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anaktoria-of-the-moon · 1 month ago

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As an addendum to my last handler/pilot dynamic post, consider the found family dynamic:

You became a handler to find your baby sister, whom you know only was taken from your arms twelve years ago by a man bearing the Collective’s red-winged eagle on his shoulder, whom you’ve never seen again. (That is the way it goes with children who show promise for the pilot program - some call it destiny, others law, still others stealing; you don’t care to put a word to it, but you won’t rest till you’ve seen it undone.)

Your first pilot dies in a day, your second in a week. This too is the way it goes. Not every promising child becomes a proven soldier. Some blades shatter in the tempering: metal too poor, fire too hot.

You say the lines: Hunt there, Go north, Well done, Not yet, Wait here, Go home, Glory to the Collective - a litany in which you don’t believe. Now your pilots last longer before they die (missile strikes, overtaxed reactors, and each time you hurt a little less, and whisper thanks that they are not your sister, at least). Weeks before the next, then months, then years - how many? - you’ve long since stopped counting the days, for each that passes without finding what you seek is one that may as well not have come at all.

Then one day as you murmur the lines in your loyal hound’s ear a shriek pierces the sterile peace of your ivory tower, and your world erupts in flame. They’ve found where you direct from through some trick of triangulation; they’ve brought down an orbital strike, right upon you.

You wake amid the ruins to the screech of missiles, the groan of metal and shattering ceramic plating. And in your ear the first sound your pilot has ever made: a long, unbroken scream.

You watch her pick up the enemy and tear it in half, in a burst of steel and sparks, and then you are gone again.

When you wake next she is carrying you, strangely, gingerly, balanced atop her gun arm and held in place with her machete. You struggle upright and she grinds to a halt. They taught you early on how to work the emergency hatch from the outside; you do, now, and see to your shock that the pilot is just a scrap, a red-eyed white-bleached little thing tangled in too many strangling black cords, crying piteously, starved.

You needed her then. She needs you now.

So you unwrap her from the coffin of synthetics and wiring and carry her, cumbersome, down from the cockpit. While she thrashes in your arms (not used to the touch of mortal flesh, doubtless, not used to being so small and soft and terribly mortal at all), you reach into your still-intact coat and fish for the last snack there and feed it to her (gently, gently, she isn’t used to much besides intubated protein slop) and wait for the flutter of her chest to slow a little before you go on.

The sound of running water nets you a quiet pool to bathe in. She struggles too when you unzip her suit - she is like a wild animal, kicking and biting and scratching - you repeat the same soft assurances from your radio, Wait here, Easy, Don’t shoot yet, and she stills, and though there is a little blood on you you feel it’s a triumph. You guide her to the pool and then turn and walk five paces away, just far enough to know you can run back in case you hear her start to flail too much - or not at all.

It takes a few tries, getting her to figure out how to bathe. But by the fourth night she at least comes out free of that old coating of sweat and tears and machine lubricants, smelling no longer of grease and oil, and by the tenth night she sits and lets you untangle the long fall of her hair.

It is an ugly meager white, this hair, like the rest of her, skin and all, only her eyes that same strange red. This is how you think you know she is not your sister, who had the same rich loam brown skin you do - or perhaps this is just how pilots look; perhaps they are all bleached by their cockpits like plants in lightless winter.

She doesn’t speak, your pilot, they never do, they only ever growl or shriek or hiss or groan. They did not need to speak in the cockpit; you understand that somehow they and the mechs speak without talking, that it must be part of the dullness in her eyes that she has lost that way of speaking, for her mech has run out of fuel after a fortnight and, though you have worked out how to articulate its legs by sheer force and a bit of cleverly tied wire (so that you can walk it alongside the two of you as you go), you cannot manage to get it to wake again. So in the long hungry evening you try to teach her another way of speaking, with her hands and not her mouth.

You speak to her still, of course, as you always have, using the same soft key-in phrases you’ve always done (throwing in new words here and there, signing them at the same time). You understand now that you were never really talking to her to talk, but to soothe, the way you lull babies in the cradle. It is slow going, even so. At first you do not think she even listens. She does not look at your hands. She stares somewhere past you, out at the stars, or the next ridge, and does not move at all.

But on the hundredth day that changes. She looks suddenly, sharply, at you while you roast your catch over the fire, and she signs, Sun.

Sun? you sign back, heart racing.

Sun, she says. Sun rabbit. Sun rabbit food.

Another forty days and you find out Rabbit is the name of her mech.

In winter you come across the burned-out remains of an enemy outpost. Your pilot is off like a shot, and against your instinct you do not call out to her or give chase. Sure enough, she comes back, arms full of thin sheets that glitter like obsidian.

Sun food! she signs, hands shaky (she still is not used to such delicate gestures - in her mech, all her movements were big and sharp and final). Rabbit food!

The next days are spent swaddling Rabbit in the salvaged panels, and then, on the seventh day after you arrive at the ruins - in the midst of the coldest night yet - something inside the mech’s infernal innards chirps, and beeps, and comes to life.

That isn’t the only thing that wakes. Turns out dormant drones in this outpost have sensors tuned to mech handshakes.

It’s too late to run. You yell, RABBIT!, and you throw yourself over your pilot in the middle of her still-open cockpit, right as the drones converge upon you, and your world becomes day-bright.

You wake to find it is still night. Your leg aches. In the light of smoldering embers, your pilot shakes you. Tears glitter on her face like ice. Behind her you see Rabbit - the smoking hulk, having awoken just enough to sync with her pilot and turn and shield you both.

Your pilot signs, You not dead.

I’m not dead, you sign back, and now you begin to cry too, for the first time in twelve years. I’m not dead.

Rabbit dead, she signs. And you cling to each other and her little body (so stunted it is the size of a girl some twelve years old, despite that you know pilots are only enlisted at fifteen) wracks with sobs, over and over.

But in the morning, once her crying has subsided enough for her to fall asleep, you untangle yourself from her and go limping down into the ruins and wrap up your leg, and then you find yourself something approximating a screwdriver.

She finds you deep in the corpse of Rabbit. She is angry, maybe, by the look on her face - maybe she thinks you are desecrating the grave. Hastily you hold up your prize, and she falters - doesn’t recognize it.

Rabbit, you sign. Rabbit head. Rabbit - Rabbit soul.

Soul? She clearly doesn’t know the word. Nobody has ever told it to her. Of course.

You shake your head in frustration and gesture her over, and she comes, haltingly.

