psychological warfare;

and, of course, shit talk your coworkers and company.

indulge the cats desire for destruction and mayhem; tell minho that whenever he was ready to put in his two-weeks, you'd be right there beside him and would run the paper shredder all night while he corrupted the files.

exist calmly and comfortable in the cat's space; work so well in tandem that you began anticipating the movements of the other.

spend quality time with the cat; both of you begining to wordlessly take your lunches at the table in the archival basement, instead of going all the way back up to the cafeteria, choosing instead to chat with each other and indulge in the other's niche interests and stupidly staunch opinions on poor pieces of media.

slow blink at the cat; catch yourself staring for a bit too long when he doesn't notice you looking, your thoughts getting all muffled and sappy as you become wholly fascinated by the slope of his nose and the softness of his big, dark eyes that look perpetually half-bored at work but sparkle with intelligence and mischief when you call out his name — lighting up with interest and disguised delight as that lazy, gummy smile makes it's way onto his features, eyebrows quirking upward, already expecting a challenge and...

— wait... what was that?

— is there absestos in the company walls, and that's why they decided to randomly move buildings? is there lead lining these filing cabinets? black mold in the ceiling? were you perhaps inhaling narcotics in this dusty ass air and hallucinating something vivid?

you were not developing a crush on someone just because you were stuck in the basement with this fool for going on two weeks now and hadn't seen another good looking coworker in quite some time. this wasn't some kind of drama where the ceo has a strange delight in forcing company employees into situations laced with ✨sexual tension✨. you weren't a main lead suffering from romantic withdrawals. remember your leech of a company. you have no time for shit like that.

— but, i mean, if you're never out of the office, perhaps finding romance in office is a solution...

shut the fuck up, you and minho weren't even in the same department. that point was moot.

— because damn, maybe asbestosis really was getting to you, and that's what was knocking the wind out of you any time minho smiled. yes, certainly the absestos in the walls was what was informing the way your heart constricted whenever the two of you brushed hands passing a file between you. maybe you should sue your company and have some hospital use you as a case study. maybe all the distracted daydreams was a new symptom of your newly contracted deadly disease.

see, that would make sense. you weren't catching a mean case of crushing on your forced proximity coworker, you were simply dying. because of the absestos.

— but even still, the day both of you piled all the boxes of (appropriately lableled) filing into a work car, and minho drove you over to the new building, the fresh air didn't seem to be a cure all. you were still a little more than distracted by his messy hair and black sunglasses... his concentration on the road... his pushed up sleeves... not to mention his hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

(but of course you'd snap out of your thoughts when you remember that joke jisung made about your supposed hand kink at the beginning of all this nonsense. shut the fuck up, memory ghost jisung. you don't know shit. you and minho had already talked about it and were coming for his broke ass the day he had the courage to step foot in the office again.)

— yeah, haha, you weren't crushing on lee minho because of a comedy of errors you had never dreamed would befall you in the first place. working alongside him hadn't woken anything in you. certainly not.

— and yeah, haha, you'd definitely be able to hide this from jisung when he came back. not a problem at all when he asks you about how sorting archives went (he had the gall to bring it up every five minutes — taunting you with the fact that he got to have 4 days off and was then reassigned to do answer all the emails that had piled up during his time out of office. yes, he had picked up some of the work originally meant to go to you, but still. a veritable traitor who deserved your absence from your usual lunch dates. and yes, it was hard to be slick when he'd bring up your casual absence from lunch — were you finding minho's company to be more than enough? — but you'd manage. like hell were you going to give the smug bastard satisfaction after he made you atone for his and also your crimes.).

— and yeah, haha, you'd would definitely be able to explain to a suspicious and put out jisung why you were canceling anime re-run night with him to instead go with minho to this hybrid cat-and-comic-book-cafe he had mentioned never being able to get a reservation for, despite living two blocks away from it. silly little things like that would be easy to wave away, right.

it's like, totally platonic for you and minho to meet up on your only day off to spend hours lounging at a cafe retreat together where you cooed at semi-sociable cats and joked about adopting and co-parenting the one who enjoyed wearing cute hats, and read comic books for hours and order food to share and have low-stakes debates about the best tropes and characters of shared beloved media.

it's not like that whole set up is incredibly date coded.

and it's not like it would become a recurring habit for minho to invite you to do things with him that would have jisung waggling his eyebrows even as you pleaded innocence and smacked him with whatever quasi-weapon you just so happened to have on your desk (mostly file folders and your favorite cat themed mini calendar).

— haha... it wasn't like you were down bad and incredibly bad at hiding your crush.

...right?

— you fool. you absolute buffoon. han jisung could smell your lies and poorly contained crush from thousands of leagues away. even if you weren't shit at hiding it, he would have known. he could have actually been on that remote homestead in alaska and still picked up on just how brain dead you were over your crush. you thought you were slick? when han jisung has a doctorate in anxious suspicion and twelve master's degrees in the art of bullshitting?

hell, he knew you were going to fall in love with minho before the two of you even met. why do you think he'd wanted to connect the two of you in the first place? because he thought you two needed a social life? please — he knew going in that putting the two of you in the same room was horrible for his self preservation; he knew it was practically undermining company goals because your joint productivity would fall 2000% and the amount of cat memes you two would send on company time would increase so exponentially, you'd both resort to making your own memes using your company paid subscription to adobe creative cloud; he knew that the two of you were almost scarily well matched and equally devoted to drinking your refusal-to-believe-i-can-be-loved-romantically juice.

he knew that you and minho would develop glaring crushes on each other and wouldn't do a damn thing about it beyond smoothly flirting for an afternoon, inviting the other out on dates-that-aren't-dates and promptly fake-gagging and denying in a manner almost theatric that you might *gasp* enjoy the other's company in a way not-so-platonic, only to do it all over again. a vicious cycle of 'stop feeding the rest of us lies and just kiss with tongue already, damnit.' and he knew all of your coworkers would be caught in the middle of it.

— which they were. for, like, a solid five months.

— now, it wasn't too bad, considering the fact that you and minho worked in different departments, but anytime there was cause for collaboration, suddenly you were clambering to be considered, no matter the intense workload or the way the task was slightly out of your wheelhouse. suddenly, it seemed you were incredibly eager to learn and prove yourself.

at first, your team leader was overjoyed. initiative? drive? a seeming zest and fire for more commitment? say less and do more! marry yourself to the dumbass collaboration with the other department! perhaps this could mean freedom for their long suffering servitude under the corporate thumb!

but then they saw you flirting with minho and making plans to spend an afternoon together at a book signing while still on the clock. and while they're not opposed to a bit of misuse of company time (vive la révolution contre les régimes capitalistes, and all that), it was a bitter and sobering pill to watch that shit happen daily while not getting any yourself, and then stomaching the fact that these clearlly love-struck fuckers won't admit their own transparency-set-to-0% feelings and put their chronically-single corporately-suffering coworkers to rest. either say you're in love and just be done with it or take the rest of us out with a shot gun. goddamn.

it's like a sitcom's mind-numbingly over-the-top valentine's day special. someone make it stop.

— and it didn't take a genius to connect the dots and realize that the employee responsible for all of this was han jisung.

after all, he's the mutual friend between them. no doubt he talked about the other constantly in glowing terms. no doubt he planted the seed they'd be a match made in heaven. no doubt he was the one to blame.

and! wasn't it his fuck up that forced you and minho to work together in the archives to begin with?

maybe killing han jisung wasn't going to make you and minho confess to each other, but it would be some kind of catharsis for the people who were stuck in this hell of Watching You Two Take Your Sweet Time With It.

— so jisung had to understandably think of some kind of plot. after all, the two of you were his best friends, but to hope that you would admit your feelings for someone to save his livelihood? don't be ridiculous. the both of you were quite happy with the flirting stage, as it currently stood.

