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joemama-2 · 10 hours ago

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the sound of you | ch. 2 just a stranger

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ pairing : gojo x fem reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ synopsis: what happens when a man who uses intimacy to numb his pain collides with a woman who sees vulnerability as her greatest weakness? a storm of desire, denial, and shattered hearts. you never imagined someone like him—magnetic, self-assured, and emotionally closed off—would enter your life. worse, you never expected to crave him in return. but fate has a cruel way of stitching together souls that should never meet, dragging you both into a spiral of unspoken truths, unresolved wounds, and a connection that feels more like a curse than a blessing.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags/warnings: slowburn, angst, fluff, sexual content, mentions of trauma, depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, blood, miscommunication, alcohol, drugs, opposites attract, manipulation, mentions of bullying, death, smut, insecurity galore, selective mutism, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, modern au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ wc: 9.3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ status: ongoing

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Satoru can’t remember the last time he’s a good night’s sleep. Not the kind of sleep that makes you wake up periodically throughout the night—either in tremors or his own state of insomnia. The kind of sleep where you can feel cold even after wrapping yourself in multiple fluffy blankets, holding a warm body to your chest. The kind of sleep that makes it still feel like your body and mind are awake. In short, he doesn’t sleep. Going to bed late and waking up early, amounting to an average total of maybe three-ish to four-ish hours.

But, Satoru can’t remember the last time he went to bed thinking of a woman he’s barely spoken to. And he also can’t remember the last time he went to bed alone.

That in itself is questionable—maybe even a horrible thing. Who doesn’t remember the last time they slept without a stranger in their bed? Him, apparently. He’ll address that issue when the time comes.

Now, he’s more so getting annoyed with himself. It’s been two whole days, two whole nights of the same question bouncing around

In his brain. He quite literally only knows your name and the fact that you seem like a shy little thing. Maybe that’s what’s drawing him in? So used to women flocking him, flirting shamelessly, not afraid to get a little handsy with him. But you didn’t do any of that. You seemed like you were scared to even look in his direction. Perhaps you’re just waiting for him to make the first move.

Or you have more self respect than most women he comes across.

Either way, it’s not enough to validate his reasoning for thinking about you. Like stated before, he’s getting annoyed with himself. The fact that he can’t stop his brain from shutting off the image of you—the smell of you. But it’s also so enticing. So inviting. So tempting. How easy that was of you to intrigue him. Easier than it was for her.

Don’t, he mentally chastises himself, shutting off that brutal reminder before all else.

However at the end of the day, you’re no different than any other women he’s met and fucked. It’s just taking a little longer to get you in his grasp this time. That’s fine. Satoru has tons of patience, he knows what women like—how they work. You’re the same, practically. He can play this game, that’s completely okay.

“Not quite right,” Satoru hums, his arms crossed lazily over his chest, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s leaning back slightly against the desk at the front of the lecture hall, a picture of casual authority. His sunglasses, as unnecessary indoors as they are iconic to him, perch on the bridge of his nose, partially hiding the faint circles under his eyes.

The student standing at the board hesitates, chalk hovering mid-air, glancing nervously back at him. The equation sprawled across the board is nearly correct, but there’s a glaring mistake in the third line—something Satoru noticed immediately.

“It’s a good effort,” he continues, his tone light yet tinged with amusement. “But you forgot to account for the boundary conditions. Physics doesn’t like to be neglected, you know. She’s picky like that.” A ripple of laughter moves through the room. Satoru smirks, enjoying the way he can command the energy of the space with just a few words. He gestures toward the error with a flick of his hand. “Go ahead, fix it.”

The student nods quickly and adjusts the equation, his face pink with concentration. Satoru lets his gaze drift across the rows of students as he waits, casually scanning for signs of engagement—or boredom.

His mind, however, refuses to stay present.

Two days. Two damn days, and the image of you hasn’t left him alone. He doesn’t even know why. You weren’t doing anything special when he saw you—just standing there, shy and quiet, holding onto your glass like it was the only thing tethering you to reality. You weren’t fawning over him like most people do, weren’t trying to catch his eye. If anything, you seemed like you wanted to disappear.

And yet, here he is, still thinking about you. In the middle of his lecture at that.

He shifts his weight, adjusting his stance against the desk. Maybe it’s the challenge that intrigues him. Okay, so maybe you’re a bit different, yes. But not so different that you’re untouchable. He’s truly convinced that all it’ll take is time. And patience, of course.

But why is he even bothering?

The student finally steps back, looking at him expectantly. Satoru blinks, snapping back into the moment. He pushes off the desk and steps toward the board, glancing over the corrected equation. “Now that’s more like it,” he says, tapping the chalk against the boundary term they added. “See? Physics isn’t so scary when you remember the rules.”

The student exhales in relief, and Satoru gives them a small nod before turning back to the class. “Alright, who’s next? Don’t be shy—I promise I won’t bite."

Another wave of laughter follows his comment, and he grins, basking in the attention. But even as he moves on with the lesson, his mind keeps circling back to you. Your face. Your voice. That sweet, addictive scent that seemed to cling to the air around you. Satoru can’t decide whether it’s infuriating or thrilling. Either way, he knows one thing for certain: this little game isn’t over yet.

“Megumi,” Satoru calls, spinning the piece of chalk between his fingers before tossing it lightly in the boy’s direction. His voice cuts through the low murmur of the lecture hall. “You’re up. Derive the time-dependent Schrödinger equation for me.”

Megumi looks up from his notebook, his dark eyes narrowing as he catches the chalk with minimal effort. He sighs deeply, the kind of sigh that suggests he’s been called on far too many times to protest anymore. “Why me?” he mutters under his breath, earning a chuckle from a few of his peers.

“Because,” Satoru says, flashing his signature grin, “you’re my favorite. And I know you secretly love being in the spotlight.”

The class murmurs, but Megumi only stands, dragging his feet to the front of the room. He eyes the equation Satoru has half-written on the board—a basic starting point for the derivation—and sets his notebook down on the desk nearby.

“You’ve got this,” Satoru says, leaning casually against the podium. “Just start from the time-independent version and use the separation of variables. Easy, right?”

“Sure,” Megumi replies dryly, stepping up to the board.

He picks up the chalk and begins writing. After a few seconds of writing and silence from the classroom as they all observe him work it out, Megumi pauses, glancing at Satoru, who nods encouragingly. With that, he continues on, satisfied with his progress,

After another while, he finally underlines the solution and steps back, dropping the chalk onto the ledge.

Satoru claps once, the sound echoing through the room. “Beautiful work, Megumi. See, everyone? Physics isn’t scary when you’ve got a brain like his.”

Megumi mutters, “It’s scary when you’re the professor.”

Satoru grins. “Aw, don’t be like that. You love me.” He turns back to the class. “Alright, who wants to explain why this solution works? Bonus points if you don’t repeat what’s in the textbook.”

Megumi makes his way back to his seat, shaking his head as he settles into the chair. He tries to block out the rest of Satoru’s antics, which are just as relentless as usual. Satoru’s eyes are always scanning the class, searching for the next victim, his grin never fading as he playfully calls on more students. “Yumi! You’re up!” Satoru sings, completely oblivious to the fact that the student has already raised her hand, having answered a question earlier in the lecture.

Yumi hesitates but stands anyway, walking to the front of the room. She starts to talk, clearly struggling with the concepts, and Satoru can’t resist teasing her. He leans over the desk in front of him, chin resting on his hand.

“No, no, Yumi, think about it like this,” Satoru says dramatically, throwing his hand up as if he’s revealing the answer to a grand mystery. “This is just like the time you—” He stops, eyeing her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You don’t want me to tell everyone about that time you tried to solve for a non-existent eigenvalue in your last exam, do you?”

The class laughs, Yumi’s face flushes red. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll spare you. But just remember, eigenvalues and eigenvectors don’t have to be that hard. Right, guys?”

The room erupts into snickers, and Satoru turns back to the board, clearly satisfied with his little jab. Megumi rolls his eyes, sinking lower in his seat. This is just another day in the life of Satoru Gojo. As the lecture drones on, Satoru finally gets around to the more challenging topics—perturbation theory and quantum tunneling—but even then, he’s effortlessly weaving in jokes, keeping the atmosphere light. To anyone else, it might seem like a circus, but to some, it’s just Satoru being Satoru: charming, unfiltered, and somehow always entertaining. Satoru finishes the lesson, clapping his hands together to signal the end of class.

“All right, that’s all for today. Don’t forget to read up on the next chapter—expect a quiz next week!” Satoru’s voice is loud and enthusiastic, as always. “And Yumi, remember what I said. Eigenvalues, my dear. Eigenvalues.”

The class starts to pack up, and soon Satoru is left alone in the lecture hall. Walking over to take a seat at his desk, mindlessly swiveling in his chair. Head tilted up as he focuses on the high ceiling, blowing a small raspberry of boredom.

Quantum mechanics. Abstract algebra. God, how boring. Lecturing everyday about those two really makes his days feel short and fast at the same time. Sometimes, he wonders how it would’ve been if he took up a more artistic degree instead of something STEM related. Maybe he would be a music professor or a film professor. He almost laughs at the thought, yeah right.

As much as he hates boring things, Satoru is a big time nerd.

After some more swiveling around, legs kicking out in a childish manner, the sound of a text message brings him back to life. Grabbing his device from his desk, he sees the name Asahi. When he clicks on the message, he’s met with a question.

Asahi:

Hey, you busy tomorrow?

With a small tilt of his head, he types back a response.

Satoru:

What time?

Asahi:

2pm

Satoru:

Should be, why?

Asahi:

Can you pick up Haruto from school for me? I have an interview

Satoru sighs, pausing for a moment. Haruto, his nephew who’s only five years old. He loves the little boy as if he were his own, and he looks like a complete replica of him. Of his mother.

Satoru leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk as he thinks for a moment. He can already picture Haruto’s wide, curious eyes, the way he lights up when she sees him. It’s impossible to say no to him, even when he’s deep in his own thoughts or wrapped up in his usual chaos.

Satoru:

Sure, I can do that.

He sets his phone down, a small smile forming on his lips as he thinks about the little boy. It’s strange how easy it is for him to care about him, to feel something genuine amidst his often careless demeanor. He never thought he’d get attached to someone so young, but Haruto somehow made it happen, just by existing. Maybe it’s because he’s his nephew. Or maybe it’s because he sees his mother whenever he looks at him.

“Ugh,” Satoru shakes his head, willing away the bitter, burning sensation he feels slowly crawl up his esophagus. He stretches his arms over his head, glancing at the clock on the wall. Tomorrow at 2pm, he’ll be out the door, picking up the child who shares his mischievous smile and contagious energy. The Gojo genes run strong, and not just by physical appearances.

But then, the weight of his earlier thoughts presses in on him again. It’s like an annoying friend constantly trying to hang out with you even after you’ve made it clear you don’t want to. For a second, he wonders how it is you’ve invaded his subconscious without even trying. He rubs his temples, trying to push the thought away. Nope, she’s not special.

But he’s got time, right? Time for what? To figure out why you’re still on his mind? To somehow make sense of why he’s so intrigued by someone he barely knows?

With a final sigh, Satoru grabs his coat and heads out of the lecture hall to grab some lunch in between his next class. The faintest sense of anticipation buzzing in his chest. Tomorrow might be a distraction—a break from the usual. He’ll see his nephew, the only family he has, and he’ll have a good day. However, with everything else going on in his mind, it feels like anything but.

“Why don’t you get on any dating apps, hm?”

Your lips thin into a grimace, brows knitting together. You shove your hands into the pockets of your cardigan, head shaking. “That’s not real at all,” you mutter.