You carefully part the hair at the base of her neck. You slip the little black disc into the waiting slot.

It takes a moment. Then - oh then -

She nearly collapses into you. Her sobbing is louder than ever before, and her fingers are a shuddering outburst, over and over, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

You don’t wander anymore. The ruins where you found the solar panels have cans and cans of preserved food hidden in some abandoned Doomsday bunker, turns out, and when those run out there are many animals you know you’ll be able to hunt here - you see their burrows and footprints in the thawing snow already. And as the sun grows stronger, you have noticed a little streak of black in your pilot’s white braid.

She chatters to Rabbit all day, every day. At least you think so - you see nothing, hear nothing, but she wanders the grounds with you (your limp growing ever more sure, thanks to a splint you made in the aftermath of the drones) and she helps you festoon the little makeshift hut you’re putting together with solar panels, and by turns she smiles, or frowns, or laughs suddenly, a bright peal undimmed by the closeness of any cockpit. Down in the middle of the village the old body of Rabbit lies still and steady, a little majestic in a forlorn way, you think.

Come spring you find yourself settling between the legs of Old Rabbit, New Rabbit and Beetle (thus your pilot has named herself, after her other favorite sort of animal) tucked happily against your arm; she has filled out much since you first pulled her from her cockpit and now eats the fish you roast for her with great enjoyment, smacking her lips and humming. When you are done she turns to look up at you.

Yes, Beetle? you ask her, aloud and with hands.

Will they find us? she asks you.

No, you tell her honestly. You lost your trackers that day in the fire, burned out of the tower in which you sat; to the Collective you are as good as dead. So is Rabbit now that her body has been torn apart, her disc removed. And the Collective doesn’t come back for expendables, for rusted blades they can no longer use. (Above you, flowers sway in the hollows of Rabbit’s arm cannons.)

Will you leave me? she asks you next.

You pause. You say, Do you want me to?

This is not in pilot vocabulary, to be asked a question. She has to pause also to take in what you’ve just done.

Then she says, No, never, and, If you do, I’ll go looking for you.

Like you went looking all those years ago, no? When did it change? You told yourself then: She’s lost out there somewhere; I must find her, or die trying. Now you look at the little girl beside you and you think, Maybe you were the lost one all along. Maybe you’ve found each other.

You ask her, Why do you say you’d look for me?

She considers this. After a long moment, she says, You had an order for me. At the end of every hunt. Told me where to go. I could not ever stop going until I got there, and I am there now, and if it goes away from me then I will have to go looking for it again.

She looks at you straight on, now, with eyes that reflect the night sky. It occurs to you that maybe this is her way of, at last, trying to give you a name; you forgot yours the moment you joined the force, for you weren’t interested in personalizing yourself to anyone, especially not the short-lived pilots, who didn’t need your name anyway, only your title, Handler.

You say, What do you mean?

She smiles. It’s you, she says. This place. The place is you.

You know now, but you need her to say it, the way she needed you to say those things back then, to keep her going, to keep her from going mad. So you ask her, What is the place?

She smiles again. In the darkness, an owl hoots.

She says, Home.

#mech #mechposting #mecha #mechs #original fic #mech pilot #pilot/handler #not romantic #found family #empty spaces #microfiction

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teslacoils-and-hubris · 2 years ago

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ok wait so is it the radio tower like... is a girl???? or has the soul of a girl?? Or is it more literal where it's like someone literally stuck a real girl into a radio tower. Or both, fnaf style...?

Long answer here

Short answer is the radio tower is semi alive and conscious and has a broadcast room at the bottom with an actual human girl literally trapped inside. Well, she can go outside but there's not much land outside the tower so there's really no where else for her to go

#asks #world of loam

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spindlesaurus-rex · 8 months ago

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Every episode of Call the Midwife

Narrator: In Autumn, all souls feel the rot but the rot allows flowers to grow and spring will come again. The war absolutely hollowed out communities but also there was jam. Nonnatus house had nuns in it but they were cool nuns. As the weather turned, those in need were ever more vulnerable and we did what we could.

Trixie: I cannot fix this with rouge, Matthew *perky hair toss*

Sister Monica Joan: Aristotle had heard of glaucoma, why won't anybody listen to me, also I've sat on the swiss roll.

Sister Julienne: Nonnatus house may be repossessed/ demolished/ infested with weevils. Our future is uncertain, but damnit the women of Poplar need us.

The Irish One: I love coloured tights but also I've done the autoclave

Harrowing music begins as we watch an unwed teen mother/ man addicted to meth/ victim of some sort of domestic horror/ woman with pre-ecclampsia

Nurse Crane: There you go lass

Harrowing storyline is briefly featured again but also there's a pregnant dog in Nonnatus House.

Dr Turner: Let's give her Pethidine, also I'm progressive about (insert topical issue here)

Sister Julienne: Nonnatus House is a metaphor for the morals of this country and that's why we're going to the dogs

Random Nurse: Actually sister Julienne I think we should teach teenagers about contraception

Sister Monica Joan: We simply must have compline now

Compline and the harrowing storyline (which has now reached its apex through either a harrowing birth scene or some other medical procedure) are now interspersed in a way that is troublingly close to saying suffering is fine actually because Jesus.

Sheelagh: Oh Patrick

The harrowing storyline is now resolved, often with some more voiceover that references the vagaries of the turning world

Trixie: Matthew, I have solved it. And I have put on rouge. I can have it all except a consistent haircut.

Fred: The dog's had puppies, and this will save Nonnatus house.

Narrator: In the worst and dank places, in the creeping dread of the dark soil and the night loam, even as the rotting leaves seep in, there too is love and life. Also someone had a revelation. The end.

#trixie #Sheelagh Turner #call the midwife #period drama #putting the drama in period drama #sometimes compline will solve your ills #if your ills are not having compline #Dr Turner #sister Monica Joan #sister julienne #Matthew #who could say what his last name is #nurse crane #the lovely Irish one whose name I have never known #parody #but is it though

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scarsnfevers · 28 days ago

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Amber eyes

Chapter II of Wolfgang

summary: as you took a walk through the forest, you finally found traces of a pack near a lake in the heart of the forest. You quickly realized that the earlier encounter with the pizza delivery guy had not been a coincidence. There was a pack here—hidden, powerful—and now, they knew you had seen them.

genre: werewolf!stray kids x werewolf!reader x werewolf!minho

chapter word count: 4,6k

chapter warnings: none

Two days had passed since the encounter. Yet the memory lingered, refusing to fade like mist beneath the morning sun. You could still recall the scent that had hit you the moment you’d opened the door—an intoxicating blend of jasmine and warm, resinous cedarwood. It had caught you off guard, striking a chord deep in your instincts, and you hadn't expected the magnetic pull that followed. He was a Beta, that much had been immediately clear, but there was something more—something in his eyes, in the way he looked at you. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. You weren’t sure.

