#it leaves subtext in the dust

[lazybakerart]

insane choices horikoshi made #too-many-to-count:

“If there’s anything that could bolster Izuku Midoriya now, it would be…” -> cut to literally izuku being rescued by and looking up at bakugou who’s never looked that pretty once in his gremlin life before now taking up the entire page

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

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.)

[takami-takami]

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.

[fir3lit3]

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

[seecarrun]

"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.

[george228732]

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.

[serial-serializednovelreader]

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. :(

[jaydexbg]

Aite, Jay's thoughts on Restoration now that the emotional dust has settled.

My non-spoiler thoughts are... it's okay, a love letter to the series? No. A love letter to fans? For the most part.

No shade to RT, Burnie or anyone who worked on this, they did what they could, and had time for. This is going to be loooooong as its my full summary of the movie as a long-time fan, RvB is my special hyperfixation/interest. Spoilers below the cut.

Alright, to start. I personally will believe that s14-17 are cannon, and that Restoration is a simulation/Jax movie/AU/Alternate ending./what have you. I believe this for many reasons, but let's get the Big 3 out of the way first.

1. Sarge's death. I understand it's inclusion, and I understand that with the anvil and steel boot of WB it was hard to produce something of immense quality. Sarge had been a consistent key player and many of us expected this.

But his death was... wrong. It didn't feel impactful, he didn't die a Sarge death. While the reasoning was good (saving Caboose) the execution and runtime made it feel sloppy and just a plot driver(barely). He deserved a much more heroic send-off, and this comes from a avid Red Team supporter, so this should have impacted me. If Sarge had a proper heros death (and the movie had more time), set in a similar vein as Church (or even like he would have died to Meta in s8) then I think I would have had a lot more feelings, and I think it would have also allowed me to accept it much easier, I'm not insanely upset at Sarge dying(however I still would prefer them all to be happy), im upset at how it was handled.

2. Doc's death. Alright, this one peeves me a bit. I LOVE the idea at play, I personally even think it works with Wash given their history in S8, it is a really good reveal. But this also means Doc, an integral character who's been there since Season 2. Doc, who had been the most mistreated and abused character--and JUST got over being overshadowed by O'Malley in universe(S17)... died off screen. And that alone makes me not want to take this as cannon.

It was a moment of "WHAT??-wait." I like Doc, I like all the characters of RvB, but Doc dying off screen after the battle is not it. The Matt Hullum double kill is arguably funny, but I won't stand for Doc dying like this. Sorry.

And 3. The one that bit me the most, hold your sighs/tears; Grimmons. I'm sorry, but I refuse to believe that Grif would leave Simmons, or that Simmons wouldn't go with him. These two characters have been joint at the hip since episode one, they have been through EVERYTHING together. There is a LOT of subtext behind these two, Grimmons barely felt like a fan ship, if they revealed the two were married the entire time I wouldn't have batted an eye.

I don't like their ending. They should have either both went to earth, or both stayed in Blood Gulch. I understand Grif's entire thing was hating the military, but he loved his friends, he cared so much (saving Sarge MULTIPLE times despite Sarge still always bullying him, agreeing to go with Sarge and Caboose to fight the Meta even though he didn't have to, him throughout all of the Chorus Trilogy, and this is just the stuff that is cannon no matter what.), and I don't believe him simply being dismissed would have him leave, he stopped being apart of a proper military when Project Freelancer shut down, and while he was apart of Chorus they'd clearly been demoted/let go since they were ranked down to Privates in Restoration. (I also believe S15 handled the idea of them being moved after S13's ending far better)

And while I don't mind Simmons coming into his own as a leader, he dosent... have a team? They abandoned Lopez, Sarge is dead, Donut is an Admiral (likely for the UNSC), and Grif left. The Blues only have Caboose and Tucker. Carolina and Wash are likely going to go back to the hospital to let Wash heal (which is another thing). So its just Simmons, Caboose and Tucker alone in Blood Gulch? Doing... what exactly? Fighting? This is not a good ending for any of them and it barely makes sense. Id honestly have preferred a "where are they now" segment to this ending.

With those out of the way, lets go over a small lighting round of stuff i didn't like;

Wash felt like he was just there to tell us Doc died, and to get Carolina to the final fight. If you removed him entirely and just said "Carolina has been tracking Meta" nothing would change.

Carolina's inclusion felt like someone threw a cyan bolder into the script, her entrance being a homage to Maine's entrance in S10 was cool but she appeared out of nowhere.

I refuse to believe that after all of this none of them would be checking in on Wash, that man has been the glue of the Reds and Blues since he joined the team and I REFUSE to believe they would just dump him at an institution, however this is especially insane for Carolina. She would be with him every second.

Tucker was INSANELY underused, his moments of breaking through Sigma's control were good, but Tucker felt like he wasn't important. He should be, he should have been the main character of the story, he is the main character of Red vs Blue to me (after Church).

