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pixie-dust-and-pain · 5 months ago

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Adrenocorticotropic Hormone

Words: 2,459 TW: Talk of drugs, and science

PLEASE ENSURE SAFE LAB PRACTICE. DO NOT DO THIS (gestures to vaguely everything)

“Combining derivatives of ACTH and LSD? Really? A potent fear cocktail. I’d replace the LSD with Tetrahydrocannabinol if I was you, though,” “Less potent,” he answers reflexively, voice hoarse and jaw slack. She peers at him, unimpressed. “Less fatal. This would send people into cardiac arrest. Just hand-feed them belladonna if you want to induce terrifying hallucinations then kill them,” she isn’t disgusted, or terrified by his revelation, but is instead judging his competence. It makes something in him bristle. It also makes his cock twitch.

TL;DR: Jonathan Crane meets smart lady. Smart lady sees past his bullshit and laughs at him. Jonathan Crane is about to swoon. Jonathan Crane is me.

The first time he sees her, he’s running on the five hours of sleep he’s aggregated sporadically in the past few days, eyelids burning every time he blinks them and head drooping wherever he’s hunched over his research, awake only by the grace of caffeine and his own excitement, poorly constrained glee running through his veins as his brain works at an ungodly speed, handwriting stretched and barely legible in his mess of papers, crazed and delirious, drunk off of the exhilarating feeling of nearing a breakthrough, anticipation under his skin, fingers twitching to wrap around the fleshy fruit of success and tear into it, so close, so close-

He shoves the chemistry lab doors open, unceremonious and loud in the empty building, and is met with a high, panicked yelp, followed by the crash of something undoubtedly breaking. A girl-his age, younger maybe, eyes wide and round with surprise, messy, stained labcoat, yellow-pink stained latex gloves and the indents of safety goggles, the same ones on her head, probably, around her eyes, blue mask, messy hair-stares back at him, her broken test tube on the floor.

This isn’t unfamiliar territory, not wholly, but it is…unexpected. The Gotham University laboratories are open to students at all hours, a bit recklessly, and while it’s not uncommon to see students trying to finish off their projects a few days before the deadlines in the middle of the night, it is uncommon to see them in the middle of the semester, no major deadlines in the foreseeable future.

There are two ways this plays out: one, she’s disgusted by him and leaves the lab, uncaring of whatever project she’s probably overdue on. Two, she makes passive aggressive remarks until he leaves (not going to happen) and they stay stuck there till morning, in each other’s lovely company.

She still hasn’t moved.

He raises a brow, glances at her puddle of reddish-brown liquid at her feet, a coagulated something letting out a silent hiss. She follows his line of sight, an expression of exhaustion overcoming her as she grabs a mass of tissues and begins sopping up her solution, uncaring when a drop comes in contact with the sliver of skin between her gloves and coat. The act irks him.

The dripping glob goes in the chemical waste bin, and she turns to fix him with a wary stare. He inclines his head, a facsimile of acknowledgement, “Jonathan Crane,”

It’s a minute’s worth of pause before she mimics the gesture, returning his name with hers, expression carefully blank in that way he knows is crafted. Not a crack in that mask, he notes, mildly amused.

She turns away, ignoring his existence, hands working in well-practiced movements as she rinses out her standard flask, switching on her weighing machine with a dry, knuckled glove.

“Overdue project?” he asks, curiosity getting the best of him, carefully spreading out his own notes on a different bench, wincing internally at the messily cleaned state of the equipment.

She pulls down the mask, and he observes her almost clinically. Pink lips, tinted lip-balm, bitten raw and mildly bloody in one corner-an anxiety soothing mechanism? Or a body-focused repetitive behavior?-soft-looking cheeks, an ink-stain running down the corner of her face, almost faded.

She shakes her head in response, sucking up whatever she’s prepared in her conical flask with the pipette, mouth on one end of the tube, transferring it to her standard. He raises a brow. The method’s a bit old-fashioned, and with its own risks, but she seems confident as she transfers her solution. “Personal project. You?”

His lips curl, barely a smile. “The same,”

He ignores her after that, as she does him, instead venturing to prepare his first batch of a stress-inducer. She flits about the lab like she belongs, obviously familiar with it, with the air of someone who places lab safety second in their list of priorities, and results first, routinely sniffing her chemicals and wiping wet, soapy gloves on her coat like a chef with her apron.

His own method is relatively neater, not in the manner of a wary, stringent rule-follower, but in the manner of a man who likes his workplace clean-precise. A tissue-box on his workbench, along with a packet of gloves, his coat pristine and his method textbook. At one point, the thumb of her glove dissolves, and she only grimaces, pulling out another, blue glove from her pockets. Her other glove is an off-white, and she doesn’t seem bothered by the two different colours.

Even watching her grates on his nerves. He looks away.

It’s during the late, or maybe the early, hours when he finally sits down, blinking rapidly to keep exhaustion at bay. She passes by him, headed to the fume-hood, and pauses, before making her way back to her bag, a garish blue denim thing, and pulling out a flask. For a moment he wonders if it’s alcoholic, before she strips off her gloves and hands it to him, uncapping it, and the strong aroma of well-made coffee hits his nose.

“No food and drinks allowed in the lab,” he says reflexively.

She raises a brow, retracting her arm slowly, and pointedly takes a sip.

“The rule’s there for a reason-this is a safety hazard. Should your coffee be contaminated with-”

She takes another sip.

He accepts the flask.

She doesn’t return to her own work, instead cracking her neck in a way that makes even him wince, and dragging over a stool to sit next to him, pushing away his meticulously arranged equipment with a carelessness that evokes immediate irritation, before he realizes that she’s been careful enough to not disturb his test-tube rack, holding the half-precipitated mixture he’s been waiting on.

“What’s your major?” it’s the first question she’s asked him all night. It’s a stupid one, he wants to tell her, as she rifles through his notes.

“Psychology,”

“Not chemistry?” she asks, amused. She’s staring at his formulae a little too closely. It makes him antsy, he wants to rip it out of her hands, clutch the papers to his chest. Nevertheless, her comment is flattering.

“That too,”

She huffs out a laugh, “Smart. What’re you making?”

“Trying to generate a new anxiolytic to assist with anxiety-attacks,” he answers easily.

She doesn’t answer him for a long minute, before turning to him in her seat, leaning back against the desk in a way he’s certain isn’t permitted, lab-etiquette absolutely atrocious, pushing the goggles up to her hair and her mask to her chin, gaze curious. “Really? How would it work?”

He blinks, taken aback momentarily, “Competitively binds with the receptors in the CNS responsible for adrenal release,”

She hums thoughtfully, the way she’s looking at him making him feel almost like…prey.

He’s seen this look before, of course, but not on others. Not directed to him. He’s been mistaken for prey-weak, lanky Jonathan, the freak-but never before has he felt as threatened as he does now. It has him on edge, his heart racing, as he over-analyzes every movement of hers-her delicate fingers playing with the edges of his papers, her body relaxed, half-sprawled across his work, legs crossed casually, the toe of her sneakers, pale pink running shoes, flexing, the tilt of her head, the calculative glint of her eyes, deceptively innocent, the way she’s chewing her bottom lip, leaving it spit slicked and-

What the fuck.

Mentally, he draws a connection between anxiety and heightened state of arousal and lust. This is scientific, he tells himself. His internal rationalization comes to a screeching halt when she smiles, toothy and sharp, almost shark-like, the corners of her eyes crinkling in genuine delight.

“And how does your anxiogenic factor into the synthesis of your anxiolytic, Jonathan?”

She says her name like an endearment in itself, low, syllables curling around it almost indecently. She’s still watching him-analyzing him, and he should be thinking of a contingency plan, because nobody has been able to look at his notes for that brief a period of time and come to the conclusion that fast. She’s terrifyingly intelligent, quick and clever and hiding brilliance under carelessness. She’s a threat, a match of equal intellect. She’s dangerous, he tells himself.

She’s thrilling.

“I don’t know what you mean,”

Her smile widens. She’s looking at him like one might look at a defiant child, endeared and slightly fond. Patronizing. It has immediate irritation curling in his gut, vitriol souring his palate. It also has him weak in the knees, at the implications of it.

She knows.

“Combining derivatives of ACTH and LSD? Really? A potent fear cocktail. I’d replace the LSD with Tetrahydrocannabinol if I was you, though,”

“Less potent,” he answers reflexively, voice hoarse and jaw slack. She peers at him, unimpressed.

“Less fatal. This would send people into cardiac arrest. Just hand-feed them belladonna if you want to induce terrifying hallucinations then kill them,” she isn’t disgusted, or terrified by his revelation, but is instead judging his competence. It makes something in him bristle. It also makes his cock twitch.

“The hallucinogenic effects of a milder dose of LSD are more potent than those of concentrated doses of cannabinoids. Besides, LSD is a suppressor, in mild doses it shouldn’t be threatening,” he leans towards her, resting his elbows on his work bench (revolting, something inside him screams), long fingers twisting the knob of her flask.

She smiles, slightly, giving him a look of such unbridled academic interest, like he’s a particularly interesting research paper, or some forbidden fruit of knowledge she wants to bite into. “Doesn’t sound like a product meant for the betterment of society,”

“Neither were guns, and yet,”

She laughs, caught off-guard by the quip, the sound bright and lovely as her eyes crinkle shut and she shakes her head, leaning forward, closer to him.

“Psychological torture technique?” she finally asks once she’s calmed down, mien brighter and more at ease than she was minutes ago.

“A personal interest. Scratching an itch, if you will,”

“Disregarding scientific ethic to satiate your curiosity?”

“We all have our flaws, mine seems to be an inability to leave a matter unstudied. And at the risk of playing devil’s advocate, a good majority of scientific advancement has come at the cost of human lab rats,”

“Does progression ignore morality, then? Or is it simply superior?”

He ducks his head, feigning sheepishness. “That’s subjective, I think,”

She raises a brow, as if asking so what? “I’m asking for your subjective answer,”

He tilts his head, words slow and deliberate as he constructs his sentence on just the right side of socially acceptable, though at this point he has a feeling she’s realized he’s anything but, “I feel that in some cases progression takes precedence to morality,”

“And your intellectual progression takes precedence to everything else?” Her tone is accusatory but her words aren’t sharp. Curious, more like. Like she wants to cut open his skull and carve his brain out, study it and dissect it so she can figure out how he ticks.

He’s had people be fascinated by him before, but he’s never been fascinated back.

He licks his dry lips, clears his throat. “Perhaps you’re projecting; I can assure you, my own regard for my intellect is humble and objective,”

“Of all the ego-defense mechanisms I’d resort to, projection isn’t one of them, Jonathan,” she smiles sardonically, two predators circling each other, “Perhaps you’re simply in denial. Why else create something so twisted, and yet something that harms the mind, and the mind alone? A desire for power, is it? Or perhaps control?” she’s looking at him with lidded-eyes, though that may just be tiredness, but her posture is challenging, her gaze sharp enough to cut. He shivers at the cadence of her words, at the thinly veiled barbs disguised as theories.

“Funny, I’d have thought you’d follow a more humanistic approach,” he feels oddly faint, a confusing mix of feelings overriding his rationality, flushing further under the warmth of her smile at his comment, at the roll of eyes that he’d usually find rude and undignified. He averts his gaze

Is this puberty finally kicking in? Is this my sexual awakening? In college and being judged for my questionable scientific pursuits?

He finally looks at her, drinking her in in her entirety, swallowing hard and forcing himself to take deep breaths. She’s a genius. She’s beautiful. She’s looking at him like she’s minutes away from calling an ambulance.

“What are you?” he rasps out, and then immediately reconsiders his word-choice at her offended look.

“Excuse me?”

“Major. What major are you?”

“Oh,” her cheeks dust pink, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, “Medicine,”

No wonder. Even so, he’s had professors glance and ogle his notes before, none of them bothering to actually understand the material, not when swamped by enough work and research as is. And in the rare case that they did catch the gist of it, they never went as far as connecting the dots.

She looks at him, seeing, before slinking off the stool, making her way over to her own table as she snaps her gloves back on, pulling her mask up and grabbing a bright blue test tube, giving him a wide berth as she makes her way to the acids.

She drips nitric acid down the side of her text-tube carefully, hands steady, before glancing back at him, dropper still in hand. “We’re out of acidic anhydride,” she says simply. “Use acyl chloride, or make your own if you have the time. And if you’re making ferrous sulfate then lend me some too,”

He was not making ferrous sulfate. He has no need for it-at least, not now. He watches her make her way to the autoclave, completely at ease despite the fact that what he was synthesizing in these labs was probably illegal on some level.

Unbidden, he speaks, already moving towards the sulfuric acid. “I wanted to study the direct effects of biological response to fear in generating fear itself. How willfully will the body mold the hallucinogenic to provide disturbing imagery when the body is displaying symptoms of stress with no stressful stimuli present?”

