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summer-oil · 1 year ago

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THE BLUE OF THE SKY MUST HAVE BEEN MY IMAGINATION ; SATORU GOJO

synopsis; satoru can’t take your grief away. but on days when you feel as if it’s swallowing you whole, pulling you underwater, he’ll be there to reach a hand out.

word count; 10.9k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, f!reader (gn prns are used, but gojo calls you sweet girl and princess), depictions of grief/allusions to death (reader mourns their dead best friend), hurt/comfort (heavy on both), fluffy towards the end, satoru is a good partner <3, stsg subtext if you squint, switching povs, reader is implied to be a non-sorcerer!!

a/n; i’ve always loved the idea of gojo being with a reader who also lost their best friend/other half, so this is just me playing around with that concept :3 losing a soulmate and finding a new one through the loss of that thread must feel really meaningful, right? + i’m also dedicating this piece to @neptuneblue my precious bday girl <33 i added an extra dose of devotion, flower symbolism and greek mytho refs just for you!! (pretty dividers by @/saradika-graphics <33)

a pang of sorrow.

as your consciousness begins to unfurl, cruelly torn apart from the realm of dreams, the sensation hits you like a hammer to a nail. your eyes flutter open, and your muddled mind adjusts to the soft light dyeing your bedroom a mellow gold — patches of sunlight splattering on the bed and warming up your skin, illuminating your features. gentle and soothing.

almost as if trying to coax you back to sleep; trying to protect you from something you don’t quite understand. just close your eyes, your body whispers, your mind shushes. don’t think about anything at all.

but you don’t listen.

part of you knows it’s a mistake. trying to identify the source of your sadness usually only makes your heart feel more tangled up — but you get the sense that this particular sorrow is one you should never, ever let go of. so you rest against the mattress, focus on the rise and fall of your chest, and simply feel it out.

it’s a strange sensation. blooming like a flower, in the back of your brain, expanding at an alarming rate — seeping into your bloodstream, soaking the sheets beneath you with something dark and gritty, something that sends shivers down your spine. an acute sensation that something is wrong.

that something has been wrong. for a very long time.

(and then it hits you.)

— ah.

an intake of breath. the open air has been warmed up by caring sunrays, bouncing off the glass of the windows. it tastes like dust and daydreams.

it’s today, isn’t it?

the flower in the back of your brain keeps unfurling, leaving you with a certain ache you can’t get rid of. a stain you can never, ever rinse away — and the sun’s comforting embrace does nothing to quell its weight.

what a shame, you think, gazing out at the blue of the sky. the weather is so lovely today…

something tickles your cheek. it snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts; and this time, you don’t need to feel it out to know what it is. you’re already well aware. your brain knows, your body, every string of your heartbeat.

a strand of white hair. ghosting over your cheek, causing you to stir.

two big arms are looped around your midriff, heavy and slumbering, practically immovable. you’ve tried to peel them off more times than you can count, but they just won’t budge — if anything, that only makes him cling to you tighter. subconsciously or otherwise.

(you suspect it’s the latter, on most days.)

as always, you’re pressed up against him, close as can be. completely enveloped by his scent and body warmth, strawberries and stardust, cocooned in the safety his touch brings you — like a big, weighted blanket. or maybe more like a clingy dog.

and, despite everything… it manages to cheer you up a little. doing what the delicate caress of sunlight couldn’t. just feeling him close is enough for the corners of your lips to curl up, a warmth trying to take root in your hollowed out chest; feeling his heart beat against your own, in steady motions.

satoru. your very own personal sun.

he’s admittedly cute like this, soft little breaths slipping from his parted lips, quiet snores that he’d deny if you ever brought them up — his jaw resting contentedly on the top of your head. it’s sweet. he’s sweet. but the feeling of his hair tickling your skin is a little insufferable.

insufferable, but still somehow so endearing.

(you’ll probably always find him endearing, no matter what he does. maybe you should feel embarrassed.)

when you crane your neck, glancing up at the man in question — your breath hitches. halts, in the back of your throat. afraid to come too close.

satoru is always pretty, but there’s something so serene about the way he looks in the morning. before he has a chance to wake up, cover up, make himself seem bigger than he is. right now, he looks so unguarded; so sleepy and pretty and comfortable. specks of sunlight scatter across that pretty face of his, like little freckles, caressing his skin with a heavenly glow.

it really is such a shame. the sun is shining brightly, waving hello to the newly-awakened city, and your own personal sun is right by your side. snuggled up with you, and looking prettier than ever.

but neither of those blessings are enough to change the inevitability of what day it is, today. you feel a little bad; but you know what you have to do.

just to see the limitations, you squirm away — or try to. you don’t even move an inch. satoru’s got you trapped, caged in by his strong arms, like he’s making sure to protect you even in his dreams. a big, overprotective bear.

wanting not to rouse him from his peaceful slumber, you can’t bring yourself to make much of an effort, either. your hands travel down to the expanse of his arms, wrapped around your midriff, gentle and light as you try to tug them off. but he won’t relent so easily — the moment you succeed even slightly, those insistent arms fall back in position. only trapping you further.

after your fifth attempt bears no fruit, satoru lets out a low groan; shifting closer, and hugging you just a little tighter. muttering under his breath.

so you resort to a different tactic.

when you finally get a proper look at him, craning your neck as far as you can, your eyes soften. his expression makes your heart melt; sleepy and snug, and just a tad annoyed. because of your numerous escape attempts, no doubt.

he’s so beautiful it hurts. just a little, just to look at him, just to map out every contour of his angelic face.

so you feel a little guilty. you really don’t want to wake him up, when he so rarely gets to sleep in like this — and he’s been working so hard, lately. doing his usual sorcerer thing, that he never lets you know too much about. the guilt seeps into your bones, growing deeper with every second spent etching his soft expression into your memory, knowing just how tired he must be.

it’s not like you really have a choice, though.

leaning closer, so close you can hear his heartbeat if you strain your ears enough, you put your lips against his skin. he smells like strawberries, from the shampoo he always steals from you, and he’s pleasantly warm. like a confectionary.

a moment passes. you drag it out as long as you can, indulging in the sweet fragrance.

then you begin trailing kisses up his jaw, ghosting over his skin. soft little butterflies, fluttering from his jaw to his cheekbone.. once you get close enough to see the way his eyelashes flutter, and he stirs ever so slightly, you lean in to whisper in his ear.

”satoru,” you murmur. ”just need to go to the bathroom. can you let go for a little bit, please?”

you try your best to speak as quietly as you can, not wanting to disturb him too much — but you can tell he hears you, even in the state he’s in. all tuckered out, his muddled mind still registering the sound of your voice, how you move your lips to form sounds. a lullaby to his sleep-ridden brain.

bringing a hand up to his forehead, you brush his bangs away with palpable tenderness, leaving a kiss against his forehead. satoru stirs, again; letting out a sleepy noise somewhere between a groan, a sigh, and a whine. squeezing his eyes shut.

”honey,” you coo, hoping the term of endearment will get his attention. ”let go, please? i’ll be quick.”

satoru’s eyes blink open, slowly, like the shutter of a camera. you wish you could take a picture of him, right now — in all his angelic glory, painted over with warm colours and tangled up in freshly washed bedsheets.

he takes a moment to adjust, unaccustomed to the bright morning light of your bedroom, face scrunching up — then his gaze falls on you.

and his heartbeat picks up.

you’re looking up at him so sweetly, fingers reaching out to cup his cheek, smooth skin against his own. the cerulean of his eyes flutter shut once more, as he nuzzles into your palm; moving one of his arms from your waist, just so he can place his palm over yours, where it rests against his skin. absentminded.

a smile crawls up to your lips.

”… mm,” is all he manages, an incoherent little mumble. you make another attempt at getting away, only one of his arms caging you in now, but it still doesn’t work. the moment he feels you even try, he tugs you even closer. arm keeping you nice and safe in his embrace.

satoru makes sure that his palm is still resting over yours when he leans forward, snuggles further into your side. nuzzling into your neck, pressing his lips against your collarbone, muffling a low whine.

”stay,” he murmurs, sleepy and upset, and you almost give in. he’s still too tired to really register what’s happening, only that you’re trying to leave him.

it makes your chest ache.

a soft sigh leaves your lips. ah, this really is too cruel. how are you supposed to ever leave his embrace when he’s acting like this?

”satoru…” your free hand finds its way to his hair, carding through the pure white strands, and he practically purrs. ”just gotta go to the bathroom. i’ll be back, okay? i’ll hurry.”

another incoherent mumble. he doesn’t move, doesn’t even attempt to. still kissing your collarbone, content to have you run your fingers through his soft locks.

and you feel awful, you do — but desperate times call for desperate measures.

as you feel him slowly, gradually fall back asleep under your caring touches… you opt to make your move. this time, you’re a little rougher — tugging his arm off and squirming away before he can think to stop you. it’s hard not to feel guilty, especially with the whine satoru lets out, arms blindly reaching out towards you — to no avail. you’re sure the loss of body warmth hits him just as hard as it does you.

an urgent voice inside your chest begs you to soothe him, to console him. seeing the little pout on his pretty lips, the furrow of his brow.

so you lean over, carefully, cupping his cheek to leave a soft kiss against his forehead. a silent apology. ”i’ll be back soon, toru. go back to sleep, okay?” you hope he feels your love, in the action, in the words. even if he’s not really conscious enough to properly respond.

just in case he doesn’t, you state your feelings more transparently. thumb caressing his cheekbone, as a whisper flows from out your lips: ”i love you.”

maybe it’s just your imagination, or a coincidence, but you swear he settles down a little after that. succumbing to the needs of his sleepy brain, still a little groggy and frustrated; but soothed enough to rest easy. so far, so good. caught up with thoughts of satoru, and how tiny he looks all alone in the big bed, your brain momentarily forgets about the sorrow.

but the moment you step out of the bedroom, it’s there to greet you again. creeping up on you — a subtle, gentle kind of shock. almost kind. but hollow and cold, like the temperature of the room dropped, your almost-smile fading like a piece of paper blown away by the wind.

and suddenly, you remember what day it is. you remember what you’re supposed to be doing.

as you brew your morning cup of coffee, trying to distract yourself with the purring of the espresso machine in front of you, you find your thoughts drifting back to satoru. hoping he’ll manage to stay asleep, despite your interference — it’s his first day off in a while. he needs to rest.

… and you don’t really know if you could deal with him, if he were to wake up and locate you right now. you can imagine what he’d say, what his expression would be like; and you can imagine the exact moment he’d realize that something is wrong, how easily he’d be able to squeeze the answers out of you. you’re weak to satoru. you’d tell him immediately, just to get him to stop frowning that subtle way he always does when he’s worried but doesn’t want you to know.

which is exactly why this is your only option. sneaking away while he’s asleep, blissfully unaware, even if the guilt eats at your heart. you suppose it’s a welcome distraction.

(today was going to feel awful, one way or another.)

everything feels a little like a struggle; putting your coat on, stepping into your shoes, making sure you have everything you need. and then, lastly, the note. satoru leaves them for you fairly often, on days he has to go to work early and doesn’t want to wake you, before late night missions and sudden workloads. when the reverse is true, you do the same. just something simple, a little act of love.

i’ll be back around midnight. don’t wait up for me, okay?

have a good day. :)

don’t eat my portion of the kikufuku! i know you’re thinking about it.

i love you. <3

… usually, leaving a little note behind for him to find would make your heart feel light. but today, it’s not nearly as fun. you try your best to sound lighthearted; wholly aware of how ominous the contents still end up sounding.

good morning, satoru ♡ i’m sorry for waking you up before :( and for leaving without saying anything. i have an important errand to run, so i’ll be gone for a while. i’ll make sure i’m back before the sun sets, so just be patient, okay? i know you’re probably really mad, but don’t be too angry with me when i get back, please? i’ll buy you something sweet omw back!! ^^ that’s all, i think. i know how this sounds, but don’t worry. i’ll be back before you know it. have a good day, alright? enjoy your day off!! i love you ♡ :)

in all honesty, it’s a little mean. telling satoru not to worry about you is like telling the sun not to shine. he’s confident when he’s with you, thoroughly assured of his ability to protect you… but when you’re out of his sight, you think he gets a little anxious. even if he’s awfully good at hiding it.

still, there’s nothing else to do. you swallow the guilt, stick the note to the fridge, and step over the threshold. out into the real world, the cold world, the empty world. as the sun envelops you, and a spring breeze enters your lungs — that acute awareness strangling you only seems to grow deeper.

everything finally dawns on you, all at once. and it’s impossible to shake away that suffocating feeling —

the feeling that something is wrong.

(that something has been wrong. for a very, very long time.)

the cemetery is empty, this year.

you suspect the glaring sun has something to do with it. blinding you, casting a bright glow over the tombs of the dead, entirely out of place. no one wants to do their mourning in this kind of weather. it just feels wrong.

that hasn’t stopped you, though. you wonder if it’s due to a love so strong it disregards the weather, or a blatant disregard towards the feelings of the dead.

maybe both. probably both.

the solitude creeps up on you like a hungry ghost, but it’s a blessing in flimsy disguise; right now, you’re all alone. and today, that’s all you truly need. a feeling almost like stepping into another realm, one with no connection to things like reality or time. it’s just you, and the graves, and the ghosts. there’s no one here to see you cry, no one who can pretend like they understand. no one to witness the price you’ve paid for loving so fervently.

slowly, you make your way across the cemetery. sparing a glance towards the city skyline, before fixing your eyes on one particular tomb.

when you crouch down, the paper bag in your hand hits the ground with a soft crunch. all flowers are still in perfect condition; asters and forget-me-nots, haberleas and hyacinths. you cradle them tightly, pressed against your chest, feeding off your weakening heartbeat — your eyes moving, flitting over the grave, the name engraved into the stone. putting the bouquet down.

(you really hope she’ll like them.)

it’s surreal. to look at an object and still see a person, to touch the petals of a flower and remember the softness of human skin. you never quite got used to it. all you ever seem to do is lean into the strangeness of it all, the kick you get out of sullying something untainted. trying to remember something that should be left in the past. you can’t leave her alone.

”hi,” you whisper, so low you barely hear it. ”i’m back.”

with a sigh, you settle down on the ground; sitting cross-legged, getting comfortable. this’ll take a while.

the cherry trees are beautiful, this year. they always are; always in full bloom, almost mocking in their beauty. with their silky petals, fallen all across the ground, dyeing everything in shades of white and pink. as your eyes trail across the flowery landscape, basking in the sickening solitude of it all, that sense of otherworldliness deepens. you try not to look at the blinding sun, try not to think of the man it reminds you of.

it’s just you, here. just you, the graves, and the cherry trees. just you, and her, and your sorrow.

for a moment, you delude yourself into thinking that it’s true — you’re in a different world, now. one that settles on the wrong axis and paints itself with the wrong colours. one that stopped spinning long ago.

(the tender stirring of your heartstrings never fades away. it sounds a little like a hymn.)

all you can think of is her. all you can feel is the grief. that hole in your heart, extending, extending, extending. it hasn’t stopped since she left. a black hole of a feeling. it’s been years since it opened, years of trying to patch it up, clawing your way to a state of normalcy. living with a piece of you carved out.

losing your other half feels a little bit like dying in reverse. having to keep going with half your shadow stripped away, out of the tunnel, into the light. even if you’d much rather fall to the bottom, with your silhouette still intact.

(throughout the years, you’ve come to a single conclusion; orpheus had it so much worse than eurydice.)

despite everything, a smile curls its way onto your lips. something soft and fleeting, that blossoms within your irises, in between your ribs. she doesn’t answer you, as always, so you keep talking — anything to still feel connected to her. anything to fill the silence of the cemetery, the numbed out grief inside your chest.

”let’s see. where should i start…” is muttered into the open air, followed by a moment of silence, as you think of what to say. ”i’m still with satoru, if you were wondering. everything is still… good. more than good. he’s a really, really good guy.”

a moment passes.

”i hope you’re doing okay. wherever you are. if you’re anywhere at all,” soft air leaves your lungs, a little slip of a breath, but it’s shallow, like your chest doesn’t really care if you miss an inhale or not. like just giving and never getting could keep you alive. ”i miss you. a lot. i wish i could see you…”

a hum buzzes in your throat. you try not to think of her hair, the scent of her perfume. the flower in the back of your brain has grown bigger, you notice. unfurling at an agonizing pace, blossoming the way a wound heals. throat burning, heart aching, you swallow.

(the hole inside your heart feels jagged, like cracked glass seeping into your pancreas. a deep, internal ache.)

when you speak, your voice comes out small. nothing more than a whisper, a flurry of air. there’s an honesty to the words that makes it hard to breathe.

”… everything is so boring without you around.”

a shuddering breath leaves your wobbling lips, and you know it’s coming. you make a halfhearted attempt to keep your voice from breaking, but it doesn’t work. your eyes are already glassy, wetness spilling out, tears getting stuck in your lashes, dripping down your cheeks — you manage a meek chuckle, but it comes out sounding more like a broken whimper.

try as you might, her figure never leaves your mind. it’s all you can think of, ingrained into your retinas; a single silhouette, walking ahead of you. a sweet girl, maybe a little mean, but still so gentle. your very own moon, soothing in her confidence. every step she took was like a landmark for you to follow.

if you strain yourself a little, she appears before you — a polaroid dug out from the depths of your memories.

in almost microscopic detail, you can see her smile, the way the light reflected off her teeth. you can feel her hand, the way her fingers curled so perfectly around yours. you can see her, hear her, the colour of her eyes, the sound of her laughter. a moonlit girl, who left you all alone — walking ahead of you, always ahead, leaving you behind to catch up. bringing whispered secrets with her, soft bouts of laughter.

your one and only best friend.

(it’s not fair.)

something in you urges you to keep talking. it’s all you have it in you to do. and maybe it’s weird, maybe you’re crazy — to talk to someone who can’t hear you. less than a ghost.

but it’s nice. it’s comforting. it reminds you of the voicemails you would leave each other, on weekends you were both too busy to speak on the phone. her voice always came out a little fractured, from her shitty nuclear bomb of an iphone, but you strained your ears to hear every word she said. you always, always did.

(it was nice.)

so you continue. you tell her everything, and then some more. talking and talking, about you, about her, about satoru. by the time you’re done, the sun is getting ready to descend, painting the sky a bleeding orange. your voice has gone hoarse, eyes red and puffy from all the crying, but your chest feels a little lighter — the hole inside it a little more narrow, not as broken and split and jagged.

”so, well,” you clear your throat, finishing your one-sided conversation; smiling weakly. ”i guess what i’m trying to say is… i loved you this year, too.”

the smile on your face is tearstained, feeble, as you get back up on shaky legs, brushing petals and dust off the fabric of your pants. stretching your arms out.

”i’ll be back,” you promise, the same oath every single year. ”wait for me.”

one last look at her grave is all you allow yourself; soaking in the peace and quiet, the creamsicle sky framing it. parting with this sight always feels so strange. crossing the boundary, going back to a world where she’s dead and gone. discarding her so callously.

but you can’t keep satoru waiting, anymore. you promised him you’d get back before sunset.

when you begin your descent down the hill, you can’t help but look back — just one look, just in case she’s standing there. she never is, but you still spare a glance over your shoulder, every single time. you like to think of it as an act of love.

it doesn’t feel as all-consuming, anymore, that exhausting numbness. the sorrow is still there, the grief is still there; but it’s a little less unendurable. and you feel that you can return to reality for another year, until you need to come back and cry some more.

for now, you can manage.