The way Lopez and Sheila were just abandoned is disrespectful. Its in character, and the whole gag but for a final season I dont want a gag like that in a finale. I wanted to see Lopez at that campfire scene imagining him not talking but enjoying the reminiscing. That would have been so sweet and nice. This also applies to Sheila.

The lack of Donut outside of a mention of him being an Admiral and the silly memory of him from Simmons is outrageous. He is a main character, we established this in S17 and retcon or not, he earned that development and it should have remained.

Grif was was insanely angry in the beginning, I imagine this more as Geoff because his performance throughout was probably the best of the movie. He's taken RTs closure hard and I completely understand him being upset, so this is barely a complaint.

Alright... with the negative out of the way, lets talk positive! i wish I could say my positives outweighed the negatives, but unfortunately that isn't the case, however I do have two big standouts.

1. The campfire scene. This, this scene alone is what adds a chunk to the positive section of my feelings. It was the scene that really gut punched me, the moment I heard Ed Robertson's voice I crumpled into tears (I am a HUGE Barenaked Ladies fan). The pure bittersweetness of watching these characters who have been through so much together finally taking a serious moment to reminisce is all I ever wanted from RvB. I wished with all my heart that Tucker, Church, Sarge, Donut, Doc, Lopez, and Sheila could share in it, who knows maybe Sarge and Docs ghosts popped by to listen. But, this is to me, what I wanted.

2. Agent Texas. This was good, this was REALLY good. The bait and swap to have Caboose bringing Tex back and not Church was good, and especially nice development from Caboose despite how rushed it feels. The kicker of this though? this Tex was not the same Tex as before. That reveal that this Tex was not based on the Directors memories of Allison's failure, but instead based on the Reds and Blues memories of her beating their asses is ACTUALLY insane, and a genius twist. And her getting her black armour plus the playing of Round One/Bullfight got me more hype then I was ever expecting to get from Restoration. I also believe that Tex finally being remembered properly and being able to move on with Church was heartwarming and very much deserved.

My negatives far outweigh the positives, but the positives are so good, and with it being the finale of 21 years worth of content I cant in the right mind say I dislike Restoration. I don't like it as the ending to Red vs Blue, call me bias (my favourite season is 15) but the trade off of development for the characters between Restoration and Shisno is just not worth it for me. Say what you will about the Shisno Trilogy but you cannot ignore that it gave us the much needed development for many characters, Grif and Donut standing out the most. While the "god"-plot is far fetched and out there, and I've heard that Tucker was character regressed in s16 (which I do not believe and will die on that hill but thats a topic for another day), or the inclusion of the Blues and Reds putting a wrench in some lore I still don't think it was all bad enough to warrant a retcon entirely. Who knows, maybe this was all planned from the start, or it was just because of WB. But this ending is not satisfying to me. I won't say its a bad ending, if I didn't like Shisno so much and never bothered to watch it I'm sure as a direct continuation from S13 I would have a much more positive look on it.

I also do believe that Burnie wrote it in such a way that you can decide for yourself if S14-17(and 18 if you enjoyed it) or Restoration is the cannon ending and to that I respect it.

So in short, my review of the final piece of official Red vs Blue content, is that its okay. A lot felt OOC, and plot was rushed and messy, things felt like they were all predetermined and not driven by the characters as is RvB's biggest strength. It was far too short and even still I generally don't like retcons. But for what it is, and the positive moments it brings I still think its good. Not cannon to me, but I will definitely be taking points from it into my personal cannon post-s17 (Admiral Donut my beloved, you would be so cool if you actually showed up).

[toh-tagteam-au]

Tag Team AU Synopsis – Agony of a Witch + Young Blood Old Souls

Synopsis Masterpost Link

Previous Part [Enchanting Grom Fright + Wing it Like Witches]

Next Part [Intermission: Yesterday's Lie]

Season finale, fellas. Season 1 was basically a build up to this moment and to the rest of season 2. I'm just really proud of this one.

Agony of a Witch

Lilith tries getting into the Owl House like canon, and fails pretty miserably like canon. BUT, in the aftermath when the dust has settled, Hunter flies in on Flapjack, enters the Owl House, and is seen by Lilith (who knows his face). Lilith connects the dots, and knows what she has to do in order to capture Eda.

Meanwhile, Hunter is getting ideas about officially leaving the Emperor’s Coven.

He makes a plan to head back to the castle one last time, grabbing Luz, and getting the hell out of dodge. Also, Eda Magic Spaghetti setup for the witch’s wool cloak. 

CUT TO THE EMPEROR’S CASTLE!!! Luz is leading the tour group! She sees Amity and it’s cute, she’s excited. Amity is So Guilty but also blushing. 

At some point, Lilith comes in. Luz takes Kikimora’s place in canon by pointing her out, but she’s a lot nicer about it. 

Amity breaks off from the group at this point, and follows Lilith to the throne room. She sees Belos eat the palisman like Luz does in canon, and has a similar reaction. She runs back to the group. 