She nods, slowly, turned away from him. “Reversal of cause-and-effect,”

“Yes. And,” he pauses here, gauging her reaction, “Whether a different sort of imagery could be generated were the symptoms only slightly tweaked, as fear, being a primal emotion, shares the same biological effects with many others,”

“Such as?” she turns to him this time, genuinely curious.

This time, it’s he who eyes her like she’s prey, a look she seems oddly at ease with-if not welcoming when directed at her. “Lust,”

Beneath the mask, she smiles.

#meet cute #pining #jonathan crane #scarecrow #dc universe #dc comics #dc scarecrow #cillian murphy #jonathan crane x reader #x reader #no y/n #Pre-Scarecrow Jonathan Crane #fear toxin #reader insert #scarecrow x reader #fem reader #female reader #x female reader #jonathan crane x female reader

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pure-ablution · 2 months ago

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I've just gotten back into sewing. After careful consideration, it turns out it would be somewhat cheaper for me to sew my own clothes than to buy some of the pieces that I adore.

It might be a big ask, but how does one go to making very high quality clothing of their own? I already know all my sewing classics, but I want my clothes to be top-notch and well-made.

First, some resources. I’ve given a link to the old publications by the Women’s Institute of Domestic Arts and Sciences before, and I’ll put it here again, just because I think that they are excellent resources for such a wide range of skills, and when it comes to dressmaking, their tailoring series is particularly good. I’d recommend sticking to extremely old-fashioned, course-type books whenever you can—there are lots available for free on Internet Archive, and I’m happy to try to find scans if there happens to be something you can’t get hold of—and avoiding modern classes, books, and videos if you can, not because I want to make life unnecessarily hard, but because the techniques taught in the past were far more thorough, and far more focused on fit and longevity, than the modern need for speed and quantity allows for. There exist, of course, some truly amazing modern resources, too, but these are, more often than not, highly specialised, expensive and difficult to find, and intended for couturiers, not the amateur seamstress. Older books, on the other hand, are widely available for free online, assume little to no prior knowledge, and teach clearly and with none of the bad habits that arose out of the loss of dressmaking as an everyday and commonplace skill in the light of the garment industry’s expansion.

Second, some recommendations. You don’t need to spend a lot to create a high-quality garment, but you do need to spend wisely. Avoid ‘Fabric Land’–type establishments; buy deadstock, vintage, or secondhand fabric from carboot sales and destash events, and focus on weight and composition over print. Practise with old bedsheets—you can even use old bedsheets and tablecloths to make your clothes, especially if they’re linen; I have a good few dresses and tops that I’ve made from embroidered bedlinen, tablecloths, and napkins, and they’re adorable and so unique. Thread is just as important as fabric, and again, doesn’t need to cost a fortune, but poor-quality thread that snaps or frays ruins all your hard work. I use a lot of secondhand thread given to me or bought from elderly ladies who can’t sew anymore, but if I’m buying new, then I like Moon Thread by Coats; it’s reasonably-priced, and has never let me down quality-wise. (NB. Moon Thread is 100% polyester, which is incredibly strong, but not suitable for dyeing projects, as it doesn’t take to dye.) You also don’t need a top-class machine, just something sturdy and reliable; I have a machine from the ’60s that I have serviced once a year, and it runs like a dream, even without all the fancy computerisation of a more modern machine. I would recommend investing in something simple, sturdy, and all-metal mechanics, and spending your money on its upkeep rather than on a more expensive machine.

Essentially, it’s down to practice—you can only get better at dressmaking through practice—and investing in modest but quality tools. There’s no real shortcut or fancy piece of equipment that will create a truly well-made garment; it’s well-executed technique and high-quality materials. I’m very happy to share more specific tips or resources for certain aspects of dressmaking, if you’d find that useful—just send me an ask whenever you hit a stumbling-block, and I’ll do my best to help set you right again.

#ask-beauty #fashion

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mojo-bro-tho · 5 months ago

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Blood Sugar… Ch. 1

~The Pretty Woman style AU for Emmrook is here! But at what cost? The smutty fun I intended this to be turned into smut with a plot that I am far too allured by to ignore. This is a modern AU, so no magic but all of the races still exist and the places (generally) because I said so, everything else will be just for flavor text. I promise I’ll make a masterlist soon because this is gonna get ridiculous pretty fast, I can just tell. For full content warnings that stay up to date for the fic at large and better descriptions, please check the AO3 tag as I do not wish to be obliterated off the timeline.~

Word count: 6.4k

Content warnings for chapter: Suggestive acts and language, no beta read because who tf would I show this to?, if you’ve seen Pretty Woman then you know at least a little of what to expect here

AO3 link

Checking In

A knock at the door heralded the exact second that Emmrich Volkarin realized he was irrevocably fucked. This was a terrible idea. How did he let Johanna goad him into this? His heart hammered in his chest, spilling out the ribcage. He couldn’t go through with this. This was entirely ridiculous at best and incredibly cruel at worst. He would walk to the door, address the surely lovely woman that waited outside and tell her that he had no need for her services. Yes, that would be for the best.

Surely everything about this was foolish. Called the number Strife gave him yesterday, the shockingly discreetly toned woman on the other end handled his floundering with ease and was able to set up a meeting that same day. It all happened so quickly that he hadn’t even considered that perhaps he was over-dressed for this sort of- Well, it wasn’t as though he would be. For Maker’s sake, he was still dressed as if he was in the classroom. He couldn’t figure out which part was worse, the fact that for a solid two days this nonsensical plot actually made sense to him or the fact that he was worried about how whoever awaited for him on the other side of the wall would perceive the way he was dressed, of all things. This poor woman was simply here to do her job, one he imagines can be quite stressful, she didn’t deserve any of this outrageous machinations.

Emmrich crossed the hotel room’s living space in a few anxious strides and soon found himself before the all white threshold of certain self destruction. Far too sterile and mocking in its mimicry of an apartment he lived in during his college years. The lock was undone with the speed at which one might rip a bandage. His hand reached for the handle, holding it steady and taking a massive breath through the nose before swiftly tugging the door open.

Behind it stood a young woman. Terra-cotta skin that glowed an illustrious shade of pink on her bare shoulders, with flecks of glitter scattered across what could be seen of her arms and collarbones. A strong jawline, shapely nose that dipped low into a pleasant curve, high cheekbones. Lavender irises with unripened strawberries encroaching on the pupils framed by fluttering lashes and pointed liner. Her hair was shorter, cut just below the jaw in a rich black shade that admittedly appeared to be temptingly satiny. Between her full lips sat a thin, white stick that she pulled away with a dramatic pop to reveal a well nursed electric blue candy.

The woman’s inquisitive gaze searched him as well. The coat she wore gathered at her elbows shifted as her other arm dropped from its spot around her ribs. A… tight black dress was revealed to him in the process. It was knee length, nothing particularly revealing in terms of skin aside from the aforementioned shoulders and enough of a glimpse onto her chest that the smallest spill of cleavage made his eyes snap back up to her face. A cheeky smile danced across one side of her mouth.

“My, my. I wasn’t expecting someone like you.” She stated simply, bring the sweet dangling hand to his vest before allowing herself inside.

It was as if his body turned to jello, his bones reducing to collagen in the wake of her determined strut past his temporary doorway. A heeled shoe dexterously knocked the door back closed. Emmrich heard it lock as her free hand disappeared behind her long leather coat. She leaned in close, and Emmrich was caught on the scent of artificial fruit, sugar, and something that reminded him of being in a forest. Her glossy lips inched towards the candy that she pointed towards her teeth, tongue peaking out in a matching shade of blue and curling over what was left of the sphere.

“P-pardon me, but I fear there has been… some sort of mistake.” He stuttered, breath hitching as she licked again. A half giggle got caught on the sticky surface of the sweet.

“Oh? So, you aren’t a ‘Professor E.V.’ with an executive suite, rented out by my employer, in The Lighthouse? Because, if that’s true, Mister… I’m afraid the front desk gave you the wrong key.” Her voice came out in a purr.

Maker, she was better at this than he figured she would be. She examined him closely, making Emmrich feel more like prey than person. The candy stick was caught between her teeth for a moment while her fingers grazed up his chest, plucking at the chain of his pocket watch.

“Well, that is me, yes. But you see-”

“In that case, Professor, you should be more careful about the titles you share to services like ours.” The enunciations came out fuzzy until the sucker pulled away from her lips again and hovered dangerously close to his own. Her fingers went up to glide across the line of his jaw. “I’m sure you worked very hard for a position like that. But you have to be cautious. You’re lucky we’re so nice, with that much info we might be able to find your… personal affairs.”

“Personal affairs?” He asked. Her eyes flicked down to both his wrists.

“A lot of jewelry you got, a few rings too. Just saying.” When she looked back up at his face, she held a deceptively innocent expression.

Oh?

Oh.

“I’m not married!” He clarified, though he wasn’t sure why he felt such an intense need to. Her brow furrowed in a playful sort of empathy he was unfamiliar with.

“Aw. That’s a shame.” Was she… disappointed he wasn’t married? Emmrich felt very confused. “Well, more of you for me then. I like the nervous ones. Usually more interesting.” She teased.

“My dear, I’m afraid you are mistaken. I’m not nervous.” Emmrich attempted to correct, as well as attempted to move her hand away but she hooked him by the collar.

“You seem at least a little nervous, sir. More than a little. A pretty girl shows up your door that you paid good money for and you try to send her away? I’m almost hurt.” She pouted.

His hands surged up, one catching on the corner that would lead them fully into the sitting area and the other going flat against the wall. She went still in response, though their eye contact never broke. In the brief moment of silence that followed his own surprise, he couldn’t help but be somewhat mesmerized. Emmrich wasn’t sure what he was expecting her to look like. He was no stranger to beautiful women, nor men or anyone else that caught his fancy, but she was something else. Her visage made her appear more like a statue at times. A soft, tantalizingly warm statue. And he had to be honest with himself, the forwardness that came with her profession did strike something very unexpected in him. He pushed the thought out of his mind.

“Forgive me, I did not intend to cause offense, Miss…?” Another short laugh softened into his shirt.

“You can call me Rook.” She grinned.

“Rook?” He asked, she hummed affirmatively. “Like the chess piece?”

“Something like that.”

Suddenly, she slinked past him, barely needing to lower her head to duck under his arm. Rook strolled deeper into the living space, not bothering to really take in the scenery. Not like she needed to, it wasn’t her first time being in one of the executive suites. She did notice however that the room barely looked touched. Aside from a chocolate brown blazer neatly laying over the back of the center sofa.

“So, Professor.” She rolled. “I was told you’re looking for someone versatile, a good listener, preferably ‘intelligent’, and can handle some rather unconventional requests. Now, that either means you have a very specific fetish you’d like to explore or you’re actually looking for a therapist.”

The jacket fell away from her shoulders, landing in a heap on the floor that she chose to step around rather than pick up. Emmrich had to fight the urge to follow behind her and hang it in the closet. But her statement began to catch up with him at lightning speed. The perfect opportunity presented itself on a silver platter, punctuated by another pop from her sucker.

“Miss Rook, I sincerely apologize for making you travel all the way out here. But I fear your… services are no longer required.” He explained. That caused her to raise an eyebrow. The sweet rolled to the left side of her mouth, tongue gliding past teeth, as she studied his features carefully.

“You know there are no refunds, right? You paid for two hours up front, so you should probably get two hours.” Rook was used to clients being a bit standoffish if she was their first taste of luxury. But this wasn’t quite that, it struck her as odd. Emmrich clapped his hands together with a relieved smile.

“Oh, that isn’t a problem at all. After all, I did make you come all the way here. That’s work alone!” He said exaggeratedly. Her silver hooped earrings tilted as she turned one pointed ear to the ground.

“You realize you paid more than 2,000 Kings, yeah? You weren’t exactly specific with what kind of service you wanted so you were charged for the standard full package. Plus the consultation fee because of the fact that you were pretty vague.” Rook pondered for a moment before continuing. “Am I not your type, Professor? Do you prefer blondes or something?” She asked.

“Trust me, Miss Rook, that has nothing to do with it.” Emmrich couldn’t help himself from half sputtering a laugh. Something mischievous glinted in the woman’s eye.

“So I am your type. Were you hoping I was a little older?” Rook forced a fake gasp of disgust. “Or even younger? You dastardly fiend.”

The hand that now held the candy raised with a dramatic flourish, lowering herself onto a nearby chair in a mock faint. The joke took him aback. Her age hadn’t even crossed his mind until she pointed it out, he had been too preoccupied. Firstly with how desperately he wanted to be rid of this hair-brained scheme all together and secondly with her striking features. Now that he was thinking about it though, she was noticeably much younger than him. She couldn’t be any older than twenty-eight and that guess was him being generous. Then again, he supposed the original plot did require someone around that age, he just hadn’t considered how this might seem from her perspective.

Her nylon covered legs crossed, raising the dress slightly higher up her thighs. Even while in a lounging position, her body took on the shape of an artist’s muse. Rook looked back up at him through the feathering of her lashes with a playful smirk on her face.