Shoko sighs through her nostrils, leaning back in the booth. “I mean, it could be. People meet their husbands and wives on there sometimes. You just never know.”

“Exactly.”

Her eyebrow raises at you, bringing up what must be her fourth coffee of the day to her lips. You two have decided to spend some small time together at a nearby cafe before you have to go back to your respective jobs. She seems more adamant about dating than you do yourself. “Look, I just think it would be nice, you know? You’re a hopeless romantic.”

You frown.

“In a good way,” she quickly adds. “Any guy would like that. And I want to see you get treated nice and cute. You’re just not into dating right now or something?”

You exhale, fingers tapping along the cup of your iced coffee. The condensation begins to dampen the tips of your fingers. In a way, you’re not just not into it, but you feel like you’re also not ready. Sure, you’re a hopeless romantic. You love cheesy movies and novels, you enjoy the thought of being in love with someone and having that beautiful form of intimacy, but you also can’t help that nagging feeling in your soul that it’ll end the same way it did last time.

Your own hesitation and fear is what keeps you at bay.

Shoko watches you with a quiet intensity, her coffee cup still hovering near her lips after some sips. She doesn’t push further right away, letting the lull in the conversation settle as you trace absent patterns on the side of your cup. The clinking of mugs and soft hum of chatter from the surrounding tables fills the space between you. “I don’t know,” you finally admit, voice low but steady. “It’s not just about not being into dating. It’s more... I don’t think I’m ready to open myself up like that again.”

Her brows furrow slightly, and she sets her coffee down with a soft clink. “You mean because of your ex?”

You wince. She doesn’t have to say the name for the memories to start creeping in. The late nights spent crying, the way you questioned everything about yourself, the hollow ache that came after it all fell apart. You didn’t think you were still carrying that weight, but maybe you were. Obviously you were.

“Partly,” you admit. “But it’s not just him. It’s the whole thing—the vulnerability, the risk. Letting someone in and having them... leave. Or worse, break me again. And I’m already so used to doing things alone, just being alone. I don’t need someone to come in and ruin what I’ve built.”

Shoko’s expression softens, and for once, she doesn’t try to mask her concern with sarcasm or a flat, teasing comment. “Not every guy is like that, Y/N. You know that, right? There are good ones out there.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to your drink. “But how do you tell the good ones apart from the bad ones? Before it’s too late? I don’t want to take any risks…”

Her lips press into a thin line as she considers your question. “You can’t always,” she admits after a moment. “But that’s the point of trying, isn’t it? You take a chance because the reward could be worth the risk. And honestly? You deserve someone who sees you for the amazing person you are. You’ve got to give yourself that chance, too. Don’t let some douchebag from your past hold you back from finding someone in your present. You don’t deserve that. ”

You sigh, the words hitting a little too close to the part of you that still dares to hope. You know you shouldn’t let things mull over and predict how your future will look, but it’s so hard when every time a man even attempts to flirt with you, you’re hit with bursts of horrible nostalgia. You didn’t even think nostalgia could be horrible. Saturday proved it could. You feel bad for comparing strangers to a man you regret meeting, but it’s just the way your mind works. It’s almost like a defense mechanism. “I don’t know, Shoko. Maybe someday. But right now, it just feels easier to be on my own. I’m not too unhappy.”

She nods slowly, sipping her coffee again. Setting the cup down before speaking. “Fair enough. But just know... you can’t hide behind those walls forever. Love doesn’t work like that. I know you’re not unhappy, but even the littlest amount, I don’t like. I want you to have that extra support, besides your family, besides me.”

Her words linger long after your coffee is gone and you’ve both parted ways. You tell yourself she’s wrong—that you’re fine as you are. But deep down, there’s a tiny flicker of doubt. A part of you that wonders if maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Is it wishful thinking? Probably. Shoko’s heart is in the right place—you know that. She’s the kind of friend who wants you to have the kind of love story people dream about, the kind that could make your life feel like one of those movies where everything falls perfectly into place.

It seems like Shoko just wants the best for you, she wants you to live out your own cheesy romance novel. You’re grateful for her optimism, for the way she believes in you even when you can’t quite believe in yourself. You thank her for that, but at the end of the day, you don’t think you could handle heartbreak anytime soon.

While you may seem put together on a surface level, your emotions still feel incredibly weak. She, or anyone for that matter, doesn’t know how fragile you really are. Sure, you come off as put together—calm, composed, of course, very reserved—but beneath that, you’re still piecing yourself back together. Every crack, every bruise left behind from past heartaches feels like it could split wide open again if you’re not careful. You’re sensitive—that much is true. And you don’t try to be, but it’s just you.

So, the truth is, you’re not sure if you could handle that. Not again. Not anytime soon.

You sigh, absently brushing away a piece of hair from your face. Thinking back to it—Sensitive. It’s a word you’ve heard all your life, always said with a tinge of judgment, as if being soft-hearted is a weakness instead of simply you. You don’t try to be this way—it’s not like you wake up every day deciding to let the world’s weight sink into your chest. It just happens.

You wish you were stronger, had more thick skin to take what the world and people have to offer you with a straight face—moving on. You’re envious of people that can do that. Even envious of people who have other ways of coping than work and your cats. But again, that’s what Shoko doesn’t quite understand. Love might be worth the risk, but risks don’t come without consequences. For someone like you, even the smallest breach feels like it could shatter your whole infrastructure. So maybe—hopefully you’ll take that leap someday. But for now, it’s safer to stay where you are, no matter how wistful Shoko’s dreams for you might be.

You remind yourself you’ve made it this far on your own. Still cleaning up past wounds, but that’s okay. Of course, you would prefer if the process was a little faster than this—if you could snap your fingers and be ready to dive headfirst into something new without the hesitation or fear. But forcing yourself to be content with something again is not on your agenda. Healing takes time.

You’ve moved to Tokyo for that sole reason. The bustling city, with its endless noise and neon lights, offered you a chance to hit reset. A complete contrast from your life in the small, quiet countryside. Tokyo’s a fresh start for you—mentally, physically, environmentally, in every way possible. It was your way of shedding the weight of the past, of stepping into a world so big and overwhelming that maybe, just maybe, you could lose the parts of yourself still tethered to old hurts.

Tokyo feels like a city of possibility, a place where no one knows your name or your story unless you tell them. Here, you can decide who you want to be. And even if you haven’t figured that out yet, there’s comfort in knowing you’re no longer stuck in the same place, walking the same streets haunted by the same memories. You’re here to start over. And as of now, that’s enough.

Sometimes, the thought of a fresh start is comforting. Other times, it’s terrifying. Starting over doesn’t erase the person you used to be or the things that happened to you—it just gives you a chance to approach it all from a different angle. And while Tokyo might seem like the perfect backdrop for reinvention, it also magnifies how small and unmoored you feel in a city so alive with movement.

You’ve noticed that your routines are slowly forming, though. The visits with Shoko, the quiet walks through the nearby park, the little bookstore you stumbled across last week that now feels like your personal haven—these things ground you in a city that never sleeps. You like the way the city hums, its energy pressing against your skin and making you feel part of something bigger, even on the days when you’re not sure where you fit in it all.

Sometimes, there’s a part of you that wonders if moving was just an escape. Did you come here to heal or to run away? Did you believe a change of scenery would make you forget everything you’ve been trying not to dwell on? Some nights, when the silence in your apartment grows too loud, those questions creep in, but you try to push them away. You remind yourself that running is sometimes necessary. It’s not weakness—it’s survival. Entering the grounds of the kindergarten again, you erase your inner turmoil and ready yourself for the job again.

Practice, not perfection.

“I thought I invited Suguru.”

“Suguru invited me.”

“It’s called boy’s night for a reason, Ieiri.”

“What, and miss you two fondling each other all night? Can’t do that.”

Satoru huffs childishly as Shoko enters his place. A straight faced Suguru beside her who only offers his friend a shrug when he sends a glare his way. He locks the door behind the two, following them as they make their way into his kitchen. “Please, make yourselves at home,” he says, sarcasm in his voice.

“Already planning on it,” Suguru and Shoko say in unison.

Leaning against the kitchen island, Shoko is already reaching for a glass of wine, Suguru some snacks. “Anywho,” Satoru begins, arms crossing. “Don’t you have work, Shoko?”

Shoko shakes her head, looking over at her white-haired friend. “Early night tonight. Plus, I’ve been having a major headache since Saturday.”

“That was two days ago,” Suguru flatly responds.

"Exactly," Shoko replies, deadpan, as she pours herself a generous glass of wine. "Two days too long." She leans against the counter, taking a sip, while Satoru narrows his eyes at her.

"You’re unbelievable," he mutters, before glancing at Suguru. "And you—what happened to our night? You were supposed to bring beer, not her."

Suguru shrugs, completely unbothered. "You know how this works, Satoru. She invites herself, I don’t argue. Besides, she’s more entertaining than you."

Shoko smirks into her glass. "See? I’m the life of the party."

Satoru groans, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks between his two friends. "I swear, you guys are impossible. I had plans, you know. Important plans."

"Yeah?" Shoko raises a brow. "What, binge-watching rom-coms and crying into your popcorn?"

Suguru chuckles under his breath, popping open a bag of chips and tossing one into his mouth. "Sounds accurate."

"First of all," Satoru says, pointing at them both, "I don’t cry during rom-coms. Second, I had a new board game I wanted to try, but I guess some people don’t appreciate culture."

"Board game?" Shoko asks, blinking. "Who plays board games anymore?"

"Me!" Satoru retorts. "And if you two weren’t heathens, you’d understand the strategic brilliance of Life."

Shoko and Suguru exchange a look before bursting into laughter, leaving Satoru to pout dramatically. "You’re lucky I tolerate you guys," he grumbles, stalking off toward the living room. "But you’re playing, whether you like it or not."

“That game is old and long.” Shoko walks over, plopping herself onto Satoru’s couch.

“You’re old and long.” Satoru swiftly remarks, getting met with a pillow straight to the face. He grumpily peers over at Shoko, hitting her back with the pillow on her arm.

Suguru, the pacifist in this situation, settled between his two companions. Leaned back with the ankle of his right foot over his left lap. His elbow atop the back of the couch in a lazy manner. "Satoru, stop instigating," Suguru says, his tone exasperated but laced with amusement. "You’re going to end up with wine spilled all over your couch if you keep this up."

Shoko scoffs, lifting her glass in mock threat. "Maybe I should spill it. Wouldn’t that teach him some manners?"

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest as if wounded. "You wouldn’t dare! This couch is imported Italian leather. Do you know how much it costs?"

"Knowing you," Suguru interjects, "probably too much for something you’re going to ruin within a year anyway."

"Rude," Satoru huffs, flopping his back onto the couch, snatching a chip from Suguru’s bowl. He pops it into his mouth, chewing dramatically. "You two come into my home, drink my wine, eat my snacks, insult my lifestyle—"

"And yet," Shoko cuts him off, "you’d be bored to death without us."

Satoru pouts but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he sighs and grabs the board game box from the coffee table and tosses it onto Suguru’s lap. "Set it up, then, oh wise peacemaker. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right."

Suguru sighs, opening the box with practiced ease. "Fine. But if this drags on for hours and you start crying when Shoko beats you, I’m leaving early."

Shoko chuckles, raising her glass. "Cheers to that."

Satoru narrows his eyes at them both. "Just for that, I’m going to crush you guys. Prepare to witness strategic genius."

"Uh-huh," Shoko says, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. "Sure you are."