Lilith reports to Belos.

Cut to Hunter! Who changes into his GG uniform and is entering the castle.

So, fight time. Hunter is very outnumbered, but he manages to take down most of the scouts.

And then we cut back to Luz, who is waving away the students. Amity stays back to talk to her, when they’re interrupted by Kikimora.

(Kiki’s line is a direct mirror to her summoning Luz in the comic, if u remember)

Cut to Luz walking onto the balcony. Belos is there.

(There's some HELLA subtext going with Belos projecting onto Luz here, if that isn't clear. This version of Belos is more trusting with her because he's seen the parallels between them. This isn't just manipulation – he legitimately pities her and what she's going through)

Back to the fight! Hunter gets out of the bubble with Flapjack’s help.

They have a little staff battle, but it ends with Lilith grabbing his staff and Hunter being thrown off the bridge.

Eda tries to save him, but it goes about as well as you’d expect.

Owlbert catches Hunter.

Hunter goes back to the Owl House, and finds out that Eda was going to give him the cloak.

Young Blood, Old Souls

For reference, this takes place a day or so after the last episode, like canon.

We open in the Throne room with Eda in owl beast mode. She is made lucid by Belos, the same as canon.

Cut to Hunter on top of one of the coven carriages and with a bandana over his mouth (also new witch’s wool cloak). It rolls into the conformatorium while coven scouts are milling around. When it goes into the cell area, he drops down and starts kicking ass. Infiltration time. 

Cut to Eda! She’s in her chains when the door to her cell opens, and Luz is there, face covered in shadow. Eda jokingly asks if there’s a way Luz could get Eda out of there, when Luz comes into the light, maskless, and cries. She tells her she can’t get her out, and that she’s sorry she put her in this position. If she didn’t make the deal with her, she wouldn’t be caught.

Eda doesn’t care about that, though. What she does care about is that she’s looking at Camila’s lost daughter. She takes out the portal key and gives it to Luz, saying that if she’s going to bite the dust, she can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than a human. 

The cage goes up around Eda, and she is brought up to the Petrification Ceremony. Luz presses the button on the key, and the portal is summoned. She looks up where Eda disappeared, and goes through the portal, leaving an empty room.

Lilith walks in a second later. 

Lilith brings Hunter to the elevator platform, when they’re ambushed by Belos.

Belos tells him the whole deal: He tells Hunter that he would typically kill the grimwalkers who overstep this far, but his priorities have changed. Mainly, to Luz. He just wants to keep her safe, and Hunter has been doing such a good job of that already – not to mention Luz might be upset if Hunter is killed. He can overlook the slights of the past few months if Hunter goes back to the way things were. They can go back to being a family again.

Hunter shoots back with what he has learned from being at the Owl House – that Belos has been faking his “outbursts” and could control them this whole time, that their “family” is incredibly unsafe. Remix of the “You know what I’d like, Belos?” sequence in Thanks to Them. Basically, he tells Belos that he wants nothing to do with him, and he’s taking Luz and leaving. 

Belos is disappointed, but not surprised. He goes to attack and finish Hunter off, but Hunter manages to dodge it using Flapjack, releases all the glyphs he has to distract Belos, and flies up. 

He gets up to the Petrification Platform, and he uses glyphs to destroy the statue and get Eda and Lilith out. They fly away to the Owl House. When they land, Hooty and King rush out. 

And that’s the end of season 1!

Previous Part [Enchanting Grom Fright + Wing it Like Witches]

Next Part [Intermission: Yesterday's Lie]

Synopsis Masterpost Link

[dorylinae-supremacy]

Au where angel Phil finds an injured imp Techno and just can't bring himself to kill him.

Tags: demon + angel AU, dark Phil, dark Techno (subtext), dark Kristin, fallen angel Phil, demon Techno, demon Kristin, accidental kid acquisition, and then not wanting to give him back, but doing it anyway, and getting kidnapped as his new dad, mentioned murder, 300+ words, you get the vibes as you read

He ends up falling but still clings to morality in favour of keeping the child safe and is kinda heart broke when Techno mentions that he has a family.

He's a bit angsty but he still vows to return him back to where he belongs but just keeps getting more and more attached to him to the point where he doesn't wanna let him go.

Why should his old family get to keep him? They lost him and let him get hurt. Phils the one who's been taking care of Techno all this time, clearly he is the only one fit to keep him safe.

But by now words got out about a fallen angel wandering the hells with an imp and curious demons keep trying to test their mettle against him.

They all end up being piles of dust in the end for their attempts.

Guided by only Techno's memories, they manage to find their way to the devils castle and are shocked when they manage to actually get an audience.

They both go in and Phil has to bury his shock when Techno see's the queen of demons and calls her his mother.

Still, he bites down his pride and says goodbye, asking Kristin to keep a closer eye on Techno so that he can grow up big and strong. She just laughs, asking him if he really thinks he'll be allowed to leave.