(but you still have one big obstacle to deal with.)

it doesn’t take long to get back.

as your fingers curl around the doorknob, you mentally prepare yourself. taking a shaky inhale. satoru definitely won’t be happy — you can already picture the frown he’ll have on his face, his crossed arms. the neverending flurry of huffs and scoffs.

you’ll just have to bear with it. exhaustion crawls beneath your skin, and everything feels a little too heavy for you to bear without breaking. normally, you’d head straight to bed, squeezing your eyes shut in an attempt to coax the day into ending early. but you can’t pull something like that, today. not when satoru will be there to see it. you can only hope he’ll be understanding — even without knowing anything.

(such an unfair thing to ask of a person.)

the door creaks open, and you step inside.

a particular scent engulfs you, as soon as you cross the threshold to your apartment. a blend between sunlight, and the fabric softener he likes, and freshly squeezed fruit juice. and, of course, that certain aroma you can only ever describe as home.

it smells like satoru, too. then again, maybe that’s just the scent of home in disguise.

finally, the weight around your shoulders starts to crumble. it’s a little easier to breathe, like this, a weighted blanket of comfort around you. something sweet and soothing and smelling lightly of rosemary. peace — or as close to it as you can get, today.

a sigh pushes past your lips; heavy with fatigue. dripping with relief.

(you’re home.)

”well, well, well.”

— a moment passes.

the sudden noise makes you freeze up, eyes wide and alert, still in the process of kicking off your shoes. internally wincing, bracing yourself. here it comes.

slowly, hesitantly, you raise your gaze from the floor — locking eyes with a certain man.

satoru looks displeased, to say the very least. arms crossed, with a cute little frown playing on his lips. just as you imagined. you can’t see his eyes from behind his shades — but if you could, you’re sure they’d carry a sense of betrayal.

”… hi, sato —”

”i can’t believe you.”

an amused breath slips from your lips. amused, but sheepish, awfully nervous. like you just came home to an angry wife, after promising to be back early from work. and satoru only huffs, staring you down like you just killed his dog.

”betrayed. deserted. by my own partner,” he scoffs, shaking his head in obvious disapproval. ”what, are you done with your errand now?”

”satoru,” you try, voice falling into a melodic lilt. smiling up at him, inching closer. to your surprise, he takes a step back.

(you must have really upset him.)

a sad smile. you exhale, wringing your hands together. ”… i’m sorry i left you.”

”you should be,” he pouts, voice wounded to a degree that must be at least a little bit exaggerated. ”and you said you were just going to the bathroom.”

you let out a small, guilty chuckle. he remembers that? ”i’m really sorry. i left you the note, though…”

”right. the note,” satoru scoffs, like the word itself is personally offensive. ”d’you know how awful i felt, seeing that first thing in the morning? no sign of you anywhere, and some silly note is supposed to make up for it?”

oh, he’s being so unfair. looking so disgruntled, tapping the pads of his fingers on his elbow. you wish you could take him seriously, but he’s way too endearing. and he won’t let you get a word in.

”i was so worried. i thought someone had kidnapped you.” satoru doesn’t let up, even when an amused chuckle leaves your lips. ”you turned your phone off and everything! what were you even doing?”

”i know, i know. i’m sorry, really. i am!” you hang up your coat, brushing off a leftover cherry petal. ”it was a personal thing, like i said. but i dealt with everything now, so it’s fine.”

”that’s not an answer,” he mutters. ”you’re really not gonna tell me?”

a pang of guilt hits your heart.

”… sorry,” you murmur, low and feeble. avoiding his gaze. ”some other time, okay?”

satoru only lets out another spiteful scoff, arms still crossed. you wonder if he’s holding himself back from hugging you, or if he really is so angry with you that he doesn’t want you near him.

”look, toru —” you try, again, molding your voice into something soft and sweet. ”i’m really sorry. i won’t do it again, okay? and i’ll make it up to you.”

you hold up a paper bag, waving it slightly to get his attention. you can tell that it works. ”look. i got you your favorite pastries.”

satoru’s frown remains, despite the sweet treats. he must be angrier than you thought. ”really? you think some cookies will be enough to make things right?”

so stubborn. you suppose it’s warranted, though. you know how satoru is — if you’re not by his side for an extended amount of time, he starts to mope. after a while, he starts feeling lonely.

and then, finally, he starts to get anxious.

he’s told you, before, how much these days mean to him; days when the two of you can stay in and relax, and watch silly tv shows, and cook dinner, and fall asleep in each other’s arms. days when he can just be your toru, and no one else. your personal splotch of sunshine.

of course he’d be upset.

(you really are cruel, keeping him in the dark like this.)

seeing him so grumpy makes you oddly happy, though. just his presence makes that suffocating feeling in your chest feel a little more bearable, easing the burden on your restless heart. he makes you feel vulnerable.

with a thud, the paper bag drops to the floor. you open up your arms, like a blooming flower, a sheepish little smile on your lips. ”i missed you?”

the words are tinted with honey, sweet and warm, but also kind of sad. you tilt your head to the right, slightly, a silent invitation into your arms.

and for a second, something unreadable sparks in satoru’s eyes, hidden behind the black of his shades. you still notice it, though — almost as if his whole face pauses for a second. in clever contemplation.

you wonder if he noticed it, then. your puffy eyes, the sagging of your shoulders; the fatigue seeping off you, sticking to your skin.

you wonder if that’s why he relents, finally, stepping closer to bring you in for a hug.

the moment your head meets his chest, you’re enveloped by his scent. strawberries and fresh laundry, and a hint of expensive cologne. home.

a sigh leaves your lips, deep and content. you clutch onto the fabric of his shirt, melting into the embrace — and satoru can’t really bring himself to be too angry, anymore.

”… well, i guess i could forgive you,” he muses, arms securely wrapped around your waist. you’re sure he’s trying to sound stern, but it’s not very convincing when he’s snuggling into you like this. ”but you’re gonna have to make it up to me. alright?”

”right, right,” you exhale, smiling. just thankful to be close to him, to feel that he’s there. ”thank you, oh benevolent satoru.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you feel it; the low tremor running through his chest, rumbling, as he rests his jaw on your head. ”careful with the snark. if you want to be forgiven you gotta be nice to me, sweetheart.”

you let out a breath, somewhere in between an exasperated sigh and a fond giggle. he’s relieved to hear the sound. satoru prides himself on being observant — being able to read someone with a single glance, notice if something’s off almost instantly. and he’s especially proud of his observant nature when it comes to you.

as clear as the blue of the sky, or the brightness of the sun, satoru can tell that something’s wrong. he noticed it the moment he read that note, the moment you stepped back into the house, the moment he saw your meek little face staring up at him — desperate for comfort. as if one wrong touch could have you falling apart, shattering, like a flimsy sheet of glass.

whatever you were doing, today… it couldn’t have been pleasant.

he’s curious, of course, and still more than a little irked at your escape — but that can wait until later. satoru can be patient, when he wants to be. at the very least, he can be patient when it comes to you.

(for now, he’ll focus on cheering you up.)

nuzzling further into his chest, you take a deep breath, basking in the familiar sensation creeping up on you. satoru makes a halfhearted attempt to stifle his coo.

”aw, look at you,” he grins, swaying you softly side to side. ”so clingy. you really did miss me, huh?”

a huff leaves your lips. ”shut up,” you mumble, feeling a heat rush to your cheeks.

”be nice, baby.”

…

and you relent. the least you could do is indulge him, even if you know he’ll abuse the opportunity fully. you part your lips, and speak.

”… of course i missed you.”

”there we go,” a smug grin blooms on his lips. he rubs your back, absentmindedly. gosh, he’s infuriating.

(you love him so much you want to sneak into his chest and gobble up his heart.)

after a moment, he pulls away from you. just a little, just to get a good look at your face. drinking you in, with his blue-soaked gaze, as your eyelashes flutter. he reaches out, the pads of his fingers meeting your soft skin — cupping your cheek with his palm, big and warm, cradling you the way a believer would cup a mouthful of holy water.

then he leans in to kiss you. giving you no time to prepare, drawing you in, drawn to your touch, inexplicably. helplessly.

it’s a chaste kiss, light and heart-fluttering. his lips are soft, tasting lightly of cherry chapstick. when you exhale against them, you feel him smile, almost smirking. a blissful little breath that he drinks in, hands squeezing softly at your hips, bringing you just a little closer. rubbing his nose against yours.

his tongue flits out to lick at your bottom lip, a teasing flick, and then he’s pulling back — still close enough to make you flustered.

”missed you too,” he purrs, voice deep and raspy, rumbling through his chest. ”thought i was gonna go insane without you.”

with a flushed face, and something akin to a pout playing at your lips, you avoid his gaze. you’re sure that if you looked now, you’d see those pools of blue peeking out beneath the black glass.

satoru leans in to kiss you, again. giving you no warning, as always; unable to resist the temptation.

(you really are too cute for your own good.)

it’s a little intoxicating, the way he breathes you in. sweet and warm, like he’s trying to say i love you without using any words, with just his lips and lungs and tongue. he’s a little too good at it — someone so inexperienced has no business being so naturally good at kissing. it’s a little irritating.

but that’s satoru, for you. always surpassing your expectations; like there’s no limit to his love.

satoru finally decides to spare you, satisfied with the tiny squeak that bubbles up in your throat when he nibbles at the flesh of your lip. he’ll demand more kisses later — preferably when you’re seated in his lap, and he can properly turn you into a boneless puddle.

”alright,” he chirps, a melodic lilt to his voice, stepping back with a palm still on your hip. his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric. ”let’s see those pastries.”

”oh. right…” you’re quick to lean down, snatching the paper bag from where it lays on the floor. passing it to satoru, so he can look into it.

seemingly satisfied with the contents, he lets out a contemplative hum. ”okay, this is a start,” he nods, decisive. ”c’mon. let’s eat ’em by the couch.”

…

you narrow your eyes, suddenly suspicious. ”… hang on. have you had lunch yet?”

satoru gapes, as if in disbelief, barking out a soft, offended little scoff. ”really? you’re doubting me?”

”that’s not a yes.”

a pout forms on his lips. ”of course i have. who do you think i am?”

”oh yeah?” you give him a smile, a tiny raise of your brow. something in you knows that he’s lying. ”what’d you eat?”

”what is this, an interrogation?” he huffs. ”i’m a grown man. i can eat what i want!”

”not when i’m around,” you deadpan. then sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. ”satoru, you can’t eat a bunch of sweets for lunch. it’s not good for you.”

”so you can abandon me for hours, but i can’t have a little treat every once in a while? is that how it is?”

a roll of your eyes. you shift on your feet, letting out a low groan, and satoru has to reel in his growing smile. ”alright, drama queen. i get your point.” a moment passes, and you hum. ”… want me to make you something? or should i just order take out?”

satoru pouts, again, like a big huffy dog. ”babe, don’t you trust me? i’ve already had lunch. i got yakitori from the place downtown!”

”oh? you mean the yakitori place that’s closed on sundays?”

”huh. that’s weird,” he muses, smiling faintly. ”must’ve been some other place, then.”

you give him an unamused look. he returns it with a vague upturn of his lips, completely unbothered.

a sigh.

”… i’ll order take out.”

”whatever you say, princess.”

you stifle a smile, and go digging for your phone, feeling your own stomach rumble a bit. in the midst of the banter, you almost forget what day it is.

and satoru feels satisfied. you look a little more alive, now. a little more anchored to reality. as you call the takeout place of your choosing, he can even spot some earnest light in your eyes. he’s not exactly worried — but you did seem oddly stiff, just now, a little blurry. faded at the corners, like a dusty old polaroid.

and if there’s one thing satoru gojo can’t do, it’s leave you alone when he knows you need him.

satoru’s punishment for leaving him alone so long is swift and severe.

you’re seated in his lap, caged in by his long arms, and this time you know there’s no escaping them. even if you could, you wouldn’t dare to try. being caged in like this, warm and comfy in satoru’s embrace, isn’t really much of a punishment at all — even the kisses he has you press against his lips and jaw aren’t unwelcome, albeit a little embarrassing. he’s a merciful tyrant.

but you can’t help but feel like you’re deceiving him.

you still feel so lost, somehow, a murky sensation you can’t seem to shake off. and you know it’s because of your brain, because of the correlations it’s stitching and crocheting between today and her and you.

it simply won’t let you be happy, today.

you can’t help but feel a little greedy. ungrateful. even though you have your precious sun with you, even though you should feel warm, her absence hangs heavy on you. her continued absence, in your world, your life. a chill that rots your bones from the inside out. you know you’ll never get over it. you don’t ever want to get over it. it’s tough, though.

you should be happy, snuggled into your boyfriend’s arms, but her sorrow clings to you. you should be mourning, but his arms feel so secure like this. no reaction feels right, no emotion warranted.

(you really are greedy, aren’t you?)

satoru chuckles, a sound both delighted and amused — snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. as always.

you’re watching a movie he likes, some cheesy old romcom. you really, really don’t understand his taste. but his commentary is always entertaining. judging by his cute little noise, someone just said something funny — funny to his standards, anyhow.

it’s too tempting to resist. you crane your neck, glancing up at him, wanting to see his face. from this angle, you can spot the blue of his eyes — beautiful and bright, flickering with splotches of pure white. they flit down to meet your own, gleaming with amusement.

”do i have something on my face, baby?” satoru chuckles, leaning forward to get a better look at you, all tucked against his chest. he grins, smooth, handsome; tailor-made to make you flustered. ”you’re staring at me real hard, there.”

(what a tease.

unfortunately for him, you saw this one coming.)

”nah,” you show off a grin of your own, bubbly and teasing. ”you’re just pretty.”

he blinks. a few seconds passes by.

then a smile breaks out across his face. his eyes crinkle softly at the edges, like little petals, snowy bangs gliding against his skin when he tilts his head.

”oh?” he leans closer, hands still keeping you in place, making sure your gaze stays locked onto his. ”so forward. am i really that irresistible?”

there’s something soft in your eyes, something tender in the way your fingers go to touch his skin. a ghost of a caress, paired with your flimsy smile. you look at him like he hung all the stars in the sky, breathing out an exhale. ”… i wouldn’t go that far.”

”aw, don’t be embarrassed,” he lets out a coo. ”come on — tell me i’m pretty again.”

”you liked that, huh?”

satoru flicks your forehead, no real strength behind it, so soft you barely feel it. there’s a certain reprimanding tilt to his voice, teasing as it is. ”be nice.”

he’s lucky you’re feeling too vulnerable to put up a fight. you turn around, to face him properly, squirming in his hold; reaching out to cup his handsome face.

”pretty boy,” you murmur, running your thumb along the expanse of his cheekbone. satoru grins, and your heart thumps loudly in your chest. you can spot earnest giddiness on his features — such a sucker for praise.

blindly, he searches for your other hand, bringing it to his lips. they’re warm, you notice, as he kisses across your knuckles, the tips of your fingers. soft as a feather, tickling your skin. like every peck is a whispered psalm, a silent worship. but it’s light, it always has been — the weight of his boundless adoration. it’s not the heavy kind of love that gods give, not the one you hear about in stories, that always ends in death. satoru’s love isn’t crushing, and it isn’t suffocating. it’s delicate and careful, soft. it reminds you of how sunshine licks at your skin in the morning.

nothing more or less than one human being’s wholehearted love for another; giggles buzzing against your skin, crinkled eyes and mouthfuls of honey. blissful summer days.

(it reminds you of her, but it’s also something entirely different. something you can only ever make sense of when you think of the sun. when every single corner of your home has been doused in sunshine.)

a moment passes. so, so intimate, unbroken by the grief inside your chest. balm to your fractured heart, smoothing across your jagged edges. satoru leans into your palm, into your touch, relishing in the affection you give him. like a bee to a flower, blooming, wilting.

a nagging need tugs at your heartstrings.

(you want to see him. up close.)

although a little unsure, you reach your hands out, slowly, delicately, like approaching a frightened fawn — eager to remove his shades. he makes no move to stop you, so you assume that it’s okay. his eyes flutter open, when you do, white lashes parting like a bird taking flight; crinkled at the corners, overflowing with warmth. like sunshine streaming in through the curtains of your childhood kitchen.

your heartbeat stutters at the sight.

all you can do is stare. transfixed, losing yourself in their calming hue, drinking them in. you sigh; a soft, quiet little sound. ”you’re so pretty.”

…

satoru lets out a breath, tinged with laughter. his eyes are teasing, but warm even still. ”… am i, now?”

”mhm. the prettiest.”

he chokes back another chuckle. hoping you won’t notice the slight flush to his ears, the heat on the back of his neck. he’s grown skilled at keeping a poker face, even when you try to fluster him — but it’s harder when you’re not trying, when it comes to you so easily. when your words are honest.

just when he’s about to turn the tables on you, you duck your head under his jaw. nuzzling into the crook of his neck, inhaling his cologne, craving his warmth, knowing how much it grounds you.

that, and his eyes are just a little too beautiful to stare into for too long. they always see right through you, deep into your soul, into every little nook and cranny of your mind. that undivided attention makes you feel a little meek, like you’re bare and raw before him. like there’s nothing you can hide.

(something in your hollowed-out chest begins to crumble.)

falling silent, you absently fiddle with the hem of satoru’s shirt, resting your forehead against his shoulder. he doesn’t say anything. the room would be silent were it not for that cheesy romcom, still buzzing in the background — you think the main couple just got divorced, again. or did get they married? you can’t really keep track of the plot. you can’t keep track of much at all, right now.

satoru makes you too happy.

so happy you forget what day it is, forget you’re supposed to be mourning. sometimes, you forget she’s even gone at all. as if she’s resting on some summer field, outside of your vision, alive and well.

but she isn’t. you can’t forget that.

guilt. how long has it been part of your life? you don’t know the answer. you’re not sure you want to know. most of the time, it’s all you can feel. guilt, because you’re sitting here, happy, with the love of your life — the most wonderful person you know. guilt, because you haven’t told him what’s going on, because you don’t trust him enough — even though you’d like to think you just don’t want to burden him. you don’t trust anyone enough to let them glimpse into your decaying chest. you’re afraid of the rot. you’re afraid it’ll mold his hand at the slightest touch.

guilt, guilt, guilt — because you’re lucky enough to meet such wonderful people, over and over again, and never quite manage to deserve them.

(having lost its moon, where does a star find solace?)

a hand begins to stroke your head. the weight is a comfort, reassuring, a jolt of warmth trickling down your spine. for a moment, it’s all you can feel.

(— in the warmth of the sun.)

”sleepy?” he murmurs, low and soft. a little teasing, mostly inquisitive, a calm lull of his tongue.

are you? you didn’t really notice, until now. things are starting to feel a little hazy, aren’t they? you feel comfortable, too comfortable, your body aching for a moment of rest, a chance to shut off. sleep, sleep, sleep. don’t think about anything anymore.

satoru notices your sleepy little breaths, the way you gradually soften under his touch, melt into his arms. so he continues to run his hand over your head, petting you gently — knowing it’ll coax you into resting. he’d like you to stay up and binge shows with him all night, but you seem awfully tired. just this once, he’ll let you sleep — the plot was starting to get boring, anyhow. the sequel’s way better.

”you can rest, baby,” he coos, with a gentle intonation. his voice buzzes in your ear. ”i’ve got you.”

(he’s got you.)

the words make you feel so horribly, awfully safe. you can already feel yourself drifting away. his hand smooths down your hair, and a yawn slips from your lips, and you’re just so, so tired. how nice it would be, for the day to end. to be able to forget, for another year.

yeah. how nice.

you wonder why you don’t take the opportunity.

maybe it has something to do with satoru. with the way he seems to bring you back to reality so effortlessly, soothes you without even really trying. maybe it’s the way he bares himself in front of you, blue eyes on full display, allowing you to see every single part of him.

maybe, it makes you want to do the same.

”… satoru?”

your voice sounds meek. tiny, unguarded. the man in question only hums, feeling you slump against his shoulder. ”hm?”