“Come now, we’re both adults. And I’m not exactly shy unless you want me to be. So, go ahead and tell me what your intended plans were for my ‘no longer required’ services.” Her insistence set him on edge.

“Why do you want to know?” He asked earnestly.

“Curiosity.” She replied plainly.

“The real reason.” Emmrich took a few small steps closer. Rook's lifted ankle traced the shape of a circle, he thought she looked suspiciously amused.

“I am curious! But if you must know, I also don’t like people leaving empty-handed. I’m a real bleeding heart like that.”

The remainder of the sweet crunched sharply between her teeth, and she wasted no time in flicking the empty stick into a nearby waste bin. Emmrich found it strangely impressive that she seemed to know exactly where to aim while barely having to look in the target's direction. Rook leaned her head against the arm that rested on the side of the chair.

“Your generosity is misplaced, Miss Rook. I assure you, I am perfectly content with the terms I agreed to as well as stopping this from going any further.” Emmrich insisted, drawing both hands behind his back much like he would during lectures.

Rook took a moment to put together everything she had gleaned from talking to him so far. He was well decorated, dressed well, and didn’t make a fuss over not getting his money back. He was attracted to her, or at least she assumed he was at least a little, as he seemed insistent on not looking too far below her face. Overly polite. Then got defensive when she doubled down. Seemed somewhat naive to how this all worked while also not getting too shaken up by her presence. Experienced in private matters.

Whatever he was wanting, it wasn’t something usual. The request itself was what made him more nervous than her. Rook also recalled Teia’s warning that he supposedly seemed unsure of what he was looking for, at least according to our dear receptionist. Something new that he wasn't sure how to work through. Needing someone with good sense, possibly open minded. Every layer she peeled away at made her all the more intrigued.

Time to put on the charm. Rook gingerly tilted her head, drawing her bottom lip in while looking towards the floor. She fiddled with the edge of her acrylic nails and drew her eyebrows together as if in contemplation. Slow the breathing but make it heavier. The look was easy, sweet and slightly mopey. Some clients liked the needy types. Shoulders slope. Folding moderately on herself.

Of course, Emmrich fell for it. Saw the sad look on her face over his rejection of her request and immediately felt guilty. Rook didn’t need to look up to see it, it showed in the shifting of his feet. Unsure if they should step forward or not. It was almost too easy.

“I’m… sorry.” Look up. Puppy eyes. “It’s just, well, if I don’t stay for the two hours then my boss will wonder why.” Bend over, grab the coat off the floor. Fold it in the lap. “But I get it. I’ll try to think of something-”

“Wait just a moment.” He interrupted. Bingo.

Rook would feel bad about manipulating him, but her own intrigue outweighs that in that moment. Emmrich half paced in a tight line. The multiple ways he could go about explaining this bounced around his mind, none of them feeling quite right.

“It’s just a rather unorthodox request.” He admitted first. There we go, just a little more.

“Trust me, Professor. I’m no stranger to ‘unorthodox’. No judgment here.” She reassured. His mouth formed into a tight lipped smile.

“I would like to teach you about Archeology. Biological Anthropology as well.” That did catch her off guard.

“You want to teach me?” She asked.

“Yes!”

“You’re a professor, that’s your job. And you want to pay me so you can teach more?” Rook’s eyes narrowed. “Do you not get your fix in at work?” She chuckled, Emmrich sighed in response.

“As I said, it’s unorthodox. You see, I found myself in a rather specific predicament. More accurately, my department has found itself in deep water and we require a more… charismatic hand to guide it back to safe shores.”

The professor nearly winced when he saw the shift in Rook’s expression. He knew this plan was utter rubbish. He should have brushed off Johanna’s prodding. He should have laughed off Strife’s suggestion of a solution to the problem and Johanna’s blustering. If he had done the more sensible thing of simply finding another student, a real student, then he wouldn’t be in such a terribly awkward situation.

Expect he had tried that. He had had meetings with every single one of his students in both his advanced and standard classes. None of which were eager to replace Miss Ingellvar. In fact, none of them seemed even remotely interested in the opportunity at all. That had been his entire life these past two months. It was mind-boggling to him that so many promising minds were adamant on tossing aside something that could very well jump start their careers. He even reached out to graduated students who met the criteria and each that had replied claimed to be invested in other projects.

“And naturally there is no one more charismatic than a prostitute.” Rook jabbed, though Emmrich wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not.

“Miss Rook, I would like to make it very clear that I have nothing but respect for your profession-”

“Well that’s a relief, then. Otherwise you would have broken my little heart.” She pouted humorously.

“However.” Emmrich continued. “It is imperative that I showcase someone truly exceptional to my superiors. Someone who not only has the potential to be an expert but can act like an expert. Someone who can keep up with all of the, frankly, pompous individuals who play an unfortunately vital role in the current existence of my department.” Rook’s gaze softened slightly, growing both inquisitive and surprisingly understanding.

“Sounds like you need a miracle worker. Or a fantasy. I guess that explains why you went looking for us.” She mused. His reasoning wasn’t entirely unreasonable in that case.

After all, the tagline wasn’t ‘The Crows rule fantasy and they can set you free’ for nothing. They did it all. Had someone for everything and something for everyone. Escorts, prostitutes, strippers, companions at a price. And Rook was first rate, part of the reason her ‘standard package’ came at such a high cost. To most of her clientele, she was worth the price. But this was definitely new for her.

“Can’t consider this an escort job because there’s more acting involved. Not exactly a companion for hire either, you’re not wanting someone to act as your lover. No sex, so not a prostitute but definitely more labor intensive than you’d typically need from the other two… You know, I’m starting to see why you had such a hard time coming up with what to classify this transaction as, Professor!” She exclaimed. Emmrich wasn’t sure how to take the apparent amusement on her face.

“But as I said, I apologize for wasting your time. I’ve realized how utterly preposterous this all is.”

”So you’ve found someone then?” She asked.

“Well, no.”

“Then The Crows will happily be at your service, Professor.” Rook smiled while Emmrich was taken aback once again.

“Pardon?”

“We provide a service. We make your fantasies a reality. I can give that to you. All I need is payment and a good explanation of the situation and your requirements. We’ll draw up an agreement with my employer and get started whenever you’d like.” She explained confidently.

To say this was an unexpected turn would be an understatement. She spoke so plainly, seemingly unperturbed by his request. It somehow made Emmrich feel both relieved and yet further on edge as well. It was practically unbelievable that she could act so casually about this. Rook gestured towards the green sofa placed diagonally to her chair.

“Take a seat.” She commanded. Emmrich acquiesced, though partially out of confusion. “Start from the beginning, if you can. What exactly do you need me for?” Her body adjusted into a more comfortable sitting position, slouching back into the chair as she brought an Orlesian tipped nail to rest between her teeth.

“I work at Nevarra City University, I’m head of the Anthropology Department. Part of my job is allocating funding given to my department as well as securing said funding and managing grants. We’re a research department, funding is very important.”

“Money makes the world go around.” She remarked.

“A rather sizable portion of our funding comes from the Eluvian Foundation, an international organization that provides large donations to multiple universities every year which more or less keeps my department available to those who require a scholarship in order to attend.” In truth, many of his student body were at least on partial scholarship or financial assistance thanks to said organization. “But at the end of last semester, we were informed that several universities are having their funding either entirely cut or reduced due to a ‘lack of advancement or achievement’. It’s not set in stone yet. As far as I’m aware, the Foundation’s Board of Directors is taking this year to evaluate who gets what. They intend to host a gala where many of the universities are expected to send representatives of their departments in order to subtly flaunt the fruits of our labor.”

“Sounds like they’re sending you to the gallows. Or stand on trial.” That comment made Emmrich huff. Both in exasperation and a twinge of morbid hilarity.

“It certainly feels that way. My department had a student in mind to bring to this gala, Franziska. Brilliant young lady, truly, she made such wonderful progress on her research into The Banner Wars. But over the summer holiday, she had made the decision to not attend. As well as switch to all virtual lessons and not respond to any inquiries surrounding this decision. And I have been unfortunately unsuccessful in finding anyone else willing to take her spot.”

“So what I’m hearing is you’re desperate because without their money you won’t have as many students which could tank your department. Am I getting this right?”

“More or less.” He admitted somewhat begrudgingly. “We do important work. It’s cultural work, good for the community, the country as a whole. And my students, what they do is revolutionary! If there’s a chance I can prevent them from being overlooked in this way, I’ll take it.”

The woman grew quiet, expression calm despite the firm grip her teeth held on thumb nail. Emmrich wasn’t sure what to make of it. But what he had finally realized in the expanse of her silence was that she was not idling within it. Her eyes flicked to different parts of him, evaluating him with an amount of scrutiny that made him once again overly aware of everything. How near she was, the position she sat in, the way her clothes didn’t match said position and seemed to be raised uncomfortably high.

Rook was never one to waste an opportunity. She picked him apart again. He kept himself composed well enough, but the signs of nervousness were there. Sitting with good posture and his knees slightly parted in a casual manner, but his hands secretly fiddled with his rings. It didn’t seem like he was lying, and he did appear to be genuinely concerned. A decision came fairly quick.

She stood rather abruptly, coat falling into her previous spot. Her heels thudded with an uneven amount of sound as one remained on the rug and the other clacked against the hardwood. Passing by the television, she reached the small desk nearby and plucked the often forgotten notepad laying atop it. Carrying the papers back towards Emmrich, she shimmied her body between the sofa and the coffee table until she stood in front of the man.

Rook leaned forward. One of her legs bent against the cushion in between the gap Emmrich’s legs made. Her chest came dangerously close to Emmrich’s chin, providing an ample distraction from her finger’s delving into his vest’s top pocket and slipping a pen out of it. Though, if she was being honest, she mostly did it to see him get flustered. When she retreated, she was surprised to only see a light blush on his face. He was more cool under pressure than she had originally given him credit for.

Once she had the pen, she lowered herself until she was able to sit on top of the coffee table. Knees went up, dress opening a smidge thanks to a split on the backside as she brought her heels to the sofa and blocked Emmrich’s legs on either side. The notepad was pressed into her elevated thigh while she opened his fountain pen and began to write.

“We can either schedule appointments or you can check with my handler to see if I’m free if you need me on short notice. What days are you available?” She asked. Emmrich blinked quietly to himself as he fought the urge to look anywhere but her face once more. Until she shot him an expectant look. He cleared his throat.

“My official hours are 8am to 3pm most weekdays. Though I do have… other responsibilities as well. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I have time between 4 to 7. I would have to get back to you about weekends, those are less certain.” He explained.

“Got it. Well, as long as you don’t mind risking me being unavailable after 10 most Saturdays and Sundays then I think we can make that work. We’re pretty flexible with weekdays usually so I’ll write up a potential schedule and run it by you before we proceed. Do you require us to provide a secondary location or did you have one in mind?”

“Um, both? Depends on what we’re focusing our studies on. Libraries would probably be our most typical meeting point but those won’t always be reliable- Maker, I did not think this through all the way.” He said, running a hand over his hair.

“That’s okay. We can update the arrangements later, this is just so I can give a rough idea of the plan to my employer. Locations that we provide will cost you extra depending on availability and necessity. Additional charges may apply depending on method of transportation requirements as well. Any locations you provide will have to be vetted and documented. Safety and all that jazz.” She twirled the pen in faux enthusiasm. “Speaking of which, we’ll need to update your moniker for our files if you intend to be a repeat customer for the time being, Professor.”

“Emmrich. You can call me Emmrich, Miss Rook.” Might as well, he was already in this deep. A playful curl of her lips made him feel somewhat bashful.

“Cute name. Don’t worry, we keep all of our paper and data trails anonymous. ‘Professor E.V.’ is still too identifiable for us, so I’ll come up with something else…” She trailed off, contemplating. “You teach archeology, could call you something like ‘Fossils’ if you don’t mind jokes about your age.” Rook looked up to clock the slight scowl on his face and fought the chuckle it nearly elicited. “Or, we could go with something a little more crass, Bone Daddy.”

“Miss Rook!” He exclaimed in a disapproving whisper.

“Sorry, sorry! Couldn’t help myself. Okay, let’s be serious…” Rook’s eyes narrowed on his choice of neckwear for the day, a skull collar-pin. “How about Lichdom? Nevarra had that whole thing with preserving skeletons and calling them Liches, yeah?” That took Emmrich by surprise, both her knowing about that and the now certain fact that she wasn’t from Nevarra originally.

“You know about our historical burial practices?” He asked.

”Eh, a little bit. Mostly because of Nevarra being a bit ahead of the rest of the world when it came to surgical studies since you preserved organs for study.” She paused for a moment again. “But to be honest, the reason I thought about it was the leftovers from the Bone Daddy joke. Lich-Dom, get it? You just have this vibe about you!”

“What on earth could possibly give you that impression?” He asked rhetorically.

It was impressive how quickly she could change the energy of a conversation. Most people in Nevarra would briefly touch on the history of Lichdom as part of local history. He didn’t realize people may take an interest in it outside of the country. But then she’d say something like that to pull him out of his own intrigue.