He fell just to keep her youngest son safe and killed countless on his way to her. Techno would never forgive her if she let him leave so why not get ahead on making up for letting him slip away?

So at Techno and Kristins behest, he's taken in and kept at the castle.

Idk how the rest would go but its a lot of him and Kristin kinda dancing around each other while Phil gets used to living with the demon queen and her twin sons.

[bestiarium]

Antjie Somers [South African folklore]

Bogeymen are one of the most common recurring character types among folktales: an evil monster, ghost or undead human that comes out at night and takes misbehaving children. Sometimes to eat them and sometimes just dragging them off to an unknown (yet likely unpleasant) fate. In South Africa, children were told similar tales about Antjie Somers, a local folk character originating from the 19th century. Though she checks all the boxes of a typical bogeyman character, there is one thing that sets her apart from the others: Antjie Somers is human with no clear supernatural traits.

As the story goes, there once was a man named Andries Somers. He worked on a fishing vessel (interesting note: in some variations, he was a slave rather than a conventional fisherman) and was known for his exceptional work ethic: when Andries hauled in his nets, his skill and strength put his fellow fishermen to shame. Aside from being talented and diligent, Andries was also brave and kind-hearted, as he had saved people from drowning on several occasions.

Alas, his diligence bred jealousy in his comrades until one day they decided to teach him a lesson. The fishermen banded together and surrounded Andries on a beach, intending to rough him up. But Andries was a man of exceptional strength and knocked all of his assailants to the ground. When the dust settled however, he saw that one of his attackers couldn’t get up: the man had hit his head falling down and died on the spot. Knowing that he would be charged with murder if he stayed, Andries saw no choice to flee.

He stole a kopdoek (a kind of headscarf) and a dress from his sister and ran away disguised as a woman. After fleeing far away, he eventually found new work in a settlement somewhere over the mountains, where his former comrades would never find him. Andries worked in a vineyard and it wasn’t long until his employer noticed his exceptional work ethic and put him in charge of the other workers. But here his sad past repeated itself, and he soon found himself the target of jealousy and anger from his co-workers. Eventually, they found the dress and kopdoek Andries still kept in his hut, and mocked him endlessly about it. They called him Antjie (a feminine name) and poked fun of him for crossdressing. He endured these childish taunts for three days, before packing his stuff and leaving under the cover of night, full of anger and disappointment.

Andries was never found, but after a while, children who had been sent to the forest to collect lumber started telling stories of a strange elderly woman dressed in a striped dress and kopdoek, wearing a sack over her shoulder. The woman was always angry and would threaten kids with her knife, threatening to kill them and stuff their corpses into her sack. Their parents connected the dots and assumed this mysterious woman to be Antjie Somers, as they had taken to calling Andries. From then on, people would warn their kids to behave, lest Antjie Somers stab them and take them away in her sack.

This story actually has some political context, as it originated in a period of tension between workers and farmers following the then-recent abolishment of the slave trade. I won’t go into the details here, but there is quite a bit of historical context to this tale if you want to read up about it.

Though Antjie/Andries is the protagonist of the story, this character was later demonized further and turned into a demonic monster, a goblin, a monstrous woman with animal-like characteristics or a witch in some retellings. In this last version, Andries quite literally became a woman when he turned evil, which also has some political subtext. In fact, because the character was crossdressing and gender-nonconforming, Antjie Somers is sometimes regarded as a queer character, though I assume this is more of a modern interpretation (he only donned the dress to disguise himself, after all). The moral of the story however remains quite simple: don’t leave children unattended in creepy woods.

Sources: Steenekamp, M., 2011, Antjie/Andries Somers: Decoding the bodily inscriptions of a South African folklore character, research report submitted to the University of the Witwatersrand in fulfilment of the requirements of the Master’s degree of Arts, Johannesburg, South Africa. Croeser, C., 2020, A wilting whisper of Antjie Somers: a meditation on the witchery and gender-non-conformance of Afrikaans Folklore Figure Antjie Somers, Scrutiny2, 25(2). Gorelik, B., 2021, Cross-dresser as a bogey: on the gender ambiguity of Antjie Somers in South African folklore, South African Journal of Cultural History, 35(1). (image source 1: Anja Venter) (image source 2: Galago on Deviantart)

[maffickingcowplants]

Day 4 of 7, Fall 2006

As Cassandra shares the latest news with Mortimer — her pregnancy, an unexpected but exciting development in the Goth family — Phil and Gus are stepping into a new chapter of their own. They arrive at school, nervous but eager, and make their way to the principal's office for their first day.

The principal greets them with a warm smile, though they can’t help but notice she seems a bit distracted. After welcoming the twins to the school, the principal hands them their locker assignments and informs them of a career day assembly scheduled for the afternoon. With that, Phil and Gus head off to find their lockers and settle into their day. The morning passes uneventfully, with new faces and classes keeping them busy until lunch.