”today…” you trail off, unsure how to proceed. you can only think of a certain girl, a certain moon. the melancholy is almost overbearing; it pushes you over the edge. ”i went to a cemetery.”

satoru doesn’t respond. he gives you space to continue, never once halting the motion of his big hand on your head, smoothing down your hair. you gulp, trying to force your dry throat to make sounds.

”… my best friend is buried there. she died today. a couple years back… so i —” a coldness crawls under your skin, words hollow as they leave your lips.

”… you know.”

”yeah. i figured.”

a blink. your eyelashes flutter, in surprise — you can’t see satoru’s face, with the way you’re pressed up against him, but you still look up.

what tipped him off, you wonder?

you believe him. satoru has a way of seeing through you, one way or another, always more observant than you give him credit for. he’s tactful, in how he brings it up, and that slumbering maturity he tries to hide comes into view. there’s no judgement in his tone, no pity — only understanding.

”… oh,” is all you can mutter. dumbfounded.

”i’m sorry. about her.”

”don’t be,” you murmur, managing a soft shake of your head. ”i’m — i’m sorry i didn’t tell you. i just wanted to go there alone, and… deal with it? i guess.”

after a brief pause, you keep going. feeling so, so small. but satoru holds you so tenderly. a whisper slips past your lips, dripping with longing.

”… you’d have liked her.”

”what was she like?” comes his reply, instantaneous.

…

huh.

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. your mind spins in circles, but nothing happens.

(what was she like?)

”… i really loved her.”

satoru lets out a breath. vaguely amused, but he isn’t smiling. his words have a kindness to them; an understanding, more than anything. ”that’s all, huh?”

a slight intake of breath.

— then you bring yourself to think of her.

you think of her face, how her lips curled up into a smile when you tripped over air, the splotches of sunlight reflecting off her white teeth. you think of her laughter, how it always echoed in your head, how she took your hand in hers when you were too scared to walk ahead alone — taking the first step so you wouldn’t have to. a whole human being, multifaceted, enough traits and quirks to fill the whole night sky.

your moon. your eurydice. the only one who understood you.

you loved her a lot.

”… when i was with her, even sitting around and doing nothing made me happy.” nostalgia seeps into the whisper, like warm honey clogging up your throat, choking you. ”just her being there made every day feel like a good one.”

satoru doesn’t say anything. but he holds you, and he doesn’t let go. even when your voice begins to waver.

”i guess that’s… how i’d describe her.” a small breath. then a smile, even smaller. rueful, but it’s there, and it means everything. ”i’d do anything to have that yesterday back.”

satoru stays silent.

you’ve spoken about her, before. he knows some things. not a lot. he knows she’s important to you; the person who shaped you into who you are, your very best friend. he tries to picture her, inside his mind.

you let out a tiny sigh, your lungs feeling empty of air. ”… i’m sure you two would have gotten along.”

”yeah,” he hums, palm smoothing down your back. stifling the thought that threatens to sneak into his mind — you wouldn’t have gotten along with him, but i would’ve wanted you to. ”i’m sure we would have.”

it’s a little too sweet to be true. but it makes you happy, just to imagine that kind of reality — the two of them, together. satoru would tease her, and she’d ignore him, hiding a smile behind her palm. she’d warm up to him eventually. they’d bicker over who knew you best, and demand your own verdict —

you’d smile, not saying a thing.

your voice has gotten a little shaky. it’s scary, opening yourself up for him to see; it feels a little like being sewn open. but you force yourself to keep going. satoru rubs your back through it all, soothingly.

(he’s so, so proud of you.)

”i was thinking…” you trail off, gaze fixed on satoru’s shirt, fingers gripping the smooth fabric. ”maybe, some time in the future — i mean, if you want to — you could… come with me? maybe?”

silence.

”you don’t have to say yes. but if you do want to —”

”i do.”

satoru’s voice is absolute. there isn’t any room for doubt; he makes sure of that. ”i’d like to meet her.”

… oh.

it was that easy, huh?

(you wonder what you could have possibly done to deserve him.)

”… okay,” you mumble, meekly, breath fanning over his skin. ”next year, then.”

satoru glances down at you. curled up against him, nearly sleeping, looking a lot less burdened than before — though there’s still a desperation in the way you lean into his touch, a silent terror, like you could drift away if he doesn’t keep you close. satoru wants to fix it. he wants to run his hands across your skin, stitch the scars life has left you with, even if his touch could never be as gentle as he’d like it to be. he wants to be tender.

but there’s no fixing grief. it lingers, always, no matter how much you try to scrub it away. even if you run a washcloth over your skin until it starts to bleed, the scent still remains.

and there’s a sickening sense of comfort in the knowledge that it always will.

(there’s no getting rid of him, satoru knows. and deep down, he’s glad that it’s true.)

more than anything else — satoru is content. content in the knowledge that you trust him, that you can bring yourself to open up to him about something so personal. that you chose to tell him, even though he gave you a way out. something about it makes him feel almost overwhelmed with affection. the kind he can’t bear not to show you, the kind that makes him seek you out almost subconsciously; seeking out your touch, your laughter. the smile on your face.

and maybe, just maybe — it makes him want to be a little more open with you, too.

”yeah,” he murmurs, craning his neck to leave a kiss on the crown of your head. ”you can sleep, baby. we’ll talk more about it tomorrow, okay?”

”… i’m sorry for leaving you this morning,” you whisper, suddenly. a little meek. ”i felt really bad.”

satoru chuckles. raspy, an amused little breath. ”you’re forgiven, honey,” he coos. ”just don’t do it again, hm? might break my heart.”

with a yawn, you loop your arms around his neck, nuzzling further into his warmth. fighting the urge to close your eyes. drowsiness washes over you all at once, as if it was waiting for you to get the last of your worries off your chest. ”… i love you.”

”i love you too,” comes his reply, a smile tugging at his lips. ”my sweet girl.”

it’s hard to resist the temptation. almost impossible, with how warm satoru feels, your eyes helplessly fluttering close. you were supposed to stay up with him — you haven’t even finished eating. and you didn’t finish his awful romcom.

but he runs his hands over your head, and down your back, and it’s simply too hard to withstand the temptation. so you close your eyes, just for a second —

and that’s all it takes.

satoru keeps petting you, softly, until he’s sure you’re asleep, soft little breaths falling from your parted lips, drool slipping down your chin. he’ll forgive you for staining his shirt, just this once. with you in his lap, sound asleep, he feels himself soften — hands running down your back, rubbing circles into your skin. cradling you closer and closer, ensuring that you’re comfortable. taking a few sneaky pictures, that he’ll tease you about tomorrow —

(though in reality, he just wants to be able to look at them whenever he wants.)

even while eating, romcom flickering on and on, all he can think about is you. how you look so pretty sleeping against him, how you trust him enough to let him see you at your lowest. how you trust him to take care of you, run his fingers across the scars etched into your soul. even if it does no good, even if his touch is clumsy at best — that act of trust alone sets his heart aflutter.

he wonders what he could have possibly done to deserve this happiness.

”well, here we are.”

satoru holds a bouquet of flowers in his arms, putting it down on the grave, crouching down next to you.

a sigh leaves your lips.

”… this still feels a little surreal,” you admit, sparing a glance at the man to your left. ”sure you’re not a little freaked out?”

”nah. don’t mind me, just do your thing.”

”that’s… easier said than done,” you murmur, arranging the flowers for the grave. asters and forget-me-nots, haberleas and hydrangeas.

a hum buzzes in his throat. ”well, what do you usually do when you’re here?”

”i… talk to her, i guess…?” you gnaw at your bottom lip, turning your face away. you feel a little awkward, admitting it out loud, but if satoru finds it weird he’s frighteningly good at hiding it.

all he does is take a step back, as if giving space for your words to fit in. respectful, accommodating. so smooth you barely notice it. ”then talk.”

”… i can’t do that with you here.”

”eh? why not?”

”because — i just can’t, okay?” you let out a huff, averting your gaze, shying away from him. ”whatever. i’m just gonna do it in my head. she’ll have to manage.”

satoru turns his head, looking down at the city skyline below you as you clasp your hands together. when he looks back, he sees you mouthing something, no sound coming out — and decides to leave you be.

the grave is well kept. he wonders how many visits you’ve managed to sneak past him, in the years that he’s known you. he wonders if it’s supposed to feel this foreign, being here, staring down at something he knows must mean the world to you. the grave of your very best friend. someone who holds a piece of your heart, a side of you he never got to see.

he’ll have to make a good first impression.

satoru clasps his hands together, too. and he speaks, silently, with no words; lips pursed in a tight line.

(hi, there. it’s nice to meet you.)

it’s not like he has no experience of talking to the dead, himself. he’s more than acquainted with one-sided conversations, lonely visions of boys with black hair, men with sad smiles. framed by the setting sun.

so it doesn’t feel too odd.

satoru talks. about this, about that. he tries to keep it professional. this is important to you, so by nature, it’s important to him. the conversation comes to a close, and he looks at the grave with an unreadable expression — hands still clasped in silent prayer.

(i promise to take care of them.)

a sniffle.

satoru glances over at you, just as you turn away — trying to hide from him. but he knows. he’ll always, always know when you need him most.

two strong arms curl around your waist, stabilizing you, anchoring you to earth. ”i’ve got you,” he whispers, and you fall into his embrace. allowing him to pick up the pieces, to put you back together. ”i’ve got you.”

”i —” your voice breaks apart, crumbles into stardust, a shuddering breath that escapes from the back of your throat. there’s nothing to see through your tears. ”i miss her so much.”

satoru cradles you close to his chest, tucking you under his chin. ”i know,” he soothes. your little sobs leave his heart with a bitter feeling, and he wishes he could make them disappear; but he knows you need this.

when he holds you, something brushes against the fabric of your clothing. the soft thrumming of his heartbeat. something alive, deep within his chest, something for you to ground yourself with. and you know it was intentional, on his part — the decision to press your hearts together, a promise he doesn’t have to find the words for, because you know.

(stay alive for me. i’ll stay alive for you.

when you can’t breathe properly, i’ll be here to do it for you.)

your tears stain his brand-new coat, but he doesn’t care. all he cares about is you, the fact that you’re crying, how to properly comfort you. it’s new to him, all of it, everything about you is just so new and he’s so afraid of messing it all up again —

but he holds you close. murmuring, right by your ear, endless sweet nothings. he waits for you to get it all out of your system, and he doesn’t let you go.

when you finally collect yourself, thoroughly tired out, eyes red and puffy — satoru smiles. it’s brighter than the sun, positively life-envoking. it gives you something to hold on to. he parts his lips.

”thank you for bringing me here.”

a shake of your head. soft, as he thumbs away your tears, one by one. ”thank you for coming with me,” you smile, small as it is, holding onto his hands. feeling the warmth of his skin, the smoothness of his palm.

after saying your farewells, and promising to come back next year, the two of you begin your trek down the mountain trail. hand in hand. it’s mostly silent, but not at all in a bad way. satoru knows when to be serious, and when not to be. today, he knows you’re especially fragile — he wouldn’t dare overstep.

(especially when he knows your pain so well.)

”hey,” you break the silence. ”thank you, really. for… well, everything.”

satoru brushes you off, with a light squeeze of your hand. ”don’t mention it. i’m your boyfriend, aren’t i?”

”it’s not about that,” you chuckle, an embarrassed smile on your lips. ”just… thank you for existing, i guess. i love you a lot.”

…

satoru hums.

if he were any other person, maybe he’d respond with something just as sincere — something to let you know exactly how much you mean to him, how you make his world brighter just by being in it. how you mend scars he didn’t even know he had, as effortlessly as brushing a strand of hair away from your face. how you remind him of a certain boy, but also something entirely different; a love so light it makes him feel human.

but he’s satoru gojo — and so he has to do things in a more roundabout way.

”hey,” he starts, with a soft click of his tongue. ”next christmas. are you free?”

you blink up at him, with a tilt of your head. ”… of course. we always do something on christmas, right?”

”no, i don’t mean that.”

another tilt of your head. satoru hums, low and contemplative, humming quietly.

”eh,” he flicks his hand, waving you off. ”you’ll see.”

”… okay?”

silently, you study his expression, hoping to find some sort of hint that’ll give away the meaning of his words. you can’t find anything except a carefree smile, his eyes still obscured by his shades — hidden from you and the rest of the ghosts.

you suppose it doesn’t really matter. satoru seems happy; and, really, that’s all you could ask for.

so you only tug him closer, greedy for his warmth, basking in the feeling of it enveloping you. protecting you from the chilly air.

satoru closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

(a boy with black hair smiles behind his eyelids.)

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo angst #gojo hurt/comfort #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk hurt/comfort

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takami-takami · 2 years ago

Text

Like Animals.

kinktober day 4: sex pollen.

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut

warnings— afab!reader. dubcon (sex pollen/heats, but both have been pining like idiots). breeding if you squint.

keigo's beloved crush sidekick gets hit with the unluckiest quirk possible. he quickly discovers his rut suppressants ain't shit.

Through all the horrors and adverse life events Keigo has endured in this line of work— brutal near-assassinations, negotiations with international crime syndicates, purchasing sugar-free canned coffee with Splenda substitute by mistake before his morning shift— he has always been able to find a silver lining in the darkest of moments.

Which makes it infinitely more concerning that for the first time in his life, he nearly whines through his teeth the words, "why me?"

A palm drags once down his face, thumb and index finger pulling down his darkened eye bags. His hand collects the beads of sweat and stops to rest over his mouth.

He supposes this must be his penance for taking a risk and trusting faulty intel.

Keigo's informant told him the villain he and his darling sidekick were meeting would have a limited-ranged fire quirk, so the diligent hero stuffed ointment and cold packs in his pockets before leaving just in case.

If he had known the villain was a plant heteromorph and possessed a heat-inducing mist quirk instead, and that the person he was hopelessly in love with had a bit of a crush on would be caught in the direct line of fire?

He would have brought a paper bag to hyperventilate into instead. And some prayer beads. The god to which the prayer is delivered doesn't necessarily matter, he thinks. He'd simply pick one and drop to his knees in a bid for mercy.

"I'm taking you to a medic," Keigo puts his foot down for the fourth time this evening.

"Fuck no," you groan from the couch, shifting to squeeze your thighs together. It offers not even a modicum of relief from the incessant throb. "Do you want my cause of death to be humiliation? Is that your plan, genius? 'S bad enough as it is that you're here."

The subtext is unspoken, but clear to him through your adorable pout: I only trust you to see me like this.

It's unlucky that the man you've had the most innapropriate-for-work crush on for the better part of two years happened to be the one beside you that day. And it's just your sorry luck, you lament, that Keigo would also be the one to catch you, to fly you home cradled in his painfully capable arms, to refuse to leave your side and insist on making his favorite chicken soup for you in a desperate flail of support.

He'd respect your decision and leave, should you ask him to. You know that. And yet the humbling truth gnaws at your pride: doing so wouldn't do much to save your image at this point. He’s already seen you like this, you grumble. The proverbial cat has long since escaped the bag, waltzing its way over to rub its purring body against Keigo’s leg to your abject horror.

If you close your eyes, you can attempt to trick your brain into thinking this affliction is a flu of some kind.

Yes, this is just some common cold. You're wearing nothing but your work partner's shirt (your clothes were contaminated by the quirk's dust, Keigo explained, speaking in that strict work mode voice that makes you picture your mouth stuffed and drooling somewhere beneath his desk and between his spread legs). You pull the damned fabric down over your core as you try your hardest to not writhe in fits of pleasure underneath the blankets, rubbing your thighs together for any friction against your swollen clit.

All symptoms of an affliction of the flu, of course.

You don't need to reach down and touch to know the slick would string those thighs together, should you attempt to pull them apart.

Keigo knows that, too. But he doesn't say anything about it.

You would be mortified if you were aware of the truth.

That he knows everything.

Keigo knows exactly how you ache; like you're constantly on the precipice of an orgasm, perpetually ablaze from the heavy heat scorching your body from its surface to the boiling core.

You try to suppress your glee as he spoon feeds you the broth, reminding yourself that this is just what good friends do for each other.

Friends coo praises at each other when they swallow, friends tilt each other's chins up with one finger and mutter things like that’s a good dove and you can take another as they watch their throat bob in tandem.

Friends shiver from their wingtips down their spine when they pull the spoon back. They let their gaze linger for just a second on those lips that open wide, aching to touch with their own.

Ever the gentleman, Keigo stays lowered to his haunches and places one hand over your forehead to check for a fever, redirecting his focus toward taking inventory of your vitals. He doesn't wince when he hears your moan at the contact, even though the pitiful sound pings at his weak points. His avian instincts remind him he needs to protect you, please you, take care of you; to make it go away, to fix that feeling he knows better than anyone is aching like a bruise between your thighs.

He doesn't allow his eyes to wander astray or trail their way downwards, especially when you're in such a vulnerable state; but his professional assessment is that if he could only wet his appetite, the flat of his tongue alone could—

He shakes his head and blows a puff to cool the soup, raising another spoonful to your lips.

"Here. Another. You need to keep your energy up," he reminds you, voice stern. It's nearly clinical and achieves the opposite of its desired effect.

Your heart rate picks up to thump at a steady, thrumming beat at the innocuous gesture of domesticity.

How have you never noticed how capable of a mate Keigo would be…? He’s all musculature and sincerity, sharp ridges at his knuckles and soft curves at the small of his waist where he only trusts you to touch.

You huff an involuntary moan.

He picks another god to praise that the couch you're laying on obscures his lower half.

Today, Keigo discovers his suppressants are only designed to reduce the chance of a rut being triggered. It brings the possibility of it starting in the first place to a comfortable near-zero, allowing him to carry out the spring and fall seasons as if he were entirely quirkless.

But if that rut passes through the blockers' biochemistry in, say, the event Keigo's luck rears its ugly head, for example… It does fuck all to reduce the actual symptoms.

More importantly than his own anguish, however, is this: his mate work partner got hurt because of him— hurt being a stretch, he'd know if he weren't overthinking so much, given the blissed out panting just two feet away from him; but you’re probably suffering and it's all his fault. It’s all because of an unlucky, once in a lifetime slip up from Keigo Takami himself, and he can't detangle himself from the guilt.

If drowning in the unexpected whirlpool that is his first rut in half a decade is his penance for the crime, then Keigo will hang his head and take it.

The huff he lets out is your last straw.

"I'm going to my room," you state, moving to leave like you left the stove on and are trying to avoid an upcoming house fire.

When his hand darts out to stop you, the touch against your shoulder sends shockwaves down your stomach.

He's touching you. He's taking such good care of you, feeding you, providing for you in his nest and now he's touching you?

It sends your hormones into overdrive.

You'd do well to conceal it, if his heightened instincts couldn't smell your desperation.

"I'm afraid it ain't that easy, dove," Keigo warns, eye contact averted. "I'd avoid doing that, if I were you."

He schools his expression, but not before you catch a flash of something hungry.

There's no chance in hell he's letting you out of his sight. Not like this. You're confined to the couch while he keeps an eye on you. Attempting to fix it yourself will only make the feeling unfathomably worse, something he tries to communicate to you with a look that only ends up making him look like a kicked puppy.

You squint right back when you process the implication of his words, eyes raking down his form in suspicion.

"How do you know all this, anyway," you ask.

Keigo goes silent, hand concealing his mouth.

Ah, it hits you.

Bird things.

Your head falls back against one of the numerous pillows your partner propped up behind you.

"The couch is soft," you murmur, situating yourself against the cushions and throw blankets he so carefully arranged. You trail your fingertips along a silk pillow. Keigo slams his eyes shut.

"Please don't say it like that."

"Why not?" Your lids droop, heat overtaking your better judgement. Tentatively, you play along the bounds. You allow your hands to run along the soft divots of the blanket covering your body, squeezing your chest and pinching the peaks. "It's like a little nest, isn't it?"