Suguru shakes his head, suppressing a laugh as he begins to sort the game pieces. It’s just another typical night with the trio—bickering, banter, and an overinflated sense of competition.

The night drowns on, with a couple glasses of wine being consumed, chips, and of course a small breakdown of distress after Satoru is forced to give Shoko some money from his earnings. Eventually, the three have winded down. Some comfortable silence here and there with a few mingling conversations. Suguru stands up from the couch, dusting his clothes off as he makes his way over to the bathroom. Presumably to splash some cold water over his face to sober himself up before he heads back home.

Leaving Shoko and Satoru alone, she’s busy doing who knows what on her phone. Bored, Satoru is mindlessly eating some of the popcorn they made about an hour ago, lips pursing in thought. He’s debating something. Maybe now that Shoko’s a little tipsy, she’ll be more loose-lipped. “So…” he starts calmly, obnoxiously chewing loudly.

“Hm?” Shoko hums back in obvious disinterest, scrolling her timeline.

For a second, Satoru weighs out the options of what kind of reaction this question will cause. Can’t be too bad, right? Shoko’s his friend, and friends are there for each other. “What’s up with your friend?” Real smooth, Satoru.

Shoko’s thumb halts mid-scroll, her eyes narrowing slightly at the screen as if it holds the answer to his question. She doesn’t look up immediately, making Satoru shift uncomfortably on the couch. “My friend, huh?” She repeats slowly, her voice carrying a skeptical edge but her expression giving nothing away. “Which one are you talking about, Satoru? I’ve got lots of friends.”

Satoru scoffs, leaning back dramatically against the couch and tossing a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. “You know who I’m talking about,” he says through his chewing. “Y/N. The cute, shy one.”

At this, Shoko finally looks up from her phone, her brow arching high. “No.”

Now Satoru looks over at her, lip quirking upwards. “What? No what?”

Shoko locks her phone and sets it on the coffee table, crossing her arms as she gives Satoru a pointed look. “No, you’re not going there,” she says plainly.

“Going where?” he asks innocently, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him.

“With Y/N,” Shoko says, her voice firm. “She’s not your type, and you’re definitely not hers.”

“Not my type?” Satoru repeats, placing a hand dramatically over his chest like she’d just wounded him. “Shoko, I don’t have a type. I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy.”

“Right,” Shoko snorts, rolling her eyes. “Your ‘opportunity’ usually starts and ends at a one-night stand.”

“Ouch,” he says, feigning offense. “You make me sound like some kind of—”

“Player?” she interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “That’s because you are one. And I’m not letting you mess with Y/N. She’s fragile.”

Satoru scoffs. “Fragile? She doesn’t seem fragile to me. Shy, yeah. But fragile? Come on, Shoko, give me some credit. I’m not gonna break her.”

“No, but you might hurt her,” Shoko shoots back. “And trust me, she doesn’t need that. Y/N’s been through enough already. She doesn’t need someone like you swooping in, flashing your pretty-boy smile, and leaving her worse off than before.”

Satoru frowns, sitting up straighter. “You act like I’m some kind of villain. I’m not that bad, you know.”

Shoko exhales deeply, shaking her head. “First of all, Satoru, I already told you—don’t mess with my friends. Especially her. She’s off-limits, remember?”

“Off-limits?” he repeats, brows furrowing together with annoyance. “Come on, Shoko. I’m not trying to ‘mess’ with her. I’m just… curious.”

“Uh-huh,” she deadpans, tilting her head. “Look, Y/N’s been through a lot. She’s not like the women you’re used to. She doesn’t need someone waltzing into her life and turning it upside down just because you’re ‘curious.’” She leans forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “Satoru, you’re my friend, so I’m saying this with love: don’t even think about it. Y/N is off-limits. Got it?”

Her tone leaves no room for argument. Satoru opens his mouth to protest, but Shoko raises a hand to stop him. “And before you say something dumb like ‘I’m different,’ save it. I know you, Satoru. You’re my friend, and I care about you, but you’re not exactly… boyfriend material for someone like her. No offense.”

“None taken,” he lies, his ego slightly bruised. “But, hypothetically, if I were serious—”

“You’re not,” Shoko cuts in firmly, sighing with exasperation. “I know you’re not, you know you’re not.”

Satoru blinks at her, caught off guard by her unyielding tone.

“Let it go,” she says, picking up her phone again. “Y/N deserves someone who’s going to treat her right. Someone stable, patient, and not…you. And that’s okay.”

For once, Satoru doesn’t have a quick retort. Instead, he sits quietly, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth as he mulls over her words. Silently brewing with frustration at his friend for thinking so little of him, annoyance for her assumptions, and confusion at why she’s acting like she’s the gatekeeper of you or something. Who even are you to Shoko? If you two were as close as she’s making it seem, why hasn’t he met you sooner?

Unless, she’s been trying to keep him from coming across you.

Shoko’s low expectations of him are almost laughable. Almost. That thought really makes him want to scoff outwardly. He feels oddly defensive, like he should clear his name with Shoko who obviously has little standards in him. It’s a strange, unfamiliar defensiveness bubbling up—a rare urge to protect his honor, his character, his intentions. But is that so wrong of him to be curious about a girl who’s cute? That’s normal. Shoko is really taking this out of hand, acting as if he’ll stomp on your heart and dignity.

And while he’s not entirely sure how he would treat you, he’s not a horrible man. Sure, he’s flirted, dated, and yes, he’s left a string of fleeting romances in his wake. But does that mean he’s incapable of something more? Of curiosity that isn’t purely self-serving? Of wanting to get to know someone because they’re different? Because they seem… real?

The more Shoko’s words replay in his mind, the more absurd they feel. But the more he’s feeling the need to prove her wrong. Was it so wrong of him to be intrigued by a girl who’s cute? Who’s shy in a way that feels endearing, but not performative? That’s normal. He’s human, after all.

Shoko, though—she’s blowing this way out of proportion. Acting like he’s some sort of emotional wrecking ball set to demolish your strength and your own well-being in one fell swoop. He rolls his eyes. Still, as much as her words prick at his pride, they also plant something else: doubt. It lingers at the edges of his mind, gnawing at his confidence. He’s never been particularly introspective about his relationships—at least, not the short-lived ones. But now he’s wondering: What would I do? How would I treat her if I got close to her?

He doesn’t have a concrete answer, and that’s… unsettling.

Maybe like a fuck-buddy. Casual, simple, no strings attached—that’s how Satoru’s relationships usually go. It’s easier that way. No expectations, no messy emotions, no one clinging to him for something he’s not willing to give. It works for him.

Because while he’s confident he’s not the villain Shoko paints him to be, he’s also not entirely sure if he’s the hero in this narrative either. And that, more than anything, stirs something foreign in his chest. Something that feels uncomfortably like self-awareness. And Satoru does not need that right now. So, he does what he always does. Forget. Forget the curiosity gnawing at him. Forget the way your quiet demeanor intrigued him more than the loud, shameless advances of countless others. It wouldn’t be hard to forget you, he only has your name. No sort of connection to you besides Shoko. No number, no anything beyond Shoko, who’s already made it abundantly clear that you’re off-limits. He doesn’t know where you live, your hobbies, or even your favorite coffee order. You’re practically a stranger. Forgetting you should be effortless.

He doesn’t know anything about you other than the fact that you smell like sweet honey drizzled on the prettiest flower, a scent that lingered in his mind longer than he’d care to admit because he doesn’t think he’s ever met someone who’s own smell pulled him in like that.

It’s probably for the best. Shoko’s making it seem like you’re the type of woman who’d want something more and meaningful. Something he can’t—won’t—give. In a sense, Shoko’s saving him from the dread of dealing with a girl who will complain to him all the time. Saving him from the inevitable headache of a girl who’d demand too much. The complaints, the misunderstandings, the emotions. He can picture it already, and it feels stifling.

Yeah, it’s better this way. Satoru Gojo can be very good at forgetting.

Shoko heads home that night before Suguru. When Satoru is walking him to his car, Suguru is dead sober. Shivering from the cold night wind outside, unlocking his car. “Are we still going to the movies this weekend?” Satoru asks.

Suguru shakes his head. “Nah, I have a lot of errands to run and Shoko said she’s busy helping her friend with some community event.”

Satoru huffs, a white puff of air forming. “Since when do her friends do community events?”

Suguru chuckles lightly, opening the car door but pausing to lean against the frame. “Since her friend’s actually a decent person, unlike the two of us.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie as the cold bites at his fingertips. “I didn’t ask for a lecture on morality. Who even is this friend anyway?”

“I think she said her name was Y/N…or something like that.”

“She’s been mentioning her a lot lately.”

Suguru glances up at him, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh, yeah? Really? You’ve been hearing of her?”

Satoru doesn’t immediately respond, his expression remaining neutral despite the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Maybe,” he says nonchalantly. “What’s the deal with her? Shoko’s been acting all protective and weird about it.”

“If it’s because you’re trying to get at her, Satoru, it’s also because Shoko knows you, Satoru.”

“Knows me?” Satoru scoffs, frowning in offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Suguru raises a brow, his head shaking in disapproval. “It means Shoko doesn’t want you pulling your usual crap and scaring off her nice, sweet friend. And honestly? I don’t blame her.”

“I am nice and sweet,” Satoru shoots back indignantly. “When have I ever—”

“Do you really want me to start listing examples?” Suguru cuts him off, seriousness now dancing in his eyes.

Satoru clicks his tongue, looking away as a faint blush creeps up his neck. “Whatever,” he mutters, kicking at a stray pebble on the driveway.

Suguru sigh this time. “Look, her friend’s not like the girls you’re used to. She’s been through a lot, from what Shoko’s vaguely told me. So maybe—”

“Don’t,” Satoru interrupts sharply, turning back to face him. “Don’t start with the ‘be careful’ bullshit speech. I’m not planning anything, alright?”

Suguru studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugs, stepping into his car. “Good. Keep it that way. Don’t start shit with her friends anymore.”

Satoru watches as Suguru starts the engine, his friend’s words lingering in the chilly night air long after the car disappears down the street. He huffs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he heads back inside.

Nice and sweet, huh? Maybe he should be offended. Or maybe—just maybe—he should prove them wrong. He entertains that idea before sliding into his warm shower.

Nope, just forget.

As if to further set his mantra into place, he reaches for his phone from behind the shower curtain. Clicking on a random woman’s name, and typing out a small phrase.

Satoru:

Come over

“Clean up! Clean up! Everybody clean up!” Mrs. Inoue’s voice sounds throughout the classroom, followed by her and your claps to emphasize the beats of the small song. The classroom is alive with the chatter and movement of little hands tidying up toys and art supplies. Mrs. Inoue’s cheerful voice leads the way, her clapping rhythmically keeping the children in sync. “Clean up! Clean up! Everybody clean up!” she sings again, glancing over at you with a warm smile that you return instinctively.

Clapping along to the beat as you walk between the miniature tables and chairs, gently guiding the kids who seem more interested in playing than cleaning. “That’s right, Kenta, put the blocks back in the bin. Good job, Aiko! You’re such a great helper,” you encourage, your tone soft but enthusiastic.

The kids respond eagerly to your praise, their small faces lighting up as they scramble to finish their tasks. You crouch beside one of the younger ones, helping her gather stray crayons from the floor. “You’re doing so well, Mika,” you say, giving her a little nod of approval.

Mrs. Inoue claps her hands together once more, signaling the end of the song. “Great job, everyone! Look how clean our classroom is now,” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with pride as the children beam at the acknowledgment.