“I’m good at my job, I notice things. You buttoned up types are one of two things usually. Quivering submissives who want a break from being so put together all the time or the more staunch Doms who like to feel fully in control because you act put together even if you’re not. I guess you could be somewhere right in between the two. We do have…” Rook tapped the screen of her smart watch, something Emmrich somehow hadn’t noticed she had on until now, and checked the time. “Another hour and twenty minutes give or take to find out. Moving on though, do you have preferences for how I dress during our appointments?” It took Emmrich a few additional seconds to respond as he processed her original statement.

“No?”

“Got it, got it. Leave the Pleasers and pasties at home unless I’m feeling frisky that day.” She joked while making that note. “For simplicity, we’ll consider this a ‘companion for hire’ deal since you just plan on teaching me. Which brings my rate down by quite a bit alone. So that should put you at somewhere around 50 Kings an hour before any additional charges I’ve already mentioned. Two hours a day, potentially three days a week, that takes us to 300 Kings a week without weekends. I might be able to wager a temporary additional discount depending on how the rest of this appointment goes but don’t hold your breath. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“I suppose it does… Miss Rook, I’m not entirely sure what to make of all of this.” He confessed.

”Yeah, I figured this was your first time with someone in my line of work. You’re doing very well. Just know you’re getting a very good deal with me. Most of my customers are paying… well, what you’re paying right now!”

The notepad met the surface of the table with a soft splat. Rook closed the cap on the pen but kept it between two fingers. In a slow, relaxed motion she leaned back, resting against her elbows and forearms to keep herself propped up. The right heel shifted, dragging up his side and cresting into his torso. The sole pressed lightly into the top of his vest. The black, pointed toe appeared to Emmrich like an arrowhead aimed towards his digastric muscle.

“With that being said, I did tell you there were no refunds. You get what you pay for, Emmrich.” She rolled the syllables of his name teasingly, pressing the shoe into his with a near imperceptible amount of added pressure. Just enough to make him feel the almost hypnotic need to fully lean back into the sofa.

The man swallowed a lump in his throat that he hadn’t realized was there, gaze trying to find a suitable place to settle when even her face seemed too tempting an image. The most obvious space he insisted on keeping his gaze away from was the widened but shadowed gap the opening in her dress made between her legs. A more labored breath went in through Emmrich’s nose. That did not go unnoticed by Rook. There was some level of satisfaction in knowing now for a fact that he was attracted to her, though she’d likely never admit that.

“You have made me awfully curious. What path will you take, I wonder.” Rook mused with a gentle sigh.

This was one of the parts of her job that she liked. People were predictable, and she wasn’t a fool. This Emmrich would either like to be subjugated or subjugate her. A lot of clients who wanted her in charge secretly liked the idea of being dominated by a ‘less valuable’ woman, something like a guilty pleasure. Rich tech-bro types who wanted the object of their scorn to grind them mercilessly into the dirt. Maybe this sweet little professor was frustrated with his snickering students and wanted a young lady to make the experience more tolerable.

The reverse also seemed just as likely. Rook could be the target of his less pleasant urges. All pulling hair, throwing her over a desk or a bent knee and getting it all out of his system. A bit of controlled catharsis. And as his hand came into contact with the undersides of her ankle, running the rounded curve of her calf, she thought she got her answer.

The feeling of nylon was familiar under the ghosting of his finger tips. Beneath her pantyhose and the layer of assuredly smooth flesh, Emmrich could feel an expanse of taut muscle. She had strong legs and even they smelled of that artificial berry and candy he had caught from her earlier. But under that he sensed something more herbal or dirty, like lavender and sweat. She didn’t resist him pulling her to the side in order for him to lean forward. Staunch Dom was the conclusion she came to.

“I believe I made it clear before that those aspects of your services won’t be necessary, Miss Rook.” It was tempting though, in different circumstances he knew he likely wouldn’t have turned down the offer.

Now it was her turn to try and hide a look of mild surprise. And Emmrich found that delightful in its own way. Once that feeling was shaken away, she simply shrugged her shoulders as though to say ‘your loss’. One leg swung over the other into a brief cross before moving to stand and walk in that direction in one fluid motion. The coat was back in her arms and being lifted over her shoulders no more than a moment later. Still, she maintained a polite smile that was perfectly trained.

“Probably for the best.” She remarked, turning back towards the professor. With a ginger hand, she reached for his vest pocket again and dropped the pen back into place, giving it a small pat for emphasis. “Wouldn’t want to muddy the waters too much. After all, I’m fairly certain if we did fulfill the original agreement, you’d have a hard time focusing on teaching me. And you’d probably be out a lot more money.”

Without any fanfare, Rook rounded the table to pull her used sheet from the notepad. She folded it neatly before slipping it into her jacket pocket. It wasn’t as though she was in a hurry, but truthfully an awkward tension did creep up her spine. Oddly enough, Emmrich felt compelled to try and apologize in case he somehow offended her in some way. But Rook once again had another point of conversation in mind to break up his instincts.

“I’m assuming the method of contact you used for us is still viable, yes?” She asked, adjusting her dress and jacket.

“Yes, that should be fine.” He replied.

“Good. We’ll contact you sometime tomorrow, was there a time you’d prefer?” She continued and Emmrich thought for a moment.

“Any time after 5pm should do fine if that’s alright.”

“Very well. My handler will go over the basics of the contract, you just reply with yes or no, then you both will agree to a meet up time and location, and I’ll deliver the documents for you to read over and sign.”

“I never knew these sorts of things were so structured.” He admitted, revealing more of his own inexperience.

“We like to be thorough. Can never be too careful these days, yeah? Occupational hazards around every corner.” Though she was jesting, Emmrich got the grotesque sense that she wasn’t actually joking as much as she’d like him to believe. “Well, if that’s all then I’ll go ahead and get out of your hair. Return the key to the front desk before the two hours are up.”

“I… will do that.”

Rook tied her leather coat around her waist and Emmrich naturally stood to accompany her to the door. Which he then quickly debated if that was necessary or even wanted. She turned her head over her shoulder with another cheeky grin, almost as if she was taunting him to go ahead and try, see what happens. When he didn’t approach further her eyes sharpened deviously.

“I’ll see you soon, Professor Emmrich.” She hummed before her thin heels carried her to the door.

In the wake of her absence, Emmrich felt strangely underwhelmed. Or perhaps he was feeling somewhat devoid of anything. Like being suspended in water slowly brought to a boil and then suddenly removed. Raw but numb. Recalling the texture of her stockings against his skin gave his blood the sensation of flowing through ice laden veins.

Rook strutted back down the hallway and made her way to the elevator. On the way she passed by one of the several housekeepers she knew who worked in The Lighthouse and let them know that the cleanup was going to be minimal today. Once the elevator door closed, she took advantage of the new privacy to tap her watch again.

“Hey C.T.” She called into it and received a gentle chime in response. “Text T. Leaving early, will swing by office to update. Tell V not to blow a gasket.”

“Would you like to send?” A calm voice bounced inside the closed space.

“Yes.” The chime blinked, letting her know the message was sent.

The elevator reached the ground floor not long after. A quick exit from the lift and she unceremoniously crossed the lobby and left the building. Someone near check-in did less than subtly look her up and down as she walked past but that was normal. The company car she took was around the corner where employees would normally park. Which was also on the opposite side of where her new found client’s room was facing. There were never too many precautions, as Viago would say.

Every company car was black, each kept pristinely clean no matter the model. Nothing too fancy for her today, didn’t want it to stand out too much. The door unlocked with a click from inside her pocket. Once she was inside with the door closed behind her, her undecorated hands tapped against the steering feel in an off kilter melody. A long pause came where she debated laying her head against the steering wheel. She shouldn’t, didn’t want to get makeup on it.

“A steady stream of income never hurt anybody.” Rook sighed to herself.

Her heels slipped off her feet and she leaned over to pluck them off the ground and flick them into the passenger's seat. Then she reached below the seat itself to retrieve a worn, faded to grey messenger bag. Riffling through the contents, her fingers finally caught on to one of the objects of her attention.

Life had its simple pleasures for Rook. Her favorite of which was a popular gas station staple. Blue-raspberry flavored Lyri-yum suckers. She made sure the wrapper found its place back in the bag alongside all the others she’d had since yesterday. The stick fixed between her teeth as she started the engine. Just a little something to take the edge of uncertainty off.

Sweet and familiar.

#emmrook #emmrich volkarin #emmrook fanfic #emmrich x rook #rook de riva fic #dragon age modern au #I’ll reblog this again at a more appropriate time #mojo writes

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megabonniex · 9 months ago

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Dandy's World Ichor Outbreak AU - Scientist Vee

Main Toon

This vee looks similar to original vee but she's scientist robot because she's retired gameshow host due to twisted infection outbreak. She decided to try to find way to cure twisteds, she need research ichors for find way to cure twisteds. She's wearing lab coat, goggles, gloves, and wet boots. She carries her potions and flashbangs; she'll make sure she trying to not become one of them

Health: ❤ ❤ Skill Check: ★ ★ (Value: 1.5/Size: 100) Movement Speed: ★ ★ ★ (Walkspeed: 15/Runspeed: 25) Stamina: ★ ★ (125) Stealth: ★ ★ ★ ★ (15) Extraction Speed: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ (1.50)

Boost Potion (Active): This Toon will throw potion at targeted Toons, they'll gain random stats 50% boost for 30 seconds. This Toon's potions depend on the color of the stats. Has a cooldown of 75

Camera Hijack (Passive): This Toon will have the nearest uncompleted Machine highlighted for them

Twisted Scientist Vee

Main Twisted

This vee looks similar to original twisted vee but she's scientist robot. She aggressive towards to toons. But she holds her potion filled with dark color. When she spotted toon, she'll throw potion at toon. If potion hits toon, it causes inflict them debuff. Her potions depend on the color of the stats but darker

Speed: Fast (20) Attention Span: Below Average (1.5) Detection Range: High Special Abilities:

Can throw debuff potions (Applies random debuff II) at toons. (15 seconds cooldown)

Spawns ads on Toons's view in groups of 3

Can sense failed skill checks

"One of Main Character's, she went completely coo-coo when she being overcomes by Ichors. She has lot of her potions filled with darker colors which its debuff toons. Do not let her see you or she'll throw her potion at you!" - Twisted Research

#dandy's world #dandy's world au #ichor outbreak au #dw au vee #scientist vee #twisted scientist vee #info about character

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helix-enterprises117 · 5 months ago

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Sonic Overdrive - Discussion 1: Mobius, General Lore & World-Building

Okay, for ANYBODY who doesn't know much about Sonic, you might be a bit confused but bear with me.

So, imagine a world where the events of World War II didn't end quite the way we know them. Instead of the Cold War playing out as it did in our timeline, the world was thrown into a chaotic period of geopolitical turmoil that led to something far more sinister—The Iron Dominion.

This is a global fascist regime born from the remnants of the Soviet Union and the Axis Powers, ruled with an iron fist by none other than Baron Robotnik. His goal? Absolute order.A world of cold, mechanical efficiency under his complete control, where organic life is seen as flawed and inefficient. Think of it as a dieselpunk dystopia where Robotnik's vision of progress means replacing freedom with relentless authoritarianism. But on the other side, you have GUN—The Guardian Units of Nations.

They were the Allied forces reimagined into a global counter-terrorism and defense organization, formed from the most powerful nations within NATO and The Allies. Their job? To keep the world from falling into the grip of Robotnik’s tyranny. They're the last bastion of hope for free nations and a symbol of resistance against totalitarianism.

Now, let's talk about Mobians. You know how nuclear fallout was a big deal post-WWII? Here, that fallout didn't just result in environmental disasters; it mutated Earth's wildlife, creating anthropomorphic animal-folk—Mobians. These guys are just as intelligent and capable as humans, and over time, they integrated into society, carving out their own place in this strange new world. Think of it as an alternate history where humans and Mobians coexist, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in conflict.

Mobius itself isn’t some distant alien planet; it’s actually Earth, rebranded in this new age of mutation and technology. Cities blend towering dieselpunk skyscrapers with neon-lit streets, mixing gritty industrial settings with slick, futuristic tech. Just imagine a world with smokestacks and flying cars, zeppelins patrolling the skies, and cybernetic enhancements being commonplace. GUN has access to advanced dieselpunk-era weaponry, and experimental energy tech, while Robotnik's forces specialize in towering mechanical war machines, roboticized soldiers, and mind-controlling cybernetics.

The tech war between the two is an ongoing arms race, and civilians are often caught in the middle of it. And speaking of civilians, society is a mixed bag. Some regions thrive under GUN's protection, flourishing in relative freedom with bustling trade and culture. Others, especially those under Robotnik’s rule, live under oppressive surveillance and draconian laws, where even the slightest dissent can result in forced cybernetic assimilation. It’s a world where people have to pick a side—freedom or control.