When the time for the career day assembly arrives, the twins make their way to the auditorium. The first presentation is from a woman in a pinstriped vest and pants, her attire sharp but her words shrouded in ambiguity. She talks around the edges of her career, careful never to directly say what she does, but the subtext is clear — she's involved in something less than legal. Gus listens intently, his brow furrowing as he tries to piece together what she’s really saying. Something about her presentation leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and he finds himself wondering why someone like her is speaking at a school.

As the woman finishes, Phil stays behind to ask more questions, clearly intrigued by the mystery and danger implied in the woman’s words. Gus, however, is already moving on. He walks over to the athletics presentation but finds it lacking in appeal. Just as he’s about to head back to Phil, something — or rather, someone — catches his eye.

Listening to the presentation, is a girl with dark hair tied in pigtails. There’s something about her that reminds Gus of his sister, Cassandra. It’s not just the pigtails, which Cassandra used to wear when she was younger, but something about the girl’s demeanor, her quiet confidence. Gus shakes his head, chalking it up to one of those strange coincidences, but the resemblance lingers in his mind.

Phil joins Gus and they both move on to the chef's booth. The chef, an older man with kind eyes and a flour-dusted chef uniform, is explaining the intricacies of culinary arts, and Phil’s eyes light up with interest. She peppers the chef with questions, wanting to know everything about the profession. For Phil, the idea of creating something beautiful and delicious from scratch is far more enticing than the shadowy world the pinstriped woman hinted at.

As the assembly wraps up, the twins regroup, each carrying new ideas and curiosities from the day. Gus is still pondering the oddity of the criminal presentation and the strange girl who looked like Cassandra, while Phil is already dreaming up a culinary experiment. It's only their first day, but already, the world feels a little bigger and full of possibilities — some unexpected, and some just waiting to be discovered.

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[dirtyoldmanhole]

revelation loveblog with a gunter focus, ch26, 4/4.

this one's the last big one and deals with some really heavy topics, not kidding, so take a drink and/or a break if you need to.

where we left off: corrin defeats gunter.

this is another one of those perfectly framed shots that does such a good job of capturing the emotional subtext.

gunter is cornered.

the big bad divine god that he thought he had (anankos) is silent, leaving him alone to die, watching him as judgmentally in the background as the other royals.

he expects no mercy, still, as a traitor.

there's a bit in my fic (sorry i'll be saying that a lot) where strictly speaking, by nohrian and hoshidan justice codes he'd almost certinally be executed for his actions this day.

remember what I said about the desperation and despair starting to sink in? you really see it here. anankos is still influencing him, but you see the man underneath panic.

gunter has always been prepared (and i truly believe, wanted to) die honorably on the battlefield.

he does not want to die like a cornered animal.

note he's holding a sword now. that's about to get important. (all nohrian knights likely have a sword on them even if they favor lances like he does, or axes.)

Azura starts singing her healing song.

it's a bloody fantastic idea since she's capable of swaying minds with her songstress magic, and it's always been a "good" foil to Anankos' warped magic.

and ....

it's working. partially at least. good on xander for noticing this, too. he's becoming a remarkably decent leader in his own right.

(apologies for the javelin in azura's hand breaking immersion a bit)

the camera angles are exquisite, and absolutely heartbreaking here.

:")

it's notable she doesn't just stop at the bare minimum of what the game outlined as his duties. gunter really went above and beyond in raising her.

(so, yes I have thoughts(tm) about that discipline line, ironically not even in the iddy sense but it's complicated so put a pin for that in a different meta post later.)

that's significant. titles come back.

this time... it's not explicit, but i would bet you cash money it's done out of genuine respect for her, not rote. he's fighting against anankos.

for all of his legitimate resentments, there's that part of him that really does treasure those happy memories.

it's particularly bittersweet/telling considering how much memory is its own traumatic arc for corrin, too, with her mind wipes.

the fact they both hang on so tightly to those moments as an anchor?

...

...

at the last second - he stabs himself with the sword in a fatal disemboweling wound...

...

... and we see black smoke rise out of him in a very explicit gesture that anankos has finally left his mind and body for good, thanks to corrin and azura's efforts.

you ever research disemboweling wounds?

there's a reason why it's consistently ranked up there as one of the ugliest ways to die.

...

(note the title again below)

...

gunter collapses.

...

corrin calls over the healers, and this time, they're able to save him.

...

so.

here's the thing. this is more interpretation/fic stuff, but--

i've always had the long-standing conviction that possession would leave emotional scars remarkably similar to sexual assault given the type of mental violation. (this also had the semi-intentional result of paralleling with Corrin’s mind wipes which is also a violation of a very similar kind. it's a big theme in the fic.)

something else that's a big theme there, and i hope, not without reason, because i see it all over his arc here in revelation - is dignity.

dignity, or the lack thereof.

gunter's a very proud man of his generation; pretty much every time we see him elsewhere in the game there's a consistent focus on control and discipline.

garon was the one that broke him first, but there were many, many instances afterwards that just ground him in the dust, particularly with anankos. here, he doesn't even have the dignity of privacy anymore; he's got the people who he hates the absolute most, watching all of this.

my point here is he is truly at his absolute lowest.

no wonder his endings strongly imply he offs himself after the game.