You straighten up, smoothing down your cardigan as you share a quick glance with Mrs. Inoue. There’s a quiet satisfaction in seeing the children thrive in this structured chaos, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in the warmth of the lively little classroom. There’s a small tug at your clothing, looking down to see a little boy holding a broken car to you. “Oh no, what happened here?” You ask, crouching down to better face the toy.

“I…I was playing and I broke it….’m sorry, Teacher Y/N.” Haruto, an honest but lovingly obedient young boy, admits shamefully. Looking into your eyes with his own pair of clear sapphire ones. A small pout to his lips that shows just how apologetic he is.

So adorable.

Your heart melts at the sight of Haruto’s pout, his little hands clutching the broken toy as though it’s the most important thing in the world. You reach out and gently place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Haruto,” you say softly, your voice kind and soothing. “Toys sometimes break when we play with them. It’s not your fault.”

He looks up at you with wide, watery eyes, still unsure. “Really?” he asks timidly, his voice small.

“Really,” you confirm with a warm smile. “And you know what? We can try to fix it together.” You take the car from his hands, inspecting the damage. The wheel has popped off, and the axle looks a little bent, but it’s nothing that can’t be mended. “This looks like an easy fix. I think we just need some glue and maybe a little bit of patience. Do you remember what patience means?

Haruto’s face brightens, his pout quickly replaced with a hopeful smile and a frantic nod. “Really? You can fix it, Teacher Y/N?”

“Of course,” you say, giving him a playful wink. “I’m a toy doctor.”

He giggles at that, the shame from moments before entirely forgotten. You stand up, holding the car carefully. “Why don’t you go wash your hands for snack time while I take this to the repair shop?” you suggest, gesturing toward the sink where a small line of children is already forming.

“Okay!” Haruto chirps. “Can I help after I wash my hands?” You nod and he runs off with newfound energy.

Glancing at the broken car in your hands, your smile lingering as you head toward the supply closet. Moments like this remind you why you love working with children—their honesty, their resilience, and the way their little smiles can brighten even the cloudiest days.

When Haruto is done with washing and drying his hands, he skips back over to you. Watching meticulously as you describe what needs to be fixed and hot to fix it. He stands beside you, peering over your arm as you carefully lay the broken car on the table. His small hands rest on the edge of the table, and his eyes are wide with interest.

“Okay, Haruto,” you say, kneeling to his level so he can see better. “Here’s what we need to do. First, we have to figure out where this wheel was attached. See this little piece here?” You point to the broken axle, which has a slight bend. “That’s where the wheel used to be. We’ll need to straighten this out first.”

Haruto nods, his lips pressed together in concentration. “And then we glue it?”

“Exactly,” You smile, appreciating how seriously he’s taking the repair. “We’ll need to use just a tiny bit of glue so it doesn’t get messy. But we also have to hold it in place for a few seconds so it sticks really well.”

Haruto watches closely as you demonstrate, gently pressing the wheel back into place after straightening the axle with a small tool from the supply closet. “Can I try?” he asks eagerly, bouncing on his toes.

“Of course.” You pass the toy to him, guiding his small hands as he carefully applies the glue. Together, you hold the wheel in place, counting aloud to ten to let the adhesive set.

When you release it, the wheel stays attached, and Haruto gasps in delight. “It’s fixed!”

“It sure is,” you confirm, giving him a proud smile. “And you helped fix it, Haruto. You’re officially a toy repair expert now.”

Haruto beams, clutching the car to his chest like it’s brand new. “Thank you, Teacher Y/N!” he chirps, his excitement contagious.

You chuckle, giving his hair a gentle tousle. “You’re welcome. Just be gentle with it next time, okay?”

“I will!” he promises, running off to show his friends the newly repaired car.

As you watch him join his classmates with a wide grin, a sense of fulfillment washes over you. “Okay, friends!” Mrs. Inoue exclaims, standing in front of the room. “There are five more minutes until pick up time. Why don’t we go around in a circle and share one thing we learned today?”

The children quickly begin gathering on the colorful carpet, their giggles and chatter settling into a low murmur as they find their spots. You help guide a few stragglers into the circle, gently nudging them forward with an encouraging smile. Mrs. Inoue sits cross-legged at the front, hands folded in her lap. “Alright, who wants to start?” she asks, her gaze scanning the eager little faces.

“I will!” Haruto raises his hand, his repaired car clutched tightly in the other. He looks at you briefly before speaking, his voice loud and proud. “I learned how to fix my car! Teacher Y/N showed me how to glue it back together.”

A few kids gasp, their attention drawn to the toy in his hands. “Cool!” one of his classmates says, their eyes wide with admiration. You feel a small warmth in your chest as Haruto beams, his pride contagious.

“Great job, Haruto!” Mrs. Inoue says with a smile. “That’s an excellent thing to learn.”

Another hand shoots up. “I learned how to count to fifty!” Akiko says, puffing up her chest with pride. “I didn’t even need help!”

The circle continues, each child eagerly sharing their new knowledge. Some learned to write their names, others discovered how to share during playtime, and a few even shared lessons about kindness or patience. When the last child finishes, Mrs. Inoue claps her hands together. “What a wonderful day of learning, everyone! You should all feel very proud of yourselves.” She looks up toward you, nodding slightly, a silent acknowledgment of how much effort you’ve put into the day.

You smile softly, giving her a small nod in return. The atmosphere is filled with innocence and growth, it reminds you of why you’re here. As the children begin scampering up and walking over to their cubbies to grab their belongings and prepare for their parents, you and Mrs. Inoue are helping a few.

Soon, the parents start trickling in to receive their children. Some even run up to their parent’s legs with excitement, calling out either “Mommy!” or “Daddy!”

Mrs. Inoue and you wave goodbye to the children, offering exchanged brief interactions with the parents in politeness. As the classroom slowly starts to empty, you notice one child hovering in the back.

“Haruto?” You ask, coming over. “What’s wrong? Is Daddy coming to pick you up?”

Haruto shakes his head. “No, Daddy’s not coming. Uncle is coming!”

“Oh,” you respond, head tilting. You give Mrs. Inoue a look that tells her you’re a little concerned about the safety of Haruto going home with a man you’ve never met.

Instead, she shakes you off with a smile. “No worries, his uncle’s a listed emergency contact. He’s come a few times before you started working here.”

Relieved but still cautious, you nod, squatting down to Haruto’s level. “That’s exciting. Do you like when your uncle picks you up?”

Haruto’s face lights up with a wide grin, his sapphire eyes sparkling. “Yes! Uncle is so funny, and he always gives me candy!”

“Candy, huh? That sounds fun, but don’t eat too much, okay?” you tease, tapping the tip of his nose lightly.

Haruto giggles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Okay, Teacher Y/N. I won’t, I’m a healthy boy.”

You chuckle, head tilting in tenderness. But it’s suddenly ruined when a god awful familiar voice reaches your ears, causing you to momentarily falter. You freeze for a second, the warmth of the interaction with Haruto quickly evaporating as the voice cuts through the air, unmistakably familiar.

“Haruto! Come on, kid, we’re gonna be late,” the voice calls out. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You recognize the drawl almost instantly, the smoothness of his tone, the way it rolls off his tongue.

Him.

You shift, standing up and turning slowly. There he is, standing in the doorway of the classroom, leaning casually against the frame with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He’s looking directly at Haruto, but you can see his eyes flicker to you for just a split second. Surprise takes over as his eyebrows lift, lips parting for a fraction of a second but it's laced with a hint of something you can’t quite place. “Oh, Y/N, right?”

“Teacher Y/N!” Haruto corrects his uncle, to which the latter just playful shushes him, picking him up in his arms.

Your lips purse awkwardly, hands held behind your back in a rigid fashion. Just how small is this world? You never thought you’d see the same guy from this weekend in a place you now consider one of your safe havens. It feels wrong and he looks out of place. But the child clinging to his neck says otherwise.

In order to not make this situation any more unpleasant as it is, you should probably say something instead of staring at him like an idiot still. “Y—” you clear your throat, feeling the unsavory, but familiar scratchiness come back. You can only hum back in response, peering away.

He subtly scans you head to toe, appearing as if he is about to say something back until Mrs. Inoue thankful interrupts. “Oh, Satoru. How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

Her voice is filled with curiosity but also a warmth that teeters the line of worry. And from the flashing look in Satoru’s eyes that only lasts a second, you’re immediately alert. Brows furrowing slightly in wonder as to why Mrs. Inoue is talking with him in a way a concerned friend would. “Oh well, please take care of yourself. And Haruto did a great job today.” Mrs. Inoue smiles, waving at Haruto.

Satoru, still holding Haruto in his arms, smiles warmly at Mrs. Inoue, though there's a subtle tightness in his expression, as if her concern hits a little too close to home. He shifts the boy slightly, setting him down to stand beside him, before giving a half-hearted chuckle. "I’m good, Mrs. Inoue. Don’t worry about me," he says, though his eyes shift for a brief moment, betraying a hint of discomfort. "And thanks. Haruto's always good at keeping busy, right, buddy?" he says, ruffling the boy’s hair, though Haruto just beams up at him, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension.

Mrs. Inoue doesn't seem convinced, her gaze lingering a moment longer before she nods in understanding. “Alright then, Satoru. Take care of yourself and Haruto. You know where to find me if you need anything.” Her tone softens, and the unspoken message seems to settle between them for a moment. She turns around to head deeper into the room, picking up a few stray toys that missed the children. Satoru watches her leave with a small nod, the atmosphere between the two of you is thick with something unspoken, but as Haruto tugs at his uncle’s sleeve, the moment is broken.

"Uncle Satoru, I want to show you my toy!" Haruto says eagerly, pulling at his uncle's jacket.

Satoru’s smile shifts into something a bit warmer, his earlier discomfort melting away as he focuses on the child in front of him. "Alright, alright, let’s see this toy," he chuckles, his hand resting gently on Haruto’s head.

You take a small step back, still feeling the weight of the strange coincidence. Trying to keep things neutral, but words feel awkward on your tongue. “Bye, Teacher Y/N!” Haruto grins brightly, waving with one hand as he’s already walking out the door while the other hand is held firmly in his uncle’s grip. You give the boy a wave, lip peeking up halfway.

Satoru glances back at you over his shoulder as he adjusts Haruto, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes, smiling in a way that shows off his pearly whites, giving you a small nod. "Take care, see you around."

And with that, the two of them leave, the door clicking softly behind them. You stand there for a moment longer than you should, trying to shake the unease creeping in, but all you can think about is how unexpectedly small the world has become. The feelings from Saturday rise up in your bones, the stiffness and uncertainty.

It’s uncomfortable seeing the guy who tried to hit on you that past weekend in a place so wholesome, picking up his nephew nonetheless. But you’re just glad he didn’t make things worse. Not that he should have with a kid in his arms. And you’re also proud of yourself for keeping things cordial enough, despite the fact that you just wanted to hide in embarrassment the moment you made eye contact with him. It’s almost like when you were in high school and you’d see one of your classmates at a random time in the grocery store.

It’s fine, you tell yourself, going over to wash your hands. Despite the fact that this man knows where you work, nothing will happen. If the time comes where you need to state your disinterest, you’ll do so. It’ll be hard, of course. But you can do it.

If only you could get the words out.

a/n: hi! i'm not entirely happy with my work in this chapter, but I'm still going to try and show it as much love as vl

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hotvintagepoll · 2 days ago

Text

Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall (To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep)—Why are they hot? I mean, truly one of the most iconic on screen and real life couples of all time. She was mysterious, aloof, sophisticated. He was less classically handsome but insanely charismatic. On screen, their chemistry was absolutely ridiculous, palpable enough that it makes you forget the 25 year age gap. (Side note: you go Lauren, fuck that old man). Truly the classic Hollywood couple.