— how to get your stubborn friends to admit their (very real and very reciprocated) feelings for each other... when there's no external or even internal pressure (on them, at least) to do so... jisung would have to think outside of the box.

or perhaps inside of it.

— which i'm sure is reason enough to explain how the both of you managed to get stuck in a closet during your company's holiday party.

and, through it all, is minho's mischievous eyes and your flair for the dramatic.

"do you think we should tell our coworkers we've been dating?"

☄. *. ⋆

blog home

[the-kestrels-feather]

Concept: Dankovsky's romantic partner calling him a prickly prick as a pet name

[rosegolqen]

Per aspera ad astra

spencer reid x oc

i. vers un nouveau départ

Take a look at our new menu.

On your far left side is our everyday option, you can find that it is our most useful and precise tool: the scalpel. While scalpels come in many different shapes and sizes, their existence stays the same; for making skin incisions, tissue dissections, cutting open and piercing through the flesh to get access to various organs.

Next to the scalpel lays our bone saw. The metal is sharpened every day, while we may not use it on every occasion, it is there to provide us with smooth level cuts to the bone. Literally. In addition to surgery, they are also used in forensics, torture and dismemberment.

Don’t be afraid, our other specialities are not as disturbing as the one above. Just smile.

You can see one of our most useful desserts on your right side; rib cutters. Or otherwise known as rib shears. As the name implies, it is used to cut the rib cage to open the chest for examination. It quite resembles a pair of normal cutting scissors. Many in the business opt for gardening shears as a cheaper alternative, but it’s recommended to purchase true rib dissection shears to ensure quality material for long-term use and ease the cleaning process.

But that’s just our advice.

Do you want me to continue or have you decided what you’ll choose as your option for dinner?

No?

Alright. Let’s continue then. I’m going to tell you our most successful and used sell.

Our post-mortem needles. They are very well known is our expertise. They are used for suturing the skin after a wound or a necropsy. It helps to return the body to a natural-looking state. In easier words for people who are not as bright as us. To sew you back up and look as new as before.

Very helpful in our line of work.

Have you decided yet?

Yes?

Hmm…

Excellent choice. Let’s get to work.

The room’s cold temperature should have made her shiver but she was more than used to the freezing conditions of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s morgue. She was too tired to head upstairs to her office so Aubrey rather stayed here. In the dark, where corpses kept her company every day.

It was rather...quiet. Pure silence. In her most honesty, she didn’t mind it. Living people talked enough already, but corpses never utter any words. Well, not with their mouths, anyway. Rather their bodies. What they endured. How they withstood the things they did. How they fought back against illnesses, addiction or the worst-case scenario— mankind.

The freshly brewed coffee’s taste made the doctor focus a little better than before. A recent case of murder fully operating on her desk and her mind was full of thoughts about the multiple strange things that happened to the victim’s body.

Half an hour ago Aubrey read the reports of the previous three bodies. As the fourth appeared the FBI stepped in, transporting the girl’s corpse to her to examine it.

Sondra Watts. One of many unfortunate souls to pass away from violence.

The three previous reports about the girls were written by different pathologists. He explained that the victims showed a sign of dehydration and torture. True, she thought as she examined the last victim, Sondra’s appearance.

The killer’s first victim was Melissa Kirsch, she was first attempted to be strangled, said the report. The purple and blue bruises around her neck like a beautiful necklace adorned with different types of jewels indicate that on the photo included in the file.

Photos of victims were just as disturbing as seeing their bodies. But Aubrey was never that picky. She always wanted to work with people, dead or alive.

Melissa, the first victim, however, didn’t die of strangulation in the end, she was stabbed. The photos showed the craters on her wounds, they were a dark red colour in contrast to her pale, white skin. The colour of her hair seemed dull and grey. Lifeless.

Perfecting his method, the killer started using a belt with his second murder. He started to become more ruthless and angry. Years of trauma and pain from a young age can destroy a person like that for them to attempt and do such unforgivable things to another human. It seemed absurd and impossible. It meant that for someone out there, there was no saving.

All of the victim’s eyes sunk into their faces, and harsh marks and scratches covered their eye areas. The pathologist explained in his reports that he thought the victim’s eyes were covered with tape.

Also true, Aubrey thought.

Sondra happened to have the same wounds around her eyes. Her eyes were not the only thing this killer hurt, while there was no indication of sexual assault, gashes of red and purple covered Sondra’s mouth as well.

It could be possible that a gag covered her mouth at the time she was held captive.

One of the strangest things this killer did to his victims was to cut and polish their fingernails. A sign of remorse. Coming from a psychotic killer it seemed…unthinkable and it made Aubrey nauseous to her stomach.

As she took out the fourth victim’s organs and measured them, then wrote them down on a note pad Aubrey wondered how these girls felt in the last minutes of their lives. Did they accept that they were going to die? Or did they hope even in their last breaths that someone was on their way to save them? Only to lose that hope and die after a week of being held captive?

She didn’t want to think about it but hundreds of corpses come and go through this morgue alone. How many people are victims of cruelty and violence every day?

“A lot, I imagine.”

Aubrey turned her head to the voice. A shadow stood in the doorway leading up to the offices. He was tall, rather built nicely but never her type. The voice belonged to Dr Damien Morris. Her coworker and second in command in this Pathology Unit.

Damien was always…a bit obsessed. Always asking to spend time together even though she denied him a few times already. Always acting too nice and defensive, ignoring Aubrey’s boundaries or the dates she’s gone on over the years. Let’s not talk about jealousy, he never got the point. And she doesn’t think he ever will. He’s a nice guy— don’t get her wrong but Aubrey never felt that spark between them that he was trying so hard to bring alive.

It was annoying at this point but he’s a good pathologist. A good person. She wouldn’t want to destroy the slight friendship they worked on in the last two years. Also, he’s not the only one, so this was not her first time dealing with obsessive people.

“I thought you went home?” Aubrey asked Damien as she took off her bloodied gloves. Throwing them out in the bin, her steps took her to the sink where she rinsed her hands thoroughly with soap two times. The cloth in which Aubrey dried her hands was soft, almost too unbearably soft.

She made her way to the desk. Taking a sip of the still-hot coffee as she sat down. Her focus was on filling out the paperwork for the victim. Her neat handwriting stopped for a second as Damien came closer.

“Nah, I thought you might need some help?” He pulled out the other chair and sat down. He was wearing his light blue button-up as usual. His black trousers fit him flawlessly, tailored to perfection to his body.

“No, thank you. I’ve got it all covered.” She looked at him, offering him a silent smile. The room’s temperature dropped— she was sure or maybe she imagined it. Aubrey hasn’t slept in in a while, her mind was playing tricks with her, she convinced herself. “The fax machine doesn’t work though, so I have to bring the report of the victim to Agent Jareau personally.”

Damien offered, “I can come with you if you’d like?” His smile was giving her the creeps even though it seemed genuine.

“Damien, go home.” She shook her head, a few of the shorter face-framing curls falling in her face as they escaped the clip they’d been in all day. “You’ve been here all night.” Aubrey frowned as she looked at her Cartier Tank Louis watch on her wrist. “Or morning. It’s 4:48”

“So have you been.” Damien leaned closer, his elbow almost touching hers. His strong cologne hit her as she took a breath. It was too masculine and strong.

Aubrey cleared her throat as she stood up. Her tone changed as she spoke to him. Authority was evident as she was still his boss. He should not be questioning how long she was to stay in and work. “Yes, but I’m the Head of the Forensic Pathology Unit.” On the other hand, Aubrey understood his concerns though. It has been a long workday for the both of them and he was nice and just looking out for her as she would be for him. “Go home. I promise after I finish this I’ll be on my way home too.”

“Alright.” He hesitantly agreed. Standing up he made his way to the exit, but not without looking back and staring at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you.”

Instantly as Damien left she felt relieved. Aubrey would accept his behaviour as long as he did his job well and stayed in the zone of friendship and nothing more.