In the midst of all this are the Freedom Force. They're kind of the wild card in this conflict. They aren’t a formal military group like GUN; instead, they're a vigilante-milita of rebel superheroes, stepping in where governments fail, fighting crime, aiding those in need, and of course, taking the fight directly to Robotnik’s forces. They're the ones inspiring hope in people who are too afraid to resist, and they thrive in the shadows, using guerrilla tactics and high-speed hit-and-run operations.

Culturally, there’s this mix of 1910s-50s style in fashion and architecture, but modern and even futuristic. Mobians and humans alike dressed in trench coats and fedoras, walking past neon-lit jazz clubs, or tuning into propaganda radio broadcasts while underground resistance cells plan their next move. It's a world that's both familiar and wildly different.

From the smoke-filled industrial sprawl of Robotnik-controlled cities to the vibrant free hubs of places under GUN's protection, there's a wide range of locations. You have war-torn wastelands, hidden underground resistance hideouts, sprawling metropolises with looming propaganda billboards, and even lush natural reserves where some Mobians have chosen to live off the grid, far from human influence. Travel and transportation in this world are also unique. High-speed rail networks connect major cities, while massive zeppelins dominate the skies, serving as both luxurious travel hubs and heavily fortified warships.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #science fiction #sonic overdrive #sonic au #sonic overdrive au #helix enterprises117 #helix studios117

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lil-bitty-lubdubs · 1 year ago

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The Basement Series-Septima Pt.1

Part 1

She awoke slowly, the world coming into her consciousness at snail speeds. Her brain felt heavy as if cotton was stuffed into its membranes. Her vision foggy though every light about her shimmered too bright for her to directly look at. Her strength was sapped, too weak to even raise her head up off the floor…

Table. It’s a table… or bed, she told herself. She was too far up for it to be the floor. Where is this? It was a dark room. Windowless. High celling. A basement. She tried to remember. Glove. A black glove covering her mouth. She remembered as fractured pieces of her past her coming into her consciousness. Rag. The glove was holding a soaked cloth. The stench- awful. Then darkness took her.

oh shit! She tried to panic but her heart was slow. Abnormally slow though steady. She turned her head to look around. There was bright earth blinding lights above her but the rest of the room was in shadow. It was a dark, dank place with no windows, no soul. It was the kind of place Bundonians would go to pay homage.

“Oh God…” she crooned softly to herself, but someone heard.

“Ah! You’re awake darling.” A man’s voice startled her though her heart only elevated slightly.

It was as if her heart was carrying a wide load behind it reacting too little too late, but the longer she was awake the more the weight was lifting. “Good. I’m glad to see those eyes.” His shadow appeared approaching from the left. That’s when she noticed it. The heart monitor just next to her bedside. She peered at the lines moving and shifting on its screen. She was confused a moment. Then she saw the wires attached to it. She traced them with her eyes from the machine straight to their source. Her chest. She realized she was unclothed save a thin white sheet covering her nudity. Her awakening heart picked up its beat, fear setting in. “What the hell…?”

“I see you’re beginning to understand the fun we’re going to have together.” The man’s voice was cheerful, calm, and slick as a snake’s skin. He was out of the shadows now. He was not very tall though a bit heavyset, but muscular probably around 35. Brunet. He wore a white lab coat like a doctor would on a bad TV show. He took her wrist gently, pressing in to feel her pulse.

“What?” She asked. “What do you mean? What the hell are you talking about? “Who are you?” she spoke each phrase louder than the next until she was yelling. “You’re crazy. You’re insane! Let me go!” she whimpered trying to get her other hand out from under the sheet.

“Oh but you will see …uh…”he looked at a plastic ID card…”Septima is it darling? I’m Cal. Dr. Cal if you will. We’re about to embark on a journey, you and I, and have so much fun along the way. He reached down under the sheet and slid a hand between her legs as she wiggled. “Mmm. Wet.” His eyes glistened lust.

“Nooo!” she let out a scream. “Don’t you touch me!!” she yelled as loud as she could. He remained unphased. Taking his hand out as he yanked off the sheet uncovering her completely.

“No!” She screamed again, feeling exposed and vulnerable. This is not going to end well.

“Now, now, its alright.” He murmured and patted her hand locking his whole palm over her wrist while pulling her arm well above her head, holding it down.

“Let me go!” She railed. “Stop. Let me GO!” she thrashed weakly.

The doctor used his free hand to turn a nozzle and a sizzle was birthed into the air. An oxygen mask descended towards her face.

Septima willed her heart into overdrive and flailed one handed even harder. She tried bringing her legs up to kick him but found they were already strapped to the table. She held her breath as he fixed the mask over her head and attached it with the elastic straps holding it in place with his hand as she tried to claw at it. In the pool she had a 4 minute breath hold. She could probably hold out for 2-3 now with all the energy she was exerting.

Clearly the doctor was surprised how long she could hold it and began to feel impatient. Perhaps even angry. Good.

“No. No. No darling Breathe. You need to breathe in Septima.” he urged. She refused.

He turned and grabbed a toilet plunger looking thing with his free hand as he locked her other arm together with the one above her head. He settled the contraption right in the middle of her abdomen, just underneath the ribs. “Breathe in. Breathe in. BREATHE!” He willed her, but she stubbornly held out.

By now her heart was thudding in her chest right up against her sternum. She could feel the urge to breathe rise up, but it didn’t overwhelm her. Yet. He held out a moment longer giving her a chance to comply before thrusting his weight behind the plunger. It riveted a shock wave of air from deep within her chest all the way up her esophagus. It resulted in what sounded like a grunt as air left her lungs. A significant amount of air, but she refused to take a breath. He thrust again. More air leaked out of her. “Come now darling.” he said through gritted teeth. Yep. He’s angry. That strengthened her resolve. Maybe he’d run out of gas soon. He thrust 3 more times in quick succession though these weren’t as forceful as the first 2. But now, her lungs were empty. The burning in her chest grew every second. Spots danced before her eyes.

She needed to breathe. She had to. AIR. It was all that mattered. She gave up the fight and inhaled. A pure deep, clean lungful of cold oxygen tainted with sweet tasting gas. Relief flooded her chest, her eyes rolled back. She took another shallow breath. Her head already spinning. But she was still intent on resisting further. Clearly he knew what she was thinking because he leaned into the plunger contraption again. The breath left her inflated lungs. Too soon! she screamed inside. She breathed in deeply again mouth open, desperate for air, her resolve failing.

One more time he thrust. By now she was barely conscious though still aware, lungs automatically filling in half bursts. Her body just stopped responding. Her precious heart slowed its rate again. Abnormally slow. It was calm and steady no matter how much she wanted it to kick into gear.

What the hell did he give me? she wondered. “Wrraanmrg…” was all that escaped her mouth.

“Yes. That’s it darling. That’s it. Give In to it! That a girl. Gooood. That’s right. Take a deep breathe. Just give in. Good girl! Yes darling, that’s it! Breathe! Just breathe in.” he crooned into her ear, one hand sliding right between her breasts to feel the surge of her chest rise and fall. She was no longer in control and she was losing consciousness. She yielded herself to him, no longer caring as his two fingers nestled in to feel her carotid pulse.

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eidolocene · 5 months ago

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The overgrowth was a sudden apocalyptic event. To creatures on the surface, it seemed like only two minutes passed as nature swept away buildings, people, and societies. Everything became- well, overgrown. The catastrophe didn't spare a single place on Irt, though urban areas with heavy architecture were hit the hardest, and aid efforts were for naught. It's hard to trace, but for every five creatures, four seemed to perish in a cataclysmic instant.

This is Jack Springbridge, a character I'm playing in a friend's green-apocalypse D&D campaign where a gaggle of unlikely heroes traipse all over fantasy Appalachia trying to figure out why time is speeding up (before their time runs out).

Backstory (w/ song explanations) under the cut. If you are playing this campaign with me (ily), read no further at risk of spoiling the surprise!

Steam Powered Aereo Plane - Jack grew up well-loved, well-rounded, and well-fed. Though he was the middle of three children, he never felt overlooked, thanks to five generations of family living on a large, prosperous farm. The work was hard, but it was shared between many hands.

Soon, the load will be even lighter - Jack intends to propose to his girlfriend, Doris Stillwater, soon. They've been dating five years and are hopelessly smitten with each other. Jack would have proposed sooner if not for the... quirks of Doris' family. They expect her to settle down on the same high-topped plain between the mountains that they've always tended to, but she's finally decided: her life is her own and she'll spend it as she wishes.

He's going to propose after the flight.

The jewel of the family is Jack's innovative grandfather, Nolan Springbridge. After a lifetime of daydreaming, sixty years of study, and two decades of test flights and prototypes, he has finally made a flying machine he feels is safe enough to put his family in - so, he does, for its inaugural flight.

It goes off without a hitch. Jack and Doris, along with children, parents, grand-, great-grand, and great-great-grandparents all soar through the sky, while onlookers cheer and gasp from the ground.

But, when they landed, they found the world had changed underneath them.

Devil's Hollow - There are countless dead and missing, whole towns and cities destroyed. The Springbridges alone are left un-touched, and they begin to offer what they can. They turn away from their dreams of the sky and from the momentum of their comfort to tread water alongside their neighbors.

Jack helps, too. He works as hard as the rest of them, but most of his care is turned toward Doris, the only surviving Stillwater. It's strange: Jack had thought whatever obligation she'd been saddled with would have died with her family, but their absence has cemented her back to that strange, flat-capped mountain, like she's the warden of her own prison.

Ain't No Ash Will Burn - The grief is overwhelming, clinging like pollen in spring, like the coating of black fungus fed by the distilleries upriver.

But, suddenly, it all fades into a singular numbness from which Jack fails to draw any feeling but one: anxiety. Between the floods of non-feeling, he sees himself laid bare. Here is a man who lost nothing.

The shame of being whole is too much. He withdraws. He ends things with Doris.

It's better this way. How could she be properly cared for by someone whose life was still upright? She didn't cry - she was empty of tears - but he couldn't put a name to that last look she gave him. It seemed the world was giving him many chances to try, though; it was now reflected in the face of every stranger and of every relative.

Heart You've Been Tendin' - Jack can't keep living like this, in a town where everyone knows he escaped unscathed; where everyone knows how he isolated Doris in her grief. He will break here, withering away under everyone's pain and judgment. The only way forward is out and away if he has any hope of keeping whatever remains of his heart. Maybe with strangers who don't know a single Springbridge, with people who don't know how goddamn fortunate he is - maybe he can salvage some small piece of goodness. Maybe he can repent by repairing a part of the world far, far away from this one.

This Too Shall Pass - He enlists in an expedition to the roots of all this ruin. He finds he can meet the eyes of those in his party - free of judgment and contempt. And they don't mind that he doesn't want to talk about his past. Everyone's backstory is the same, after all. Why rehash tragedy?

Besides. Maybe if he keeps his fingers crossed, his luck will finally run out.

#my art #puts my halfling in a carhartt

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adventuregunsphere · 2 years ago

Note

There they were, exhasperated and darting out of that disgusting, filth ridden lair. It was hard to get everything in place while they were running, But Gordon Freeman and Richard were the right guys to get the job done. Just as they were scrambling out of that disgusting muck ridden cave, the bombs went off.

The sound was horribly loud, rock taking impact and crumbling down below. They could feel the ground shake, with both the force of the bombs going off at once and the billowing shrieks of that monstrous mass of flesh, spores and mycellium down below.

Gordon had stumbled to the ground with a horrible grunt, going of balance from the way that ground shook. He gasped for breath, straining from all the effort. The gunk was coating the outside of his HEV suit, and if it werent for his helmet it would be all over his face. He was grubting and huffing heavily, strain on his face past the smudged glass. His ankle did not feel too good from that..

[MAJOR FRACTURE DETECTED; MORPHINE ADMINISTERED]

Great. That's just great... He got hurt from the fucking impact blast? Not the headcrabs down there? Or the actual monster?

"Ffffuck- Hggg- Oh my God.. Dude- Hey- Guy- Dd-Dude- you okay-?! Holy shit...!"

@thefactualsphere

Rick had been thrilled, hauling himself out of the cave entrance as fast as he could manage. His fans whirred and clicked on high, running at their max speeds as he embraced the chaos of it all.

Not the monsters, not the mycelium nightmare below the surface. But the very impact of the blast just a little too soon sent him tumbling forward.

A sickening crackle.

Rick gasped, his voice fracturing into a fizzly, damning tone.. A tone only a machine could produce..

"Hhell..." he inhaled, still heaving for breath as his sensors grew overwhelmed with pain.. He cupped over his face, half blinded.. The glass on the rock just below him was a sore indicator as to what had happened.. Fluid dripped between his fingers, red, but just enough to tell it was off..

"Justt my luck..."

#[ communications (reblog rp) ]#thefactualsphere

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liviavanrouge · 1 month ago

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Leo: *Steps outside sighing*

???: LEO!!!!

Leo: *Looks over, his eyes widening* N-Nia...

Leonia: *Walks out from a flash of light, smiling wide* LEO!!