'revelation's the golden route for everyone' my fucking ass

...

back to the game, sakura/elise heal/stablize him, and he's able to talk again, barely. but at least he's out from under anankos' possession.

here comes the whammers.

gunter decides to come clean.

this isn't for anyone else's benefit. this is just for corrin's.

you know, i just realized. how the hell does he react when he realizes she's a dragon on top of being a thrice-cursed royal? (back eventually when he meets her in the bottomless canyon.)

dragon "anything" (especially with anankos now) was and is going to have some real unpleasant connotations for him.

...

and there it is.

...

"once / was also"

you know, that sure implies garon forced gunter to watch. not just arriving on the aftermath of the scene.

jesus fuck.

....

fuck.

...

...

ngh, that "you all".

yeah, I called it again with that resentment and him absolutely throwing Corrin in there too. it's complicated with her-- there's a reason she's the only one that was able to bring him back at all-- but not for one moment has he ever forgotten that she's a royal too.

here's the other interesting thing. he never tells corrin about his dead wife and kid in conquest's married route with her, even when it's ostensibly "her dad"" that does it.

i don't think it's him being deceptive as much as ... he's satisfied when corrin kills garon, and this is such an old scar that hurts that badly that he just straight up takes it to his grave.

literally the only time we hear is now, against his will.

he bares his soul to you all, and that is you react? jesus, that's tasteless.

fucking christ alive, get your heads out of your arses for once and quit fucking thinking about yourselves.

...

ngh.

..

aaaand there's the other big whammer.

note that he says this when he's not possessed. this isn't anankos twisting a resentment and jacking it sky high to ""debatably"" a falsehood. this is 100% the truth from the horse's mouth.

now, mind, it's not the whole truth.

he would not have let corrin bring him back from the absolute brink if there was nothing but hatreds and resentment - there's undying love, affection, and i genuinely believe, yes devotion there.

but yeah, their relationship is complicated as fuck.

okay, so I've talked before about how this chunk is actually different depending on m!corrin/f!corrin existing in terms of this strongly implying he holds a romantic flame for f!corrin even on revelation's route and not just conquest.

that said that's more of a 'ship manifesto' tangent, and I'd like to focus just on him for this post.

corrin, babe, i don't think you really understand, but props to you for giving a shit. that actually does mean a lot.

we're almost done.

corrin's giving him a remarkably gentle pep talk so he doesn't turn around and disembowel himself again.

that was absolutely the right tack to take.

corrin gets it here. she remembers his family. that more than anything, is what convinces him to stay on for this one last gauntlet to kill anankos for good.

ellipses strike again. given the turmoil he's going through, it makes sense.

...

there'll be one shorter post capturing everything end/post-game, but nothing to this degree.

thanks for reading.

[takami-takami]

A Dog Unfed.

includes— hawks x reader. angst. hurt/comfort.

warnings— animal abuse analogy. discussion of drugs and cravings. be warned and avoid this if you need. sorry for spoiling the subtext lol, but it needs a tw. though, i encourage you to apply this however you feel it apply.

perhaps we all have a dog.

Did you ever tell him?

The fullest extent of it all, the thorny vines that adorn your past— more bondage than decoration, a dragging weight against your throat and up your nasal cavity. A growth, an infestation, a plague on your subconscious.

It is a dog you unwittingly adopted— a drooling rottweiler that smacks its jaws and begs and paws at your thighs, pleading to you each night: "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Please feed me, I'm hungry."

Everyone who has ever seen your dog has mistaken you for it.

Everyone who has seen your dog has peered down their pudgy little noses, muttered "mutt", spit it and clinked their heels away; or perhaps they simply looked on in sneers of smiling horror, down past their clutching pearls.

"This is you? By god, my goodness! An animal, an animal!"

You used to hate your dog.

You used to lock it in chains outside, let its fleshy paws burn and blister against the cement in the heat of the blaring sun. You grew tired of feeding it, of crushing up its kibble, of leaving it out to dry then quenching its bottomless thirst.

Now you just sit with it.

You sit by its side with your knees to your chest, listening to the cicadas chirp their prayers. Some days, you even let your back burn against the molten floor, a grounding heat while you lie down flat; but every day, every position, your eyes always remain locked on it.

You stare as it rests on its side, fusing to the glistening cement. You listen to its keening whines and dying breaths with a familiar pity and an unbearable disgust.

You blink, unfeeling again now.

You're sure it will never die, no matter how many hours it spends dying.

You never wanted to show Keigo your dog; even though a part of you is screaming and begging to present it to him. A gift from your innards, dirty in the palms of your blistering hands.

Keigo is just like everyone else, you assume. He is kind, he is gentle, he is an angel among men and he is the exact same as everyone else.

