#breaking self destructive patterns | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

920 notes · View notes

astrolook · 3 months ago

Text

Astrology of Self-Sabotage: What’s Holding You Back?

Ever feel like you’re your own worst enemy? Like you’re standing in front of the finish line, but instead of crossing it, you trip over your own shoelaces? Your birth chart holds all the clues to why you keep blocking your own success. Some placements thrive under pressure, while others press the self-destruct button before things even start. Let’s break down the placements that make life harder than it needs to be.

🌙 Moon Signs & Houses: Emotional Self-Sabotage

Moon in Scorpio – You crave deep emotional intimacy but distrust everyone, so you push people away.

Moon in the 12th House – Feelings? Never heard of them. You suppress them so much they attack in your sleep.

Moon Square Saturn – You want to be loved but feel unworthy, so you isolate yourself and say it’s “just how I am.”

Moon Opposite Pluto – Either completely numb or an emotional tornado. No middle ground.

Moon in the 8th House – Loves intensity but is terrified of losing control. Ends up self-sabotaging relationships.

Moon in Aquarius – Feelings are for other people, not you. You intellectualize everything until it doesn’t exist.

🗣 Mercury: Overthinking & Communication Blocks

Mercury Retrograde – You say something, then overanalyze it for three days straight.

Mercury in Pisces – You have great ideas… but they disappear the second you try to explain them.

Mercury in the 12th House – You know so much, but struggle to verbalize it. Ends up sounding like you don’t care.

Mercury Square Neptune – Miscommunication? You invented it. Half the time, even you don’t know what you meant.

Mercury Opposite Saturn – You stay quiet because you assume people won’t listen, so you never even try.

Mercury in Capricorn – Overthinks every conversation and only speaks when it’s 100% necessary.

🔥 Mars: Motivation & Self-Sabotage Through Action (or Lack of It)

Mars in Cancer – Passive-aggressive. You’re mad, but instead of addressing it, you just sulk for three days.

Mars in Libra – Can’t make a decision. By the time you do, the opportunity is gone.

Mars Square Saturn – You want success, but fear failure so much that you never even start.

Mars in the 12th House – Zero motivation… until 3 AM when you suddenly want to change your entire life.

Mars in Virgo – Paralysis by analysis. Overthinks action until the moment passes.

Mars Opposite Neptune – Goals? You have them. Execution? What’s that?

💖 Venus: Love & Self-Sabotage

Venus in Scorpio – You test people’s loyalty until they leave, then say “See? I knew you’d betray me.”

Venus Square Neptune – Falls in love with potential, not reality. Ends up heartbroken over imaginary relationships.

Venus in the 12th House – Secret romances, unavailable partners, and unspoken heartbreak.

Venus Opposite Saturn – You crave love but assume rejection is inevitable, so you reject people first.

Venus in Aries – Wants love now, but loses interest immediately when it’s too easy.

Venus in the 7th House – Defines self-worth through relationships, but attracts the same toxic patterns every time.

🪨 Saturn: Harsh Life Lessons & Fear-Based Self-Sabotage

Saturn in Aries – You want to be a leader but constantly doubt yourself.

Saturn in the 1st House – Perfectionist tendencies. If you can’t do it perfectly, you won’t do it at all.

Saturn Square Moon – Struggles with emotional expression. Feels like love is conditional.

Saturn in the 12th House – Self-doubt is so deeply ingrained that you don’t even notice it’s holding you back.

Saturn in the 7th House – Love is either delayed, restricted, or feels like a job interview.

Saturn Conjunct North Node – Success is coming, but it’ll make you work twice as hard for it.

💀 Pluto: Deep Psychological Blocks & Transformation Resistance

Pluto in the 1st House – You want to be seen, but fear the power that comes with it.

Pluto in the 7th House – Your relationships either transform you or destroy you.

Pluto Square Sun – Fear of being ignored, but also fear of being truly seen.

Pluto in the 12th House – Trauma so repressed it runs the show from the shadows.

Pluto in the 6th House – Obsessive need for control in everything. If you can’t control it, you spiral.

🌌 North Node & South Node: Your Comfort Zone vs. Your Growth

South Node in Aries – Hyper-independent. Refuses help, even when struggling.

South Node in Libra – People-pleasing to the point of self-sacrifice.

South Node in Capricorn – Workaholic who avoids emotions like it’s a full-time job.

South Node in Pisces – Lives in a dream world instead of taking action.

North Node in 12th House – Life pushes you to trust intuition, but you resist it.

North Node Conjunct Saturn – Destiny will force you to work hard before you succeed.

So… How Do You Stop Self-Sabotaging?

Step one: recognize the pattern. Step two: do the opposite of what your self-sabotaging placements tell you to do (yes, it's hard, but trust me). Your birth chart shows the challenges, but also how to overcome them.

Want a deep dive into your chart and how to break free from your own traps?

DM me for a full astrology reading! 🌟

671 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 1 month ago

Text

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 04

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 24, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: female rivalry/competition, eating disorders(eating cotton pads), ballet classes, self-demands, perfectionism, ribbon discarding (or not), convenience store reencounters and small discoveries.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,2k

➔ A/N: Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe. Especially me. (I’m the one hyperventilating into a protein bar wrapper at 3AM because I cannot believe this chapter EXISTS.) Welcome back to Altars in Shallow Waters, where we do not chase plot—we let it simmer on low heat while the characters emotionally spiral into the void like aesthetically pleasing depressive ballerinas and bleach-stained ghosts of men!!! ✨🩰🧼 So, this chapter. Let’s talk about her. The real action here is perceptual rupture. The moment you realize someone is watching you, but not in the “flirty eye contact in an indie café” way. No. In the “someone found your discarded legwarmer ribbon and folded it like scripture into their jacket pocket” way. Delicious. Horrifying. Both. Psychologically, this chapter is playing with reciprocal hyperfixation. How the act of being seen can unravel just as much as seeing. She doesn't name it, but she feels it—the way she catalogs his reactions, the way her interest grows when he avoids her eyes, like a cat with a wounded bird. She's measuring his discomfort like a dancer mapping mirror angles. Efficient. But curious. And curiosity? Is the gateway drug to ruin. Also let's talk about that ribbon. Because symbolically, she discards it—functionally useless, easy to forget. But he keeps it. Stores it like evidence of contact. That's how obsession works. You think it’s nothing. You think it’s gone. But it's in someone’s pocket. It's their proof that you touched the world they live in. On a more serious note: mental health themes remain central. He is not quirky. He is unwell. She is not "coolly aloof." She is also unwell. And the way those fractures collide? That’s what this fic is. Not fluff. Not romance. A slow collision of two very broken people who think they’re control freaks, but are actually being dragged by subconscious forces stronger than either of them.

And no, I will not give you relief. Not yet. We’re still descending.

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Cotton dissolves like sin on your tongue.

You've perfected this ritual. The pad breaks down slowly against the roof of your mouth, becoming pulp, becoming nothing. The texture no longer bothers you.

Nothing bothers you before 5 AM.

Your reflection watches with clinical interest.

Dark circles beneath your eyes. Acceptable. Not ideal, but within parameters. You've calculated the exact amount of concealer needed to erase them—three dots, blended outward in concentric circles.

Precision matters, even in camouflage.

The cotton expands slightly as you work it around your mouth. Your stomach will feel full for approximately forty-seven minutes. Long enough to get through morning barre without distraction. Long enough to maintain focus when others are already thinking about breakfast.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

Your tongue presses the dissolving fibers against your teeth. No calories. No guilt.

Just the illusion of consumption that tricks your body into compliance.

The bathroom is eerily silent—except for the sound of your breathing.

Four counts in, four counts out. The same rhythm you maintain during adagio. The same rhythm your heart should follow during rest periods.

You reach for your hairbrush. The bristles scrape against your scalp, just shy of painful.

Good.

Pain means progress. Pain means you're paying attention.

Camille took your hairpins. All of them. The evidence was clear: her side of the room littered with them this morning, carelessly scattered like she couldn't be bothered to hide her sabotage.

How desperate. How transparent.

You pull your hair back until it hurts. The ponytail is tight enough to create tension at your temples.

Not your preference—a bun offers cleaner lines, better balance—but you adapt.

Adaptation is part of excellence.

The last of the cotton dissolves. You rinse your mouth, watching the water swirl down the drain.

Clean. Empty. Ready.

Your leotard fits precisely as it should. Dark blue, high-necked, modest in cut but not in purpose. The fabric compresses your ribcage just enough to remind you of your boundaries. Your physical limits. The container you must perfect.

White tights. No runs, no snags.

Navy leg warmers, positioned exactly three inches above the ankle bone. The little ribbons on the front—blue to match—catch your eye. Tacky. Childish. But the color coordinates perfectly with the leotard, and aesthetic cohesion supersedes your opinion on childishness.

Function over feeling. Always.

The cropped sweater—also white—settles just below your sternum. The ensemble is well thought out. Coordinated. It communicates seriousness, dedication, attention to detail.

These are not clothes. They are statements of intent.

Your reflection assesses you with the same merciless scrutiny you apply to everything.

Arms: acceptable. Neck: could be longer. Posture: correct. Weight: maintained within 0.4 kilograms of target.

You turn slightly. Check your profile. The curve of your spine, the placement of your shoulders.

No room for error. No allowance for imperfection.

The cotton has left a slight residue in your mouth—texture that reminds you of your choice.

Your control. Your discipline.

You think, briefly, of the convenience store. Of the cotton pads in their perfect packaging. Of the man who wouldn't look at you.

Kim.

The name surfaces without permission. An unexpected ripple in the still pond of your morning routine.

You dismiss it. Irrelevant. A random encounter that means nothing.

(But you remember the tremor in his gloved hands. The way he backed away. The way he watched when he thought you wouldn't notice.)

Your dance bag waits by the door, packed according to your usual system. Pointe shoes in their separate compartment. Towel folded precisely in thirds. Water bottle filled exactly to the line you've marked with clear nail polish. Kinesiology tape. Scissors. Antiseptic wipes. Bandages. Everything you need. Nothing you don't.

The dormitory is silent as you move through it. Your footsteps make no sound. You've learned to walk like a ghost. To exist without disturbing the air around you.

The kitchen light is on. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

Elodie stands at the counter, spreading something on toast. Butter, probably. Or worse—jam. Sugar and fat combined in a useless, indulgent paste.

You grimace. Her lack of will is evident in every bite she takes.

Every gram of unnecessary calories.

Every moment wasted on pleasure rather than preparation.

She'll be replaced soon. They all will. The company has no room for weakness.

"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

The observation is pointless. You're always up early.

She knows this. Everyone knows this.

"Yes," you say, because a response is expected, not because the conversation has value.

Her eyes flick to your ponytail. Notice the deviation from your usual style. Her mouth opens slightly—about to comment, to ask, to pry.

You don't give her the chance. "Excuse me."

Two words. Polite but final.

You move past her, not waiting for a response.

The dormitory door closes behind you as the hallway stretches ahead, empty and dim.

Perfect. This is how mornings should be. Quiet. Solitary. Undistracted.

You begin the walk to the studio at your usual pace.

The route never changes. Left from the dormitory. Right at the café that won't open for another two hours. Straight past the bakery where the smell of fresh bread will soon fill the air.

Your stomach tightens. The cotton is doing its job, but barely.

You focus on your breathing instead. Four counts in. Four counts out.

The streets are empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional cleaner hosing down the sidewalk.