Peter Lawford and June Allyson (Good News, Little Women)—no propaganda submitted

This is round 1 of a mini Christmas tournament. Each poll lasts for three days. If you'd like to send additional propaganda supporting your favorite hot couple, you can reblog this post with your propaganda added, send it to my asks, or tag me in it. To vote in all the polls, click here. Happy holidays!

[no additional propaganda submitted]

Bogie and Bacall:

youtube

THEE iconic movie couple. Just the way that they look at and speak to each other is pornographic; I imagine all the Hays Code censors were tearing their hair out over how blatantly B&B want to fuck and how little they could do to stop it.

get you a man who looks at you like this while you cut the wedding cake

Theyre staring contests go insane. Both say so much without speaking a word. Brooding is their love language. What else can I say?

youtube

For the new tournament, I feel like I have to submit Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart. Between The Big Sleep, and To Have and Have Not, they are thee Noir power couple. I mean Bacall is so gorgeous all the time (and that VOICE) and Bogart is so charismatic and magnetic. As a bisexual, they both make me swoon.

Allyson and Lawford:

youtube

#june allyson #peter lawford #humphrey bogart #lauren bacall #hotvintagepoll #hot couples tourney #Youtube

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miimo96 · 2 days ago

Text

Things I Do and DON'T wanna see in Sonic 4

⚠️SPOILERS AHEAD FOR SONIC 3⚠️ DO NOT READ yet

With the introduction to Sonic 4 being Announced, here something's I wanna see happen in the 4th Sonic movie, now keep in mind these are just things I wanna SEE happen in the 4th movie and not that I know they're GOING to happen, it's just something I think Paramount/ SEGA should decide to do if Sonic 4 is going to be PEAK

1 thing I would absolutely love to see adapted into the Sonic films is the inclusion of rail grinding, Since it's obvious that we're going to be getting a metal Sonic storyline and therefore possibly a time travel one, I think seeing Rail grinding in probably an Apocalyptic future setting would be absolutely an amazing thing to see in live action, especially since it's pretty much a staple in Sonic games and hasn't really been adapted yet. Another thing I would love to see is the inclusion of the iconic Soap shoes, since this movie was basically taking inspiration from Sonic A2, not including the soap shoes was surprisingly a shock to me, especially since they're so iconic in that game, However I understood their reasoning probably being that they're not just in style anymore and therefore wouldn't really be serving a purpose, other than just being fan service, HOWEVER, if they were to include them in the 4th movie being that we're probably going to be seeing a possible Apocalyptic setting, then seeing Rail grinding and Soap shoes would definitely be a possible thing, especially since the Soap shoes would Definitely fit in with the overall futuristic vibe

Next up is Sonic and Amy's relationship, tbh I HONESTLY do not want her to just be solely obsessed with Sonic, I get that's her character and all but there are so many different ways you can go about it, With how she's been characterized recently, I think she'll be more than just that but I really hope they actually go that route and change her, as much as I hate the show, I really love how she's depicted in Sonic Boom, her design is beautiful, her voice is on point, and her relationship with Sonic is just so damn cute because she's not just a damsel and is actually an effing fighter and leader, Also 1 more thing I whole heartily want to see, is Sonic to just be awkward around amy and actually have him experience/ fall in love for once, most Sonic games and shows like to keep him closed off from amy and kinda deny his feelings for her, i think it would be cool if they would break away from that trope and actually have him acknowledge his feelings for her instead, Maybe that's just because I'm such a huge Sonamy shipper and have been since the beginning but it's whatever lol

Finally one thing I DON'T want to see them do again for this film is bring back Dr eggman, I feel like This will be the absolute perfect opportunity to determine weather or not the Sonic movies are ONLY Successful because of Jim Carey. if they decide to not bring back robotnik and actually decide to focus on a whole New villain and are still able to succeed in the box office, then this will undoubtedly PROVE that the Sonic films are the BEST way to do a video game adaptation and were meant to be successful with or without Jim Carey, because let's be real, if it wasn't for Jim Carey's performance then the Sonic movies wouldn't be doing as nearly as good as they are now, that isn't to say they're BAD cuz they're NOT, it's just to say that they wouldn't do as good or as well if it wasn't for robotnik. Going forward without Robotnik I think would be a Great way to test the franchise and not only give a New Villain a chance to shine, but would also prove to Paramount, that they can still COOK with or without Carey, in my opinion, having Metal Sonic be the Main Villain of the next movie would not only give you the chance to adapt other Sonic villains in a unique way, but I think probably make THIS ONE the SCARIEST villain of all time, especially with Metal/NEO Sonic.

A Villain with No emotion, No motive, no remorse, No DEEPER meaning other than simply having the "I Want to KILL YOU" mindset and is just STRAIGHT UP Evil is something haven't seen done in a Long time, tbh you can probably make him the Ultron of the Sonic universe and have him JUST be evil and it wouldn't bother us at all as long as you write him well, Plus robotnik LITERALLY had the greatest character arc in this film, from wanting to take over the world, to ending up being the one who saves it, yeah it doesn't get better than that. I Guarantee you that if Robotnik DOESN'T come back and we Actually get a new Villain that will be the BEST move for the Sonic films as a whole and I think will have the chance to ACTUALLY expand on more of his cast from here out, anyway those are just my thoughts but whaddya think?

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muiitoloko · 3 days ago

Note

Could you write an angsty with happy ending Alan x reader imagine in which reader quotes a line from a movie in an interview and thar is used for a promo for the interview, but of course it’s used out of context to lure people in and Alan sees it and it causes a fight between you guys

Title: Reel Lies, Real Love

Summary: When a viral video threatens to destroy their relationship, Alan and his partner must navigate betrayal, insecurity, and forgiveness to find their way back to each other.

Warnings: Angst

Pairing: Alan Rickman × fem! Reader

Author's Notes: Merry Christmas! 🥰

Also read on Ao3

Alan settled onto the plush couch in his London flat, his iPad perched precariously on his knees. He squinted at the screen, his hazel eyes narrowing in concentration as he navigated the icons. Technology had never been his strong suit, but he was nothing if not determined. His godson had given him a crash course on this "social media" craze, a concept Alan found both fascinating and perplexing. Still, the idea of being able to watch your latest interview from across the Atlantic had motivated him to wrestle with this confounding device.

"Right," he muttered, his baritone voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "Where is this bloody YouTube button?"

After several minutes of poking at random icons, he finally stumbled upon the app. Alan allowed himself a triumphant grin, the corners of his mouth lifting in quiet satisfaction. "Brilliant," he murmured, tapping the icon and watching as the screen flickered to life. "Not bad for an old dog, eh?"

"All right, here we go," he muttered to himself, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he typed your name into the YouTube search bar. A plethora of videos populated the screen almost instantly—clips of interviews, red-carpet appearances, and even behind-the-scenes snippets. Alan couldn’t help but smile; your charm practically radiated through every thumbnail.

He scrolled carefully, his hazel eyes scanning for the most recent interview. Finally, one title jumped out at him, standing apart from the rest. It read:

“[Your Name] Shocks Fans: ‘I Would Never Marry Him!’”

Alan’s heart skipped a beat. The bluntness of the statement hit him like a slap, the words lodging uncomfortably in his chest. For a moment, he hesitated, his thumb hovering over the play button. Logic whispered that it could be a misquote, a clickbait title meant to draw attention. But curiosity—and a flicker of unease—pushed him to tap on it.

The video began with a cheerful introduction from a well-dressed interviewer, and Alan leaned forward slightly, his breath catching when you appeared on screen. You looked radiant, as always, your smile lighting up the room. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride, even as a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach.

The interviewer started with light questions about the film, your co-stars, and your experiences on set. Alan’s lips quirked into a small smile as he listened to your eloquent responses, your humor and intelligence shining through. But then, the conversation took a turn.

Alan’s breath hitched as the video transitioned from light-hearted banter to a pointed question from the interviewer. The screen focused on the interviewer, who leaned in with a conspiratorial smile.

“You’ve been in a relationship with Alan for two years now,” the interviewer said casually, his tone laced with curiosity. “Do you have any plans to marry him?”

Alan’s brow furrowed, his hazel eyes fixed intently on the screen. A flicker of anticipation danced in his chest, quickly snuffed out by the sound of your laughter. The video cut to you, seated comfortably in your chair, a radiant smile lighting up your face. But it wasn’t the smile Alan had grown to adore—it was laughter, unguarded and light, as if the question had caught you off guard.

“Marry him?” you repeated, still laughing. “Oh no, not even if I were crazy. Never.”

The words struck like a blow, his chest tightening as he replayed them in his head. Never. His hooked nose flared as he inhaled sharply, his knuckles whitening as he clutched the iPad. The interview continued, the interviewer chuckling along with you, but Alan didn’t hear the rest.

He set the device down with deliberate care, his hands trembling slightly. The echo of your words reverberated in his mind, each repetition like a twist of the knife. He ran a hand through his silvered hair, his hazel eyes staring at the wall as he tried to make sense of what he’d heard.

“Two years,” he muttered under his breath, his baritone voice thick with disbelief. “Two bloody years.”

He wanted to dismiss it, to tell himself there must have been a misunderstanding. But the way you had laughed, the ease with which you dismissed the very idea of marrying him—it felt too real. It gnawed at insecurities he thought he had buried long ago, whispering that perhaps he was too old, too unworthy of the love you so freely gave on screen but apparently withheld in reality.

Alan stood abruptly, pacing the length of his living room. The plush rug muffled his footsteps, but the turmoil in his chest was deafening. Every laugh, every word in that interview played on repeat in his mind. He picked up his phone, his finger hovering over your contact name before he dropped it back onto the table. Confronting you now would only make him look desperate, wouldn’t it?

The hours dragged by, and Alan finally sank into his armchair, exhaustion overtaking the restless pacing. He stared out the window at the London skyline, the city lights twinkling faintly against the darkening sky. His heart ached with a familiar, dull weight—a longing for clarity, for reassurance, for you.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, you sat in your hotel room scrolling through social media when you saw the headline:

“[Your Name] Slams Marriage Rumors with Alan Rickman: ‘Not Even If I Were Crazy!’”

Your stomach dropped. Clicking the link, you watched in disbelief as the video unfolded. It was a butchered version of the interview you had done just days ago. Your laughter and the line about “never marrying him” were shown out of context, manipulated to make it appear as if you were speaking about Alan when, in fact, you had been referring to your character’s reluctant relationship with a villainous love interest in the film.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you watched the fabricated exchange. The interviewer’s voice had clearly been re-recorded and spliced into the footage after you had left the studio. Your responses were genuine, but they were answers to entirely different questions, framed in a way that distorted their meaning.

Your hands shook as you dialed Alan’s number, the line ringing endlessly before going to voicemail. “Alan, please, call me back,” you said, your voice cracking. “You have to believe me. That video—it’s not real. They’ve edited it to twist my words. I’d never say something like that about you. Please, just… call me.”

You hung up, your mind racing. Alan was intelligent, discerning—surely, he would realize the video was a sham. But deep down, you knew how much it would have hurt him to see it. The way his self-deprecating humor sometimes masked lingering insecurities. And now, the idea that you’d laughed at the prospect of marrying him…

The hours passed in agonizing silence, your calls going unanswered. You paced the room, anxiety gnawing at your insides. Finally, unable to bear the distance, you booked a flight back to London for the following morning. If Alan wouldn’t answer your calls, you’d confront him in person.

