#now time to tag the background characters!!!

[shelovesosa]

CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.
Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

[fussypaws]

New Fae ref sheet for Art Fight :3 Trying to get back into the swing of things now that I'm recovering from being sick!

--

[Image Description: A reference sheet of a dog original character named Fae on a light blue background. Fae is a medium brown long-haired chihuahua depicted with long pointy ears, a small tail, and freckles. She has cream and dark brown fur markings and her nose, paw pads, inner ears, and tongue are light pink. Her eyes are light blue. She is chubby and has a large bust, but a box off to the upper right of the reference sheet shows how she would look drawn with a fluffy chest instead of breasts.

The reference sheet has several drawings of Fae on it. The main two are in the center of the sheet, both anthropomorphic. The one on the right shows Fae facing forward with a smiling expression and her tongue sticking out. The one of the left is a drawing of her from behind. The drawings are mirrored, both depicting Fae raising her right hand in greeting and resting her left hand on her hip, with her feet slightly apart. Between the mirrored drawings of Fae is a small feral (quadruped) drawing of her sitting and facing forward. She is wearing an excited expression and has a wagging tail.

Upper left Drawing: Fae is touching noses with her partner, Crema. Crema is a pink and white cat with curly fur and gray-brown markings. In this drawing Fae is depicted with floppy ears instead of pointy ears. This drawing depicts both of them from the neck up.

Middle Left Drawing: Fae's face but only her eyes, eyebrows, nose, tongue, and teeth are colored. Her expression in this drawing is smiling, with her tongue sticking out.

Middle Right Drawing: Fae's accessories. One is a plain black collar with a golden circular tag. The tag has "Puppy" printed on it in a curly font. The collar is labeled "Collar (Not Optional)". The other drawing is of Fae's ear with a single earring hanging off of it. It is a small black hoop/ring. This drawing is labeled "Earrings (Optional)".

Bottom Right Drawing: Another feral (quadruped) drawing of Fae, this time from a side angle. She is facing left with a smiling expression. This drawing is simply labeled "Feral Form".

In the bottom left corner of the reference sheet there is a box with information about Fae in it and two bars containing Fae's color palette. Inside the box, at the top, it says her name. Below her name are four bullet points respectively labeled "She/Her", "Dog (Chihuahua)", "4 foot, 9 inches", and "Lesbian". End ID]

[seaweedraindraws]

Vector, Shadow, & Knuckles, do not enjoy your "aren't you a little too old to be trick-or-treating" comment.

Ignore the fact that I'm... Very late with posting this.

[archivewriter1ont]

Thank you so much for the tag, @snips-fics! Btw I now love Crow!

Okay this is a long one, but it's an excerpt from I Know Your Name as My Brother: Adopting Echo, a work I'm really proud of for a couple of reasons. 1, it's the first longfic I ever completed. 2, I love writing just-adopted Echo and how he gets absorbed into the Bad Batch, and I actually feel like I did pretty good with this one. 3, I love brotherly/platonic love in general and the Batch are SUCH good character examples of that affection.

This is from Chapter 5: Broken Pieces (Somehow Fit Together).

divider by @stars-n-spice.

Echo nuzzled into the pillow, glad that they couldn’t see him – or that if Crosshair could, he wasn't commenting on the action. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, reminding himself that he was safe and everything was okay because he wasn’t alone. They were right here, they were with him, nothing could happen. “G’night.”

He drifted off to sleep within seconds, foggily thinking that he hadn't been this comfortable since he'd gotten blown up.

Then the terror reared its taunting head, nightmares with all their dark terrors and inescapable labyrinths of horror that he never could tell were false or real. Sometimes he would see the slaughter that had taken place on the Rishi Moon and look on in horror all over again when Cutup was eaten by a giant eel and when poor Droidbait was shot down. He’d be trying to get away with Fives and Hevy, the only ones left…and then Hevy was suddenly ripped away from them too, in a blaze of sacrificial glory that Echo had never thought he’d have to live with. Sometimes it was the shuttle explosion after he’d made it out of the maze of fortress called the Citadel, and there was nothing but fire and the smell of burning flesh, searing pain devouring limbs that he could clearly tell he no longer possessed. He distinctly remembered seeing what was left of his legs just before he blacked out for what he assumed would be the last time, and the memory never ceased to make him want to vomit or pass out. Then he’d be strapped to a cold metal surface in an even colder room, unable to fight the modifications being made to his shattered body as expressionless droids and strange figures in masks floated in the void that threatened to swallow him, orchestrating his transformation from an ARC trooper into some twisted half-machine creature that he didn’t want to be…

Tonight the nightmares took him to Kamino.