And now, the thought of him crept back into your mind like ivy on stone. You stood at your front door, breathing in the morning air. The sky was a muted silver, the clouds swollen and heavy, but no rain had yet fallen. There was a calmness in the air, the kind that always came before a storm, as if the world itself was holding its breath. You needed to clear your thoughts, and so you turned away from the house and stepped onto the forest path, drawn by something you couldn’t quite name.

The woods embraced you in their hush, broken only by the wind whispering through pine needles and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush. Your boots crunched softly over a carpet of damp moss and fallen leaves. Birds called to one another in the high canopy above, their cries distant and melodic. Here, the air was thicker, scented of loam and pine resin, touched by the wild magic that always seemed to hum just beneath the surface of the forest. The deeper you went, the more the world outside faded—replaced by the rhythm of the woods, by the pulse of the earth underfoot.

Since you’d arrived, the silence had become your constant companion. No distant traffic, no city sirens. And, surprisingly, no howls. For days now, the forest had kept its secrets. No late-night calls through the trees, no signs of others. At first, it had unsettled you, but now... now you found solace in it. For the first time in years, you weren’t surrounded by the press of unfamiliar wolves, weren’t overwhelmed by the heavy presence of other Alphas and their ceaseless energy. You were alone, and that was a kind of peace you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly.

The weight of the past weeks—the move, the adjustment, the unspoken tension of being something other wolves often feared—had finally begun to loosen its grip on your shoulders. Out here, no one expected anything of you. No dominance games. No political maneuvering. No power struggles. Just you, and the trees, and the sound of your own breath. You’d found a rhythm again, a quiet cadence in your days that felt like healing. You were finally beginning to feel like yourself. Your thoughts drifted again—to that moment. His eyes. Dark and striking, holding a question neither of you had dared to voice. You shook your head, trying to dismiss it, but the pull remained, buried in your chest like a spark caught in dry tinder. You’d felt it instantly. That awareness. That connection. A recognition of something you couldn’t quite name.

The trail narrowed, winding deeper into the forest. The trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks mottled with lichen, their limbs stretching toward the gray sky. Mist had begun to gather, curling around the underbrush like soft fingers. It clung to your clothes and hair, brushing cool against your skin. The temperature dropped slightly, and the scent of rain grew stronger. It was quiet here, but not empty. You could feel the life teeming all around you—birds in the canopy, a fox watching from the brambles, the slow breath of the forest itself. You let your fingers trail across the rough bark of a tree as you passed, grounding yourself. The silence out here wasn’t cold—it was alive. It wrapped around you like a blanket, a sanctuary carved from time and untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. You moved slowly, deliberately, following no path in particular. Just moving, breathing, feeling.

After a time, the path opened up, and you found yourself standing at the edge of a small, mist-covered lake. The water was still, a mirror of dull pewter, and the fog clung low over its surface, thick enough to blur the opposite bank. Reeds whispered against the breeze, and the quiet was so complete that your own breath felt like an intrusion. The place felt untouched, sacred somehow. Like you had stumbled into a forgotten memory.

You stepped closer to the shore, the earth beneath your feet damp and cool. Droplets of condensation clung to the tips of the reeds and to your lashes, and your breath fogged gently in the chilled air. Your eyes scanned the edges of the lake. And then you saw them—prints.

Pawprints, large and distinct, pressed deep into the mud.

You crouched, heart suddenly thrumming in your chest. There were several, overlapping and trailing along the shoreline, disappearing into the trees beyond. A pack. No doubt about it. The spacing, the variation in size—it wasn’t just a lone wolf. They’d been here, maybe only hours ago. The prints were fresh, the edges still crisp. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself. You’d come here for solitude, for peace. Not to find signs of a pack moving through your backyard. Yet there was something about the discovery that didn’t strike fear into you. Instead, it sent a shiver up your spine, the kind born not of dread, but of awareness. You weren’t as alone as you thought.

You stood and looked across the mist-covered lake. Somewhere out there, they were watching. Or maybe not. Maybe they had come and gone without even knowing you were near. But part of you doubted that. If they were wolves, they’d know. They’d scent you, feel the presence of another. And if they hadn’t come to meet you... it meant they were choosing to stay hidden.

The mist curled around your ankles like ghostly tendrils, and the breeze carried a scent you couldn’t quite place—earth, bark, something vaguely feral. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. The chill of the mist had crept beneath your clothes, but you didn’t move. You stood there a while longer, staring into the fog, wondering if he—if they—were out there. A bird called sharply in the distance, breaking the stillness, and the spell shattered. You blinked, stepped back, and glanced once more at the tracks before turning away from the lake.

Eventually, you followed the path home, but your senses remained sharpened, your every step more alert. The wind had picked up slightly, rattling the bare branches above, and the clouds had thickened into a deeper shade of gray. You knew you should feel wary. You knew that being a lone Alpha in unknown territory was always a risk. But instead of fear, there was only that persistent awareness. Something had shifted in the quiet. Something unseen. You weren’t sure what it meant yet.

But the forest was no longer silent.

The forest whispered beneath the hush of the early morning, its voice weaving through the trees like a forgotten hymn. Shadows stretched long and deep as the pack moved fluidly between them, shapes of fur and breath and silence—ghosts carved of muscle and instinct. Minho ran near the front, his paws soundless against the moss-carpeted floor, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the thrum of the earth.

The cool air flowed over his fur like water, catching in the thick, dark brown coat that lined his lean frame. The morning sun, breaking through the clouds, pierced the canopy in fractured beams, brushing over him in flashes—amber eyes glinting like embers in the half-dark, always alert, always watching. They’d left the lake behind nearly an hour ago, a still pool of silver mist nestled in the woods like a secret. At the time, Minho hadn’t thought twice about it. The forest was vast, and the lake was only a marker, a midpoint between where they’d come from and where they were going. But now—now something hung in the air.

A scent. Subtle. Barely there. But impossible to ignore.

