#and some stuff about nepotism?

[corruptlabyrinth]

cancelling really isn't a new thing

I mean when Marie Antoinette said "let them eat cake" back in the 18th century they just put her on the guillotine and killed her

getting cancelled seems pretty tame now

[jettison-my-gift]

.

[bucketofpaint]

Danny is Damian's clone.

He's well aware of it. He wasn't just any clone. He was the very first. That was the difference between Danny and other clones. He was made before the League started using brainwashing and stuff into their cloning process.

When Danny was fresh out of the tube, the League had sat him down and explained his the purpose of his existence, gave him some intense training, and immediately tossed him out into the world.

But the thing was, he just didn't care. He had absolutely no loyalty to his creators, and he had no desire to kill/kidnap his original. So he just started walking. The next thing he knew, he was at some orphanage in Illinois.

And then the rest was history. He got adopted by a pair of enthusiastic scientists and their red-head daughter, got his own name, and he could finally start living his own life.

Danny had put the past behind him and had barely even thought about it at all for a long time. That was unill his original showed up at his school.

----------------

Damien was annoyed. He was stuck at some random Illinois town (supposed to be the most haunted place in the world, which was a bunch of ludicrous.) On a transfer program. He tried convincing Father how illogical it would be, but Father had told him it would be good for him to meet new people.

___

Danny was annoyed.

"I don't understand what the big deal about him is anyways," Danny complained.

"He started being the ceo of Wayne Enterprise when he was a teenager." Sam countered.

"Ok, so, nepotism."

Sam rolled her eyes. "I still don't understand why you're so against him."

"One, billionaire. Two, Tucker is way cooler than Tim Drake.

Sam's eyes soften. " Tucker is just gone for a few weeks."

Danny's cheeks felt warm. "I never said anything about that. I just want Tucker to find a cooler role model, is all.

Sam gave him an all-knowing look. "Well, if you say so. I'm going to get in line."

Sam, all ways waited last to get in the lunch line. Claiming she didn't want to hold up line when the lunch ladies had to get the vegetarian option. Which was fine, but now that Tucker was doing the dumb transfer student program, all he could do was eat his mediocre lunch and mindlessly play on his phone.

Untill someone grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the cafeteria into the hallway. Danny turned around to face the person. He froze at the sight of his own face. Or well, a glaring rich kid version.

"Oh, it's you." Danny said nonchalant, even though he was screaming inside.

"You're not going to play dumb, clone?"

"No, why would I, The resemblance is uncanny.

"What are you doing here?" His original demanded

"You dragged me here."

His original scowled. "You know what I mean, clone. I won't hesitate to end you."

"Just trying to go to school, honest."

Original glared at him, scanning him with his eyes. The grip on Danny's arm loosened. " I'll be watching you, clone."

" Whatever you say, template."

Danny walked back to the cafeteria, blocking out the yells of rage behind him.

___

It was about a week of Damian watching his clone, and he was confused. At first, he thought the league sent the clone to trade places with him before he went back to Gotham, but now he wasn't sure. The Clone seemed to fit in the community to well to have show up recently, but that didn't disprove the theory entirely. It could be a long-term plan from the League. They could be responsible for putting the transfer program in place in the first place.

The other theory was that the clone escaped and made a life for himself, but that didn't explain how he got past his programming.

After the last period, Damian found his clone and pulled him aside.

"What do you want?" His clone asked, irritated.

"You're different then other clones, explain."

"I don't know. I didn't really stick around very long to find out."

"What about your programming?"

"I didn't have any?"

Damian thought about it before giving a small nod. "You don't seem to be a threat, but I'll still keep my eye on you, clone."

"I've got a name, you know." He held out his hand. "Danny Fenton, nice to make your acquaintance."

Damian heistently shook his hand. "Damian Wayne."

That started their unsaid agreement. You don't mess with me, I don’t mess with you. They interacted with each other sometimes, but not very offen. They were impartial to one another, and both sides weren't very keen on getting to know each other. And that was their relationship till the day Damian was leaving.

Damian was waiting for the bus when Danny approached him.

"What do you want, Daniel?"

"I told not to call me that, but uh, here." Danny handed a piece of paper to him. "It's my phone number if you ever need help from the League or anything."

Damian slipped the paper into his pocket. "Give me your phone." Danny handed over his phone, and Damian started typing.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked.

"I'm putting my number in. If you ever require assistance."

Danny smiled, "Thanks."

____

A few months later.

Tim was peeking over a corner.

"What are you doing?" Dick asked.

Tim didn't say anything and just waved him over. He walked over and stared in aw at what he saw. Damian was slouched on the couch, his hair messy, playing on his phone.

A few minutes later, Jason joined.

"Am I hallucinating?" Tim whispered.

"Nah, I don't think so... unless we're all hallucinating." Jason whispered back.

"Do you think he has brain damage or been possessed or something?" Tim asked.

Dick shook his head. "That seems unlikely."

"This is so trippy. I've never seen him wear anything that casually like ever.

"What are you imbeciles doing?"

"We're watching Damian."

All three of them froze and turned to look at a glaring Damian.

Damian walked past them and went right up to the second Damian.

"Daniel, what are you doing here?"

The causal Damian 'Daniel' pulled out a letter. "Your pops invited me, and I didn’t want to risk the chance of batman showing up at my front door."

Damian scoffed, "Of course, Father found out."

Alfred walked in. "Master Daniel, I'll be taking you to Master Bruce."

The double got up and went to Alfred.

"Cookie, Master Daniel?"

"Sure, and call me danny."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

talking about married ladies, it is quite interesting that georgina doesn't wear a ring! if you look at princess leah, she has a ring on her left hand's ring finger; but if you look at maleanor, who's also married, she wears a ring on her right hand's middle finger! this makes me wonder if different races have different wedding ring customs! personally, it made me think that merfolk just dont wear rings as proof of marriage; in the little mermaid prequel, for example, ariel's mother and father wear no rings despite being married (i think???) anyway, i hope we find out more about this what do you think? are there any other married characters that come to mind?

I don’t have any comment on the actual Disney characters and whether or not they wear rings and in a consistent place after marriage; I’m of the opinion that even if I checked this, details that are true in the Disney versions do not always translate over to Twst. We also can’t tell what are animation errors or not, especially granted that it’s usually the lower budget sequels or prequels that show married characters.

Traditionally, a wedding ring would be worn on your left hand’s ring finger (fourth finger from the thumb). The only Twst parent to be wearing a ring like this is Queen Leah.

As someonetwisted said, Maleanor wears a ring on her right hand's middle finger. This could be indicative of different races having different traditions when it comes to where their wedding ring is worn--however, because we have seen so few married fae + merpeople and no married beastmen to compare to, it's unclear whether this is the case or if Maleanor's ring is just something she wears as a sign of opulence as a princess.

The only other fae I can think of is Baur, but it's not obvious if he was married or not at the time of Lilia's time as a general. Even if Baur were married during that era, his armor would make it difficult to wear a ring:

This is probably also why the Dawn Knight wears no ring. However, I do believe that if you extract the in-game assets, he is shown to be wearing a wedding band under his armor.

Lilia, who is a single parent and never got married, of course wears no ring. (It would also be odd to pass as a high school student while you’re wearing a wedding ring/j)

Then we have Dylla and Eric Venue, who may have been married at one point or (for whatever reason) are no longer with their partner. Neither wear rings, which could be because they never actually married or have split up with or lost their spouses in some other way. It could be something practical though?

For Dylla, a ring might get in the way of her truck driving and delivering goods. She may not want to wear something “fancy” for such a physically demanding and casual job. For Eric, a celebrity, he wouldn’t want the public to know he is already taken or has been with a woman in a physical capacity. This is especially the case because Vil doesn’t want people to know about their familial connection and claim he only has his success due to nepotism.

When it comes to parents who are happily married, there's the Clovers (from the Heartslabyul manga!) and Mr. and Mrs. Shroud.

You can't see Mrs. Clover's hands, but Mr. Clover appears to wear no ring. I'm going to assume Mrs. Clover is the same. Again, I see this as a practical thing. Wearing a ring while making baked goods seems unsanitary.

Mr. and Mrs. Shroud wear gloves, but no rings. I'm not as certain about this one, but maybe Mr. Shroud avoids wearing a ring due to workplace professionalism? He does seem to be the more serious one of the duo.

As for Mrs. Shroud, maybe she foregoes the ring (despite being so love-dovey) in case it gets in the way of her job...? I'm not sure how tech stuff works, but my thought is that this would be to avoid the metal or gem of the ring interfering with whatever she's inventing in case they come in contact. Or maybe she just wants to match with her husband?

The only married merperson we know of right now is, of course, Georgina, who wears no ring:

One proposed (kek, get the pun?) reason as to why this is is that every race has different traditions or customs to indicate being taken. However, I wonder if there's another reason...?

If you look at the true form of a moray eel merperson, they have webbed fingers. This would make it extremely difficult to wear a ring. (I should point out that the more humanoid merpeople, like the Atlantica Memorial Museum guards, do NOT have webbed fingers, so it would be possible for them to wear rings.)

It seems tedious for morays to keep a ring prepared just to slip on every time you visit the land. It also feels like a small thing like the ring would be easily washed away by the waves. And how frequently would you be going to land, anyway? Would this extra effort be worth it??

I also think it’s entirely possible that Georgina doesn’t wear a ring because it goes against glove etiquette. Yes, there is such a thing 😂

In glove etiquette, you are not supposed to wear a ring over your gloves. This just is not done, I’m assuming because it can mess with the fabric. (Besides, rings are measured to fit your finger, without taking gloves into consideration!) It’s also not advisable to wear rings under your gloves, as this would ruin the smooth silhouette with an unsightly lump.

Another component of glove etiquette is the length: shorter gloves are appropriate for cocktail parties and more informal occasions, while gloves that extend past elbow length (which is true of Georgina’s outfit) are for formal occasions. Since Georgina does appear to be formally dressed and in attendance for an acquaintance’s pre-wedding festivities + is a well put-together woman, it’s not too far-fetched to assume she doesn’t have a ring on in order to conform with the etiquette.

We probably won’t see Mr. Leech this event, but maybe in a future one! That’s probably when Floyd gets his “hometown” (a bit of a misnomer, since Ultramarine City and Maquillaville aren’t Jade or Vil’s respecrive hometowns) SSR. I always thought that Jade took after his dad since Mr. Leech stresses the importance of proper dress and attitude… but hey, maybe he’s got a bit of loose cannon in him like Floyd??

[folkwhoreberry]

Earned It, Owned It

dad!fernando alonso x daughter!reader

or... the one where there’s no shame in the name

word count : 956

warning : none, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : I love it by icona pop & charlie xcx

request

🥷🏻🇪🇸

the paddock was buzzing, as it always was on a race weekend. you had just finished checking over some final details in the garage when you were pulled aside by one of the media teams. it wasn’t unusual - being fernando alonso’s daughter came with a certain level of attention. you didn’t mind it, though. it was part of the job.

“just a quick interview?” one of the journalists asked with a smile that you knew was supposed to look friendly but carried a hint of something else. they always wanted more than just a quick chat, but you nodded anyway, knowing exactly where this was going.

you stood in front of the camera, adjusting your aston martin polo, and gave them a nod to let them know you were ready. the questions started easy, asking about the team, how preparations were going for the race, the usual pre-race chatter. you answered with the same professionalism you always did, keeping things light.

and then, it came.

“so, some people have said that your position here is thanks to… well, your father’s legacy in formula 1. what do you have to say to those accusations of nepotism?”

you couldn’t help but smirk. there it was. the question they were all waiting to ask. you could see the glint in the reporter’s eyes, hoping you’d squirm, hoping you’d try to defend yourself or make some grand statement about your qualifications.

but you weren’t about to give them that.

“honestly?” you started, your smirk widening. “yeah, I’m a nepo baby. no denying it. I mean, who wouldn’t want to take advantage of having a two-time world champion for a dad?” you shrugged, your tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m proud of it, honestly. got me here, didn’t it?”

the reporter blinked, clearly taken aback by your response. they hadn’t expected you to lean into it so hard. you could almost hear the gears turning in their head as they tried to figure out how to follow up.

“so… you admit that your father helped you get your position?” they pressed, clearly unsure of where this was going.

“of course,” you said with a laugh. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend that growing up around formula 1 didn’t give me an advantage. but here’s the thing - having connections might get you in the door, but it doesn’t keep you here. I work hard. I know my stuff. and if people want to focus on my last name instead of what I actually do, that’s their problem, not mine.”

you glanced to the side, noticing your dad approaching, clearly having overheard the last part of the interview. he had that signature fernando alonso grin on his face, the one that told you he was ready to stir the pot just a little bit more.

“am I interrupting?” he asked, stepping into the frame with you, his arm casually slung over your shoulder. “what’s going on here?”

“oh, nothing much,” you said, smiling at him. “just addressing the usual nepotism accusations.”

fernando raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “nepotism? ah, yes. my daughter, the nepo baby.” he said the term with a playful roll of his eyes. “is that what they’re calling you now?”

“apparently.” you shrugged, still grinning. “but I was just telling them I don’t mind. being a nepo baby’s not so bad.”

fernando laughed, looking directly into the camera now. “well, if being a nepo baby means you’re good at your job and work as hard as she does, then I guess I’ll take credit for it,” he said, giving you a proud look. “but really, she’s the one putting in the work. I just gave her the love of the sport.”

“so, you’re not concerned about the claims that your daughter only has her position because of your influence?” the reporter asked, clearly trying to stir things up between the two of you.

fernando chuckled, shaking his head. “not at all. I know how much she’s done to get here. I might’ve opened some doors, but she’s the one who walked through them - and keeps walking.” he gave you a wink, and you couldn’t help but smile at his response.

“besides,” you chimed in, “if I wasn’t good at what I do, I wouldn’t still be here. this is formula 1. it’s not exactly a place where you can coast by on your last name. my dad knows that better than anyone.”

fernando nodded in agreement. “exactly. you don’t stay in this sport unless you’ve got the skills to back it up.”

the reporter, clearly realizing they weren’t going to get the reaction they were hoping for, tried to wrap things up. “well, it’s clear you both have a strong bond. thank you for your time, and good luck with the race this weekend.”

you smiled, already moving to step away from the interview. “thanks, appreciate it,” you said, giving them a small wave before turning back to your dad.

as you walked away together, you could feel the eyes of the paddock on you, but it didn’t bother you. you were used to it by now. and honestly? you wouldn’t change a thing. you were proud of where you came from, proud of what you had achieved, and if people wanted to call you a nepo baby, so be it.

you’d own it - just like you owned everything else in this sport.

“you handled that well,” fernando said with a grin, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “i think you might’ve even thrown them off a bit.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “yeah, well, I learned from the best, didn’t I?”

“damn right,” he said with a wink. “now, let’s go get back to work.”

————————————————————————————

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

a/n : little miss alonso is living my dream bc I want to be a nepo baby sooo bad

[admiringlove]

➵ pairing. gojo satoru x fem! reader.

➵ summary. the pieces are in place, the shadows are shifting, and soon, everything will unravel.

➵ warnings. mentions of blood; one character almost dies; lots of fire; bickering™; crying; ; mentions of familial abuse; mentions of death; mentions of physical injuries; slight evil geto; this is the last official chapter before the epilogues; yes i'm crying too.

➵ genre. wizarding world au; academic rivals to lovers; enemies to lovers; angst; fluff; adventure; SLOWBURN (NOT ANYMORE 😼😼); slight inaccuracies in the wizarding world because i did make some stuff up for the sake of the crossover; etc.

➵ word count. 33.2k (longest chapter record broken again!!!!).

➵ author's note. second part of chapter seven, as tumblr wouldn't let me post it all in one go 💔💔 enjoy!!

➵ navigation. chapter six, chapter seven part one, masterlist, next.

When you step out of the temple, the air is still cool against your skin, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows over the temple grounds. The mist has begun to lift, dissolving into thin streams of white that curl around the wooden beams of the temple before vanishing completely. Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws, its cry cutting through the hush of the early morning. The scent of incense clings faintly to your clothes, to your hair, to your skin. 

Nothing had happened.

You’d gone inside, paid your respects, bowed your head in prayer, and willed the universe to grant you some kind of sign. Something—anything—to lead you forward.

But nothing came. No shift in the air, no flicker of magic, no hidden passage revealed beneath the temple floor. Just silence and the rhythmic sound of your own breathing.

Your shoulder had brushed against Gojo’s for far too long while you prayed, though. And he hadn’t moved away.

Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe it meant nothing.

But then again, Gojo Satoru never does anything without intention. He moves through the world with certainty, with a self-assurance that is almost infuriating. He does everything with conviction, with that smug tilt of his lips, with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself. He does not hesitate.

You don’t let yourself think about it for too long.

You exhale, stepping down from the temple’s main hall, your shoes scuffing against the ancient wooden planks. The others follow, descending the steps one by one, the quiet hum of their conversation barely registering in your ears. When you reach the gravel path at the base of the temple, you turn to face them.

“How are we supposed to get to the next one?” you ask, scanning their faces.

Utahime presses her lips together, her brows furrowed as she considers. “The man at the tea shop said there were three that could be of use to us.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “But I really don’t think it’s Ninna-ji.”

Gojo snorts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “You mean the one where the royal family used nepotism to get their jobs as head priests?”

Utahime levels him with a glare. “No, stupid. It’s called serving your community.”

You almost smile at the way Gojo’s lips part, ready to argue, but she continues before he can interrupt. “But yes, that one,” she admits. “I don’t think it’s Ninna-ji because it’s… small. Compared to the other two.”

You glance back at the temple behind you, its towering wooden pillars stretching high into the sky. Kiyomizu-dera had been vast, an entire world built into the mountainside. The idea of Sukuna’s grave being tucked away in a smaller, lesser-known temple feels… wrong.

“So we’re discriminating based on size now?” Gojo quips, rocking back on his heels.

You ignore him, narrowing your eyes in thought. “But, ‘Hime, wouldn’t that be precisely why it is that one? It’s different compared to the others. Process of elimination.”

Utahime hesitates. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her scarf, tugging it slightly before she exhales. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “It’s just a feeling I have.”

Gojo lets out an exaggerated sigh, tilting his head back. “Your feelings aren’t exactly the most reliable way to get accurate directions.”

She turns on him instantly, face pinched in irritation. “And what do you suggest, then? Wandering around Kyoto until we stumble onto a cursed grave?”

“Could be worse,” Gojo says breezily. “Could be cursed spirits. Or dementors.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Shoko mutters.

Utahime crosses her arms, still glaring at him. “Enryaku-ji is technically way more powerful,” she argues, voice firm. “We’ve already gone to the oldest temple. Ninna-ji is only considered powerful because of its ties to the imperial family. And if Sukuna is as old as the texts say, then the oldest or the strongest would make the most sense.”

There’s a pause. A breath of silence. The wind shifts slightly, carrying the scent of cedar and damp earth.

You glance at the map again, though you already know it won’t give you any answers. The ink remains still, unmoving.

“How would we get to that one?” you ask, voice quieter than you expect it to be. The stillness of the temple grounds makes everything feel heavier, like the weight of your words might press into the earth itself. “I can’t see anything on the map except us.”

Utahime exhales, the breath curling in the cold air before dissipating. “We could take the train,” she says after a moment. “Then the cable car to the top of the mountain.”

You glance up from the map. The thought of winding through Kyoto’s train stations, of standing in a crowded car, pressed up against civilians who have no idea what lurks in their city—what you are searching for—makes your stomach turn. It would be a waste of time.

“That would take too long,” Gojo says, voicing your thoughts before you can. His hands are deep in his coat pockets, and when he speaks, it’s casual, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “We could just Disapparate.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“What?”

Shoko’s voice is sharp, rising an octave.

“I am not doing that again,” she snaps, stepping forward, the loose ends of her scarf whipping slightly in the wind. “Did you not see me almost vomit earlier?”

Gojo tilts his head, unimpressed. “Relax,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice before he even smirks. “I have another vial of Pepperup Potion.”

You close your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.

You don’t necessarily like Disapparating, but right now, it’s the only logical option.

“We’ll go first,” you say, looking at Gojo as you roll the map back up. “I’ll see if there’s anything there before the rest of you follow.”

“You’re not scouting a potentially dangerous location alone,” Shoko says flatly.

You give her a look. “Then don’t take too long.”

Gojo rolls his eyes, but he grabs onto your arm before you can even make the first move, the warmth of his fingers searing against the cold. The familiar pull of Apparition wraps around you before you can protest, the world collapsing inward, a crushing force against your ribs, and then, cold air. Biting against your skin. The smell of damp earth. A dull, thick fog.

You stagger forward slightly, your boots pressing into the soft, leaf-covered ground. The wind up here is different—thinner, sharper, as if you’ve stepped into another realm entirely.

The mountain looms ahead.

Or at least, you think it does.

Everything is cloaked in mist, a heavy, impenetrable white stretching far into the horizon. You can just barely make out the outline of trees, their skeletal branches twisting into the sky, disappearing into the thick fog above. The ground beneath you is uneven, sloping upward as the base of the mountain begins its ascent.

It is eerily quiet. No birds. No insects. No distant hum of life. Only the wind, curling through the trees like something alive.

You unroll the map, pulling it free again. You open it carefully, letting the edges unfurl, and—

Your stomach drops. The map remains blank.

You frown, adjusting your grip, as if tilting it differently might make something appear. But no—there’s nothing. No outline of the temple, no indication of paths or terrain. Only a vast, empty space where the mountain should be.

It isn’t just missing information. It’s obscured.

A hidden place. An unmapped land. A part of the world that refuses to be seen. On purpose, perhaps.

“There’s nothing on it,” Gojo murmurs beside you.

His voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its usual teasing lilt. You don’t look at him right away, your gaze still fixed on the map—on the blank expanse where the temple should be. The pulse of golden light—your location—is the only thing that remains, flickering steadily, useless.

You inhale, slow and steady. You’ve always been good at grounding yourself, at keeping your head even when everything else unravels. But this—this emptiness, this sense of being unseen—it unsettles you in a way you can’t quite name.

When you finally glance at Gojo, your breath catches. He’s closer than you expected, his face turned toward yours, expression unreadable. You swallow. The remnants of Apparition still linger in your body, making your limbs feel unsteady, though not enough to be nauseating. Not like the others. You should say something. You need to say something.

“Tell Utahime and the others that they should get here too,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

“Fawkes,” he says, soft but deliberate. A name. Your name. The nickname he’s always used when he wants your attention, when he wants you to listen—really listen. You know what he’s about to do. You always know. The way he shifts his weight just slightly before he says something important. The way his voice dips when he means something more than his words let on. You know him like the back of your hand, like a familiar passage from your favorite book. You know him better than you should.

So before he can speak again, you shake your head. Just the slightest movement. Barely noticeable, but he catches it. He always does.

“Afterwards,” you say. “When everything’s over.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—confusion, maybe. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by something closer to understanding.

“How is it,” he muses, “that you always know exactly what I’m going to do?”

You huff, forcing a small smile. “The same way you always know exactly how to push my buttons.”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh, shaking his head before pulling his phone from his coat pocket. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his features for a second before he types out a message, sending it off into the ether.

The silence stretches between you. You don’t mind it.