The sterile halls were flashing crimson, the red alarm signals washing across the white tile like a symbol of the blood being spilled around the city. His blood ran hot with adrenaline and the stinging fear-excitement of battle while his heart pumped in a rhythm chilled by dread. There were blaster bolts screaming around him, and through the visor of his helmet he caught glimpses of Commander Cody and Rex and Fives and –

“Ninety-Nine, no!” 

His own voice echoed inside his bucket as his vision blurred, then focused on a figure in light blue crumpled on the floor. He heard the droids’ shooting grow more frenzied as he stepped out to block the hall, his own blaster growing heated from the rapid firing, but he glanced over his shoulder anyway.

Ninety-Nine had been wounded in the leg but was struggling to his feet, trying to heft the bag along with him down the hall. He was fighting to get up, to get the ammunition they needed…

And then suddenly he was down again, this time with two blaster wounds burned into his back. 

Echo knew in his gut that the older clone wasn’t getting back up. An outraged roar broke from somewhere nearby and served as the background to the furious bolts he sent flying toward their enemies. It took him a few seconds to realize that the sound was coming from him. 

The next few moments went by in a cacophonous whirl. One second he was standing over Fives, letting bolts of energy sear holes through anything inanimate in the search for the remaining droids. The next he was stumbling to his knees, dropping his blaster and hearing it clatter to the tile as he gathered Ninety-Nine’s malformed, too-still body into his arms.

He knew he was dead. What cruel irony – dying in the same buildings where he was decanted, on tiles he’d likely cleaned a thousand times after being relegated to maintenance. Ninety-Nine should have been an Alpha, he remembered Hevy saying once, but something had gone wrong with his DNA. It had been corrupted, or maybe some of the Kaminoans had tried experimental mutations that just hadn’t worked out right. The man had never been outside Tipoca City, never seen a battlefield. While his siblings had been slaughtered in the millions on distant planets, he had been the one left behind, left to live as an outcast while the rest of the clones forged bonds with each other in the fires of battle. But he’d died a true soldier, fighting alongside his brothers…that had to count for something, right?

Echo blinked quickly, then again, trying to keep tears from rolling down his flushed face. His body was drained from the last few days and he was so tired…he really just wanted to close his eyes and sleep…

He forced his eyes open and his world shattered into pieces. He was no longer holding Ninety-Nine. 

He was holding Hunter.

The sergeant was a mess. There was blood smeared over his face and many – too many – blaster burns bored through his armor. His long hair was matted with crimson and he was deathly still, his skull tattoo stark and mocking against his pallid skin. 

Echo was horrified to realize he wasn’t breathing .

“Hunter!” His voice cracked halfway through and he fumbled as he checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

He whipped his head to the left to look for Fives, for Cody or Rex, for anybody , but he couldn’t find them. His frantic gaze fell on three new, familiar figures in the red-tinted dimness – Crosshair, Wrecker, and Tech, each sprawled near their discarded weapons in dark red puddles.

They were all dead. 

Echo screamed their names, but the calls went unanswered and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Black dots danced in his vision and he couldn’t see past them except for the flashes of red and gray and Hunter’s closed eyes. He tried to move but something was frozen onto his legs and his right arm. He couldn’t make them work. It was almost like they weren’t there at all.

“Echo!” 

Someone was coming for him. He heard them running down the hall, footsteps far louder than they should have been. He couldn’t see them, his eyes still fighting the spinning dots and dimness of the hall. Was he passing out? Because it sure was taking a while….

“ Echo! ” 

The voice was so close it rattled his brain. He flinched back and tried to answer but all that came out was a muffled sob. He was crying, a grown ARC weeping in front of whoever had come to rescue him and his brothers. He didn’t remember how they’d gotten here or what was happening and he didn’t want to. He wanted to punch someone, preferably the person who was yelling at him, the person who was shaking him and acting like he couldn’t see Echo’s dead brothers, like he hadn’t been too late to save the 99s…

��We need ta calm him down,” a different voice suddenly said. It wasn’t yelling but it was big and right next to him.

“Just grab him before he hurts himself!” A third voice joined in, sounding like crisp new sandpaper.

“Wait! He's just been through a traumatic year of imprisonment and a violent rescue and is currently in new surroundings. Any unannounced touch may contribute to a higher level of–”

“Kark it, Tech, he's scared .” 

Wait, that raspy voice was Crosshair. But Crosshair was dead, right? Crosshair was worried about someone? It must be somebody special for that cold devil to be concerned – one of his brothers, definitely. Echo wanted to open his eyes and see who this special person was but he couldn't seem to wake up. Was he even asleep?

“I think not touching him is worse right now.” Hunter’s voice agreed with Tech’s and Echo felt something brush against his face. It was rough and cool and felt like a palm. Someone was holding a hand to his cheek.

“Echo.” Hunter’s tone was lower now, but urgent. “ Vod’ika , please. Stop moving or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Was he moving? Echo didn’t know. He just knew his heart was thumping way too quickly in his chest and he felt like he was going to be sick. Ice was clotting in his veins and he was so cold he thought his hands were frozen, at least the one he could still feel.