Paris pretends to sleep, but it never truly does. It just shifts its rhythms, like a dancer moving from allegro to adagio.

Your mind drifts, just slightly, to the convenience store again. To the fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and unreal. To the man with the gloves who wouldn't meet your eyes.

Kim.

What a curious specimen.

Most men stare. They always have.

They look with hunger or appreciation or professional assessment.

They look because looking is taking, and you are something to be taken.

But he refused to look at all. Refused even to be seen himself.

It was... interesting.

The memory of his downturned face surfaces again. The curtain of washed-out hair. The blue latex gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

You wonder what his hands look like beneath those gloves. If they're as elegant as their shape suggests. If they're damaged somehow.

Scarred. Diseased.

You wonder why he was afraid.

(You wonder if he's still afraid.)

The thought brings an unexpected sensation.

A slight warmth in your chest.

A tightening that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

Then, the studio appears ahead, windows still dark.

You'll be the first to arrive, as always. The first to warm up. The first to claim your spot at the barre.

You reach for your key card, already positioned in the outer pocket of your bag for efficiency.

The cotton in your stomach has begun to expand, creating the illusion of fullness. Of satisfaction.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

This is what separates you from Elodie with her toast and jam.

From Camille with her petty sabotage.

From all of them with their weaknesses and wants and human frailties.

You are not weak. You are not wanting. You are not frail.

You are becoming perfect.

The studio door beeps as your card registers. For a moment, you think you see movement in your peripheral vision—a shadow shifting, a presence retreating.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to check.

Nothing. Just the empty street. The dim morning light. The faint drizzle that has begun to fall.

You step inside, leaving the outside world behind.

Here, in the studio, everything makes sense. Everything has purpose. Everything can be controlled, measured, perfected.

The lights flicker on automatically. The empty room waits for you, patient and demanding all at once.

You set down your bag. Remove your sweater. Take your position at the barre.

As you begin your first plié, you notice one of the blue ribbons on your leg warmers has come loose. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall.

Distracting. Imperfect.

You untie it completely. The ribbon comes away in your hand, a small strip of navy satin. You place it deliberately by the door, next to your things. You'll dispose of it properly later.

For now, it's been removed. The imperfection excised.

Your gaze returns to the mirrors, reflection multiplying—four versions of yourself executing the same movement precisely.

Arms: acceptable. Turnout: could be deeper. Neck: elongate further.

You move through your warm-up.

Pliés. Tendus. Dégagés.

Each movement builds upon the last, preparing your body for what you'll demand of it today. Preparing your mind for the scrutiny that will come.

The door opens at 6:15 and Madame Villon enters first, as always. Her eyes sweep the studio, landing on you without surprise.

She expects your presence. Your dedication is not remarkable to her.

It is baseline.

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

You incline your head slightly. "Madame."

She moves to the piano, arranging her notes for the day's class. Her movements are economical. You recognize the discipline in her posture, the control in her hands.

She was exceptional once. Now she creates exceptionalism in others.

The other dancers begin to arrive. First Mathilde, then Sophie, then Clara. They move to their usual spots, begin their own warm-ups. Their reflections join yours in the mirrors, creating a forest of limbs and torsos and necks all striving toward the same impossible standard.

Camille arrives at 6:27. Three minutes before class officially begins.

Her hair is already in a perfect bun—the style you couldn't achieve today.

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. She smiles. The expression doesn't reach her eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice pitched to carry. To be heard by others. To create the illusion of friendship.

You nod once. Acknowledge the performance without participating in it.

Her gaze drops to your ponytail. Registers the deviation from routine. Her smile widens slightly—satisfaction poorly disguised as concern.

"No bun today?" she asks, knowing exactly why.

"No," you say, final.

She moves to the barre, taking her position behind Mathilde.

Her spot in the hierarchy is clear—not quite at the back with the weakest dancers, not quite at the front with you and Elodie.

Middle tier. Hungry for advancement.

Madame Villon claps once. "Places."

The pianist begins. Your body responds automatically.

First position. Demi-plié. Rise. Second position. The sequence is as familiar as breathing.

More familiar, perhaps, since you've never had to think about how to breathe.

Class progresses with its usual intensity. Madame moves among the dancers, making corrections. Her hand on Sophie's waist, adjusting alignment. Her voice sharp as she instructs Léa to extend further, reach higher.

She passes you without comment. Not approval. Not yet.

Just the absence of correction, which is its own kind of evaluation.

Center work begins. The barre no longer there to support you, to steady you. Just your body in space, responsible for its own balance, its own lines.

You execute each combination flawlessly.

Not perfect—perfect doesn't exist yet—but flawless in the sense that no one else in the room could identify your mistakes. Only you know the millisecond delay in your spotting during the final pirouette. Only you feel the slight tremor in your supporting leg during the adagio.

These are errors you will correct.

Weaknesses you will eliminate.

Imperfections you will excise, like the ribbon from your leg warmer.

Madame calls your name. "Demonstrate the grand allegro, please."

It's not a request. It's not even really a command.

It's an expectation.

You take your place in the center. Feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The cotton in your stomach has long since dissolved.

The music begins. Your body launches into motion. Jump, turn, land, extend. The combination is complex—designed to test not just technique but musicality, stamina, presence.

You move through it flawlessly again. Each beat accounted for. Each position achieved exactly as choreographed.

Your breathing remains controlled.

Your face betrays no effort.

When you finish, landing in fifth position with arms curved perfectly in low fifth, there is a moment of silence.

Then Madame nods once. Not praise. Acknowledgment.

"Again," she says to the class. "Four at a time."

By the time Madame signals the end of class, your leotard is damp with sweat. Your muscles vibrate with exertion. Your ponytail has loosened slightly—another imperfection to address.

"Thank you, ladies," Madame says. "Rehearsals begin at ten. Do not be late."

The dancers disperse, moving toward their bags, toward the changing rooms.

Conversations bloom in their wake—discussions of the day's schedule, complaints about sore muscles, plans for the brief break before rehearsal.

You remain at the barre, extending your cool-down.

There is no benefit to rushing. No advantage to socializing.

Your body requires proper care if it's to serve your ambition.

Camille passes behind you, her reflection catching yours in the mirror.

“Lunch later?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear.

A performance that continues.

"Perhaps," you say, noncommittal.

You both know you won't join her.

You both know she doesn't want you to.

The studio empties gradually. Dancers leave in twos and threes, their voices fading as they move down the hallway.

Soon it's just you and your reflection, multiplied across the mirrored walls.

You finish your cool-down. Move to collect your things.

The sweater goes back on—your body temperature will drop quickly now that you're no longer working. The water bottle is half-empty. The towel damp with sweat.

You look for the navy ribbon, left by the door where you placed it.

It's gone.

You scan the floor.

Perhaps it fell. Perhaps it was kicked aside accidentally.

But there's nothing. The ribbon has vanished.

Your eyes narrow slightly.

Camille. It must be Camille.

First the hairpins, now this.

But why would she take a discarded ribbon? What possible advantage could it give her?

Perhaps it's simply spite. Perhaps it's just another way to demonstrate that your space, your belongings, your boundaries are not truly your own. That nothing here belongs exclusively to you—not even your trash.

Or perhaps it's something else. Something you haven't calculated yet. Some new form of sabotage you'll need to anticipate and counter.

You straighten your ponytail. Adjust your sweater. Shoulder your bag.

The ribbon doesn't matter. It was defective. Discarded. Its loss is irrelevant.

But you remember exactly where you left it.

Remember that it was there, and now it's not.

Remember that someone took something of yours, even something you no longer wanted.

You don't know why you're here.

This purgatory with its flickering lights and linoleum floors that never quite look clean no matter how recently they've been mopped.

L'heure bleue.

The convenience store that exists in that strange space between your world and...

Perhaps it's curiosity.

Perhaps it's boredom.

Perhaps it's the man with the ashy blonde hair who seems to vibrate with anxiety whenever you enter his orbit.

Kim.

The protein bars are arranged in descending order of caloric content. You scan the nutritional information with practiced efficiency. This one: 15g protein, 160 calories, 2g sugar.

Acceptable. Not ideal, but functional.

Your body requires fuel. Not pleasure, not indulgence—just the bare minimum to maintain performance.

The store is empty except for you and him. The pink-haired girl is absent tonight. No buffer between you and his strange, trembling avoidance.

You approach the counter, place the protein bar down slowly, almost teasing.

The sound it makes against the surface is soft but there is no mistaking it.

A statement of presence.

No response.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Your time is valuable. Each wasted moment is a micro-failure.

You tap one long manicured nail against the counter. Sharp. Demanding. A single finger communicating what your voice shouldn't have to.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat.

There's a sudden scattering noise from the back room—something falling, something being knocked over in haste. Then footsteps, quick and uneven.

He emerges from somewhere behind rows of shelves, eyes are fixed on the floor, that curtain of hair hiding his features just as it did before. His shoulders curve inward, making his tall frame seem smaller, less substantial.

He doesn't look at you.

Doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond the most basic recognition that someone is standing at his counter. His focus fixes on the protein bar as if it's the customer, not you.

"Is the pink-haired girl not working tonight?" Your voice is cool. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He doesn't respond. His fingers—still encased in those blue latex gloves—hover over the protein bar without touching it. His breathing has quickened, just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

"Do you work here every night?" Another question. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Nothing. Just that same frozen posture. That same careful avoidance.

How curious.

How peculiar, this man who seems physically incapable of meeting your gaze.

As if eye contact might burn him. As if your attention is a weight he cannot bear.

Is he afraid of you?

The thought brings that same strange warmth to your chest. That same unquantifiable feeling you haven't yet categorized.

"You paid for my cotton pads last time," you say. Not a question this time. A statement of fact. "Why?"

His fingers finally move, picking up the protein bar with such care you might think it was made of glass. He scans it, the beep unnaturally loud in the silent store.

When he speaks, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

"Three euros forty."

Just that. Just the price. Nothing more.

You extend your hand with exact change, coins arranged in your palm for maximum efficiency of transfer.

He doesn't take them from your hand.

Instead, he places a small plastic tray on the counter, sliding it toward you without making contact.

For coins. So he doesn't have to touch you.

The realization makes something in your chest tighten, and it’s not offense. Not exactly. Something more... interesting.

You place the coins in the tray. He takes it, careful not to brush against your fingers. Counts the money methodically. Places your change in the same tray, slides it back to you.

All without once lifting his eyes to your face.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure why.

The transaction doesn't require gratitude. It's a simple exchange of currency for goods. Nothing more.

He nods once, that same sharp downward jerk of his chin you noticed last time. His hands retreat to his sides, then behind his back, as if he doesn't trust them to behave appropriately in your presence.

You collect your change. Take the protein bar. Turn to leave.

That's when you see it.

A flash of navy blue, peeking from his pocket. Small. Satin. Unmistakable.

The ribbon from your leg warmer. The one you left by the studio door. The one that disappeared.

Not Camille.

Him.

But how? How did he get it? How did it travel from the dance studio to this convenience store? To his pocket?

You pause, your back to him, processing this new information.

He must have been there. At the studio.

Must have seen you. Must have taken what you discarded.

The realization should disturb you.

Should trigger alarm, concern, perhaps even fear.

It doesn't.

Instead, that same strange warmth spreads through your chest—that same unnamed feeling that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

goal: 250 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @billy-jeans23 @calmyourtitts7 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

257 notes · View notes

marsprincess889 · 10 days ago

Text

The symbols you are drawn to and what they mean

Connecting them to astrological and mythological coorelations

This is as brief as possible because I think all of these deserve separate posts, but I think I managed to convey everything. The list is short but the info is interesting and there's quite a lot of it, actually.