The wind carried it gently at first, threading through the bracken and pine with almost reverent fingers. Minho’s stride faltered, not enough to draw attention, just enough to let the shift ripple through his limbs. He slowed, lifted his muzzle slightly, and breathed in deep.

Lilac.

Wildflowers crushed beneath rain-soaked footsteps. Lightning split through humid skies. And beneath it all, the unmistakable thread of power—Her. It wasn’t strong, but the scent still lingered, soft and persistent, like a dream refusing to be forgotten.

Ahead of him, Hyunjin’s silver form began to slow as well. The Beta turned his head, ears pricking forward and locked eyes with Minho across the clearing. They didn’t speak—not in words. But the exchange was clear. A subtle tilt of Hyunjin’s head. The way his tail stilled, just slightly. The faint tension in his shoulders, like a bowstring drawn and waiting. Minho met his gaze evenly. His mind, even in this form, was calculating. Curious. Not afraid, not exactly. But aware. The scent wasn’t dangerous—yet it had marked the air like a fingerprint, and Minho didn’t ignore fingerprints. Especially not ones that left Hyunjin looking like that.

They held each other’s stare for a heartbeat longer, then Minho gave a slight twitch of his tail and turned forward again, his muscles coiling before he pushed off the earth with silent grace. Hyunjin followed without hesitation, his silver form a blur beside Minho’s darker frame, weaving between trees with practiced ease. The run carried on, fluid and soundless. Paws whispered over stone and root, and though Minho’s body moved with the same effortless grace as always, his mind drifted.

Back to the lake, still and shrouded in fog. Back to the wind, and the way it had shifted, just barely. Back to a presence that didn’t belong. He hated loose ends. Scent trails without faces. Words left unsaid. And this one—this Alpha—was more than a curiosity. They were an imprint. A question curled inside Hyunjin’s silence. One Minho couldn’t ignore. He knew Chan wouldn’t approve. The other Alpha had made his stance clear two nights ago, at the long table where candles burned low. Strangers weren’t to be engaged—not now, not like this.

Minho understood that. He respected it. He respected Chan. But he was an Alpha as well. And there were times when duty meant more than following orders. And tonight, that meant stepping off the path. At nightfall, he’d know who had touched the wind with wildflowers and lilac and why it had changed everything.

The night had fallen with a quiet solemnity that blanketed the forest in silver and shadow. The trees stood tall and unmoving, their silhouettes jagged against a sky spangled with stars. A full moon hung high above the canopy, glowing like a pale eye in the heavens, casting its ethereal light over the dark woods below. The air was still, holding that peculiar crispness only found in the dead of night, and every sound—every flutter of wings, every rustle of leaves—was sharpened in the quiet.

A lone wolf moved silently between the trees.

His coat, thick and dark as the soil beneath him, shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Muscles coiled beneath his fur with each fluid stride, and his breath rose in faint clouds from his snout, evaporating as soon as it met the cold night air. Eyes like molten amber flicked from shadow to shadow, focused yet alert, as if expecting something to rise from the dark at any moment.

Minho.

Even in his wolf form, the name lived within him. A heartbeat. A thought. A tether to who he truly was beneath the fur and fang. His paws barely made a sound against the soft earth, the thick blanket of pine needles and moss muffling each step. He moved like a phantom—silent, swift, and solitary. And yet, unlike the many times before when he had taken this form, there was something… different tonight. Something he couldn’t shake off, no matter how deep he buried it under instinct, scent and the rhythm of running. A strange tension clung to his spine, like static before a storm. Excitement?

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t explain it. There was no danger he could sense. No prey he hunted. But something within him stirred with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. His thoughts—wild and scattered in this form—kept circling around the same memory. The same scent. Her. The girl.

The one Hyunjin had spoken of in hushed tones and lingering looks. The one John had sold the old cabin to—the same cabin Minho was now moving toward with an urgency he couldn't fully justify. The forest grew denser as he moved further from the path. The trees leaned closer together, their branches tangled like clasped hands, allowing only thin slashes of moonlight to filter through. Shadows danced on the undergrowth as he weaved his way deeper into the woods, his breath coming a little faster now. His ears flicked back for a moment—something in the night whispered to him. Not words, not danger. Just… presence. The forest always spoke, in its own way. Tonight, its voice was hushed and reverent, like it too waited for something to happen.

Minho slowed as he approached a rise in the land. He paused at the crest of a small hill, his body low, ears high, nostrils flaring. The scent was faint, carried on the breeze—woodsmoke, pine, something soft beneath it. Something human. His heart thudded in his chest. He hadn’t realized how fast it was beating until now.

Carefully, he crept forward, the soil damp beneath his paws. He moved like a shadow between the trunks, eyes trained on the thinning line of trees ahead. Then—

A glimmer.

Faint, golden light flickered through the distant branches. There it was. The cabin.

It appeared slowly, revealed piece by piece as he crept closer—first the stone chimney, then the slanted roof, and finally the wooden frame that sat like a lonely sentinel at the edge of the forest. The warm glow from the window spilled across the clearing, a stark contrast to the cool silver of the moonlight. It looked… out of place here. Like a dream. Or a memory. Minho stopped just beyond the treeline, half-shrouded in shadow. His breath caught. Something about the sight stirred something deep within him—an ache, almost. Not pain. Not longing. But something adjacent to both. A memory not his own. A thread tugging at his instincts.

He had never seen the place before. Not in person. And yet, standing here, staring at the cabin with its golden window and smoke curling from its chimney, he felt as though he’d been here a hundred times before. As though something waited for him inside. As though someone did. His ears swiveled forward, and he took another step. Then another. The light from the window cast a soft glow over the front porch, illuminating a worn wooden door and the old rocking chair beside it. There was movement inside—soft, barely perceptible shadows shifting behind the curtains. Someone was there. Awake.

Minho’s tail flicked once behind him. He should leave. He told himself that.

There was no reason to be here. Not really. But something stronger had pulled him here, something that had nothing to do with logic or reason. The scent again—subtle, but unmistakable. Warm. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

Her.

He lowered his body to the earth, lying down just at the edge of the trees, eyes fixed on the cabin. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud, as if afraid the night itself would betray his presence. His ears twitched, catching the faint sounds from inside—the creak of floorboards, the low hum of a voice. A song, maybe. Or a whisper. Time passed slowly. The moon had climbed higher, casting silver light like spilled milk across the forest floor. Crickets sang somewhere in the distance, their steady rhythm weaving into the pulse of the woods. Minho remained still. He didn’t know what he was waiting for.

But he waited.