“It’s okay,” the voice continued. The hand stayed on his cheek and Echo abruptly felt the world grow calmer, like the ground wasn’t shaking so badly. He could breathe a little easier and he thought he could almost see something through the black. “ You’re okay, Echo. You’re safe on the Marauder .”

What was a Marauder ?

Echo blinked and suddenly he could see. He stared up into a pair of concerned amber eyes and realized Hunter was leaning over him, dark curls framing his face in the dim light streaming in from the cockpit. There was no top bunk blocking his view to the ceiling and no mattress underneath him. He must have thrashed out of the bed and fallen to the floor. 

“You with us, Ey’ika? ” Hunter’s voice was smoky and low, like he was talking to a frightened aakhound.

Without answering, or maybe as an answer, Echo launched himself up with his one arm as leverage and plowed into the sergeant’s chest. 

Hunter’s arms were ready and waiting and closed around his shoulders, holding him tightly and pulling him close to his chest. Echo's fingers clutched the back of the tracker's blacks so tightly he thought they might rip the fabric. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment, and he doubted Hunter did either.

That's not the end of the chapter, but it's as much I felt wouldn't be overwhelmingly huge! I am just super proud of/happy with this entire fic.

Thanks again, @snips-fics! ❤️For the tag, and for being a lovely person in an unlovely internet world!

Share a fic excerpt or art piece you are proud of — whether it is already posted or a WIP.

If it’s a completed work, also share the link!

If it’s a WIP, give us a summary of what we have to look forward to ☺️

Encourage your moots and followers to share their own creative joys by tagging them in your post!

NPT: @lifblogs @leapingbadger @pandorademos @snitchcrimsonwrites @boredzum-671 @arlothia @locitapurplepink @dizzy-9906 @jordosprout @mae-lou-ron @dangraccoon @maybe-some-words @99aceace @bonaxie @toutorii @callme-naomi @artdoc-draws @royallykt @wife-to-ct9904 @snips-fics and anyone else who would like to participate!

[nell0-0]

Drew something a bit different this time ^^

I know I said not to think too deeply about it on my last Mask and Fi drawing [THIS] but... I thought too deeply about it, augh. Their relationship is so complicated but I wanted to show another side of it. Hopefully I managed it here.

Fi may not have understood the animosity Mask showed towards her back in the war, but that's not the case after everything. And even if they have a bond now (kind of) it's... messy. And it's not like Mask has the stones to open the door (nor does he think he should, what with what happened last time he did). So... yeah...

It's a bit bittersweet and there's still resentment there. Just. Complicated.

[funsizedcrow]

When the youngest sibling becomes the oldest :)

Q&A (as asked by my sister and me to myself)

Q: Why is Time wearing his kokiri clothes while everyone else is just in smaller versions of their regular outfits?

A: Time came prepared for a situation exactly like this. shrunken or not child him is not wearing that armor (i didnt want to draw it)

Q: Why is Wind lecturing Legend?

A: He tried to grab a fire rod

Q: Why are they all children except for Wind?

A: I thought it would be funny. Maybe a wizzrobe did it. Maybe blue stalfos from oracle of ages showed up. Maybe there was an incident with Purah's de-aging rune. Who knows I'm just the artist here

[hexxingcode]

woe, fish polycule be upon ye. i just thought the video game outcome was too interesting not to draw in some way... so you can have these bitches i guess. and the devious lamb. actually i have the design too.

stupid cult leader reference image ^

i like the golden fleece. i am not very good at using it but i like it

[ulteri0rm0tives]

It's every iteration.

It's every iteration of V that will always find Johnny. Every iteration of V that Johnny grows to care about. It's every iteration of each other, in every universe, that will always find each other. They'll always become inseparable, tied together in unfathomable ways. Ways they could never truly unravel from each other in the end, no matter the end.

They'll always be destined for one another. No matter what face is worn. No matter what universe. No matter what, they're always meant to be. No matter what, the stars will always align for them, just to come crashing down from the sky.

[syn4k]

[porter robinson- sad machine]

[kaidatheghostdragon]

Dani x Jason Prompt

(Because i dont see enough of these two together. Also, this is another prompt i found in my fic files that i never did anything with.)

While Danny is in Amity Park protecting the ghost portal, Dani explores the world. Danny might be powerful enough to put down any threat, even Ancients, but she isn't as lucky. Her best defense against Vlad or the GIW is to never be in the same place two days in a row. Not to say she isn't powerful in her own right - she's yet to meet a ghost in her travels that she couldn't utterly crush, and even if she had, she's got the most loyal dog in both this world and the next to have her six.

Dani has discovered a great deal of beauty throughout the world in her few short years of life, but also unfathomable evil and undescribable corruption. She does what she can in every place she passes through, her ghost powers the ultimate cheat code for investigation and subterfuge, bringing to light the things that once hid in the dark.