His hand drags down his face before pinching his nose bridge, suppressing a whine. "Baby, please—"

"You don't wanna join me?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. It's just the heat," Keigo tells himself more than you. "For the love of God, dove, stop talking—"

"But it hurts, Kei'." It’s a low blow, judging by the protective coo that escapes his lips.

Fed up, he leans forward and swings his right leg over your hip, crawling atop you as if his body has a mind of its own, utterly bogged by desire and yanked like puppet strings.

With Keigo kneeling tall above you, the bodysuit of his hero costume hides absolutely nothing. The musculature is quite impressive, actually. Proof of his viability as a mate— all dominant and masculine and gorgeous.

And at this angle, you can see the most painful erection straining against his pants.

"I need you, Kei'. I need— mmph!"

A palm silences you; slapped down, hot, imposing, and heavy like a weight against your mouth.

The authority of the action makes your cunt clench; and Keigo would die before he lets that feeling go to waste, so his hips drop down to grind once against it.

Your eyes go wide, doughy and stunned, darting down in haste, following the trail of his thick bicep up toward the disciplinary scowl on his face.

His nostrils flare with the heaving in his chest, eyes screwed shut with his last slivers of patience holding its grip on his psyche.

"One more word," he says, pulling his hand away. "One more word and I'm ripping this blanket off and fucking you raw."

After a moment of silence, you speak.

"Please."

Keigo is wordless when he unbuckles his belt and lets it— and his inhibitions— drop with a satisfying clink.

The reality of what you've gotten yourself into comes crashing down as it hits you how utterly fucked you are. The scaffolding of years of sexual tension comes crumbling down like bricks to rubble, a city of restraint reduced to pure, animalistic desire.

Years of Keigo's eyes darting away when you nonchalantly change into your uniform in front of him, even though he never seemed bothered by any of his other peers doing the same; years of you both curling in on yourselves at the furthest edges of the bed you had to share, cramped close in those under-the-radar motels on stealth missions; years of the words "idiot, can I kiss you," held back by your lips as you watch Keigo moan when he sinks his teeth into his comfort restaurant's chicken teriyaki every stupid Friday night, sitting cross-legged and at home on the carpet of your apartment floor.

Not a single word is exchanged as he pulls his cock free from its confines, nearly too thick for his fingers to meet when they wrap around it. He tosses the blanket to the side with haste, dragging your shirt (his shirt) up to your collar, exposing your chest when he lines his cock with your entrance.

"Please, Kei'," you sniffle. "Hurts."

"Oh, I know, baby... I know." His lips are pursed when he shushes you, tracing your cheek with his palm. "I'll make it go away."

When your lips meet, it's like static electricity; and it's entirely remorseless.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he groans against your mouth, dragging his length along your sticky thighs before plopping the thick of it atop your soaked cunt.

"You're so wet for me," he reveres in awe, dragging the plump tip through your mess to get it slick enough to rub against your clit.

Your rutting hips buck with impatience in an attempt to glide his length against your swollen pussy, but that only serves to fuel his desire; and those desperate little whines only feed into his insatiable need to fuck, to breed you until you're silent.

Until you shut the fuck up.

Those pathetic little sounds are music to his ears, a siren's song that used to play only in his most shameful fantasies; the ones that kept his fist tight around his cock the moment he returned home after missions, the sight of you panting and spitting blood after battle with a smile on your face still fresh in his memory.

Keigo wants to hear you moan.

But his rut needs to fuck you wordless with satisfaction.

"Oh, fuck," he hitches, shifting his hips back and forth to the tune of the audible shlicks below. Unable to stay upright any longer, his chest falls flush into yours in a rut-afflicted haze, rutting against you like animals.

When he slips his cock inside, it's with a kiss to muffle his voice.

And he wastes no time setting a punishing pace, aided nicely by the slickness that coats the sides of his cock. The legs of the couch surely must be scraping indents into the floorboards, judging by the creaks that mingle with the sounds of his belt buckle at every thrust. You'd notice if either of you were lucid enough to care.

It's a brief consideration of a possibility of an afterthought, like a sheepish voice behind a roaring crowd.

Pulling out, that is.

Yeah, if he were a stronger man, he could probably will his hips to stall. There's a chance someone far stronger than him would hiss when he does it. His cock would weep in denial of that sweet, velvet entanglement, dripping out in the cold when he fists himself to completion mere inches away from what might as well be the center of his goddamn universe.

But when it comes to you, when it comes to his rut, Keigo is not a strong man.

He allows his cock to throb in the vice of your cunt, instead.

"God, baby," he moans into your neck, wings flapping once, twice with each thrust, shedding a few feathers before straightening out and grazing the ceiling behind his back. "Baby. Oh, baby. You're so tight. You're so— fuck!"

He's babbling, but so are you. Legs hooked across the small of his back, you bump your hips as best you can to aid in his efforts; and with your last shreds of lucidity, you decide for the both of you how things will end.

With watery lashes, you open your eyes enough to blink away some tears and clear your vision just enough. Your gaze crawls up his legs that are still clothed to the thighs, peeking over the curvature of his ass and up his shuddering spine— all to mark onto your scarlet red prize.

When you entangle your fingers into the downy feathers at the base of his wings, it shoots straight to his cock and he spills.

With eyes wide open and a strangled choke at the back of his throat, Keigo's hips stutter when he empties himself. With every throb comes another rope from the tip, sticky and excessive from the rut, mixing with your wetness as you crash over the edge soon after.

When the ringing in your ears ceases and you finally come to, it's to the sight of your now probably-more-than-a-work-partner pulling out and staring between your legs as if under a trance, eyes glimmering.

"Kei', you okay?"

"Uh huh," he answers absentmindedly, utterly transfixed on the mess he made.

It's strange, he thinks. Whatever urges his rut transcribed into cravings, every instinct that tugged at the avian etched in his DNA and called him to fill you pales in comparison to the satisfaction of having indulged himself at last.

His eyes flick back to meet yours.

"Does this mean I can kiss you at work now?"

You snort. So that's where his mind goes in the end.

"It means a whole lot more than that," you say, rolling you both over so he lands square on his back.

#sorry i made jesus canon in this fic. I had to have him say it. Okay bye!#i know his quirk doesnt work like that its not an animal quirk but shhhhhh im having fun #🖋 writing #🌶 spice #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #bnha x reader #mha thirst #mha x reader #bnha thirst #smut #x reader

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jellyfishsthings · 2 months ago

Text

The Marks We Leave

WARNINGS: The second part (lets gooo!!!), this is a bit funnier, character and friendship development (shock), the reader becomes a teacher (*gasps*), Sirius' mendling, students mendling as well, Sirius being a bad influence (he becomes a Quidditch Coach)

part 1, part 3, navigation

July 1978 – One Week After Graduation

The envelope landed on your breakfast plate with a sound like a slap, splattering yolk across the table. Your heart lurched against your ribs as if sensing the blow before your mind caught up. For a moment, all you could do was stare at it—parchment crisp, Ministry seal glinting—while the walls of Grimmauld Place seemed to close in, tighter and tighter.

"Ministry Internship Offer – Department of Magical Law Enforcement"

Walburga's smile was all teeth. "Your future, girl. Orion pulled strings."

You didn't need Legilimency to read the subtext: Becoming an Auror means becoming our puppet.

That night, you found:

Your personal books vanished (replaced with Sacred Twenty-Eight Genealogies)

Your potions kit confiscated ("Unseemly for a lady")

A silver bracelet charmed to monitor your movements

The note read: "Wear this or face consequences."

You left it on your pillow as you climbed out the window, heart hammering with both terror and exhilaration.

A brief flash of memory haunted you as you dropped onto the garden path: Orion’s hand tightening on your shoulder the day you accidentally bested him in a debate. Walburga’s furious whisper: Know your place, girl.

You didn’t look back.

Diagon Alley Attic Flat – August 1978

The room cost 15 Galleons a week. You paid for it by:

Brewing Pepper-Up Potions for dodgy apothecaries (Knockturn Alley didn't ask for licenses)

Translating cursed runes for Borgin & Burkes (barely dodging a mummy's curse)

Selling your hair to a wig maker (who didn't need to know it was Black family hair)

When the landlord banged on your door demanding rent, you:

Repaired his broken stairs with a wandless charm (he took 5 Galleons off)

Convinced him you were a war widow (the black mourning robes helped)

Considered obliviation (but even you had limits)

The attic flat wasn’t a home—it was a hiding place.

You noticed the smells first:

Damp wood from the leaking roof, a sour tang that clung to your robes.

Burnt potions from last night’s botched Pepper-Up brew, the acrid sting of over-boiled mandrake root.

Mothballs and dust, because the previous tenant had apparently been a century old.

Then the sounds:

Muffled shouts from Knockturn Alley below—"I ain’t payin’ for cursed goods!"—followed by the sharp crack of Apparition.

Rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers, finding every weak spot in the shingles. A steady plink-plink-plink into the cauldron you’d set under the worst leak.

Scratching inside the walls. Rats or something worse. You didn’t investigate.

And the feel:

The drafty window, its warped frame refusing to shut fully. You’d cast Reparo three times before admitting defeat. Now you just stuffed the gap with a stolen Daily Prophet.

The grit of the floorboards underfoot, rough as a Kneazle’s tongue. No amount of Scourgify could lift the grime of decades.

The weight of the silver bracelet you’d left behind, its absence like a ghost around your wrist.

You curled tighter under your threadbare blanket.

The silence was worse than the cold. It crept in slowly at first, a low hum behind the daily scrounging and spellwork. But as the weeks wore on, it grew teeth. It gnawed at the edges of your mind, filled the cracks in your resolve, and made the lonely flat seem cavernous. You caught yourself starting conversations aloud, half-hoping for an answer that never came. You missed:

Remus' sarcastic notes in the library

Sirius' dramatic entrances

Even Peeves' annoying rhymes

Just you, a leaking roof, and the gnawing question: What now?

Spinner's End Primary School – September 1978

The Muggles didn't ask questions when you volunteered to tutor struggling readers.

Real Reason #1: The children's wide-eyed wonder when you "guessed" their favorite colors (simple Legilimency)

Real Reason #2: The way their laughter drowned out Walburga's voice in your head

Real Reason #3: Ten-year-old Liam handing you a scribbled note: "You shud be a reel teacher"

That night, you stared at the Hogwarts letter you'd never sent:

"Dear Professor Dumbledore, I wish to apply for—"

You burned it. (Again.)

Your hands shook longer this time.

August 1978 – One Month After Graduation

The first owl arrived at your shabby London flat at 3:17 AM, its talons scraping against the fire escape.

You nearly hexed it before recognizing the familiar, precise handwriting:

"Black – Found this in 'Advanced Defensive Magic' and thought you'd appreciate the margin notes. The author clearly never met you. Page 42 proves your theory about counter-curse harmonics was right all along. Don't let it go to your head.

R.J.L."

Tucked inside was a chocolate frog card of Cassandra Vablatsky.

You wrote back immediately: "Lupin – Vablatsky's theories are outdated. Page 42 is basic. Turn to page 157 for what actual brilliance looks like. (Though I suppose even you can't be right all the time.)"

You added a dried fluxweed leaf as bookmark.

You didn’t admit it aloud, but you tucked that first letter under your pillow.

October 1978 – Full Moon Night

The pounding at your door came past midnight.

Remus stood on your doorstep, bleeding through his shirt, eyes wild with post-transformation haze.

"Safe house compromised," he rasped.

You didn't ask questions. For a half-second, you hesitated—because letting anyone past your threshold wasn't something you did lightly anymore. You tightened your grip on the doorframe, heart hammering, trust and fear locked in brutal stalemate.

But one look at Remus' battered face, and you shoved doubt aside.

You yanked him inside and went to work:

Dittany on the worst gashes

A stolen pain potion from your last St. Mungo's visit

Your only clean towel sacrificed to bandages

"Why help me?" His voice was raw, like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had.

You stirred the soup you’d conjured, the steam curling between you. "Page 157."

A beat. Then his laugh broke into a cough, wet and painful. You passed him the stolen pain potion, watching his throat bob as he swallowed.

Later, when he finally slept, you learned two things:

Werewolves steal blankets, curling around them like they’re trying to armor themselves against the world.

Remus Lupin murmurs in his sleep—half-formed words, too quiet to decipher. You leaned closer. Still couldn’t tell if it was a spell or a plea.

You stayed awake, listening to the rustle of his breathing, the drip of the dittany bottle, and wondering when exactly you started trusting him more than your own family.

October 1978 – Diagon Alley

You stared at the Daily Prophet ad with disbelief. "You're joking."

"'Defense Instructor Wanted – Must Enjoy Children?'" Remus sipped his tea, his lips curling into a smirk. "Hogwarts is hiring."

"Teach together?" You let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Flitwick would resign within a week."

Remus’ grin faded, and his gaze turned inward, more distant. "They’d never hire me anyway. Not with..." He trailed off, running a hand through his hair, the words left unspoken between you. The thing neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You slammed the paper down, frustrated and filled with a sudden surge of righteous defiance. "Then we start our own damn school."

A nearby witch inched away, her pumpkin juice spilling in her haste.

The tension lingered in the air, thick, unspoken. For a moment, you both sat there in the uncomfortable silence that followed, the weight of what you’d just suggested pulling down on you both like an anchor.

"Maybe you're right," Remus said, voice softer. The weight of his earlier words hung in the air, unresolved. "Maybe the world isn't ready for us to teach."

But then he looked at you—really looked at you—and something passed between you both. A silent agreement. A mutual understanding that nothing in the world could keep the two of you from going after this ridiculous dream, together.

The Safe House – November 1978

The rain had been relentless all evening, pattering against the cottage windows like it was trying to break through, and yet the fire inside had never seemed more inviting. You sat, hunched over the table, staring at the blinking VCR like it was a dark omen.

"This box tells stories without magic?" You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Remus chuckled, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the faded scars on his arms. The scars you had come to know so well over the last few months. "Better. It shows them." He patted the spot beside him, his voice warm, inviting you closer. "Come sit before you hex it."

You eyed the contraption suspiciously. "If this is some werewolf prank—"

But then the screen flickered to life, and you froze.

0:03 Minutes In

You jumped in your seat, wide-eyed. "Merlin’s beard—is that real stars?"

Remus’ shoulder shook with laughter as he leaned closer. "Just wait."

0:12 Minutes In

Your eyes narrowed. "That’s not how space works!" You were already on your feet, popcorn flying as you gestured at the screen, ranting about hyperspace physics.

0:47 Minutes In

"LIAR! No sword can do that!" You were too wrapped up in the scene to realize you’d conjured a handful of popcorn that was floating above your head like a shimmering cloud.

Remus caught your wrist, pulling you back down beside him, his grin a mixture of admiration and mischief. "It’s called a lightsaber. And you’re adorable when you’re wrong."

By the time Han Solo smirked onto the screen, you realized something—something profound. You hadn’t been that carefree in... well, in far too long. You could almost taste the possibility in the air—the potential for joy in your life again.

And when you stole Remus' jumper for warmth, he didn’t say a word, just let you wear it. The small, unspoken intimacy made you feel like you might just be getting the life you’d wanted all along.

When the credits rolled, you sat stunned.

"Muggles," you breathed, "are geniuses."

Remus’ smile was softer now. "Told you."

You apparated to London at 3 AM to raid a video store.

The clerk gaped as you dumped 37 VHS tapes on the counter:

Every sci-fi film in stock

A documentary about microwaves (“They cook with lightning!”)

The Muppet Christmas Carol (“This frog wears clothes!”)

Remus found you at dawn, asleep under a fort of stolen blankets with Blade Runner still playing.

(He didn’t have the heart to tell you the TV wasn’t even on anymore.)

December 1978 – Flourish & Blotts

"Hogwarts salaries are criminal," came a familiar voice from behind you.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. Remus had this way of making the air around him feel a little warmer. Or maybe it was just you.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, letting a little teasing note enter your voice. "Here to finally admit my shield charm theory was superior?"

"Here to buy this for you." He tossed something lightly at your head.

You ducked, but the book he threw landed neatly in your hands.

"When Wands Fail: Teaching Magic to the Non-Magical"

You winced. "I’m not—"

"Brilliant enough?" Remus raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk returning. "Please. You made Slughorn cry twice."

The shopkeeper shot you both a scolding look as you both dissolved into laughter, a sound so natural now, so effortless, that it almost made you forget what had been between you before.

November 1978 – Hogwarts Headmaster's Office

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Miss Black requests... a teaching position?"

"Not for me." You shoved Remus forward. "Him. He's—"

"A werewolf," Remus said quietly.

"And?" You turned to Dumbledore. "You let a half-giant teach. The poltergeist is practically staff. My grandmother once cursed this office—"

"[Y/N]." Remus pinched his nose.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe we have an opening in Defense..."

You glanced at Remus, whose tired eyes flickered toward the floor. "And?" you repeated, a challenge rising in your voice.

His eyes met yours. A beat passed. Then he looked away, unable to mask the soft relief in his features.

"He's better than most," you muttered, suddenly unsure if it was a defense of him or just your own unspoken fear of rejection.

Dumbledore smiled as if he knew exactly what was going through your mind. "I’ll have the letter sent to you tomorrow."

24 December 1978 – Your Flat

The firewhiskey was a mistake.

"Admit it," you slurred, poking his chest. "You kept my third-year Charms essay."

Remus' ears turned pink. "Evidence of your inferior conjugation technique."

"Liar!" You lunged for his satchel.

What spilled out:

Your annotated copy of Magical Hieroglyphs

Every note you'd ever left in library books

A chocolate frog card ("For emergencies")

The silence lasted three heartbeats. Then you both reached for the whiskey again, the tension between you momentarily forgotten, swallowed up in shared memories.

The firewhiskey bottle sat between you and Remus like an unspoken challenge.

You eyed it briefly before reaching for the bottle, the glass cool under your fingertips. The silence between you felt too heavy, too thick—more than just the usual quiet that passed between friends, or maybe something that had been between you two for years now, but had gone unnoticed until tonight.

Remus didn’t move at first, his eyes following the bottle as you poured a generous amount into each glass, his jaw tight. When you slid one of the glasses toward him, he only glanced at it before looking back at you, like the glass was just a part of the air, something to avoid.

"Don’t think I’m going to make a toast," you said lightly, trying to mask the knot in your stomach with a forced grin.

He didn’t laugh, but his eyes flickered, momentarily distracted. "I wasn’t expecting one."

You swallowed the first sip before he did, feeling the burn down your throat, the warmth spreading too quickly, too fiercely, making everything feel sharper—more present. You tried to ignore the buzz that wasn’t just from the alcohol.

You couldn’t.

"What’s going on, Remus?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you winced at the sharpness in your tone. "You’ve been... different."

He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the tension building in the space between you, thick and unspoken. You leaned forward, setting your glass down with more force than necessary, the sound too loud in the room.

"Nothing’s going on," he replied, his voice low. "I’m just—"

"Just what?" You cut him off before he could finish, the frustration creeping into your voice despite your best attempts to stay calm. "You’ve been avoiding me for weeks."

For a moment, he looked down at his glass, staring into the amber liquid as though it held all the answers. You hated the quiet, hated how he refused to look at you, as though something in his gaze would break something in you that you weren’t ready to face.

But you didn’t look away. You wouldn’t.

"Not avoiding you," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words hit hard. "Just... keeping my distance."

You could feel your heart stutter. "Keeping your distance?" you echoed, not quite sure if it was a question or an accusation. "From what exactly?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he swallowed hard, his hand tightening around his glass. There was a hesitation in his eyes when he finally glanced up, but it wasn’t the hesitation you were used to. This time, it wasn’t doubt. It wasn’t uncertainty. It was something heavier—something that made your chest tighten and your mind race.

"You’re drunk," he said finally, as if the words had been prepared in his mind for too long, and now they were just coming out in a rush.