6:02

Aubrey finished her report and put it in a light brown, beige folder with the victim's name. She washed her hands again, took on another pair of gloves and started to sew the open chest of Sondra Watts together.

After a few swift stitches along the girl’s abdomen that didn’t take her too long, she was finished sewing back her skin. Sondra was only skin and bones now. Her brain got removed at first yesterday, by another pathologist who worked here. He’s an expert in human brains and determined that the victim’s brain didn’t suffer any head trauma.

Aubrey covered her body again with a white surgical cloak. She pushed the victim’s body into the cooler that was reserved for her as long as her body would stay there. In a few days, she would be transported back to her family and most probably be buried.

The coffee on the desk ran cold, but the doctor still drank it. It didn’t do anything good for her organs but she could not take chances of falling asleep. Although over the years her body mastered the ability to stay awake longer than it could take.

6:32 in the morning.

Great. The bakeries were about to open up. She could grab some breakfast on her way to the FBI’s headquarters where Agent Jennifer Jareau worked with her team. Aubrey could have called an agent to come for the files but she haven’t seen her blond-haired friend in a while. She’s been busy with work and the writing process of the second book for her trilogy.

That’s a lie. There wasn’t any progress, so far. She hasn’t even started writing that book. But nobody needs to know that.

While balancing work and her personal life, she had time last year to finish her first-ever book. It even got her first place in the New York Times Bestselling Author list within the first two days of publishing. She’s held that title for about 47 weeks.

Aubrey pulled the three last victim’s files from the top drawer in the desk. Adding the one she finished before, she threw her slightly bloodied cloak into the washing bin as she made her way out of the morgue. She could take the stairs but her feet carried her rather to the comfort of the elevator. The morgues were in the basement and all of the people's offices and desks who worked here were on the top floors.

As she got her bag and purse from her office, Aubrey noticed how bright it was already outside. You easily lose track of time down there with no windows to remind you of the outside world. Only your clock ticking, the cold temperature and corpses held you together, they were there to evoke memories of the living people.

The orange hues painted the sky a beautiful picture. Swirls of lavender were still evident from the night but slowly starting to disappear as the sun made its presence known today. A few people rushed, running to catch their train for their early shift. Some walked slower, enjoying the quiet morning of Virginia.

Aubrey was glad the FBI’s headquarters was only a few streets away from her office. It made sense that the two buildings would be close to each other. All medical files of the victims run through them, they check to make sure everything is in place and correctly done before being brought over to the different Units of the federal bureau.

The building looked like any other dull-painted facility in Quantico. While on the outside it seemed normal and boring, the inside was filled with working agents and people who have caught a dozen criminals in their years of work.

Aubrey has only been here a few times in her life but the security guards who greeted her as she stepped into the foyer were always sweet. She only had to show her badge the first three times she visited, after the fourth, they let her in without the need to show it. Of course, you were still required to pass your luggage through an x-ray machine where they check for dangerous items between your stuff.

The receptionist who sat at her table welcomed Aubrey happily. She was rather beautiful. Her outfit represented every inch of a wealthy lady. The first time Aubrey has been here she needed the receptionist's help with pointing her in the right direction of the Behavior Analysis Unit but by now Aubrey knows it like the back of her hand. Or rather human bodies.

She headed to the elevator, stepped in and pressed the right button. The shiny metal door closed, her reflection greeting her. She had to admit, she looked tired but it was nothing a bit of makeup wouldn’t be able to fix tomorrow. After she drops off the files Jennifer needed Aubrey would head home just like she promised Damien. She doesn’t think she even has the energy to stop by her favourite bakery.

The sound of the elevator stopping and its door sliding open brought her attention back. Her steps were confident as she strode to the glass doors leading to another room filled with working desks. Some people were already working, filling out all kinds of papers and reports.

Aubrey didn’t need to head to Agent Jareau’s office because she was already on her way to the pathologist. She texted the agent before she left her office that she was going to drop the victim’s files off. By the look on Jennifer’s face, she arrived at the right moment.

Her kind smile brought one on Aubrey’s face as well. She pulled her into a quick hug. Has it been this long since Aubrey has seen her blond friend? “I’ve missed you, you know?”

Aubrey groaned, “Yes, I know. By the way, you are crushing my clavicle bone.” She returned the hug equally as brutally as Jennifer but she didn’t seem to mind. The pathologist only realized now how she needed Jennifer as a friend in her life. She loved her quick wits and gentle personality. She made her feel safe every time she was with the agent. It’s been such a long time since they’ve gone out together or got coffee.

“I hate your fancy words.” JJ released her and she could only grin at her expression, her lips tugging into a teasing smirk “Just say collarbone.” The agent shook her by her shoulders, “Uhm, excuse me? How was Egypt?”

“Oh god, I haven’t even told you about it. It was amazing, I loved it.” Three months ago Aubrey was invited by a research group and some archaeologists who found a mummified woman fifteen miles from Cairo. They asked her to research the dried tissue of the mummy and find the cause of death. While that took a long time she still enjoyed her time in Cairo. She learned about the culture, and the city’s history and even made some acquaintances.

After two months of careful work with a team of specialists, they were able to determine the woman’s age and how long ago she passed away. Their study also found the infectious disease that afflicted the people of her time. She sadly fell victim to this sickness as well and passed away at the age of 21 with a small fetus in her belly.

“I read the article.” JJ gushed loudly, throwing her hands in the air. Working Agents gazed irritated their way from the loud communication in the quiet early morning but they ignored them. “‘American-British Forensic Pathologist Dr Aubrey Crawford helps identify the mummified body in Egypt.’ I even bought the newspaper and taped it to my wall in my office.”

Aubrey groaned, her cheeks burning from her friend’s teasing. Covering her face with her hands she laughed, “To be fair I was not the only one doing the work. They should have included the other scientists' names as well.”

“You deserve to be in the spotlight for once.”

The pathologist dropped her hands from her face, “Still. Made me feel bad. Then I remembered how much money I spent on med school and instantly felt better.” JJ laughed, shaking her head. Aubrey reached into her bag, pulled out four beige files and handed her friend the documents, “This is for you, my darling.”

The victims’ names were written neatly on the front of the files. Jennifer’s mood instantly soured, her brown furrowed. And her cool mask of concentration slipped on. “Four murders in four months. The fifth victim was already abducted.” She took the files from her hands. “You know, you didn’t have to bring the papers over. You could’ve E-mailed them to me.”

“It’s fine, I’m on my lunch break anyway.”

“Your lunch break is at 7 o’clock?”

The brunette shrugged, “You know, it’s a lot easier when you’re the Head of the Forensic Pathology Unit.”

JJ’s chest rumbled, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. “I can imagine. Thank you for the papers. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“Alright.” Aubrey nodded. Sometimes if the case required her friend to ask her to explain her observations and findings to the team. It only happened one time when a genius colleague of hers was sick and JJ insisted Aubrey’s gifted brain and gentle explanation would help her team understand the medical terms she used in her report better. “Jennifer?”

“Yes?”

“Could I use the coffee machine?” She had her eyes set on the device since she stepped into the bullpen. Aubrey didn’t think she would be able to go home awake without another coffee and she didn’t want to start an accident on the busy roads of Quantico.

Gentle motherly thoughtfulness shone in JJ’s eyes. She hoped the dark circles she could practically feel below her eyes weren’t that obvious. “Of course, help yourself out. That’s the least I can offer.”

“Thanks.” Aubrey greatly appreciated her blond-haired friend. She hugged her goodbye one last time, parting farewell and promising to call her later this week so they could catch up.

Turning around with heavy steps Aubrey made her way to the far left corner of the room. The surface of the grey table, which oddly resembled a kitchen counter from the expensive magazines, lay with all kinds of ingredients you would need for your coffee. Cabinets and rows of mugs were your choices to pick from. She settled for a basic white cup with the FBI’s logo. She would bring the cup back the next time she was to come in again to work or visit JJ.