Inspired by the attachment I've had since childhood to first symbol listed here. Could also be read for symbols showing up in your life during specific periods, or the ones that have been connected to you for a long time.

Disclaimer: I did not include flower/plant or general animal symbolism (as in, the symbolic meaning of any animal in general), because they too deserve separate explorations.

I hope you enjoy

1. Spirals

Creation, flow of life, infinity and mother nature

A spiral is a symbol representing mother nature_ as it is found in plants, animals (tail of chameleons, coiled snakes, shells of sea animals and snails), human physiognamy, and consequently, it represents the creative and feminine qualities.

Mother Earth, Goddess Gaia is symbolized by spirals. Its element would be Earth (but it can contain all other elements).

It's the flow of life and the receptive power of the female, symbolizing how it takes and gives, how through "weakness" she gains strength. In a way, it also represents how she uses necessary destruction to keep the infinity of life going. It's a cruel, never-ending torture and blissful, merciful salvation in one.

Astrologically, people with an abundance of Earth element might be drawn to it (Sun, Moon and/or Rising along with other important placements in Earth signs_ Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn).

The nakshatras of Bharani, Rohini, Punarvasu, Ashlesha, Uttara Phalguni, Hasta, Swati, Mula, Shravana, Uttara Bhadrapada and Revati might all be connected to it.

To point out the more likely ones, their association with Bharani, Punarvasu, Swati and Revati can be more obvious.

Bharani is the nakshatra of passive femininity and mother nature, especially in a creative and sexual sense and on a cosmic scale. It is the first nakshatra where we meet the feminine and we meet her in her fierce, primordial state, at her most insistent, but nevertheless, Bharani is where the feminine keeps the infinity of life and death going, associated with the wheel of fate found in various mythologies.

Swati is the freedom and the "illusion" of this and other worlds, associated with the cosmic egg and the "mother". It's where the soul is free to play in the illusion of the material world and its manifestations, where it sees not only one but multiple realities and explores them, bound only by love. It represents infinity in the sense that it allows travel through realities, contrasting its opposite Bharani, where the infinity of life is in the hands if higher forces and humans feel trapped in the limitations of the material.

Revati is nakshatra of flow and ultimate creativity (the individualized self that seeks/came from the fires of Bharani, its yoni consort). It's the nakshatra of true freedom and free will, where the possibilities are finally infinite.

Punarvasu is the open and nurturing feminine, representing infinity, just like Bharani and Revati, but in a more direct way. Bharani is the immortality of the soul, the infinite cycle of death and rebirth oveseen by the feminine (fate). Revati is the true freedom and infinite possibilities. Punarvasu is simply the force that allows infinity, the second/third/millionth chance to repeat or break the cycle (the breaking of the cycle happens in Revati_ another Mercury-Jupiter ruled nakshatra).

To emphasize Punarvasu's unique role, it's also the nakshatra of patterns and pattern recognition. Consequently, it's associated with prophecies. Ruled by the Mother goddess Aditi (whose name means "boundless"/"limitless", "innocence"), it's first nakshatra (if we start the count from the first nakshatra of Aries, the first sign) that offers such freedom and is, in my opinion, the first nakshatra of magic.

If you have these nakshatras, an abundance of Earth and Water elements, Venus and/or Moon with great relevance in your chart and possibly also major activations in 2nd, 5th, 8th and/or 12th houses, you might be highly drawn to this symbol.

Gaia/Gaea is an Earth goddess, the primordial titaness. There is an abundance of Earth Mother goddesses across various mythologies and cultures. You might feel connected to them too. It's possible that if you love this symbol, you're also drawn to the following colors: pure or milky white, grass green, soft pink, brown.

The following placement might connect to this symbol:

Sun, moon or ascendant in either of these nakshatras (not ranked): Bharani, Rohini, Punarvasu, Ashlesha, Uttara Phalguni, Hasta, Swati, Mula, Shravana, Uttara Bhadrapada, Revati.

Emphasis on Earth signs, especially Taurus and Virgo.

Ketu or Atmakaraka in Punarvasu, Bharani, Swati, Revati or Mula.

Any of the planets located in earth signs being vargottama (same sign in D1 and D9).

Taurus, Pisces or Virgo in big three in D1 and/or D9.

2. The Ouroboros

Cycles, endings, turning point, infinity

A snake eating itself/its own tail, is an ancient symbol and as relevant now as it was then.

Astrologically it connects to two nakshatras associated with serpents_ Ashlesha and Uttara Bhadrapada. Both also represent an ending of a cycle in some way. Ashlesha's symbol is the coiled snake and it wraps up the first stage of nakshatras, marking the first gandanta point (there are three in total_ the points where both the nakshatra and the sign end, transitioning from water signs to fire signs). Uttara Bhadrapada is the soul solidifying in its truth, settling into the limitations, a point where the inner serpent that began to awaken in Ashlesha has gained "wings" and has matured into a dragon.

You might be drawn to this symbol in times of intense transformation, deep cleansing and revision.

Serpents have been considered symbols of awareness, instinctual intelligence and wisdom. Snake represents the inner animal of a person and the raw part of a being, the one that's stripped bare of any constructed defences.

Coming full-circle, being at the same spot you once where at but now it's different, just because you have gone through it.

It's the indicator of a critical point, the one that feels like "!!!" in your soul. It's a warning and a chance, a reminder of the past and the doorway to completion.

In a way, it also represents self-mastery, as the snake is both nourishing and destroying itself.

Ouroboros can relate to the water element, as it is in many ways about completion and both of the nakshatras symbolozed by serpents_ Ashlesha and Uttara Bhadrapada are in water signs_ Cancer and Pisces, respectively.

Another nakshatra that can be associated with it is Shatabhisha_ the last Rahu ruled nakshatra. Rahu, being the head of the serpent, is closely connected to its meaning. Shatabhisha in particular is symbolized by a circle and is about containing various types of information (represented by another one of its symbols_ water reservoir).

Those who have these nakshatras are also often drawn to snake deities, mainly, goddesses: Nagas, Sirona, Tefnut, Wadjet, Asclepius, the Gorgons, so on. Snake deities are often associated with healing and water. There are also primordial water deities who may or may not be directly associated with serpents. An interesting goddess to mention is Hecate_ goddess of crossroads, who is the triple goddess of the liminal, often connected to turning points, not unlike this symbol. Self-realization and completion are deeply tied into the Ouroboros.

Astrological houses that might be connected to it: 4th, 8th, 12th.

The element of water is the most suitable for this symbol, but the element of fire can also resonate to it due to its purifying nature. People who are dominated by these elements (especially water) might connect to it.

The most possible placements of people who resonate with this symbol:

Sun, moon, Ascendant, Ketu, Atmakaraka or chart ruler in Ashlesha, Uttara Bhadrapada or Shatabhisha nakshatra.

Emphasis on water signs.

Sun or moon conjunct Rahu or Ketu.

Moon or Ketu in the 4th, 8th or 12th house.

Rahu or Ketu in the 1st house.

3. A cross

See this article to learn a little about different types of crosses

https://symbolsage.com/types-of-crosses/

Limitations, stability, mortality, the finite, devotion.

We all have our cross to carry.

What is the cross exactly? It's a symbol on its own and part of other symbols. The astrological symbols for Earth, Mercury, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto all contain it.

Looking through the many variations of this symbol, it's clear that in its simplicity it's more universal and ancient than hyper-specific. Considering the fact that it's seen in a variety of contexts across millenias, I want to exert the most prevalent meaning of the cross as it's been percieved and depicted through the people from various cultures and ages.

First of all, I have to speak about the mass popularization of this symbol through Christianity and the subsequent (and inevitable) association of it with this religion in people's minds. In Christianity, cross is synonymous with mortal suffering and bearing of Earthly struggles with grace.

Suffering of the material has to do with boundaries, limitations and the "finiteness" of it. In many ways, it relates to Saturn, as like the cross does for Christians, it represents responsibility and bearing. But Saturn is also stability. The limits and boundaries have the other side to their harshness_ the blessing of endurance, stability and realiability.

The symbol for Earth is a cross inside a circle. It shows stability in that context too. In essence, a cross might simply be the core structure.

An interesting thing is that the symbol for denial is a cross too. Denial is basically a "no" and a stop, so, it ties into the limitation aspect of it.

So, the first astrological coorelation I want to make is the connection of this symbol to planet Saturn.

Saturn relates to the symbolic role of the cross in a general sense and the nakshatras that are ruled by Saturn based on vedic astrology (Pushya, Anuradha, Uttara Bhadrapada) consequently adopt that association. Connected to sacrifice, duty and devotion, this planet clearly aligns with the meaning of the cross as people of many cultures and eras have understood it.

In its Christian sense, the cross calls to mind the crucifixion, death and rebirth of the Christ.

To credit Claire Nakti_ I learned about this next coorelation from her video.

Purva Bhadrapada nakshatra is connected to that story in a deep way. Ruled by Jupiter, bridging the Saturnian Aquarius and Jupitarian Pisces, it represents the soul passing through the abyss, where it must shed all that is unnecessary and tempting to save the only thing that really matters_ the soul. 11th house of Aquarius is about gains from friends, it's a place where we're already on a massive scale, influencing/being influenced by huge forces. 12th house (Pisces) is about renouncing all of that for spiritual enlightenment. It's connected to intense isolation and withdrawal from the material, and often, the everyday life. In Pisces, Purva Bhadrapada is alone, seeking the truth that will set them free. It is through suffering and the brave sacrifice that the enlightenment is achieved (the thematics of Purva Bhadrapada are not something to misunderstand, there is more about it that I want to say but for now, I hope this little overview is enough, for the sake of it being a part of the context).

After Purva Bhadrapada, we enter the Saturnian Uttara Bhadrapada, sitting completely in Jupiterian Pisces (the flipped rulers of Purva Bhadra). In Uttara Bhadrapada, the intense fire of the previous lunar mansion is turned to ash, and the purity of the soul that was achieved through fierce cleansing is now to be maintained by repetition and steely discipline. Uttara Bhadrapada is strongly tied to endurance, quiet or silent strength and honor. It's called "the warrior star", and its associations call to mind the idealized image of the knights of middle ages, how their moral code of honor was what they lived and hoped to die by. This lunar mansion is the stabilization of the cleansing, and it's where the soul tries to access freedom by submitting to the limitations first, once and for all. Saturn_ its planetary ruler, as I have said, is connected to the limitations of material existence, including the illusion of time, and the nakshatra of Uttara Bhadrapada is strongly tied to sacrifices and suffering, maybe even moreso than Purva Bhadrapada, because the first Bhadrapada nakshatra has yet to achieve the purity at first, the second one is pure and gives its all to maintain it.

Other Saturn nakshatras of Pushya and Anuradha are associated with suffering and sacrifice as well (and natives of these nakshatras might be drawn to the cross too, as it shows their resilience and devotion), but Uttara Bhadrapada has shown to be directly tied to the ressurection of the Christ after the crucifixion (my personal take, as Purva Bhadra is the crucifixion, and Uttara Bhadrapada_ the latter, is about "the rise from the ashes", connected to the flying serpent/dragon Ahirbudnya).