"No, I’m not," you snapped back, pushing your glass away, annoyed with yourself for how easily you let the edge of bitterness slip into your voice. "I’m not drunk, Remus. I’m just—"

"Just what?" he interrupted, finally meeting your eyes with a flash of something you couldn’t quite read—something cold. "What do you expect from me? After everything?"

The words stung, but you didn’t back down. The whiskey was in your blood now, making you feel more brazen than you usually allowed yourself to be.

"Expect?" You shook your head, but the frustration only deepened. "I don’t expect anything. I just want to know what’s going on with you. With us."

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to calm himself, but you both knew it wasn’t that simple. The room felt too small now, the air too thick with unspoken words. There was so much hanging between you two, like a fragile thread stretched too tightly, and the tension was suffocating.

You stood abruptly, unable to stay seated any longer. Your steps were sharp on the old floorboards as you paced, back and forth, feeling the pressure of his gaze following you.

"Why won’t you just tell me?" you demanded, finally stopping to face him, the weight of his silence crushing you. "What are you afraid of?"

His fingers twitched at his glass, but he didn’t move otherwise. He was so still it felt like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I’m not afraid," he said finally, but the words were strained. "I just—"

"You just what?" You took a step forward, the movement sudden, almost desperate. The space between you was too wide now. You had to bridge it, had to understand what he was holding back.

His eyes darkened, and for a fleeting moment, you saw something flicker in his gaze—something you weren’t ready to face.

"I’m not going to do this with you," Remus said, his voice quieter, the words harsher. "Not tonight."

He stood up then, so suddenly that it took you a moment to register the movement. His chair scraped roughly against the floor, the sound almost too loud. You didn’t move, but your heart picked up pace, pulse pounding in your ears.

He was inches from you now, and you could feel the heat coming off of him, the tension in the air so thick it felt like you were both suffocating under it. You weren’t sure who moved first—him or you—but before you knew it, he was standing there, just close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin.

He didn’t touch you. But the space between you had narrowed, and every inch of the room seemed charged with something you couldn’t name.

"Then what are we doing here?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the tension making it feel like your words had weight—like they would tip everything over if you said the wrong thing.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he took a step back, shaking his head slowly, his face unreadable now. "Go to bed," he said, his voice soft, distant.

The words hit you like a slap.

"Go to bed?" you echoed, feeling something in your chest crack, though you weren’t sure what. You turned your back on him, the frustration boiling over in your veins, and grabbed the whiskey bottle. You poured another glass, the liquid sloshing over the edge as you swallowed it in one quick gulp. It burned again, but it didn’t numb what you were feeling.

Not yet.

"I think we’ve said enough for tonight," Remus added, his voice barely audible now, but it cut through the thick air in the room.

And with that, he was gone—back to the couch, away from you, leaving you standing there with your glass, alone again, with only the heavy silence and the weight of what was unsaid lingering between you.

Spinner's End Primary – November 1979

The children's laughter still echoed in your ears as you packed away your lesson plans—"Mythical Creatures of Britain" (heavily edited to exclude any actual magic, of course).

You were, undeniably, starting to get the hang of teaching. And you had the students to prove it. They loved your classes, which you weren’t sure how to feel about at first—especially considering that most of the time, you were pretty sure you were making half of it up as you went along.

The Muggle studies you taught were the easy part. You'd spent a good portion of your life not really understanding the world around you—so teaching kids about how their world worked didn’t seem too complicated. But there was still that nagging voice in your head. The voice that said you didn’t belong. You’d never quite shut it up. And yet, the feeling of purpose you got from those children—especially Liam, the little boy who had never known magic, but still somehow believed in it—was becoming something you looked forward to every day.

“Miss? When I grow up, I wanna be just like you,” Liam said, tugging at your sleeve.

Your quill snapped in half, the tip flying across the desk.

The little boy’s innocent words filled the silence of the classroom, and the room suddenly seemed much too quiet. Too loud. Just like you?

No one had ever said that to a Black before.

You looked down at your hands, realizing you were still gripping the broken quill. Slowly, you pried your fingers open, as if to release something you couldn’t even begin to name. No one had ever asked for your example before, let alone the kind of example a Muggle child would look up to. You weren’t sure whether you should be honored, or frightened, or maybe a bit of both.

Liam’s earnest face still hovered in your mind as you finished gathering your things. Just like you.

The idea tasted strange, like it was something you’d never quite imagined for yourself. The Black family had made their position clear—you weren’t meant to be anything other than their shadow, their echo, their next shining example of what it meant to be part of the most “distinguished” bloodline in wizarding society.

But now, here you were—living in a shabby little flat, teaching children who couldn’t even see the magic you held in your blood. They only saw the human part of you, the part that was just trying to do better. And in their eyes, that was enough.

You sighed, collecting the rest of your papers and sliding them into your bag. One thing was certain: this was going to be a day you wouldn’t forget.

That night, you sat at the kitchen table in your tiny flat, the warm glow of a dying fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. The only sound was the occasional snap of the logs in the hearth, and the scratch of your quill as you wrote a response to Remus’ latest letter.

"P.S. Peeves flooded the Charms corridor again. Flitwick mentioned needing a creative teaching assistant..."

Your fingers hovered over the parchment for a long moment. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the idea of Hogwarts—it was the opposite. You’d loved Hogwarts, even when you’d hated it. It was home, in a way. The vast, echoing halls, the flickering torches, the sense of belonging that had eluded you even after all those years.

Still, you weren’t sure if it was right for you. The castle was filled with ghosts of your family’s past, of expectations, of people who would demand you fall in line.

But then your eyes fell to the crumpled drawing of you as “The Best Teacher Ever” that Liam had given you. You hadn’t even asked for it. The little boy had drawn it without prompting, proud of the fact that he’d been able to spell your name right, even if it was a little crooked.

You ran your finger over the drawing. The words “BEST TEACHER EVER” were written in messy, bold letters, alongside a crude rendition of you holding a wand and a book.

For the first time in ages, you could almost feel something resembling hope welling up inside of you. Magic wasn’t just about wands and spells—it was about the wonder, the curiosity, the sense of possibility that made you believe in something better. Maybe teaching at Hogwarts wasn’t about confronting your past, or being who everyone expected you to be. Maybe it was about showing the next generation how to find magic in the world—even in places where it wasn’t supposed to exist.

Your hand gripped the quill. The decision was made.

The fireplace flared green with the unmistakable pop of the Floo network, and Remus Lupin stumbled through, brushing soot off his robes like it was a badge of honor.

“Honestly,” he muttered, “I’m beginning to think Sirius has it out for me.”

You raised an eyebrow as you caught sight of him. “What happened now?”

“Let’s just say,” Remus sighed, smoothing his hair back into place, “if I never end up covered in soot and surrounded by firecrackers again, it will be too soon.”

Before you could respond, you reached over and shoved the crinkled Daily Prophet ad at his chest. He looked at it curiously before his eyes widened.

“For Hogwarts?” he asked, blinking. “But you said—”

"I know what I said." You crossed your arms, trying to stand your ground, even though you didn’t feel entirely confident. “But look at this." You pointed to Liam’s drawing, trying not to let your voice waver. "This is why magic exists.”

A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Well, now I know why Peeves is always causing trouble. Flitwick owes me five Galleons for that.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound of it feeling a little strange coming from you. “Don’t get any ideas, Lupin. I’m serious about this.”

Remus nodded, his face becoming more serious as he looked at you. “You’re going to be amazing, you know that, right?”

You swallowed. “I hope so.”

The Interview - July 1980

The day of the interview arrived. You stood in front of Dumbledore’s door, your hands shaking as you adjusted your robes for what felt like the millionth time. You weren’t sure whether to feel nervous, excited, or terrified. But you’d already made your decision. This was where you were supposed to be. Even if you couldn’t fully shake the ghosts that would inevitably follow you through those gates.

When the door opened, the unmistakable smell of lemon drops and something faintly nostalgic hit you. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

“Miss Black,” he said, his voice warm as ever. “Here to critique our curriculum?”

You placed your Muggle teaching portfolio on his desk with a dramatic flourish. “Here to improve it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes lit up with curiosity. He’d never been one to shy away from boldness. As you laid out your ideas for him, you could feel yourself growing more confident. This was your moment.

You explained:

“Teaching Non-Magicals About Magic,” your pet project, which was mostly inspired by the Muggle students you’d taught. You wanted to bridge that gap between worlds, to show how magic could exist not just in wands and spells, but in the hearts of people who couldn’t even see it.

“Why First-Years Should Learn Wandless Magic,” the idea sparked by one of Liam’s failed shoelace-tying attempts. His frustration had turned into an experiment with his wand, which had gone hilariously wrong. It was the perfect example of why students needed to understand that magic wasn’t just about following instructions—it was about thinking.

For dramatic flair, you casually slid a chocolate frog onto the desk. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled again. “Now this is a worthy addition to the curriculum.”

You beamed. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

After a brief silence, he looked up at you with his characteristic twinkle. “When can you start?”

As the Hogwarts gates loomed ahead of you, the setting sun bathed the castle in a warm golden glow. You could hear Remus beside you, adjusting his robes with the ease of someone who had already been a teacher for some time.

“Last chance to back out,” he teased, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You flicked his nose, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Try to keep up, Professor Lupin.”

Somewhere within the castle, Peeves’ cackling echoed through the corridors, followed by a shriek from a first-year who had probably just witnessed one of his latest antics.

And somewhere in London, Liam pinned your goodbye note to the wall, that simple piece of paper a symbol of everything you’d left behind—and everything you were walking toward.

You could almost hear Walburga’s furious scream in the distance, her portrait cursing your name as if you were a traitor to everything she held dear.

But none of that mattered anymore.

You were free.

And you were about to teach at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts Staff Room – December 1978

You were wrestling a second-year’s essay ("Five Uses of Mandrake Root, None of Them Loud Enough for Peeves to Hear") when Remus stuck his head around the door.

"Don’t hex the next visitor," he said, tone suspiciously careful.

You narrowed your eyes. "Define ‘visitor.’"

He only smiled, irritatingly cryptic, and vanished.

You wiped ink off your hands, shoved your hair back into something resembling order, and opened the staff room door—

—and stopped cold.

Sirius Black lounged against the opposite wall, arms crossed, boots scuffing the ancient stone. Same ridiculous hair. Same reckless grin. Same air of someone who never learned when to quit.

It was like a Bludger to the chest.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

"You look like hell," he said, breaking the silence, like it was normal to show up after a year and a half of radio silence.

You blinked slowly. "And you look exactly like the sort of bad decision I barely escaped."

Sirius laughed—a startled, real laugh—and pushed off the wall. "Still sharp, then."

"You’re not supposed to be here," you said, fists clenching against your sides. "You don’t get to be here."

"Yeah, well." He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. "Heard my sister’s corrupting young minds. Figured I ought to see it myself."

You hated how the word sister twisted in your gut. Like you didn’t deserve it anymore.

You turned on your heel. "Thanks for the inspection. You can go now."

"Merlin’s tits, would you just—" He caught your elbow as you tried to push past him. "Would you stop running for once?"

You wrenched free. "Oh, that's rich. Coming from you."

"I always needed you," Sirius said, voice low and furious. "You were the only one who knew what it was actually like. You—"

He cut off again, seeming to realize how loud he was getting. Across the hall, a first-year shrieked at a misfiring Filibuster Firework.

Slowly, Sirius dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled, ink-stained letter. He shoved it into your hand.

You unfolded it with numb fingers.

It wasn’t elegant—half-spelled-out rants against Walburga, messy apologies scratched out and rewritten, stupid memories of stealing Firewhisky from Orion’s cabinet and setting the drapes on fire. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t eloquent.

It was raw and stupid and real.

The last line, written three times and crossed out twice, simply read:

"Wish you were here. —S"

You stared at it until the ink blurred.

When you looked up, Sirius was watching you like you might hex him anyway.

Instead, you shoved him—hard—so he stumbled a step back.

"Idiot," you muttered.

Sirius grinned like you’d handed him the bloody Quidditch Cup.

"You’re still an absolute menace," you added.

"Runs in the family," he said smugly.

"You’re not allowed to act like we’re fine," you snapped.

He raised both hands. "Not fine. Never fine. Only slightly less terrible now."

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Sirius dug something else out of his pocket—a small, battered wooden plaque enchanted to hover in midair. In elegant script, it read:

"Professor Black: Definitely Smarter Than Sirius. Probably."

Underneath, in tinier letters, it added:

"But still short."

You snorted. Loudly. Sirius looked obnoxiously pleased.

Across the hall, Remus leaned casually against a tapestry, arms folded, wearing the most irritatingly smug expression you’d ever seen.

You hurled the plaque at his head.

Hogwarts – January 1979 (Two weeks after Sirius crashed into your life again, and one week after you banned him from the staff room for bringing in a Crup that peed on your shoes.)

You were halfway through a lesson on Wandless Defensive Charms when the first paper airplane whizzed past your ear.

You turned sharply.

The culprit—a third-year Ravenclaw—was trying very hard to look innocent while her friend smothered a giggle.

Another paper airplane flapped its way toward your desk, enchanted to do an elaborate loop-the-loop before dive-bombing into your open textbook.

You plucked it up.

Professor Black + Professor Lupin = TRUE LOVE 4EVER (Complete with badly drawn stick figures holding hands, hearts everywhere, and an offensively large nose labeled Remus.)

You crushed the note in your fist, cheeks burning. "Five points from Ravenclaw for catastrophic artistic skills," you announced coolly.

The class dissolved into snickers.

Behind you, the door creaked open.

Remus leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Interrupting your fan club, am I?" he said, voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Get out," you hissed, feeling your ears turn pink.

He had the audacity to smirk. "Flitwick sent me. Apparently you owe me the Defense Cup?"

Murmurs rippled through the students.

You narrowed your eyes. "I owe you nothing, Lupin. My first-years performed a flawless group Disillusionment Charm. Your third-years, meanwhile, turned a Boggart into a—what was it?—tap-dancing vampire bat?"

He straightened, mock-offended. "That bat had form, Black. You’re just bitter."

"Please," you said icily. "If talent were contagious, yours would have died of loneliness by now."

The third-years howled with laughter.

Somewhere in the back, you heard someone stage-whisper, "They’re definitely snogging when no one’s looking."

You whipped around. "Detention, Greengrass!"

Remus coughed to hide a laugh.

"And as for you—" you whirled back to face him.

"Careful, Black," he murmured, low enough only you could hear. "You're blushing."

You hated that he was right.

You hated it even more that he looked smugly pleased about it.

"You’re insufferable," you said, snatching the crumpled love note off your desk and stuffing it into your pocket before the kids could immortalize it.

"You’re competitive," he shot back.

"You’re cocky."

"You’re brilliant."

You blinked.

Remus smiled—genuine this time, a little soft around the edges—and for one breathless second, all the teasing drained away, leaving something raw and bright between you.

Then he straightened, cleared his throat, and said, "Staff meeting at four. Try not to lose to me again."

He winked—winked!—and sauntered off down the hall.

You stood there, stunned, as the class dissolved into chaotic gossip behind you.

Later, at the Staff Room...

You slipped into your usual chair, late because a fourth-year had hexed her own shoelaces together. Flitwick was just announcing the results of the House Cup predictions.

"Best Classroom Performance," he said, peering over his spectacles. "A very close call this year, but... Professor Black edges out Professor Lupin by one point."

You froze.

Remus groaned theatrically. "You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?"

You smiled sweetly. "Never."

Sirius—perched in the corner chair like he belonged there—whisper-shouted, "Kiss already!"

You hexed him under the table.

Three Days Later – Hogwarts, Great Hall – Staff Breakfast

You had just sat down to your tea when a first-year Hufflepuff slid a folded note under your elbow and scampered off.

You stared at it, suspicious.

Unfolded it.

And nearly choked on your tea.

It was a betting pool. Titled (in very messy handwriting):

"WILL PROFESSORS BLACK AND LUPIN EVER STOP FLIRTING AND START SNOGGING??" —Buy-In: 2 Sickles—

Odds:

Within a week: 5 to 1

Within a month: 2 to 1

At the next staff meeting: 10 to 1

Never, because they’re stubborn idiots: Even odds

At the bottom was scrawled:

"Organized by S. Black (Quidditch Coach)"

You crushed the paper into a ball, cheeks flaming.

Across the table, Sirius gave you a gleeful thumbs-up, shameless as ever. "Business is booming," he said, stuffing toast into his mouth. "You two are very inspiring."

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re organizing gambling rings in Hogwarts?"

"Friendly wagers," Sirius said innocently. "Teaches them math skills. Practical education."

Remus, seated two spots down, was studiously buttering his toast, refusing to look at you. His shoulders shook suspiciously, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"Care to place a bet yourself, sis?" Sirius added with a wink. "Could win enough to buy yourself a new broom. Or a lifetime supply of patience, which you’ll need if you ever plan on putting up with him."

You hexed Sirius' butter knife into a frog.

The first-year Hufflepuff cheered.

Later – Corridor Near the Library

You caught up with Remus as he was shelving a stack of confiscated Zonko's products.

"You knew about the betting pool," you accused.

He gave you a look of fake innocence. "Knew? I’m offended."

"You're a terrible liar," you said.

Remus shrugged, smirking. "I prefer to think of it as... selective honesty."

There was a charged pause.

"You know," he said casually, "we could always rig the results. Split the winnings."

You stared at him.

"You’re suggesting," you said slowly, "that we fake a scandal to profit off of Sirius' idiocy?"

Remus smiled wickedly. "Only if you think you can keep up, Black."

Your heart did something traitorous—fluttery and ridiculous.

You forced your voice to stay steady. "You're on, Lupin. But no touching."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

The unspoken "yet" crackled in the air between you like a live wire.

Two Saturdays Later – Hogsmeade Village

It started innocently enough.

(Well, as innocently as mutual blackmail and competitive stubbornness ever could.)

The plan was simple:

Stage a cozy "date" in public.

Let the students and Sirius witness it.

Watch the betting pool implode.

Then—profit.

Easy.

Flawless.

Unbreakable.

You should’ve known better.

The Three Broomsticks – 1:03 PM

You arrived first, heart hammering, regretting every life choice that had led you here. You wore your least ratty teaching robes, the ones with only one ink stain, and had even attempted a casual braid—because professionalism, obviously.

(Definitely not because you’d overheard Remus once mutter that he liked it when your hair was "out of your bossy face.")

Then he walked in.

Soft jumper. Rolled sleeves. Laugh crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Casual disaster personified.

You wanted to throw your butterbeer at him.

Instead, you smiled sweetly and said, "You’re late."

He shrugged. "Had to dodge three different groups of students tailing me. Pretty sure two Slytherins are disguised as furniture."

You snorted into your butterbeer.

1:27 PM – The Betting Pool Observers Arrive

Sirius swaggered into the Three Broomsticks, arms full of chattering third-years, fourth-years, and at least one Hufflepuff trying to take clandestine photos.

You and Remus made a show of scooting closer together.

You accidentally kicked him under the table.

He accidentally spilled a bit of butterbeer down your sleeve.

"You’re terrible at this," you hissed under your breath, blotting your arm.

Remus smiled innocently. "You said no touching. I’m simply obeying the rules."

You gritted your teeth. "I'll hex you."

"You’ll have to catch me first."

The students leaned closer, visibly vibrating with excitement.

Sirius placed a fresh parchment betting sheet on a nearby table and loudly whispered, "Odds have changed!"

2:00 PM – The Plan Derails Spectacularly

At some point—maybe when you were mock-arguing about whether Mooncalves or Nifflers made better pets (he said Mooncalves, you said Nifflers, obviously)—Remus’ laugh turned real.

Soft.

Unfiltered.

It hit you in the ribs like a rogue Bludger.

You found yourself smiling back, helpless.