The next morning, you stood outside Alan's door, heart pounding as your knuckles rapped against the heavy wood. It was early, the London air brisk and damp, and you hadn’t slept a wink after your red-eye flight. Every second of silence on the other side of the door stretched into eternity, your mind racing with every possible reaction Alan might have. Finally, the door opened, and there he was, dressed in his usual crisp shirt and slacks, his white hair slightly disheveled but his hazel eyes sharp and guarded.

You smiled, attempting to close the distance and kiss him as you usually did, but Alan turned his head, avoiding your lips entirely. The rejection stung, a cold ache blooming in your chest. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

“What do you want?” he asked, his baritone voice low but devoid of its usual warmth.

You blinked, stunned by the bluntness of his tone. “Alan, can I come in?” you asked softly, trying to steady your voice.

He exhaled through his nose, stepping aside and gesturing for you to enter with a stiff wave of his hand. “Make it quick,” he muttered. “I’m due on set soon.”

You walked in, the familiar comfort of his flat feeling suddenly foreign. He closed the door behind you and strode into the kitchen without a glance in your direction. The bitterness in his tone cut deep, but you forced yourself to push through it, following him as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood with his back to you, every movement deliberate, as if he was purposefully avoiding looking at you.

“Alan,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “That video—it’s not what it looks like. The interview was manipulated. I wasn’t talking about you.”

He didn’t respond, only lifting his mug to his lips and taking a slow sip. His silence was deafening, his refusal to even turn around twisting the knife in your chest.

“I flew all the way from New York to tell you this,” you said, desperation creeping into your voice. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t care about you—if I didn’t want to fix this.”

Finally, Alan set the mug down on the counter, his fingers gripping the edge tightly. For a moment, you thought he might turn to face you, but instead, he let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head.

“Fix it,” he repeated, his baritone voice laced with sarcasm. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat. “I spoke to my agent,” you said carefully. “He suggested we make a public statement together. It would clear everything up, and—”

“Ah,” Alan interrupted, his voice cutting through yours like a blade. He finally turned to face you, his hazel eyes cold and distant. “So that’s it, then. This isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you. About salvaging your precious image after this little scandal didn’t go down the way you hoped.”

Your stomach dropped, his words hitting like a punch to the gut. “Alan, no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “That’s not what this is about. I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, his hooked nose flaring as his voice rose. “You didn’t come here for me. You came here because you’re worried about your bloody reputation. Don’t pretend this is some grand gesture of love.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “That’s not true,” you said, your voice breaking. “I came here because I love you. Because I wanted to make things right.”

Alan laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and mocking. “Love?” he said, shaking his head. “If this is love, then I want no part of it. You’ve always been a problem, haven’t you? A bloody headache from the start. And for what? You’re not worth it.”

The words struck like a hammer, shattering whatever hope you had left. Your breath hitched, the tears you’d been holding back spilling over as you stared at him, your heart breaking into pieces.

“Alan,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “How can you say that? After everything we’ve been through…”

“Because it’s the truth,” he said coldly, his hazel eyes hard. “And here’s another truth for you: even if that video was a lie, it wouldn’t matter. Because I wouldn’t marry you either.”

You staggered back as if he’d physically struck you, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle a sob. The room felt suffocating, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. “You don’t mean that,” you said weakly, your voice barely audible.

“I do,” he said firmly, his baritone voice like ice. “And I think it’s time you left.”

For a moment, you could only stand there, staring at him in disbelief as the weight of his cruel words hung in the air. The room felt unbearably small, suffocating, the walls pressing in on you as his hazel eyes—those eyes you once found so full of warmth—now bore into you with cold indifference. Then, something inside you snapped. Anger surged through your veins, igniting like wildfire, burning away the sadness and leaving only fury in its wake.

“An idiot,” you hissed, shoving him hard in the chest. “That’s what you are, Alan. A fucking idiot.”

Alan staggered back slightly, his expression shifting to one of shock and fury. “Don’t touch me,” he barked, his baritone voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I swear to God, if you lay another finger on me, I’ll get a restraining order so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“Oh, brilliant,” you spat, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Go ahead, Alan. Get your precious restraining order. Add it to the list of ways you can further tarnish my ‘beautiful reputation.’ You know, the one you think I care so much about.”

Alan’s lips curled into a bitter sneer. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled. “You’ve done a bloody good job of ruining it yourself. What’s next? Another fabricated scandal to boost your career?”

You stepped closer, refusing to back down, your fists clenched at your sides. “That’s rich coming from you,” you snapped. “You think I care about any of this more than I care about you? Do you have any idea how much it hurt to see that video, knowing how it could hurt you? I flew across the fucking ocean to fix this!”

“Fix it?” Alan repeated, his hooked nose flaring as he glared at you. “You didn’t come here to fix anything. You came here to save your own skin, to play the innocent little actress trying to save face. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound raw and harsh. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Alan. You think I’d go through all this trouble just for my image? You’re not as clever as you think you are. If you had half the brains you claim to have, you’d know I’m here because I love you. Because I thought you were worth fighting for.”

Alan took a step forward, his presence looming over you. “You don’t love me,” he said coldly. “You love the idea of me. The actor, the director, the man who can hold his own in your world of lights and cameras. But me? The real me? You’ve never loved that.”

You felt your breath hitch, your anger momentarily faltering as his words struck a nerve. “How dare you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “How dare you tell me what I feel? You’re so bloody self-absorbed, so stuck in your own insecurities, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”

“And what’s that?” Alan shot back, his voice rising. “A woman who laughs at the idea of marrying me? Who humiliates me in front of the world? You think I’d ever want to marry someone like you?”

Your hand flew to your chest, as if to shield yourself from the impact of his words. “You bastard,” you said, your voice shaking with a mix of fury and heartbreak. “You’re nothing but a coward, Alan. A scared little man hiding behind his wit and charm, too afraid to admit that he’s just as human as the rest of us.”

Alan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he stepped even closer, his face inches from yours. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to say something you can’t take back.”

You let out a bitter laugh, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Take back? Oh, don’t worry, Alan. I’ve got nothing to take back. I’ve been nothing but honest with you, but you? You’d rather burn it all down than admit you’re scared of being vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” he barked, his voice dripping with disdain. “I’m not the one who flew across the world for a bloody PR stunt.”

“That’s it,” you snapped, shoving him again, harder this time. “You’re impossible, Alan. You’re so afraid of being hurt, you’d rather destroy everything good in your life before anyone else gets the chance.”

“And you’re a goddamn fool,” he shot back, his voice shaking with rage. “A naïve little girl who thinks love is some fairy tale where everything works out in the end.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking. “You don’t deserve me.”

“And you don’t deserve anyone,” Alan snarled, his hazel eyes blazing. “No wonder every man you’ve ever been with has left you.”

The words hung in the air, a deafening silence following in their wake. You stared at him, your heart shattered into a million pieces, before turning on your heel and walking toward the door.

“Goodbye, Alan,” you said quietly, your voice hollow. “I hope you’re happy with the mess you’ve made.”

You didn’t look back as you slammed the door behind you, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. But as you walked away, the tears fell harder, and you wondered if you’d ever be able to piece yourself back together.

Alan stood there, staring at the door as it slammed shut, the sound echoing in his empty flat. His chest heaved, his heart pounding against his ribs. His hazel eyes burned, filled with rage and anguish as your parting words replayed in his mind. You still say you love him, you liar. The thought ripped through him, venomous and relentless, eroding what little control he had left.

With a guttural roar, Alan grabbed his coffee cup from the counter and hurled it against the wall. The porcelain shattered on impact, shards scattering across the floor. “Bloody hell!” he cursed, his baritone voice raw and trembling. His fingers raked through his silvered hair, tugging at the roots as he struggled to regain his composure. But the ache in his chest only grew stronger, an unrelenting pressure threatening to crush him.

He forced himself to take a deep breath, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the counter. “Calm down, Rickman,” he muttered to himself, his voice low and shaky. “She’s gone. Let her go.”

But as he turned, his hazel eyes landed on your coat, draped carelessly over the back of the armchair. His jaw tightened, his hooked nose flaring in irritation. She can’t even remember her bloody coat, he thought bitterly, the anger bubbling up once more. I don’t want anything from her. Absolutely nothing.

Grabbing the coat with trembling hands, Alan stormed toward the door, determined to rid himself of even this small reminder of you. His strides were long and purposeful as he descended the stairs of his building, his heart hammering with each step. The chill of the London air hit him as he stepped onto the street, but he barely noticed, his hazel eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of you.

It didn’t take long to spot you. You were walking briskly, your arms wrapped around yourself for warmth, your shoulders hunched against the cold. Alan’s anger flared again, hot and sharp. She doesn’t even know where she’s going, the idiot.

“[Your Name]!” he called out, his baritone voice cutting through the noise of the street. But you didn’t hear him, your focus fixed straight ahead as you moved toward the crosswalk.

Alan quickened his pace, the coat clutched tightly in his hand. “[Your Name]!” he called again, louder this time, his voice laced with frustration. Still, you didn’t turn around. His heart began to pound for a different reason as he saw you step off the curb, the light still green for oncoming traffic.

“Stop!” he yelled, panic creeping into his voice as his eyes caught the glint of an approaching car. The vehicle sped toward you, its headlights cutting through the early morning gloom. Alan’s breath caught in his throat, his anger dissolving into sheer terror.

“[Your Name]!” he bellowed, his voice breaking as he broke into a sprint. But it was too late.

The car’s tires screeched as the driver slammed on the brakes, but the impact was unavoidable. The sound of metal meeting flesh and bone was sickening, reverberating through the street. You were thrown backward, your body crumpling onto the pavement like a discarded doll.

“No!” Alan’s scream tore from his throat as he reached you, dropping to his knees beside your lifeless form. His hands trembled as they hovered over you, afraid to touch, to confirm the worst. Your eyes were closed, your face pale, and blood pooled beneath your head, staining the asphalt.

“[Your Name],” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “No, no, no. Please, God, no.”

His hazel eyes searched your face desperately, looking for any sign of life. He pressed his fingers to your neck, his own pulse pounding in his ears as he prayed for even the faintest flutter beneath his touch. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare leave me. Not like this.”

The driver of the car had gotten out, shouting frantically for help, but Alan barely registered the commotion around him. His world had narrowed to the space between the two of you, his heart shattering as he cradled your head in his hands.

“Wake up,” he begged, his baritone voice cracking. “Please, [Your Name]. I can’t… I can’t do this without you. I’m sorry. I’m so bloody sorry.”

Tears streamed down his face as he leaned over you, his hooked nose brushing against your temple. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’ve always loved you. And I’d marry you in a heartbeat, you stubborn, infuriating woman. Just… just come back to me. Please.”

The sound of sirens grew louder in the distance, but Alan barely heard them. His hands trembled as he stroked your hair, his tears falling onto your face as he whispered your name over and over like a prayer.

And as the paramedics descended upon the scene, Alan clung to you, refusing to let go, his heart breaking with every passing second of silence.

Alan sat hunched in the sterile hospital waiting room, his face pale and drawn, his hands gripping your coat like it was a lifeline. The fabric was soft and smelled faintly of you—lavender and the subtle spice of your perfume—a cruel reminder of the argument that had sent you storming out in the first place. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, the tick of the clock on the wall amplifying the deafening silence. His hazel eyes, rimmed red, flicked anxiously to the hallway every time a nurse or doctor passed, his breath hitching with hope, only for it to deflate when they didn’t approach him.

Beside him sat Sarah, your agent, her usually sharp, polished demeanor softened by worry. She glanced at Alan, who looked like a man on the brink of collapse. His fingers were white with the force of his grip on your coat, and his silvered hair fell messily over his forehead.