You let your fingers brush over the map again, feeling the worn leather binding, the texture of the parchment beneath your touch. It feels different now—lighter, almost fragile. But nothing has changed. You glance up, gaze flickering over the mist-covered landscape, the atrophied outlines of trees scarcely visible in the distance. It feels like you’ve stepped into a place that exists outside of time, somewhere separate from the rest of the world.

You’re still alone. Utahime, Shoko, and Nanami haven’t arrived yet. The mountain is quiet, still watching.

You tilt your head, looking back at Gojo. He’s already staring at you.

“Do you think your mother meant it?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. “Meant what?”

“That Dumbledore is a selfish man,” you say. You don’t mean to hesitate, but you do. The weight of the thought is heavy, pressing against your ribs. “That he won’t stop at anything until he gets what he wants. And that’s why your mother made sure he was put under surveillance after the prophecy was revealed to her.”

He doesn’t answer. The silence that follows is heavier than the one before, unmovingly thick.

But you don’t get the chance to press him, because then, a sharp crack breaks through the quiet, then another, and another.

The others appear in front of you, the aftershocks of Apparition still rippling through the air. Shoko and Nanami stagger slightly, their faces pale with nausea, while Utahime immediately moves to steady them. She murmurs something under her breath, a hand on Shoko’s back, but the words are lost to the wind.

Gojo reaches into his coat, retrieving another vial of Pepperup Potion, handing it over without a word.

And then—

He looks at you. That same look. The one that means he knows something. The one that means he’s holding something back, keeping something from you. The one that means he’s already decided how much he’s willing to share, and how much he’s going to keep to himself.

It infuriates you. But now is not the time to fight him on it. And you hate that. But you sigh.

You clutch the map tighter in your hands, the leather-bound edges digging into your palms. 

“Guys,” you say, voice steady but sharp, getting their attention, “there’s a problem.”

They all turn to you. Gojo, who had been stretching his arms above his head like this is nothing more than a casual morning stroll, groans slightly, knowing how everyone’s reactions will be to this information. Utahime, adjusting the strap of her bag, looks up with a frown. Nanami watches, unimpressed as always, and Shoko, looking at you with mild amusement, only raises an eyebrow.

“How are we supposed to find anything,” you continue, slowly turning the map toward them, “if the map suddenly goes blank?”

A golden dot pulses at the center. Your location. But everything else—everything beyond this exact point—is nothing but an empty abyss of dark, almost black parchment. No trails, no trees, no temple. Nothing.

Utahime steps closer, furrowing her brows. “Wait, what?”

“It’s blank, different from the other temple, but still blank” you repeat, flipping it back toward yourself, as if looking at it from another angle might reveal something different. “No forest, no mountain, nothing.”

Utahime leans in, peering at it, before crossing her arms. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Shoko groans dramatically, tilting her head back toward the sky. “Maybe it’ll update itself when it realizes we’re struggling.”

You shoot her a look. “Right. Let’s just wait for it to pity us.”

Gojo snickers. Utahime ignores you both, snatching the map from your hands, flipping it around as if it might reveal some hidden layer beneath.

“Well, that’s fucking useless,” she mutters.

“Oh?” Gojo says, smirking. “The great Utahime, admitting something is useless?”

She turns to him, already exasperated. “What is your problem?”

“My problem,” Gojo starts, voice infuriatingly smooth, “is that we’re supposed to be solving a centuries-old mystery, and you’re acting like an old lady who just realized her clock is broken.”

Utahime scoffs. “That’s the stupidest analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh? Would you like me to try another?”

“No, I’d like you to shut up.”

“That’s not very nice, ‘Hime.”

You sigh, already used to this. “Are you two going to bicker the entire way up the mountain, or…?”

Utahime presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose. “I hate working with him.”

Gojo clasps his hands together, mockingly sincere. “You wound me.”

Shoko hums in amusement. Nanami, standing beside her with his arms crossed, looks deeply unimpressed. “Are we done?” he asks, voice flat. “Or should we give you two more time to act like children?”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Utahime snaps.

Gojo grins. “That’s exactly what a child would say.”

Utahime makes a noise of frustration. You roll your eyes, grabbing the map back from her hands and turning to her. “‘Hime, Where are the cable cars?”

She exhales, composing herself before looking around. For a moment, her expression shifts into something more serious—distantly calculating. Then, she points past a clearing, toward a narrow path framed by trees.

“There,” she says. “We go up, and then take the cars to the top of the mountain.”

You nod. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait,” Gojo says, voice suddenly sharper.

You pause, turning back to him. “What now?”

His gaze is lifted toward the peak, obscured by mist. His smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable.

“Why would a grave be near a temple?” he asks.

The wind shifts. The trees whisper. The silence lingers. Something about this place feels wrong and right at the same time.

You tighten your grip on the map, its edges rough beneath your fingers. The golden dot marking your location pulses steadily, as if mocking you—taunting you with how utterly useless it is.

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice cutting through the silence. “These are very prominent Buddhist locations, right? That’s what I thought we were supposed to be—”

“No, Fawkes,” Gojo interrupts, shaking his head. His tone is different now, sharper, more serious. “Think.” His gaze is locked onto you, searching, urging. “Have you ever seen a grave near a temple?”

You open your mouth, then pause.

“A shrine, sure,” he continues. “But not temples. Temples are holy, they’re peaceful. They exist to guide the living, not house the dead. A place like this—it isn’t meant for someone like Sukuna.”

His words settle in the space between you, twisting into something uneasy. Because he’s right. He’s right, and that realization is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your grip on the map tightens. “The map is blank,” you murmur, almost to yourself. The thought coils in your mind, its implications clicking into place with a slow, creeping dread. “It’s the most we’ve gotten out of it today.”

Utahime snorts. “Please tell me you meant to say ‘the least.’”

You shake your head, shaking away the uncertainty, forcing yourself to focus. “No, this is… progress. I think. Everywhere else, we could see everything. Streets, buildings, trees. But here?” You glance down at the map again, at the empty expanse of parchment surrounding your lone, flickering marker. “We can’t see anything at all. Except for where we are. It’s different. I think… I think we might already be where we need to be.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “Even though it feels like a big fucking fluke.”

No one speaks.

The silence stretches between you all, thick with unspoken thoughts.

But Gojo—he isn’t looking at you. He isn’t looking at the map or the others. His gaze is fixed on the landscape, scanning the trees, the mountain, the uneven ground beneath your feet. He takes in everything—the way the mist clings to the treetops, the way the air feels, the way the world has shifted into something just slightly off-kilter.

Then, without a word, he reaches up and removes his glasses.

The movement is slow, deliberate. He folds them neatly and slips them into his pocket like they mean nothing.

You inhale sharply. He isn’t looking at you, but he doesn’t need to.

Your breath catches as you follow his gaze—out beyond the clearing, past the trees, to a spot that seems unremarkable at first. Just a small dip in the earth, a shallow indentation where the grass grows thinner. But then, you see it.

A thin, near-invisible trail of water, trickling down from the mountain’s peak, weaving through the rocks and roots before pooling at a small, quiet basin near your feet.

A natural spring.

The water is clear, perfectly still, undisturbed by wind or movement. Yet there’s something unsettling about it, something that makes your skin prickle as you stare at the way it gleams under the weak morning light.

“Satoru?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he takes a step forward, his expression unreadable. Then another.

And without a word, you follow.

The map is clutched tight in your hands, the edges damp with sweat. You don’t hesitate, don’t pause to look back. You don’t even think—you just move, drawn forward by something unspoken, something you don’t quite understand.

The others follow, footsteps muffled against the damp earth. Utahime’s eyes flick between you and Gojo, wary but unwilling to interrupt. Shoko walks with a lazy sort of interest, while Nanami remains silent, watchful.

The water ripples as Gojo steps closer.

The trail beneath your feet is uneven, slick with damp moss and loose stones. It’s not a real path, not something meant for people to walk on, and yet Gojo moves like it is—like he’s always known this route, like the mountain itself is bending to his will.

"Where are we going?" Utahime asks, voice quiet, almost wary.

No one answers.

You catch the way Shoko shrugs, unbothered, the way Nanami barely shakes his head, resigned. The silence stretches longer, broken only by the crunch of your boots against the dirt and the soft, persistent trickle of water.

You glance up, watching as Gojo climbs higher, moving with a lazy sort of ease that feels wrong in a place like this. He doesn't look back, but when you step onto a particularly loose rock, his hand is there—steady, offering balance. You take it without thinking, just for a second, just until you find your footing again.

And then he moves on. There is no hesitation in his steps. No second-guessing.

He’s leading you all off the path, away from the marked trails, away from where anyone—tourists, monks, even the occasional lost hiker—could possibly see you.

You exhale, watching as he keeps following the water, trailing its source up the mountainside. You let yourself believe, for a moment, that this is his plan. That he's taking you somewhere with purpose. That there will be an answer at the end of this.

But then, he turns. Sharp, deliberate. Away from the water.

The thought in your head withers immediately, cut off before it can fully form. You frown, rolling the map in your hands, stuffing it into your pocket as you pick up the pace, trying to catch up to him.

"Satoru," you call softly, stepping over a gnarled root. "Say something."

He doesn't stop walking. Doesn't turn around.

"Afterwards," he says, and his voice is quieter than usual, the weight of it settling somewhere deep in your bones. "When everything’s over."

The words echo between you, and this time, you don’t argue because he’s repeating your own words from earlier back to you.

The ground gets trickier the farther and higher you go. Loose soil, jagged rocks, the kind of uneven footing that makes every step more of a risk. Your fingers brush against damp stone as you reach out to steady yourself, and for the next few minutes, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing, the press of the mountain rising steeply around you.

And then, Gojo stops.

You barely register it in time before you collide into his back, the impact forcing a small grunt from your throat.

"Satoru—"

"Those rocks."

His voice is different now. Sharper. You follow his gaze, heart stuttering as you take in what he's pointing at. Ahead, near the base of a twisted tree, is a cluster of stones—weathered, arranged deliberately, something that is unmistakably meant to be here. But that isn’t what makes your breath catch.

For a moment, you think your eyes are deceiving you, playing tricks with the shifting shadows and the slivers of moonlight filtering through the branches. But then he shifts, just slightly, and you see the glint of something—his belt buckle? A knife? No, just the metal of his rings catching the faint light.

Your breath stills.

Gojo is already moving before you can react. His footsteps are sharp against the forest floor, crunching dried leaves and twigs, and his wand is raised before you even process that it’s Toji standing there.

“What are you doing here, Fushiguro?” Gojo’s voice is low, sharp-edged, crackling with restrained magic. He presses the tip of his wand to the back of Toji’s head, fingers curled around the handle so tightly his knuckles are white.

Toji turns, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world. His hands are up, not in surrender, but in that easy, mocking way of his—shoulders loose, chin tilted, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The same lips you’ve kissed before.

Your stomach twists, your pulse a beat too fast.

“Dumbledore sent me,” Toji says, voice calm, infuriatingly nonchalant. He rolls his shoulders back, stretching slightly, as if none of this—Gojo’s fury, the tension simmering between everyone—concerns him in the slightest. “I don’t mean any harm. The old man just thought I should help, ‘s all.”

Gojo doesn’t lower his wand. If anything, he presses it harder against Toji’s skin, his eyes glinting dangerously behind his glasses. “Like hell we need your help.”

Toji clicks his tongue, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “Didn’t yer mother ever teach you to be nice to yer elders?” His grin widens when Gojo tenses. “I’m tellin’ you. Dumbledore sent me.”

“How’d you know where to go?” you ask, voice quieter than before. The map is still clenched in your hands, its edges crumpled under your grip.

Toji shrugs again. “Dumbledore gave me a few hints.”

Gojo’s nostrils flare. “What do you mean, ‘hints’?”

There’s a sharp shift in the air, the atmosphere suddenly charged with something volatile. Gojo pushes forward, his wand nearly digging into Toji’s neck, his jaw tight with barely contained rage.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Satoru,” you say, softly but firmly. “Step back.”

He doesn’t listen at first, doesn’t even glance at you. He just stands there, breathing through his nose, his grip still tight on his wand.

“Satoru.”

Finally, he spares you a glance—his gaze still burning, still full of suspicion and anger. But after a long moment, he steps back. Two paces. Then four.

You exhale, turning back to Toji. He watches you carefully, his smirk fading just slightly, replaced by something unreadable.

“Toji,” you say, slowly, measuring your words. “Tell me you’re not lying.”

His expression flickers—just a fraction of hesitation before he speaks.

“Princess—”

“Don’t call me that.” Your voice is sharper than you intended.

His lips quirk up, but the amusement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m not lyin’,” he says simply. “You think I wanna be here? ‘Course not. I’m doin’ this to boost my Auror applications. Classified work. Dumbledore made sure I’d get to the right place.”

You don’t break eye contact, studying him for any tell, any flicker of deception.

Then, you sigh. “He’s telling the truth.”

There’s a sharp inhale from Gojo, and when you turn, you see him looking at you like you’ve just betrayed him. His disbelief is so palpable you can feel it, seeping into your skin like cold water.

“You can’t be serious.”

Utahime exhales heavily. “If there’s anything you need to know about Fushiguro, Gojo, it’s that he does things solely for selfish purposes.”

Gojo is still looking at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to say you were wrong.

You don’t. And slowly, reluctantly, he lowers his wand.

You swallow, your throat dry, before finally turning toward the rocks by the tree. There’s an incense stick. Already lit, and set on top of the stone. Already burned halfway down to nothing. Your stomach twists.

Geto. You know it before anyone has to say it.

You step forward, your boots pressing into damp earth, closing the distance with slow, careful movements. The others follow, drawn in by the same terrible realization. The scent of the incense is faint, something familiar but unwelcome, curling into the cold air like a whisper.

Gojo doesn’t move. Neither does Toji.

Utahime breathes in sharply, hands curling into fists, while Shoko just watches, her expression unreadable. Nanami stays still, watching the scene disentangle immovably.  

But you? You kneel.

Your fingers ghost over the edges of the stones, their surfaces worn smooth from time and exposure. You hesitate for only a second before pressing your hands against them, testing their weight, pushing.

They shift. Just slightly. Your breath catches again, harsher this time.

"We have to move them," you say, voice steadier than you feel.

No one argues. Together, you start working, lifting, shifting, clearing away the stones one by one. The deeper you go, the more you realize—they weren’t just placed here at random. They were meant to hide something.

The last rock is heavier, and it takes both you and Nanami to push it aside. But when it finally moves, the map burns.

Not in flame, not in a way that destroys.

But in a way that ignites. 

A sharp, golden pulse erupts from it, so sudden that you nearly drop it. Your fingers tighten around the parchment, feeling the warmth spread through your skin, sinking deep. It glows, flickers—something shifting across its surface like ink bleeding into water.

And then, a drop of blood.

Yours.

You barely register the sting until you see it—a thin, shallow cut across your palm, left behind from the sharp edge of a rock. A single bead of blood swells, wavers, and then—

It falls. 

And time slows as it does, finally landing on the map with a soft plop.

The reaction is immediate. The golden light surges, curling outward, the blank space unraveling like a spell breaking. And then—slowly, slowly—something begins to appear.

Lines. Symbols. A path.

And beneath your feet, a low, deep rumble. The earth shifts, and the entrance reveals itself.

“Well,” Gojo glances back at the rest of you. “Shall we?”

You inhale sharply, the scent of damp stone thick in the air, before stepping forward, gripping the map tightly in your hands. The parchment is warm now, pulsing like a second heartbeat against your fingertips. You push ahead of Gojo, brushing past him without sparing a glance.

"I have the map," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "I have to tell you all the way."

Gojo doesn't argue. No one does.

The passage ahead yawns open like the throat of something ancient, something waiting. Darkness stretches out in both directions, thick and undisturbed, and yet—there is a structure to it. This is no ordinary cave, no natural formation carved by time and water. The walls bear the shape of something deliberate, something built. There is a symmetry to the archways, the way the stone has been shaped, pressed into perfect, unnatural precision.

A catacomb. A tomb.

"Lumos," Nanami murmurs, and then one by one, all their wands ignite, their glow illuminating the space in flickering bursts of gold and blue. Shadows dance wildly across the walls, stretching, bending, making shapes where there are none.

And then, the entrance seals behind you.

A dull, grinding sound shudders through the space as stone drags against stone, the path behind you closing in on itself with a finality that makes your stomach drop. The air thickens, pressing against your skin like the weight of something unseen, something watching.

Utahime swallows audibly, walking beside Toji. 

"Why are there weird runes on the walls?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You turn, eyes narrowing as she lifts her wand, illuminating the carvings. Symbols—etched deep into the stone, curling in intricate patterns, spiraling down the length of the corridor. Your heart lurches as recognition settles in.

The runes. From Mirai's parchments. They are here. Real. Tangible.

You suck in a breath, turning sharply to Gojo, and he meets your gaze with something grim, something knowing.

"That's exactly what you think it is," he says. And you exhale.

"These," you whisper, "were in Gojo’s mother’s notes. Specialists have been trying to decode them at the Ministry, but there hasn’t been any luck so far."

Utahime stares at the symbols for a moment longer, then exhales, shaking her head slightly.

"Well," she murmurs, "at least now we’re sure we’re going in the right direction."

"You wouldn’t know the right direction if it hit you in the face, Iori," Gojo mutters.

You elbow him before he can say anything else, rolling your eyes as you glance back at the map. The golden marker is still there, a single pulsing point in the vast, twisting pathways now revealed on the parchment. And extending from it—

A path. A single line, leading forward, winding deep into the tunnels.

"Alright," you say, voice heavy with something unnameable. "Up straight ahead so far."

The silence that follows is different now. It is no longer the quiet of an abandoned place, nor the hush of the unknown. It is oppressive, lingering, as if the air itself is thick with something unsaid. Every step echoes too loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls in ways that don’t feel natural.

It is not like the One-Eyed-Witch Passageway.

It is way, way worse.

Here, the air is damp and stale, laced with something metallic. You can hear water dripping, here too, slow and steady, but it is not a comforting sound. It is wrong. Everything is wrong. Each drop is sharp, ringing out against the stone like something waiting, something watching.

A knife at the back of your throat, waiting to cut.

"Fawkes," Gojo murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "you okay?"

You nod, though your grip on the map tightens slightly.

Behind you, Utahime and Shoko are murmuring, their voices low as they trace their fingers over the runes, trying to make sense of them as they walk. The symbols seem to shift under the flickering light, twisting into something unrecognizable whenever you look away.

And then, a sound. Not footsteps. Not water. Something else. You take another step, turning the first corner, and freeze.

A song. High-pitched. Piercing. Not melodic, not harmonious, but shrill, discordant—something between a wail and laughter. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, and before you can react, Gojo moves.

Fast. His hand is on your shoulder, shoving you back, pressing you against the wall as he raises his wand.

"Lumos Maxima!"

Light explodes outward, flooding the passage.

And there, Erklings.

Lining the path ahead, their bodies hunched, composed of wood and thorns, twisted and gnarled like something out of a nightmare. Their eyes gleam yellow in the wandlight, and when they grin, their sharp teeth glisten with something wet.

Bavarian Erklings.

You scramble for your wand, reaching for the hidden sheath in your boot, fingers fumbling against the leather. But they are fast. And one of them is already lunging, your breath catches, heart hammering, and before you can even react—

"Crucio!"

The word slams into the air like a physical force.

The Erkling shrieks.

A sound unlike anything you've ever heard—raw, agonized, its body twisting, writhing as it collapses onto the stone floor, limbs convulsing. Your head jerks toward Gojo, mouth wide open. His wand is still raised, expression unreadable. He holds the curse for a second too long. And then he stops.

The Erkling slumps, twitching, gasping in short, ragged bursts. And then—

"Pullus," Gojo mutters.

The Erkling barely has time to react before its body shifts, contorts—feathers sprouting in jagged tufts, limbs shrinking, warping, until all that remains is a dazed, disoriented chicken.

There is a silence that stretches between all of you. Your lips part, a protest forming, but nothing comes out.

Gojo does not look at you. Instead, he turns back to the others.

"Keep moving," he says.

And then the fight begins in earnest. Utahime, Toji and Nanami are already moving, wands raised, throwing jinxes faster than you can process.

"Melofors!"

"Pullus!"

A burst of magic surges through the tunnel—Erklings dropping one by one, their bodies warping, twisting, shifting into harmless forms. A pumpkin-headed creature stumbles into a wall, its shrill shriek cutting off abruptly. Another chicken flaps wildly before darting into the darkness.

Shoko dodges an incoming attack, flicking her wand sharply.

"Expulso!"

The force of the blast sends the creature flying, colliding against the stone with a sickening crunch. And then, it is silent. The last Erkling crumples, transformed, defeated.

Your breaths come fast, uneven.

Gojo exhales, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of an unseen thing. You clutch the map, pulse still unsteady.

And then, you step forward.

"Come on," you say, voice quieter than before. And you keep walking, deeper into the dark. This time, with your wand clutched tightly in hand. 

This is silent in the way that a tomb is silent. A silence so complete it feels wrong, heavy, pressing against your skin, against your ribs, like the weight of the catacombs is threatening to collapse inward and swallow you whole. You listen to it, to the near-absence of sound: the shuffle of cautious footsteps against the uneven stone, the slow drip of water from unseen cracks above, the occasional intake of breath as someone stifles their unease. Even your heartbeat sounds loud in your ears.

You keep moving forward, leading them through the winding passage. The walls narrow and widen unpredictably, swallowing you in shadows one moment, then spilling out into dimly lit chambers the next. The light from your wands does little to dispel the oppressive blackness that lurks beyond its reach. Shadows stretch unnaturally, warping against the stone. You swear they move when you're not looking directly at them.

There are creatures here, but nothing large. Small, skittering things that vanish into cracks when light passes over them. They don’t bother you. Not yet. But something about them—about all of this—itches at the back of your mind.

You swallow down the lingering feeling of failure. You hesitated before. You could’ve been hurt. Worse, someone else could have. And you don’t know why it happened. You’ve been in fights before, but when that Erkling lunged for you, for a split second, you did nothing. You don’t have the luxury of hesitation now.

You glance back. Gojo is near the rear now, keeping pace with Nanami, his head on a constant swivel, eyes sharp, searching for threats before they find you. He hasn't looked at you since—since before, when the Erkling nearly reached you and he cast the Cruciatus Curse without hesitation. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he did it, or the fact that you didn’t say anything.

“Hey,” Toji’s voice is quiet beside you. You flinch before you can stop yourself. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He places a hand on your shoulder as you walk, firm, grounding. “Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.”

“I know,” you say quickly, avoiding his gaze, “I got distracted for a second. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay, y’know,” he continues, easy, unreadable. “Happens when it’s your first time. Can’t really blame yourself.”

“Right,” you nod, tightening your grip on the map. And then you feel it—the shift in the air.

It’s almost imperceptible. A sudden drop in temperature, the taste of damp stone thickening on your tongue. The hair at the nape of your neck stands on end.

You stop. “Wait.”

Toji furrows his brows but listens. The rest of them come to a halt as well, footsteps trailing off into silence. You exhale sharply, steadying yourself, rolling the map back up as your fingers tighten around your wand.

You step forward and whisper, “Lumos.”

The soft glow barely reaches the darkness ahead. Toji doesn’t hesitate—he flicks his wand, sending out a small burst of light, something like a spark, and you watch as it streaks forward, down the corridor.

It travels far. Farther than it should, down the endless stone passage, before it hits the end of the tunnel.