For a second—just a second—you both forgot about the students, the bets, Sirius' waggling eyebrows in the background.

It was just you and him.

Your hand brushed his when you reached for your drink.

Neither of you moved away.

The silence between you stretched taut, buzzing with something dangerous.

You cleared your throat first. "Careful, Lupin," you said, voice too rough. "Start looking at me like that, and they'll think it's real."

He tilted his head, considering.

"What if it is?" he said, very quietly.

You froze.

Then, blessedly, the Slytherin disguised as a chair fell over.

The entire bar exploded into chaos—students shrieking, Sirius howling with laughter, Madame Rosmerta threatening to throw everyone out.

You shoved back your chair. "We’re done here."

Remus followed, still laughing, dodging a flying Butterbeer mug.

Sirius shouted after you, "FIVE GALLEONS TO ANYONE WHO GETS A PICTURE!"

You hexed the camera into a chicken.

Back at Hogwarts – Gryffindor Tower Entrance

You both collapsed against the wall outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, wheezing with laughter.

"You know," Remus said, wiping his eyes, "for a fake date, that was—"

"—an unmitigated disaster," you finished.

"Disastrously fun," he corrected.

You nudged his shoulder. "Don’t get used to it, Lupin. I still intend to beat you for 'Best Teacher' in the year-end evaluations."

He smirked. "You'll have to work harder, Black."

The Fat Lady harrumphed loudly. "Are you two coming in or just standing there making moon-eyes?"

You glared at the portrait.

Remus just chuckled and offered you his hand.

You didn't take it.

(But you also didn't step away.)

One Week Later – Hogwarts Staff Room

It started with a memo.

An official, Ministry-approved, wax-sealed Hogwarts memo pinned to the staff notice board:

Annual Staff Awards: Nominate your favorite professor for:

Best Dueller

Most Inspiring Lecturer

Most Likely to Secretly Hex Peeves

Best Mentor

Students encouraged to submit ballots by month’s end!

(Bribery strictly forbidden. Probably.)

You and Remus immediately locked eyes across the room.

Challenge. Accepted.

The Interference – aka, Sirius Black's "Master Plan"

Sirius cornered you during a late afternoon in the courtyard, a suspicious gleam in his eye.

"Alright, sister dearest," he drawled, slinging an arm over your shoulders. "You’re obviously in love with Moony."

You choked on your pumpkin juice.

"Excuse me—?"

"Don't lie to me," Sirius said smugly. "I recognize the Symptoms: Glaring fondly. Mock-arguing over academic journals. Smiling when he’s not looking."

You elbowed him hard in the ribs.

He coughed dramatically. "Abuse! Sibling betrayal!"

You tried to storm off, but he followed.

"And Moony is obviously in love with you. Tragic pining, long stares, general tragic Remus-y behavior."

"Goodbye, Sirius."

"—Which is why," he continued undeterred, "I’ve entered you BOTH into the Best Mentor competition."

You froze. "You what?!"

He beamed. "Winner gets eternal glory—and a special prize dinner in the Great Hall. With candles. And flowers. And live music."

You stared at him in horror.

He patted your head. "You're welcome."

Meanwhile – The Student Gossip Network

The students had not missed the "fake date" fiasco.

Now they were actively meddling.

Examples:

A Gryffindor anonymously hexed pink confetti to rain over you and Remus every time you passed each other in the corridor.

A Hufflepuff "accidentally" switched your and Remus’ graded essay piles, forcing you to argue ferociously about the proper penalties for spelling errors.

The Slytherins ran a betting pool called "When Will They Finally Snog?"

(It was disturbingly profitable.)

The Duel – Great Hall – Two Weeks Later

It wasn't a real duel.

Technically.

It was a "Teaching Techniques Demonstration" for the students, judged by McGonagall, Flitwick, and Madam Pomfrey.

But you and Remus both knew it was war.

He arrived first, robes immaculate, hair tidy, wand tucked neatly behind his ear like some insufferable academic heartthrob.

You showed up five minutes late with your sleeves rolled up, a fire in your eyes, and a hex already brewing.

Round 1:

Remus taught a "Creative Shield Charms" demo by using a giant conjured badger as cover.

You countered by demonstrating "Advanced Disarming Spells" and launched his wand into the rafters.

Round 2:

He calmly demonstrated nonverbal spell duels.

You cheated by muttering insults under your breath until he laughed and lost concentration.

Round 3:

You had to improvise a "Cooperation Exercise."

You and Remus had to cast synchronized Patronus charms.

His silver wolf circled protectively around your phoenix.

The students literally swooned. You almost swooned.

Almost.

The Verdict

McGonagall cleared her throat, surveying the room.

"After much... spirited debate," she said, lips twitching, "we have decided..."

Long, dramatic pause.

"…a tie."

The Great Hall exploded with cheers.

Sirius booed dramatically from the back.

Remus grinned over at you, pushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

You rolled your eyes—and smirked.

"Best two out of three?" he murmured.

You arched a brow. "Winner buys drinks."

He laughed under his breath. "You're on, Black."

Staff Dinner Prize

The "prize" Sirius arranged was everything he'd threatened:

Candlelight.

A harpist (a harpist, Sirius, really?).

Suspiciously heart-shaped treacle tarts.

You and Remus spent most of it mock-arguing about curriculum updates, laughing until your sides hurt, and absolutely, resolutely not holding hands under the table.

Not yet.

(But someday soon.)

Sirius, grinning from the shadows, collected ten Galleons from a very annoyed Flitwick.

Late Night – Hogwarts Library – December 1979

The castle was asleep.

Well—most of it.

You paced between the darkened stacks of the library, a dozen books floating lazily behind you, levitating under a lazy Locomotor spell.

You should have been grading essays.

You should have been prepping next week's lessons.

Instead, you were hunting for a bloody obscure treatise on magical theory because Remus Lupin had smirked at you during dinner and said, "Bet you can’t find it before I do."

Challenge. Issued. Accepted. (Again.)

Somewhere deeper in the shelves, you heard the unmistakable scrape of a chair and a soft, amused hum.

"Giving up already, Black?" Remus’ voice floated through the dusty air.

You rolled your eyes, heart hammering faster than it had any right to.

"Please," you called back, stalking toward the noise. "I've forgotten more about magical theory than you’ll ever know."

"That sounds like surrender."

You turned the corner—

—and nearly collided with him.

He caught your elbow without thinking.

His hand was warm, steady, stupidly reassuring.

You froze, books bobbing in the air behind you.

The dim library lamps haloed his hair in gold, softening the tired lines of his face. His eyes, usually so guarded, were unguarded now—amused, warm, achingly fond.

Too close.

Far too close.

"You’re infuriating," you said, voice low and reckless.

"And you're predictable," he said, not letting go.

Not stepping back.

Your pulse thundered.

"You should let go," you said, hating how breathless you sounded.

He smiled, slow and wicked and unbearably fond. "I should," he agreed.

Neither of you moved.

The silence wrapped around you—thick and heavy, the kind of silence that knew exactly what you were both thinking but refused to break first.

Your levitating books gently bumped into a nearby shelf with a soft thud.

Still, neither of you looked away.

Still.

And then—

"You’re going to lose the 'Best Mentor' award," he said, voice a little hoarse. "Students talk. They see everything."

You snorted softly. "You’re going to lose. Your fifth-years practically worship me."

His thumb brushed your sleeve, a small, absent motion. A grounding one.

It would be so easy—too easy—to lean in.

To let the tension snap like a bowstring pulled taut too long.

Instead, you tilted your chin up, smirking dangerously.

"Bet you five Galleons," you said, "I win."

His mouth quirked.

"Double or nothing," he murmured, "if you let me take you to Hogsmeade after."

Your heart tripped over itself.

Was he serious?

Was he—

He stepped back then—finally—hands raised in surrender, eyes crinkling with barely concealed laughter.

"Think about it, Black," he said, walking away, whistling under his breath.

You stared after him, furious and giddy and aching.

One of your levitating books, forgotten, fell and smacked you on the head.

You didn’t even notice.

words: waaayyy to many

#remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus x reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin imagine #remus angst #remus lupin angst

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fir3lit3 · 2 years ago

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50+ Follower DTIYS

Please reblog this! I would love for this to reach as many people as possible

Information + Guidelines are under cut

murder ! sans by @ask-dusttale

Deadline: November 20, 2023, 12:00 am PST (Pacific Standard Time.)

+----------------------- ---- -- -

Rules:

Please keep the colors and scenery (It's a pine forest!) similar. It does not have to be exact.

Changing the perspective/viewing point, pose, shading/lighting style, and design of Dust/Murder is fine.

+ Related to the above; Adding things like objects, animals, blood, or other characters is also ok! If you need to ask about this, DM or comment your question.

NO TRACING, USE OF AI, OR STEALING. Violation of this rule will make your entry invalid and result in a block.

Traditional art is ok. I don't see why it wouldn't be.

Tag @fir3lit3 and use the tag #DustByDusk so I can see your entry! (because a friend asked this; Sending it through my ask box/submissions or DMs is ok)

Get creative! Do whatever is best for you.

Don't forget to take breaks, drink actual water, and eat something filling.

Edit: Because 3 people asked this, using scenery brushes or stencils to help draw the leaves is ok. Please put if you did use a brush/stencil in the tags, comments, or in a subtext.

+----------------------- ---- -- -

Prizes:

(Amount may change based off the amount of entries)

First Place: A fully rendered, Full-body drawing with a full background + foreground. 3 people max. I will add props to this if wanted.

Second Place: Fully rendered, Half-body drawing with a simple background. 2 people max. I will also add props to this if wanted.

Third Place: Fully rendered Icon. 1 person max. I will also add props to this if wanted.

+----------------------- ---- -- -

Again, be free to ask any questions. Good Luck!

please reblog this :3

#my art #DTIYS #DustByDusk #undertale au #undertale #murder sans #dusttale #dust sans #| text divider |#JAHEAEUdhF OH MY GOD CLP STDUIO CRASHED LIEK 6 TIMES WHILE MAKING THIS.........#the colors took me a surprising amount of time to figure out @-@#~4 hours

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thepinkpanther83 · 2 months ago

Text

The Harmonic Equation (Pt.3 A Song For Two)

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

Donatello x Fem!Reader - Soulmate Song AU - Action/Romance

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Find the full series on AO3.

Trigger Warning: In this chapter there is smut, here there be cloacas and the naughties, if you don't like that, don't read!

Previous Chapter: Chapter Two: "Harmonic Anomaly"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Three: “A Song For Two”

The light in the lab is different in the morning.

Softer. Less like electricity, more like memory.

You blink awake on a couch that was clearly meant for short naps and stubborn backs. The throw pillow under your head smells like dust and solder and something distinctly Donnie- like worn cotton, circuitry, and quiet focus. Your limbs ache, but not in a way that begs for movement. It’s a held ache. A waiting one.

When you sit up, he’s already awake.

Not hunched over blueprints, not lost in a glowing screen, not muttering to himself in technobabble like he sometimes does when his brain refuses to sleep. Just sitting. Nearby.

Perched on a lab stool like he’s been there all night.

Like he didn’t leave.

Like he couldn’t.

He’s watching you. Not with intensity or expectation- but with the same curiosity he uses to study something just on the edge of understanding. As if the longer he looks, the clearer you’ll become.

“Morning,” he says, quietly.

You return it just as soft.

There’s a silence that follows. Not awkward, exactly. But fragile. Like sound might break it into pieces you’d have to name.

He’d stayed up after you’d drifted off, barely daring to breathe as your weight settled against him like a warm constant. Every movement he made had been careful. Every sound, muted. He’d worked one-handed, scrolling through notes with his free fingers while the other rested lightly against your back, like anchoring you would keep the moment from dissolving.

Now, with morning in the air and your eyes on him, that silence has thickened. Grown limbs. Wrapped itself around the both of you.

You stretch, trying not to draw attention to the way your spine cracks. “I should probably head home soon. Feed the cat. Check emails.”

He nods, but it’s a few seconds late.

“Yeah,” he says, shifting on the stool. “Yeah, of course.”

But neither of you moves.

The lab’s warmth feels like it’s holding you in place. Or maybe it’s just him. Still seated, still looking like something unsaid is caught in his throat.

You glance at the cot. Then back to him.

“Did you sleep?”

He gives a little shrug. “Define sleep.”

“Donnie…”

“I rested. A little.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t push. You’ve both learned to speak in subtext. And right now, it says enough that he stayed. That he let himself stay.

You stand, finally. And he follows suit like your movement pulled him.

At the door, you pause.

You don’t know what you expect- maybe for him to say something. Or maybe for you to turn around and do something reckless, like kiss his cheek. Or take his hand.

Instead, you glance back and find him watching you again.

Still with that look in those soft hazel eyes.

Still listening for something in the quiet.

“I’ll come by later,” you say.

He nods. And this time, he answers faster.

“I’ll be here.”

The door seals with a low, hydraulic hush behind you.

Donatello doesn’t move for a long time after you’re gone.

The lab is quieter now. Not just in sound, but in presence. You took something with you when you left- something he doesn’t know how to name but feels in every unoccupied space.

He crosses to the couch without really thinking and stares down at the spot where you slept. The pillow is slightly dented. A single hair clings to the fabric. He picks it up carefully, stares at the strand like it’s data he could decode.

You’d fallen asleep on him.

Without fear. Without hesitation. Your body had trusted his, even in rest.

He lowers himself slowly onto the cot beside the pillow, lets one hand hover just above where your head had been. Not touching- just feeling the heat you left behind. Like the molecules haven’t caught on yet that you’re gone.

It should be simple, right? Human girl falls asleep in lab. Turtle man stays up and watches her sleep like a weirdo. Human girl wakes up and leaves. Life goes on.

So why does his chest feel full of static?

Why does he ache with the absence of a sound he doesn’t remember hearing?

He closes his eyes.

He tries to slow his breathing, tries to feel the shape of the moment without over-analyzing it. That’s what Leo would say: “Be still. Let it speak.”

But it’s not still. Not inside. There’s something humming under his skin like an unfinished circuit. A resonance.

He rubs at the side of his neck, presses into the muscle, trying to ground himself. Science first. Always. But this doesn’t feel like science. It feels like…

Emotion.

Or maybe- worse… myth.

He finds Splinter in the meditation room.

The light is dim and warm, the air faintly thick with sandalwood incense. Splinter is seated cross-legged, hands folded in his lap, eyes closed.

Donnie hesitates at the edge of the threshold.

“Sensei?” he asks, voice lower than usual. Uncertain. Not the usual data-seeking confidence, but something smaller, more fragile.

Splinter’s eyes open slowly. He studies his son in that quiet way he always does- like he’s already seen the questions waiting behind his tongue.

“Come sit, my son.”

Donnie moves in, stiff with conflicted energy, and lowers himself to the floor. He doesn’t fold his legs. Just sits, hands twitching restlessly.

“I need to ask about the Song.”

Splinter nods like he’s been expecting this.

“Ah.”

“That’s it? ‘Ah’?”

“I wondered when you would feel it.”

That hits like a punch. Donnie’s brow ridges shoot up.

“Feel it?” he repeats, already defensive. “I haven’t felt anything. I just- look, I’m experiencing some very specific auditory anomalies in the presence of a certain individual and I-”

“You hear her.”

Donnie stops. Blinks.

“…What?”

Splinter lifts his hand, taps two fingers to his own chest.

“The Song is not always heard with the ears, my son.”

“Okay, well, that’s… no. See, that’s the problem. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense. You told us that was just an old story. A fable. Something to help us feel less… alone.”

Splinter smiles gently.

“I told you the truth. You simply did not believe it.”

He remembers a moment, years ago. He’d overheard Leo snort at the concept, brushing it off like romance novel fluff. Raph had called it “Mate Bait.” Mikey had howled with laughter.

Donnie had been silent. Not because he believed- but because a small, traitorous part of him had wanted to.

And that part had quietly shut down when the others mocked it.

“And now?” Splinter asks softly.

Donnie shifts, uncomfortable.

“Now I… now I think I might be broken.”

That earns a chuckle from Splinter, dry and full of paternal warmth.

“You are not broken, Donatello. You are awakening.”

“Please don’t say it like that.”

“You seek logic, and I understand. But not all things that are real can be measured. Some truths live beyond proof.”

Donnie drags a hand down his face, muttering something unrepeatable under his breath.

Splinter’s expression sobers slightly.

“You fear this connection. Why?”

“…Because if it’s real,” Donnie says slowly, “then I don’t get to control it.”

“And if it is real,” Splinter murmurs, “you are not meant to.”

Donnie leaves conflicted- curious, unsettled, deeply unready to name what’s happening. But there’s no going back to silence now.

The Song has started.

The lab is quiet again, save for the rhythmic tap of Donnie’s fingers against his desk. His other hand is curled around a mug of coffee that’s long gone cold. The screen in front of him displays a waveform- your waveform, frozen mid-pulse, like a heartbeat caught between beats.

He’s been staring at it for hours.

Tracing the peaks and valleys with his eyes, memorizing the way it dips and rises like breath. Like life.

Splinter’s words echo in his skull, unwelcome and persistent.

"You are not meant to."

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

He’s a scientist. A rationalist. A man who builds his world out of logic and wires and code. He doesn’t do fate. Doesn’t believe in predestined connections or cosmic pull or- god help him… soulmates.

And yet-

And yet…

There’s no denying the way his pulse stutters when he hears you hum. The way his skin prickles with awareness when you’re near. The way his body reacts to you like it’s been waiting for this- for you all along.

He sets the mug down with a quiet clink and leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.

This is ridiculous. He should be able to logic his way out of this. Should be able to dissect it, analyze it, understand it.

But every time he tries, his thoughts scatter like static.

A soft chime from his gauntlet pulls him from his spiraling. A notification- a proximity alert. You’re here.

His breath catches.

He should stay seated. Should act casual. Should pretend he hasn’t spent the last six hours obsessing over the sound of your voice.

Instead, he’s on his feet before he even realizes he’s moved, crossing the lab in long strides.

The door slides open before you can knock.

You blink up at him, surprised, your hand still half-raised. “Oh. Hi.”

He swallows. “Hi.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then-

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “You look... tense.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

“About?”

About you.

But he doesn’t say it.

Instead, he offers a faint shrug and gestures vaguely toward the bench cluttered with circuit boards and data pads. “Just a few things I’ve been troubleshooting. The usual.”

You nod, stepping inside, letting the door hiss closed behind you. The soft chime echoes like punctuation on the lie neither of you names.

It’s business as usual. Supposedly.

You circle the table like always, scanning the updates on the latest build. He pretends to be absorbed in recalibrating a sensor array. You point out a minor error in his thermal mapping code. He corrects it with a tight-lipped “good catch,” not quite meeting your eyes.

Everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

You feel it. A low-level buzz just beneath your skin. Your chest is a little too tight. Your limbs are a little too loose. Like gravity itself has shifted a degree to the left and no one else noticed.

And he’s humming.

Softly. Absentmindedly. Just under his breath.

At first, you don’t register the tune- it’s so faint, so woven into the ambiance of him that it’s easy to miss. But then-

Then your body reacts before your brain can catch up.

Your breath hitches. Knees falter. Something low and warm pulses in your chest like it’s been waiting, listening, for that exact frequency.

Donnie doesn’t notice at first. He’s mid-adjustment, brows furrowed over a lens readout. But he must feel the shift in the air- because his fingers still, his humming cuts off abruptly, and he turns toward you.

You’re staring at him.

He straightens. “What?”

You blink rapidly. Swallow hard. “That- uh. That song. Just now. What was it?”

His brow ridges lift faintly. “Nothing. Just… something stuck in my head. Background noise.”

You shake your head slowly, expression distant. “No. That wasn’t background noise. That was… familiar.”

A moment passes. Two. Then-

“Do you… hear it too?” you ask, voice low, not entirely steady.