So, the Bhadrapadas can be connected to the Christian story of Christ's death and ressurection. But if we take into account the general, mass associations with this symbol, then other astrological placements come into the play: Other two Saturnian nakshatras of Pushya and Anuradha; Bharani nakshatra, ruled by Saturnian God of death_ Yama, the place of Saturn's debilitation, nakshatra of physical limitations and coming into the body, as well as mother Earth and the inevitability/fate; Hasta nakshatra_ located fully in Virgo (natural sign lf the sixth house), the most material sign/house in the literal sense, connected to everything Earthy and/or Earthly (Hasta women also might tend to be intensely devoted to their chosen religion, there are examples of that in Christianity).

I want to mention a notable exception: Brigid's cross, a symbol of the Celtic goddess, is visually a little more different than others and holds a different meaning as well. It is, in its essence, Solar, matching the nature of the goddess Brigid herself.

The following placements might connect to this symbol:

Saturn in the 1st house.

Saturn conjunct Sun or Moon.

Saturn conjunct either Rahu or Ketu.

Purva or Uttara Bhadrapada in big three, as atmakaraka or Ketu.

Pushya or Anuradha in big three.

Bharani nakshatra in big three or as Ketu.

Hasta nakshatra as Ketu.

Saturn in Aries (debilitated) or Libra (exalted).

Saturn being Vargottama, exalted (in Libra) or prominently placed in D9.

4. Cup, Goblet, Chalice, Grail

The most desired thing, the ultimate, the container, the feminine.

A grail is the physical manifestation of the spiritual essence, the vessel that holds the substance.

The importance of this symbol can be understood through the concept of "The Holy Grail". Even used out of its mythological context, the term is used to describe the ultimate meaning, the most wanted thing. In various legends and written texts, it was said to have miraculous attributes including healing powers, granting infinite abundance and/or eternal youth.

The origin of it in the collective conciousness is unclear, it might be Christian or Celtic. In Christianity, it is described as the cup that the blood of Christ was spilled into. As far as Celtic legends go, it's connected to King Arthur, his knights of the round table and their quest. The Grail, according to those legends, was said to be protected and guarded by The Fisher King, hidden in a secret castle.

I'm thinking of talking more about this in another post, but to explain shortly, the Grail relates to Bharani nakshatra.

In this lunar mansion, the spark that was initiated previously takes form and gains definition, making it the place of birth. Bharani nakshatra is related to the feminine as the one who forms and manifests/birthes life. In this way, life is the most precious thing in and of itself, and the desire that drives it is under the domain of the feminine principle of the universe.

The Grail is connected to the themes of mortality, immortality, desire. Bharani, being the lunar mansion that rules over the cycle of life, soul attachments, love, desire, gatekeeping, secrecy, the "ultimate" attainment, it is mythologically connected to the quest for the Holy Grail.

For context: the symbol for Bharani nakshatra is the Yoni_ the feminine sexual organ.

Venus, Bharani's planetary ruler, is said to be the planet that grants ressurection, which is already the theme of Bharani, but it also represents the pure physical manifestation of the spiritual essence. Venus is "the goal", the ideal end-result of the journey, hence, it's the "ultimate" desired thing, the "highest" and famously considered unnattainable.

Just like how the knights went through many trials in its search, for then only three of them (Percival, Galahad, Bors, based on different versions) to find it, the treasure that Bharani protects_ the female herself, is difficult to access and requires specific energy to acquire and "possess" it, symbolised by the yoni_ female sexual organ (the main symbol of this nakshatra).

The spiritual attributes of the Holy Grail are also resonant to Bharani: the drive to "have" and "possess" but being denied it ultimately leads to humility and reverance that any creature has for what they believe is the higher power.

Bharani represents the sacred power of the feminine, rooted in her receptivity. The worship of her and everything that she represents is closely related to and, in many ways, the same as humans worshipping the divine. The love for women or a woman, especially for men, inspires feelings of awe, fear, passion and bliss.

The feminine is passive in a sense that she just IS, she does not have to do anything in particular. There is enormous power in that, and Bharani represents that power, as well as the unique and often misunderstood challenges of that state.

Bharani's core associations and themes are directly connected and resonant to the symbolic meanings of The Holy Grail, as well the mentions or depictions of cups/goblets/chalices in general. But without the meaning and the symbolism attached to "The Holy Grail", the chalice has always held that association, and if we percieve it as simply a physical manifestation of the spiritual, its meaning can be connected to the nakshatras of Virgo: Uttara Phalguni, Hasta and Chitra.

Uttara Phalguni relates to the woman as the bringer and embodyment of privilege, power and abundance, symbolised by the ripe fruit ready to be plucked. This is also the nakshatra of people who make great leaders and rulers, and women of this lunar mansion in their big three love to grant power and favors to masculine people they deem worthy. They also like to deprive those they deem unworthy, and these favors often have to do with actual, material and physical advantages and gifts, and, oftentimes, political/material/social influence.

Hasta is the veiled woman, concealed and unreachable until she decides to reveal herself. All Virgo nakshatras, as well as Bharani, relate to the woman being "a recource". Hasta is basically "barren" to almost everyone. It also shares the archetype of the passive feminine who aims for self-sufficiency (connected to goddesses similar to Persephone and Proserpina, more directly associated with Hasta than Bharani) with Bharani, and they both relate to it in different ways.

Chitra relates to crafting and scuplting, to fitting the outer shell to the inner substance. It's the nakshatra of materials in the literal sense and relates to precious objects. Material things are not shallow if they are of value (if they are made correctly, in accordance with the rules and the law, if their appearance and physicality aligns with the essence), and that is what Chitra has to prove.

The sign of Virgo (the maiden, the virgin) shares the themes of the physical manifestation and limitation with Bharani nakshatra (which is placed fully in Aries, natural ruler of the 1st house of the body). The constellation of Virgo has been described as "The Queen of Heaven", possibly reffering to ancient goddesses who share this title: Inanna, Isis, Nut, Astarte, Asherah. Bharani relates to the idea of "The Kingdom of Heaven", closely connected to the Holy Grail. Sumer goddess Inanna, in particular, who is mentioned the most often to carry that status, is archetypically extremely similar to the Norse goddess Freya. Freya is deeply resonant to Bharani nakshatra (so is Inanna), and both of those goddesses are somehow associated with love and beauty as well as the underworld. Both also represent the "maiden" aspect of the feminine, not just the "mother" aspect, and "the maiden" archetype can be associated to Bharani and the sign of Virgo. These goddesses, therefore, might connect with people who are drawn to the grail's symbolism.

Besides them, one of the very few to own the Grail, according to Arthurian legends, was Morgana, also called Morgan or Morgan le Fay_ enchantress and a sister of Arthur. Morgan le Fay could have been a goddess herself, but whether or not she was, she's still an important representative of the achetype of the magical woman/ambigous witch, even today. Morgan le Fay is also sometimes linked to The Morrigan_ a fierce triple goddess of battle, victory, fate amd death.

Mercury nakshatras, especially Jyeshta and Revati might relate to Morgan le Fay, and Jyeshta in particular might connect to The Morrigan.

Another interesting astrological coorelation would be the lunar mansion of Mrigashira ("Deer's head", the first one to be ruled by Mars, bridging Venusian Taurus and Mercurial Gemini, ruled by the moon god Soma). It is the nakshatra of quests and searching, in every sense of those words, and as The Holy Grail is almost inseparable from the quest of the knights in the collective human conciousness, it resonates to the symbolism of the Grail in a mythological way. Mrigashira (in Taurus) has the same planetary rulers as Bharani, the primary nakshatra connected to the grail: Bharani's nakshatra ruler is Venus and its sign ruler is Mars, with Taurean Mrigashira it's the other way around (Mars as nakshatra ruler, Venus as sign ruler). Both of these nakshatras are connected to bravery and action, both are points of importance in terms of decision making (in different ways), both are connected to love/sex/union/genders, both relate to the empowerment of the identity or the humbling of it through love (manifests in different ways). "Soma", the name of Mrigashira's god, is also the name of the mythological drink, the nectar of gods, sometimes seen as the drink that alters conciousness and gives knowledge, sometimes it's the drink of immortality. The nakshatra of immortality is Bharani (again, the same things have been attributed to Bharani). These two nakshatras are connected in many intetesting ways.

The last placement I want to mention is Vishakha nakshatra_ lunar mansion sitting opposite Bharani, bridging the signs of Libra and Scorpio, belonging to the same astrological caste (mleccha/outcast) as Bharani. "Vishakha" means "poison vessel", so it's easy to see that it shares themes with Bharani and in many ways is the other side of the coin. Another name for Vishakha nakshatra is "Radha", meaning "the gift". While this lunar mansion deals with the substance of the poison (energy/anger) itself, its name suggests that it is also directly connected to the vessel that contains it. This latter theme is more often expressed through feminine/female natives of Vishakha nakshatra. Vishakha is also the same caste as Bharani_ mleccha (outcast), like Ashlesha and Shravana nakshatras.

This is the only caste that has all of its nakshatras forming a pattern on the wheel_ they all square two of the others and oppose the remaining third other one, making all of them the corners of a square. All of these four nakshatras (Bharani, Vishakha, Shravana, Ashlesha) came up when I was researching characters/people connected to Arthurian legends.

Note: Bharanis and Vishakhas make an amazing team and have excellent platonic chemistry, in my opinion.

The three nakshatras connected to the Holy Grail through their own symbolism all have both Venus and Mars associated with them. With Bharani and Mrigashira, one is the nakshatra lord and other is the sign lord (flipped versions of each other), Vishakha however bridges the Venusian Libra and the Martian Scorpio. Venus is the feminine in her abundant and pure state, at her end-goal. Mars is the force of movement and action, the masculine in his natural assertive and active state. When these two planets come together (when they're both associated with the same thing or when their union creates something) then procreation, desire, sexuality, sexes, love, division and unity are at the forefront. Bharani is the one nakshatra out of the three that does not have another rashi ruler, making those two planets its only direct rulers.

If we think about how life is created_ through the masculine asserting on and entering the feminine, then the feminine going through the hard and laborous (no pun intended) process for nine months and a life-threatening birth at the end of that period, we can see the interplay between those two planets as well as the themes of Bharani nakshatra. In its most overarching sense, the Holy Grail is the feminine body, the female herself, in all of her human incarnations and as the great feminine/mother nature. The feminine suffers from the limitatioms she herself creates, but those limitations are necessary, and she barely has the choice in all of it. The feminine as the hand of fate is both the authority and the servant, as the suffering she "creates" affects her too, and she is only the servant of the cosmic universal law, which she herself represents.

The struggle and the limitatioms are not simply "negative", they're also "positive" and necessary for life itself to exist. This process (cycle of life, death and rebirth) that the feminine oversees is, ultimately, "neutral", because it's the only thing that is. That's what the justice that mortals think they cannot comprehend is. We can't know some things, because we're not meant to.

Generally, the soul is seen as "masculine", but it cannot taste life unless it enters the form_ the "feminine". Not only is the grail the feminine as human women, but it's also the body itself, since the body itself is the feminine.

To review, people with following placements might connect to this symbol, moreso if they have multiple of these:

Bharani nakshatra in big three (especially), ketu (also really important), atmakaraka or as chart ruler.

Virgo in big three or as Ketu.

Mrigashira, Vishakha or Ashlesha nakshatra in big three.

Emphasis on elephant yonis_ Bharani and Revati (one or both).

Important or many placements in the first house, especially Venus, Ketu and Moon.