“Alan,” Sarah began gently, leaning toward him. “You’ve been sitting like this for hours. You need to—”

“I need to wait,” Alan interrupted, his baritone voice raw and thick with emotion. “I need to be here when they tell me something. Anything.”

Sarah sighed, her eyes darting toward the hallway. “She’s strong, Alan. She’ll pull through.”

But Alan shook his head, his jaw tight. “This is my fault,” he said, his voice breaking. “If I hadn’t been such a goddamn idiot, she wouldn’t have been out there. She wouldn’t have—” His words faltered, his hands shaking as he buried his face in your coat. “It’s because of me. All of it.”

“Alan—” Sarah started, but he cut her off, his voice rising, trembling with anguish.

“I fought with her over that bloody interview,” he admitted, his hazel eyes glassy as he lifted his head to meet Sarah’s gaze. “The one where she supposedly laughed about marrying me. I saw it, and I—I didn’t even give her a chance to explain. I lashed out like a fool. So what if she didn’t want to marry me? She wouldn’t want to marry a fucking idiot like me either, would she?” His laugh was bitter, hollow. “I drove her away, Sarah. And now she’s—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, his voice breaking into a harsh whisper.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s enough,” she snapped, her tone cutting through his self-loathing like a whip. “You think wallowing in guilt is going to help her? Grow the hell up, Alan. She loves you, you idiot. She wouldn’t have flown across the goddamn ocean to fix things if she didn’t.”

Alan stared at her, stunned into silence. But before he could respond, Sarah’s phone buzzed on the chair beside her. She snatched it up, her expression shifting as she read the screen. “Well, isn’t this interesting,” she muttered, her tone laced with venom.

“What?” Alan asked hoarsely, his gaze locked on her.

Sarah stood, her heels clicking sharply against the tile floor as she paced. “I got access to the real footage of her interview earlier today. The one those bastards butchered to make it look like she was talking about you.” She turned, her hazel eyes blazing with anger. “You want to see how wrong you’ve been, Alan?”

Without waiting for a response, she pulled up the video and handed her phone to him. Alan’s fingers trembled as he took it, his heart pounding as the video began to play. There you were, sitting gracefully in your chair, the radiant smile on your face one he knew so well. The interviewer’s voice was calm, asking about the romantic dynamics of your character in the film.

“Marry him?” you had repeated with a laugh, referring to the villainous character in the movie. “Oh no, not even if I were crazy. Never.”

Alan’s breath hitched as the context became clear. You weren’t talking about him at all. The manipulated video had spliced your words with a fabricated question to create a scandal where there was none. The guilt that had been gnawing at him now felt like a vice tightening around his chest.

“It’s not real,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “She wasn’t talking about me.”

“No, she bloody wasn’t,” Sarah snapped, snatching her phone back. “But you didn’t think to ask her, did you? You just assumed the worst and tore into her like an insecure, selfish prick.”

Alan flinched at her words but didn’t argue. She was right. He had been a selfish prick. The realization hit him like a freight train, and his knees buckled as he sank back into the chair. He buried his face in his hands, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“What do I do now?” he murmured, his voice muffled and broken. “How do I fix this?”

Sarah’s gaze softened, but her tone remained firm. “You start by being there when she wakes up. You apologize, and I mean really apologize, Alan. None of that clever, self-deprecating crap you like to hide behind. You tell her the truth—about everything. And for God’s sake, stop sabotaging yourself.”

Alan nodded slowly, his hands still trembling. The weight of his mistakes pressed heavily on him, but beneath it was a glimmer of hope. If he could just make it right, if you would let him, he’d do whatever it took.

For now, though, all he could do was wait—and pray that when you woke up, you’d still want to hear him out.

The sound of footsteps snapped both their heads toward the hallway, and a doctor in scrubs appeared, his face calm but serious. Alan and Sarah bolted to their feet, the tension between them palpable as they moved to meet the man.

“How is she?” Alan asked, his baritone voice rough with worry.

The doctor gave a reassuring smile. “She’s stable. She has a few broken ribs and a mild concussion, but there’s no permanent damage. She’s under strong painkillers right now and likely won’t wake up until tomorrow.”

Alan exhaled sharply, the relief almost knocking him off his feet. He slumped back into the chair, his head falling into his hands as the weight of his fear slowly began to lift. “Thank God,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

Sarah placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression softening. “She’s tough, Alan. She’ll be fine.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Alan said firmly, his voice brooking no argument as he straightened in his chair.

Sarah raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Are you sure? Don’t you have filming for Gambit tomorrow?”

Alan’s hazel eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flaring in them. “To hell with filming,” he snapped, his hooked nose flaring slightly. “She’s more important.”

Sarah blinked in surprise before letting out a small sigh. “Fine. But I’ll call your agent. Someone has to smooth things over.”

Alan waved her off, his attention already shifting back to the door leading to your room. “Do whatever you like,” he muttered, his focus solely on you.

Sarah shook her head, muttering something about stubborn men as she left. Alan didn’t care. All that mattered was staying by your side.

The hours dragged on, the sterile hospital room quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. Alan sat in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed, his fingers intertwined with yours. The soft glow of morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Balloons and roses from friends filled the small space, their cheerful colors stark against the clinical white walls.

He hadn’t moved all night, his hazel eyes fixed on your face, searching for any sign of movement. The steady rise and fall of your chest was the only thing keeping him sane.

When you finally stirred, it was almost 2 PM. Alan straightened in his chair, his heart leaping as your eyes fluttered open. For a moment, you blinked groggily, your gaze unfocused as you adjusted to the light. Then your eyes found his, and he froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“Who… who are you?” you asked weakly, your voice hoarse but teasingly innocent.

Alan’s heart stopped. His face paled, his hazel eyes widening in panic. “What?” he croaked, his baritone voice trembling. “You—you don’t recognize me?”

You stared at him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, a slow, mischievous smile spread across your lips. “Relax, Alan,” you rasped. “Of course I know who you are. How could I forget a man who growls my name like he’s narrating a bloody BBC documentary?”

The relief that washed over Alan was almost overwhelming. He let out a shaky laugh, his hand covering his face as he shook his head. “You absolute minx,” he muttered, his voice a mix of exasperation and affection. “Don’t scare me like that.”

The teasing smile on your lips faded slightly as you shifted, trying to sit up. Alan’s hands were on you immediately, firm but gentle, pressing you back down against the hospital bed.

“Stop,” he said, his baritone voice both commanding and soft. “You’re not going anywhere. Just calm down.”

You arched an eyebrow at him, trying to ignore the ache radiating through your body. “Alan, I’m fine,” you protested weakly, your voice still hoarse. “I can—”

“You can stay put,” he interrupted, his hazel eyes narrowing. “For once, listen to me. You need to rest.”

Your expression softened, and you gave a small nod, though the worry in his eyes made your chest tighten. “What happened?” you asked quietly, your fingers brushing against his where they rested on your arm. “I remember fighting with you, then going out into the street, and… nothing after that.”

Alan inhaled sharply, his hooked nose flaring slightly as he glanced away for a moment, as if to steady himself. When he met your gaze again, his hazel eyes were filled with guilt and pain. “You were hit by a car,” he said, his voice low but steady. “After you left my apartment.”

You blinked at him, processing his words, before a faint, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “A car?” you said lightly. “Are you sure it wasn’t a train? Because it bloody feels like it.”

Alan’s expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening. “Don’t joke about that,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “Do you have any idea how close I came to losing you?”

The sincerity in his words and the tremor in his voice made your teasing demeanor fade. You reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice earnest. “I didn’t mean to make light of it. I just… didn’t want to see you upset.”

Alan exhaled slowly, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for that,” he said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. For everything.”

You frowned slightly, trying to sit up again despite his earlier protests. “Alan—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “Let me finish.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the edge of the bed as he held your hand tightly. “I was an idiot. No, worse—I was a selfish, insecure prat. I saw that interview and—well, I let my own pain blind me. Instead of listening to you or even giving you a chance to explain, I lashed out. Like a bloody child.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, stopping you. “And then Sarah showed me the real footage,” he continued, his hazel eyes filled with self-loathing. “It was all fake. The entire thing was manipulated to make it look like you were talking about me. But you weren’t. You never were.”

His voice cracked slightly, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I should have believed you,” he said, his tone raw. “But instead, I hurt you. I wanted to hurt you because I felt humiliated, and that’s… unforgivable.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you shook your head, your voice trembling. “Alan, it’s not unforgivable. I said things too—things I didn’t mean. I was angry, and—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, his baritone voice softening. “Whatever you said, I deserved it. All of it. But I don’t deserve you.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, and you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing gently along the line of his jaw. “Don’t say that,” you whispered. “Don’t you dare say that. I love you, Alan. And yes, you can be a stubborn idiot sometimes, but so can I. We’re human.”

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly before opening to meet yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“And you’re too dramatic,” you teased gently, a soft smile playing on your lips. “But that’s why we work.”

A faint laugh escaped him, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “God help me, I do love you,” he said, his hazel eyes shining with both amusement and adoration.

You smiled, your hand slipping down to rest over his. “Good,” you replied, your voice soft. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

Alan’s lips twitched into a small, self-deprecating smile as he leaned closer, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, his baritone voice warm and steady.

“And for the record,” you added, your smile turning mischievous, “I would marry you. Even if you’re a stubborn idiot.”

Alan chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. “Careful,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I might hold you to that too.”

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader

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dcdreamblog · 1 day ago

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What are your opinions on the Justice League International? They were a controversial time for the League for sure, a lot of news outlets around here, red state, you understand, called them a 'joke' and 'an embarrassment on the good name of the League,' but they were heroes, if you ask me.

Any red state dipshit who wanted to say that about the JLI would have to then meet me in the parking lot after I smacked my work gloves across his face.

(The most iconic image of the JLI, the day they received their official charter from the United Nations. TIME Magazine.)

The "Justice League Detroit" (A name I put in quotes because it IS meant to be pejorative in its original context, though the surviving members of that team wear it with pride ) had disbanded after a violent clash with Anthony Ivo left several of its members dead around the same time that G Gordon Godfrey was first able to whip up a popular discontent around superheroes.

This, of course, lead to the famous "Battle of the Lincoln Memorial" where a group of heroes defeated Godfrey and stymied the plans of his ultimate master, Darkseid. Bringing together a new team with the realization the world always needed a Justice League.

The team would handle various crises until the came into the interest of billionaire philanthropist Maxwell Lord who approached them with an idea: Seek official UN sanction, granting greater resources in exchange for government oversight. This period is when the most iconic lineup joined the team more or less, including the American mandated Captain Atom, his Russian counterpart Rocket Red with personable duo Blue Beetle and Booster Gold.

The First thing that caused an international backlash was the WAY the UN sanction was secured, namely that it was a TRANSFER of the Global Guardians' sanction to the League which was WIDELY unpopular in the majority of the world, especially among the Nonaligned Nations. The Global Guardians were and are deeply respected in the areas where they are active and cutting them out in order to replace them with a line up of the Justice League was seen by many smaller nations as America muscling in on the international stage.

This international outcry was somewhat quieted by the addition of popular Brazilian and Norwegian heroines Fire and Ice to the group and the mandated acceptance of Russia's Rocket Red. Though concerns remained that its claim to an international organization was hollow due to its majority American membership in contrast to the truly global commitment of the Global Guardians, worries I sympathize and agree with to a degree.