The question freezes him. Entirely. Like you just dropped a magnetic pulse that shorted out every signal in his system.

His lips part. No sound comes out.

He’s silent long enough that you almost retract. Almost say never mind. Almost chalk it up to stress and leave it alone.

But then-

“…Yes.”

One word. Barely breathed.

His eyes meet yours like he’s terrified and relieved all at once. And it’s there- undeniable now. That resonance. That deep, bone-level recognition like something ancient has just clicked into place.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment.

Then, cautiously, voice barely above a whisper, he says, “It’s… not just you. I’ve been hearing it all my life, it’s gotten stronger since I’ve met you. In my head. In the air. When you’re near. And when you’re not, I-” He falters. Exhales. “It doesn’t stop.”

Your heart thunders in your chest. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“You weren’t.” He steps closer, slowly, like you’re a perimeter he doesn’t want to breach too fast. “I didn’t want to bring it up. I thought maybe it was… residual harmonic interference from your voiceprint. Or a brain loop. Or stress. Or maybe I was just-”

“Broken?” you supply quietly.

He stops in his tracks.

“…Yeah,” he says, barely audible.

You step closer. Now you’re both inside each other’s orbits. Within inches.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you whisper.

He breathes out a laugh. It’s tight. Disbelieving. “No? Because I feel like I’ve been hacked by the universe and nobody left me a manual.”

You smile faintly. “Me too.”

Another moment passes.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I think it’s the ‘Turtle Mate Song’.”

His gaze locks with yours. Vulnerable. Unmasked. Searching.

You incline your head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you. "It's... an old myth. Something Splinter told us when we were kids. That our kind- mutant turtles, have a... a song. A vibration. A frequency only our true mate can hear." His voice drops, rough with disbelief. "I thought it was just a story."

Your breath catches.

The air between you hums with something electric.

Donnie watches you process this, his expression tight with tension. "I know how it sounds. Believe me, I've run every test I could think of to disprove it. But the data-" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "The data keeps pointing back to this. To you."

You swallow hard. "So what does that mean?"

He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his plastron. Close enough that his breath ghosts over your face when he speaks.

"It means," he murmurs, voice thick with something primal, "you're mine."

The words shouldn't send a thrill down your spine.

But they do.

His large hands come up to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle despite the possessive hold. "And if this is real- if you are my mate- then I need you to understand something." His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones, his gaze burning into yours. "I won't let you go. Not ever."

A shiver wracks your body.

Donnie's nostrils flare, his pupils dilating at your reaction. "Say it," he demands, voice dropping an octave. "Say you understand."

You whimper. "I understand."

His grip tightens fractionally. "Good."

And then his mouth crashes down onto yours in a kiss that feels less like affection and more like claiming.

You melt against him with a moan, your fingers tangling in the straps of his tech gear as he devours you. His tongue swipes along the seam of your lips, demanding entry, and you grant it without hesitation.

The lab fades away.

There is only Donnie- his taste, his scent, the possessive rumble vibrating through his chest as he pins you against the nearest surface. His hands roam your body with single-minded intent, mapping every curve like he's committing you to memory.

His hands are everywhere at once- gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, tracing the dip of your waist before dragging you flush against him. The hard press of his plastron against your chest makes your breath stutter, and when his teeth scrape lightly over your bottom lip, you gasp into his mouth.

Donnie’s chest rumbles at the sound, low and possessive, his fingers tightening in your hair as he angles your head to deepen the kiss. His other hand slides down to grip your thigh, lifting you up effortlessly until your legs wrap around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, pressing you back against the lab table with a thud that sends tools clattering to the floor.

The noise barely registers.

His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue stroking against yours in a rhythm that has your pulse hammering. You can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against you, the thick ridge of his cock already swollen beneath his pants. The knowledge that he’s this aroused just from kissing you sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are panting. His hazel eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need, and his lips are slick from your kiss.

"Tell me you want this," he rasps, voice rough with restraint. "Tell me you want me."

You don’t hesitate. "I want you, Donnie. Please."

His breath hitches, and for a second, his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Then, with a sharp exhale, he leans in again, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, "Then you’ve got me, sweetheart. All of me."

His teeth graze your earlobe, and you shudder, arching into him with a whimper.

Donnie doesn’t waste another second.

One hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming up your ribs before palming your breast. His thumb flicks over your nipple, and you gasp, your back bowing off the table. He does it again, slower this time, rolling the stiff peak between his fingers until your breath comes in short, desperate pants.

"Donnie-"

"Shh," he soothes, even as his other hand slips between your bodies to undo the button and zipper of your jeans. "I’ve got you."

He does. In every way that matters.

The sound of your pants sliding down your thighs is swallowed by the hush that’s settled over the lab, the air thick with a hum not quite heard but felt. Like standing beneath a power line in a thunderstorm, or hearing the faint buzz of old filament bulbs warming. But it’s not the room vibrating- it’s you. It’s him. Resonating in tandem, twin frequencies tuning into a single wavelength.

You see it in his eyes as he drinks you in, amber-flecked and wide, stunned in a way that no calculation could account for. He looks down at you like you’re quantum entanglement made flesh- an impossibility rendered intimate. His mouth parts slightly, like he might speak, but all that comes out is your name. A whisper, reverent. Worshipful.

“You’re still humming,” he says, voice thick with wonder. His fingertips skate gently across your hipbones, then rise to splay across your belly like he’s feeling the music from the inside out. “It’s not just in my head. It’s you.”

You nod, breath catching. It’s in your chest too- your pulse syncing to his like a second heartbeat.

He exhales shakily, resting his forehead to yours. “I’ve never… I didn’t think I’d get this. Not in this life. Not like this.”

One of his large hands rises to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping just beneath your eye like he’s memorizing every point of contact. His voice drops, a hush of a confession.

“It’s like you were written for me.”

Your breath hitches as Donnie’s hand ghosts along the hem of your underwear, but he doesn’t rush. He’s looking at you like he’s reading a star chart, like every inch of your skin is part of a long-lost equation he’s finally solving.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, voice roughened by restraint.

“All of you. May I?”

The question is soft, but the way he’s breathing says he’s starving for the answer. When you nod, his lips twitch with emotion. With trembling fingers, he slides the fabric down, his eyes tracking every new inch of exposed skin like it might vanish if he looks away.

When you're bare before him, he doesn’t move right away- just looks. Takes you in like a miracle he never dared name.

“Perfect,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

Then, slowly, he shifts his weight back, one hand loosening his belt with practiced ease, the other still cupping your thigh like it grounds him.

His lower plastron flexes at the seams. His tail comes up beneath, the cloacal slit on his tail thickens with heat, flushed and twitching, already glistening with arousal.

You watch as the lips of his cloaca flex and quiver- sensitive, hungry, and Donnie shudders like he’s trying to restrain himself from vanishing into the floor.

“Donnie…” you whisper, breath catching.

He makes a sound- half whimper, half reverent groan, and leans in to press a trembling kiss to your shoulder.

“I- sorry, I’ve never… I mean, not with anyone. No one’s ever seen this part of me before,” he says, voice barely audible, full of awe and disbelief.

Your fingers brush gently along the slick folds of his cloaca, slow and reverent, and he trembles. His thighs flex involuntarily. His hands tighten on your hips.

Then- oh.

Something shifts.

A low moan breaks from his chest as his cloacal lips part further, and you feel it before you see it- his length beginning to emerge, thick and glistening, pushing forward from within.

His cock reveals itself in slow, aching inches- fleshy, flushed dark and pearled at the tip, ridged with subtle texture, distinct but undeniably him. Almost biomechanical in its uniqueness, shaped by evolution, purpose, and desire.

“Oh, my god…” you breathe.

Donnie’s face is flushed a deep plum, his breathing ragged.

“I-I know it’s a lot,” he says, voice cracking. “It’s different, but- please don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

You reach for him, fingers brushing down the length of his now fully unsheathed cock, and his entire body arches like he’s been hit with a current. His moan is wrecked, animalistic, echoing off the walls.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, meaning every syllable. “You’re beautiful.”

His eyes flutter shut like the words physically struck him.

“I only ever wanted one person to see me like this,” he rasps, voice torn and trembling. “And it’s you.”

You smile up at him, soft and certain, like a vow.

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He swallows hard. His eyes shine like he's barely holding himself together.

“God, sweetheart…” His voice fractures into something raw. “You don’t- you don’t know what that does to me.”

“I think I do,” you murmur, trailing kisses along his throat, the curve of his shoulder, the rim of his plastron. Each one draws another choked sound from his lips.

You take his hand and guide it between your legs.

He goes willingly- tender, reverent, as his fingers slide through the slick heat of you, gathering it up like treasure. He moves slowly at first, then more confidently, circling and stroking, matching the rhythm of your breathing, the gentle rock of your hips.

Then… the moment shifts.

The pull between you intensifies, quiet anticipation giving way to certainty. You shift beneath him, spreading your legs further, guiding his hips into alignment with your own.

And when he moves closer, you feel it- his cock brushing against you in passing, leaving you hypersensitive, and twitching as he’s hot against your folds. It’s not the point of entry, not yet anyway, but the touch of it sends a current through you both.

It’s warm. Wet. Alive with electrical charge. A conduit of shared sensation.

The contact is brief, but seismic.

Donnie gasps, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Oh- oh my stars…” he chokes.

Then, with a trembling breath, he rocks his hips forward- and you feel him.

His cock- thick, flushed, him, pressing into your entrance with aching slowness. The stretch is sublime, delicious, as your body opens to receive him. He slides in deep, inch by inch, guided by instinct and your hands on his hips.

“You’re-” he gasps, face buried in the crook of your neck. “I’m inside you… I can feel you…”

And he can. Every pulsing, perfect squeeze of you around him. Every tremor of your muscles. And beneath it all, the constant, quivering press of his cloaca against you- slick and trembling, alive with the symphony of this shared joining.

Your bodies don’t just fit- they sing. A duet of wet friction and soul-deep resonance. His breath stutters as he bottoms out inside you, hips pressed flush, every inch of him trembling with restraint.

You’re flooded with sensation- his thickness stretching you, his cloaca twitching against your folds, that deep, shivering rightness that makes your whole body light up like circuitry catching fire.

“You were made for me,” he murmurs against your skin, awestruck.

And just as reverently, you whisper, “So were you.”

You shift your hips, just a little- enough to draw a sound from him that’s raw, unguarded.

“Do it again,” he pleads, voice thready. “Please… don’t stop-”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the rhythm, into you. Fingers map the lines of his carapace, his arms, his shoulders- memorizing him just as his hands chart you, mouth pressing desperate kisses along your clavicle, your jaw, your lips.

You move together in a rolling, sensual pulse, every breath synced.

No longer two.

Just one.

You find the rhythm together- slow, deliberate, the slide of him within you like a tide coming in. Each thrust is unhurried, reverent, as if he’s trying to learn every contour of your body from the inside out.

His forehead rests against yours.

Your breaths are shared.

Sweat beads at his temples, gathers along the curve of your throat.

The sounds you make are soft at first- gasps, sighs, the wet press of bodies moving in sync. But the deeper he moves, the more he lingers in that perfect stretch, the more those sounds come: broken moans and sharp exhales. His name- whispered like worship.

Donnie trembles.

“You feel…” he groans, the words failing him as his hips rock forward again, deeper, smoother. “…like heaven, sweetheart.”

His cock glides against your walls with exquisite friction, dragging over every tender, greedy nerve. And each time his hips meet yours, you feel that extra jolt- his cloaca, flush and sensitive, kissing your folds in a rhythm all its own, like a second heartbeat against your most secret place.

That dual stimulation sings through you- body and soul, primal and cosmic.

“I can’t-” he pants, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wild now. Pupils blown. Mouth parted. “I can’t hold back much longer, I- please…”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, clutching him tighter. “Let go.”

That’s all it takes.

His restraint shatters.

Donnie growls- low and guttural, pulled from somewhere deeper than language, and buries himself in you with a force that makes the air leave your lungs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you as he begins to move- no longer with practiced gentleness, but with unfiltered hunger.

Each thrust hits home. Deeper. Harder. Perfect.

Your back arches, mouth falling open in a cry as he slams into that sweet, devastating place inside you. Your bodies slap together in a hot, wet symphony, a tempo driven by instinct and pure, carnal need.

The cloacal contact becomes frenzied- slippery, slick friction that heightens everything, amplifies each thrust until your nerves are lit up like exposed wires. The suction, the pressure, the drag- it’s maddening.

You claw at his shoulders, leave subtle crescent moons in his scales.

“Donnie… God, Donnie-”

“I’ve got you,” he grits, voice torn and tender all at once. “I’m not stopping. You need this. I need this. Say it- say you’re mine-”

“I’m yours,” you cry, body arching into his. “I’ve always been yours-”

Something breaks loose in him. The rhythm falters, grows frantic. He growls into your throat, teeth grazing skin. And still, he fucks you- deep and claiming, his whole body shaking with the intensity of it.

You're so close you can taste it.

And when it crashes over you- when your climax hits, it’s blinding. A rush of white-hot pleasure that arcs through you like lightning. You convulse around him, gasping his name, your body trembling in his arms.

Donnie follows with a strangled shout, thrusting deep one final time as he spills into you, warmth flooding you as his cock pulses inside. His cloaca trembles, too- still pressed against you, still pulsing with aftershock after aftershock, like the echoes of a cosmic event.

For a moment, there’s nothing but breath.

Yours. His. Tangled.

The scent of sex. The burn of exertion. The sacred silence of being seen and still held close.

And then his arms are wrapping around you, holding you like you’re made of starlight. His cheek pressed to yours, breath damp and shuddering.

“You’re my everything,” he whispers.

And you whisper back:

“So are you.”

The lab is quiet now, save for the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional soft hum of machinery in standby mode. Donnie hasn’t moved from where he’s draped over you, his plastron pressed to your chest, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His weight is comforting, grounding- like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your ribs, slow and reverent, as if memorizing the rise and fall of your breathing.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper- something tender.

You nod, your fingers dragging over the scales at the nape of his neck. “More than okay.”

A quiet rumble vibrates through his chest- contentment, satisfaction, something wordless and warm. He shifts just enough to press a kiss to your collarbone, lingering there for a long moment before exhaling sharply through his nose.

“I should probably... clean us up,” he mutters, though he makes no move to actually do so.

You laugh softly, running your hands down the ridges of his shell. “In a minute.”

He hums in agreement, nuzzling against you.

And then-

A sharp, sudden click from the lab’s main console.

Donnie stiffens.

The screen flickers to life, displaying a single line of text in bold, red letters:

[INTRUDER ALERT: SECURITY BREACH DETECTED]

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing.

“...What?”

The console beeps again, this time flashing a live feed from the security cameras- a shadowy figure moving through the tunnels just outside the lair.

Donnie’s expression hardens.

“Oh, hell no.”

He’s on his feet in an instant, grabbing his tech-bo from where it leans against the wall. His movements are fluid, practiced- despite the fact that he’s still half-naked and glistening with sweat.

You sit up, blinking. “Donnie-?”

He turns back to you, jaw set. “Stay here.”

“But-”

“Stay here,” he repeats, voice firm but not unkind. Then, softer, “I’ll be right back.”

And with that, he’s gone- vanishing. The lab door hisses shut behind him, leaving you alone in the sudden silence. The air still hums with the lingering energy of what just happened- your skin still tingles where he’d touched you, your body still warm and heavy with satisfaction.

But now there’s something else, too.

A prickle of unease.

You sit up fully, glancing at the security feed still flashing on the screen. The figure is closer now- hooded, masked, moving with deliberate precision.

And then-

A voice crackles over the comms.

"Donnie?" It’s Leo’s voice, tense. "We’ve got company. Foot Clan scouts, looks like. They’re poking around the east tunnels."

Donnie’s response is immediate, clipped. "On it, Leo."

A moment passes. Then-

"...Why do you sound out of breath?"

"Not. Now. Leo."

The comm cuts off.

You bite your lip, torn between staying put, like he’d asked, and following him, because hell no are you letting him face danger alone after what you’d just shared.

Then-

A shadow shifts in the doorway.

Your breath catches.

But it’s not Donnie.

It’s-

"Well, well. Looks like I interrupted something interesting."

A masked figure steps into the lab, arms crossed. Their voice is smooth, amused.

And behind them-

Two more.

Foot Clan.

Shit.

You scramble off the table, covering yourself with your discarded shirt, then grabbing the nearest thing that could pass as a weapon, a soldering iron, because why not?

The lead ninja tilts their head. "Cute. But let’s not make this messy, yeah?"

Your grip tightens.

"Touch her," a voice growls from the shadows, "and I’ll dismantle you joint by fucking joint."

Donnie steps back into the room, tech-bo crackling with energy, eyes burning with fury.

The Foot ninjas pause- just for a heartbeat.

But that’s all Donnie needs.

With a snarl he rarely lets slip, he lunges forward, staff singing through the air like a live wire. The lead ninja doesn’t even get a chance to blink before Donnie’s bo connects with their sternum, sending them flying back into a bank of monitors with a sickening crack.

“Donnie!” you cry, your voice both a warning and a prayer as the other two close in, weapons drawn.

Donnie’s already turning, body moving like a current of voltage and vengeance. He ducks the first strike, sweeps low, takes one ninja’s legs out from under him- and just as the second raises his blade to strike-

“YEEAAAHHHHH!”

Mikey explodes through the lab’s ceiling vent with a whoop, landing like a sugar-high meteor. He swings his nunchaku in a blur, catching the second ninja in the temple with a whack so loud you wince.

“Bro, were you two boning when the alarm went off?” Mikey grins mid-spin. “Because damn, talk about bad timing-”

“MIKEY!” Donnie snaps, dodging a throwing star. “Focus!”

“Right, right! No judging! Just kickin’ ass!”

Another blur at the door, and suddenly Leo is there, katanas gleaming under the fluorescents. His entrance is pure ninja poetry- clean, silent, brutal. With two swift, calculated slashes, the remaining ninja is disarmed and disoriented.

You’re still standing near the wall, clutching your shirt to your chest, soldering iron shaking slightly in your grip. Your heart’s slamming against your ribs like it wants to break out and run.

That’s when you hear it.

The unmistakable stomp of someone not trying to sneak in.

The door bangs open- again.

“WHAT the actual fuck,” Raph bellows, storming in like a wrecking ball in red. “We leave you nerds alone for five minutes and-” He skids to a halt, eyes landing on you.

He blinks.

Sees the soldering iron. The shirt. The carnage. The scent in the air that is very clearly not just ozone.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “Ohhhh.”

“Raph-” Donnie warns, breath heaving, sweat beading across his brow. There’s blood on the edge of his staff. Not his.

Raph raises his hands, trying- and failing, to suppress a grin. “Hey. No judgment. Just sayin’, next time maybe lock the damn lab, genius.”

You groan, your face blazing red. “Can someone maybe hand me some pants before the next wave of goons shows up?”

Leo, ever the consummate gentleman, averts his eyes immediately and picks up your discarded pants, tossing them to you without a word. “We’re clear for now. But we’ve got chatter on the comms. That was a recon team.”

“They weren’t just poking around,” Donnie mutters, running a hand through his still-damp brow ridge. His eyes flick to you, sharp and calculating. “They bypassed our external motion sensors. Targeted the lab entry. Avoided the main rooms.”

Mikey frowns. “You’re saying this wasn’t random?”

“They were looking for something,” Donnie says. A moment passes and he looks at you again. “Or someone.”

You swallow hard, clutching your shirt tighter. “Why me?”

There’s another pause- just long enough to let the weight of it sink in.

Donnie hesitates, then exhales slowly, like he’s been dreading this. “Because you cracked the relay code a few days ago- the one we pulled off that stolen Foot drive.”

You blink. “The prototype schematics?”