Pouring water into the reservoir, and finding the already ground coffee beans on the counter Aubrey quickly slid the paper filter into the brewing basket of the coffee machine. She needed a strong coffee, so she put two big spoonfuls of coffee grounds in the filter. Shutting the brewing baskets lid, she gently pressed the button on the machine, the button lighting up in a red colour. Waiting for the coffee to drip down, she busied herself by putting two teaspoons of sugar in the white mug. Taking the milk out of the fridge and an unused teaspoon from the drawer, Aubrey waited for her coffee to be ready.

After waiting for about a few minutes and the coffee still didn’t drip down how it was supposed to, she gave up on waiting. Shaking her head at the thought, she didn’t want to ask JJ what was wrong with their coffee machine but Aubrey guessed she could stop by and just buy a small latte on her way home.

Before that happened and she could put her mug in the sink, she felt a presence beside her. Even though he was near her, he still paid attention not to brush his body against hers. Tall and lean, with his long fingers covering the machine and opening the lid again. His delicate touch made her eyes only focus on his hands and how they were pinching a tube inside the coffee machine.

Aubrey realized he was fixing the device, already having experience with the old machine. This most probably happened too often. “Thanks.” Her gaze left his hands as her eyes found his. He quickly looked down, not granting Aubrey the ability to see his eyes longer. Selfish. She didn’t mind openly staring at him, he was worth looking at. “I’m Aubrey Crawford.”

“I know.” He sucked in an embarrassing breath, “I mean—“ the stranger stumbled over his words, his head shaking slightly, making a few brown hairs fall into his eyes, which he quickly pushed behind his left ear again. She smiled at the deep scarlet blush appearing on his cheeks, “I-i don’t know. But I know. I’ve read your book.” Tall, lean and attractive stopped fumbling with his hands, the coffee machine turning on. Instantly coffee dripped down, the smell reaching her nose. Or maybe it was the stranger. She wasn’t sure. It was delightful, nevertheless.

“Ah.” Of course. Her books. Aubrey was rather proud of them. Sad that he only knew her because of them.

The man, who was probably around her age, gestured to the coffee machine. Awkwardly scratching his neck. So definitely not a social person who liked or better— knew how to make small talk. “It’s a bit tricky.”

“I noticed.” He reached from his neck to massage his right shoulder with his left hand. He seemed to be doing that a lot based on his poor posture and his slightly rounded shoulders. The stranger then straightened to his full height. Oh. Aubrey was tall without wearing heels but she still had to crane her neck to look up at him. He still avoided meeting his eyes with hers as he dropped his hand from his shoulder and reached for a mug in the cabinet beside him.

When he turned back to Aubrey, she gently moved her finger to rest on her chin, the movement making him look her in the eyes, “You have beautiful eyes.”

He clearly didn’t expect the compliment by the way he reacted to her words, “Th-thank you.” The stranger took all his courage and advice from his friends by the way he took a big breath, he most probably did a thing he was not often brave enough to do. He introduced himself, and a pretty voice flowed out of his throat even though he only said his name. She was mesmerized.

Aubrey doesn’t know what was wrong with her. Sleep deprivation. Definitely. She should stop staring. She will. Just a few more seconds with him. “I’m Spencer.”

“Spencer…” Her voice sounded strange to her ears as she spoke his name. “I like it. Very unique.”

“Actually, the name Spencer, according to the Social Security Administration of the United States, began increasing steadily in its popularity as a male given name in the early twentieth century and spiked dramatically in the 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s. Today about 2353 people are named Spencer.”

He talked fast and enthusiastically. Never did Aubrey hear someone say something so confidently and without tripping over his words while the syllables flowed out of his mouth at this speed. It was fascinating and endearing. He was. This stranger. “Do you do that often?”

“What…?” The furrow of his brows told Aubrey, the stranger expected something negative to be fired back at him.

She shrugged, “Charm every lady you see with your smart facts.”

Spencer’s eyes widened at her forwardness, his mouth and perfectly anatomical teeth on display as he smiled. He seemed nervous, his right hand rubbed the palm of his left. “No, that rarely happens.”

“Well, Spencer, you’ve been successful today then.” She smiled at him, the smell of freshly brewed coffee hitting her nose once again. Reaching around Spencer she served her cup halfway up, stirring the coffee with the teaspoon thoroughly so that all the sugar grains melted. Unscrewing the cap from the milk bottle, Aubrey filled her mug to the brim with milk and stirred it again. “Thank you for helping me. I’ll see you around later.” She waved him goodbye, putting her used spoon into the sink.

“Yeah. You too.”

Aubrey didn’t look back at him as she walked away. The bullpen was slowly but steadily filling with more people while the sun rose higher and the day started. All these people with different lives working for the same reason. To save and to protect.

The tall stranger was left dumbfoundedly staring at her retreating form, his coffee forgotten in his hand. He only realized later when he was sitting in the conference room with his team already working on a case that he forgot to ask for her number. He didn’t forget anything. Nothing slips past his mind. Never.

Yet, this strange irking feeling clawing at his insides told him that they will cross paths again.

[thanaticalism]

Please please more Danko stuff please please….would sell my soul to you if you could do anything involving him and cuddling or something similarly fluffy

you've come to the right place, anon! i've made this blog specifically just to talk about daniil (and the game, once i get some spare time to give it justice), so i'm happy to write your requests. no soul selling required! just feedback.

time barely stands still for daniil dankovsky, and he's become used to it.

of course, he'll always say that the fast paced life of an academic such as himself is exactly what he bargained for. time doesn't stand still because he doesn't want it to. he wouldn't know what to do with himself if the time just never passed. or if it did and he was stagnant for most of it; unmotivated, slacking, lazy. if anything, daniil dankovsky thinks there's simply not enough time, not enough life to contain his ambitions. that is precisely why he seeks to conquer death; humanity simply doesn't have enough life.

time only stands still once, and he suddenly understands notions like nostalgia, the human desire to live in the moment, and greed, but it's the desperate kind. the kind that is tender rather than devastating.

it was a particularly ordinary day for the bachelor going through the motions; the usual aches of research that the whole world deems as fruitless, lunch that went stale due to his attention being solely on the cultures he'd been studying for the entirety of the day, a thinly veiled threat to withdraw funding from Thanatica in a letter he grew too frustrated to read, and dinner with none other than you. he'd promised, and he showed up.

he lets you do most of the talking, but not to an extreme; he makes passing comments about the meal, about the waiter's bad etiquette, compliments your elegance that he "cannot help but be enraptured with"... his company is enjoyable, but not personal. but you give it time, you always do.

because once you get home, you notice the tension in his shoulders that hid beneath the layers of linen and silk alike as he undresses. the way he unbuttons his waistcoat is slightly uncoordinated, his eyebrows are knit together, and the clatter of his pin as he clumsily drops it tells you enough. all this while he's eerily silent, and both of you know that this, in itself, is talk. and he knows that there's no use keeping anything to himself, but he'll be damned if he hears himself say it.

you sit on the bed, and he almost looks offended that you didn't wait for him before he registers the beckoning look in your eyes, the call for him to make it all go away and he's immediately there, warm and so unbearably tense still, and you waste no time in wrapping your arms around him. daniil goes for your neck, face buried in the point that connects it with your shoulder and you count one, two, three in your head, before he completely deflates. your hand runs over his back in back and forth motions, as the other rests on the nape of his neck. that is enough to earn you a weary but content sigh into your neck, and your lips twitch in a small smile. his hands rest at your waist, just shy of your hips and you hold him like this until you feel his strength return gradually.

only then, does he look at you. he doesn't bother hiding the vulnerability in his eyes, but he is comfortable and content. he's still silent, but the need for words isn't something that you have. he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then his hand finds yours and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles then finally, your wrist. daniil seemed to chase your heartbeat wherever it was, kissing each pulse point that he could, every time. he puts his head on your chest, just above your heart, his hand still holding yours and time stands still, for once.