And for a moment, it illuminates them.

Inferi.

The sight slams into you like a physical thing. A suffocating, all-consuming wrongness that crawls up your spine and wraps around your ribs, constricting, pressing the air from your lungs.

They stand in the clearing where the tunnel widens into a vast chamber. Hundreds of them. No—thousands. Lurking at the edges of the light, motionless. Pale, waterlogged skin stretched thin over bone. Empty, milky eyes turned toward you in eerie synchrony. Their mouths hang open, twisted into expressions that were once screams, their fingers curled like claws at their sides.

They don’t move—not yet.

The spark dies. Darkness returns. And then, they move.

A sharp, jagged inhale rips through your throat. “Prepare yourselves!”

Shoko stiffens beside you. “What—what are they?”

You don’t take your eyes off them as you force the words out. “Inferi.”

Toji exhales sharply, a humorless, disbelieving sound. “You’re telling me Sukuna left an army of dead bodies here before he died?”

Your grip tightens on your wand as the Inferi lurch forward, slow at first, dragging, unsteady, like they are remembering how to move.

“Yes,” you whisper.

Then they run.

“Incendio Maxima!”

A torrent of fire erupts from your wand, surging forward like a wave, roaring through the tunnel and slamming into the first line of them. They ignite instantly, collapsing into heaps of smoldering ash before they can even scream. But there are more. So many more.

You glance at Gojo. He understands immediately. “Incendio Maxima!”

His fire burns hotter, brighter. The tunnel is bathed in violent orange and gold, casting nightmarish shadows along the walls as the Inferi burn, as they keep coming.

“There are thousands,” you yell over the roar of the flames. “Do your best.”

“Thousands?” Utahime breathes, horrified, but there’s no time for fear.

Gojo pushes past you, casting another massive burst of fire that incinerates twenty, thirty at a time, but they don’t stop.

They will reach you. They will consume you. You can already see it happening—how their hands will grab at you, how their fingers will dig into your skin, how their rotting, open mouths will close around your flesh.

You will die here.

No. No, you won’t. You can’t. You promised Gojo’s mother that you’d put your life before his. 

“Satoru?” Your voice cuts through the fire and footsteps and snarling groans. “Firestorm Charm! I can’t do it—I’m not powerful enough.”

His head jerks toward you, and there’s fear in his eyes, something raw and wrong, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know the incantation for it. Trust me, I would do it if I—”

An Inferius lunges for him.

“Satoru!”

Toji grabs the back of Gojo’s coat, yanking him away just in time, spinning on his heel. You don’t see him cast, only see the eruption of fire that follows.

It spreads fast—a ring of flame roaring to life around all of you, crimson and gold, alive in a way magic shouldn’t be. The Inferi reel back, screaming, but they can’t reach you anymore.

Toji exhales, glancing back at everyone. “Move with me.”

And he does, stepping forward, the fire moving with him, a living shield, a boundary between you and them.

Your throat is dry. “How do you know how to do this?”

Toji doesn’t look back. “You kept your secrets all year and now expect me to tell you things?”

You swallow. “Sorry.”

“’S alright,” he says.

Then, above you, movement.

You glance up. The Inferi that didn’t burn are crawling across the ceiling. Your stomach twists violently, but you don’t hesitate this time.

“Incendio Maxima!”

They burn. They fall to the ashes. And Toji gives you a triumphant smile, “See? You didn’t get scared.”

You can’t help it—you return the smile, the edges of your mouth curling before you even think to stop yourself. A quiet, fleeting moment, as fragile as the flickering light of your wands.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I didn’t.”

Then, you turn to Gojo. He’s a step away from you, close enough that the heat from his body lingers in the space between, close enough that if you reach out, you could touch the soot-smudged sleeve of his coat. You don’t.

“You okay?”

His lips press together for half a second, then, “I’m fine.” He says it lowly, almost grumbling. His voice is rough at the edges, worn thin, like he’s been pushing it too much, yelling over the roar of fire and moving bodies. Then, softer, but still urgent, “Check the map. We have to keep going.”

Up ahead, Toji moves steadily forward, his wand raised, the firestorm curling outward as he walks. Behind him, you all stay huddled, feet shifting carefully across the uneven stone floor, the remnants of charred bodies crumbling underfoot. Nanami, Utahime, and Shoko move in rhythm, their wands flicking up in quick, precise motions, sending bursts of flame whenever an Inferius manages to crawl too high, whenever the walls shift with the weight of something overhead. You don’t let yourself think too much about how many of them are left, how many still lurk just beyond the reach of your fire.

You kneel slightly, unrolling the leather of the map, fingers trembling just enough to make it frustrating, the heat of your skin bleeding into the parchment. Your breath is quick, uneven, but you don’t stop, don’t hesitate. You press your fingers against the worn edges, trying to smooth it flat against your thigh, eyes scanning over the markings—

And then you see it.

Your breath stills. The end. It’s near.

The pulsing light of the map—the magic leading you forward—stretches just past the clearing, just past the sea of Inferi. Then it stops. No, not stops. It pauses. There’s a break. A small indentation in the ink. In the light. Not a dead end. A doorway.

Your eyes trace the markings carefully, slowly. Beyond the doorway, there is another corridor, another tunnel, drawn in the same narrow lines as the one you stand in now. But there is no light there. No pulsing glow, no magic guiding you forward. The path just continues into nothing.

A door before the grave. A tunnel leading into blackness before the grave.

You exhale, forcing yourself to swallow down the thick knot of unease in your throat. You roll the map back up, standing swiftly, turning to Gojo. He’s already watching you.

“It’s not that far ahead,” you say, voice steady, despite the way your hand still burns with sweat seeping into the cut from earlier, despite the way the air still hums with distant, unnatural movement. He doesn’t respond, just tilts his head slightly, waiting. You shift, just enough that the distance between you is reduced to inches. No, centimeters. Close enough to feel him. But you ignore it, focus back on the map, lifting a hand to point. “This, however, may prove difficult.”

Gojo’s eyes flicker downward, watching the movement of your fingers, the subtle indentation on the map. His voice is softer when he speaks now, no longer rough with urgency, just quiet, questioning. “How so?”

You shake your head, stiffly. “The Inferi are here.” You tap at the clearing. “The grave is where the light stops.” Another tap. Then, finally, your finger hovers over the break in the ink. “This indent. It’s a doorway. There’s a tunnel past it, but I can’t see anything there. No markers. No details.” You exhale, slowly. “That means it could be worse than what’s out here.”

Gojo is silent for a moment. Then his lips press together, flattening into something grim, something careful, before he finally says, “I won’t let anything happen to you. I hope you know that.”

You blink, startled by the sudden sincerity. Then your shoulders tighten, your breath catches slightly. But it’s gone quickly, replaced by something sharp, something certain. You shake your head. “That’s not what I’m worried about, dummy.”

He exhales. A laugh, maybe, but too short, too quiet.

“I can’t let anything happen to you, either,” you say.

Gojo looks at you for half a second too long. Then his expression flickers, shifts—eyes widening just slightly. And before you can react, before you even register why, his wand is already raised, aimed just above your head.

“Incendio!”

A sudden burst of fire, sharp and white-hot, surges past you. You jerk backward, the heat searing the air above as something screeches—a raw, grating, inhuman sound that echoes through the tunnel, bouncing off the stone walls. You look up, breath caught in your throat.

The Inferius is falling, already burned, already gone, its hollowed-out face twisted into something monstrous, something not quite human anymore, something that might have once been a person, long ago. It collapses into ash before it even reaches the ground.

“Thanks,” you murmur, barely above a breath, before turning to Toji. He’s just ahead of you, his body silhouetted against the flickering wall of fire, his grip on his wand unwavering despite the exhaustion evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Hey,” you call, voice low but firm, “can you see the hall up ahead? There’s a small tunnel past it. We have to go through there. Be careful.”

Toji doesn’t turn, only grunts, his eyes locked onto the shifting mass of the dead just beyond the flames. “Not many left. Barely a few hundreds now,” he mutters.

Your pulse stutters as a handful of Inferi lurch forward, nearly breaking through the barrier of fire. You raise your wand in an instant, fingers slick with sweat, and send out a burst of white-hot flames. “Incendio!”

The heat flares across your face as the creatures crumble, bodies collapsing into blackened ash, and the smell of charred, rotting flesh thickens in the stagnant air.

“Keep going straight,” you say, voice softer now, but urgent. “Stop just before the big hall. If we go in there, we won’t be able to control them. There’s too many.”

Toji gives a stiff nod. “Right.”

Gojo moves beside you, stepping forward slightly, his wand still raised. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter—just sends another torrent of flames into the darkness, clearing more of the army of the dead so the group can push forward. The firelight catches against his skin, his white hair glinting gold for brief, fleeting moments before flickering back into shadow.

And Toji does exactly as you told him. He stops just at the entrance of the hall.

You freeze beside him, eyes widening at the vast, open space before you. It’s circular, cavernous, the walls stretching high into a dome of blackness. You can’t see the ceiling, can’t even see where the walls end. It’s just dark, an abyss of stone and silence. But it’s filled—packed—with the Inferi, bodies stacked, pressed, twisted together in a sea of the undead.

There’s a tunnel at the other end. Barely visible. If not for the firelight, you wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between the walls of the cavern and the creatures standing in front of them. The way they move—it’s not all at once, not a coordinated attack. Just slow, unnatural twitches, heads turning sharply, bodies shifting awkwardly in reaction to the flames. But they don’t stop. They can’t stop.

Gojo exhales sharply beside you, gaze locked ahead. “Keep the wall up.” His voice is gruff, lower than usual.

Then, he raises his wand. And this time, it’s stronger than anything before.

A single, roaring inferno bursts forward, crashing against the Inferi with devastating force. It engulfs the first hundred instantly, burning them to nothing in seconds. You can barely see beyond the sheer brightness of it, your vision flickering between gold and black as the flames spread outward, stretching past Toji’s firestorm, devouring.

Some of them try to retreat. But they don’t—can’t—make it far. It’s in their very nature to chase, to seek out the living. And so they keep moving, even as their bodies burn, even as they collapse into nothing.

Gojo exhales, lowering his wand slightly, turning to you. A question in his eyes. You nod.

And this time, you do it together. “Incendio Maxima!”

The flames that erupt from your wands are immense, combined into something unstoppable. It surges forward, past Toji’s wall, past the clearing, past the horde—a monstrously magnificent burst of gold and white, twisting into shapes you can’t even comprehend, consuming everything.

The heat is unbearable. The light nearly blinding. The screams—horrific, unnatural, echoing endlessly against the stone walls—fill the cavern like a terrible chorus of the damned.

By the time the flames die down, the cavern is silent. There are only a few left now. Twenty, maybe forty. Easily manageable.

A breath escapes you, unsteady, but relieved. A grin breaks across your face, triumphant, and before you can stop yourself, a quiet laugh slips past your lips.

Shoko and Nanami step forward, raising their wands, sending their own bursts of flame into the few remaining Inferi, finishing them off.

And then, finally, Toji lowers his wand.

A harsh breath leaves him, something between a sigh and a quiet grunt, and you watch as Utahime claps a hand on his back, murmuring a small, “Thanks.”

You catch her eye, and give her a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” Shoko then says, nodding up ahead. “There’s the tunnel.”

You follow her gaze. At the very back of the cavern, beyond the burnt remains of what was once a horde, there is an opening. A tunnel, carved into the stone.

But it splits.

“There’s three paths,” Utahime murmurs.

You glance down at the map, scanning it quickly, before looking back up. “Go straight.”

A chorus of “Lumos” follows, each voice low, exhausted, but clear.

Your steps are slow now, careful, as the group moves through the charred remains of the Inferi, past the blackened bones, past the ruined, hollowed-out eyes that no longer see.

And as you walk, you look up.

The vastness of it unnerves you. The way the stone stretches up, up, up—higher than you can see, disappearing into the darkness above. The walls are carved, etched with runes, scattered across the cavern in patterns that feel deliberate, that feel ancient. You can’t make out the inscriptions anymore, not now that the fire is gone, but you’d caught glimpses earlier, words you didn’t recognize, shapes that felt wrong.

Your fingers tighten around your wand. “There might be a doorway up ahead,” you say.

You step into the tunnel, and the sound of your footsteps echoes against the dark stone, each step swallowed by the weight of the silence pressing in around you. The air is coagulated, lifeless, untouched by anything living for centuries. The only light comes from the glow of your wands, flickering against the uneven walls, casting elongated shadows that twist and stretch with every movement.

Behind you, the others fall into step, their breathing shallow, quiet. No one speaks. There is something about this place—something about the way the tunnel narrows, the way the walls close in—that makes words feel too loud, too dangerous.

You glance down at the map again, eyes tracing the inked lines. It’s supposed to be just ahead.

You stop. Only a few feet away, you see it. The incantation, faintly marked on the stone beneath your feet.

Your grip tightens around your wand, and you whisper, “Nox.”

The light dies instantly, plunging the tunnel ahead into darkness. For a moment, the silence is deafening. Then, you lift your wand and flick a single spark forward.

It dies before it reaches the ground.

Your pulse thrums in your ears. Now, you see it—it’s not exactly a doorway. More of a gate. A metal door with bars, stretching from floor to ceiling, its iron-blackened with age, embedded deep into the rock like it had been built into the mountain itself.

It’s locked. You step forward, staring at the intricate mechanism, and exhale slowly, murmuring, “Alohomora.”

Nothing. The gate doesn’t budge. Not even a shift, not even a sound. Your heart sinks as you turn back to the others, the cold metal reflecting the dim light of their wands.

Shoko presses her lips together, stepping beside you. She raises her wand, whispering the spell again. Still nothing. The tunnel falls into stillness, thick with expectation, with unease. The metal gate looms before you, unmoving, impenetrable.

Nanami shifts, his voice low. “What now?”

You stare at the gate, pulse quickening. Then, the realization practically hits you in the face.

A slow grin spreads across your face as you turn to Gojo. “Hagrid.”

He frowns, brows furrowing. “What?”

You shake your head, already reaching down, stuffing your wand back into your boot before carefully, delicately, peeling back the embroidered fabric of your chest pocket. The Gryffindor crest is still warm against your fingertips.

And inside, two tiny, beady black eyes peek up at you.

A quiet breath of relief escapes as you gently lift your hand, offering your palm, and the small creature blinks before climbing onto your fingers with its delicate, twig-like limbs.

Gojo steps closer, eyes widening. “That’s what Hagrid gave you?”

You nod, extending your arm slightly. “Everyone, meet Twig. He’s a Bowtruckle.”

There’s a pause. 

“Oh my God,” Shoko mutters then, running a hand down her face. “They can open practically any lock.”

“Exactly,” you say, grinning now. The tension in your chest loosens, just a little, as you bring Twig closer to the iron gate, whispering, “Sorry, Twig. I promise I’ll take you back to Hagrid after all this, okay? But I need your help.”

Twig chitters softly, tilting his tiny head, before gingerly stepping onto the cold metal. He moves with careful, deliberate precision, scuttling down toward the lock like he already knows exactly what to do.

For a moment, there’s only the soft sound of his small limbs scraping against the metal. Then, he reaches the keyhole, pressing his tiny branch-like fingers into its intricate gears.

He twists. Turns. A quiet, rapid chitter fills the space, echoing through the tunnel.

Then—

Click.

The lock releases. The gate swings open, groaning loudly as it moves.

A breathless laugh escapes you. Relief floods your chest as you extend your arm again, and Twig eagerly clambers back onto your sleeve.

“Thank you,” you murmur, brushing a gentle finger against his tiny head before opening the pocket of your sweater again. He slips inside, curling up in the fabric, and just as he settles, you swear he yawns.

You shake your head, smiling. Then, you look back up, past the open gate. The last tunnel stretches before you, silent, waiting.

“One last tunnel,” you say. Your voice is steady, despite the pulse thrumming in your throat. You lift your wand. 

“Lumos.”

You step forward, and the tunnel seems to shrink around you. The air grows impervious, heavy, pressing in from all sides like an invisible force, as if the walls are breathing, as if the tunnel itself is watching. Your breath curls in front of you in thin, silver wisps, barely visible in the dim light of your wand.

You exhale, and the cold deepens.

It is the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow of your frame, that settles in the hollows of your chest, that burrows beneath your skin and stays there. It is unnatural, empty, a cold that has nothing to do with winter. And yet, your mind scrambles for something logical—maybe it’s the mountain, maybe the temperature is dropping outside, maybe it has started to snow in Japan. Maybe—

But no.

Something is wrong. Again.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air, the way it suddenly thickens, curdles, as if time itself has slowed, as if the world has bent, imperceptibly, just enough for you to notice. A sharp ringing begins to crawl up your ears, a muted, suffocating silence swelling, pressing against your ribcage and sternum.

And then, a slow, creeping shadow.

You see them.

Dementors.

A dozen. No—more. Their cloaks billow, though there is no wind, ragged, tattered, stretching as they move. The darkness around them is thick, almost living, swallowing the dim light of your wand, suffocating it. You can’t see their faces. You don’t need to. The emptiness they carry seeps into your lungs, into your chest, into the marrow of your bones, twisting through your mind like a silent, insidious poison.

The temperature plummets.

It is not the kind of cold that bites at your skin. It is worse. Deeper. It is the kind of cold that drags—drags every happy memory from you, drags every warmth, every safety, until you are hollow, until you are nothing but this moment. This tunnel. This darkness.

Your heart pounds. You can hear it in your ears, beating too fast, too frantic, but even that sound is starting to feel distant, as if the Dementors are already working, pulling something from you, something you can’t lose.

A soft, keening breath escapes from behind you.

You turn, and you see them—Shoko, Utahime, Nanami—standing frozen, rooted, paralyzed by something deeper than fear.

Shoko is breathing too fast, her eyes too wide, her fingers trembling around her wand. Utahime has a hand clamped over her mouth, as if trying to keep something inside, as if she is already hearing something she cannot bear to hear. And Nanami—Nanami, who is always steady, always sure—Nanami is pale, his gaze locked on something beyond what anyone else can see, something inside himself, something that is being taken from him.

Gojo doesn’t move. Toji doesn’t either.

But they feel it. You know they do.

You can see it in the way Gojo clenches his jaw, in the way his fingers tighten around his wand, in the way he forces himself to stay upright, as if holding onto something only he can see. Toji is the same—face impassive, unreadable, but there is a tension in his shoulders, in his stance, in the way his fingers twitch.

And then, a slow, rattling breath. One of the Dementors shifts forward.

Your lungs seize. You can feel it—something pulling, something peeling away, something you cannot afford to lose.

You react before you can think. Your wand is already raised. Your voice is already there.

“Ready?” Toji asks, his voice low, steady.

You nod, pulse thrumming.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Light erupts from your wand—brilliant, silver, cutting through the suffocating darkness like a blade. Toji’s does the same, but his is different—his is mist, a wave of shapeless silver fog rolling forward like a shield, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

You glance at him, breathless. He catches your look and shrugs, his voice as casual as ever. “I have a corporeal one. This is just easier.”

You shake your head, turning back as your own Patronus fully forms. A phoenix. Its wings spread, luminous, searing against the darkness. It rushes forward, cutting through the closest Dementor, pushing it back, driving it away—

But then—

The Dementor stirs, its tattered cloak billowing, its skeletal hands reaching, and the moment your Patronus dissipates, the cold rushes back, fast, suffocating, merciless.

You lower your wand, chest heaving.

The Dementors are still there.

And they are still coming.

“This is why Gojo calls you Fawkes,” Shoko murmurs, the realization settling over her like a slow-burning light.

You glance back at her, the ghost of a smile flickering at your lips, but it’s fleeting—momentary—because the cold is still here, wrapping its fingers around your throat, pressing into your chest, tightening. You nod once, sharp, before turning forward again, gripping your wand just a little bit tighter.

You try again.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The words leave your lips, the spell bursts from your wand, but—

It is weak.

A flicker, barely a glimmer of light before it fades, like a candle snuffed out by an invisible hand. The cold is too strong now, seeping into your bones, rotting through your veins, pulling at something deep, deep inside of you, something you need.

You try to breathe, but the air is thick, heavy, pressing down. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, faster, faster, thudding like a frantic drum. It feels wrong. It feels impossible. You have done this spell a hundred times before, practiced it enough, but now—now—your hands are shaking, your fingers numb, your breath short, your mind clogged with something like fear but worse.

They are coming closer.

You see them, gliding forward in eerie, silent unison, their tattered cloaks swelling, their hollow, faceless voids of heads tilting, as if they can already taste your fear, as if they are already pulling from you. And you feel it—you feel the emptiness coiling in your stomach, reaching into your chest, clawing through your memories, through everything that makes you you.

Your lungs stutter. It is not a scream that leaves your mouth but a gasp, a ragged, breathless sound of realization—

You can’t do it. Your Patronus isn’t strong enough. The Dementors keep coming.

And then, there’s  a sharp pull at your jumper from behind you.

You yelp, the ground disappearing from beneath you as you fall, hips slamming against cold stone, your hands catching against the rough surface just in time to keep you from falling completely. The world lurches. You hear your own breath, fast, shallow, a mess of panic as you scramble for your wand—

Gojo shoves Toji back, arm slamming across his chest, because there are simply too many of them.

Too many.

Too many.

You push yourself up, eyes wide, head snapping toward him as you scream, “Satoru!”

You reach out, reaching for him, reaching for something, anything—

But he is already moving. Already casting.

“Expecto Patronum!”

His voice shakes the tunnel.

It does not echo—it rings. Resonates. The walls tremble, the air splits apart, the darkness shatters beneath the weight of it. It is not just light that bursts from his wand—it is power, raw and absolute, swallowing the Dementors whole before they can even think to move.

Your breath catches.

The Patronus takes shape. And then you see it.

Something so vast, so impossibly enormous, you cannot tell where it begins and where it ends. You do not even breathe as it rises—tall, monstrous, majestic.

A dragon.

It is the most powerful Patronus you have ever seen, will ever see, in your entire life.

The silver light is blinding, molten, burning through the tunnel with an intensity that is almost too much, almost impossible to look at. The heat of it reaches you, even through the numbing cold, even through the stagnant air. Its wings spread—massive, a single beat sending a shockwave through the space, parting the Dementors like dust in the wind. Its body coils in a great, arcing motion, a beast of light and fire and fury, silver scales reflecting like mirrors against the stone walls.

And suddenly, you understand. You understand why the Marauders’ Map had that strange name written across it. The nickname Gojo had given himself.

Ashen.

Because this is what he is. It’s what his patronus is.

Something untouched by the dark. Something that burns through the shadows, something that refuses to be swallowed.

The Dementors flee.

And Gojo Satoru stands, Patronus burning, face illuminated in silver light, untouched, unshaken, like he was always meant to be here.

He turns once the last of the light fades, once the dragon—vast and towering, ancient and blinding—dissolves into thin air, leaving behind only echoes, only the remnants of a power that felt like it had been carved from something greater than magic itself. The tunnel is silent now, the Dementors gone, but the cold remains, a whisper of what once was.

Gojo’s breath is heavy, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven motions as he stares at you. There is something in his eyes—something raw, fragile beneath the usual arrogance, something that flickers, almost unsure. He is waiting. You are not sure for what.

You push yourself to stand, legs still unsteady, the weight of what just happened pressing against your bones, curling itself into the hollow space beneath your ribs. There is a strange pressure in your chest. You cannot name it, so you exhale sharply and place a hand on his shoulder, awkward but grounding, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his robes.