He nods grimly. “Their weaponized AI project. You’re the only one who’s come close to decoding the language architecture. They must’ve found out.”

Mikey’s face hardens in a rare show of seriousness. “So they’re not just pissed.”

“They want her,” Donnie confirms, eyes burning with something primal. “Either to silence her-” he steps closer, “-or to force her to finish the job for them.”

Mikey nudges Donnie with his elbow, trying to cut the tension. “Bro, if they were after her, they’re about to learn the hard way- nobody messes with Donatello’s girl.”

But Donnie doesn’t smile.

Not this time.

His eyes are locked on you. Serious. Protective. Possessive.

“No,” he says. “They won’t touch her again.”

Raph claps a hand on Donnie’s shoulder, hard. “Damn right they won’t. Not while we’re breathin’.”

You’re still trying to recover from the sudden whiplash of orgasm-to-invader-to-rescue-team, but some part of your mind registers what Donnie said.

Again.

Your eyes meet his.

There’s a storm brewing.

But this time-

You’ve got four walking weapons on your side.

💌 Author’s Note: This tale will continue in Raphael’s story: “The Feral Harmony”. 💋

The Feral Harmony

Who loves TMNT, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @sophiacloud28, @redsrooftopprincess, @ninnosaurus, @iridescentflamingo, @adebauchedsloth, @eveandtheturtles, @thelaundrybitch, @tmnt-tychou, @milykins, @the-cauldron-witch

Masterlist

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scarscribblesstuff · 4 months ago

Text

Pancakes

Fandom: Redacted Audio

Characters: David, Angel

Pairings: David/Angel

Song: https://open.spotify.com/track/4F65GPn78BrRvP638wEQZP?si=iwEOkjQeSaO-k4tjsYMpjw

Please do not feed to AI, claim as your own, or repost to other platforms without my permission. The characters belong to Redacted Audio and this is a fan work.

(Fic below cut)

“Angel.” David rumbles in his low morning voice. “Is the blindfold really necessary?”

“Uh absolutely.” They insist, mock offended at the question. “How else am I supposed to stop you from snooping too early?”

“Are you sure it's not just because you're too short to cover my eyes?” He smirks, holding onto their hand for support and guidance.

“Alright telephone pole ass.” They stick out their tongue, only to realise he can't see them and so prod him instead.

“I'm not that tall, you're the one who's ridiculously short.” He chuckles.

“Motherfucker, you are at least six inches above average height.”

“And how far are you below it?”

“Suck my dick.”

“I've done worse.”

“Oh but I'm the perv in this house.”

“Yes. You are.” He pulls them in closer, so he can kiss them.

They lean happily into it with a laugh. He goes to deepen the kiss but they stop him with a hand to his chest. “Stop distracting me!”

“Sorry,” he says completely unapologetically.

“You are forgiven - now come on!” They continue leading him forwards.

David obliges, allowing them to guide him through the house. He shivers in the cooler air of the living room.

“Could I at least put a shirt on for this?”

Angel gasps, hand to their heart. “And take all this away? Never my hot sexy love.” They trace a finger across his chest for a moment, before leaving him in the centre of the room. “Now wait here.” They call out as they scarper off.

“Alright.”

“AND NO PEEKING!” They call back behind them.

He just laughs to himself, waiting patiently.

Rapid footfalls can be heard, as Angel sprints through the halls getting everything ready for their surprise. There's a small scratch sound and music begins filling the room. Then there’s a sweet smell, drifting in with their footfalls, a little calmer now.

“You cooked? How long have you been up?” He turns towards the sound of clinking of plates on the table.

“Longer than I'm normally able to. You’ve been really tired lately.”

“I'm sure it doesn't help that someone turned off my alarm this morning.”

“Because it's the weekend and you need to rest.”

“I'm getting better at it.”

“You are.” He feels a gentle kiss being pressed to his back. “But I'll still remind you when you forget.”

“Thank you baby.” He reaches for them only to grasp air. He swallows, trying to ignore the ache that brings.

“Can I see you now? Or will I be standing like this all day?” He asks, itching to pull the blindfold off.

“Nearly!” They respond cheerfully, “aaaaaand done. Come here big guy.” Angel tenderly reaches up, pulling the blindfold off. He blinks in the soft morning light trickling in from the large bay windows.

The room is freshly cleaned, looking polished and sparkling. The table is laid with various chopped fruits, with a whole bowl dedicated to strawberries, his favourite. Plus a slightly too large stack of pancakes of varying qualities. And in the corner, his dad’s old record player is up and running; polished and with a brand new record spinning lazily round.

Lastly he turns to his partner, his spouse, his Angel. Stood in front of it all, light caressing their hair, flour dusted across their face and clothes. Gods above, they are beautiful.

“Ta da!” They grin up at him, fidgeting with their ring. “Thoughts? Praises? Celebrations?”

“It's wonderful. Thank you.” He whispers, pulling them close and relishing the feeling of them against him. “I still could have worn a shirt for this.”

They burst into laughter against him. “Maybe, but I retain the right as your spouse.” They take his hand, linking their fingers and brush their thumb over his ring.

“Mm not sure that was in our vows.”

“It's called subtext darling dearest Davey.” They tease, sticking their tongue out.

“Cheeky.” He leans down and kisses them.

“Yeah but it gets me kisses.” They say beaming. ear to ear.

“Yeah yeah okay.” David rolls his eyes as he wraps his arms around their waist.

Their arms mimic his, winding round his shoulders. As the music embraces them, the two sway slowly in the living room.

“What was all this for?” He asks, spinning them carefully across the plush carpet.

They shrug, “just felt like it.”

The movement slows as he looks down at them in awe. “Really?”

“Well yeah. You inspire me. Love into action and all that.”

He just stares at them, astounded. “You… you're too sweet sometimes.”

“Well,” they rest their head on his chest, “you deserve sweet.”

“You're more than sweet my love.” He tilts up their chin. “You're everything.”

He kisses them once more. “And I'm the luckiest man in the world.”

“You're very welcome Davey.” They hop up to their tiptoes, pressing their lips to his cheek. “Now, does the luckiest man in the world want pancakes? Because I'm starving.”

The couple’s laughter fills the room. Together in the home they’d built together, they greet the day.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted fandom #fanfic #fluff #redacted david #redacted angel #redacted davey/angel #scarscribbles #Spotify

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seecarrun · 10 months ago

Text

"What's that?"

"Well Ash, it's called a book," Misty replied sarcastically, not sparing him even a glance away from the pages. "It's a bunch of words printed on paper that are bound together to tell a story."

Ash rolled his eyes and plopped himself down next to her on the log, peaking at the words over her shoulder. "Ha ha. Very funny. What book is it? Anything good?"

She shrugged, scrunching her nose a little. "It's okay so far. It's just some cringy romance novel Violet's been obsessed with for a while. I accidentally ripped one of her sweaters, so she's making me read it."

"Oh," he hummed. "Sounds boring."

"Meh. I've read worse."

They fell silent again, the slight crinkle of the paper as Misty turned the pages, the only sound puncturing the quiet of the campsite along with Brock's absentminded humming as he put together their sandwiches for dinner.

Feeling nosy, Ash leaned forward and, much to Misty's mounting annoyance, tilted the book up to read the blurb on the back of the dust cover. "After a petty argument with her family, Brooke leaves home on her Pokemon journey with a goal to be the best and prove them all wrong once and for all. After a chance and electrifying run-in with the handsome and easygoing Cole, a talented trainer with a big secret and even bigger disposition for getting into trouble, Brooke goes on the adventure of a lifetime, filled with excitement, danger, and even romance. This is one tale you don't want to miss!" Ash reads aloud. From across the campsite, Brock snorts loudly.

"What's so funny?" Misty asks suspiciously.

Brock looks up from slicing a tomato to meet her eyes, an amused smirk dancing across his lips. "You're kidding, right?" he asks with a chuckle. "That doesn't sound...familiar to you at all?"

"What? No!" she scoffs. "What do you mean familiar?"

"Girl-with-water-adjacent-name leaves home after a fight with her family to prove she's a good trainer?" he prompts, his eyebrows raised and his grin getting wider by the word. "Electrifying run-in with talented Pokemon trainer Boy-with-fire-adjacent-name, who she will almost certainly fall madly in love with during their adventure? Any of that ring a bell?"

Misty, face a bright, fluorescent red and eyes set in a hard, dangerous glare at Brock, grit her teeth. "No Brock," she seethed. "Why would any of that sound familiar?"

To his credit, Brock winced, cleared his throat, and laughed nervously, backing away from her subconsciously. "Ahaha, nope, my mistake! No correlation to any real-world sort of thing at all! No idea what I was thinking!" he babbled as Misty continued to stare him down, murderously.

Thankfully, Ash just looked between them in confusion and shrugged at Pikachu, who looked back at him just as bewildered by the entire conversation.

Oh well. He probably wasn’t missing much.

He'd never been good with subtext, anyway.

#pokeshipping #car’s fanfiction #misty pokemon #ash ketchum #‘Cole’ is supposed to be like ‘coal’ if you missed that lol it’s not super obvious but I thought it was clever so I kept it haha #a few days later Brock gets out of her that Cole ‘big secret’ is that he’s actually champion of a small tropical island region #and he loses it. He buys his own copy of the book and one for Tracy #and they are just relentless in teasing misty #ash stays oblivious lol

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george228732 · 1 year ago

Text

Hot take

Kirby lore is great, but has SO MUCH lost potential

Don't you see the amount of amazing content that could be taken in depth thanks to the lore it has? The most we see of Kirby Lore being utilized in more games than the one it was introduced in is the Dark Matter Trilogy and mere call backs from other games that follow.

Then comes the part where HAL brings more convoluting lore like what we know of the Magolor epilogue, and HAL just doesn't do anything else with it. But I think this is shown better with FL, PR and TD. To this day, Star Allies is the one most discussed regarding Kirby Lore, not only because of Void Termina but also because HAL ACTUALLY made some exposition of Kirby Lore like Hyness' speech and such. Not everyone will be able to see it but at least it's not subtext anymore, just text. Thing that doesn't get seen basically at all with the other games I mentioned

I get the "Use subtext for your story", but you overuse it and you get the most vague lore humanity has ever seen. Sure, in some games and shows it works in their favor thanks to the theming of those stories but Kirby never struck me as one of those, at least in my opinion.

Maybe this is why many artists and writers have made an insane amount of AUs for Kirby trying to give more lore with actual dialogue - compare the amount of exposition heavy AUs Kirby has with the amount of exposition heavy AUs franchises like Mario, Metroid or Zelda have. See the difference?

My point is, Kirby should REALLY do more with its lore instead of leaving some of the most intriguing topics I've seen stagnating and catching dust.

#kirby #kirby critique #kirby lore

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serial-serializednovelreader · 1 year ago

Text

Nova’s Notes - Dracula Daily - June 29th

In which Jonathan gets the worst room service known to man.

“To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes.”

Not the last letter!!!! I’m sure this date has been on Jonathan’s mind for a long time and it’s telling that he starts the entry off with that. Also, Dracula’s making another trip in Jonathan’s clothing: that identity thief. And Jonathan's keeping watch by the South window again.

As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him.”

This might be one of my favorite sentences in the whole book (subject to change with more of my reread). Just the fact that he elaborates with lizard fashion (as if we didn't already know, but still) and then follows it up with "I want to enact my fantasies of murder on him". Not just to kill him, mind you -- to destroy him. I don't know if Jonathan figures Dracula is the kind of creature that needs to be destroyed rather than merely murdered or if he simply is so angry at him that he just wants him to be a pile of dust by the time he's done with him, but either way I love it. Then ending it with being uncertain whether he'd even be able to kill him with a weapon made by man in the first place (which is not a far off guess) is just such a cool way to end the sentence. Very metal. From start to finish, a perfect line -- 11/10, no notes.

This time, Jonathan's learned his lesson and doesn't wait to see the "weird sisters" come back. Instead he spends his time in the library until he falls asleep (isn't he vulnerable in there too, though? I though only his room was safe. No? Ok.)

When he wakes up, the Count is there (jumpscare) and says this -- grimly:

"'To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula.'"

It's so interesting to me that Dracula starts off by saying that he's off to do some work which may mean that Jonathan and him will never meet again (implied subtext: because Jonathan won't be alive for it), but he directly contradicts this in the last sentence by saying he hopes to see more of him at the castle (implied subtext: either Jonathan’ll be a vampire too or perhaps, only his remains will be left at Castle Dracula). In-between, he confirms that the last letter has gone through, states that he will be gone (even implying how with the Szgany and Slovak mention), and then ending with how he plans to get Jonathan home. But it's a lie and they both know it. Dracula was his coachman that first night and if he's gone, Jonathan has no transportation to speak of!

Jonathan decides to test this "journey" business and see if it's at all sincere (a word he can't even put in the same sentence as Dracula at this point -- that's how bad it's gotten). So he asks if he can leave tonight, to which Dracula's like "bUt mY cOaChMaN iSnT hErE" (you're the coachman, shut up) and Jonathan says "I can walk." Same kind of exchange goes for the baggage, except Jonathan notes a "diabolical smile".

I'm so happy that Jonathan is still standing up for himself at this point!! Even with everything he's seen, he's not cowering or letting Dracula walk all over him. Instead, he's fighting to get out: this man has a will of steel!!!

"The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:— 'You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars: 'Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.' Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!'"

Unfortunately, Dracula does things that hint at being real to the point that Jonathan questions himself. Dracula seems so sweet and courteous now from that diabolical smirk he had just a second ago -- it's hard to reconcile the two. I even wonder if Dracula is using a bit of hypnosis on him, but it doesn't work as well as he had hoped due to Jonathan being keen to his tricks. It almost reminds me of that moment in Aladdin (1992) when Jafar is trying to hypnotize the Sultan into letting him marry Jasmine and it doesn't work at first because he snaps out of it long enough to go "--but you're so old!!" Either way, luckily Jonathan sees through it, but it's sad he's in such a precarious position where he has to be constantly wary of these tricks.

This line Dracula says about Jonathan not spending an hour in his house against his will definitely parallels his first lines to him (as Count Dracula, that is):

"'Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!...Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!'"

I noticed upon rereading this entry that he repeated it twice -- and in the second part, emphasized coming freely and going safely. In the first line, he also says to enter of your own will, which parallels this entry's emphasis on him not wanting Jonathan to stay in his house "against [his] will" either. Obviously the fact that Dracula has to emphasize this whole "wills" and "safety" thing would be weird on a normal guy, but after all that we know of him, it's even worse irony that he basically promises Jonathan (well, he doesn't promise, but it almost feels like one) a going of safety -- when he's about to do what he does next. Plus, of course, there’s the whole “feeding him to his roommates” thing.

They begin to walk down the hall and Dracula calls out: "Hark!" That's when Jonathan hears the howling of the wolves once more, almost as if Dracula himself is conducting them to howl (he probably is -- overdramatic much?).

After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open. To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

What's interesting to me here is the emphasis on no key. How is Dracula keeping the door locked then? I'm almost certain Jonathan could've opened those himself -- so what's keeping this locked normally? If Dracula is using some kind of vampire power on it, wouldn't that be draining for him? Just some thoughts I had -- we don't get a clear answer here, of course.

That's when the wolves start coming in through the door....

"I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count's body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:— 'Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!' and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment.

This is when Jonathan is faced with a choice: it's Dracula or the wolves. Now as many of you on here have already said, I do doubt Dracula would've let him get bit by the wolves -- after all, he's Dracula's Capri-Sun that he has been waiting to feed on for a month. But in Jonathan’s mind, this is a choice and it’s a very villainous one, because Jonathan would’ve chosen the wolves of his own volition without even knowing it. That’s just evil. So, to no one’s surprise, Jonathan chooses Dracula, because at least he has some hope of escape that way.

Unfortunately, he can’t even show his emotions at having any hope of leaving snatched away from him. He knew there was a catch — he knew this was too easy — but he still had hoped and he can’t help but cry at this last easy hope of leaving being taken from his grasp. But he can’t show that to Dracula for a myriad of reasons. For one thing, it would disrupt the all-important “game”, of benevolent host and happy guest, which would be disastrous. Jonathan has already bent this rule considerably by even saying he wanted to leave (which Dracula mentioned somewhat by remarking on his “sudden” desire to leave) and to bend it further might mean a faster doom. For another, it would give Dracula the satisfaction of seeing him so negatively affected by this encounter with the wolves. So all he can do is put his head in his hands and hide the tears. The worst part is he’s not even sad at this point — he’s disappointed.

“With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.”

Sorry, I know this is a serious entry today, but did Dracula just use the Force to click the bolts back into their places? In plain view in front of Jonathan? New vampire power unlocked (or should I say, locked :D), I guess. Maybe he does do something special with that particular door to keep it closed.

“In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.”

So they just sat in awkward silence for like 2 minutes? Yikes. This library time is usually when Dracula would spin yarns and Jonathan would listen politely, try to garner information out of him, or — on a good day, perhaps — be genuinely interested in what he has to say. I understand why Jonathan can’t muster up words, but Dracula? He’s really just going to sit in silence with him and not even try to engage him in conversation? I suppose that’s for the best — I doubt Jonathan would have anything to say to him — but it’s so weird that Dracula doesn’t even want to keep up the facade here. I guess he knows the game is up.

Jonathan sure does. He’s done playing games. He decides to go up to his room and turns around to find Dracula blowing him kisses with a smile he compares to Judas Iscariot. I love that he does that because yeah, he definitely should compare him to the worst betrayer, give him no leeway!!! And also because what did Judas do to betray Jesus? A kiss on the cheek. So, I’m loving the symbolism here.

In his room, about to lay down, Jonathan hears some whispering at his door. It’s the Count:

“‘Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!’"

Eep. Yep, so Dracula is ready to feed tonight and will have the “leftovers” ready for the sisters tomorrow. Hate that!!! It would almost be funny (if it wasn’t condescending and grossly sexist) that he sounds like a dog owner commanding their dogs to not eat a treat. And that’s kind of what this dynamic is, right? Dracula sees himself as an all-knowing master. The roommates/weird sisters (Jonathan’s wording for them is growing on me LOL) are his “pets” (UGH, hate it) that he once “loved” in his way and he now looks after and feeds, but traps in this castle. Jonathan is the snack they’re keeping for later (he is a snack, just not the way they’re thinking, hehe).

I’m sure these women are actually much more capable and smarter than he thinks, but once again, with his superiority complex, I imagine he sees them as beneath his notice as well. They can use their phantom forms to move around the castle, but that’s about it. They depend on Dracula for food, though whether they want to is another question entirely. I imagine they enjoy not having to do any of the “food work” themselves (and making him do it — which since he’s the one who condemned them to this fate is honestly a girlboss move of them). But I’m sure they have their restless moments of wanting to escape the castle and gauging whether it would be worth it to overpower Dracula. Another question arises: could they even overpower Dracula if they wanted to? I’m not sure if his age of being a vampire gives him an advantage over them. Again, the narrative doesn’t give us many answers, but I like thinking about these questions.

Jonathan throws open the door — angry — to see the women licking their lips. They laugh at him before running away. It’s good that Jonathan is still able to do things in anger at this point: it means he hasn’t given up yet. I also like that he does this in front of the women — he may have run from them screaming the other day, but he’s defiant today. That is something, at least.

However, afterwards, he drops to his knees and laments about tomorrow’s doom. I guess he had some hope that even though the final letter was sent, he would still have a few days afterwards to hope of escape, or perhaps he was just in denial: both are understandable.

“Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!”

While he doesn’t directly mention Mina, it’s obvious he’s talking about her. Thinking of her is likely what is bringing him strength right now. It’s also notable that he reminds himself that she holds him dear, and will miss him if he doesn’t come home. :(

#sorry this was super late #but it’s here!#dracula daily #dracula #jonathan harker #count dracula #novas notes

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