You've come to realize a person's good qualities— openmindedness, kindness, empathy— mean nothing in the face of what one is taught. No one is immune to propaganda, and there is no shortage of that nowadays against people with dogs.

The part that makes you doubt your assumptions is this: Keigo has honey in his eyes. Flicks of gold specks dust along the amber of his irises, a sticky kind of love swimming in them that drips down to his lopsided and infuriatingly safe smile.

You could never fathom his nose upturned, as he has been on the ground too many times to do that to another; nor could you picture a sneer from a mouth as sweet as his, honeysuckle and gentle, bright yellow.

So one night, you allow it to spill, hoping for him to soak up your blue one last time.

It's not uncommon for you to spend the dim of your nights at Keigo's home— his real home, the one the commission has never barged themselves in, the one he keeps hidden from every soul in this world but one.

It is uncommon for him to listen to the water of his shower run for several hours.

If you had feathers as sharply perceptive as his, you'd detect the nervous pacing of his leather boots against the carpet of his bedroom floor, even through the sheetrock that separates the two of you. The patter of the showerhead is far too consistent for his liking, very little movement being detected at all and his mind is bouncing off countless possibilities while sticking to none.

Those worries overflow from the cup of his bleating heart, bleeding when he turns sharply toward the bathoom door, resolute.

With a barely audible thud, his forehead traps golden strands between it and the wooden door it rests against.

He doesn't ask you if you're okay. Keigo never bothers with questions he already knows the answer to.

"Baby, open the door. Please," he begs. "I promise, it's okay— just need to be with you. Please."

The song of your sobs muffled through the door causes his feathers to sting an unbearable itch.

How his heart is just as red as those wings. It begins to drip, the string connecting him to you pulled too far for him to take. It— he needs to be with you right now.

A palm slides up the plane, resting firm by his cheek. The air of his breath hits the wood, fogging back against his lips.

"Please, let me in?"

His hopes blossom in the heavy pause that follows.

"...The door's unlocked," you answer.

Keigo knows. He could have pried it open in a heartbeat with a single feather even if it was locked, but trust and respect are precious commodities. They are irreplaceable, yet entirely and easily breakable.

Slowly, the knob creaks open, the careful movement still startling your spine stiff. The heels of your feet gently propel you backwards, firmer against the icy wall at the furthermost corner of the shower. The expanse is wide enough to accomodate fierce wings, wide enough to swallow your comparitively puny body in its open jaws.

Curled in on yourself, soaked, and trembling; this is what Keigo sees when he enters the room. This is what he sees when he dashes over, mumbling words you don't quite catch— some are familiar. "Dove", "sweetheart", "oh, my baby."

Down, he kneels by your side under the pour of the synthetic rain. The fabric of his shirt clings to his skin now, hair soaked just like yours; a wet dog all the same.

And with your tears plopping down against the flat tile, scratched knees held to your chest, you allow it to spill.

It spills through the hiccups, it spills through the wet of your cheeks; and above all, it finally spills through your confession, nose upturned to look up at his shaky gaze.

"Oh, angel..."

You can hear the palpable crack of his beating heart in that voice; but even if you didn't, the rustle of scarlet feathers that puff out in protection give his wounds away.

Keigo busies himself with a racing thought: how could he not notice the signs? He knew there were secrets nestled in the cavity of your ribcage, tandrils of some sort of ivy even he couldn't quite recognize.

You have a weight. Shackles chaining you to be left out in the midday sun.

He could tell. It's not the same as his— it's another flavor, another disease, another beast of its own— but in the most abstract of ways, Keigo could see it: you're just like him.

"Why didn't you tell me," he rasps, cupping your cheeks with shaky palms. They tap and squish like they're searching for signs— distress, hurt, anything.

You smile a mimicry of his, pulled from your most precious memories, and silently beg for that wobbly smile back; but it does not come. Instead, his eyes begin to shine, glassy and wet.

You've never seen him cry before.

You've never felt as desperate for his yellow as you do now, but you have felt this pathetic and small, once. You have felt like an animal, desperate to be domesticated— a synonym for loved.

"Y-You don't need to worry! I'm good, I'm still clean, see? See?"

As if that's the only thing that matters, you tip your chin towards him to offer your pupils as proof.

Such a gesture may shatter hearts, and Keigo is but a man. Despite it all, he is but a man.

He declines the offer, your words more than enough for him— his body opts to tackle you in an embrace instead, clutching your skull close to his hammering chest.

With each wide-eyed blink, the droplets resting on your lashes flick onto his chest. The soaked strands of your hair cling to him, both bodies drenched now by the roaring downpour above.

Water cascades in heaps onto the floor below. It never stops.

With your cheek pressed against his sternum, his scent invades your senses. He smells like cedarwood cologne and thickets of the forest, a warm signature. It matches his labored breaths: sturdy and weighty and masculine.

"I thought you wouldn't see me as a person anymore," you confess.

He hushes your worries as your eyes flutter shut, kissing the crown of your head with unwavering pride.