[al7ajjar]

I am writing to bring to your attention the urgent need for financial assistance for Adham, a heroic journalist who has suffered significant injuries while bravely covering the events of the war in Gaza.

adham hajjar unwavering dedication to his journalistic duty led him to the forefront of the conflict, where he sustained serious injuries, including the loss of his knee, due to an explosion. As a result, he now requires a complete knee replacement surgery to regain mobility and quality of life.

The expenses associated with adham hajjar medical treatment, particularly the knee replacement procedure, are substantial and beyond his current means.

Any contribution, whether financial or otherwise, would be greatly appreciated and would go a long way toward facilitating Adham's recovery and rehabilitation.

Enclosed is additional documentation outlining Adham's I am also available to provide any further information or clarification needed to facilitate the process.

[twyrinedreams]

Daniil Dankovsky x Thanatologist Reader: The Morning After

(mild nsfw)

Daniil Dankovsky awakens alone in his bed, his brain thudding against the walls of his skull with a dull ache; an unpleasant reminder of the amount he imbibed last night after work with his colleagues. At least today was Saturday and he had nowhere he needed to be.

The sound of his bedroom door creaking open unexpectedly nearly frightens him out of his right mind, and he shoots up in bed despite his pounding head only to be greeted with a familiar face.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You appear from behind the wooden door, wearing your favourite button up that had adorned you last night and a stolen pair of Dankovsky's pyjama trousers. The sight is enough to turn Daniil pale, slumping back down onto his pillow unceremoniously with a soft thump and an inelegant groan.

It takes everything you have not to laugh at his delicate state, certain that it would get you thrown out of his apartment post-haste. Instead, you move to sit beside him on the bed, placing a cool hand upon his troubled forehead, eliciting a grateful sigh. His eyes flutter open after a minute or so, catching the fond smile playing at the corners of your eyes and making him wish he had kept them shut tight instead.

He may have been slightly intoxicated the previous evening, but everything that happened between the two of you was by choice. He remembers every detail; how you were the last two out of your coworkers at the bar, how you fervently exchanged theories and constantly tried to outshine each other with only slightly exaggerated tales of your scientific achievements, as a result growing closer and closer to each other in the booth until he could feel your warm thigh pressed against his, and your ordinarily gentle hand gripping his arm when speaking on a topic that you were especially excited about in a way that made his chest tighten with fondness.

He remembers stepping outside for a smoke, sharing the same lone cigarette with you and tasting the remnants of your lips on the filter, mixing with the bitterness of tobacco and the after-burn of cognac into something new and addictive. He recalls insisting that you not walk home alone so late, and that his place was closer anyway. It only made sense that you stay the night with him. You were uncertain, and his solution was to take you by the arm and guide you, assuring that he could be a good host when he wished it. You didn't attempt to pull away, and it did not go unnoticed.

He remembers you asking if you should sleep on his sofa. He had insisted that you take the bed, and had followed it up with the most mortifying sentence he could ever possibly have thought to say in that situation, caught up in the sway of alcohol and attraction. "The only question remaining is whether I will be joining you?"

He cringed at the memory, wishing that he had been a tad drunker so that perhaps his recollection wouldn't be so vivid. It would have been a double-edged sword however, as if that were the case he wouldn't have been able to clearly remember what followed either, and that is something that he would never want to forget.

He remembers that you were the one to initiate physical contact, the urging from Daniil's embarrassing question having been enough to encourage you to close the gap and press your tantalising lips to his. He remembers pulling you into his bedroom and biting your neck hard as you both fumbled with each other's clothing. He remembers hearing a tear when he shoved your trousers off a bit too aggressively, and how you had pushed him down onto the creaky sprung mattress before he'd had the chance to make a fuss over it.

He remembers the blissful pressure of having you on top of him, the thrilling electricity of feeling your bare skin beneath his hands and running the soft pads of his fingertips over the intricate system of stretchmarks that sprawled across your stomach and thighs, reading them as if they were braille that held answers to all of his most sought after questions.

He remembers your face flushed a deep pink, eyebrows knit together in pleasure and disbelief. He remembers the way you held a twitching hand up to your own mouth in an attempt to avoid bothering the neighbours, and how he had selfishly taken that hand in his, pressing kisses to the erratic pulse in your wrist and holding it there so that you couldn't suppress any of your heavenly gasps.

What a treat it was, to see a mind such as yours, so alert, so busy, so intelligent, go completely and utterly blank.

He draws his eyes away from yours now, sneaking a peek at the spot where he had previously clamped his teeth down on your neck and feeling an undeniable satisfaction at the reddish-purple bruise that had begun to bloom beneath your skin; evidence that he had been there, that he had not dreamed up an enticing fantasy.

"Where did you go?" he grumbled, his voice coming out gravelly and tired, recalling that he had initially woken up alone.

"I had thought to make some breakfast, but you don't even have any bread here. What are you going to do about that hangover without breakfast?" you chastise, though without any malice. You had suspected the man didn't take proper care of himself, and his noncommittal huff at your pestering doesn't convince you otherwise.

You drag your hand down from Daniil's forehead and move to cup his cheek instead, a gesture that is far too affectionate for the dynamic you share. He leans into the touch regardless.

A brief period of comfortable yet equally heavy silence stretches out between you, until you decide to break the protective glass around the moment. "This doesn't have to change anything between us," you offer, hoping against all hopes that he will reject the notion, that he will want to continue playing whatever-this-is out with you. Despite your rational mind screaming at you that this was a mistake, if not for both of you then at least for Dankovsky, you can't help but want to pursue it further.

"It can't," Daniil shudders out, and he hopes it doesn't come out too forced, but all he wants is for this to change things. He wishes he could reach out and kiss you again and for the consequences of such an action not to matter, but he is dictated by rationale and reason, and he regrettably knows better than to get intimately involved with a colleague.

You remove your hand from his face and nod, flashing a professional smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes, a stark contrast to the warmth from moments ago. The skin where your hand had just been cupping Daniil's cheek burns, hot and aching.

[insomnianoctem]

I need a new hyperfixation that is not my OC and is tumblr/AO3 searchable

[keysorsomething]

Requests pretty please I beg

You guys should send in requests I wanna see what you guys wanna see

I've been writing stuff for the CoD: MW Reboot and the SCP staff members so let's say them! Here's a list of characters I'd be confident in writing: CoD:

-Nikto -Any of the other Spetznas from MW:2019 (Rodion, Minotaur, Bale) -Valeria -Velikan -Graves -I could prob do Keegan tbh -Nikolai -Feel free to as for anyone else I can absorb characters pretty good when I listen to their voice lines

SCP Staff: -Clef -Strelnikov my pookie bear -Rights -King -Mann the silly -Kondraki -I'm also open to writing about lesser-known characters if you ask :) But I prob won't write for the SCPs themselves ANY Pathologic character, but they may be classic-heavy since that's the only one Ive beat :)

More info on this: -No smut cause everyone I know knows my handle (I use it everywhere) and I don't need to explain that lmao -I am horrifically American so if the character is not American and I get something wrong I'm so sorry -I mostly write GN!reader, but I am AFAB so if it comes off a little fem I'm sorry, and I'll try my best with any male reader requests -I'll do short fics or headcanons !

Pretty please request me I wanna have a live inbox You can also just ask me to talk about whatever if you want, I'll be happy to answer!

[nanamiskentos]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."