Leo: *Steps forward, sprinting towards her* SIS!!!

Leonia: *Runs forward and throws her arms around Leo, chuckling quietly* I'm back..!

Leo: *Hugs her tight, gripping her coat* Nia..

Leo: *Moves back, looking up at her* ...y-you should leave..

Leonia: What..Leo, I just got here..

Leonia: Is someone threatening you using me?! If they are, I'll-!!

Leo: *Shakes his head* I realized...that I'm the problem..

Leonia: What...

Leo: The problem Artemis told me about...I am the problem..

Leo: I'm holding you back from being yourself!

Leo: Leonia..I just saw you walk out with such confidence and your head was held high! You weren't the old you that always lurked around me with your head down and fussed over me!

Leonia: *Stares down at him* Leo...

Leo: I want you to be happy, sis...

Leonia: I am happy, I'm always happy to take care of you and fuss over you, Leo..

Leo: I know, sis...but I want you to be much more happier..happier than I could ever make you..

Leo: D-Didn't you like traveling with the Hunters! Seeing all those new places, being able to Iris Message me with stories of your travels!

Leonia: I-I did...

Leo: *Smiles up at her* Sis...you have two years left to be a teenager, please..don't waste it taking care of me..

Leo: Go out there and live your life as a Hunter of Artemis..

Leonia: But..Leo..I'd outlive you..and I don't want that

Leo: *Takes her hand* For me...please..it'd make me the happiest little brother alive to know my sister is an awesome Hunter!

Leo: I know you'll outlive me..and I'll be sad about that as well..but, I really, really, want you to be free...

Leonia: *Smiles slightly, hugging him tight* Oh Leo...you've outgrown me so much..

Leo: *Hugs her tight, smiling at the warmth knowing he'd miss his sisters hugs*

Leonia: *Presses a kiss to his head* ..I'll send you lots of letters and photos of where I've gone..

Leonia: *Squeezes Leo then lets him go* I better track down Artemis and the others...

Leo: ..Sis..

Leonia: Hm?

Leo: *Throws his arms around her again, smiling* I love you so much!!

Leonia: *Chuckles, hugging him tight* I love you much more, my Big Lion...

Leonia: *Presses another kiss to Leo's head* I'll keep in touch...

Leo: *Steps back, watching her walk away*

Leonia: *Kneels down, her hand gently touching the ground, taking a deep breath in, filling her mind with the smells around her*