Sun, Moon, Venus, Mars, Atmakaraka or chart ruler in the 8th house. (8th house is a house of vulnerability and receptivity, but also a place where fierce protection is emphasized.)

Venus being Vargottama (in the same sign in both D1 and D9)

Ketu in the 1st or the 7th house.

Rahu and Ketu axis in Taurus and Scorpio (Rahu or Ketu in either), especially if they're in Jyeshta and one if the Snake yonis_ Rohini or Mrigashira. (Refer to my post about Morgan le Fay)

Most of these placements are also connected to Arthurian legends: its stories, characters and motifs. I'm most likely going to explore this better in another post.

I hope you liked this. This kind of posts are way more natural to me, here it was a lot easier for me to research and convey the gist, I'm just more interested in it. It's a little different, I know. I hope it's interesting and appreciated nontheless.

247 notes · View notes

ooooo-mcyt · 1 month ago

Text

I know "What happened to Mean Gills?" was an oorp joke not even made in the Life Series but I'm incorporating it into my character analysis anyways because it is so indicative of one of the most fascinating character traits of Martyn to me.

That being, Martyn always wants people to be simultaneously stable and disposable in his life.

"What happened to Mean Gills?" you happened to Mean Gills, Martyn. You poured a bucket of lava on Scott and stabbed him in the back. You killed him, before what was meant to be a fair fight, and then in victory you proclaimed to the world that allegiances don't matter. That's what happened to Mean Gills.

Martyn often talks about people like they're disposable, he claims to have no issue with using and betraying people, with lying to them, because his survival and victory is all that matters. And to a point this is how he treats people. Martyn will lie to the people who trust him, Martyn will stab them in the back, Martyn will do what it takes to survive, because Martyn is a survivor.

But Martyn is a lot more attached to people than he likes to admit- His King, His Mean Gill, His Big Dog, His, His, His, Martyn is deeply attached to his people, both possessively and protectively, more dependent on them than he likes to admit. There's a reason he keeps lingering, keeps getting drawn back to the same people, he cares about them, whether he'll often admit it outright or not.

I have a lot of sympathy for Martyn being someone who I think is torn between the very human desire for survival and independence and the equally human desire for connection and stability. I have a lot of sympathy for the way Martyn breaks his own heart over and over just to feel like he's free and capable enough to do so even though he loses so much in the process.

But this is a behavior pattern that impacts other people too, and a person is fundamentally not an object to pick up and drop as is comfortable. Martyn cannot have his cake and eat it too, he cannot betray and lie to people over and over and still expect them to be His Person, a fact Martyn often struggles to internalize. His own connection draws him back to people he's hurt in the past and it's hard for him when they have walls up now even though he did this.

(interestingly, i think mean gills might be an exception to the "you can't have your cake and eat it too" rule to an extent- scott isn't naive enough to trust martyn, but he's often very okay with being treated like an asset by people he loves. scott has a very special brand of self dehumanization where he'll spend seasons carving off pieces of himself to give to his partners, calculating how much to give until it's more economic to just die for them. so like. martyn could honestly probably just grab onto scott again and they'd be back like martyn never stabbed him in the back. but despite the fact that i think scott specifically would probably be remarkably tolerant of martyn's more destructive relationship habits, i still think "what happened to mean gills?" is a good showcase of martyn's view on things)

Anyways yeah I just think Martyn is fascinating he is so destructive to himself and others and it makes me so sad.

#trafficblr #traffic smp #life series #martyn inthelittlewood #scott smajor #mean gills #it's a traffic jam

298 notes · View notes

wendichester · 8 days ago

Note

Hi! Can you do one showcasing all the ways the reader protects/watches out for Dean. He’s always the afterthought for everyone because they just expect him to lead and be strong. Your last response about his version of Heaven probably being bittersweet had me sad! So, reader putting her foot down for her man, please! Reminds him he’s hers and not a soldier, not expendable. When someone comes up with a plot that requires him to sacrifice, she speaks up for him tells them to F off

read the heaven bit first .ᐟ

so first off, let's clarify the core dynamic here: 𖤐 dean is everyone's weapon or leader, but never their priority. it's always let's save the world, instead of let's keep each other safe. 𖤐 everyone is just used to him sacrificing himself because that's his default setting. 𖤐 you ( aka reader ) flip the damn table and say not anymore. it's the prompt he's not a weapon, he's mine and i'm lowkey totally here for it.

‧₊˚✩彡 the pattern that needs breaking sam loves dean but tends to go along with dangerous plans, trusting dean will handle it. cas is always focused on the mission, kind of emotionally stunted, tends to expect dean to endure because he has. mary and john? ugh. never really saw him--as said previously--saw a soldier, not a son. jack is a whole celestial being born with a messiah complex. thinks sacrifice = love because that was what dean and the others always showed him too. they all value dean, but none of them really protect him. because they think they don't have to. but you do.

‧₊˚✩彡 moments where you put your foot down 𓂃⋆ you speak up against the plans where dean is bait or the one bargin in as the distraction. and god damn the moment you do? everyone's stunned into silence. dean most of all. because he doesn't expect anyone to stand up to him--to stop the mission for him. 𓂃⋆ they always assume dean will handle dangerous people. but not you. "no. he's not your buffer. try talking to your own damn shady contacts." maybe you even go instead of him once and everyone's like oh, okay. 𓂃⋆ dean tries to pull the "if i don't come back" speech. you cut him off. "don't you dare act like you're a ghost in front of me. you come back. you always come back." you don't romanticize his self-destruction like others do. you hate it. 𓂃⋆ cas suggests an angelic solution that risks dean's soul. like, maybe siphoning something through him or binding him to a sigil. "use anyone else. he's not your empty vessel." cas looks conflicted. you stand between him and dean and he's flabbergasted like she's actually challeging a damn angel. 𓂃⋆ mary mentions all the things dean's good at and it's all war-related. "you ever ask him what he actually wants to be good at?" it's awkward. it's uncomfortable. maybe even explosive. but it cracks open something for dean. he's never heard someone challenge his family on his behalf.

‧₊˚✩彡 the emotional undercurrent of this: dean doesn't think he's allowed to be safe. he doesn't even notice when people don't choose him because it's so normalized. you saying "you are not theirs. you are mine." is like pouring honey on a lifetime of bruises. it's not just protective--it's possessive, but in a way that restores his sense of self. you're saying you're not just worth fighting for. you're worth keeping safe. every damn time.

They’re talking about him like he isn’t standing right there.

Like he’s just a checklist item. Like his life is a resource—burnable, forgettable, expendable.

Dean’s got that mask on. The one he thinks is subtle—stone face, arms crossed, jaw ticking every few seconds like a time bomb. You can tell he’s already accepted the role. The “if it gets ugly, I’ll take the fall” card.

You’ve seen this play before.

You hated it the first time.

So when Sam starts laying out the plan—meticulously, logically, with words like “timed entry” and “distract the hellhounds long enough,” and then casually drops Dean’s name as bait, your hands curl into fists without thinking.

“Sorry, what?” Your voice cuts in like a blade.

They blink. You never interrupt these planning sessions. You’re the quiet one. The observer. The one with a hand on Dean’s back under the table while the world maps out how to use him.

Sam looks confused. “It’s just that he’s the best shot we have at getting the demon away from the door. You know Dean—he can take it.”

Take it.

Like he’s a wall. Like he’s a gun.

Not a man.

Dean shifts beside you. He’s about to say “It’s fine”—you can feel it in your bones—but you’re already standing.

“No. He’s not doing it.”

The room goes quiet.

Dean tilts his head, looking up at you like you just spoke Enochian. You never do this. But now? Now you’re fire in a gasoline world.

“I’m serious,” you continue. “You all act like he’s made of Kevlar and pure damn luck, but he’s tired. He’s bleeding from that werewolf hunt yesterday. And I don’t care how good of a shot he is or how much ground he can cover—he’s not being used as a sacrifice so you all can sleep at night.”

Sam looks like you slapped him.

Cas shifts like maybe he agrees but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to say it.

And Dean… God, Dean looks like you just gave him breath after drowning.

You step closer to him. You don’t even care how dramatic it looks. Your fingers find the edge of his sleeve, tugging it like a lifeline.

“He is not your weapon. He is not your armor. He is mine.”

The words hit the floor like thunder. No one speaks.

You kneel slightly and tap his knee, forcing him to look you in the eyes.

“You hear me, Dean?” you whisper, just for him now. “You’re not the one who has to go first. You’re not the shield anymore. Not when I’m here.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are glassy, like maybe no one’s ever said that before. Like maybe he forgot he was allowed to hear it.

You straighten back up and look at the room.

“Find another plan.”

And they do. They scramble. They rearrange. Because your tone is sharp and final and God help anyone who tries to touch him without your say-so.

Later, you’re patching him up on the edge of a dusty motel bed. He’s shirtless, bruised, quiet.

“You meant all that?” he asks, voice low.

You blink at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just… no one’s ever…” He trails off. Like it hurts to say it out loud. “It felt good. Hearing it. You fighting for me.”

You look at him—really look at him.

He’s so used to doing. Saving. Bleeding. Leading. Everyone thinks he’s bulletproof because he acts like he is. But you see the cracks. You kiss them. You love them.

“I’ll always fight for you,” you murmur, smoothing your fingers over the bruise on his side. “You’re not alone anymore, Dean. You don’t have to carry the weight. Not while I’m still breathing.”

He leans forward, cups your face like you’re the miracle. Kisses you slow. Deep. Desperate.

“Thank you,” he breathes against your lips.

You pull back just enough to whisper:

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll let me protect you, too.”

His voice breaks a little when he says, “I will.”

And you know he means it. For once.

#ask : youdontknowmethatwell #dean winchester #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #headcanon

155 notes · View notes

astroxrion · 2 months ago

Text

How You Channel Death and Rebirth | 8TH HOUSE

Aries 8th House

Push through by embracing your fight. Let anger fuel transformation instead of destruction. Take bold actions to rebuild, even when it scares you. Courage is your guide—don’t fear new beginnings. Break cycles by confronting pain head-on.

Taurus 8th House

Push through by grounding yourself. Grieve slowly, let change settle. Find stability in small rituals, self-care, and nature. Don’t cling to what’s already gone—value your own growth. Build new foundations one practical step at a time.

Gemini 8th House

Push through by talking it out. Journal, debate, express the chaos in your mind. Seek new perspectives and ideas to understand the shift. Your power lies in learning from change, not running from it. Make transformation a mental breakthrough.

Cancer 8th House

Push through by letting yourself feel it all. Don’t numb or hide from the pain—cry, mourn, release. Trust that your vulnerability is your strength. Heal by nurturing yourself through emotional storms. Rebirth through deep self-compassion.

Leo 8th House

Push through by reclaiming your light. Let loss teach you self-worth beyond validation. Embrace the shadows to better understand your inner fire. Transform by creating something bold from your pain—art, leadership, or self-love.

Virgo 8th House

Push through by organizing the chaos. Analyze your grief, but don’t overthink it. Break down the pain into manageable parts, then rebuild with precision. Self-improvement through transformation makes you resilient. Heal by refining your purpose.

Libra 8th House

Push through by restoring balance within. Learn to navigate change without losing yourself in others’ needs. Rebirth happens when you prioritize your peace, even if it means letting go. Harmonize your inner world to face outer turmoil.

Scorpio 8th House

Push through by surrendering to the depths. You’re built to survive the darkest moments. Embrace your intense emotions, transform through raw truth. Your power lies in facing the void head-on and finding strength in your own rebirth.