“That was…” you start, but the words do not come. They falter, caught somewhere between your throat and your teeth, so you click your tongue instead, shaking your head.

Gojo tilts his head at you the way he always does—like he knows something you don’t, like he is already laughing at the words you have not spoken yet. His eyes soften, but only for you. Only ever for you. And you cannot stand it, cannot stand how infuriatingly charming he is, how easily he wears that ridiculous, tender smile even after nearly dying.

“Incredible,” Shoko cuts in from behind, walking toward the two of you with her hands shoved in her pockets. “You’re teaching me that. I want a fake pet dragon of my own.”

“It’s not a pet, stupid,” Gojo scoffs, rolling his eyes, but there is no bite in his words, only amusement. “It’s a Patronus.”

“You’re teaching me, anyway,” she insists, shaking her head, before glancing around the now-empty tunnel. “All of the Dementors are dead. I thought they only existed in Azkaban.”

“I’m guessing someone left them here,” Toji mutters, his voice low, unreadable. He nods toward the tunnel’s exit. “After Sukuna was put into a tomb.”

“To keep people from coming,” you murmur.

The words leave your mouth before you have fully processed them, before you have even considered the weight of them. But it makes sense. Too much sense. A defense mechanism—an ancient one, old magic twisted into something cruel, something meant to deter rather than protect.

And then, another thought. One colder than the last.

“Then how did Suguru make it through?”

Gojo turns to look at you, his brows furrowing slightly. You can tell he is thinking it through, letting the pieces fall into place as his fingers flex at his sides.

“Salazar fucking knows,” he mutters.

You don’t miss the way he glances toward the end of the tunnel, toward the dim light that filters in from beyond, its glow stretching across the stone floor in uneven patches. It calls to him, the way all things dangerous and unknown seem to. And before you can say anything, before you can stop him, he moves, fast, as if something is pulling him forward, as if his life depends on reaching that light.

You follow after him, matching his pace, the air growing thicker around you as you near the exit.

The tunnel ends suddenly. One moment, you are walking through a tight corridor of damp stone, the walls pressing in, the air thick with the scent of decay and age, the sound of your breath loud against the silence. The next, the passage opens up into something vast, a space so cavernous it takes your breath away. You slow to a stop, blinking against the dim light, your fingers twitching at your sides.

It’s an amphitheater. Circular, ancient, impossibly large. The stone steps curve downward, layered in rings, leading to the center like a pit meant for something dark and long buried. The walls curve inward, enclosing the space, trapping the air inside so that every movement feels weighty, every breath thick with something old, something forgotten. The torches lining the walls flicker low, their glow too weak to chase away the shadows. You get the feeling that the darkness here is not merely the absence of light but something more.

Your breath catches when your eyes find him. Suguru.

He stands at the very heart of the amphitheater, next to the tomb that sits heavy in the center like an altar. His head is bowed, his wand raised, his lips moving in some hushed murmur, the words slipping from his mouth like smoke, curling into the air before vanishing. In his other hand, something glints—just barely—a locket, swaying gently with the movement of his breath.

It’s him, but it isn’t him. Not really.

When he hears you, hears the soft shuffle of boots against stone, his head snaps up. His eyes, when they meet yours, widen—but only for a moment. Then they land on Satoru, and the expression shifts.

“Satoru,” he breathes, like the name alone is enough to steady him, enough to pull him out of the trance, enough to make the thing inside him loosen its grip. For a moment, there is hesitation, a flicker of something familiar, something real.

Satoru steps down the stairs, once, twice, slowly, measured, like approaching a wounded animal. He tests the ground beneath him, the weight of his own voice, before he speaks, low but firm, echoing across the cavernous space.

“Don’t do this, Suguru,” he says, voice cracking. “I’m begging you.”

You feel it then. The weight in your pocket, pressing against your thigh. The phial. 

And then, your eyes are on the locket, gleaming dully in Suguru’s grasp, and everything clicks into place.

Your mind churns, the realization dawning not gently, not slowly, but all at once, a violent kind of clarity that makes your stomach turn. The way his eyes look hollowed-out, the way his movements have been wrong for months, the way he speaks like something is pressing against his throat, curling around his words, twisting them into something they were never meant to be. You know what this is. You’ve read about it in books, whispered about it in dark corners of the library, terrified at the implications of what something like this could do to a person.

The Horcrux. It’s controlling him. Twisting him. Suffocating him.

It has been for months. Maybe longer, depending on when and how he found it.

A sharp breath leaves you, too sudden, too loud. Toji turns his head at the sound, his scarred lip pressing into a thin line, but you barely register it. Your legs move before your mind does, carrying you forward, down the steps, just a few, toward Suguru.

“Suguru,” you call out, voice steadier than you feel, “it’s not you. It’s the Horcrux.”

His brows knit together, his lips parting, his fingers tightening around the locket.

“What?” he asks, but his voice is strange. Not confused, not questioning, but defensive. Like you’ve accused him of something, like he’s already made up his mind. “Of course not, this is what I want. This is what I must do. Don’t you understand?”

His gaze shifts from you back to Satoru, his grip still white-knuckled around his wand.

Satoru is nearly at the bottom of the steps now. Almost. Just a few feet away.

Suguru whispers something under his breath. You don’t hear it, but you feel it.

A chill creeps up your spine, and instinctively, your eyes dart around the amphitheater, searching, scanning, waiting.

Then, the doors opposite you groan open, slow, deliberate.

And the Inferi begin to pour in.

Dozens of them. No—hundreds.

A choked breath leaves your throat. Behind you, you hear Shoko, Nanami, Utahime—the way their bodies tense, the way their wands rise in unison. They do not have to wait. They understand immediately. They know what must be done.

But you don’t have time to think about that now. Because Suguru has turned back to Satoru. And he raises his wand. You feel something sharp twist in your chest. It happens fast. Too fast.

“Satoru!” you scream, his name leaving your lips like a prayer, like a plea, as you move without thinking. The map slips from your fingers, fluttering uselessly to the ground, forgotten.

Suguru does not hesitate. He attacks. The duel begins. 

Satoru does not attack back. He blocks. He dodges. He steps lightly, carefully, every movement calculated, precise, defensive. Every spell deflected, every curse sidestepped.

Suguru does not hold back. He moves quickly, viciously, every spell sent with intent, with force, with fury. His eyes burn, dark and wild, his body thrumming with something unhinged.

You watch, horror creeping up your throat, as Suguru raises his wand and sends out a curse. An Unforgivable one.

Satoru deflects it. Barely. Your heart jumps.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes, dodging another curse, his voice low, aching, “please—”

“Stop talking!” Suguru snaps, eyes glinting with something terrible, something feverish, sending another curse, and another, and another.

Satoru does not stop trying.

But you—

You cannot focus on them anymore. Because you see it. The Horcrux. It sits atop Sukuna’s tomb, heavy, waiting. You scramble toward it, down the steps, heart pounding, breath ragged, feet slipping against the stone as you rush forward.

You are close. You can reach it. Just a little more.

Suguru turns. His wand flicks toward you. He whispers the curse before you even have time to react.

“Sectumsempra.”

You don’t see it happen.

But you feel it. A force slamming into you, knocking you backward, knocking the breath from your lungs.

Toji.

You hear the impact before you register what has happened. The way his body crashes against the ground. The way he lands in front of you, crumpled, still.

His blood pools too quickly.

Too fast, too much, blooming across the stone floor in a deep, viscous red, the edges of it creeping outward like fingers, like something alive, and reaching. You stare at it, at the way it spreads beneath him, at the way it gleams in the dim light, and your breath—

Your breath doesn’t come.

It is stuck somewhere between your lungs, between the moment before and the moment after, between understanding and denial. You sink to your knees beside him, your fingers hovering just above his chest, your hands trembling too violently to touch him. The wet sound of his breathing, ragged, uneven, clotted with something thick, echoes between the stone walls, and you watch—helpless—as his entire body begins to bleed.

There is too much blood.

He tries to say something, but it comes out wrong. The sound wet, bubbling, choked at the edges. A protest, maybe. A warning. A curse. You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

“No, Toji,” you whisper, shaking your head, “don’t—don’t say anything, please.”

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because if he speaks, it means it’s real. Maybe because if he doesn’t, you can pretend for a little longer that he isn’t slipping away beneath you, his body torn open, his breath shallowing. Maybe because there is something so much worse about the idea of him trying to say something—to say anything—only to be cut short by the weight of his own dying.

Your throat tightens. Your hands curl, helpless, into fists.

Then, you remember yourself.

You rip your gaze away from him, from the ruin of his body, from the way his blood spills across your knees, seeping into the fabric, staining you. You look up, eyes burning, and search for Utahime.

She is up the stairs, her wand raised, sending bursts of fire toward an Inferius. Her face is sharp with focus, her body taut with it, every movement deliberate, decisive, honed by something deeper than just skill.

You scream her name, the sound of it raw, cracking, echoing against the stone.

“Iori!”

She turns at once, her head snapping toward you, eyes wide. Then, she is running, moving without hesitation, feet pounding against the steps as she descends, as she falls into place beside you, kneeling on the opposite side of Toji’s body.

She opens her mouth, about to speak, about to ask, but you grab her hand before she can.

“Iori,” you say, voice breaking, “go. Go back to Hogwarts. Take him to Snape. Snape will know what to do.”

Her face twists in something stricken, something close to refusal. “What?” she breathes. “I can’t just leave you all to fight here.”

“And I can’t let Fushiguro die when it was supposed to be me,” you say, firmly.

Your voice does not waver. Your hands do not either as you press hers against one of Toji’s wounds. You feel the heat of his blood soak into your palm, feel the unsteadiness of his pulse beneath it. You meet her eyes, hold them.

“Take him to Snape, Iori. I can’t Disapparate. You have to be the one to do it.”

She swallows hard. You can see the way her hands shake now, stained with blood, the way her chest rises and falls, the way she wants to argue, to tell you no, that she won’t, that she refuses. But she looks at Toji, at the way he is barely breathing, and she knows. She knows there isn’t another choice.

She nods. Then, she closes her eyes.

A second later, they are gone. The only thing left is the blood.

It stains the stone, pooling in the cracks, seeping into the seams. It stains your hands, thick and hot, clinging beneath your fingernails, pressed into the weave of your sweater. You can feel it drying already, the edges of it tacky, the scent of it thick in the air.

You exhale once, shoving the locket into the back pocket of your jeans. You stand, legs unsteady beneath you, and lift your wand. There is no time for hesitation.

Shoko and Nanami are holding the line on the steps, their wands moving in sharp bursts, handling the Inferi with precision. You do not need to look long to know that they will hold their ground.

Your eyes scan the amphitheater. And then, you find them.

Satoru. Suguru.

They are still fighting. Your breath leaves you in a shudder, your fingers enclosing around your wand.

You cannot waste another second.

You watch them fight. Your breath pulls short, uneven, catching at the back of your throat as your fingers tighten around your wand.

Suguru is relentless. His magic is not just offensive—it is furious, a ceaseless barrage of Unforgivable Curses, one after another, his wand moving in sharp, decisive arcs, his face twisted into something that doesn’t look like him, something too empty and too full all at once. His curses slice through the air like blades, hurtling toward Satoru with a kind of merciless precision, the kind that suggests he is not hesitating, not holding back.

And Satoru—Satoru is barely keeping up.

He does not counter. He does not send anything back. He only dodges, barely, stepping away at the very last second, twisting, deflecting, shielding, moving, but never attacking. He does not raise his wand in offense. He does not even try.

He is only trying to safeguard Suguru from himself.

Your heart is too loud.

Your fingers tighten, and a drop of blood—Toji’s blood—escapes the ridges of your palm, slipping past the gaps between your fingers, trailing along the length of your wand, clinging to the wood before finally reaching the tip and falling.

The droplet splatters against the stone.

Small. Insignificant. Except it isn’t.

Because Suguru is trying to kill him. Because Satoru won’t fight back.

Because it is terrifying, the way he is hesitating, the way he is choosing to hold himself back even as death comes hurling toward him, again and again and again.

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, like something is closing up from the inside, like something is pressing down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. Your head rings with the promise you made to Mirai—to Satoru’s mother—that you would put his life before yours, that you would not let anything happen to him.

Your breath stills. Your feet move.

“Suguru, I can’t lose you!” Satoru shouts, voice cracking, desperate, his breath heavy with exertion. “This isn’t you. Please—”

Suguru grits his teeth. His wand snaps upward, another curse ready at the tip of it, his movements sharp with conviction, unwavering.

“I have to do this, Satoru.”

And then, before Satoru can lift his wand—before he can block it, before he can react—you reach him.

Time slows. You see it all, as if from a great distance.

Suguru’s wand flicks. A spell shoots toward Satoru, dark and green, the magic sizzling through the air, fast, too fast—

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You shove him. Hard. Your hands collide with his chest, and you feel the impact reverberate up your arms as he stumbles, falling, his eyes widening in shock as he goes down, wand pointed at you.

The curse is coming.

Your body locks up, lungs closing, heart hammering itself into something frantic, too loud, too fast. You brace yourself, brace for the impact, brace for the pain, brace for something terrible and irreversible, for the kind of agony that will bring you to your knees—

You shut your eyes.

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But nothing happens. Your eyes snap open.

There, right in front of you, is a golden shield, pulsing, shimmering, strong enough to stop the curse just before it can reach you. The magic flickers, glowing, warm and brilliant, radiating from something.

Your gaze drops, then.

The phial.

You watch, frozen, as it falls from your pocket, slipping free, tumbling through the air as if in slow motion.

It hits the stone, shattering. The sound is small, fragile, like the breaking of something ancient.

Suguru’s eyes widen. His head snaps toward the phial, his breath catching, something flickering across his face. He looks at Satoru, then at you, his grip tightening around his wand, his entire body tensing—

And then, silence.

“You told her,” Suguru whispers.

His wand dips slightly, falling slack at his side, his fingers twitching as if he isn’t sure whether to hold on or let go. His gaze, sharp and searching, is fixed on Satoru, but his voice is barely audible, something small and breaking, something not meant for anyone else to hear.

The amphitheater is still. The fight is over, but the air remains charged, thick with something unspeakable, neither victory nor defeat, something much heavier. The smell of blood lingers from your hands and sweater, the echoes of magic still whisper against the stone, and somewhere, behind you, the sound of battle continues—Nanami and Shoko holding their own against the Inferi. But here, within the amphitheater, there is only silence.

And yet, something shifts.

You see it before you feel it.

It is not visible, not something you can touch or grasp, but it is there, in the way Suguru’s shoulders loosen slightly, in the way his breath stutters, in the way Satoru remains frozen, watching him with something unbearably raw in his expression.

Their blood pact has broken.

Your stomach twists. You know what this means.

Satoru can betray Suguru now, however many times he wants.

And Suguru—

Suguru can read Satoru’s mind.

You see it in the way Suguru looks at him, eyes dark, almost unfocused, his lips parting slightly as he stares. He is already doing it. Already slipping into Satoru’s thoughts, already pulling apart his mind, unraveling him thread by thread, seeing everything that has ever been unspoken between them.

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what he is seeing.

But you can see how it changes him.

Suguru exhales sharply, a sound caught between a scoff and a laugh, a hollow thing, humorless and bitter. His free hand clenches into a fist at his side. His expression does not shift much, but something in his face tightens—his jaw, his brow, the corners of his mouth pressing inward, as if he is struggling to hold something in.

“I just tried to kill you,” he says, voice quieter now, rougher, like something raw has been scraped open inside of him. He gives a short, sharp breath of laughter, devoid of any real amusement. “At least curse at me a little at the very end.”

Satoru shakes his head.

And then, as if it is the easiest thing in the world, he says, “You’re my one and only best friend.”

The words fall between them, and you feel something in your chest tighten, something unbearably fragile.

Suguru looks at him.

You shouldn’t be here.

That realization washes over you all at once, a cold, creeping sensation curling up your spine. This moment is not meant for you, not meant for anyone else. It is something sacred, something years in the making, built on a foundation only the two of them understand.

And yet, you are here.

You swallow, exhaling softly, watching as Suguru extends a hand.

For a moment, neither of them move.

Satoru just stares at him.

Suguru, silent, waiting.

And then, slowly, cautiously, Satoru reaches up and takes it.

There is no relief in their faces. No triumph. Only exhaustion, only something that lingers between regret and understanding, something neither of them is willing to say out loud.

They both turn to look at you.

You let out a slow, steady breath, gathering yourself, willing the weight of this moment to settle somewhere deep in your ribs, somewhere it will not break you open.

“We should get back to Hogwarts,” you say quietly.

Neither of them respond, but you don’t need them to.

Because the fight is over.

But the war isn’t.

There is a reason you made Gojo Disapparate directly into the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office.

It is quiet here. Removed from the castle’s hum of voices, from the frantic energy that must still linger in the halls, from the echo of footsteps in the Great Hall and the whispers that will follow in your wake. It is calm. The kind of quiet that feels undeserved, like something borrowed, something that might slip away if you breathe too deeply.

The five of you land in an unsteady heap, the force of the sudden reappearance sending a tremor through your bones. The shift from the suffocating darkness of the catacombs to the familiar candlelit stone of Hogwarts should be comforting, but it isn’t. The world is still moving, and you are still caught in its momentum.

“Merlin’s beard—”

Nanami staggers forward, a hand clamping over his mouth, his other arm thrown out for balance. Shoko wavers beside him, grip tightening around her wand as she presses the back of her hand to her lips, her entire body recoiling at the violent lurch in her stomach.

You almost laugh.

Gojo has finally run out of vials of Pepperup Potion.

Neither of them seem capable of forming words beyond a weak groan, and then, without a second thought, they both take off toward the infirmary, shoulders knocking against each other as they go.

You watch them go, shaking your head. The nausea will pass. It always does. Then, slowly, you turn to the other two.

Satoru and Suguru.

There is something different about them now.

You don’t know what it is—not fully, not yet—but something in the air between them has shifted, weighty, unspoken. Suguru stands still, his hands slack at his sides, his expression unreadable. Satoru, beside him, doesn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze cast downward as if studying the stone beneath his feet.

You exhale through your nose, forcing yourself to steady the rhythm of your breath.

“I’ll take the locket and the map to Dumbledore,” you murmur, voice quieter than you intend. “You two should get some rest.”

Satoru looks up at you then, blinking as if registering your words a second too late.

“What about the Bowtruckle?”

Suguru’s brows furrow, his expression twisting in confusion, but Satoru doesn’t acknowledge it—his eyes remain on you, waiting. You blink, momentarily lost in the sheer absurdity of the question. Then, slowly, your lips curve upward.

You bring a hand to your chest, pressing against the pocket of your sweater. There, curled up against the fabric, the tiny creature stirs, its little limbs shifting slightly, warm and small and impossibly delicate.

“I think I’ll keep him,” you say finally, shrugging. “Hagrid probably has plenty more.”

Satoru exhales, nodding, his lips pursed in something like approval. Suguru watches the two of you in silence, his gaze heavy, unreadable. You let out another breath, quieter this time, before turning toward the gargoyle statue before you.

You hesitate only once, just for a moment, glancing over your shoulder at Satoru.

Then, softly, you murmur, “Sherbet Lemon.”

The statue shifts, stone grinding against stone, revealing the spiraling staircase beyond. You take the first step. The stairs move on their own, spiraling higher and higher as the stone walls tighten around you, the space narrowing, twisting, the light from the torches casting long shadows that flicker and stretch, stretching over your hands, over your face. Your fingers brush against the locket in your pocket, its edges sharp and cold against your palm, and for a brief moment, you wonder how something so small, so insignificant in weight, could feel like this—like a millstone around your neck, like a wound pressed too deep to close.

The stairway ends before you are ready for it to.

The door opens with the faintest creak.

Dumbledore’s office is as it always is—large, circular, lit by golden candlelight, filled with the quiet hum of things too old and too wise to remain silent. You step inside, your movements slow, deliberate, as if to disturb nothing, as if to exist within this space as lightly as possible. You feel, for a moment, like a visitor in a temple.

It is a beautiful room. No matter how many times you enter it. 

On spindle-legged tables, curious silver instruments whir softly, twisting in place, delicate and intricate, like living things made of metal and smoke. Some emit thin tendrils of white vapor, curling into the air like whispers. Others tick quietly, measuring something unseen, something vast. The walls are lined with portraits, framed in gold and heavy wood, each depicting a former headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts. They are sleeping now, their breath slow, their hands resting in their laps, their expressions peaceful. You wonder how many of them died knowing what was coming.

At the center of it all, there is the enormous claw-footed desk, its surface polished to a dark sheen, and behind it, upon a shelf, a hat—shabby, tainted with age, the folds of its fabric as familiar as an old friend. The Sorting Hat.

You move toward the desk. The locket and the map feel heavier now than they ever have.

You place them down carefully, the metal of the locket clicking softly against the wood, the parchment of the map settling with a faint rustle.

You exhale.

Soft footsteps descend from the spiral staircase tucked into the far corner of the office, each step slow and measured, unhurried, deliberate. A figure appears at the top of the staircase, stepping down into the warm light of the room.

Albus Dumbledore, dressed in robes softer, looser than those he wears during the day, his expression mild, his eyes twinkling with something unreadable. His hands are folded before him, long fingers resting gently against each other.

“Ah,” he says, voice gentle, as if he has been expecting you. “Miss [L/N].”

He smiles.

“Good evening.”

You inhale, steadying yourself before you gesture toward the desk. “Sir,” you say, voice quieter than you mean for it to be, “That would be the Horcrux. And the map you gave us earlier.”

Dumbledore does not move at first. He smacks his lips together, his eyes narrowing, not in suspicion but with something resembling amusement. And then, after a moment, he steps forward, tilting his head as if seeing something delightful, as if inspecting an old book he has not opened in decades.

His hand, aged and veined, finds your shoulder. His grip is gentle, but firm. “You have outdone yourself,” he says, eyes twinkling, “and many experienced witches and wizards, I might add. You might just be the brightest witch of your age.”

The words should make you feel proud. They should make you feel something, at the very least. But all you can do is swallow. You think of Toji bleeding out at your feet, of Suguru’s face as he looked at Satoru, of the way time had seemed to slow when you pushed Gojo aside. It is not pride that sits in your chest. It is exhaustion.

“Thank you, sir,” you say softly. And then, after a pause, you lift your gaze to his. You can feel the question waiting at the back of your throat, feel the weight of it pressing against your tongue.

He sees it before you say it. He always does.

“Go on,” he urges, his voice light, pleasant, as he takes the rolled leather map from the table and places it back onto one of the many shelves.

You hesitate. But only for a moment.

“Why us, sir?” you ask, finally. “We’re just a bunch of teenagers. You sent us there, and we almost died.”

At this, he turns to you fully. The light from the candle beside him flickers against his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, across the sharpness of his cheekbones. He does not answer immediately, only studies you, gaze quiet, knowing.

“No, you didn’t, Miss [L/N],” he says after a beat. “I sent you there precisely because I knew you could handle it.”

Your brows furrow, lips pressing together. “But, sir—”

“One of you got hurt quite terribly,” he finishes for you, nodding slowly, as if to acknowledge the truth in your words. “Yes.”