[pencil-n-pen]

REDUCED TO SKIN AND BONE

. ݁₊ ♡ . ݁˖

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buck x people pleaser! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: Pathological People Pleaser- capital P. That’s you. Life is a helluva lot easier when no one can hurt you- not if you never give anyone substantial pieces of yourself. Too bad Evan “Buck” Buckley takes issue with this.

cw: reader is a grade A pathological people pleaser so all the angst and issues that come with that, canon-typical gore/violence (they are firefighters/paramedics)

tags/tropes: coworkers to lovers (hr HATES these two) bobby knowing everything about these two but letting them work it out anyway, team as a family, BUCK IS BOBBY’S KID IDC WHAT ANYONE SAYS, also Buck being really sweet and nice (and reader having no idea what to do with this)

a/n: tbh this reader is really just a girl. this fic is extremely inspired by Love Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood, which, my dear followers, if you'll recall, is my favorite romance book ever (!!!!!) also no one say reader isn't realistic bc i based her internal dialogue and worries off of my real life experiences as a recovered people pleaser (there is hope for us)

credit to @bookshelf-dust for the in house arson investigator idea !! super brilliant and perfect !! go read their stuff !!

title taken from Goddess from Laufey!

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‘Who could ever leave me darling, but who could stay?

Cause they see right through me//Can you see right through me?

-The Archer, Taylor Swift

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₊˚⊹♡

Firefighter Evan “Buck” Buckley confuses you.

You’ve only been with the 118 for about two months. You’d be lying if you said the action and excitement of actually working with the firefighters on calls didn’t excite you to come to work— something you thought you’d never say.

And the team is great. You were nervous as hell at first. Suddenly being out on calls is exciting now, but scary as shit at first. You were much too used to your boring desk job. Plus, the firefighters were all intimidating in their own ways- Hen and Bobby the most.

Hen, because you totally look up to her and admire her ability to just… do whatever and say whatever and not worry what other people think. She holds her head high, and you’re more than a little envious.

Bobby, because he’s your captain, and you need to prove your worth as an addition to the team.

Slowly but surely, you began to solidify your presence as a team member. You aren’t sensitive to the blood and gore they see on calls which definitely won you points with Hen and Chimney, and you aren’t a pushover- you’re willing to put your foot down when push comes to shove. Plus, not to brag, but you’re damn good at your job.

After a month, you’d gotten everything down pat. What’s the right thing to say, what isn’t the right thing to say. What to do so the team trusts you, what to do so they don’t ask too many questions, how to correctly come across to them as a capable person. How to seem normal and well-adjusted and fine. What normal looks like to them.

With the exception of Evan Buckley.

You just… can’t get a read on him. Ever. He’s nice and smart and funny (and ridiculously attractive, like seriously, it’s not even fair) but no one is that nice and smart and funny (and ridiculously attractive.)

You don’t like talking to him because he’s been more than a little sweet on you since day one. And obviously it's not serious and he doesn't mean it, just friendly camaraderie, but. But but but but but. It catches you off guard without fail every single time. Because every single time you talk to him, you get the very distinct sense that he’s looking right though you. That when you’re talking to the rest of the team, perfect smile in place, he can see through you.

It’s more than a little unnerving. It leaves you unsteady and wrong-footed. Like you’re never sure what exactly to say or how to act.

So you mostly just avoid him. You’re thankful that you’re only the arson investigator, because if you’d actually been a real firefighter, avoiding him would be a million times harder. As it stands, it’s fairly easy to do it without being obvious.

Or so you think.

“Is something wrong Captain Nash?” You ask, shutting the door behind you in his office.

Bobby rolls his eyes. “I’ve told you to just call me Bobby.”

“I think the second I do, my parents will appear in the room and lecture me about respect and manners.”

You sit as he gestures, watching with almost perfectly concealed apprehension as he laces his fingers.

“Did Buck say something to you?”

What.

“What?”

“Firefighter Buckley,” Bobby clarifies, as if that was the part of the question that needed specification. “I’ve noticed that you tend to avoid him when possible. You’re good at it, I’ll give you that. No one else has noticed.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks at the admission of being caught.

“How could you tell?” You ask instead of answering his question.

Bobby just shrugs. “I have three kids. This isn’t my first rodeo. Now, you mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”

You’re not really sure you can explain this to him without one, sounding like a crazy person, and two, having him lose all the respect you’ve worked hard to build with him.

You settle for the super abridged version.

“Buck… makes me nervous. I’ve had some bad experiences with men that acted like him before, so. I’m over it, of course, I’m fine he just… sets me on edge a little. I’m not like, afraid of him or anything.”

You are actually afraid of him a little. Because if he really does see through you then what’s stopping him from ripping the current back? Giving everyone a good look into your ugly and raw? What’s stopping him from leaving you exposed?

Bobby hums, contemplating.

“You don’t trust him.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” You rush to amend, heart starting to race. Fix it fix it fix it fix it— “I do trust him. I know he’d never hurt me, or anyone else for that matter, he’s a great guy—“

Bobby leans back in his seat. “He’s a genuinely nice guy, and you don’t know how to deal with that, so you avoid him. You don’t trust that he’s genuine.”

Too close too close too close too close—

Smile. Laugh. Look down for a few seconds. Raise head, hold eye-contact. Speak.

“Nothing like that,” Smile. “Just takes some time for a girl to get used to all the facts that tend to come with him. I could’ve done without the one about heart worms before lunch.”

Laugh.

“Oh, you have no idea. Imagine being present when he actually got to assist on a tapeworm removal. I was put off noodles entirely for months.”

Now Bobby laughs, a real one, so you laugh with him, and you feel a little safer, the conversation back in your control.

“I promise, there’s nothing between me and Buck. Just new-girl nerves.”

Flash a smile, appease the man.

“If that’s all, then you’re free to go. Keep up the good work.”

You stand, one hand on the edge of the armrest of the chair to hide the minute tremors in your hand. You hold your breath as you leave Bobby’s office, breathing tiny, quick breaths through your nose until you make it to the safety of your office, closing the door behind you and all but collapsing into your chair.

That was… close. You must’ve let your guard down around Bobby. His personality and dad-aura are so disarming. You hadn’t even realized he’d been watching you that close. He read you a little too easily and a little too quickly. That was too close. What if he had—

A knock on your door snaps you ramrod straight, posture perfect and easy expression snapped into place in seconds.

It takes everything in you not to deflate when you see who walks through the door.

“Buck?”

“Sorry, sorry,” He raises his hands in mock surrender, “I know you don’t like me in here, I’ll be quick. I just need that file from that warehouse fire case?”

You frown as you search your filing cabinet for the case file. “I’ve never said I didn’t like you in here.”

“Yeah, not as much as said as implied.”

“I don’t mind you in here. It’s just an office.”

You’re not sure what he wants you to say. Does he want you to agree with him, tell him you don’t want him in here, make him right? Does he want you to tell him that he’s welcome in your office?

What does he want?

He shrugs in the corner of your eye, hands in his pockets, and you honestly have to physically restrain yourself from staring at the muscles of his arms as they move and tense with the motion. It’s very conflicting: him being the unending source of the late-night fantasies you pretend not to indulge in to fall asleep, hugging a pillow, and the fact that he’s the reason you’ve considered going on anxiety medication.

“…Are you okay?”

You’re abruptly reminded that he’s still in your office and you’re still having a conversation and your grip has at some point turned crushing on the case file.

“Oh, yeah,” Smile, look down, laugh. Look up(?) “Long night last night. Didn’t get much sleep.”

He cocks his head, the action reminiscent of a dog. He really is a golden retriever. You should really stop thinking about Buck so much.

“I thought you went home early last night?”

Your smile wavers.

Laugh(?) put the case file down. Take a sip of coffee, smile(?)

“You know how it is. Work never quite ends at work.”

He doesn’t skip a beat before speaking.

“Why do you do that?”

Something cold starts to drip down your neck. An icy chill of dread.

“Do what?”

“That lying thing.”

Smile? Laugh? Sit down?

Your other hand comes up to cup your coffee. “As far as I know, I don’t have a lying thing.” You huff a breathy laugh, but it comes out wrong. More wheezing and choked than a laugh.