The night wrapped around him like a second skin, cool and constant. His heartbeat had slowed, but the tension remained—a coiled thing beneath his ribs. Why did this matter? Why couldn’t he look away? He blinked, slowly. His gaze softened as he watched the window, the way the curtain moved slightly with the breeze from inside. The glow from the fire flickered and shifted, casting shadows against the glass.

And for a moment—

A silhouette appeared. A figure standing by the window. Feminine. Still. Minho’s breath hitched.

Her?

He couldn’t be sure. But something in him surged forward, instinctually, pulling him to his feet. He took a step out from the shadows, one paw crunching lightly on the frosted grass. The figure turned slightly. Minho froze. Golden light spilled over the figure’s face, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of soft features and eyes that seemed to stare directly into the trees. Maybe at him. She didn’t move. Neither did he. For a long heartbeat, everything was still.

Then the curtain fell back into place, and the figure was gone.

Minho stood alone again, half-shadowed beneath the moonlight. His heart pounded now, thundering in his chest like a war drum. His breath came faster, shallow. His body trembled—not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. Something that left his limbs restless and his mind hazy.

He backed away slowly, vanishing once more into the shadows of the forest. But he didn’t run. Not yet.

He circled the clearing at a distance, eyes still locked on the light in the window, watching. Waiting. Wondering what it was about this place—about her—that stirred something so primal in him. And why it scared him as much as it thrilled him. He stayed until the firelight dimmed. Until the forest was still again. Until only the moon bore witness to the lone wolf who watched from the shadows, silent and waiting, heart thudding with something that felt very much like fate.

And then—

A sound cut through the silence like a blade.

A low, rising howl in the distance. Raw. Sharp. Familiar. Minho stiffened. His ears turned toward the sound before his head did, body going tense from snout to tail. His eyes widened—just slightly—but the recognition hit him fast and deep, like a spark catching dry kindling.

Chan.

There was no mistaking it. No other wolf sounded like that. No other voice carried that weight, that authority, that ache. Even from this far, Minho heard it in every note—heard the disappointment layered beneath the warning.

Chan had found his trail. And worse—Chan knew.

The howl faded slowly into the night, but the silence that followed was heavier than before. Thicker. As if the forest, too, was holding its breath. Minho didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Because something in that howl hadn’t just been a message—it had been a question. Not shouted, not screamed, but spoken in that quiet, restrained way Chan always used when he was trying not to be angry. When he still wanted to believe in you, even when he shouldn’t.

Why?

He turned his head slowly, eyes drifting back to the cabin—its windows now dark, its glow extinguished. Only the memory of her face lingered in his mind, soft and half-lit, like moonlight through mist. He could still feel the pull.

The part of him that had come here out of instinct—or maybe something deeper—still hummed beneath his skin. But now it was tangled with something else: guilt. His tail lowered. His ears twitched. Another howl rang out—not a warning this time, but a command.

Come back.

Short. Sharp.

Minho looked away from the cabin. He felt the weight of it behind him. The memory of warmth. The imagined scent of her skin, her voice. The impossible familiarity of a girl he hadn’t even met. His chest tightened. Then, slowly, he turned—muscles bunching beneath fur, paws moving quiet over the moss—and slipped back into the darkness of the trees. He didn’t run. He didn’t need to.

Chan knew exactly where to find him. And for the first time in a long time, Minho wasn’t sure what he would say when he did.

The walk back felt longer. Not in distance, but in weight.

The forest behind him whispered with the memory of a howl that still lingered in the back of his mind. Chan hadn’t needed to say anything—Minho had heard everything in the call alone. A warning, perhaps. A tether tightening. A reminder of what it meant to lead, not just to chase instincts through the trees.

The moon still hung high above, silver and solemn. The air had cooled further, brushing bare skin with fingers like cold silk as he shifted back into his human form near the outskirts of the property. His bones cracked into place with quiet familiarity, fur retreating into skin, claws curling back into fingers. He stood still for a moment, breath steaming in the air, heart beating slower now—though not steady.

He reached for the clothes he’d stashed earlier, pulling them on without much thought. Shirt, pants, boots. The human shell felt more constricting than it usually did, as though some part of him hadn’t quite left the forest behind.

By the time he stepped onto the porch of the old cabin, the sky had begun to fade from deep sapphire to something closer to black. The stars still burned like frostfire overhead, but the quiet hum of night had settled. No more sounds from the woods. No more wind. Just the hush of a world sleeping. Except inside, the fire still burned. Minho stepped quietly through the door, letting it close with barely a click. The cabin was warm, dimly lit by the flickering remains of a hearth that had almost given up its light. Shadows clung to the corners like dust, and for a moment, Minho thought everyone had gone to bed.

But then he saw him.

Chan sat in the armchair closest to the fireplace, an old, half-drunk mug of tea resting on the floor beside him. His elbows were on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head bowed slightly in thought. He didn’t look up right away, but Minho knew he’d heard him. Of course he had. They didn’t speak. Not at first. The fire popped softly, one last gasp of heat before it collapsed into glowing coals. In the silence, Minho could hear the distant groan of floorboards upstairs. A sigh of wood and sleep.

Finally, Chan lifted his head.

Their eyes met across the flickering light. No anger in that gaze—no sharpness, no heat. Just something quieter. Heavier. Disappointment was quieter than rage. Minho exhaled, a breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a confession. He dragged a hand through his hair, damp still from the run, and let his gaze fall to the embers before shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know why I did it,” he said softly. “I didn’t plan it. I just… found myself walking. And then I didn’t stop.” Chan said nothing. “Maybe it was curiosity,” Minho continued. “Or maybe something else. Ever since Hyunjin came back and told us about her… I couldn’t stop thinking about it." Chan’s lips pressed into a thin line. His hands folded tighter. Minho looked back up at him. “It didn’t feel wrong. Not until I heard you.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Chan said at last. His voice was rough, hoarse with tiredness and thought. “I just… I hoped you wouldn’t.” There was no judgement in the words. Just honesty. And perhaps a touch of weariness. Minho lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, mirroring Chan without meaning to. “You think I made a mistake.” “I think,” Chan said slowly, “she came here for a reason. She didn’t ask for this. Didn’t want it. You saw the way she lived—quiet, away from everything. No scent trails, no markings. She is careful. Purposeful.” “She is hiding,” Minho said. “She's protecting her peace,” Chan corrected gently. “And now she knows she’s not alone out here anymore. What happens if she sees that as a threat?”