"Dove... You're my person."

Keigo thumbs away your tears and pulls back to offer you a wobbly smile.

You offer your own in return— a real one, too, this time.

---

The greatest advice you've ever been told was "don't start".

The words felt feeble at the time, like a joke passed down through unproductive seminars in high school out the mouths of stuffy men in suits, men who spoke of the boogeyman and jumped out behind chairs.

It meant nothing at the time.

It means everything now.

It helps you explain a little better to people who've never had a dog.

The words "don't start" are a language they do not speak; and yet, it helps to say it to their mirrored face, to imagine the breadth of your world could be pressed compact into those two tidy little words.

Talking to yourself helps you pretend you're understood.

Even though it is not necessary to be understood before you can be loved:

Don't start.

[liliallowed]

I'm surprised Y/N didn't ask how the Player got caught by Dust in the first place, maybe we should ask?

this takes place before the reset lending btw

"how did he capture you? I was confused for a moment... he grabbed my soul, let go and then... just... told me to leave?"

"oh wait wait wait... he let you LEAVE? after taking me from you? and you STILL came down here? wow what a gentleman. I didn't know he had mercy left in him."

"what do YOU MEAN TAKE YOU FROM ME!?"

"oh yeah... I forgot to mention I've been hanging out in your soul and possessing your body for like... five days. cuz I was jealous if all the attention he was giving you"

"he KIDNAPPED me! YOU'RE JEALOUS OF BEING KIDNA- wait, possession? SO HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH!? but... I didn't FEEL possessed!"

"that's cuz I made sure to act like you silly~ so our wills were synced up until you decided to STAY instead of leaving. honestly? I didn't expect YOU to want to stay."

"I wanted to see if there were more people he kidnapped! I couldn't just stand by!"

"you clearly don't value your own life when the shady serial killer gives you an out. glad to know me and him are not the only one with loose screws."

"you don't GET TO COMPARE ME TO yourself."

"I don't? you're clearly head over heels for him you simp. I'd say I share that sentiment buuuut with a murderous subtext."

"it's not like that... he... he could have done much worse... could have killed or tortured me, stolen all my money or..."

"oh you're still in shock and in a coping mechanism. trying to justify his act. youre not in love you're SCARED aren't you? your mind is trying to calm you down by twisting logic. wait till you watch him slice off his own brothers head like it's butter HAHAHAHAHAHA! I wonder if you'll still find a way to justify it!"

"you're... you're a fucking psycho."

"of course I am! though I'll let you know not all psychopaths are like this and the social stigma around them is bullshit."

"that- no I didn't mean that you're mentally- THAT'S BESIDES THE POINT! YOU'RE FUCKING EVIL! "

"damn right I am. impressed? I can show you SOO MUCH WORSE HUN you better lower your expectations from me and him. because from the looks of it? he only use you to get back at me and capture me."

"... I... he said it was to protect-"

"awww did he tell you you're SPECIAL? that he likes you? that you make his soul flutter in his chest? what a gasslighting asshole~ I did learn from the best hehehe. besides! even if he actually likes you, are you really planning on being his PET or exp storage?"

"wh-what!?"

"he's going to kill you if you stay with himmmm. make you a part of him in his LV~ I can show you if you like! in fact, go ahead and let him trap me again. live your lovey dovey life but when he KILLS you? you'll know I wasn't lying."

"he WOULDN'T."

"hm? you say as if you know him better than me. why are you so sure? because he pet you go once?"

"I don't know what history you two have but I don't plan on dying to him."

"oh? alright! let's see if you can keep that spirit up"

[chainsawmascara]

My favorite way to befriend people is either accidentally jutting into an overheard conversation with relevant input or strike up a conversation over something through a minor statement/compliment, snowball that into a genuine conversation (participants willing), and plainly state "we're friends now."

There is no subtext here, there is no questioning whether or not i enjoy your company or conversation. No, we are friends now. This is a plain statement. Be assured i mean it with all of my heart.

This is how I've met nearly all of my dearest friends. Friends of the past month, friends of the last decade, friends from youth, friends from a few years. We're friends now. Never question whether or not i consider you someone close to me or someone with whom it's worth interacting. It is. I've decided so. You can back out. You can correct me, I will accept being wrong and rescind my statement.

However, if you do not, we are friends now. I will have your 6. I will listen to you. I will be right here. I may be tired but i will read what you send eventually. I will not question you when you ask, fearfully, if i can send you $10 on cashapp for crackers and ginger ale if you're sick so long as I'm able. I will not leave you in the dust should we find ourselves at different points in life. You are still with me, we will catch up when time permits. That changes nothing.

We are friends now.

My loyalty is yours until you give reason for me to believe it's misplaced. And i assure you, new friend, it will take a hell of a lot for you to do so. I give many chances and offer great patience.

We are friends now.

It can be a quick, excited three sentences on a shared interest.

We are friends now.

I'm in your corner.