The OTHER "problem" many had with the team was with its general bearing and membership. The League was at that time, and still often is, thought of in terms of "The Seven", its most famous and prominent members with other heroes playing a peripheral role in the eyes of the public. With Batman very swiftly bowing out once media attention glued itself to the team, the only member of that chosen few that remained was the Martian Manhunter who is often disregarded by a certain...kind of observer. This lead to a perception that the JLI wasn't the "real" Justice League despite the total confidence placed in the JLI by personages like Superman or Wonder Woman.

It also got itself involved in rather less serious matters and conducted itself in a sometimes less than proud manner, mostly due to the public debacles that Blue Beetle and Booster Gold became wrapped up in. But I've already made a post about my thoughts on both men and why I think both are deserving of respect.

My evidence is as it shall ever be.

If you are slightly older than me you probably clearly remember when an alien alliance lead by a race calling themselves THE DOMINATORS tried to conquer the Earth via military force of arms. Which team was at the forefront of the counter attack that saved all our lives? The JLI.

Who stopped the illegal Bialyan junta under "Queen Bee" from gaining a superweapon? The JLI.

Who pushed back the intergalactic despot Despero to such a degree that he STILL thinks that these are Earth's greatest champions? The JLI. I would dare ANYONE who would like to question their legacy to stand in their shoes and still see if their big mouth avails them.

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theresattrpgforthat · 15 hours ago

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Any low improv TTRPG's? as in low on the GM part, i would like to try some and see how it compares as I'm part of the improv scary crew

THEME: Low Improv Games.

Happy holidays folks! I'm going to try and get the last recommendation posts of the year out quickly, so you might get some more rec posts in the next two weeks!

As for this one friend, I tried to mix things up across game and genre, so I hope you find something you like!

Tunnels in White, by MeatCastle GameWare.

Old money siphoning new money from every corner of your city. An aging mansion, quiet and worn. An old corporation shifting its gaze from development to development, always hungry, always growing.

A warehouse bearing the name Singleton Solutions, small and unassuming in one of a hundred industrial parks like any other, takes in truckload after truckload but never sends anything out. It’s the same for the people. Sometimes, they arrive in towncars, other times in shuttle vans. None come out. Ever.

What you know is something strange is going on inside that warehouse and you are determined to discover what it is. What you cannot know is where and how far the mystery may take you.

Tunnels in White is an adventure for Liminal Horror, a modern-day horror OSR game about normal people being subjected to terrible things. A good number of adventures and mysteries written for these games come with locations, maps, factions, enemies and consequences for you to use as needed whenever your players enter a new location or attempt something dangerous.

I’m really interested in the use of these adventures for various OSR games, as the adventures seem to be what have most of the meat, rather than the rules. If you really want these games to sing, you’ll want your players to create characters that fit the kind of adventure that you’re presenting to the table - in this case, perhaps your characters all have loved ones who have gone missing recently. Once your players have character buy-in, they won’t need much prompting to delve deeper into the mystery, and the fact that Tunnels in White doesn’t have one single “correct” solution to the main problem means that your players’ actions will mean all the more.

I think I see this module as a stepping stone towards improv in that it gives you options to choose from, rather than a singular railroad to follow. What you’ll get out of this is a location that feels logically consistent and real to the players, while the story that happens will feel organic, and heavily dependant on what the group decides to do.

You can find more modules for Liminal Horror in the Tales from the Void Liminal Horror Jam.

The Doom of Macbeth, by leozingiannoni.

Famine. Execution. Oppression. Supernatural longevity that no one seems to quite understand or question. As King Macbeth’s reign approaches its 100th year, your knights receive a revelation in a dream.

It does not have to be like that.

As an answer to prayers and cries, the god Lugh reveals to you the alternative realities that could be, if Macbeth is not allowed to move on with his coup. You wake up to 100 years in the past, before you were born. What will you do to stop this horrible future?

The Doom of Macbeth is a deep-dive into one of the most iconic plays of all time, where you fight your way to avoid a future that seems inevitable. Using the Doomsday Clock mechanic found in Arc:Doom by momatoes, you simulate the feeling of the play creeping upon your characters, and must fight against it— or towards it.

Using a narrative that is familiar to the GM and the players might be another way to enter a game without having to worry too much about improv. Even though this setting is only the size of a brochure, you and your crew can lean on your knowledge of the Scottish play to make things happen the way you want them to. In this version of the game, Macbeth succeeds in becoming a mad king, but you know that this can change, if you tweak the story.

One more thing: I think you might need Arc, by Momatoes, in order to play this game.

Kiss Me If You Can, by sdunnewold.

River is a notorious international art thief and cat burglar. Jules is a well-respected special agent in charge of art crimes. Jules is determined to find and bring River to justice. But maybe along the way… they'll kiss?

Kiss Me If You Can is a simple print and play two player cat and mouse romance game that you can play in under an hour. It features two unique decks of prompt cards, one for each character. Each turn you play a prompt card, answer its questions, maybe talk about a famous artist or painting, and get a little closer to justice and/or love.

Another two-player experience, Kiss Me If You Can feels very similar to games that are Descended from the Queen, in that the bulk of the game revolves around drawing cards and answering the prompts provided. You’ll come up with locations, personal motives, and reasons for your characters to end up getting closer to each-other, but the cards provide a lot of direction, so I don’t think I’d necessarily classify it as improv. If you want a cute romantic story about a will-they-won’t-they scenario, you might like Kiss Me If You Can.

Exalted Order of the Mystic Moose, by Jacob Marks.

The Mauvewoods. You can’t hope to see the crown of a mauvewood tree from the ground. It took a day just to climb to the top of the oldest trees. Look past the undergrowth and ghosts can be spotted on the old lumber paths. Every ghost you see used to live in a mauvewood tree. Knock on a healthy tree, and you just might hear a hollow wooden knock in answer.

This zine details a forest, a town, and a dungeon, all intended for use with the tabletop roleplaying game: Cairn. Explore a forest full of lumberjacks, maple syrup, and strange ghosts. Delve into an old mansion sinking into a marsh. Confront the Exalted Order Of The Mystic Moose.

Cairn has a few editions now: the link I’ve added to this entry is for the 2nd edition Warden’s Guide, and you can check out Yochai Gal’s creator page for both the Player’s Guide and the First Edition. This adventure has oodles of locations, three main factions, and a 20 room dungeon for your players to explore. Cairn feels like a very traditional fantasy game at its roots, but the Exalted Order of the Mystic Moose feels like like a unique take, with some flavour that feels very Boreal Forest to me.

Like many OSR adventures, this isn’t a linear adventure - instead is a series of connected locations and a broad description of things that are happening when the player group shows up. The setting has a natural conflict that is happening separately from the players’ choices or decisions, which will make the setting feel more real and important to your play.

If you want to explore more adventures for Cairn, you can check out the A Town, A Forest, A Dungeon Jam!

Totally Killer, by bloodygorgeous.

When you were kids, all the girls—and, certainly, some of the boys—wanted a Chrissy, the only fashion doll to give Barbie a run for her money. Chrissy was designed to be the woman every girl dreamed of becoming: stylish, smart, independent, and, most importantly, a total smokeshow. For a while, shelves exploded with Out of This World Astronaut Chrissies. Protect and Serve Policewoman Chrissies. ’80s prom queen Totally Killer Chrissies. Chrissy could do anything, all while her boyfriend Ben waited at home. Chrissy could have it all. Decades later, as Chrissy fever descends again on Deep Lake, a murderer stalks the night. The police have their theories, but only the Latchkeys suspect the truth: that this killer has long legs, an unstoppable smile, and a passion for fashion. Chrissy has come to life, and she’s come to slay.

Public Access is horror-mystery found-footage style game that relies on pre-written mysteries to give the table an organic approach to role-play. While typically PbtA games are considered very high in improv, I think the mystery format of these kinds of games takes a lot of weight off of the GM’s shoulders. Typically these mysteries provide a very strong starting point, introducing the table to the mystery and some key characters to look to for hints and clues. The GM is also provided with a series of clues to drop into the game where relevant - perhaps a headless doll is found where one of the victims went missing, or a mysterious silhouette lurking in the distance.

These kinds of games also typically come with some kind of track to help monitor both the progress of the latch-keys as well ask heighten the stakes to encourage the story to keep moving. In other games, I know that this track is called the mystery clock. I’m not entirely sure what Public Access uses, but the core rulebook looks to have quite a bit hidden within its pages, so I’m confident that it contains everything you need to run your first game.

You can find more mysteries for Public Access in the Degoya County Public Access Jam.

Auctōrātus, by M. Allen Hall.

You know why you are here. You are not a criminal. You are not a slave. You are an auctōrātus, a volunteer, and you will be paid well for your performance. Make sure your mech is ready. Select your components. Charge your batteries. Be prepared for the fight of your life.

Auctōrātus is a 1- or 2-gladiator game of mechs vs. monsters. The 3 files include the one-page (2-sided) rules sheet, the character sheet, and the map of the arena.

Battle monsters over six rounds to win the tournament. From the lowly Scale Wolf to the monstrous Crescent Wyvern, you will need to carefully choose your mech's components if you want to survive.

Featuring a diceless, zero-luck mechanism, Auctōrātus is an experiment in tabletop combat. Since this is a one or two-player game that focuses primarily on strategy, you might find a lot of satisfaction in simply immersing yourself in strategy. You can play the game solo and manage everything yourself, or play as two players who take turns playing the monsters in each person’s respective arenas.

A Good Plan Never Fails, by Deric Bindel.

A GOOD PLAN NEVER FALLS is a one-shot, gm-less roleplaying game for 2-5 players focused on infiltrating a TOWER and making off with THE GOODS held within. The group builds up with a tumbling block game, with each move taking everyone closer to collapse or success!

Over the course of play, everyone will create a member of the Crew from a set of Archetypes and receive a special Secret Agenda, dictating how they get their BONUS. You'll be bulding up the TOWER, dictating each obstacle and how you overcome them. When the TOWER inevitably COLLAPSES, it's time to shift from the HEIST to the GETAWAY!

A really strong feature of pulp-action genre games is that they’re typically heavily inspired by movies, like heists or cons. This means that the game has a pretty familiar structure, such as the infiltration or the getaway. You can rely on the hallmarks of these genres when playing these kinds of games to fill in the blanks, and it’s easy to figure out what happens next because the game builds each phase onto the last. In the case of this game, that means that the first part of the game, building the tower, leads into the second part, when the tower collapses.

Kill Him Faster, by Korvidae Games.

On May 8th, 2068, scientist Elisabet Rosenzweig answered the most pressing question in science fiction – “what’s the first thing you would do if you could travel through time?” - by killing Hitler. It took her precisely 5 years, 137 days, eight hours, and 12 seconds.

Fifteen years later killing Hitler is the hottest sport on the planet. The record stands at two weeks.

Competitive games are another great structure for play groups that want to build on something without needing a lot of heavy improv. In Kill Him Faster, the game is divided into three phases: pregame, game, and post-game, each composed of press conferences, the competitive portion, and interviews. There’s various additional phases for a longer game, including Trade Day (where athletes swap teams) and off-season vignettes, which allow you to slow down and focus on individual characters.

If you want a taste of the game before you buy, you can get the rules preview here.

Other Notes

A Complicated Profession by Always Checkers Publishing has a lot of guiding questions and a very structured order of play, and follows reformed bounty hunters running a cruise ship.

Tournament Arc, by Biscuit Fund Games, focuses on sports competitions, which may provide a structure that is easy to follow, as well as a more collaborative experience.

If you like what I do and you'd like to send me a token of your appreciation, I have a Ko-Fi page!

#low improv #tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #indie ttrpg

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