Minho didn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s not about you,” Chan said, eyes flickering with the last light of the fire. “Or Hyunjin. Or me. Maybe it’s just about her. And maybe she doesn’t want anything to do with us.” Minho clenched his jaw, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. “But what if she needs something? What if she’s not okay? You heard Hyunjin when he talked about her. He’s changed since that night. Like she stirred something up in him he’s been trying to bury for years.”

Chan tilted his head slightly. “And you think you can fix that for him?”

“No,” Minho said. “But I had to see. Just once.”

“And did you?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Then maybe that’s for the best.”

Silence again.

The colas cracked low, an echo of warmth fading into memory. Minho stared at it, thinking about the quiet of the woods, the scent of wildflowers and lilac, the light in the trees. The glimpse of a world just out of reach. He hated leaving things unfinished. Hated questions without answers. But more than that, he hated the idea of disturbing someone who had chosen solitude with such care. Even if a part of him still burned with the desire to know.

“I’m not going back,” he said finally. “Not unless she comes to us.” Chan nodded, slow and solemn. “Good.” Minho leaned back, head resting against the edge of the couch, his eyes closed. He was tired now, the weight of the run, the conversation, the choices pressing into his bones. The scent of something indescribable clung to everything—his clothes, his hair, the air. A long moment passed.

“Did Hyunjin know you’d go?” Chan asked quietly.

“No,” Minho said. “But I think he’ll know I did.”

“Then you should tell him before he asks.”

“I will.”

Chan stood slowly, his joints stiff, his eyes shadowed. He reached down for the cold mug and carried it to the sink without another word. The sound of water filled the cabin briefly. Then silence. He turned back to Minho, offering him a look that was neither approval nor blame. Just understanding. “We all carry the same weight,” he said. “But we don’t always carry it the same way.” Then he turned and made his way toward the stairs, disappearing into the darkness above.

Minho sat a while longer.

Alone now, save for the fire and the silence and the thoughts he couldn’t shake. Outside, the stars still watched from a thousand miles away.

And somewhere in the woods, a presence waited. Unseen. Unknown.

But no longer untouched.

taglist: @shoganaiiii, @h0rnyp0t, @maddy24207, @ihrtlix, @alisonyus, @poody1608, @emogril

masterlist | prologue | chapter I

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revelboo · 3 months ago

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twirling my hair over Kup in the breeding kink ask because I fancy all these old mechs thanks to your impeccable writing, he's just such a sad old man

He can still kick butt, though. 18+ 🌶️

Don’t You

Kup x Reader

• “Look alive, young-bots,” he growls around his cygar, as he vents on a growl and the newest recruits glance at him, then hastily back away from whatever poor bit of organic life they’ve cornered. That’s the problem with green bots. They’re awful on organic worlds, too overwhelmed with all of it and unable to resist poking at things. And striding over, he almost stumbles, because it’s not an animal they’re terrorizing. It’s a bruised and battered human, the little thing hefting a stick and terrified. “Leave ‘em be,” he snarls, shoving the nearest recruit out of his way and you’re backpedaling, eyes wide.

• Shaking, your fingers are white knuckled on the pitiful little branch you’d found. Swinging it so frantically around you as those giants had growled and prodded at you, laughing when you’d fallen more than once. And you’re scared out of your mind. Have no idea where you are or how you ended up here only that it was excruciating. Like being turned inside out. Trembling as the monster robots abruptly back away and the one striding forward isn’t as big as some of your tormentors, as he works a cigar-looking thing clenched between his denta and snarls at them. He’s obviously in charge, though. Backing away as he approaches, he makes a harsh sound that startles you and you fall over one of the thick, fleshy vines everywhere on the ground.

• Lunging as the creeper vine immediately snares you and you scream, Kup makes a grab for it and misses as you’re dragged along the ground. “Hang on, kid,” he growls, jogging after as you claw at the vine, the ground, panicking and trying to stop your slide. Your motions becoming more urgent when you look and see what the vine is attached to. Drawing his gun as you’re hauled up off the ground toward the glistening and deceptively pretty flower coiled around a nearby tree, knowing if it closes around you, that sap will glue itself to you and suffocate you before he can cut you loose. Aiming and ignoring the recruits jostling and making bets on how quickly you’ll die, he growls and fires. Wincing when you hit the mossy ground when the vine is severed.

• Breath knocked out of you, for a moment you can’t move. Fingers digging into the loam and moss, smelling dirt and the awful, rotten flesh stink of the plant. And the monster with the metal cigar is picking his way toward you, carefully avoiding the vines. Try to push yourself up right. To run. “You take off into an alien jungle running like prey, you’re not going to last a klik,” he says and you freeze. Because he’s not growling. You understand him. “Don’t know how you got here, but you better stick with me, kid.” And he crouches down, that cigar thing bobbing up and down as he chews on it. “Name’s Kup.”

• Intelligent eyes stare up at him as he holds out a servo. Half expects you to start crying or to bolt into the jungle anyway. But your tiny hand is warm when you reach out and let him carefully help you up. And you’re filthy, a dark splotch on one cheek that better not be from one of the recruits, your coverings torn. Tensing when you curl your arms around his servo, hanging on to him. Like your life depends on it and really it does. None of those young-bots have ever seen a human before. Have very little respect for organics. But how in the Pit did you get out here?

#transformers x reader #kup x reader #transformers kup

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talonabraxas · 1 month ago

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“Turn your vision inward and the whole world will be full of supreme spirit.” — Ramana Maharshi

Eye of Eternity Talon Abraxas The Qabbalists conceive of the Supreme Deity as an Incomprehensible Principle to be discovered only through the process of eliminating, in order, all its cognizable attributes. That which remains--when every knowable thing has been removed--is AIN SOPH, the eternal state of Being. Although indefinable, the Absolute permeates all space. Abstract to the degree of inconceivability, AIN SOPH is the unconditioned state of all things. Substances, essences, and intelligences are manifested out of the inscrutability of AIN SOPH, but the Absolute itself is without substance, essence, or intelligence. AIN SOPH may be likened to a great field of rich earth out of which rises a myriad of plants, each different in color, formation, and fragrance, yet each with its roots in the same dark loam--which, however, is unlike any of the forms nurtured by it. The "plants" are universes, gods, and man, all nourished by AIN SOPH and all with their source in one definitionless essence; all with their spirits, souls, and bodies fashioned from this essence, and doomed, like the plant, to return to the black ground--AIN SOPH, the only Immortal--whence they came.