He leans back against the wall of your office, crossing his arms. “Yeah you do. Like, sure, maybe you did have a late night, but none of those expressions or smiles were real. You like, lie with your face.”

You feel cold and hot at the same time. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you want this case file?”

“No, you know what I’m talking about. Is it conscious? Is it like code-switching? Nah, this is too—“

“Buck!” You snap, skin crawling, “Would you please just take this file and go?”

He snaps his fingers, pointing at you. “There! That’s real. That was a real expression.”

You forcibly smooth your face out, trying to project the calm you don’t feel. “Me getting annoyed with you?”

“Yeah,” He chuckles a little, a small smile on his face. “Just for a second, you looked real.”

You blink. Pause. Turn his words over in your head.

“You don’t really need this case file, do you?”

“Nope.”

You set the mug down, ignoring the way your tremors increased at your little outburst. “So you just came to what? Get under my skin? Disturb me while I’m working?”

He taps a boot on the floor. “Kind of. It’s my turn to be the man behind, and this beats mopping.”

This time, the flat glare you send him is intentional. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

“I don’t know. You don’t seem as rigid as you did a few minutes ago.”

You stiffen your posture on instinct. “It’s called posture.”

“That’s not posture. That’s fear.”

His tone is light and joking, but his words hit their mark. Or maybe there isn’t a mark, and he just stabs your metaphorical bullseye anyway.

You shuffle in place, skin prickling under his gaze. “Is there a reason we’re having this conversation?”

“Is there a reason we shouldn’t?”

You stare at your shoes, face hot. This is uncharted territory. The end-all-be-all of terrible conversations.

“Well for one, it’s terribly awkward, and two, I don’t see why you felt the need to call me a liar to my face.”

Buck pushes off the wall. “Okay, that’s not what I meant by that—“

“No, I think you meant what you said.”

He sighs. “Can we start over?”

“Why?”

“Because I feel like you have this misconception about me, and it would really suck if a pretty girl didn’t like me just because we got off on the wrong foot.”

PRETTY?

“You think I’m pretty?”

You slap a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

He smirks, a mischievous thing pulling at his lips. “No, I think you meant what you said.” He says, mimicking your earlier words.

You press your hands into your face, exhaling hard.

“Well, if your goal was to make me uncomfortable, you’ve definitely succeeded.”

“Aw, that’s no good. That’s the opposite of what I wanted.”

The gears in your brain turn.

“You came here… because you wanted me to be more comfortable around you?”

He snaps his fingers. “Ding ding ding!”

You frown. “So your plan to make me more comfortable around you was to call me a liar and purposefully get under my skin?”

Your words hang in silence for a moment.

“Well when you put it like that—“

“Is there another way to put it?”

“The plan was to get you to see that nothing bad is gonna happen if you stop doing that face-lying-thing. I mean, you haven’t been doing it for the duration of this conversation and the world hasn’t ended, right?”

You look away. “That’s because I can’t pretend with you. It always falls apart. You freak me out.”

His brows furrow. “I freak you out?”

“Yes!” You snap whipping your head back to face him, “Other people put out, like, signals, you know. What kind of people they like and dislike, and I pick up on them, and avoid the parts they don’t like and play up the parts they do like. But you don’t put out anything! I don’t know what you want.”

Buck is silent for several moments. It’s unnerving.

“Have you ever considered that maybe I just like you?”

You blink. Look away. Cross your arms.

“You know,” He continues, voice a little softer, “I have a habit of liking people just as they are. Bobby tells me it’s one of my better qualities.”

“Is planning difficult conversations one of your lesser qualities?”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“No.”

It’s easier to focus and talk about the less serious parts of this entire situation than even think about what he just said.

“How about this,” He says after you don’t speak again. “If you’re gonna fake something, or pretend you feel one way about something, you have to come tell me the truth about how you really feel.”

“Well that sounds terrible. What do you get out of it?”

He smiles, folding his hands behind his back. “You agree to let me take you on a date.”

Your face is practically on fire. Evan Buckley is asking you on a date. Buck is asking you on a date.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage to get out. Oh.

He frowns. “Are you oka—“

You smash your face into your hands, hiding your flushed and flustered face from view. “Just— just give me a second.”

You attempt to slow your racing heart, all to aware of the fact that Buck is still in the room, still looking at you.

“…Can you turn around?”

You hear a quiet little huff, then the shuffling of footsteps, signifying he is in fact no longer looking at you.

“If I’d known you’d be this excited at the idea—“

“Shut up or I’ll say no.”

He just hums, voice teasing. “I don’t think you will.”

“I might.”

“Mm. Nope.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t,” You grumble, dropping your hands. “Okay fine, I’ll do it, but when I tell you… stuff, you don’t get to make fun of me for whatever it is.”

“I really think you have the wrong idea of who I am as a person.”

“I’ve seen how you make fun of Eddie.”

“Well, that’s Eddie. It’s like, bro code.”

“Ew.”

“Having friends is gross?”

“Yes. Get out of my office.”

He turns around, grabbing his chest, feigning pain. “Oh the hurt. The pain.”

“You’ll survive, I’m sure. You’re a big boy.”

Okay what the fuck are you saying right now. Can’t god just strike you down? Can’t some old water damage cause the ceiling to come down on you?

Buck takes it in stride, laughing loudly, though if you look close, you can see a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“So when are you free for our date?”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively over the word date, and you despise the flush it brings to your face. And ears. And neck.

“Um. Saturday?”

“Cool. You have my number, right?”

You nod.

“I’ll text you the details later this week. And hey, look at me.”

He waits until you look up. “You aren’t allowed to spend the rest of this week stressing about it, okay? It’s gonna be fun, and nice."

He opens the door to your office, ducking half out before turning around. “Remember: fun and nice.”

And then he’s gone. Then you’re just an idiot standing in your office, face hot and tingling.

He called you pretty.

—

Buck's request is difficult to follow through on. Like, sure, you agreed to it, but you still don't really understand why he wants to know this. The things that go on in your head that you don't tell anyone about. He said he got a date out of (a date, you're going on a date with Evan Buckley--) but is that really... anything?

Is it a real date? Or just some little fling? And why, exactly, is the date something he considers a fair trade? Like sure, he's hot -incredibly so- and every time you think about the date your heart speeds up and million questions run through your head, like will he pick you up, is he the type to bring flowers, where are you going for the date, all of those things.

You wince from your spot on the couch upstairs, papers strewn across the table in front of you.

"Dammit," You mutter, holding a finger up to the lip that you've chewed to shreds, now bleeding steadily, blood beginning to trickle down your chin.

A napkin appears in your line of sight, and you take it from Hen gratefully.

"Thanks."

She just nods. "Something on your mind?"

You blink, a little questioning.

"Your lip," She gestures to it. "You always chew it when you're thinking about something troubling. Is this about that new case?"

"Ah," You breathe, a small shiver running down your spine at her words. Being perceived is weird. "No actually. It's..."

You decide to be honest. News will get out anyway, and Hen appreciates truthfullness. "It's about Buck."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You shuffle the papers in front of you, hands itching for something to do, "We're going on a date on Saturday."

"Oh!" She exclaims, settling on the couch across from you. "That's... surprising. I was under the impression you didn't really care for him."

Your face heats. "That's kind of why we're going on the date. He wants to... make me more comfortable. Those were his words."

"Interesting method."

You shrug. "It's Buck."

Hen nods, a chuckle escaping her lips. "I'm guessing you're not so sure about it?"

"It's not that. I just," you debate your next words carefully, weighing the options, wondering if you should even say them, but Hen's face is open and non-judgmental, and she knows when not to gossip.

"I haven't been on a date in awhile," You admit, "Or many at all, really. I don't know what to expect."

Your hands still on the papers. "I... don't do well when I don't know what to expect."