But while scoping out yet another child trafficking ring, she crosses paths with a spirit of vengeance. At least, that's the only explanation she can come up with for how he's able to turn his shock and horror into pure rage at the flip of a dime.

Until she realizes that he's a baby halfa. If he doesn't learn how to mediate his emotions, he's going to burn out one of his halves.

Maybe she can help him stabilize into a proper spirit of justice and keep him from following the path that Vlad went down - oh shit, he doesn't even know that he's undead. Well, this is going to be a project and a half. But Dani is nothing if not resourceful - she's more than willing to put in the work if it means making an ally of the fourth known halfa.

Featuring:

Dani and jason are about the same age (16-17ish)

They run into each other during jason's LoA-sponsored world tour, investigating the same trafficking ring

Cujo is there too

Dani totally helps with the crime lord grand plan, but also wrestles jason down from the more messed up family drama stuff he did, like attacking tim, and knocks some sense into him and finds a better solution for dealing with the joker

[starrodent]

funguary week one: ink cap swamp monster!!!!

i’m going down a mushroom rabbit hole rn so this was very fun. inkcaps are so cool <3 also i'm planning one other drawing this week so stay tuned for more shrooms

[luck-of-the-drawings]

so REVENGE, HUH? or justice, if that makes you feel better. it tastes the same when cooked just right. 'I REALLY WANTED A BROTHER.' such a shame to burn a bridge you so desperately wanted to keep, especially when it wasnt even you who started the fire. especially when you hope that not a single fragment of that bridge ever washes ashore.[MAY IT ROT FAR FROM MY SIGHTS] an unfortunate loss! atleast he has his friends.

[dreamsy990]

some of the less nice thoughts about being aroace

extras below the cut

sketch

closeups on my favorite panels

bonus: adios

[nixotinix]

the nixverse locations part two: The Iceberg Lounge

The talk of the town in Gotham's colloqually-called "party district", the Iceberg Lounge is the place to see and be seen. It's a luxurious two-story lounge and casino decked out with three bars, private rooms, and a view of the Bay of Gotham. The basement is home to a VIP lounge that can only be accessed with a black membership card, which the manager and owner Oswald Cobblepot only gives out to his fellow rogues.

[galactaknightyaoi]

Happy Waddle Dee Wednesday!!!

Doos and half-Dee orbies are invited, right?

First? OC post? I've been wanting to post OCs for a while, I just didn't know how to introduce them... But now I have an excuse!

From left to right:

Dolce (she/her)

Shoeshiner Waddle Dee "Luster" (they/she/he)

Fairy Waddle Dee "Dandee" (she/her)

Gardener Waddle Dee "Deelia" (she/her)

Dorothy (she/her)

Some info about them under the cut for those interested.

Dolce is one of Kracko's many Waddle Doos, though she's his favorite and among the strongest of them all. Due to her power, her beam wand is a bit more elaborate than usual, and it's called the princess wand!

Dolce and Fairy Waddle Dee used to be good friends until Dolce moved away to Desert Star. As a promise to never forget each other, they crafted friendship bracelets that they still wear today!

Fairy Waddle Dee was the coworker and best friend of the respected Space Ranger Hyperion. Fairy Waddle Dee had never been too happy with her job, or how with her life was going at the time, so when Hyperion suggested they ran away together she agreed without hesitation.

Dolce and her girlfriend Dorothy happily welcomed them into their home. They took on cowboy identities, Fairy Waddle Dee became Dandee, while Hyperion became Orion.

Dorothy is a Desert Star farmer and has lived there all her life, thus she knows everyone and everything. She's very observant, nothing slips past her!

Unlike her girlfriend, Dorothy lacks any magical ability, but she makes up for it with her mastery of the whip and astounding physical strength. She picked up the whip from her childhood friend, the local wannabe outlaw, Callum de León.

Luster and Deelia are two Waddle Dees friends from a small Waddle Dee Village on the outskirts of the thriving city of Halcandra. They visit the city to work, Deelia sells her flowers, while Luster polishes the shoes of the local knights.

Deelia is uncharacteristically fearless for a Waddle Dee. She's not strong by any means, but she's willing to jump in and defend anyone in need, even from threats she has stands no chance against.

Luster themself is not without merit, as their endless worry for their friend's safety often overrides their fear. They're the more reasonable of the two, and the one that dragged Deelia away to the city to get help when trouble started brewing in their little town.

Deelia's wife is Lady Gaia of the GSA. They have a son together, Sir Falspar.

[chill-vibes-but-rainbow-panic]

Finally back, with a lil more of Chill's Artist Admiration Sketchbook; making fanart for blogs I like :D

@kingspacebar

Accessoires and colours my beloved <3 <3 <3