AIN SOPH was referred to by the Qabbalists as The Most Ancient of all the Ancients. It was always considered as sexless. Its symbol was a closed eye. While it may be truly said of AIN SOPH that to define It is to defile It, the Rabbis postulated certain theories regarding the manner in which AIN SOPH projected creations out of Itself, and they also assigned to this Absolute Not-Being certain symbols as being descriptive, in part at least, of Its powers. The nature of AIN SOPH they symbolize by a circle, itself emblematic of eternity. This hypothetical circle encloses a dimensionless area of incomprehensible life, and the circular boundary of this life is abstract and measureless infinity.

According to this concept, God is not only a Center but also Area. Centralization is the first step towards limitation. Therefore, centers which form in the substances of AIN SOPH are finite because they are predestined to dissolution back into the Cause of themselves, while AIN SOPH Itself is infinite because It is the ultimate condition of all things. The circular shape given to AIN SOPH signifies that space is hypothetically enclosed within a great crystal-like globe, outside of which there is nothing, not even a vacuum. Within this globe--symbolic of AIN SOPH--creation and dissolution take place. Every element and principle that will ever be used in the eternities of Kosmic birth, growth, and decay is within the transparent substances of this intangible sphere. It is the Kosmic Egg which is not broken till the great day "Be With Us," which is the end of the Cycle of Necessity, when all things return to their ultimate cause.

In the process of creation the diffused life of AIN SOPH retires from the circumference to the center of the circle and establishes a point, which is the first manifesting One--the primitive limitation of the all-pervading O. When the Divine Essence thus retires from the circular boundary to the center, It leaves behind the Abyss, or, as the Qabbalists term it, the Great Privation. Thus, in AIN SOPH is established a twofold condition where previously had existed but one. The first condition is the central point--the primitive objectified radiance of the eternal, subjectified life. About this radiance is darkness caused by the deprivation of the life which is drawn to the center to create the first point, or universal germ. The universal AIN SOPH, therefore, no longer shines through space, but rather upon space from an established first point. Isaac Myer describes this process as follows: "The Ain Soph at first was filling All and then made an absolute concentration into Itself which produced the Abyss, Deep, or Space, the Aveer Qadmon or Primitive Air, the Azoth; but this is not considered in the Qabbalah as a perfect void or vacuum, a perfectly empty Space, but is thought of as the Waters or Crystalline Chaotic Sea, in which was a certain degree of Light inferior to that by which all the created [worlds and hierarchies] were made."

In the secret teachings of the Qabbalah it is taught that man's body is enveloped in an ovoid of bubble-like iridescence, which is called the Auric Egg. This is the causal sphere of man. It bears the same relationship to man's physical body that the globe of AIN SOPH bears to Its created universes. In fact, this Auric Egg is the AIN SOPH sphere of the entity called man. In reality, therefore, the supreme consciousness of man is in this aura, which extends in all directions and completely encircles his lower bodies. As the consciousness in the Kosmic Egg is withdrawn into a central point, which is then called God--the Supreme One--so the consciousness in the Auric Egg of man is concentrated, thereby causing the establishment of a point of consciousness called the Ego. As the universes in Nature are formed from powers latent in the Kosmic Egg, so everything used by man in all his incarnations throughout the kingdoms of Nature is drawn from the latent powers within his Auric Egg. Man never passes from this egg; it remains even after death. His births, deaths, and rebirths all take place within it, and it cannot be broken until the lesser day "Be With Us," when mankind--like the universe--is liberated from the Wheel of Necessity.

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rennybu · 3 months ago

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u ever willingly but unwittingly get trapped in a pocket dimension inside a magic crystal with your best friends, unable to contact the outside world by any means, but u still try to cast dream to contact your lover and reassure him you're alright, only to send him an immovable spectre of yourself which haunts his sleep every night for months, while it feels like barely a day has passed for you or. or just loam.

@jawsandbones runs the dnd game of all time and it is HER sad scarred half elf weeping in the bottom left corner. and this is the only way i can fight back

#aart #titan campaign #tzoam #im back in the fucking building agai[never left]#dnd art #half elf #firbolg #the moebius teal and orange... i understand #2025 year of the limited palette #loam #dnd ocs

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solsticehymns · 2 months ago

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eden: oneshot (hogmarch 2025!)

remus lupin x f!reader / fluff / yearning / cozy & intimate

part of @thatdammchickennugget's organized hogmarch 2025 writer's challenge (week 1)! so fun to participate in!! <33

summary: You drag Remus to the greenhouse in the dead of night, a hidden Eden tucked away from the rest of the world. He follows without hesitation. But when a storm traps you inside, the quiet warmth between you begins to bloom into something more.

a/n: ooohhhhh i had a lot of fun thinking of ideas for the prompts and writing this!!! i thought of them getting trapped in a storm in the greenhouse first for the cozy vibe so i ran with it hehehe can't wait for the upcoming weeks :D -sunny ☀️🌻

wc: 1588

The passage to the greenhouse unfolds with an almost meditative stillness, the crisp night air suffused with the residual hum of Hogwarts as it settles into the hush of twilight. The scent of damp earth and petrichor permeates the atmosphere, layered with the faint yet intricate fragrance of nocturnal flora—subtle hints of jasmine, moss, and the lingering traces of rain-slicked bark.

With your cloak drawn tightly around you, each step through the frost-laced grass is punctuated by a muted crunch. Beside you, Remus exhales a slow breath into the cold, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to chase away the lingering chill.

The distant glow of the castle fractures the darkness, its light diffusing into an ambient orange glow that highlights the structure. Overhead, the sky extends infinitely, a vast and unyielding canvas of deep indigo punctuated only by the faintest celestial flickers.

“Remind me why I needed to be here for this?” he asks, amusement threading through his tone. “You seem more than capable on your own.”

You smirk, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Because I like having you here.”

It is an honest response—perhaps too honest. You hope he does not scrutinize it, does not think too long on the implications. If he does, he may notice the way your pulse skips at his nearness, the way your fingers twitch against your cloak to prevent an unconscious reach toward him.

A chuckle escapes him, the corners of his mouth lifting in a subdued, near-involuntary smile.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” he teases, but there’s a warmth to his voice. “Though I suppose I like your company too.”

It is a simple admission, yet it pools in your stomach like honey in warm tea, slow and steady, dissolving before you can hold onto it. Rolling your eyes in mock exasperation, you grasp his wrist and tug him toward the greenhouse door. “Come on. The Moondew Blossoms don’t take care of themselves, you know. It’s colder than usual, and I just want to make sure they’re all right.”