He strokes his beard thoughtfully, his fingers moving with slow deliberation. “Miss Iori arrived at Severus’ office an hour ago,” he continues, voice calm, steady. “I trust Mr. Fushiguro is already healed, and resting in one of the stretchers at the infirmary, with Madam Pomfrey caring for him.”

You blink. You are not sure why the confirmation makes your throat feel tighter, why the knowledge of Toji’s recovery does not bring the relief you thought it would. Perhaps it is because it does not change the fact that he almost died. That you had sent Utahime away with him, with nothing but the hope that he would make it.

“Don’t you think, sir, with all due respect, that it wasn’t fair to us?”

Dumbledore looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a fleeting second, something shifts in his expression. A weariness, perhaps. Something more ancient than his years.

He does not answer. Not at first.

Instead, he pulls his wand from his robes, long and strange, different from any wand you have seen before. He points it at the locket.

“Incendio.”

A burst of fire leaps from the tip, bright and hot, crackling in the quiet. It hits the Horcrux squarely. And yet, nothing.

The fire licks the surface, skitters across it, but it does not consume it. The locket remains, cold and untouched, as if mocking the very laws of magic.

Dumbledore watches the flames die out. He exhales, slowly, before he turns back to you.

“You see, Miss [L/N],” he murmurs, slipping his wand back into the folds of his robe, “I didn’t have a choice. If I had informed the Ministry of this precarious situation, one of you—and you know exactly who—would have certainly lost his life.”

Your breath catches. You do not need him to say it. You know exactly who he means. Suguru.

“And this Horcrux would never be destroyed,” Dumbledore continues, quiet but certain. “It cannot be undone by spells, nor by force. Only by things more powerful than it.”

You stare at the locket, at the way it gleams in the dim light, cool, unbothered, as if it has not spent decades housing something unholy.

“You hate that I’m right,” Dumbledore muses, watching you.

You blink. Exhale sharply through your nose. “I do.”

He chuckles at that, a small sound, but there is something tired in it, something that feels less like amusement and more like regret.

Silence stretches between you, the candle flickering again, the portraits along the walls still snoozing in their frames.

After a moment, you shift your weight, rolling your shoulders. “Is that all, sir?”

He studies you for a second longer. Then, he nods. “Yes, Miss [L/N]. That is all.”

You turn on your heel, making your way toward the door. Your hand reaches for the brass handle, cool beneath your fingers.

But before you can step out, his voice stops you.

“Miss [L/N]?”

You pause. Glance back.

He is watching you, expression unreadable, eyes old, too knowing.

“Rest,” he says. “There is still much more to be done.”

You swallow.

And then you leave.

The infirmary is dimly lit, the only light coming from the low-burning lamps hovering above the beds, casting long, sluggish shadows against the floor. The room smells of old parchment and disinfectant, the kind that sticks in the back of your throat, mingling with the faintest traces of blood and burnt cloth. The night is quiet outside, heavy with the hush of something ending, something settling, and for the first time since the mission, since the chaos of it all, your pulse slows. Just slightly. Just enough.

You see him the moment you step inside.

Toji is stretched out on one of the hospital beds, his shirt discarded somewhere, his skin marred with fresh scars and hastily applied healing spells that haven’t quite settled yet. He is talking to Madam Pomfrey, his voice low, teasing, that familiar lilt of amusement in it even as exhaustion tugs at the edges of his words.

She tuts at him, smacks the side of his head with a practiced sort of impatience, before pressing a small cup into his hand. “Take this, and go to sleep,” she tells him, her tone clipped but not unkind. “You’ve lost enough blood to be declared a ghost, and I do not have the time nor the patience to deal with any lingering dramatics.”

He grins at that, lazy, lips twisting around something smug, but he downs the potion obediently.

And then, Madam Pomfrey sees you.

Her eyes soften, just a little, but she still sighs, rubbing her temples as she jerks her chin toward Toji’s bed. “Five minutes,” she says, a note of warning in her voice. “That’s all you have until the medicine kicks in.”

You nod, murmuring a quiet thanks as you make your way over. Your legs feel heavy, slow, like they are moving through water, like the exhaustion from before has finally caught up to you now that everything is over.

Toji smirks when he sees you, the scar on his lip twisting with the movement, his dark eyes catching the faint glow of the lamps. He looks at you like you’re funny. Like you’re something fragile, something foolish, something not worth worrying about, even though it was him who had nearly bled out, him who had collapsed against you in that godforsaken amphitheater, him who had made that choice without hesitation, without a second thought.

You exhale, relief and frustration and something else you do not want to name swelling in your throat. “You’re okay.”

“I’m saint-like,” he drawls, stretching his arms over his head, fingers flexing against the sheets. “Practically holy.”

You frown, brow furrowing in confusion, but he only chuckles, tapping a finger against his ear. “See this? Almost got cut off completely.”

You stare. And then, slowly, you realize what he’s saying.

“Out of all the ear jokes in the world, you go for holy?” you ask, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

At that, he grins. “At least you smiled.”

Your breath catches. You shake your head. “You almost died because of me.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out and grabs your arm, his fingers warm, solid, grounding. “Hey,” he says, “I took the hit because I wanted to.”

“Quite the masochist, aren’t you?” you mutter, narrowing your eyes. “What if you’d died? What then?”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “You made sure Utahime got me here.” A pause. Then, “I knew nothing would happen as long as you were there.”

Your stomach twists.

“You are a scaredy-cat, sure,” he continues, like it is just a fact, like it is something that has always been true, “but you wouldn’t just let me die. I knew it when I took the hit for you. I knew it before I even went to that stupid forest.”

You swallow. Look away. The cup of medicine is empty on the table beside him, the remnants of the potion clinging to the sides in thin, translucent streaks.

He exhales, shifting against the pillows. “Oh, Shoko was here a while ago,” he says after a moment. “Got nauseous from Apparition.”

You nod, trying to gather yourself, forcing your thoughts back to the present. “Yeah. So was Kento. They ran immediately when we got back.”

Toji hums, thoughtful. “That’s what the blond guy’s name is?” He frowns slightly. “Didn’t know.”

You let out a breath, half-exasperated, half-disbelieving. “You are,” you tell him, voice flat, “so stupid. Almost like a Neanderthal.”

His smirk returns, but this time, his eyelids are drooping, his fingers twitching where they rest against the blanket. The potion is starting to work.

“You owe me,” he murmurs, words slurring just slightly.

You shake your head, grin slipping onto your lips before you can stop it. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep.”

“Oh, before you go,” he slurs, falling onto the bed. You pull the covers over him, as he murmurs, “Gojo was here. Idiot went to the Room of Requirement, I reckon.”

His eyes close. The rise and fall of his chest evens out.

And for the first time in what feels like hours, you breathe.

When you step into the Room of Requirement, the door shutting with a muted click behind you, the air inside is thick, weighty, filled with something you can’t quite name but feel all the same. It presses against your skin, settles in your throat, clings to the dried blood on your sweater, to the scent of earth and iron and damp wood still lingering on your clothes. You inhale, slow and deep, trying to shake it off, trying to collect yourself, but all it does is make you more aware of the heaviness curling around your ribs, winding itself into your limbs.

The room has reshaped itself again. The long table at the far corner is still there, but the walls are closer now, lined with flickering lanterns that cast long, wavering shadows. Shelves stand tall along the edges, some filled with books, others stacked with old maps and parchment and artifacts neither of you have had the time nor the patience to move. And at the far end of the table, beneath the dim glow of the lanterns, sits Gojo.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He is leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers loosely intertwined. His eyes—bleary, unfocused—are fixed on the pinboard in front of him, its surface littered with hastily scribbled notes, torn-out pages from textbooks, maps with charmed markings glowing faintly in the dark. The exhaustion is all over him now, seeping into the sharp lines of his face, dragging down the corners of his mouth, making his normally bright eyes look dull, worn, like he’s been ground down to his last nerve.

You swallow.

"Hey," you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough from disuse, from the cold air outside, from everything that’s happened in the past few hours. You trudge toward the seat next to him, slow and heavy-footed, as if the weight of the night is still pressing down on you, anchoring you in place.

Gojo blinks, once, twice, like he’s only just now realizing you’re here. “Hey,” he mumbles back, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand before letting it drop limply onto the table.

You sink into the chair beside him.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The silence is thick, stretching between you like an invisible thread, fragile but unbroken. The lantern light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the wooden surface of the table, across the maps and notes spread out before you. You stare at them without really seeing them, tracing the edges of the parchment with your eyes, watching the ink shift and swirl where spells have been used to keep the writing from fading. You hear the faint crackling of the flames, the occasional creak of the chair as Gojo shifts beside you, the slow, measured rise and fall of his breathing.

And then, you swallow, straighten, turn your head just slightly toward him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gojo doesn’t react at first. He keeps staring at the pinboard, fingers twitching faintly against the table, like he’s trying to work through the exhaustion clouding his mind, like he’s waiting for you to say more.

You exhale, watching the way the lamplight catches against his skin, the way the bruises are starting to darken along the curve of his jaw, along the ridge of his cheekbone. “About your Patronus,” you say, voice quieter now, the words more careful, more deliberate. “About how you knew exactly where to go back in the forest.”

At that, Gojo finally looks at you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—surprise, maybe, or something close to it—before he leans back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair.

For a moment, you think he isn’t going to answer.

And then—he exhales, slow and steady, and says, “Because you didn’t need to know.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm in it, something that leaves no room for argument.

But you argue anyway. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Gojo watches you for a long time.

Then, finally, he sighs, tilts his head back, and says, “No. I suppose it’s not.”

You look at him, watching the way he exhales, long and slow, as if debating how much he should say, as if weighing the value of the truth against the burden of speaking it aloud. His fingers curl slightly against the wood of the table, knuckles faintly whitening before they relax again. Finally, after what feels like minutes rather than seconds, he sighs, tipping his head back slightly, blinking at the ceiling as if the answer is written there. When he speaks, his voice is softer than you expect.

"I knew where to go because it’s what my family has taught me. It’s what has been passed down in our bloodline for generations." He pauses, then adds, quieter, "It’s called the Six Eyes."

Your brows knit together. The name alone feels ancient, weighty and revered, something that sounds less like an ability and more like an inheritance. Like a curse. You wait for him to go on. He does, but not immediately. His fingers drum once against the table before stilling. His gaze drops, just slightly.

"You know how I said the Kamo family practices blood magic?" He asks. You nod. He exhales again, slower this time, measured. "This is what mine does."

The words settle between you. His, not his family’s. His alone.

"My father doesn’t have Six Eyes. Nobody in my family has had it for generations. I’m the first in four hundred years." He says it so simply, so plainly, but the weight of it is crushing. "I suppose that could be one of the reasons why my father made sure I was adept at everything. And so good at magic from a young age."

You don’t miss the way his jaw tightens on the word father, nor the way his shoulders stiffen for the briefest of moments before he forces them loose again. You wonder how long he’s carried this knowledge, this burden, before saying it aloud. How much of his life has been dictated by it.

Your gaze flickers to his hand. His fingers are long, elegant, but tense, curling slightly where they rest against the table. Without thinking, you reach out, hesitating for only a second before placing your hand over his. His fingers twitch beneath yours, as if startled by the contact, but he doesn’t pull away.

"And the Patronus?" You ask.

His lips press together, but there’s something faintly amused in the way his eyes move to you, something softer. "I really just wanted to keep it a secret for as long as I could." He admits, voice quieter now, less weighted than before. "You can’t go around telling people that you can conjure a dragon for a Patronus now, can you?"

You blink, absorbing it all. The room is silent except for the faint crackling of the torches lining the walls. Then, finally, you sigh. "I guess."

But your hand is still on his. And he hasn’t moved away.

He sighs, heavy and exhausted, before pushing himself to his feet. The warmth of his hand vanishes from yours, and you watch as he turns, crossing the room with long, deliberate strides. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into loose fists before stretching out again, as if he's trying to shake off something he can't quite name. He stops near the bookshelves, glancing at the spines of the dusty tomes without really seeing them, then shifts his gaze to the sofas, as if debating whether to sit or keep standing. Then, finally, he turns to you.

"Back at the forest, I was going to—"

"Don’t." You shake your head, rising to your feet so quickly that your chair scrapes against the stone floor. The sound is sharp, almost violent, cutting through the thick silence that has settled between you.

"Don’t what?" He laughs, but there is nothing lighthearted about it. The sound is brittle, humorless. "You don’t want me to tell you what I must?"

"Satoru," you whisper, but his face hardens. His shoulders are taut, his entire body held in place by something unseen. His jaw clenches for half a second before he forces himself to breathe, to school his expression into something blank, something unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes are burning.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before looking at you again. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You’re angry that I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. You’re angry that I didn’t tell you I knew it was Suguru. That he can read minds. That we had a blood pact." He shakes his head, his tone tightening, sharpening. "But don’t let all of those muddled things affect this. Affect what has been clear to me for so long. What you have been blind to."

"I’m blind?" Your voice rises, incredulous. Your heart is hammering now, quick and unsteady. "You almost sacrificed yourself to the Dementors for me today!"

"And you jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me!" He yells, his hands flying up, his voice echoing off the stone walls. His eyes are wide, wild, his hair disheveled from where he has run his fingers through it again and again. "Do you not see how demented of an act that was? Are you mental? You could’ve died!"

"So could you!" You throw the words back at him, stepping forward, heat rising in your chest. "What do you think the Dementors do, Gojo? You could have had your soul sucked out for what?"

"For you!" He snaps, the words spilling out before he can stop them. His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. "For you. You know that. You’ve always known that."

Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you say anything. The only sound in the room is the distant crackling of the torches, the slow shifting of the wooden beams overhead.

Then, quieter, he speaks again. "You jumped in front of the Killing Curse for me, and you didn’t even think twice about it. Do you realize how insane that is? How terrifying? Do you think I could just stand there and watch that happen? You would have died if I didn’t put up a shield for you!"

"I didn’t think—"

"Exactly!" His voice is sharp, but not unkind. His fingers twitch at his sides again. "You didn’t think. Because it was me. And I didn’t think, either. Because it was you."

Your hands are shaking. You don’t know when they started.

"Gojo," you start, but the name barely makes it past your lips before he speaks again.

"Do you know what it felt like?" He asks, his voice lower now, his anger tempered by something else—something raw, something that makes your throat feel tight. "Watching you do that? Watching you throw yourself in front of a curse that should have killed you? Do you have any idea—" He stops, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you again, exhausted, furious, something else entirely. "You can’t ask me not to be angry. You can’t ask me to be okay with that."

"I’m not asking you to be okay with it," you say, and your voice is quieter, but no less fierce. "I’m asking you to understand that I would do it again."

He stares at you. He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to shake you, like he wants to grab your shoulders and make you see sense. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just exhales, long and slow, pressing his fingers against his temple. When he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer.

"And that’s the problem, isn’t it?"

You blink, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. It’s piercing—too much and yet never enough, overwhelming and impossibly familiar all at once. His eyes do not waver, do not flicker away, do not grant you even a moment’s reprieve. He watches you like he is memorizing you, like if he dares to look away, you might vanish entirely.

Your breath shudders. The air between you is thin, stretched too tightly, as if the very room itself is holding its breath, waiting. You take a step forward, then another, and another still, until there is no distance left at all, until your forehead presses against his chest, right over the steady, thrumming heartbeat beneath his ribs.

A slow inhale. A slow exhale.

"You are the most infuriating person I have ever met," you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, but he hears it, of course he does.

And he laughs. A quiet, aching thing. A laugh dragged from somewhere deep inside of him, where things are fragile and breakable, where things are real. His hand comes up to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with an unbearable gentleness, as if you are something precious, something he cannot risk shattering. The other rests at your spine, stroking slow, deliberate circles, grounding you, grounding himself.

"I have fought against this," he murmurs, and there is something raw in his voice now, something stripped bare, "against you, against myself. And yet, here I stand, utterly ruined by you."

You close your eyes. His touch is warm, his hold steady, and it is too much, too much, too much. Your chest tightens, your throat constricts, and when you finally tilt your face up to look at him again, there is a tear threatening to spill over, clinging to the edge of your lashes.

His breath catches. He lifts a hand, thumb grazing the corner of your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. The touch is reverent, devastating in its tenderness.

"You have undone me," you whisper, and the words are not easy, are not light. They weigh heavy on your tongue, on your chest, but they are true. "In ways I never thought possible. There is not a moment, not a breath, where I do not think of you."

Something in his expression cracks, but he does not look away. He never does.

The silence stretches between you, but it is not empty. It is filled with the quiet rise and fall of your breaths, the press of your bodies against one another, the unspoken things that have lived between you for too long.

His thumb strokes over your cheek, slow and deliberate, as if he is committing the shape of your face to memory. His voice is quieter when he speaks, but no less steady. "When I look at you," he says, as if he has never been more sure of anything in his life, "I see every reason to believe in something greater than myself."

Your breath shudders again, but this time, it is not because of fear.

You stay like that, standing in the quiet, in the wreckage of everything that has led to this moment. It could be minutes or hours or lifetimes. It does not matter.

"If you asked me to stay," he says, his voice softer now, like a confession, like a promise, "I would not need to hear it twice. I’m quite a selfish person, as you know."

You let out a breath, one that carries everything with it—all the hurt, all the longing, all the things you have tried to swallow down for so long. And then, you meet his gaze, unwavering.

"Stay, then," you say, voice steady. "I’m selfish too."

He lets out a breath, unsteady and quiet, as if he has been holding it for too long—years, maybe lifetimes. It shudders as it leaves him, and you feel it too, the way his chest finally collapses under the weight of everything he has carried, the burdens he has never allowed himself to set down. His head dips, and for a moment, he hesitates, just barely, before his lips brush against yours.

A touch—just a whisper of warmth, of desperation, of something so gentle it is nearly reverent. Then, he presses in, and you feel it all at once. His hands ghost over your back, over your spine, over every part of you he has nearly lost tonight. He pulls you closer, as if that alone will be enough to keep you from slipping through his fingers. And you let him. You let yourself fall into him, hands reaching up, fingers trembling as they frame his face, as if you are afraid he might pull away too soon.

But he doesn’t.

And when he finally does part from you, it is slow, lingering. His forehead rests against yours, and his breath is uneven. He exhales against your lips, and the sound of it, quiet and weary, breaks something inside of you.

“Don’t put yourself in danger for me,” he murmurs, and his voice is thin, threadbare, as if he is saying it more to himself than to you.

You close your eyes, shaking your head against him. “I’ll do it again and again if it means keeping you safe. I hope you know that.”

He sighs, long and slow, as if he expected you to say that. As if he knew you would. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pressing, holding.

“You’re an idiot, Fawkes,” he mutters, but it is not unkind. It is exasperation, affection, exhaustion, all at once. It is everything.

You feel him shift, feel the way his hands tighten just slightly before he pulls away enough to look at you properly. His gaze flickers downward, to your sweater, to the stain smeared across the fabric, dried now, rust-colored under the dim light. You feel the question before he even asks it.

“Not mine,” you murmur, shaking your head. “It’s Toji’s.”

His brows knit together, lips parting slightly, but no sound comes out at first. You watch as he exhales through his nose, his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Oh,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I went and thanked him for… you know.”

You nod. “He told me.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is full but not heavy. There is something lighter in it now, something softer. You step forward again, pressing against him once more, seeking warmth, seeking something solid. You press your forehead into the space where his collarbone meets his shoulder, where the fabric of his robes is soft and worn from too many years of use.

His body stills at first, just for a fraction of a second, but then—then his arms come around you, wrapping you up, holding you as if he never intends to let go. And you think maybe he doesn’t. Maybe neither of you do.

His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist, gripping, anchoring. He breathes you in, and when he speaks, it is barely a whisper, barely anything at all.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says, as if it is a promise. As if it is an inevitability.

Your eyes slip shut. You could stay here forever, wrapped in this moment, in this breath, in this fragile, quiet thing between you.

“Me neither,” you murmur, your lips brushing against the fabric of his robes. “You’re stuck with me for life.”

He chuckles then, low and quiet, the sound reverberating through his chest. And it is not the kind of laughter you are used to from him—not sharp-edged or arrogant, not teasing or cocky. It is something else entirely. Something softer. Something real.

You do not pull away. Neither does he.

And so, you stay.

to everyone who came on this journey with me, thank you so, so much. i am so happy, so glad, so soft with all my feels, that something i wrote received so much love. it's really such a wonderful thing to receive sm love for smth you create — and i'm so grateful to be on the receiving end. speaking of ends, this isn't it. there's two epilogues still left to go. stay tuned, my loves.

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[glamourscat]

TAKE ONE | actor! TIM DRAKE x actor! reader

rivals to ..? | pt 1? | gn! reader

“How can you not understand?” Tim yelled at you, his voice rising above the relentless rain pouring down on both of you.

“I love you. I am so madly, pathetically, in love with you. And yet, you keep running back to him. Back to that damned jerk, over and over again. While me— I’m… your stupid best friend,” his voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.

“I’ve always been here, and you know that. Every late night holding you while you cried, every single t—” His words broke off as your lips collided with his, cutting him off with the force of something long overdue. Something he had dreamed of for months, no, years.

His hands moved instinctively to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss was hungry yet soft, an overwhelming intensity that sent shivers down his spine. Goosebumps on his skin.

“And… cut!” the director’s voice broke through the moment, followed by an applause from the crew. “Great job, everyone. That’s the last scene for today. Go get changed. Meeting in room 2 in an hour.”

The crew began dismantling the props, the artificial rain stopped and the two of you stood there, still drenched, now with an awkward distance between you.

It wasn’t that he hated you. But he couldn’t stand you either. He’d been in this industry since he was a kid, nepotism, some would say. But haters will always be haters. Not his fault he was born loaded. Still, now at 23 he found himself needing more substantial roles. Filled with drama and twists. And, of course, his on-screen love interest had to be you.

The same person who keeps stealing Golden Globes right out of his grasp. Award after award, casting roles, and even his damn agent. So, no. He didn’t hate you. But, if he had to describe you, he would probably say you’re that annoying itch under your skin that not matter how much you scratch it, never really leaves.

Yet… there was something about you. Maybe it was the constant bickering that spilled from the script into your daily interactions. Maybe it was the fact that this kiss scene had taken six exhausting takes, but he couldn’t stop thinking about your lips on his.

And though he refused to admit it, he was beginning to crave this feeling. That terrified him.

“Why are you following me?” he asked flatly, his back still to you as you trailed behind him. “Your trailer’s on the other side,” he added, his tone deliberately detached.

“I told you this morning, but you never listen,” you scoffed. “My trailer’s out of order. There’s a leak in the bathroom, so they moved some of my stuff into yours for now.”

He stopped, turning to face you. His expression flickered between annoyance and disbelief.

“And there was no other trailer they could put you in?”

“Obviously not,” you replied, sarcasm dripping from your tone.

He scoffed, resuming his pace as you followed. When he reached his trailer, he stepped inside without a backward glance, immediately peeling off his soaked clothes.

“Come in, close the door, but don’t lock it otherwise we get stuck in.” he said nonchalantly, walking around in nothing but his boxers

“You have no decency,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you stepped in.

He smirked, glancing over his shoulder. His blue eyes trialing over your figure. “You’ve seen me in far less, considering the other scenes we had to shoot. Don’t be such a prude.”

“It’s not about being a prude. You’re just…, never mind. Jerk.” you grumbled under your breath, pulling off your drenched clothes too.