Hen nods. "I get it. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that Buck will do everything in his power to make the date as 'comfortable'," She does finger quotes around the word, "As possible. It took him a couple tries to get here, but. He's got a good heart."

You can't help the small frown at her words. "I know."

Hen tilts her head, squinting. "Do you? Cause it seems like you aren't so sure."

Smile. Laugh.

"Well," You laugh a small, breathy thing. "In my experience, no one is that nice."

Hen snorts. "Okay, true. But Buck's been through a lot. What he may lack in tact he makes up for in earnest effort."

She stands, and levels you with a look you try hard not to whither behind. "Give him a chance. And try not to break his heart."

You smile, hoping it doesn't look as brittle as it feels. "I'll try not to."

Though I'm not sure he'll be the one getting his heart broken.

--

Buck is careful not to bother you too much at work. He still sets you on edge in that "I see through you" way of his, but he's right- nothing terrible has happened since your conversation. If anything, he's almost... gentler, in his good natured ribbing and such. He's actually rather attentive.

"Okay," He murmurs next to you at the table, most of the others finished with their food , plates cleared and being washed. "You've got your fake smile on, so spill."

You elbow him. "Cool it, Buckley."

"Great meal, Cap!" You call out to the Captain, who sends you a quick smile from the sink.

You spear a stem of asparagus prepared honestly perfectly by Bobby, and lean over to Buck. "Fine. You really wanna know?"

"Uh, yeah."

You take a huge bite, smiling as you swallow. "I hate asparagus."

Buck's eyebrows shoot up. "Are you serious? That's such a small thing to care about."

You glance up to ensure nobody's eavesdropping. "Bobby works really hard on everything he makes! I don't want any of it to go to waste or to seem unappreciative."

"Okay, we're really going to have to have a talk about your perception of everyone," He elbows you back, "Come on. Bobby would not be offended if you don't eat the vegetables because you don't like asparagus period. It's not like you're even saying you don't like his cooking!"

You take another bite. Only A few left. "Better safe than sorry."

"Stop eating them--"

"I have to finish them!"

"Something wrong over there?" Bobby's voice rings out over the kitchen.

"Nope!" You call back.

"Actually," Buck starts, ignoring your furious elbowing, "Our little investigator over here doesn't like asparagus."

Bobby tilts his head with a smile. "Why didn't you say something?"

Your stomach lurches. Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god-- "I... didn't want you to be offended?"

"Why would I be offended that you don't like asparagus?"

"Because you cooked it?"

He shakes his head. "Not how things work around here. If you don't like something, you don't have to eat it."

Your face feels like it's on fire and your palms are sweating and you kind of feel a little nauseous. But that might be the asparagus. "Right. Okay. Thanks."

Bobby goes back to loading the dishwasher, and the others are no longer paying attention, so you lower your forehead to the table, grateful that Buck moves your plate away before your head can meet your now unfinished vegetables.

"Why did you do that?"

"Because asparagus is a dumb thing to be worried about," He says, voice light and cheery.

"It was a valid concern," You mumble.

"Maybe in your head. But not quite in reality," He rubs your back consolingly a few times, though all the action does is rile you up more. You're suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you're still sitting here and you actually can't see if the others are still looking and oh god maybe Bobby is upset because you're an adult, you should've known that and--

"I can physically feel how tense you just got."

Oh. Right. His hand is still on your back.

"Relax," He drags out the word, his voice low and deep, "No one is going to spontaneously hate you. I sure don't."

"You don't count."

"Mm, how come?"

You're glad your face is currently hidden by the table, because you flush when you mumble the next words.

"Cause you think I'm pretty."

"I do," He amends, "But I'm not sure that discounts my opinion. IF anything, it doubles it."

"That's not how that works."

"It's not?"

"No."

He leans in, his breath tickling your ear. "Prove me wrong, then."

--

Saturday approaches and your anxiety increases. Buck had in deed texted you the details -which did, actually, make you feel better, knowing a bit of what to expect and having it in writing.

When Saturday arrives and the clock inches closer to the time he said he'd pick you up, you start to question if any of this was a good idea.

Everything collapses when you have to pick an outfit. Nothing seems right- everything is either too much or not enough. You blink the tears out of your eyes because you spent too long on your makeup to ruin it, and Buck's gonna be here soon and you need to just pick something--

A knock sounds at your door and you gasp. Shit.

You rush to the front door, and wrench it open.

"Hi I'm so sorry I'm not ready yet- oh my god are those flowers?"

Buck takes the rush of words in stride, smiling and holding the bouquet out to you. "They are."

You take the flowers with reverence, the gentle, floral aroma soothing your senses.

"Are... you okay?"

You blink, not realizing that tears had begun to well up in your eyes again. "What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'm a little... frazzled."

His gaze darts down. "Is that why you don't have pants on?"

You're almost one hundred percent sure you burst into flames right then and there. And if you don't, you seriously hope you do.

"Oh my god- don't look, I'll be right back, uh, please come inside and close the door!"

You race back into your room and shut the door, throwing on the closest pair of pants- which happen to be the fuzzy, old, candy heart-print pajama pants you took on three hours ago when you started getting ready.

You step back out, now sporting a wonderful outfit consisting of your black, rather nicely fitting going out top and fluffy pajama pants.

"I'll be ready in about fifteen minutes, sorry about the," You pause, swallowing your embarrassment, "Lack of pants."

He chuckles, laughing that nice little Buck laugh that settles your nerves a bit. "Hey, I wasn't complaining. I asked for the real you and this has all been very real."

Your never-ending flush revives itself as he speaks. "I"m really sorry, I'm usually more put together than this, I promise."

He takes a step toward you. "Remember why we're going on this date?"

A beat passes.

Buck takes another step. "To make you more comfortable with me. And the team, but mostly me."

You laugh a little, a nervous thing.

"But you don't seem very comfortable right now." His hands rise to the your waist, sliding down to your hips.

"Sorry," You say on instinct.

He huffs. "Still don't think you're getting the point of this. Okay, what was the big stressor of tonight, besides the actual date part?"

You look down at your feet. "My outfit."

"Well," He says, squeezing your waist and very clearly enjoying the little squeak you let out at the action, "Then why don't we sollve that by..."

Your heart siezes. Oh god, you're not ready to sleep with him, you haven't had your everything shower because it was only the first date and you didn't think--

"...Staying in tonight? I can order some takeout and we can watch a movie."

Oh.

"But your reservation--"

"Can be called and cancelled," He soothes. "I only want to do things you're comfortable with. That was the whole point of this date."

Later, after you both stuffed your faces with takeout graciously ordered by Buck, and both of you cuddled up on the couch (!) you let yourself speak.

"Buck?"

"Hmm?"

"Sorry for freaking out earlier," You curl your arm around his bicep, face smashed into the side of it while you (pretend) to watch the movie. "Thanks for... this. And the flowers."

"You really like those flowers, huh?"

"Mhm. They're really pretty. No one's ever gotten me flowers before."

"What? No way."

"Well. I haven't ever gotten flowers from a date or boyfriend," You stumble over the word boyfriend, "But like, you know. Graduations and stuff."

"Guess we're going to have to fix that, then."

"We are?"

He raises a brow. "You didn't think I was gonna stop at one date, did you?"

"Well it was kind of a mess."

He shrugs. "On one of my first dates, I choked on bread and my date at the time had to perform a tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen."

You gape at him. "Those are real?"

He traces a finger over the thin, silver scar on his throat. "Yep. So trust me, this date turned out fine. I actually uh,"

He flushes a little, a dusting of red on his cheeks. "I actually really enjoyed tonight."

You chew your lip, nervous and scared but all the sudden deciding that you're going to get over yourself and do something. No matter how small.

You stare at the end credits. "You wanna watch another movie?"

"Absolutely. More takeout?"

"I don't know how you can even think about eating more. But I do have popcorn in the pantry."

He presses a quick, soft little kiss to your cheek. "Perfect."

₊˚⊹♡