Leonia: *Opens her eyes, taking off full speed, her hair flying behind her*

Leo: *Smiles, watching her run* ..Cya sis...you look much more free now..

~~~~~

Leo: *Carefully fixes one of the broken machines*

???: Leo!

Leo: *Looks at Calypso* Hm?

Calypso: You got a letter...

Leo: *Perks up, taking it when she passed it to him*

Leo: *Opens the letter, his eyes lighting up at the photo inside*

Leonia: *Grins widely in the photo, Thalia and Artemis taking a picture with her, smiles visible on both of their faces, mountain peaks behind them littered with goats climbing up the sides*

Leo: *Smiles wide, his eyes watering* Nia...

Leonia: *Places the photo down in the album, chuckling* ...she's happy..

#pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #pjo hoo #pjo oc #pjo series #pjoverse #pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #riordanverse #heroes of olympus #percy jackson oc #percy jackson fandom #percy series #leo pjo #pjo leo #leo valdez

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ozdicaff · 2 years ago

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Solo Nova [no y/n] drabble because I keep thinking about him, he plagues my every thought and ill keep thinking about this scene until it wrangles itself out of my brain, KIIIND of written with Nova being the narrator!

As always, Ghost in the machine belongs to @venomous-qwille !!! PLEASE GO READ IT THEIR WRITING IS SO GOOD!!

Word count: 785

Being agile was something Nova loved to show off, his modded legs allowed him to make laps around his opponent to humiliate them right before landing the killing blow: jumping high and using the accumulating momentum to crush whoever dared to face him while scorching them with his flamethrower.

The thunderous applause that emits from the crowd, blended with loud music right after could make a man deaf.

A part of him reminisces, and another part slaps himself across the face so he can focus on running from the cops.

The blaring noises of two cop cars tailing him are piercing in this witching hour, closing in after another brawl bot club got busted. Right in the middle of another fight, too, for fuckin’ shame. Brawling is his favorite activity when it’s raining. And when it's sunny. And when it's cloudy-

As he maneuvers around obstacles with heavy, stomping screeches, he’s grateful to the mods that allow him to leap far enough that the cops can’t quite keep up. Claw-like toes allowing him to clutch the ground far better than his former feet would. Sirens continue to boom behind him, red and blue lights alternating and backlighting Nova, highlighting his serrated rays.

Running into the outskirts of town, he takes a glance at the drivers and drinks in the frustration on their faces. He taunts and blows a raspberry. Despite his situation, he can’t seem to take anything seriously, but that goes for any kind of authority. Why should he listen to a damn thing someone says if they can’t take ‘em in the ring?

Speakin’ of... here comes his favorite part of any chase: The dead end and whatever random bullshit he’ll pull off to escape. Always his best stories to brag about!

When the long, winding dirt road stops, he seems to be in a deserted small village. Raindrops fall upon stone, coating the long-abandoned bricks after years of being covered in dust, creating a unique smell. Seems like a good spot.

He skids to a sudden stop. His mechanisms scream from the abrupt change in speed and make a horrid shriek. “ALRIGHT, Alright! Give it a rest already! I give up!”

The tires of the vehicles follow suit in the grinding halt, drifting lightly. A rather young-looking officer has a look of disbelief, while the other, older one, eyes Nova up with suspicion. Maybe his façade would’ve been more convincing if he was at a legitimate dead end, but his impatience got the better of him, like it usually does. Oops!

The young policeman withdraws from his car excitedly—although he’s trying not to make it obvious—with cuffs in hand. "We're confiscating you for participating in unlawful robot battling.". The cranky one yells something with his gun drawn that Nova doesn’t hear, nor does he care to. Like that gun can do anything. Chasing him in the rain was a dumb move, their tasers are useless in this storm. He’s already got the rabbit in his trap.

Nova puts his wrists together as much as he can with his flamethrower arm and lets the fumbling man cuff him. As they begin to walk back to the car, Nova’s grin widens. A gun’s barrel follows him. Nova’s eyes narrow at him with a sinister smile. Stupid, stupid…

When he’s near enough to the car’s front, he pounces.

Turning up his spinning ‘rays’ to full tilt, his head resembling a saw blade more than a sun with all of his mods. He couldn’t help but start snickering. The surrounding men barely have a moment to think and realize what he’s doing. The younger of the two tries to tase him fruitlessly, Nova grasps the offending limb and tosses him aside into the dirt.

With one unnecessary jump, Nova lands directly onto the car's hood and begins to saw the steel. Sparks fly as metal tears into metal. Nova can hardly hear the bullets that reflect off of his body. He grips the slash he’s just made and rips it open, breaking the windshield in the process. He's gone from snickering to raucous, delirious laughter as he readies his flamethrower and fires it straight at the exposed engine.

Getting away from the flaming car before it explodes is risky, but he’s never been one to play it safe. Nova glances at the senior whose finger is squeezing the trigger.

This will make ignition all the easier!

In one motion, a quiet ‘pop!’ sound is heard, and the car's hood is engulfed in flames as Nova backflips away, dodging a bullet. A bullet that hits the car.

The officer's head hits the ground as the car explodes into flames, his mouth agape.

As Nova walks away from the explosion, leaving the two suckers, one unconscious and one in shock, he feels... badass.

#ghost in the machine nova #mywriting #the daycare attendant #gitm nova #gitm #ghost in the machine #ghost in the machine au #i feel so cringe for writing this btw #if its not obvious im new to writing just in gen #i feel like i shouldve added more dialogue but i couldnt find a way to add it without it feeling cramped #like #unnecessary #but alas we all start somewhere nd if i wanna be a writer i gotta actually publish my writing #big thanks to kandidandi and cacaocheri for encouragement i give you both a hug that breaks ur bones (it meant a lot to me GGTGRG)#might draw smth for this later too hehe

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shewasverynice · 2 months ago

Text

Fandoms: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen

⚠️ SPOILER HEAVY ⚠️

Major Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Full tags/warnings on Chapter links post

Major Characters: Original Character, Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Ieiri Shoko, Yaga Masamichi, Nanami Kento, Haibara Yu, Tsukumo Yuki, Choso

‎‧₊˚✧ Chapter 58 ✧˚₊‧

Satoru blinked up at the fading stars, his brain moving at the speed of molasses. The sunrise was creeping in, painting the sky in hazy pinks and oranges, and wow, okay, yeah, his head was definitely pounding.

Somewhere behind him, Sarah’s laughter cut through the muffled hum of leftover rave energy. He didn’t even have to turn to know she was still dancing—probably barefoot by now, her glow sticks dim but still clutched in her hands like trophies. The bracelet she’d made him (well, tried to make him, before the beads went everywhere and she gave up with a giggle) hung loosely around his wrist, half-falling apart.

He should probably get up.

Probably.

But the grass was soft, and the world was still pleasantly fuzzy at the edges, and Sarah was happy. Like, really happy. The kind of happy that made her drag strangers into impromptu dance circles and spin until she stumbled. He hadn’t seen her like this in… well. A while.

So he’d let her have this even if his skull felt like it had been used as a bongo drum all night.

A shadow fell over him.

“Wow. You look wrecked.”

Satoru squinted up at—oh. Shoko. That's right.

“M’not wrecked,” he mumbled, waving a hand dismissively. “M’just… philosophizing.”

“Uh-huh.” She crouched beside him, cigarette dangling from her lips. “About what? The tragic impermanence of glow sticks?”

“Exactly.” He sighed dramatically. “They shine so bright, only to fade so fast. Just like youth. Just like love.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re so full of shit.”

Sarah’s voice cut through the chatter, bright and breathless. “Satoruuuuu! Come dance!”

He turned his head just enough to see her—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, grinning like the sun itself.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “You gonna go?”

Satoru groaned, flopping an arm over his eyes. “In a minute. Maybe five. Or ten.”

“Coward.”

He didn't have a comback, but he was smiling.

And when Sarah stumbled over to collapse beside him, still laughing, still glowing—he decided the headache was worth it.

She leaned against him, still buzzing with leftover energy, her words tumbling out between breathy laughs. "—and then she just dove into the pool, like, fully clothed, and—Satoru, are you even listening?"

He wasn’t. Not even a little.

His brain was currently replaying the absolute nightmare that had been this entire morning in 4K high-definition stress.

He’d woken up to an empty bed.

Fine, sure. She probably got up before him.

But then—no Sarah in the kitchen. No Sarah in the garden. No Sarah anywhere. He’d even checked the closets. Why? He didn’t know Maybe she thought she turned into a coat? Stranger things had happened!

Saturn, curled up in the living room, had just blinked at him lazily when he’d demanded answers. Useless furball.

A quick peek into Elysium confirmed she wasn’t there either—not that he could tell, really, because that place was huge, and searching it would take years.

Then it hit him.

Food.

That girl was always hungry. And he’d been a terrible host—the fridge was basically a wasteland. She’d probably gone out to scavenge.

But with what money?!

Cue Satoru throwing on the first clothes he found (one of her hair ties still tangled in his sleeve, how?) and bolting out the door like the building was on fire.

Satoru moved through the streets of Kyoto like a man possessed—which, honestly, he kind of was. His sneakers slapped against the pavement as he scanned every storefront, alley, and vending machine with the intensity of a detective in a crime thriller.

Where the hell did she go?!

He was trying to be subtle about using his cursed energy, but let’s be real—when panic mode is activated, subtlety goes out the window. His Six Eyes flickered behind his sunglasses, scanning for any trace of Sarah’s energy signature. If Suguru had dared to take her—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

(He was absolutely thinking about that. And if it was Suguru, Kyoto was about to become a very ashy city.)

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out, nearly dropping it in his haste.

>> Shoko: bro relax she’s fine

>> Shoko: ur acting like she’s a lost puppy

>> Shoko: she’s a grown woman w legs

Satoru scowled and fired back:

>> Satoru: SHE HAS LEGS THAT COULD WALK HER INTO DANGER

>> Satoru: ALSO SHE HAS NO MONEY???

>> Satoru: WHAT IF SHE’S BARTERING WITH HER BODY

Shoko’s reply was immediate:

>> Shoko: then she’ll come home with a lot of snacks. problem solved.

Satoru groaned, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Useless.

He rounded the corner at inhuman speed—nearly flattening an old man carrying a bag of groceries—when suddenly, his Six Eyes pinged.

There.

A familiar flicker of positive energy. Weak, but hers.

His head snapped toward a small, hole-in-the-wall clothes shop. She was in there, he knew it. But clothes? How was she going to afford clothes?! She wasn't actually trying to… to…?!

Satoru wasn’t proud of the way he stormed into the clothing shop like a man on a warpath. The bell above the door jingled violently as he blew past the confused sales clerk, zeroing in on the changing rooms at the back. His pulse roared in his ears—if Suguru had sent someone, if some curse user had lured her here, if—

He wrenched open the door with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“Sarah, what the hell are you—?”

The words died in his throat.

Sarah stood there, perfectly unharmed, holding up a pair of jeans against her waist. She blinked at him, unfazed, one eyebrow quirking up. “Trying on clothes?”

Satoru’s brain short-circuited. “Why?"

“Because I can’t keep stealing yours?” She answered, tossing the jeans onto the bench. “I can’t go anywhere without a bra.”

“You’ve got baggy clothes on!” he argued, gesturing wildly at the oversized hoodie she’d borrowed from him yesterday. "No one will know!"

Sarah gave him an impish look. Then, with deliberate slowness, she tugged back the pile of clothes on her arm, revealing the thin, loose tank top she wore—his tank top, hanging off one of her shoulders, the neckline dipping dangerously low.

Satoru’s mouth went dry. She wasn’t wearing a bra. The fabric was so thin he could see—nope.

He snapped his gaze back up to her face, but the damage was done. His face burned.

Sarah smirked. “See? Anyone can tell.”

“No they can’t,” he lied, voice strangled.

She snorted. “You just stared for, like, ten full seconds. I should have counted out loud."

Satoru straightened abruptly, clearing his throat. “Anyway,” he said, too loudly, “how were you planning to pay for all this?”

Sarah reached into the pocket of her rolled up borrowed sweatpants and pulled out a small wallet. “With money?”

Satoru stared. “You had money this whole time?!”

“Yeah? I grabbed my wallet before I left.”

"Where did you get money?!" He asked.

"What do you mean? I have some money," she said tilting her head.

Sarah pushed open the shop door about twenty minutes later, the little bell jingling cheerfully as she stepped out into the sunlight—only to find Satoru leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scowling like a storm cloud.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled.

She grinned, spinning in a little circle to show off her new outfit—an off-the-shoulder top that dipped just enough to be playful, paired with jean shorts that made her look like she’d stepped out of some carefree summer daydream. "Ta-da! Cute, right?"

Satoru’s scowl deepened and he grumbled in his throat.

"Why’d you just leave?" he demanded, forcing his eyes to stay firmly on her face.

"I told you," she said, adjusting the strap of her shopping bag. "I needed clothes."

"You could’ve waited for me to get up."

"And then you would’ve bought everything for me."

"Yeah? And?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "So I left without you."

"No, that's stupid," Satoru shot back, pushing off the wall. "You need me to keep you safe."

She blinked at him, tilting her head. "But I am safe. You could be anywhere I need you in seconds. That's why I let you sleep."

Satoru opened his mouth—then closed it.

Damn it.

She said it so simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. Like he was her safety net. And that—that did something stupid to his chest.

Before he could spiral further, Sarah’s attention snapped to a nearby display of stuffed animals in a shop window. Her jaw dropped, eyes going wide with childlike wonder.

Satoru stared.

One second she was there, present, vibrant—the next, she was lost in whatever hazy, euphoric state Suguru’s influence had left her in. A weird mix of guilt and frustration twisted in his gut.

Okay. Maybe I’m not the only one being weird here.

He rubbed the back of his neck, watching as Sarah pressed her hands against the glass, utterly enchanted by a ridiculously huge plush tanuki.

"You want it?" he muttered.

She didn’t answer. Just kept staring, mesmerized. He pulled out his wallet like a man in a trance and soon enough he was handing her the stupid thing.

"Ah—what?" She stammered, looking down at its big round eyes. She looked back up at him and—

"You're welcome, let's go home," he mumbled, putting his arm around her shoulders and guiding her towards the end of the street.

"Woah, hey no," she twirled away from him, her hand held up. "Not yet."

Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience fraying like an old rope. "Sarah. You need to go home. It's not safe for you out here."

She smiled at him, all innocence, as she swung her shopping bag back and forth. "I've been leaving your house the whole time, Satoru."

His hand froze. Slowly, he lifted his blindfold, his piercing blue eyes narrowing. "...How?"

"Through the door," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Bullshit," he snapped. "I have that door alarmed."

"I turned it off."

"How? It's my passcode."

Sarah shrugged. "It's the same as the PIN on your card."

Satoru stared at her, mouth slightly open. No witty comeback. No deflection. Just pure, stunned silence. How'd she figure that out? Or did he tell her? Maybe he told her?

"...Okay," he finally said, dropping the blindfold back into place like a defeated man. "Well. Don't do it again."

Sarah tilted her head, her grin turning sly. "What, are you planning to keep me locked up like Rapunzel now?"

"It's not the same," he grumbled.

"It is," she countered, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Suguru used to come hang out with me all the time when he hid me away. He probably thought it would keep me there."

Something in Satoru's chest twisted. His voice came out sharper than he intended. "He didn't… Did he... sleep with you?"

Sarah scoffed, rolling her eyes. "No. I'm still dating Yu, remember?"

The way she said it—so casual, so oblivious—made Satoru's stomach lurch. His brows furrowed. "...Is Haibara okay lately?"

Sarah blinked, her expression blank for a second before she shrugged. "He's been kinda weird. Distant, I guess?"

Satoru's jaw tightened.

Weird. Distant. Just like her.

And the worst part? She didn’t even seem to notice her own strangeness.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "Right. Well. Let's go."

Sarah trudged behind Satoru, her fingers absently tracing the round, plastic eye of the stuffed tanuki clutched in her arms. Her lips were pursed in a dramatic pout, her sandals scuffing against the pavement with every step. Satoru, despite his best efforts to pretend he wasn’t paying attention, kept flicking his gaze toward her behind his sunglasses. And then—their eyes met. A beat of silence. Sarah’s expression shifted from pout to oh shit in half a second. Then she bolted. "Oh, no no no no no—" Satoru groaned, but he was already moving, his body flickering with cursed energy as he zipped in front of her in a blur.

THUD. Sarah collided face-first into his chest, letting out an indignant "Oof!" as she stumbled back. Satoru smirked down at her. "Nice try." Sarah’s glare could have melted steel. But then suddenly she peeked over Satoru's shoulder with exaggerated curiosity, her eyes wide with fake alarm. "Oh no, is that some of Suguru's thugs?!" Satoru, despite knowing better, instinctively turned to look— Sarah's sandals slapped against the pavement as she took off running, her laughter ringing through the street. Satoru whipped back around just in time to see her bolting down the sidewalk, the oversized tanuki bouncing wildly in her arms. Its floppy ears, chubby tail, and stubby arms flailed with every step, making the plush look comically large against her small frame. He snorted, too amused to even be mad. "You are so bad at this," he called, lazily breaking into a jog. His long strides easily caught up to her frantic sprinting, and within seconds he was matching her pace, grinning down at her like this was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all week. Sarah huffed, the tanuki's squished face wobbling as she tightened her grip. "I just—huff—want one night out—wheeze—without you helicoptering me!" Satoru kept pace effortlessly, hands in his pockets like he was on a casual stroll. "We can work that out," he said, "if you just ask next time." "No! Because then you'll—huff—get all worried and paranoid and stuff! I'm not a kid!"

"Well, you are to—"

"No I'm not!" She grunted, stopping in her tracks and whipping around at him, "I'm nineteen! I'm a big girl! I can do things without your help! I can buy my own things!" "Yeah, and?" Satoru shrugged as he stopped just beside her, completely unrepentant. "I can't just not buy you stuff. It's a medical condition." Sarah shot him a disbelieving glare, but her breathless laughter ruined the effect. "Stop it! I just want to have some fun!" Satoru exhaled dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright, fine. You wanna have a night of fun? Let's have some fun. But we're doing it together."

Sarah's entire face lit up like a festival lantern. "YES!" She immediately dug into her pocket and slapped a crumpled flyer against his chest. "Here. This. We're doing this."

Satoru peeled the paper off and squinted at it. Neon colors, distorted fonts, a lineup of DJ names he didn’t recognize.

His nose wrinkled. "...A rave?"