He turned, and his smirk widened. “Well, that’s a choice,” he teased, eyeing your Batman underwear, barely concealing his laugh.

“If you say anything, I swear, you’re done for,” you warned, trying not to laugh yourself.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a chuckle slipping past his lips. “Whatever you say,” he hummed, turning back to dry himself off.

But in his mind, he was already storing this moment away for future need. Oh, he was absolutely going to use this against you one day.

Pt2? 👀

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[phoenixyfriend]

Inspired by @professorsparklepants doing girl group/K-pop AUs for AtLA, here's a post for prequels/TCW. I don't know enough about girl groups structurally so feel free to reblog with additions or fun industry-specific details:

Padmé: lead singer, has been in the industry since she was eleven

Aayla: lead dancer, collaborates closely with the choreographer

Ahsoka: the rapper, but also pretty likely to feature as a dance

Riyo: secondary singer, one of the "faces"

Sabé: secondary singer, the music videos often feature gimmick shots of her and Padmé using fake mirrors or split screens, evil doppelganger narratives, that sort of thing

Barriss: secondary singer, everyone's working on bringing up her confidence as a performer and celebrity

Bo-Katan: secondary dancer, trying to prove she didn't get her role just because of nepotism, also vying for the rapper slot (she gets some features but not as many as Ahsoka)

Ventress: not officially part of the group but she tours with them and gets featured a lot for some very Evelyn-K/DA-esque vocals and vibes (she's the scary one)

Depa: manager

Satine: runs the record label

Shaak: Ahsoka’s mom that came on tour since Ahsoka’s the youngest by about four years, is now everybody's mom

Bonus: trans girl Anakin who is just happy to be here but then ends up (enthusiastically) doing the lower register stuff à la Chloè post-surgery in Pitch Perfect.

[fresidoll]

★ COLLEGE EREN GENERAL HEADCANONS  

.ᐟ General headcanons of Eren as a college boy

.ᐟ ModernEren!

.ᐟ Content warnings none

.ᐟ Word count 1.14k

.ᐟ A/N english it's not my first language so there may be some spelling mistakes. This might be quite long because i tend to rant and it’s also my first work;( 

☆ First off, Eren for sure comes from a rich family. His family from his father’s side comes from generations and generations of inherited wealth with inherited business, companies or associations that add more to the current patrimony of the Jaeger family. Even if he was born with a silver spoon on his mouth, Eren isn’t a petty brat about it. Thanks to his mom's good education and gentle nature, Eren doesn’t like to brag about the money his family has and always uses the money he gets from his parents wisely.

☆ There was a little bit of nepotism involved when he was admitted in college. Since his father is well known and knows a bunch of important people all round the world, Eren’s last name didn’t go unnoticed and even if he didn’t get a very good grade in the Math part in the entrance exam, he got in automatically. But even if he didn’t do great in Math, he nailed everything else in the exam so that’s why nepotism was used but very little.

☆ He shares a room with Jean. The influence of his father had limited use so he didn’t got to choose his roommate and ended up in a room with a guy that seemed to dislike him from the very start. Jean also came from a wealthy family but unlike Eren, Jean seemed to be more spoiled and smug which caused Eren’s dislike towards him, which resulted in Jean disliking Eren for thinking he was better than him. For the first month of sharing the room they were constantly arguing about who made was more messy, who took the other’s stuff, who was taking more space of the room, who took the other’s food from the mini fridge and stuff like that, but after that month, the got to tolerate each other eventually and then they became kind of friends even if they won’t admit it.

☆ Him, Armin and Mikasa are childhood friends so of course they ended up in the same school because their parents are friends and it was bound to happen. Eren and Armin are on the same dorm floor so it’s usual for them to walk out together and meet Mikasa halfway from her dorm building. They are always hanging out together, it's a rare sight to not see the three of them or to see one of them by themselves. Even if they formed a group of friends, they three are stuck like glue and it’s very likely that if the group of friends tears apart, they still will be a trio.

☆ I think that it’s very likely that Eren would either pursue a degree in law, arts or in medical sciences following his father’s steps. Growing up going with his father at work at the hospital he works in, Eren learned a lot of things involving medical terms, basic procedures and the names and how medical instruments worked, and on top of that, he showed an aptitude for handling emergencies and medical crises so medical sciences seems like the perfect degree for him. Since Eren it’s someone that has very strong morals and a very strong sense of justice, law it’s a very asserted degree for him to pursue. I think being a lawyer would be a good choice since Eren has a good ability for talking and thinking fast. And arts, i think Eren could choose arts because it’s something he actually likes but i see him pursuing this degree more as a side career or more like a kind of hobby he wants to master. I feel he’s good with instruments like piano, guitar and violin. He also has a very good voice that he can control very well, so singing it’s an ability of his. I also think he may be good at drawing and painting, he wouldn’t be an ace but he has some talent he could polish and he would become very good at it. Eren really loves all forms of art so pursuing an art degree would be something he does from the heart more than anything.

☆ If Eren doesn't pursue a degree in arts, it’s very likely that he joins a club involving arts like music, painting or even theatre. He’s a very creative person with abilities he’s very interested to polish and to explore the highest potential of them, he would be very devoted to the branch of arts he will choose to pursue and would give his all and literally would pour his heart out in every creation he makes. I think it would also be very likely that he would chose to start a band of his own *wink, wink *

☆ Now, he’s actually intelligent academically speaking but he totally sucks at Math. Eren is a letter’s person and all the subjects like English, History, Languages are very easy to understand and he always gets perfect grades in their exams, projects and presentations. He even tutors Connie and Sasha in those subjects, sometimes in exchange of buying him his lunch or candy from the vending machines. But, Eren it’s a complete airhead in Math and in any subject that has to do with numbers. He can do basic operations like addition, subtraction, multiplication and division and they are right most of the time but equations are another story. He can’t get inside his head how equations work, he always forgets the formulas and obviously always gets the results wrong. It doesn’t matter how much Armin tries to tutor him, Eren never seems to grasp how equations work. And for the record, on one of his Math exams he only got 3 questions right out of the 25 questions that were on the exam.

☆ Lastly, he was very homesick for the first two weeks of his college life. He missed his parents a lot (he missed his mom way more than his dad) and would be constantly texting them and he would spare some of his free time to call his mom just to hear her voice even just for a few minutes. He even cried some days when thing would get too overwhelming and sometimes he even thought of going back home even if he didn’t really was actually considering doing it. His homesickness went away as the days passed and he got used to the new stage of his life, and also thanks to the baked sweets his mom sended to him every week. By the way, his mom sends him baked sweets every week because she used to bake very often for Eren and now she can’t get out of the habit, and also because she misses her baby too much and baking it’s her way of telling Eren how much she loves him even if he’s away from home.

A/N; i think i ranted a lot buy luckily it wasn't so boring;( i loved to write this btw ✨

[thehandmaidenofcreativity]

Long idea so bare with me. You are a college student (fem pov) and you and you family are visiting your uncle for the summer. Your uncle just happenes to be JY Park (JYP) so you go to South Korea and that’s when you meet the group your uncle owns… stray kids. Now your dad really wants you to go on a date with one of them but you think that stray kids are actually stuck up and entitled so your like nope.your like ya there very fucking hot but…Then you get to know them and there not just hot as hell (and horny) but also good people. But your angry at your father so you don’t want to do what he asked but stray kids are so hot, so you sneak out to there dorm to do some not so kid friendly stuff if you get my drift. You can build on from that but that’s just an idea. Love your stuff <3 keep writing!

Wow hi! I was so shocked (and happy!) to get this ask. It was a little daunting, but I actually really enjoyed working on it. So thank you:) I hope you end up seeing this, Anon!

Comments: This is part one in what will likely be an ongoing series in which the reader will eventually be involved with all 8 members, but for now, we're starting with Seungmin and Hyunjin.

Rating: Explicit/18+

WC: 7.5k

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

“Can you at least pretend you’re happy to be here?” Your mom is giving you the look again. “Jin-Young said he wants to take you to his company. Maybe he can give you a summer internship, so you’ll still have something to put on your resume.” 

“Ah yes,” you sigh and roll your eyes. You know that JYPE is a huge company with great artists, but you also know from experience that idols aren’t your cup of tea. Working there doesn’t sound like a great time. “Nothing like some good ole nepotism to boost your resume. Plus, I’m not even majoring in anything related to the music business.”

“Well honey, if you’re determined to be upset about this, then it’s not going to be a good summer.” She pats you on the shoulder, signaling that the conversation is over. “I just hope you’ll try to keep an open mind.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

The next day, after breakfast with your parents and uncle, you all head to JYPE. JYP gives you all a small tour, introducing you to the different groups currently in the practice rooms. The last group you meet is Stray Kids. Like the others, they immediately stop what they’re doing to come greet your uncle. Standing in a line like that, glistening from the sweat of their hard work; you stare shamelessly. You’ve seen a few of their videos, so you already knew they looked good. They’re even hotter in person. Even more so, because they aren’t cookie cutter copies of each other; they each have unique features that catch your eye. Still, you know what tends to hide behind pretty faces and hot bodies, so you don’t plan on thinking about them much once you leave this room.

JYP introduces you, and you’re met with the same fake, polite greeting from each of them. Then he throws a curveball. “So my niece will be spending a lot of time with you in the next few weeks; take good care of her.”

You try not to look too shocked and shoot a glance at your mom. She gives you a smile and a shrug as if this isn’t totally her doing. As your uncle begins discussing something with a couple members and your dad, you take her to the side to talk privately. 

“Mom! I’m going to be ‘spending time’ with them? Doing what? I told you I didn’t need a pity internship!” You whisper-shout as soon as you’re sure no one will hear you.

“Oh, you’re being a bit dramatic.” She shakes her head at you. “This will be a good experience for you! It’ll even relate to your major; you’re going to be helping them with their English, kinda like a tutor. Your future students are going to think you’re so cool being related to JYP; you’ll be able to bond with them even better when you can tell them you’ve worked with their favorite idols.”

She’s not entirely wrong, but you still don’t love the idea. Idols are the worst.

Soon it’s time for the guys to get back to practice, and your family’s tour ends in JYP’s office. Along the way, your dad gushes over Stray Kids, and you try not to look annoyed. You learn that SKZ is getting ready for their next world tour and some of them are feeling like they need to get back into the habit of speaking English so they can feel more confident interacting with their fans. 

“I was happy when your mother asked if there was anything for you to do around here. I think it’ll be a good way for you to stay busy and make friends while you’re here in Korea. And of course, we’ll get to spend so much more time together if you’re here in the building every day.” Your uncle looks so pleased; you don’t want to bring him down.

“I look forward to it.” You hope your smile doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “I really appreciate you giving me this opportunity.”

In the car on your way home, your dad kind of shocks you. “Honey, I think you should go on a date with one of those boys. Jin-Young speaks so highly of them, and they’re very polite and intelligent. Just the kind of boy we’d be happy to see you with.”

Your mom agrees immediately. “And they’re so talented! After I talked to my brother about your internship, I watched a few of their music videos. Not to mention, they’re all quite easy on the eyes.” 

“I don’t care how cute they are, mom!” Though you certainly wouldn’t kick any of them out of bed. “I would never date any of them.”

“Just think about it, honey.” Your dad isn’t going to let this go. “See how you feel after spending a few days working with them.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

The next day, you show up to JYPE bright and early, wishing you were still in bed and dreading the day you’re about to spend with a bunch of hot assholes. When you arrive at the studio they’re starting out in, half the group is already there. Their leader, Bang Chan, greets you immediately and gestures for you to sit on the couch in the back of the room. The others are so engrossed in each other that they don’t even seem to notice you.

“So as you may know, Felix and I are also fluent in English since we’re both from Australia. The rest of the kids have various levels of fluency and confidence in their skills.” You have to actively remind yourself not to swoon over his accent. “It’ll be helpful to have another person to speak casually with and maybe correct pronunciation on some words. Sometimes they have questions about little grammar things, so they may ask you. I think that’s all? That sound okay to you?”

“Yeah, sounds fine.” Anything else you might say is lost when four rowdy guys walk in the studio. They’re laughing and a couple of them start yelling. This might be a long day. One of them - you probably should’ve made sure you knew who was who before coming today - starts handing out iced coffee to the ones who were here first. He surprises you by handing you one as well. “Oh, thank you! You didn’t have to get me anything.”

He gives you a big smile. Those dimples are dangerous. “You’re welcome! We didn’t want to leave you out.” 

His accent is cute, too. Which one is he? You’re about to try to run through their names in your head when Bang Chan claps his hands and yells, “Alright!”

The eight of them are suddenly lining up in front of you. After a ‘1, 2’ from Bang Chan, in unison, they say, “Step out. Hello, we are Stray Kids.” You weren’t expecting the full greeting like this again.  

“We know that this was kind of sprung on you, so we thought it would be a good idea to introduce ourselves again. So I am Bang Chan, though you can just call me Chan, or Chris, if you want.” Chan gestures to the guy next to him, and they sound off from there. You’ve got all their names down now. Though, of course it’s all stage names (for those who don't go by their first names), which feels a bit like keeping you at arm's length. Hopefully talking with them won’t be too annoying, but you’re worried about the idea of just hanging out with them all day; there’s only so much time you’re willing to spend with a bunch of douchebags.

Chan calls for Hyunjin to head into the recording booth, then sends Lee Know and I.N, the one with the coffee, over to talk with you. They somewhat awkwardly ask you to go over the pronunciation of the English lines they’ll be recording today; these two must be the ones least comfortable with English. Still, they do well. And as much as you hated that your mom landed you with this ‘job,’ you have to admit that this is actually a worthwhile way to spend your time. It is the kind of experience that would look good while applying for teaching jobs in the future. 

After a fair amount of practice, Lee Know heads to the recording booth, and I.N goes to join a couple of the other guys. You think Han is coming to talk to you, but he just flops over on the couch for a nap. So you’re back to just awkwardly sitting in a room full of dudes that are ignoring you. Great.

As the session goes on, you marvel at the way they work. They work so hard, recording and re-recording again and again until they’re satisfied. You do end up having conversations with most of them, mostly about their album and whichever of them was currently in the booth. Seeing their passion, you start to feel like they might not be as stuck up as you were thinking; they’re just focused and dedicated.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

You dip out after recording; your uncle asked you to come have an early lunch with him. By the time you return to Stray Kids, they’re in a large practice room. Once again, you’re sitting on a couch in the back of the room, just watching them interact, feeling like a piece of the furniture. 

When the music starts, you look up from your phone and… damn. They all can dance really well. Like it’s hard for you to pick out the main dancers at first. 

They’re all lip syncing or singing along quietly as they move through the steps, then Han starts full out singing. You thought most idols struggled to sing when they dance like this; that’s why they play their tracks during their concerts. He sounds phenomenal, though, nearly as good as he did in the recording booth. And he sets off the others, every other line someone sings it out loud, and once again they all do it so well. Maybe you know less about idols than you thought. 

When they finish Chan comes over with a cocky grin on his face. “What did you think?”

With dimples like that and that accent, you know he must be insufferable. Still, he hasn’t given you a reason to be rude. “It was super cool. I didn’t expect to enjoy watching you practice so much. You’re all such great dancers.”

You were too complimentary; you can tell by the way he puffs up. You see the two behind him smile and fistbump, and decide you don’t need to stick around for the douchiness to come out. “Anyway, I’m gonna head out, unless you guys will need me again?”

Chan nods, and with that you’re out the door.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

As the week goes on, you realize you shouldn’t have taken such a hard stance with your parents. They check in every evening, asking about how working with ‘those cute boys’ was and which one you think you might want to go out with so your mom can set it up with JYP. Every day you insist that you’re not at all interested in stuck up idols, and every day you feel like you’re lying more and more. 

You’ve had the opportunity to witness a lot while you’ve been with Stray Kids. They invite you to lunch and to watch practices in your off time, and you’re not going to pass up getting free meals and witnessing the beauty of their movement. With that, you’re around them when they’re not in work mode as well, seeing how kind and conscientious they are. They seem to truly care for the staff around them; they’re constantly doing things for each other and basically everyone else. They start opening up to you; you hear the way they talk about their fans, their families, their staff. And they’re very good to you, too - always treating you, making sure you’re comfortable and have anything you want/need. It turns out that they are truly the nicest guys; and if it’s not genuine, you don’t know what is. 

When you walk into the studio the next morning, you’re pulled into an unexpected hug. Felix gives you that big smile of his. “Good morning! I hope you don’t mind that we’re starting a little early today.” 

You return it readily. “Good morning! Honestly, it’s not too bad. I usually have early classes, so this feels normal.”

You go to sit on the couch and wait to find out exactly what you’ll need to do while you watch the present members. Felix is clearly the biggest morning person; he’s like a little flame, giving sparks to each member he speaks to, and you can see them brightening in his wake. After a few minutes, Chan comes in with Seungmin. He gives you a wave, but goes to sit by Changbin and immediately starts discussing their schedule for the session. Seungmin approaches you instead, handing you an iced latte - he got your order just right.

“Oh thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course, we wanted to thank you for changing things up for us today.” His English accent is so cute, and he’s incredibly attentive. And you love talking with him most. “Channie Hyung asked me to give you the low-down.” 

Like the first day, Chan thought it would be nice to have you talk through pronunciations for Lee Know, I.N, Hyunjin, and Seungmin’s lines while the others are recording. You’re pretty sure that they could get this done without you easily, but you like having this time with them now. They’ve started relaxing a bit, working casual conversation into their time with you.

Even when you’re working with one of the other guys, Seungmin tends to sit with you, both double checking little things and helping you to direct them. His presence is comforting and welcome, often with his arm draped behind you over the back of the couch, occasionally brushing his hand against your shoulder or back.

By Friday, you feel like you have a much better understanding of the guys. You’ve seen their more serious sides and their sillier sides. And their flirty, kinda dirty sides. You’ve gotten glimpses of this over the course of last week, but it’s like the gloves came off today. It’s not even just flirting with each other. All day they all make sure to send quippy innuendos your way and make some kind of unnecessary physical contact with you, and you don’t hate it. You actually kind of love it. 

3Racha go to work in their smaller studio, while you head to a practice room with the rest, and things take a slightly spicier turn. After a few run-throughs of different aspects of the choreography, Lee Know turns to you. “Wanna try it out?”

You’re not much of a dancer, but you figure what the hell, no harm in trying. You try to follow his steps as he counts them out, and even though you’re doing pretty well, Lee Know directs Hyunjin to give you a little extra support. With Hyunjin close behind you, placing light touches on your hips, your arms, your shoulders, it gets harder to focus on what you’re doing. When you’ve gone through the steps, they compliment you on the way you move.

“You could be a little looser in the hips, though. It’ll help all the moves flow more smoothly.” Hyunjin gets behind you again, this time with his front pressed to your back, his hands landing firmly on your hips. He applies slight pressure to encourage you to follow along with the sway of his hips. You nearly shiver when he whispers into your ear, “I like the way your hips move with mine.”

You have a moment like that with each of them. You try not to let it get to your head, but with each touch and insinuation, you’re falling into fantasies with each of them. When they break the group up further for more individual practice, Lee Know takes your hand.

“Come to my practice room for a bit?” He lets go when you take a step after him, giving you a coy smile. When you get into the small room, he indicates that you should take a seat facing him. Then he’s kneeling in front of you so that you’re looking down into his beautiful, brown eyes for once. His hand rests on your knee for balance, rubbing his thumbs back and forth absently. You start to think about what it would be like if he leaned in and his hands moved up your legs… The thought cuts off when he speaks again, an interesting gleam in his eyes. “So I’ll sing once through, if you notice anything you can make a note. Then I’ll sing again and you can stop me when I make a mistake.”

You want nothing more than to sit and listen to him sing for hours on end. His voice is amazing. You grab the pad and pen from the table next to you. “Of course!”

For the next hour or so, Lee Know - Minho, he told you you could call him that - sings for you, and you sing his praises. It is incredible. His voice – he himself – is so beautiful. He very gracefully takes your critiques and works hard to get things perfect. 

The rest of the day is much the same, really just hanging out with the guys and watching them work, sometimes with all eight of them, other times in smaller groups. All of them continue to flirt, making you more and more interested in spending time with them outside of work hours. As you’re heading out for the day, Seungmin catches up with you.

“Would you wanna grab a coffee with me later?”

You try not to smile too big. “That’d be great. Just tell me when and where.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

When you get home, you’re already going over your plan to meet Seungmin at the cafe near his dorm. You’re so immersed in thoughts of him, you nearly run into your mom.

She asks the usual questions and you give the usual answers. 

“Honey, I really do think you should consider letting your uncle set you up with one of those boys. You say you’re not having fun at this internship, but your mood seems up. It might be good for you.”

You can’t believe she was right, but you’re not gonna let her know that. So you lie. “That doesn’t have anything to do with a bunch of idols. I met a girl who works in the cafeteria who’s cool, though. I’m actually meeting her at a cafe in a little bit.”

She’s happy that you’re making friends and leaves you to get ready. You throw on a top that tastefully shows off your cleavage paired with cute, comfy flowy shorts that could probably cover your ass a little better. You feel a little bad going behind her back, but your parents would be insufferable if they learned that you were interested in them. 

When you get to the cafe, Seungmin is waiting outside, two coffees in hand. Unfortunately, you can’t see his smile behind the mask, but he does look good despite it. 

“Hi, thanks! Were you wanting to sit outside?”

His ears look a little pink; you worry that he’s got bad news. “I actually was hoping you’d want to take a walk. Maybe to the dorm to hang out with the guys? It’s completely fine if you don’t.”

You think about it less than you should before agreeing. If you took a moment, you’d think it sounds like a set up for something more. Actually, you might still have agreed. 

He takes your hand and after a short walk you reach the Cuties Dorm, as they call it, but all of the other members are there. When you walk into the living room, you’re greeted by shouts from each of them and what’s become the usual hug from Felix, that literal ball of sunshine. This time his arms linger around you a bit longer as he tells you he’s happy you decided to come.

As you settle on the couch between Seungmin and Hyunjin; the former sits a little closer than necessary, leaning into you, while the latter throws his arm around your shoulders with his hand gently kneading into the nape of Seungmin’s neck. You revel in their closeness. You all hang out for a while together; they tell stories and ask you more about your life back in the states. Like earlier in the day, there’s more flirting and touching than usual, and they’re even less subtle about it. Also like before, you give as good as you get. 

At one point, Hyunjin makes what you think is a joke about how nice it is that you signed a broad NDA when you started at JYPE in case you decide to have “even more fun” with them. You laugh and agree, leaning into him a bit more. Seungmin’s hand lands on your thigh then, fingers lightly caressing your bare skin. You’re not entirely sure if this is going where you think it is, but between their hands and arms on your body and the looks the members shared at your agreement, you’re starting to wonder if it really was a joke. 

“I’m really glad we’re getting to know you more tonight.” Chan watches you, head tilted, contemplative, as he says it. “We’ve all been hoping to get closer to you. We just weren’t sure how open to it you would be.”

Seungmin slides his hand a tiny bit more toward the inside of your thigh and gives you a quick squeeze. You stare at Chan for a moment. He licks his lips, holding your eye contact. Well, fuck it; if I’m wrong, I’ll just refuse to go back to work, you think. “So to be clear… You all are hoping that I’m interested in hooking up?”

 Despite his boldness from just moments before, Chan starts turning into a tomato and looking down at his hands. Not one to mince words, Lee Know takes control of the situation. “Yes. Are you?”