Sagittarius 8th House

Push through by seeking meaning. Find purpose even in loss, explore philosophies that make sense of the pain. Freedom comes from not letting transformation trap you—keep moving, learning, and expanding your soul despite setbacks.

Capricorn 8th House

Push through by committing to growth. Don’t fear losing control—let failure teach you resilience. Build new structures from the ruins. Your strength is in rebuilding stronger, taking responsibility for your evolution without guilt.

Aquarius 8th House

Push through by embracing radical change. Detach from old patterns, innovate your way out of pain. Use your vision to reinvent yourself. Break societal expectations if needed—your rebirth is about staying true to your unique path.

Pisces 8th House

Push through by dissolving old illusions. Accept that endings are part of the dream. Surrender your pain to a higher power, let creativity heal you. Rebirth through compassion, art, and spiritual practices that ground your emotional waves.

370 notes · View notes

lazy-ahh · 2 months ago

Note

Hnnng thinking about A Beautiful, Monstrous Thing again, with Reader calling Sinister Mark his little bumblebee with his whole black and yellow fit. I know many call him a wasp, and I agree with it, but the cutesy name for a destructive being who’s only soft towards Reader gives me life ❤️‍🔥🖤💛🖤❤️‍🔥 Mark can’t help being attracted to a sweet (and secretly twisted) thing like Reader~. It’s Mark’s job to help Reader flourish across the universe with him. Reader is his one and only flower with the lethal nectar that enticed Mark since the beginning. Both need each other to re-invent the universe in their image.

Cue the song Bumble Bee by Bambee playing— 😂 … Actually, after listening to it again, it surprisingly fits them. 😳🐝

HONEY ON HIS LIPS, VENOM IN HIS KISS (MY LITTLE BUMBLEBEE)

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

from a beautiful, monstrous thing

a chillingly sweet one-shot where mass murder is just foreplay, where pet names are whispered between executions, and where the only thing more terrifying than mark grayson’s power is how desperately he’s adored by you. when a foolish hero tries to stand against you both, they’ll learn the hard way: this couple kills together—your hands just as bloody as his, your smile just as sharp. after all, why should the world get to keep its heroes when you could keep mark all to yourself?

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the city burns in the distance, a symphony of screams and crumbling concrete, the skyline painted in violent oranges and choking black smoke, and mark can’t help but grin.

it’s beautiful.

not as beautiful as you, though.

you’re perched on the edge of a half-collapsed skyscraper, legs swinging like a child on a playground, humming the tune of your (our) favourite song under your breath as the wind tugs playfully at your hair. there’s blood on your cheek—not yours, never yours, mark makes sure of it—a single crimson streak like war paint, a badge of honor from the chaos you’ve embraced. your fingers trace idle patterns in the dust coating the ledge, drawing little hearts and jagged lightning bolts, as if the apocalypse is just a canvas for your whimsy. when he lands beside you, the rubble shudders under his weight, but you don’t flinch. you just look up, and your smile is all teeth, all warmth, all his.

"took you long enough," you tease, leaning into him as his arm curls around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. his suit is still warm from the fight, the black and yellow fabric streaked with crimson, the scent of iron and ozone clinging to him like a second skin. you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and mark’s chest tightens—because you fit there like you were made for it, like the universe carved out this space between his collarbone and jaw just for you to rest your lips against.

he loves the way you’re no longer afraid to show your true self, loves the way your laughter spills like sunlight through broken glass, loves the way your fingers curl into his suit like he’s the only anchor in a world you’ve both set aflame. most of all, he loves the way you’re his—not as a possession, but as a promise, as inevitable as gravity, as irreversible as the blood on your hands.

"got distracted," mark murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering like he’s trying to memorize the way your hair smells—smoke and sweat and something sweet underneath. his free hand flexes, knuckles still slick with gore, flakes of dried blood cracking as his fingers curl. "some hero tried to make a last stand. pathetic."

you giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw before sinking your teeth into the plush of his cheek—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make him huff, enough to leave the faintest imprint behind. you soothe the bite with your tongue, kitten-soft, and his breath hitches. "aw, did my little bumblebee have to sting him?"

mark groans, rolling his eyes, but he can’t fight the way his cheeks heat up, the way his pulse jumps under your lips. "you’re the worst."

"you love me."

"unfortunately."

you laugh, bright and delighted, and mark thinks, not for the first time, that he’d raze entire galaxies just to hear that sound forever. he leans in, pressing his nose and lips to the side of your face, nuzzling like he’s trying to burrow into your skin. he doesn’t pull away, just stays there, breathing you in, his eyes half-lidded as he tilts his head to admire you—the curve of your lashes, the way your lips part just slightly, the flecks of something sinfully divine in your eyes catching the firelight. and you let him, turning your face to meet his, until the two of you are just... kissing. it’s not heated or passionate, it’s silent—your lips pressed together in something achingly soft, noses nudging, breaths mingling. his hands rise to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you can feel the way he trembles, the way he holds himself back like you’re something sacred.

you stare into each other’s eyes, and the world narrows to this: the warmth of his palms, the way his lashes flutter when you smile against his lips, the quiet, reverent sigh he lets out when you do. then, he starts kissing you slowly, pressing in with deliberate, unhurried movements—each one a question, a devotion. his mouth moves over yours like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the slide of his lips. you let him, resting your outstretched arms on his shoulders, wrists crossing lazily behind his neck, your fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

and before things could go further than that, a choked gasp interrupts the moment.

the hero—some c-lister with a lightning motif, some middle-aged man with a patchy beard that clings to his jaw like a sad, frayed rug—is dragging himself across the rubble, one arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the bones beneath his suit pressing grotesquely against the fabric. his suit is torn and smoking, the stench of burnt nylon and charred flesh clinging to him as he gags on his own blood. his eyes are wide with horror, flickering between the two of you like he can’t decide which is worse—the bloodthirsty conqueror with his hands still damp from slaughter, or the boy nestled so sweetly in his arms, your lips still curved in that lazy, amused smile.

"y-you—" he rasps, coughing up a thick glob of blood that splatters onto the cracked concrete. "you’re supposed to be a hero—"

you blink, tilting your head like a curious bird spotting something shiny. "was i?" you muse, tapping a finger against your chin, smearing a little more dust across your skin. "huh. must’ve missed the memo."

mark snorts, tightening his grip on you, his fingers pressing possessive crescents into your hip as he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of your jaw—slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the way your pulse jumps under his lips. his other hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he murmurs against your skin, voice low and honeyed with amusement, "he’s got you there."

the hero's face twists like a man choking on poison, his split lip trembling as he watches mark's teeth sink into your neck with the same casual cruelty he'd use to tear out a throat. "you're monsters," he spits, but his voice cracks halfway through—because you're laughing, actually laughing as mark's tongue soothes over the fresh bite, his lips warm and wet against your pulse point.

you sigh dramatically, arching back against mark's chest like a cat stretching in sunlight. "see, this is why i don't miss it," you say, waving a bloodstained hand through the air. "so much judgment." mark chooses that moment to tug your collar down further with his teeth, exposing the constellation of bruises he'd painted there last night, and you shiver when his tongue drags slow and hot over the most tender one. "like, wow, okay," you continue, voice going breathy as mark's canines scrape warningly over your jugular, "sorry i don't wanna waste my life handing out sandwiches to homeless people when i could be—" you gesture vaguely at the burning skyline with one hand while the other tangles in mark's hair, holding him closer as he sucks a fresh mark into your collarbone, his teeth sharp enough to make you shudder, "—this."

mark grins against your skin, his breath humid and dark with promise. "you're such a brat," he murmurs, but the way his hands slide possessively around your waist says he wouldn't have you any other way. the hero makes a wet, strangled noise—whether from his injuries or the way mark's tongue is now tracing the shell of your ear—and you can't help but giggle at how easy it is to break people, in so many different ways.

"your brat," you correct, voice dripping with false sweetness as you turn to kiss him—slow, deliberate, your teeth catching mark's bottom lip just hard enough to sting. you don't hurry, don't even acknowledge the wet, choking sounds the hero makes as he watches. when you finally pull away, it's with a soft sigh, like you're disappointed the moment had to end.

the hero's face is a grotesque mask of revulsion, his split lip trembling. "you're disgusting," he spits through bloody teeth.

your head tilts, just slightly. no gasp, no theatrics—just the slow curl of your lips into something that might almost be a smile if it reached your eyes. "am i?" you muse, fingers tracing idle patterns along mark's arm. your voice drops to a whisper meant only for him, though you know the hero will hear: "bumblebee, baby, he thinks he gets an opinion."

mark's grip tightens instantly, his glare making the hero stagger back despite his injuries. the air crackles with violence. "want me to shut him up?" he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

you consider for exactly three seconds—long enough for hope to flicker in the hero's eyes—before your hand lifts in a lazy gesture. "no," you decide, voice soft as a knife sliding between ribs. "i think i'd rather watch him realize." your fingers curl into mark's hair, nails scraping lightly. "let him see what happens to things that don't know their place."

before the hero can even blink, you're suddenly in front of him—not crouched, but standing over his broken body, your shadow swallowing what little light remains in his dying eyes. that smile of yours isn't sweet anymore; it's clinical, detached, the way a surgeon might regard an interesting specimen before dissection.

"here's the thing," you murmur, voice so soft it's almost lost beneath the crackling fires around you. you kneel slowly, methodically, one knee pressing down on his shattered forearm until the bones grind together with a wet crunch. his scream is delicious. "you're absolutely right. we are monsters."

your fingers—still warm from mark's touch—trail down the hero's face almost tenderly before suddenly gripping his jaw, forcing his mouth open. "but unlike you," you continue, slipping two fingers into his mouth and hooking them behind his teeth, "we don't pretend to be anything else. why don't you bastards just let us be happy, huh?" with one sharp twist, you dislocate his jaw—not enough to kill, just enough to make his screams come out as wet, garbled whimpers.

mark watches, rapt, as you methodically break each of the hero's fingers one by one, taking your time between snaps to wipe the blood on his ruined costume. when you finally tire of his pathetic twitching, you press your palm flat against his chest and let your powers surge through him—not enough to kill instantly, but just enough to make every nerve ending fire at once in excruciating overload. his body arches violently off the ground, muscles locking in agony as his skin blackens and cracks like dry earth.

only then, when his eyes have rolled back to show nothing but whites and his body has stopped convulsing, do you finally grip his head between both hands and twist sharply. the vertebrae separate with a series of satisfying pops.

mark lets out a low whistle as you stand, wiping your hands casually on your thighs. "show-off," he murmurs, but there's nothing but pride in his voice as he pulls you close, licking a streak of blood from your cheekbone with deliberate relish.

you rise slowly, methodically wiping each finger clean on the hero's ruined costume before standing. there's no skip in your step now—just measured, deliberate movements as you return to mark's side. "you love it," you state flatly, watching his reaction with dark, unblinking eyes.

"i do," he admits without hesitation, his arms encircling you possessively. his hands leave smears of blood on your waist where they grip too tight, but you don't mind the stains. they'll match the ones already marking your skin.

the city burns around you in great, heaving gasps—skyscrapers collapsing like dying giants, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and charred flesh. through the smoke and screams, mark can't imagine anything more perfect than this: you pressed against him, your breath steady against his neck, your fingers curling into his suit like you'd tear the world apart just to stay this close.