Sarah nodded so hard her hair bounced. "It’s got three of my favorite producers! I can’t miss it!"

Satoru sighed. He’d always known music was different for her. Not just a hobby, not just background noise—it was lifeblood. She could dissect a song like a scholar analyzing ancient text, could get lost in a melody like it was a physical place. A rave? Yeah, that tracked.

But then his stomach twisted.

Because drugs.

The thought had been gnawing at him since he’d first noticed her… offness. He’d even secretly sent her bloodwork to Shoko, trying to find answers. The results? Too much THC, sure, but nothing that explained the depth of her dissociations, the way she sometimes stared through reality like it was a thin curtain.

And now she wanted to dive into a sweaty, strobe-lit crowd where who-knows-what was being passed around?

"Sarah…" he started, hesitant.

She immediately deflated, her excitement dimming. "Oh. Right. I forgot—I’m not allowed to have fun anymore."

"That’s not—" He groaned, tugging uncomfortably at his t-shirt collar. "Fine. Fine. We’ll go."

Sarah’s grin returned full-force. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I’m buying the tickets. And you’re not drinking anything some rando hands you."

She rolled her eyes. "Wow, thanks, Dad."

Satoru flicked her forehead. "I’m serious. If I see you so much as look at a suspicious gummy, I’m dragging you out by your toes."

Sarah stuck out her tongue but didn’t argue, already bouncing on her toes. "You’re gonna love it. The bass hits your soul, Satoru! It’s magic."

Satoru watched her, the way her eyes sparkled with genuine joy, and felt something in his chest soften.

Whatever’s wrong with her… I’ll figure it out. But tonight? Tonight, she gets to be happy.

Later on the bass thrummed through the club like a second heartbeat, the air thick with sweat and neon-lit haze. Satoru leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as Sarah spun and laughed in the middle of the dance floor, her movements fluid and unselfconscious. She was lost in it—the music, the crowd, the sheer vibe of the night—completely in her element. And Satoru? He was tapping his foot. Not to the beat. No, this was pure, restless irritation at himself—mostly—for being unable to tell her no. That damn smile of hers was a weapon, and he was its most pathetic victim. Then came the pills. Some sketchy guy in a bucket hat had passed her a tiny plastic baggie, and Sarah—being Sarah—had grinned like she’d won the lottery. Then, tucked in the shadowy hallway near the bathrooms, she pulled out the bag and held it up. Two of them were crushed leaving a wet chunky powder inside the bag. She grimaced, poking at the remnants before looking up at Satoru with a wrinkled nose. "These don’t taste so good."

Satoru chuckled. "Oh, really? The mystery pills you got from a Stranger doesn’t taste good?"

Sarah pressed the bag into his hands, then held up her index finger in a "wait". She scurried into the bathroom and scurried right back out and snatched the bag back.

Satoru narrowed his eyes, watching her work like some kind of 18th century artisan or something. With slow and careful fingers she placed the two intact pills into a ripped piece of toilet paper and wrapped them carefully.

Reaching up, she took one of his hands and placed both wrapped pills in his palm. He stared at them expectantly as she placed her bottle of water nearby, but gasped in horror at her next move.

Sarah tore the plastic bag, dumping the clumpy remains of the pills into her mouth. She reached immediately, but closed her eyes and licked the damn plastic clean. Her eyes watered from how hard her face scrunched up, her skin flushed red as she heaved and chugged water to get rid of the taste.

"Why'd you do that?!" Satoru cried, "I would have—"

"No, no no no," she stammered, wiping the sweat that had broken off her brow, "I'm not letting your virgin trip into rolling start like that. I wrapped those two up so you wouldn't accidentally touch them with your tongue. Take them quick before someone sees."

Satoru's jaw set. He stared down at the two pills on his palm, then before he could have time to think about the consequences he took them both in one big gulp.

Soon enough, Satoru swayed on the dancefloor, his body moving without thought, without resistance—just pure, unfiltered sensation. The lights above streaked across his vision like comets, leaving glowing trails that pulsed in time with the music. He reached out, fingers brushing the air as if he could catch them, his laughter lost in the thunderous bass.

God, it was beautiful.

The ecstasy hummed through his veins, a warm, electric current that made every nerve sing. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was clarity, a hyper-awareness of his own body that reminded him, strangely, of the first time he’d unlocked the true depth of the Six Eyes. That same overwhelming elation, that same certainty that the universe was something vast and wondrous and his to explore.

His chest ached with how full he felt, every breath a revelation. He could feel his lungs expanding, the cool rush of air, the way his heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. His cheeks hurt from grinning, but he couldn’t stop—didn’t want to stop.

A hand grabbed his, fingers intertwining with his own. Sarah’s face appeared in his blurry periphery, her eyes wide and sparkling under the strobes. She shouted something, but the music swallowed her words. It didn’t matter. He could feel what she meant—the joy, the connection, the sheer aliveness of the moment.

He pulled her close, spinning her under his arm before catching her against his chest. She laughed, breathless, her hands gripping his shoulders as they moved together, two stars caught in the same orbit.

He was just here.

With her.

With the music.

With the universe painting itself across his eyelids in neon.

And it was perfect.

Sarah threw her arms around him, and Satoru’s world shattered. Her body pressed against his, warm and solid, squeezing tight enough that he swore his bones might combust from the sheer intensity of it. He hadn’t expected it—hadn’t braced for it—and the force of the embrace sent a shockwave through his system, every nerve alight. His eyes fluttered closed on instinct, his arms locking around her like she was the only anchor in a storm. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and sugar and her, shuddering as the ecstasy magnified every point of contact until it was almost too much.

Then she whispered in his ear, her breath hot against his skin—

"I’m so glad you’re here with me."

The words wrapped around him, a second embrace, sinking straight into his chest. For a delirious moment, he couldn’t tell where the drugs ended and the emotion began. It was all just Sarah, Sarah and her joy, her light, her everything.

Reluctantly, he pulled back, hands lingering on her back as he tried to steady himself. She was saying something else now, lips moving fast, but the music swallowed her voice, and the ecstasy turned her words into a slurry of sound. Her teeth were gritted, her eyes crinkled at the corners, glowing.

God, she’s so happy.

He’d seen her laugh, seen her grin, but this—this was radiant, uncontainable, like she was made of pure sunlight. And he’d helped do that. He’d given her this.

His throat tightened.

Sarah tugged Satoru through the pulsing crowd, her fingers laced with his, weaving between bodies like she’d known this place her whole life. Before he could process it, she’d pulled him into a loose circle of strangers—people with glitter on their cheeks and drinks in hand, laughing over the bass-heavy drop shaking the floor.

“This is Satoru!” Sarah announced, like it explained everything.

And somehow, it did.

No long introductions, no awkward small talk. Just instant acceptance. A girl with neon-pink braids handed him a glow stick without a word. A guy in a tie-dye shirt nodded along as Sarah rambled about the DJ’s setlist, like they’d been friends for years. It was bizarre. It was beautiful in a way.

“They’re all just… here,” Satoru mumbled, more to himself than anyone. “No plans, no expectations. Just… vibing.”

The man beside him—someone with a beard and kind eyes—chuckled. “That’s the E talking for you, brother.”

Satoru blinked. Oh. Right. Drugs.

He turned to say something to Sarah, but—She was gone.

Vanished into the sea of dancing bodies like she’d never been there. His chest tightened, a jolt of panic cutting through the euphoria.

The man clapped him on the shoulder. “She’ll be back. They always come back.”

Satoru smiled a lazy and way to big smile. “Yeah? Thanks.”

But he was already stepping away, scanning the crowd for her.

Satoru waded through the throng of bodies, letting the chaos of the rave wash over him. The press of strangers against his skin sent electric little shocks through his nerves—someone’s arm brushing his, a laugh too close to his ear, the heat of the crowd like a living thing. Then, without warning, fingers raked through his hair from behind, sending a full-body shudder down his spine. He gasped, jerking away, but when he turned, there was no one there—just a sea of anonymous faces lost in their own worlds.

Weird. Too much. Kind of amazing.

He shook it off, steadying himself with a breath before pushing forward.

And then—there she was.

Sarah sat cross-legged in a loose circle of people, her back against a speaker, her face alight with laughter. Around her, the group swayed and sang along to the music, some halfheartedly dancing where they sat, others just talking, their voices rising and falling with the bass. Satoru lingered at the edge, watching.

These were non-sorcerers. Ordinary people with ordinary lives—lives he’d never spared a thought for before. A girl with a septum piercing was talking about her job at a record store. A guy in a faded band tee complained about his roommate’s terrible taste in cereal. Someone else was debating the best way to make pasta.

It was all so… mundane.

And yet, under the glow of the strobes, with Sarah grinning like this was the most important conversation in the world—

It was fascinating.

The laughter of the group blurred into the bass-heavy thrum of the music, but Satoru felt it—the shift, the quiet fracture. Like the room itself was peeling away from him, leaving him untethered. These people were connected, woven together by something effortless and warm, and he was just... there. A spectator. A ghost.

A deep and old sadness reared its head from where it was buried.

I want that. I want to be part of it. Will they even like me? They probably won't want me there.

Then—

"Satoru!"

Sarah's voice cut through the fog, soft but insistent. She patted her lap, grinning down at him. "C'mere. Head here. Now."

He moved without thinking, his body obeying before his brain could protest. The second his head hit her thighs, her fingers sank into his hair, and—

Her nails scraped gently against his scalp, her touch somehow both soothing and electrifying. He shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as a breathy sigh escaped him. Was she—? Yes. Her fingers were moving to the beat, deliberate and rhythmic, long strokes that tugged just enough to sting, just enough to make his toes curl in his sneakers.

"You good?" Sarah murmured playfully, her voice laced with amusement.

Satoru couldn't speak. Couldn't think. The overstimulation should have been too much—the music, the lights, the press of bodies around them—but instead, it all melted into a single, perfect point: her hands in his hair.

He managed a weak nod, his fingers twisting into the fabric of her shorts like an anchor.

Sarah laughed, low and knowing. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Sarah’s fingers dragged through his hair again—long, slow swipes of her nails from the crown of his head all the way down to the nape of his neck. Her nails scraped deliberately against his scalp, the sting just sharp enough to make his breath hitch. His legs bounced like he was wired to an electric current. His mouth fell open, teeth gritting as pleasure and overstimulation warred under his skin.

God. God, she was good at this.

Her touch was art—knowing exactly where to press, where to pull, where to linger just long enough to make his fingers claw at the cement floor. He was a live wire, every nerve alight, every sensation magnified by the ecstasy humming through his veins.

Then—she stopped.

The absence of her touch was like stepping off a rollercoaster after hours of loops. His head spun, his body thrumming with residual electricity.

"Need water?" Sarah asked, holding a full bottle dangled over his head.

He nodded weakly, still dazed.

The cold bottle pressed into his hand, and he gulped it down greedily. The water was heaven—crisp and shocking against his dry throat, the chill spreading through his chest like a balm. He gasped after the first sip, blinking up at her.

"Good?" she teased.

"So good," he rasped, voice wrecked.

Sarah grinned, running a thumb over his bottom lip, catching a stray drop of water. "You’re welcome."

Satoru watched, transfixed, as Sarah brought her thumb to her own lips—kissing away that single droplet of water she’d stolen from his.

His brain short-circuited.

Normally, he’d have a smirk ready. A tease. “Wow, someone’s flirty.” Or “Trying to seduce me, Sarah?” Something stupid, something easy.

But right now? Nothing. Just silence. Just her.

His hands moved without thought, lifting to cradle her face. His fingertips traced the line of her neck first, feeling the flutter of her pulse under his touch. She shivered, and the way her breath caught sent a thrill through him.

Slowly, reverently, he mapped her features—the arch of her eyebrows, the slope of her nose, the curve of her cheekbones. Each touch was deliberate, each sensation searing into his memory.

Then—her lips.

His thumb brushed over them, feather-light, and his breath stalled.

So soft. So warm.

Sarah didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let him explore, her eyes locked on his, dark and unreadable. The music faded. The crowd blurred. For one endless moment, it was just this—the press of his fingers against her mouth, the weight of something more hanging between them.

Then—

“Satoru,” she whispered, his name a question, an answer, a promise.

And just like that, the spell broke.

He dropped his hands, exhaling sharply.

What the hell was that?

But the way she looked at him—like she knew, like she felt it too—told him one thing for certain: This wasn’t just the drugs talking.

And that terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The bass dropped, the crowd roared, and Sarah shot up like a firework the second her favorite DJ stepped onto the stage. She carefully untangled herself from Satoru before darting off into the pulsing mass of bodies, disappearing near the front where the lights were brightest. Satoru watched her go, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as she threw her hands up, already lost in the music. "Your girlfriend’s cute," a woman from the group—the one with the septum piercing—remarked, nudging him with her elbow. Satoru chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah, she’s not my girlfriend." The woman raised an eyebrow. "Why not?" "It’s not like that," he said, waving a hand dismissively as he stood up. "We’re not serious or anything." "Looks pretty serious from where I’m sitting," she countered, nodding toward where Sarah was now spinning in wild, unselfconscious circles, her laughter cutting through the music. Satoru sighed, smiling dreamily. "Sarah’s just… like that. Bright. Beautiful. Loves making people smile." He smirked. "Doubly so on ecstasy, apparently." The woman laughed, taking a sip of her drink. "She sounds like a lot of fun." "She is," Satoru admitted, his voice softening without his permission. "She’s great."

"Yeah, she's alright," Shoko agreed.

“SHOKO?!” Satoru yelped.

She barely had time to brace herself before he launched at her, wrapping her in a bear hug that lifted her clean off the ground. Shoko went stiff, arms pinned to her sides, her expression caught between mildly annoyed and this is my life now.

“Put me down, you overgrown child,” she muttered, but Satoru just squeezed tighter before finally setting her back on her feet.

“What are you doing here?!” he demanded, hands on her shoulders like he needed to confirm she was real.

Shoko took a slow drag of her cigarette before exhaling a lazy plume of smoke. “You stopped texting this morning. Had to make sure you both weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.”

Satoru gasped, clutching his chest like she’d wounded him. “I abandoned you! I’m so sorry!” His voice cracked with exaggerated remorse.

Shoko snorted. “Wow. We should get you high more often. You’re way more honest like this.”

“I’m always honest!”

“You lied to Yaga last week about ‘training’ when you were really napping in the supply closet.”

Satoru opened his mouth—then closed it. “…Okay, fair.”

Shoko smirked, flicking ash off her cigarette before nodding toward the dance floor, where Sarah was now attempting to teach a group of strangers a wildly incorrect but enthusiastic choreography. “She good?”

Satoru followed her gaze, his expression softening. “Yeah. She’s… really good.”

Shoko studied him for a long moment before sighing. She took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Satoru’s face as she smirked. "So," she said, voice dripping with amusement. "You ready to admit you like her yet?"

Satoru chuckled, shaking his head. "Come on, it’s really not like that." He shrugged, trying—and failing—to sound casual. "Yeah, okay, she flusters me sometimes. But crushes happen! They pass. It's normal."

Shoko stared at him, deadpan. "Are you seriously using my words against me right now?"

"Well, you’re right," Satoru insisted, pointing at her. "Crushes are temporary. I’ll get used to her again soon enough. I’m just… not used to how close she gets, how she just—hugs and says shit and—"

"Because you like her," Shoko interrupted.

"I don’t."

"You do."

Satoru groaned, slumping against the bar. "Okay, fine, maybe I’d get over it faster if I just slept with her or something, but that’s not even what I want—"

Shoko’s eyebrow arched. "You really believe that?"

"I do."

She took another sip, then sighed. "You’re an idiot."

Satoru opened his mouth to argue, but Shoko cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Look at her," she said, nodding toward the dance floor where Sarah was now attempting to balance a glow stick on her nose while a group of strangers cheered her on. "You don’t get this worked up over someone you just wanna sleep with. You don’t stare at them like they hung the moon because you’re just a little flustered."

Satoru followed her gaze, his chest tightening as Sarah laughed, the sound brighter than the strobes overhead.

Shoko smirked. "Face it. We all know it."

Satoru didn’t answer for a time, but he didn’t argue either. He turned to Shoko, his usual playful demeanor gone. His voice was low, serious in a way she so rarely heard.

"I don't want to do this again, Shoko."

She paused, studying his face—the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened into fists. "Do what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely at his own chest. "Feeling... Like this. Last time I let myself care this much, it wasn't even real."

Shoko took a slow drag of her cigarette, exhaling smoke through her nose as she considered him. "So what, your first life was just one-night stands and loneliness?"

Satoru's laugh was hollow. "Pretty much. Didn't have time for dating, most female sorcerers hated me, and the ones who claimed they didn't usually just wanted access to the Gojo name." He shifted uncomfortably. "Easy to stay detached when no one's real with you."

"But Sarah is real," Shoko pointed out.

"I know." His voice softened. "I know she liked me before—really liked me. And that's exactly why I can't..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

For a long moment, he just stared at the dance floor where Sarah was swaying with her arms outstretched, glowing bracelets trailing through the air like rockets.

Shoko waited. When he didn't continue, she nudged his foot with hers.

The silence hung between them, raw and vulnerable. Shoko didn't offer empty platitudes. Didn't tell him he was wrong. Just stubbed out her cigarette beneath her shoe and nodded.

"Yeah," she said simply. "Thought so."

Satoru, back on the lawn watching the sunrise, blinked as he broke away from his memories. The ecstasy was wearing down and the exhaustion was sinking deep into his bones. Sarah beside him was slowing down too, still babbling about something.

"How about we go home?" He asked softly.

"Mm yeah," she agreed, "I'll probably pass out as soon as I see our bed."

"Our, she says," he muttered, running a hand down his face with a soft groan.

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Taglist: @inthedarkshadows000

#fanfiction #a03 fanfic #writing #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #geto suguru #fix it fic #nanami kento

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