“I mean…” You glance around the room, taking in the varying levels of hope, embarrassment, and desire on their faces. You rest one hand on Seungmin’s and the other on Hyunjin’s leg. “You don’t mean all at once, right? I think I’d need to work up to that.”

The room erupts in laughter and the tension dissipates. You all agree to just let things progress naturally, with the stipulations that they’re all going to actively pursue you now and that relationships won’t go beyond a friends with benefits situation. You assure them that you’re attracted to all of them, not that you felt pressured when Chan said ‘all.’ 

Luckily, once you’ve talked things out, things are as relaxed as before the conversation started. Soon, though, most of the guys announce that they’re leaving. 3Racha need to head back to the studio to work on a track they’d been talking about for the last half hour. Minho and I.N had plans to see a movie tonight, and Felix decides to tag along. On their way out, each of them gives you a hug. Chan’s is only a half hug, but his hand is definitely on your ass. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he just gives you a little squeeze and a pat before heading for the door. Changbin’s hug is so comforting that you wish you could just melt into him. Han is bold enough to kiss your cheek before saying goodbye with a wink. Seeing this, Felix immediately says that he wants a kiss, too. Rather than kissing your cheek like Han, however, his soft lips make contact with yours for just a second. You’re pretty sure your cheeks are on fire as I.N slips in right as Felix releases you. 

“Better make it a full set,” he says as he brushes a quick kiss on the side opposite of Han’s. Minho is last and to your surprise, he keeps his hands off your ass - you would’ve thought if anyone was going to grab it, it would’ve been the resident butt hunter. He does, however, whisper suggestively in your ear before he releases you. “I hope you have a good rest of your night.”

You turn to face the remaining two, the implication in Minho’s words making your head spin. You meet Hyunjin and Seungmin’s eyes in succession, unsure of what your next move should be.

“We’re going to watch a movie, if you wanna stay here with us for a while longer.” Seungmin’s voice is neutral, but you think you can see a touch of hunger in his eyes. “Otherwise, I’m happy to walk you home.”

Hyunjin bites his lip while he waits for your answer. It makes you wish you were the one biting it. “Yeah, a movie sounds nice.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

You make your way to the couch again with Hyunjin, and Seungmin heads to the kitchen to make popcorn and grab other snacks. The two of you sit facing each other, discussing preferred genres and favorite movies. You land on The Greatest Showman for tonight, and Hyunjin’s face lights up with passion as he talks about his favorite dance numbers in film. When Seungmin arrives with the snacks, Hyunjin surprises you by reaching over and pulling you halfway into his lap.

“Sorry,” he giggles, not looking even a little sorry. His hands are lingering on your hips, and you catch yourself looking at his lips again. “Just wanted to make sure Minnie had room to sit.”

“So considerate of you, Jinnie.” Seungmin deadpans as he sets the snacks and drinks on the coffee table. He sits beside you, partially on your cushion, and his hand lands on Hyunjin’s, still on your hip. Your breath hitches when you feel a slight squeeze. Hyunjin releases you then, and you turn to face the tv; they’re both so close to you, you feel your cheeks heating up. But then they’re acting normal again, like they have no clue that now all you can think about is being pressed between them with their hands and mouths exploring your body. You know you just confidently talked about hooking up with them, but you’re a little nervous now.

“I am considerate.” Hyunjin laughs and gestures at the screen. “You love this movie, right? We picked it just for you.”

For the next 20 minutes, it’s just like it was before ‘the talk.’ You're talking a little as you watch the movie. Seungmin has his arm around you this time, and after a few minutes Hyunjin rests his head on your shoulder and takes your hand; his thumb traces small circles on your skin. Seungmin moves so that his hand is on the nape of your neck now; when he presses in a bit with his fingers, you look over at him, and Hyunjin takes the opportunity to make a move. 

Seungmin is smiling as Hyunjin places a kiss just under your jaw and your mouth drops open with a sharp inhale. Hyunjin’s hand drops yours and moves to softly squeeze your thigh as he kisses you again. Seungmin tips your chin up so you look directly into his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so instead you nod and rest your hand on his thigh. He smiles widely and leans in to press his lips to yours. He tries to pull back, but you immediately pull him back, tilting your head for a deeper kiss. Hyunjin continues to leave a trail of kisses on your neck and his hand shifts up to your waist, creeping up slowly. At once, he gives you a gentle bite and his hand cups your breast. You break your kiss with Seungmin with a small gasp. As soon as you turn to face him, Hyunjin captures your lips, his tongue tangling with yours. Seungmin takes over for him on the other side of your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin. Both their hands roam across your body. They’ve barely begun - you hope - but you’re already feeling a little overwhelmed and unsure what to do with your hands.

It’s like Hyunjin reads your mind. He sits back grinning at you with pink, pouty lips shining. Seungmin turns toward you, and throws his arms around your waist to pull you into his lap, turning you to face away from him and keeping his arms wrapped around your middle and resting his chin on your shoulder. Hyunjin finds your hands and asks, “This isn’t too much, is it?”

You bite your lip as you consider how to answer. He’s so beautiful; it’s hard to think of anything besides kissing him again. “It’s kind of a lot… But I don’t want to stop.”

Seungmin begins kissing your neck again, both hands cupping and caressing your breasts.  Hyunjin’s smile widens as he scoots as close to Seungmin as possible, gently moving your legs so they drape over his lap. One hand starts kneading the inside of one of your thighs. He leans in, his other hand comes up - you thought it was going to your face, but he reaches past you to stop Seungmin’s progress on your neck. You feel yourself being pushed forward slightly, feel his obviously hardening cock on your back, as you watch Seungmin bring his face up to meet Hyunjin’s. The second their lips touch, your jaw drops a bit.

When this began, you somehow never even thought about this being a possibility. With how comfortable they are flirting with and touching each other, you feel a little silly for not considering it already. It’s quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. They’re so beautiful together. You catch a glimpse of Hyunjin’s tongue slipping into Seungmin’s mouth at the same time that his hand makes contact with your center, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. You spread your legs a bit to give him easier access, wishing there weren’t two layers of fabric blocking his path. As you move, Seungmin’s hand comes down to hook your outside leg over his, spreading you further. Lips still locked on Hyunjin’s, his hands slide inside your shirt and around to your back; once your bra is unclasped, his hands come back around and under it, pinching and twisting your nipples. 

A small moan escapes your lips and brings Hyunjins attention back to you. Both of their mouths are on you again, and Hyunjin slips his fingers into your panties. You feel like you’re on fire. You simultaneously reach in front of and behind you, wrapping each hand around equally impressive lengths. As you stroke them through their shorts, you elicit two moans in harmony. 

Hyunjin pulls back. “As much as I like this couch, I wonder if we should move somewhere a bit more comfortable, Minnie?”

One of Seungmin’s hands drops down to your waist, the other continues to tease you. “That is an excellent idea, Jinnie. Are you alright with that?”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you now. They move in unison. When one speaks, the other kisses, their hands never stop touching, caressing, taking you closer to what is sure to just be your first climax of many tonight. You nod and capture Seungmin’s lips.

Hyunjin giggles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I know you said this was a lot, so I think we’d prefer a verbal answer.” He pulls at your shirt. “Cause if we move locations, things are definitely going to heat up.”

“I want that.” You nearly gasp. “Please, let’s go. Wherever.”

Hyunjin stands, pulling you up with him. “Seungmin-ah, why don’t you take our gorgeous friend here to your room while I go get a few things.”

“Yes, sir.” Seungmin smiles and salutes before throwing you over his shoulder with a quick slap on your ass. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

Seungmin proceeds to his room, not flinching at the slaps you’ve landed on his cute, little ass in complaint. In no time at all, he’s dropping you onto your back, and before you can even catch your breath, he’s on you. His tongue clashes with yours, one hand grips your hip tightly while the other grips your face and neck with his thumb pressed under your chin. He’s a bit more… forceful than you expected. It’s exciting. You bite his lower lip. 

He smiles against your lips. He brings his hand to the hem of your shirt and starts pulling it up. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes.”

You let him pull your top off and discard your bra. You pull his shirt up as well, ready to see more of him. For a brief moment, you wonder if you should be waiting for Hyunjin, but as soon as his shirt clears his head, he’s on you again - this time bringing his mouth to one nipple to suck, lick, and bite gently. One of his hands slides down into your panties; his fingers thrust into you a few times before spreading your wetness up to your clit. You arch into him with a moan. 

Seungmin starts kissing his way down your body. You whimper when he retracts his hand to pull your shorts and underwear off in one smooth motion. He pauses then to look down at you with a hungry look in his eyes. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re naked in the bed of a man you met less than a week ago. With another on his way to join you. You wonder if you think you make terrible or excellent decisions. You sit up and tug on the waistband of his shorts, and when he slides them off, you lean more toward excellent. He doesn’t give you the chance to touch his nice, thick cock; when you reach for it, he puts a hand on your chest, pushing you onto your back. He settles down between your legs. He kisses a trail from your right knee down your thigh, nipping at you in a few places. When he starts back at the top of your other knee, you let out a whiny “Minnie…”

“So impatient.” He smiles up at you. He doesn’t stop his teasing, but at your small groan, he splays his hand over your stomach, thumb landing on your clit. His lazy circles barely take the edge off. 

“Seungmin, please.” 

He chuckles, but takes pity on you. He gives you a long lick, sucking when he reaches your clit. Your back arches off the bed, and you squeeze your eyes closed with a moan. You’re so preoccupied that you miss the door opening and shutting, only realizing Hyunjin’s in the room when he kisses your forehead. 

“Is my puppy making you feel good? He’s great with his tongue.” Hyunjin giggles when Seungmin sits back, mouth and chin glistening, to ‘mong mong’ at him. 

You reach up for Hyunjin, but he’s already moving closer to Seungmin. He runs his hand down your body, easily sliding three fingers into you while simultaneously leaning over to lick the Seungmin’s lips clean. It is… beyond hot. 

“You taste good,” Hyunjin turns back to you, his fingers pumping in and out, keeping you panting and needy. “And you’re so wet for us, baby. Minnie, I think you should finish what you started so I can have a turn.”

You almost tell him that he can just take his turn now, but Seungmin dives in immediately with renewed vigor. Every swipe of his tongue brings you closer and closer to the edge. You expect Hyunjin to kiss or touch you in some way, but when you can control your trembling body enough to look down at Seungmin, you see that Hyunjin is just behind him. You watch both of Seungmin’s hands reach up to tweak your nipples and realize that Hyunjin has reached under his arm, and his fingers are the ones expertly curling against your g-spot. They’re so in sync. You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as Hyunjin switches hands, so he can stroke Seungmin’s cock using your wetness to smooth his glide. The sight tips you over the edge. Your eyes roll back in your head as you curl in on yourself with a moan. Seungmin keeps up a steady pace allowing you to ride out your orgasm. He disengages with a moan of his own as you come down. 

“That’s a good girl,” Hyunjin purrs. He grips Seungmin by the hair to tip his head back and kiss him passionately before turning back to you to say, “and a good boy. Don’t you think so?”

You let out a sigh and sit up. Your gaze immediately begins tracking the movement of Hyunjin’s hand again. You suck your lower lip between your teeth with a soft groan. At Seungmin’s soft “fuck,” you bring your hand over to rub lazy circles over your clit. Suddenly, Hyunjin draws his hand back. Seungmin whines and your eyes snap up to Hyunjin’s.

“Well, Minnie, if she doesn’t think you did a good job, I’m not sure you should get a reward.” He says it with a devious smile on his face. When Seungmin huffs and turns to try to bite his neck, Hyunjin catches his chin and crashes his lips back to Seungmin’s.

“No, no!” You say a little too loudly, scrambling toward them. “He did such a good job! He was amazing. You were amazing, Minnie.”

Hyunjin giggles and drags Seungmin’s face toward yours. His tongue slides against yours, and your hand picks up where Hyunjin’s left off. One of his hands is back on your chest, the other sliding through your folds again. Hyunjin laughs again, gently pushing both your shoulders to separate you. “Oh well if he was that good, he deserves more than this. Lay on the bed, pup.”

Seungmin pouts a little, squinting his eyes at him as he stands. “Hyunie, I know you like taking charge, but it feels like there’s a little too big of a power imbalance here.”

Hyunjin laughs, pulling his shirt over his head and pushing his shorts to the ground. Like Seungmin, his body is nicely toned, not overly muscular. Beautiful. “Better?”

“Almost.” Seungmin tucks a finger into the waistband of briefs, pulling Hyunjin closer to him. The smile on his face is devastating. “And I think I’ll choose my own reward. Lose these and you sit on the bed.”

Hyunjin presses a quick kiss to Seungmin’s jaw. Then he licks his lips and turns to you. “Help me out?”

You’re enjoying watching them so much, you nearly forgot you’re part of this as well. You free him of his briefs and watch his half-hard cock bounce as he moves to sit with his back against the headboard. Seungmin’s watching as well, his head cocked to the side. He moves behind you, hands resting on your waist. You get a chill when you feel his breath on your neck. He whispers, “I’m going to put on a condom now. While I do, you should get on your knees between Jinnie’s pretty dancer’s legs, ass up and ready for me.”

The second his hands leave you, you’re crawling up to take Hyunjin’s pretty cock into your mouth. Another time you might have teased him, but you’re so hot for him, for them, that you want to get him on your level as soon as possible. You bob your head, tongue swirling around his tip when you come up. With each pass, he stiffens and grows - you soon have to work to fit him in your mouth. You relax your throat and take him further, wrapping a hand around his base, the other resting on his hip. 

“Mmmm,” Hyunjin rumbles, tangling his fingers into your hair with a smile. “Minnie, is this a reward for me or for you?”

You feel Seungmin bring himself into position behind you. He grabs your hips, adjusting them so that you’re just where he wants you. You can hear the smile in his voice as he plunges a couple fingers into you. “I always want to reward you, baby, but I feel like the real winner is between us.”

He lands a playful slap on your ass and you hum in agreement, causing Hyunjin’s grip in your hair to tighten as he lets loose a low groan. You hum again, then pull off with a pop. You grin up at him as you feel Seungmin tap the fat head of his cock against your ass. You tape Hyunjin’s tip into your mouth and suck hard as you continue to pump your fist around his shaft. You feel the pressure of Seungmin pushing into you, his hands grip your hips tightly. He goes slowly, sinking inch by inch filling you up. The pressure feels fantastic. You moan, giving Hyunjin a slight squeeze. Both men jerk their hips in tandem. You pull off Hyunjin with a gag, panting, pushing back against Seungmin as he keeps up steady thrusts.

Hyunjin takes your face in his hands, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m sorry, baby. It felt so good; I couldn’t keep still. If you can’t keep going, I can wait my turn.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m - ahh - I’m okay. Just wasn’t ready.” You press your face into his thigh with another shaky moan. 

Hyunjin laughs. “Seungminnie, are you happy where you are or should we flip her?”

“No,” you pant. “I wanna… I wanna finish.”

Seungmin is hitting you in just the right spot. Each rock of his hips sends you closer to your peak. Hyunjin laughs again. It turns into another groan as you wrap your lips back around his head and suck hard. “Fuck me.”

“I can do that next, if you want, but I might need a breather.” Seungmin grunts out as he increases his pace. His grip on your hips tightens, you’re likely going to end up with bruises. You increase your pace in turn, and Hyunjin’s moans become more frequent. It’s hard to maintain, though. You pull off of Hyunjin with a gasping moan, burying your face in his thigh again. 

“I’ve got this, baby.” Hyunjin takes over for you, jerking himself in tempo with Seungmin’s thrusts, his gaze locked on the snap of Seungmin’s hips. He lets out a drawn out groan. “You’re taking Minnie so well. You have no idea how fucking hot you look right now. Fuck, Min, I think I could come just by watching you; I’m already so close.”

Hyunjin’s other hand is stroking your hair and you look up at him, mouth hanging open barely able to do much more than pant and moan. The tide is rising in you, threatening to wipe you out. 

As he lets go of one of your hips, you feel Seungmin lean against your back. and Hyunjin is leaning forward to meet him. You can barely see their kiss, but you feel how it’s interrupted Seungmin’s rhythm and let out a whimper. His hand drops from Hyunjin’s face into your hair. He pulls it a little less than gently. The new angle allows you a better view of Hyunjin working himself and biting his lip. The space created gives Hyunjin room to take hold of one of your breasts, pinching and pulling, bringing you right back to the edge.  

Seungmin slides his other hand between your legs, and your body starts to convulse. You can’t control any of the sounds coming out of your mouth - a mix of their names, moans, curses. Your climax overwhelms you. As you shake and move with each slam of Seungmin’s hips, but barely hear Hyunjin’s “fuck” as thick spirts of cum land on your chest and face. It spurs you on; you do your best to stick out your tongue, to catch as much as you can. 

Another “fuck” sounds as you feel Seungmin’s hips stutter to a stop. His grip on your hair loosens, and you barely manage to keep yourself from face planting into Hyunjin’s lap. Your body is nearly spent, finally coming down from what may have been the best orgasm you’ve ever had.

Seungmin pulls out and flops down on his side next to you, breathing heavily with a relaxed smile on his face. “You look so pretty with Jinnie all over you.”

He rolls over to grab wet wipes while Hyunjin encourages you to flip over and sit up. After Seungmin cleans you both up, Hyunjin pulls you back to lean against him. You stay like that for a few moments, before dressing and snuggling back up on the couch to watch the rest of the movie. When it’s over, you and Seungmin walk hand in hand out of the dorm, passing Minho and Jeongin on their way in. Minho shoots you a wink and a look that makes you feel like he’s telling you that he’s next… and you can’t wait.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆｡✧･ﾟ

Part II Here

[z-eel]

im bored, so here are the jobs i think the marauders would have if they were just normal ass people pt 1;

part 2 | part 3

James would work for his father in the company he owns. i'm not sure why but i get the feeling that after he graduated school he didn't really know what he wanted to do with his life so income Fleamont Potter (the man he is) and offered his son some low-level job in the company (we only allow an acceptable level of nepotism). he does regular paperwork and he loves making powerpoint presentations. oh and i get the feeling that James is the one who’s standing by the water cooler making small talk with everyone (in all honesty James is the personality hire and he knows that). the funny part about all of this is that James would tell everyone that he's only there until he figures out what he wants to do with his life and no one believes him (his current goal is to become team leader of a project) there are some people who despise James because he's the son of the ceo. like there have been complaints of James not working and stuff and they complain to Fleamont hoping they fire James and Fleamont's just like ok I'll deal with it (he does not in fact deal with it (James always gets his work done and always has lunch with his dad to give him updates on his work)).

Sirius is funny. i dont know how else to explain it but Sirius would be one of those guys who's like a mechanic but doesn't actually have the job of a mechanic. like he says he is, but he's not. and it's not to hate on him or anything because he's actually a really good mechanic, he just doesn't have the 'official qualifications' or whatever. and the only way he even makes money is by inserting himself in other people's conversations. like he'll be at an auto store and someone's having an issue with their car (about some part or another) and they'll talking with the cashier about it (the cashier doesn't know shit about cars, they just work there). in comes Sirius who'll pop into the conversation and give his opinion and offer to solve the issue for like free (because it's an easy fix) and when he goes they're just like 'no let me pay for this' and it's like fifty bucks, a beer and the request to fix a friends car (it's how he met James). and that's how he would make both friends and clients. also, i just know this man smells like brake fluid (the smell gives Remus a headache).

Remus is an odd one because i see him as being like an interpreter or something similar. and when i say interpreter i mean like the ones in the tablet that the doctors drag around when they don't have an interpreter on site. what language, i don't know, your choice really but i can just see him on the tablet, the image is lagging and the audio is cutting off a bit but know he still looks good with a headset. (i also see him as a Mcdonald's employee, but that seemed too basic for him (again the headset)). generally, i feel like Remus would be a polyglot (he was so bored he learned different languages for fun (definitely, knows like french and german)) so he would be translating a lot. in fact, that's how he met Sirius (you know before he was an online interpreter). Remus is also James' chosen interpreter whenever he is to meet with foreign companies (yes James does meet with other companies because although he's technically he's in a low level position he's still son of the ceo and he trust Remus not to fuck him over).

Peter works as either an accountant or works in marketing. i'm more inclined to say he's an accountant because he would mostly be in charge of Sirius 'business' (he's trying to actually open up an auto shop) but at the same time he would be in marketing in the Potter company and have all of the office gossip (he would be working with James and I one hundred percent believe Peter would be James' boss). Peter would be an absolute terror toward James when he first starts (always sending him out on coffee runs for the whole floor with complex orders, and James just takes it in good fun (no James never messes up an order) but he's the first one to help James if he ever feels overwhelmed by the workload. over time though James starts to do better and eventually becomes Peter's boss, and he's only a little annoyed by this but at least James isn't sending him on coffee runs (no, that's the job of the new intern that James can't keep his eyes off of (oh and god forbid Peter asks for coffee, James would chew him out for 'overworking' the intern)), Peter can't wait for that bit of information to spread through the department, he might just tell Fleamont and Euphemia next time he goes for dinner at the Potters.

this is slowly becoming more detailed than i thought it would be... the girls are up next.

[youremyheaven]

Outcaste Nakshatras: The Outsiders (part 3)

Here's part 1 and part 2

The more I study Mleccha nakshatra natives and the art they make, the more I understand how deeply lonely it is to have a Mleccha nak (Bharani, Ashlesha, Vishaka, Shravana) and I really feel for them. To live your whole life feeling misunderstood and othered is so difficult.

The movie Edward Scissorhands is a really good example of the "outcast" trope. The titular character is played by Johnny Depp who has Ashlesha Rising and his love interest is played by Winona Ryder who has Mercury (amatyakaraka) & Venus (atmakaraka) in Vishaka

I find Outcaste nak pairing very interesting because obviously you only feel like you belong/truly feel accepted in the presence of another Outcast.

Sidharth Malhotra, Vishaka Moon is married to Kiara Advani, who has Mercury & Venus (atmakaraka) in Ashlesha (if you have 2 or more planets in the same nak that energy is very concentrated even if its not your big 3)

they're both known for being pretty low-key people which is unusual in Bollywood lmao

Sid is an "outsider" which is what we call non-nepo actors in India. imagine the extent of nepotism in cinema in India that its the exception to be an "outsider"lmao. anyway Sid is pretty reserved and introverted and is known for not fitting in with the Bollywood crowd. Kiara is also kinda like that I guess but idk too much about her personality. They both seem happy together tho

Kareena Kapoor, Shravana Moon is married to Saif Ali Khan, Ashlesha Sun & Shravana Moon

Kareena's parents are famous actors who are separated (her dad was misogynistic and abusive and didn't want women to act) and even tho she's a nepo baby she didn't grow up with the same privileges as others in her famous family. Her elder sister had to drop out of school to support the family by acting as they were raised by a single mom and had fallen on bad times. You can see how the "outcast" themes were present in Kareena's life even though she's a very privileged nepo baby

Saif is also a nepo baby (welcome to bollywood lol) but he married a much older actress when he was 21 and had two kids. they later got divorced and Saif received a ton of bad press for alleged adultery, not getting custody or visitation rights of the kids, not paying child support (the amount was absurdly high tbh) etc he didn't fit in with the other actors of his generation. The media & public went crazy when news of Saif & Kareena getting married came out bc Saif is a divorcee with 2 kids (this stuff is still taboo in India unfortunately) and Kareena is one of the most successful stars of her generation. But they've been married for 10+ yrs and have 2 kids and are as happy as ever.