"so," you murmur, your voice soft as a razor's edge, fingers tracing the tattered hem of his cape with something like reverence. the movement is almost tender, if one ignores the blood caked beneath your nails. "what's next, bumblebee?"

mark grins, pressing his forehead to yours hard enough to bruise. when he speaks, his lips brush against yours with the promise of ruin:

"the world."

2.1k words full of our favourite sinister couple! wrote this during break time in class and honestly, apologies to those non-freaks (endearing) who didn't like the excessive PDA in this one-shot LOLOL!

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variants #sinister invincible #mark grayson #sinister mark grayson #male reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variants x male reader #sinister invincible x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #sinister mark grayson x male reader #sorry for the excessive PDA teehee #HELLOOOOO TO THE FREAKS WHO DID ENJOY THE PDA #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

290 notes · View notes

zrvllya · 2 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒

pairing - remus lupin x fem! reader

heart — „ that's not love. that's self-destruction — they look the same. "

warnings - blood mention, poisoning, self-destructive behavior, near death experience, illness, medical content, lycantrophy, codependency

word count — 4,400

────────────

the shack groans under the weight of morning. not the cheerful kind of morning—the gray, reluctant kind that spills through splintered boards like watered-down milk. it smells of copper and sweat and something animal that never quite leaves these walls.

you've been awake for hours. your knees protest against the rough wooden floor, but you don't move. not while he's like this.

remus lies curled on his side, all angles and exposed ribs beneath a blanket too thin to offer real comfort. his breathing has finally steadied, no longer the ragged gasping of transformation but the heavy rhythm of exhaustion. dried blood crusts at the corner of his mouth. you resist the urge to wipe it away—he hates being touched immediately after.

instead, you wait. your fingertips trace patterns on the floorboards, ghosting over splinters and old stains. your heart beats sluggishly in your chest, a clock winding down.

"how long have you been there?" his voice cracks, desert-dry.

"since before dawn," you answer, and the truth feels inadequate. you've been here for years, really. in this same position, watching him emerge from the wolf like someone crawling from wreckage.

remus shifts, winces. his eyes remain closed. "you shouldn't."

"we've had this conversation."

"and we'll have it again," he murmurs. "until you listen."

you smile despite everything. "then we'll be having it forever."

he opens his eyes at that. amber in this light—more human than wolf but carrying echoes of both. they fix on your face with the intensity that always makes you feel translucent, like he can see straight through to the lies you've been telling.

"your hands," he says.

you tuck them under your thighs. "just cold."

"it's may."

"poor circulation."

he struggles to sit up, and you don't offer help because you know he'll refuse it. the blanket slides from his shoulders, revealing fresh scratches across his collarbone. not as bad as they used to be. not as bad as they should be.

"give me your hand," he says, and it's not a request.

you hesitate, then extend your right hand. his fingers wrap around your wrist, pressing against your pulse point. his thumb strokes once across your palm, and the touch sends electricity up your arm.

"your heart," he says, "is beating too slowly."

"must be all the running i do," you attempt a joke, but it falls flat between you.

remus says nothing, but his grip tightens. those eyes—professor eyes, you used to tease—cataloging, analyzing. you see the moment understanding breaks across his face like a fever.

"you've been taking it." not a question. horror coats each word. "the wolfsbane."

you don't deny it. can't, really, not with the evidence written in your slowing pulse and the constant chill in your fingers. three years of goodnight kisses after he's taken his potion. three years of letting the poison build in your system, molecule by molecule.

"just traces," you say, as if that makes it better. "just enough to—"

"to what? kill yourself slowly?" his voice rises, then breaks. "merlin's fucking beard, what were you thinking?"

"that i could help." the words sound small in the vastness of what you've done. "that i could share it. ease it."

"by poisoning yourself?" he releases your hand like it burns him. "this isn't—you can't just—"

"it works," you interrupt. "you've been having better transformations. less pain. the wolf is calmer."

"at what cost?" remus pushes himself further away, back hitting the wall. the distance between you feels oceanic. "do you have any idea what you've done? wolfsbane is toxic. even in small doses, over time—"

"i know what it does."

"and you did it anyway." disbelief colors his words. "why would you—how could you—"

"because i love you," you say simply. "and i was tired of watching you suffer alone."

he flinches like you've struck him. "that's not love. that's self-destruction."

"they look the same."

silence stretches between you, taut as a bowstring. outside, birds have begun their morning songs, oblivious to the storm brewing within these walls. remus runs trembling fingers through his hair—more gray than brown now, though he's still young by wizarding standards.

"how long?" he finally asks.

"since that night at the potter‘s house. when you collapsed even days later."

he remembers. you see it in the way his eyes darken. "three years."

you nod.

"three years of—" he can't finish the thought. "and what happens when it builds to toxic levels? when your heart stops? when your nervous system fails? did you think about that?"

"of course i did."

"and?"

you look down at your pale hands. "i decided you were worth it."

"don't you dare," he whispers, voice dangerous and low. "don't you dare make me the reason for your death."

"it's my choice, remus."

"it's not a choice i will allow!" he shouts, then immediately crumples, energy spent. "i already have enough blood on my hands. i won't add yours."

you crawl toward him, ignoring his attempt to retreat further into the wall. "you think i haven't considered everything? that i jumped into this without research? i've been working with an apothecary in knockturn alley. there's a cleansing potion—"

"an illegal potion, i assume."

"yes," you admit. "but it works. i take it every full moon after... after i've helped you."

he stares at you, incredulous. "so your solution to poisoning yourself is to use more illegal potions? brilliant. truly brilliant."

"it's kept me alive so far."

"and what about next month? or the month after? how long until your body builds resistance to the cleansing potion? did your knockturn alley friend mention that part?"

you hadn't considered that. the silence answers for you.

remus closes his eyes, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "you need to stop this. now. before it causes permanent damage."

"i can't."

"you must."

"would you?" you challenge. "if our positions were reversed, would you stop?"

a memory flashes between you—his body shielding yours during the a fight with slytherins, taking a curse meant for you. the weeks of recovery afterward. his insistence that he would do it again without hesitation.

"that's different," he says, but the argument sounds hollow even to him.

"it's exactly the same."

the sunlight has strengthened, cutting across his scarred face in golden bands. he looks both ancient and boyish in this light—the marauder, the man and the wolf.

"i never asked for this sacrifice," he whispers.

"you never had to."

three months earlier

"you're doing it again," sirius observed from the doorway of the library at grimmauld place, watching as you pored over ancient potion texts.

you didn't look up. "doing what?"

"that thing where you try to solve moony‘s furry little problem through sheer force of will." he crossed the room, peering over your shoulder at the yellowed pages. "thaddeus thornberry's advanced poison control? light reading, is it?"

"just curious," you said, closing the book casually—too casually.

sirius barked a laugh. "right. and i'm just curious about motorcycle maintenance. not planning to enchant one and fly it over london."

you sighed. "is there something you needed?"

"yeah, actually." he leaned against the table, arms crossed. "need you to stop whatever insane plan you're concocting before moony finds out and has a complete meltdown."

"i'm not—"

"save it." sirius cut you off with a wave of his hand. "i've known you both too long. he's getting better after full moons, but the wolfsbane isn't improving that drastically on its own. and you—" he gestured at your face, "—look worse every month."

your heart stuttered. "maybe i'm just tired."

"your lips were blue last moon." sirius's voice softened. "blue, love. like you were half-frozen from the inside out."

tears pricked behind your eyes. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"yes, you do." he sat beside you, suddenly serious in that way only sirius black could be—the gravity that lived beneath all his jokes and recklessness. "whatever you're doing to help him is killing you."

"it's not."

"it is. and when he figures it out—and he will—it'll destroy him more thoroughly than any transformation ever could."

you stared at the table, tracing wood grain patterns with your finger. "i found a way to share it. just a little. enough to make a difference."

sirius exhaled slowly. "the wolfsbane."

you nodded.

"bloody hell." he ran a hand through his hair. "that stuff is toxic enough that slughorn has to wear dragon-hide gloves to brew it. and you're what—ingesting it?"

"not directly," you mumbled. "just... residual traces. from when we..."

understanding dawned on his face. "after he takes it. when you kiss him."

you nodded again.

"does it hurt?" he asked, voice gentle.

"sometimes. mostly it just makes me cold. slows everything down." you forced a smile. "small price to pay."

sirius was quiet for so long that you finally looked up. his gray eyes were focused on some middle distance, his face a complex map of emotions.

"you remind me of james," he finally said.

that surprised you. "what? how?"

"that particular brand of self-sacrificing stupidity." a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "he'd do the same for any of us. does do the same, really,"

"it's not stupid if it works," you argued.

"it's stupid if it gets you killed." sirius took your cold hand between his warm ones.

"it won't."

"promise me you'll find another way," sirius insisted. "one that doesn't involve slow-motion suicide."

you'd promised, but some promises were made to be broken.

"how did you know?" you ask now, as remus stares at you across the dusty floor of the shrieking shack.

"i suspected something was wrong for months." his voice is steady now, professorial. "your symptoms match chronic wolfsbane toxicity. slower heart rate. decreased body temperature. the blue tinge to your fingernails during winter." he swallows hard. "i thought perhaps it was something else. an illness you were hiding. i never imagined you were deliberately poisoning yourself."

"not poisoning. sharing," you correct gently.

"semantics." he sighs, shoulders slumping. "when did sirius figure it out?"

you startle. "how did you—"

"he's been watching you like a hawk before every full moon. slipping you potions when he thinks i'm not looking."

of course he'd noticed. remus notices everything.

"about three months ago," you admit. "he caught me researching antidotes."

remus nods slowly. "and he didn't tell me."

"he promised not to. said it was my secret to tell."

"typical." there's no heat in the word—just weary resignation. "loyal to a fault, even when loyalty is the wrong choice."

you inch closer, until your knees nearly touch his. "i'm not going to stop."

"yes, you are."

"no," you reach for his hand, relieved when he doesn't pull away. "i'm not. but i will be more careful. better antidotes. proper monitoring."

"there's no safe way to do this." frustration edges his words.

"there's no safe way to love you either," you say softly. "i chose this life—chose you—knowing what it meant."

he looks at you then, really looks, and something inside him seems to crack open. "i am not worth this."

"you don't get to decide what you're worth to me."

his fingers tighten around yours. "i can't watch you die by inches."

"then help me find a better way. but don't ask me to stop trying."

the transformation has left him raw, defenses stripped away. tears gather in his eyes but don't fall. "why?" he whispers. "why would you do this?"

you could answer with platitudes. with grand declarations. instead, you give him the simple, terrible truth.

"because the night you first transformed in front of me, i saw your bones break and reform. i heard you scream until your voice gave out. i watched you tear at your own skin." your voice doesn't waver. "and i decided then that if i couldn't stop your pain, i would share it. even a fraction. even if it killed me."

remus makes a sound—half sob, half bitter laugh. "merlin help me, but i don't deserve you."

"probably not," you agree with the ghost of a smile. "but you're stuck with me anyway."

he pulls you against him then, arms wrapping around you with desperate strength. his body is warm against your perpetually cold one. you fit your head beneath his chin, listening to his heartbeat—too fast, while yours is too slow. somehow perfect counterpoints.

"we're going to find another way," he murmurs into your hair. "a way that doesn't hurt you."

you don't argue, though you both know there might not be another way. the wolfsbane is the only modern advancement in lycanthropy treatment. everything else is medieval torture or folk remedy.