He sighs—dramatic, long-suffering—but follows without protest, trailing in your path like someone who has long since surrendered to your whims.

The greenhouse stands ahead, its iron framework entangled with ivy, glass panes blurred by condensation where internal warmth resists the encroaching cold.

The moment you push open the door, a wave of humid air envelops you, thick with the scent of damp loam and flourishing greenery. Within, a controlled chaos of vegetation thrives beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns. Droplets of moisture cling to violet-hued petals, heavy with the slow pull of gravity. Ivy stretches upward in quiet ambition, its growth imperceptible yet ceaseless.

Remus follows, exhaling softly. He never requires an invitation. He never has. He is simply there, steady and unobtrusive, always offering his presence without demand. If you ask for his company, he gives it freely. If you slip into silence, he meets you there, holding the quiet as if it belongs to both of you. And when you drift just a fraction too close, close enough to feel his warmth, he does not pull away. He never does. Maybe he enjoys it too much. Maybe he’s waiting, just as you are, for the moment when neither of you will have to pretend it’s coincidence.

Or perhaps he always knew. Perhaps that’s why he lingers now, watching you with a focus he rarely grants anything else. He studies the way your fingers skim delicately over the petals, the way you cradle the fragile stems as if they are something sacred. His fingers twitch at his sides, restrained but restless. It would be so easy—to reach out, to tuck a leaf behind your ear, to let his knuckles graze your wrist and feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.

He exhales, slow and measured, as if trying to convince himself this is nothing—just another moment, just another night. But the familiar feeling settles in his chest, something unspoken pressing against the quiet between you. He should look away, should move, but he doesn't. Instead, he watches, gaze tracing every careful movement, every soft exhale, as if searching for permission in the spaces neither of you have dared to cross.

Then the rain begins.

At first, it is a light, rhythmic tapping against the glass—soft, delicate. Within minutes, it crescendos into a relentless downpour, sheets of water cascading against the structure, lightning streaking across the sky in jagged interruptions. The world outside distorts, blurred into an abstraction of shadow and refracted light.

The realization settles slowly, insidiously—you are trapped here with him. Remus, for his part, seems to take in the situation with a bemused sort of acceptance, rocking back on his heels as he peers outside at the storm. There is no casual escape, no easy way to pretend this moment never unfolded. The castle is unreachable without stepping into the storm’s unforgiving grasp.

Your stomach clenches, pulse faltering as your mind catches up to the weight of it all. You press your forehead against the glass, the cool surface grounding you against the thick, cloying warmth of the greenhouse. “This is my fault.”

“Well, on the bright side,” he cuts in, his voice light, teasing, “at least we won’t die of thirst in here. Plenty of condensation to go around.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Oh, fantastic. That’ll keep us going for at least another hour.”

“Exactly,” he says, flashing you a grin. “Really, we should be thanking the storm for this—great opportunity for character growth. Maybe we’ll develop some survival instincts.”

“Or pneumonia.”

“A small price to pay.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. “And I suppose this is hilarious to you?”

“A little,” he admits, rocking back on his heels. “But mostly, I’m just enjoying watching you come to terms with the consequences of your own impulsivity.”

You shoot him a glare. “I am perfectly capable of handling my own impulsivity.”

“Mm.” He makes a noncommittal noise, but the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement. “Sure.”

You shove at his arm lightly, and he chuckles, catching your wrist in an easy grip before you can pull away. It’s meant to be casual, playful—but the moment his fingers brush against your skin, something shifts. His grip lingers just a second too long, and when you glance up, the teasing glint in his eyes has softened into something else entirely.

He is nearer now. His expression is composed, unreadable, but something within it shifts—something that lingers just beneath the surface, waiting. He has always held himself in careful restraint, but there is an unspoken gravity in the space between you, something tenuous and fragile yet undeniably real.

“If we’re stuck here,” he murmurs, voice lower now, “We might as well make the most of it.”

The words unfurl between you, gentle yet irrevocable. The greenhouse, once vast and teeming with life, now feels smaller—quieter, as if the moment itself is holding its breath. The storm beyond ceases to be an interruption, instead existing only as a distant echo, a force beyond this singular, suspended reality.

Your pulse quickens, though whether it is from the moment or the warmth of his proximity, you cannot say. “And how exactly do we make the most of it?”

Remus watches you, gaze tracing the delicate curve of your cheek, the parted shape of your lips, as if committing them to memory. “I could think of a few ways,” he murmurs. His hand lifts, hesitating near your face—an unspoken offering, a final opportunity to retreat.

Yet you do not move.

Your breath falters. Has he always looked at you this way? Or have you simply refused to acknowledge it? Your heart pounds against your ribs, a cacophony of every unspoken thought, every moment stolen in silence, every possibility left untouched.

This is happening. It is real, it is tangible, and there is no time to think, no space for hesitation. You have imagined this moment before, turned it over in your mind in quiet solitude, but now it is unfolding before you in its entirety, and there is nothing abstract about it.

Your breath is shallow. Your hands twitch at your sides—uncertain, waiting. Do you move? Does he? Or is this one of those moments that swallows you whole before you can decide?

You’ve thought about this too much, yet somehow, you are unprepared.

The space between you collapses in increments, deliberate and measured. He looks at you like you're a secret he’s finally been allowed to uncover, something long sought but never touched. There’s wonder in his eyes, a quiet reverence, as if he is realizing in real time what is directly in front of him.

The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his fingers twitch as if restraining himself—it's all overwhelming, but you don't want to escape it. Remus exhales—uneven but certain—his gaze flickering down to your lips as though caught between intention and instinct. And then, finally, he moves, slow but deliberate, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours.

It is not rushed. It is not hesitant. It is the inevitable conclusion to every lingering glance, every touch that never lingered long enough. His hand finds your waist, steadying you, though you are already anchored to this moment. Time expands, stretching into something infinite, something that exists solely within the space between his lips and yours.

When you part, breath mingling in the thick air, you find yourself smiling.

“You were right,” you murmur. “This isn’t so bad.”

☀️🌻 masterlist

#remus lupin fic #remus lupin #marauders era #marauders fanfiction #marauders #marauders fic #fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin headcanon #remus lupin imagine #hogmarch2025 #remus lupin fluff #remus x reader #remus fluff #remus j lupin #remus john lupin #the marauders

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