Even Kareena's longterm ex-boyfriend, Shahid Kapoor was a Mleccha caste nak guy (he has Vishaka Moon)

Expanding on the outcast tropes, Shahid's parents separated when he was young and he saw little of his biological father. He had to work very hard for very long to break into the industry and even now, he's not really given his due as an actor.

Alia Bhatt, Shravana Rising is married to Ranbir Kapoor, Shravana Moon

their marriage seems hella toxic to me ngl BUT they've both had similar childhoods.

Alia & Ranbir are both nepo babies (welcome to bollywood), Alia is like a tier 3 nepo (her father is a notoriously controversial filmmaker) whilst Ranbir is like a tier 1 nepo (he is a 4th generation actor from the biggest film family in India) however both their parents had unhappy marriages, and both of them had abusive fathers. trauma bonding, mayhaps? they're both also extremely close to their mothers as well (Moon dominant people often tend to be)

Its another example of Outcaste naks bonding over their shared experiences/feelings of being the outcast.

all members of Blackpink have an Outcaste nakshatra in their chart that is prominent in some way.

Jisoo- Shravana Moon, Venus in Vishaka (darakaraka), Ketu in Bharani

Rose- Venus conjunct Jupiter (debilitated) in Shravana

Jennie- Vishaka Moon, Mars in Shravana

Lisa- Jupiter in Shravana (debilitated), Swati Moon (Swati is a Shudra nak, which is the lowest caste so the themes are similar to that of outcaste naks)

This is interesting to me because BP is the biggest girl group of all time yet they are also probably disproportionately hated for things they cant even control. they were mismanaged by a shitty ass company with very few comebacks and barely got to display their true calibre as artists and their media interactions, promos, other activities etc were severely controlled and restricted. all of this is to say that despite being the most successful group their actual experiences are far from sunshine and roses. they were treated like outcasts by their company and the industry and fans. they trained for 4-6 years, enduring a brutal and toxic system, worked very hard with what they were given, with 0 creative liberty to come this far im glad theyre pursuing solo careers now and hope to see them thrive<333

the movie Lost in Translation is a good example of two outcasts/lonely people who find comfort in each other

Bill Murray is Shravana Moon and Scarlett Johansson is Vishaka Moon

Sridevi, Ashlesha Sun & Rising and Boney Kapoor, Vishaka Sun & Mercury

So they had a really fcked up marriage that I won't get into but they were both people who felt like outcasts in their lives. Sridevi grew up with a stepfather and was pushed into acting by her mother when she was 3-4 years old (she's like an Indian Judy Garland tbh) who deprived her of formal education and a normal life so that she'd be the family cash cow. Being South Indian, she also found it hard to fit in among Bollywood folks as she initially spoke neither Hindi nor English. Boney's the ugly duckling of his family and his younger brother is one of the most famous/iconic actors ever, he had to become a movie producer since his brothers became actors and his father (who was a movie producer) thought it would be better if he stayed behind the scenes. themes of exclusion and outcast-ness crop up in their lives and in the lives of all the people I mention here.

Lady Bird is a good example of a movie about a female teenage outcast. The titular character is played by Saoirse Ronan, who has Bharani Moon

Recently I came across the content creator, Alana Lintao who often makes shorts about social behaviour. This one in particular stood out to me because its literally about one person being excluded by a group of friends or being treated like "the other".

Alana plays the excluded friend in this short as well. She has Bharani Sun, Swati Moon and Mercury in Revati amatyakaraka (Swati & Revati are both Shudra naks)

Outcaste naks are vilified and crucified for mistakes others get away with.

Janet Jackson, Vishaka Rising & Ketu

Janet's career took a hit and her life took a tumultuous turn after the Superbowl incident. She did not deserve all the vitriol she received then especially considering how so many others get away with wayyy worse

Jennie, Vishaka Moon gets hated on for absolutely nothing

Lana Del Rey, Ashlesha Moon, Vishaka Rising (&stellium)

Lana does say dumb things from time to time but she gets soooo much unnecessary hate

I have noticed how Outcaste nakshatras often tend to have really difficult childhood experiences

Jeanette McCurdy- Ardra sun, Bharani Moon & Pushya Rising

Jeanette opens up about her abusive mother and terrible childhood in her memoir. I mention her other placements as well because I've noticed that both Ardra & Pushya natives also experience abuse in their early lives

Britney Spears, Shravana Moon

she has endured so much abuse from so many people including her family. i wish her peace.

Wheein, Vishaka Moon grew up with a single mother and later after she made her debut her estranged father tried to borrow money from people under her name?? there was a minor scandal about it many years ago. She also grew up quite lower middle class if not poor.

David Bowie, Shravana Rising

Bowie once said, "“It wasn’t a particularly happy childhood, my parents were cold emotionally. There weren’t many hugs. I always craved affection because of that.”

Cole & Dylan Sprouse, Ashlesha Sun

Speaking on the Call Her Daddy podcast, he explained that their mother's issues with mental health and addiction contributed to her being "financially the most irresponsible woman ever." He said that when their dad was given forced custody when the boys were 10, their mom had already spent everything they'd earned from their early acting jobs. Though their dad wanted them to be "normal kids," he ultimately decided that the boys' acting careers were a financial necessity.

Ariel Winter, Shravana Sun

Ariel Winter has spoken out about how acting wasn't her choice, but it was her mother's. Ariel shared that her mother, Crystal Workman, had dreams of being an actor herself. Ariel said that with Crystal as her stage mom, she dealt with a lot of abuse and exploitation.

Once Ariel's acting career began, she said her mom put her on a strict diet and neglected her education. Her mother also had her dress in outfits that sexualized her. Ariel claimed her mom put her in “the smallest miniskirts, sailor suits, low-cut things, the shortest dresses you’ve ever seen. People thought I was 24 when I was 12. If there was going to be a nude scene when I was that age, my mother would have a thousand percent said yes.”

Now Bollywood is an industry run by film dynasties, its very rare for someone from the outside to break in and make it big. Being an "Outsider" is very difficult, people bully you, try to sabotage your career, try to isolate you etc etc, needless to say its not for the faint of heart. So lets take a look at some of the most successful "Outsiders" in Bollywood who made it big without any family in the business

ofc we have to start with the most successful outsider of all time, Shahrukh Khan, Shravana Moon

he truly came from nothing (father died when he was a teenager, mother died before he made his debut, has a sister with special needs who he has taken care of his entire life) and became the biggest star in the world.

Akshay Kumar, Vishaka Moon, he was a martial artist, chef, waiter and worked numerous odd jobs before he started modelling in his late 20s and later started acting and today he has a net worth of $340 million

Anushka Sharma, Bharani Sun

her life is truly a case of being lucky af, she was a model and by the age of 19-20 she was cast in a film opposite Shahrukh Khan aka the biggest actor in the country produced by YRF, one of the biggest film production companies in India. its truly a fairy tale because neither can Anushka act nor is she gifted in any other way (bad dancer, heck she was even an awful model) but she's incredibly successful in every way and is now married to the (former) Captain of the Indian cricket team

Deepika Padukone, Shravana Rising

she is from a privileged background (her dad's a renowned badminton player) but she worked very very hard to get where she is today and has had more career longevity than just about any other actress.

Bipasha Basu & John Abraham, Bharani Moon

they were both a hot couple who were really popular in the 2000s

there are many other successful Outsiders but they don't have outcaste naks lol, these are the only ones i can think of rn :/

i hope this post was informative<33

[pandebunuelo]

what do you think adult versions of Chara and Clover would look like?

truthfully, anon, i had never given too much thought to it, so that's why i went on a whole mental rabbit hole about it

(cocoapowder hc infodump under cut)

first of all: chara!

i believe they rather prefer long hair bc they can have more control over it. chara stylizes it most of the time, but tends to default in this braided-bun (?) that stays pretty strong for most of the day. i also do think it's sort of comforting for them to have some sort of ritual when they wash it, it takes their mind off stuff. they do Not anybody touch it unless you're family (and a certain cowboy 👀👀)

as for their outfit, im blatantly copying another hc? au? design from back in the day (i for the life of me could not remember nor find it) in which chara became the new caretaker of the ruins (?). as for my personal hc, they're just asriel's right hand/main advisor who casually also has to take in the royal guard's reports...

and so, clover!

also long hair, but this time it's for the fun of it. clover's last priority is their personal appearance (much to chara's chagrin) and so they just. let it grow. and never bothered to cut it. their hair was a mess and once clover tried to cut it (goes wrong). after That chara taught them how to braid their hair, so they go around with a loose braid

Yes. They are wearing a poncho. when clover outgrew their og outfit starlo gifted them some of their old stuff. people throw jokes about how martlet and starlo should fight over their custody. clover loves dem layers so they wear a shirt and a long sleeved shirt (good to avoid sunburnt!). good ol' jeans and now they use their old scarf as an accessory in their belt c:

clover is part of the royal guard, of course! nothing good ol' nepotism from martlet's side could not fix (+ they're charming but they're also skilled in combat stop giggling, asriel.) clover's still a newbie so they just do v small rounds in the wild east and get everybody's report to deliver to asriel's right hand. clover heard they were quite close off but chara has been pretty nice to them so far?

[thisblogdoesnotexisg]

MAJOR SILVERBORN SPOILERS NOT KIDDING IT SPOILS EVERY SINGLE CHAPTER

silverborn chapter by chapter review 

1: did she seriously kill off Hawthorne i swear to god

2: oh cool hallowmas wait what was that last thing

3: mean dead people

4: dogs scare away mean dead people? sure whatever i guess--

oh! uhm! was that necessary!

5: mkay guess we're ignoring that cute treehouse anah is silly morrigan is having an existential crisis (is anyone keeping tally) yeah alright that was a nice relief from the jump scares oh hey ezra what are you doing here

6: squall's a meanie head and morrigan's katara and what is a ghast doing here

7: morrigan scared some drunk teenagers and then forgot everything

8: holliday they're like 13 chill 

9: holliday chill the sequel featuring miss cheery and morrigan's got nepotism on her side

10: dame chanda wasnt kidding when she said morrigan darling huh, is the silver district just the capital from hunger games or?

11: i mean ezra has a point there? also nyooooom

12: oof ouch i have to admit holliday's right too? bad days all round... OH I HAVE TO DISAGREE WITH JUPITER???? KILL ME NOW

13: cadence ur so real 

14: modestine I would die for u

15: wdym safe with the others?? oh hey gay people and also boats

16: how many times is morrigan gonna get kidnapped in this book

17: why's megaphone guy here oh look the groom's cheating and oh look now he's dead 

18: eddie and jem are gay right this isn't just me

19: yayyy more 919 stuff did cadence just use the word sus also why are you keeping count of your books no one does that

20: francis' dog's name is asparagus hawethorn's dad is funnier than me, baby Dave is a menace, and Ezra has a special interest in glass now i guess

21: hawthorne having a nervous breakdown 

22: anah is harassed via books,  morrigan develops more PTSD , Jupiter is still MIA from like 10 chapters ago?? margot is still an angel, probably evil tho

23: cadence gone feral, hawthorne knows a lot about dragon politics, cadence and morrigan both think dolphins are suspect apparently 

24: neither Jupiter nor cadence sleep, what's witchcon can i come too, Jupiter and morrigan are still mad at each other

25: mordence nation how we feeling?

26: morrigan shows off while cadence continues scavenging, octopus armchair makes friends everywhere, why does jupiter sound like squall i dont like this

27: octopus armchair i love you, no more nicknames ig, everything is sentient i love this

28: morrigan stop no go back to wunsoc

29: stop using the word suss morrigan oh hey squall 

30: since when did you not want to traumatize morrigan, squall? meredith is not very creative with bad mouthing

31: oh hey the twins are back and they know how to teleport, hey let's not get jumped by the giant fish

32: conall and danny nooo😭😭😭😭

33: is hawthorne gonna ride alights because it REALLY seems like it

34: lam is the best to nobody's surprise

35: the world does not have room for TWO jupiters wait what jack that's a bad idea (morrijack nation how we feeling)

36: this is physically painful to read morrigan

37: wine and women and wonderful vices🎶 also let vesta talk

38: noelle that's kind of creepy

39: wow aunt margot is mean who could have possibly predicted this

40: squall's will is wearing down

41: wow aunt margot is mean who could have possibly predicted this part two

42: i feel like this is the opposite of deadnaming, also was lady darling writing those books or

43: how many crimes has morrigan committed in this book someone keep tally

44: wow the darling family is mean who could have possibly predicted this (part three) and also YAY JUPITER

45: morrigan now really hates glass

46: OCTAVIA'S BACK BABEY oh and one uncle added to inventory wait what was that last thing

47: cake interception 

48: told you you should have listened to vesta 

49: isn't this what hawthorne wanted but with extra steps or

50: ok wednesday addams call down

51: this is a bit dramatic now

52: morrigan it's a giant squid you can let it die

53: guiltghast is back, oh hey it ate the murderer and also the forgers and also the petty thieves and al

54 what's up squall oh okay we're time traveling now

55 this is a bit dramatic part two but it actually works

56: lots of redemption arcs (kind of) can we get more noelle action in the next book also justice for gigi bc what was that????

57: AWWWWWWW YAYYYY FOUND FAMILLYYYYYUY

[bethanydelleman]

How would you feel for modernizing S&S about gender bending Edward (Edwina?)? So his her and Lucy’s relationship is a secret because Mother wouldn’t approve. Lucy claims she’s a lesbian but really she’s bi and makes Mrs F think she’s “cured” by meeting Robert. And Mrs F can initially evenly split her money then disinherit Ed and it all goes to Robert.

This would also require making Elinor gay and add an extra interesting component to Elinor and Lucy’s interactions.

Okay, this has been suggested. Edward's relationship with Lucy is very strange and does not translate no matter how much I think about it so let me lay it out clearly:

Edward is secretly engaged to Lucy. Hiding an engagement from parents is run of the mill, but not being able to tell Elinor, a woman you love? That's not normal. If he doesn't trust Elinor enough to tell her, that ain't love

Edward is trapped in his engagement by honour. But why in the world would a modern person be trapped? Unless Lucy is doing some very messed up stuff (threatening to kill herself if he leaves her), there is no reason for him to fall out of love and stay. Remember, he was out of love before he met Elinor. And Lucy doing something like that really changes the dynamic for me

Lucy is holding on so tightly to Edward because it's her only chance at entering the gentry. Lucy cannot just get a job and nothing she could do as work would get her close to the wealth of Edward/Robert, but it's also very much about class security. So how do you translate that to modern times without just making her a lazy gold digger? (This is also a problem with modernizing P&P btw)

There is also the part where Edward is forced to be jobless because without family support, he can't really do anything. The gentry professions relied so heavily on nepotism that even if Edward went into the church, he'd end up without enough money to support himself. That dynamic also doesn't really apply to modern times

So yeah, this is why I can't do a modern Sense & Sensibility. I'm open to suggestions but this one doesn't fulfill the criteria for me.

[ratconnoisseur]

my turn to make a Think Tank headcanon list

because i have several thoughts i have accrued and they should be released into the world like a bird or perhaps a cazador....

they're all under the cut

i'll go left to right

everyone has autism btw

DALA

- age at tank: 35

- skipped forward several grades in school. got started at college ludicrously early. gotta have time for all those phds

- han chinese, youngest of 3 sisters. sort of an outlier in the family, not really as effeminate as her sisters, but extremely smart.

- has always collected teddy bears. they do NOT play about beanie babies

- i feel like she'd be from california originally

- had pcos as a human, enjoys being a tank due to lessened pain, but still misses the other stuff. eating. blinking. intercourse...

- she/they, definitely. very experimental about gender and such. dresses how she pleases. slings a mean strap

- very sociable, probably the most out of the tank, rivaled by mobius. went outside of big MT/higgs the most, until that was no longer an option.

- not very animated. doesnt move a lot, doesnt blink a lot. very enthusiastic abt things she likes, but her intensity is very still....not a lot of moving around. it doesnt rly occur to her that she "should" move. takes things at her own pace. stares.

- liked traveling, couldn't do it often.

- the other execs rarely ever viewed her as a "woman," really...and that suited her fine. she/they, you know. but she was never one to just disregard an ignorant comment whenever one would come their way.

- was treated quite well by their fellow execs, really. any mistreatment was from other employees or board members and was swiftly dealt with, either by virtue of her variety of achievements and accolades, or the respect of her colleagues, or....you know. one or two pockets of highly allergenic mold spores found under the offending party's desk. academia is a jungle and brother sometimes you gotta bring out the neurotoxins

0

- age at tank: 31. the youngest of the tank.

- i feel like he's a white latino for some reason but i don't know why

- only child. raised by his mom, i feel like his dad was absent a lot, but he's a real momma's boy. was told he was more special than other people as a child and never forgot it

- one year borous's junior. he went to a different school district until high school

- he had friends as a kid but nobody close. kind of in the background, not really popular but not an outcast. midcard classmate

- has hated mr. house since forever. would rant and plot and collect information about him just to hate on him more. sometimes, as a form of entertainment, other think tank members will ask him "oh, did you hear about what robco-" and yes he DID hear about robco and he will rant passionately about it for the next few hours

- has that kind of autism thats like....almost overly sarcastic. its sooo close to being normie speech but he just gets the little stuff wrong, hes too sassy abt it, just slightly too exaggerated..."this is how normal people talk, right?"

KLEIN

- age at tank: 59

- polish heritage, definitely

- also from california.

- i feel like he'd come from a military family, something with government connections. a very serious environment. i feel like he'd have gotten his position at big MT through some form of nepotism. that's not to say that he's incompetent, i'm sure he was perfectly competent at logistics and idea-ology.

- he worked his way up to head researcher through hard work and a pushy personality that resonated with the board of director's political leanings

- gaaaaaaaayyyyy but so deep in the closet he's found narnia

- abrasive, better people skills when tipsy. he and mobius had a good cop/bad cop sort of thing when talking to investors. he always saw himself as the good cop

- old man autism type A. hes just bitter and repressed abt everything. seems the most "normal" at first glance. kinda hates himself and thinks way too highly of himself at the same time. when u talk to him a little more that social weirdness starts leaking through the cracks...but one might not notice it if theyre not looking for it. hed be just a little weird to them, and they wouldnt know why. inverse of mobius.

8

-age at tank: 44

- mormon. older sibling out of many siblings. big family.

- from utah, kind of closer to colorado and wyoming. raised in a rural area. probably developed his interest in radio signals due to the relative isolation

- professional erotic arts connoisseur. oh baby

- strangely high charisma. normally he might come off as unsociable or even slightly creepy, but when he turns on the charm, it's hard to resist. not even other tank members know how he does it. it's not an invention or anything, either, he can just naturally set people at ease. but he doesn't often have a need for it, so it's rare he utilizes it.

- they call him doctor 8 inches

- big audiophile. pretty much canon but i can see him REALLY being a stickler about sound systems. if he had a car it'd be ridiculously tricked out. a home theater constructed by him would go hard. post-tank he'd probably work with movie theaters around new vegas to help with their sound...probably created synthesizers

- would go antiquing for rare records, tapes, what have you

- quiet autism. just kind of a mild guy. he likes what he likes and dedicates his time to that. when one goes out of their way to engage w him on his level he will reciprocate

BOROUS

*cracks knuckles*

- age at tank: 32. looks older than he is.

- ukrainian heritage, mother's side. father worked for the government.

- one year 0's senior. 0 was his only friend throughout high school.

- while betsy and richie were his primary bullies, he'd get bullied by a lot of other kids. with how uptight and zealous he was, he was an easy target.

- gabe was a gift, the only nice thing his father ever did for him. one day his parents came home with a dog from the shelter, said "this is gabe, he's your responsibility now"

- without borous around gabe was severely neglected. borous would go to a science camp for a few days, come back, gabe would have barely been fed, dehydrated, etc. gabe was the most important responsibility in borous's life.

- adding to that, he would absolutely sic gabe on small woodland creatures. tearing apart roadrunners and squirrels and especially any invasive species

- borous would definitely have kept animal parts in jars. periodically his parents would find them. his mom would throw them away, his dad would beat him and then throw them away. he always found ways to replenish them though. had a library of different animal parts in big MT, just not kept in his house. he'd often harvest new entries to the library in his basement, though. the grind never stops

- we're getting a little dark here but i think he'd work with the local wildlife services to hunt down and kill stray/feral cats. i feel like his passion for biology and ecology and his disposition would bring him to this conclusion. cats are an invasive species to the mojave, they disrupt the balance of the ecosystem, much like COMMIES invade our DEMOCRACY...they should be hunted down and killed and he funded part of his college this way. selling cat intestines to string instrument makers and such. that's my guy!!!!

- THEATRICAL autism. learned human interaction from movies. big, broad movements. theres a theater kid in there somewhere

- liked the narrators of movies, especially sci-fi shows and movies, because they were omniscient. far away from conflict, knowing everything, confident and essential, and nobody could beat them up or give them wedgies. modeled his speech patterns after them because of this.

- had sizable comic book collection

- i have a lot more but i want this list to have a semblance of balance lol. my special guy

MOBIUS

- age at tank: 59

- italian heritage. raised catholic, has the healthiest relationship to religion out of the tank

- pennsylvanian because i said so. would send letters to his mother from time to time.

- bisexual absolutely. very free-spirited, klein would call him a hippie on occasion.

- also like hippies, very experimental with substances. knows just how much of a dose to take of anything for every occasion.

- the most well-adjusted out of the tank. the good cop in his and klein's good cop/bad cop routine

- his morals, instead of deteriorating over time, only grew stronger. i imagine he was slightly more ignorant of ethics at the beginning of his employment, then sort of became more aware as time went on...culminating in his brain-zapping of everyone.

- not to say he wasn't dubious! he's quite dubious. you don't invent roboscorpions without being dubious

- old man autism type B. just a quirky guy. quirkiness is immediately noticed, but he doesnt rly hate himself for it so its just a part of his charm. odd guy. however, he almost seems the most "normal" past that. he is who he is and he accepts this. inverse of klein

GENERAL

- shortest to tallest: dala<mobius<klein=0<borous<8

- as time went on, they all grew closer. they became a sort of scientific hydra, at their most cooperative. company trips, they'd all go together. they were all neighbors in higgs, they were subject to a lot of gossip amongst the employees

- mostly isolated from the broader employee population, out of touch from their needs. made them perfect candidates for becoming tanks.

- becoming tanks wasn't completely their decision, it was mostly up to the shareholders, to keep the innovation (profits) flowing even after the world ended. it's not like they had anywhere else to go, anyway. keep making us money! get in the tank shinji

- i feel like they became tanks shortly after the great war...then employees either, fled the facility or died...i bet a few of them joined the enclave

- if you disabled their weapons, and took them far away from big MT....i don't think they'd be that dangerous. they'd need supervising, of course, but really...i think they'd be okay. i don't think they'd cause another apocalypse scenario without their laboratory. especially not with proper guidance about what the world is like now. they probably didn't have a good idea of what it was like even before they became tanks...i think they deserve to learn how to be human again. beats sitting in a crater for the rest of time

anyway those are my thoughts LOL you can kind of see some of these reflected in the fics ive written....mmm if i think of any more ill add them later yesh......