"i love you," you say instead, because it's the only truth that matters.

his arms tighten around you. "enough to poison yourself."

"enough to do whatever it takes."

remus sighs, his breath warm against your scalp. "that's what terrifies me."

outside, the morning has fully arrived. sunlight streams through the cracks, illuminating dust motes that dance between you like tiny stars. the wolf has retreated for another month, but its shadow remains—in his scars, in your slowing heart, in the space between kisses that tastes of bitterness and aconite.

"come home," you whisper against his chest. "let me take care of you."

"only if you let me take care of you too," he counters.

you nod, knowing neither of you will keep that promise completely. love between broken people is never neat or simple. it's messy and desperate and sometimes dangerous—a constant negotiation between what you're willing to give and what you can bear to take.

remus stands slowly, muscles protesting the movement. you rise with him, supporting his weight without making it obvious that's what you're doing. he's too proud for open help, even now.

"sirius will be waiting," he says.

"with tea and chocolate and a lecture for both of us," you agree.

remus almost smiles. "and several illegal potions, apparently."

"those too."

as you help him toward the hidden passage, he pauses, framed in weak sunlight. "promise me something."

"anything."

"no more secrets." his eyes search yours. "not between us. not anymore."

you hesitate, then nod. "no more secrets."

it's a promise you intend to keep this time, though you both know there will always be things left unsaid—the way he sometimes wakes growling in the night, the way your fingers sometimes turn blue when you're tired, the fear that lives in both your hearts that one day the wolf will win or the poison will.

but for now, in the fragile morning light, it's enough to walk together through the tunnel, toward whatever comes next. the wolf sleeps. the poison ebbs. and love—fierce, foolish love—carries you forward through another dawn.

the journey back to hogwarts is always the worst part. the tunnel seems longer after full moons, stretching endlessly beneath the whomping willow, damp earth pressing in from all sides. remus leans heavily against you, his breathing labored. you support him without comment, knowing his pride is as fragile as his post-transformation body.

"we should rest," you suggest when his steps falter.

"no," he says, determined. "almost there."

you don't argue. the sooner you reach the castle, the sooner you can both collapse somewhere warm and safe. but with each step, the cold spreads through your limbs, a familiar numbness creeping from fingertips up your arms. you've learned to hide it well—the tremors, the dizziness that follows every full moon now—but today feels different. worse.

by the time you emerge from beneath the willow, pale morning light making both of you squint, you're not sure who's supporting whom anymore. the castle looms ahead, a stone sentinel against the dawn sky. gryffindor tower has never seemed so far away.

"we should go to pomfrey," remus murmurs, noticing your pallor.

"and tell her what?" you manage a weak smile. "that i've been voluntarily ingesting traces of a controlled substance? i'm sure that will go over well."

he frowns but doesn't press the issue. not yet.

the castle corridors are mercifully empty this early on a saturday. your footsteps echo against stone floors, a stumbling rhythm that carries you up staircases and through passageways until you reach the fat lady's portrait.

"phoenix tears," remus whispers.

the portrait swings open, revealing the warm glow of the gryffindor common room. sirius is there, as expected, pacing before the fireplace. he looks up at your entrance, relief washing over his features before quickly transforming into alarm.

"bloody hell," he breathes, rushing forward to help. "what happened?"

"i know," remus says simply.

understanding floods sirius's face. "shit." he takes remus's other side, guiding you both to the sofa nearest the fire. "sit. both of you."

you sink into the cushions gratefully, the room swaying slightly around you. the fire's warmth doesn't penetrate the chill that's settled into your bones. your fingers are distinctly blue at the tips now, no matter how close to the flames you hold them.

"where is it?" sirius demands, rifling through his pockets.

"where's what?" remus asks, confused.

sirius ignores him, producing a small vial of pearlescent liquid. "here. drink this. now."

you take the vial with trembling hands, uncorking it with difficulty. the liquid burns going down, but it's a welcome heat—something to fight the ice forming in your veins.

"what the hell is that?" remus demands, watching as color slowly returns to your face.

"cleansing potion," sirius answers tersely. "more potent than the one our friend here has been using."

remus's eyes narrow. "and you've been providing it?"

"someone had to." sirius runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "since neither of you would listen to reason."

"you knew." remus's voice is dangerously quiet. "all this time."

"not all this time," you interject weakly. "only a few months."

"and you didn't think to tell me?" hurt bleeds into remus's anger.

sirius meets his gaze unflinchingly. "it wasn't my secret to tell."

"so you enabled this instead?"

"i kept them alive," sirius snaps. "which is more than they were managing on their own. merlin's beard, moony, what would you have done? let them collapse in some corridor alone because you didn't know what was happening?"

remus falls silent, the truth of sirius's words hanging heavy between them.

your vision blurs suddenly, darkness creeping at the edges. you try to focus on the flames, on the familiar tapestries adorning the walls, but everything swims in and out of focus. your heart stutters in your chest—too slow, then racing, then slow again.

"something's wrong," you whisper, voice sounding distant to your own ears.

both men turn to you sharply. remus's hand finds your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse point.

"her heart's racing," he says, alarm edging his words. "sirius—"

"shit," sirius mutters, digging in his pockets again. "this hasn't happened before."

the room tilts suddenly. your limbs feel leaden, disconnected from your body. distantly, you're aware of falling forward, of remus catching you before you hit the floor, of his voice calling your name with increasing desperation.

"what's happening?" remus demands, voice cracking. "what's wrong with her?"

sirius kneels beside you, face grim. "the cleansing potion. she's building a tolerance."

just as you'd feared but refused to acknowledge. just as remus had warned mere hours ago.

"do something," remus pleads, cradling you against his chest.

"i'm trying!" sirius's voice rises. "i don't—i don't have anything stronger here."

your fingers clutch weakly at remus's shirt. his face swims above you, features blurred but beautiful—always so beautiful, even ravaged by transformation and fear.

"i'm sorry," you manage to whisper.

"don't," he says fiercely. "don't you dare apologize."

"should have told you."

"yes, you bloody well should have," he agrees, but there's no anger in it now, only terror. "stay with me. please."

sirius reappears in your narrowing field of vision, another vial in hand. "this is all i have left. it might help. might not."

"might make it worse?" remus asks.

sirius hesitates, then nods. "possibly."

"her choice," remus says, though it clearly costs him. "always her choice."

through the fog wrapping around your mind, you appreciate this small concession—that even now, terrified as he is, he respects your agency. your right to choose the manner of your loving him, even when that love might destroy you both.

you nod weakly, and sirius tips the contents of the vial between your lips. it tastes of ash and metal and something ancient. your body convulses once, violently, and then everything goes perfectly, blessedly still.

for a moment, you float in darkness. not unpleasant—just nothing. no pain. no cold. no weight of choices made or unmade.

then sound filters back. remus's voice, raw with emotion.

"—can't leave me. not like this. not because of me."

your eyes flutter open. the ceiling of the common room comes into focus gradually—rich red fabric draped between wooden beams. remus's face hovers above you, tear-streaked and desperate.

"there you are," he whispers when your eyes meet his. "there you are."

you try to speak but can only manage a weak cough. sirius appears with water, helping you sit up enough to sip from the glass.

"how do you feel?" he asks cautiously.

the honest answer is: shattered. like something inside you has broken irreparably. but the blue has receded from your fingertips, and your heart beats with something approaching a normal rhythm.

"better," you lie, because the relief on their faces is worth the deception.

remus helps you sit up fully, arranging cushions behind your back. his hands linger, as if afraid you'll disappear if he stops touching you. sirius collapses into a nearby armchair, suddenly looking every one of his years and more.

"that was too close," he says quietly.

no one disagrees.

morning sunlight streams through the tower windows now, painting golden rectangles across the worn carpet. somewhere in the castle, students will be waking, preparing for weekend activities with ordinary concerns. the simplicity of that existence feels alien to you now.

"it's over," remus says after a long silence. "this experiment. these potions. all of it."

you want to argue, to insist you can find another way, but your body's betrayal is too fresh to deny. your mouth tastes of copper and aconite and fear.

"i can't lose you," he continues, voice breaking. "not for this. not so i can have marginally less pain once a month."

"it was more than marginal," you protest weakly.

"nothing is worth this," he insists. "nothing is worth your life."

sirius clears his throat. "there might be... alternatives."

you both look at him.

"not wolfsbane," he clarifies quickly. "something else entirely. something i've been researching."

"your mysterious correspondence," remus says with sudden understanding. "the letters from abroad."

sirius nods. "there's someone in eastern europe. working on a different approach to lycanthropy. less about controlling the wolf, more about... integration."

"that sounds like dark magic," remus says warily.

"not dark. just... old. predating the divisions we've created between acceptable and unacceptable magic." sirius leans forward. "it might not work. but it also won't kill either of you."

hope flickers, fragile but persistent. you reach for remus's hand, finding it already reaching for yours.

"we can talk about it," you concede. "after."

"after what?" remus asks.

"after i sleep for about forty-eight hours." your attempt at humor falls flat, but remus's lips twitch nonetheless.

"i'll carry you upstairs," he offers.

"to the boys' dormitory? scandal," you murmur.

"everyone's at hogsmeade," sirius points out, and remus continues, "and frankly, i don't give a damn about school rules right now."

remus lifts you carefully, as if you might shatter in his arms. perhaps you might. your body feels different now—fundamentally altered by months of poison and today's near collapse. whether the damage is permanent remains to be seen.

as he carries you toward the spiral staircase, you rest your head against his shoulder. despite everything—the fear, the pain, the uncertainty—there's a strange peace in surrender. in knowing you've reached a limit, that something must change.

"this doesn't mean i love you any less," you murmur against his neck.

his arms tighten around you. "i know."

"just that i love you differently now."

he pauses on the stairs, looking down at you with those amber eyes that have seen too much suffering. "how?"

you consider this as he resumes climbing. "before, i thought love meant sharing your burden. taking some of your pain as my own."

"and now?"

you reach the dormitory. he pushes the door open with his shoulder and carries you to his bed, laying you gently on sheets that smell of parchment and tea and him.

"now i think..." you search for words as he pulls a blanket over you. "now i think maybe love is learning how to carry our separate burdens side by side. not trying to take what isn't mine to bear."

remus sits beside you on the bed, brushing hair from your forehead. "wisdom through near-death experience?"

"something like that." you catch his hand, press a kiss to his palm. "still not leaving you, though."

"i wouldn't let you if you tried," he admits, the possessiveness of the wolf bleeding into his voice.

you smile, eyelids growing heavy. "good."

he stretches out beside you, careful not to jostle the bed. even exhausted and hurting from his own transformation, his first concern is for your comfort. you shift to rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

"sleep," he murmurs, fingers combing gently through your hair. "i'll be here when you wake up."

you believe him. it's one promise neither of you will break.

as consciousness fades, you feel his lips press against your forehead. "thank you," he whispers, "for loving me enough to stay. even when staying means letting go."

you don't have the strength to answer, but he understands anyway. he always does. the wolf in him senses what words cannot express—that your love hasn't diminished, only transformed. like him, it contains multitudes. like him, it survives.

the last thing you register before sleep claims you is remus's heartbeat against your ear and sirius's voice from the doorway, uncharacteristically gentle:

"they'll be alright, moony. as long as you are."

#marauders #marauders era #marauders story #marauders x reader #marauders oneshot #remus lupin x you #remus lupin story #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #remus x reader #remus x fem!reader #remus lupin x fem!reader

166 notes · View notes