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lefteagleblizzard · 2 days ago

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𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢 Until Dawn males x male reader

Summary: Four standalone scenarios featuring each of the men from Until Dawn showing their protective side when you find yourself in danger. Each scenario exists in its own self-contained world, unconnected to the others.

Tags: He/Him pronouns used for the reader. Fluff and angst. Mike Munroe x male reader; Matt Taylor x male reader; Josh Washington x male reader; Chris Hartley x male reader. Set during the events of the game between chapter 5 and 6. All of these are separated and not connected. Established relationships. Kidnapping in Josh's scenario. Matt and Emily broke-up before the events of the game. Mike and Jess are not together in this.

This is a continuation of 𝒫𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔯𝔢𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 but you can also read this as a standalone without problems. There are 4 totems in each scenario. Just like how it happens in game, the characters don’t have reactions to the totems. The visions are something that could happen in an unknown future and something that I maybe could do as another fic, let me know <3.

Words counts: 9000 words (around 2000 for each character)

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

ℳ𝒾𝓀ℯ ℳ𝓊𝓃𝓇ℴℯ

The sanatorium was deathly silent, save for the faint whistle of the wind sneaking through the cracks in the old, decrepit building. You huddled against the cold, your arms tightly wrapped around your torso as you tried, and failed, to stave off the biting chill that seemed to seep into your very bones. The room you were trapped in was small, suffocating even, with bars that reeked of rust and neglect enclosing you. The scent of mildew and decay filled the air, thick and oppressive.

This stranger brought you here with no explanation other than pointing the flamethrower he had at you and, when he shoved you inside this godforsaken room, he muttered only one thing.

"Wait here for dawn. Don't move."

And then he was gone, the gray and white wolf slipping through the shadows after him. No explanation. No reason. Just the sound of his boots echoing down the massive, empty hall until you were alone.

Completely alone.

Your eyes scanned the room for the hundredth time, looking for anything that could help. The cracked wall in the ceiling caught your attention again, but it was far too high to reach. The room was barren, offering no tools or furniture to elevate yourself.

Steeling yourself, you backed up a few steps as you prepared for what you were about to do. The cold had made your muscles stiff and every movement felt labored, but you ignored the discomfort. With a deep breath, you lunged forward, raising your foot and slamming it into the door with all the strength you could muster.

Pain shot up your leg, sharp and immediate, but you grit your teeth and pushed through it, slamming your foot against the door again. And again. And again.

You clenched your teeth, the desperation growing with every strike as the door barely budged, the rusty metal mocking your efforts as it groaned but held firm.

The pain in your foot was unbearable now, a throbbing ache that made it hard to stand. You stumbled back, gasping for breath as you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the ground.

"Fuck," you muttered, your head falling into your hands. The frustration and helplessness threatened to overwhelm you, a heavy weight settling in your chest. You felt like screaming, like punching the walls until your knuckles bled, but what good would it do?

Your breath came out in shaky puffs, visible in the icy air as you tried to calm yourself. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to conserve what little warmth you had left, but it felt futile.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against the wall as a shiver wracked your body.

Then, suddenly, the silence shattered.

A door somewhere in the hall creaked loudly before slamming open. Your head snapping up just in time to see a familiar figure illuminated faintly by the flickering glow of a lighter.

"Mike…" you breathed, your voice a soft whisper of disbelief.

It was him, no doubt about it. Even through the haze of dim light and your own tired mind. He was wearing the same white tank top he had been wearing earlier when the two of you had been curled up by the fire inside that small chalet, his warmth pressed against you. The fabric was dirty now, smeared with streaks of grime and small tears.

His arms were streaked with faint cuts, some fresh and red, others just beginning to clot. His face looked just as battered with dirt smeared across his jaw and forehead, tiny scratches marking his skin like a map.

You pushed yourself off the floor quickly, stumbling slightly as you moved toward the bars, your hands gripping the cold iron as you pressed yourself against them. The rusted smell overwhelmed you, but it didn't matter.

"Mike!" you called out louder now, your voice breaking with a mix of relief and desperation. "Mike, I'm here!"

His head snapped toward the sound of your voice, his lighter flickering wildly in the motion before he stuffed it into his pocket. His eyes widened when they landed on you, his whole body seeming to tense for a moment before he ran and crashed against the bars, pressing himself as close to you as they would allow, his body warm and solid as he hugged you tightly through the narrow gaps.

Both of his arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you as close as he could. He buried his face against the curve of your neck, his breaths ragged and warm against your skin as his grip tightened.

"God, you're okay," he muttered, voice low and raw.

Your chest ached at the sound of it, the vulnerability in his tone breaking through that cocky bravado he so often wore.

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you firmly against him as his breath ghosted over your lips until he closed the distance, his lips crashing into yours with fervor.

You could taste the faint tang of salt and copper, his hand slid up your back, fingers pressing firmly against the curve of your spine as he held you close.

You kissed him back with equal intensity, your hands slipping up to his shoulders before one tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer. A low sound rumbled from his chest, almost a growl, as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand moved from your waist, his fingers brushing against your jaw to tilt your face upward, deepening the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving and his eyes were heavy with unspoken emotion.

You lifted your arms shakily, reaching through the bars to pull him closer—only to freeze when your eyes caught sight of his left hand.

“Mike,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you stared at the poorly wrapped bandage that covered his fingers—or rather, where his fingers should have been. The fabric was soaked through with blood, painted a deep crimson. “What happened to your hand?”

He pulled back slightly, following your gaze to his injured hand. For a moment, his expression faltered, the pain flickering briefly across his face before he shook it off with a forced crooked grin.

“Ah, this?” he said, holding up his mangled hand like it was no big deal. “I got into a little argument with a bear trap. You can see how it ended.”

Your eyes widened in horror, but before you could speak, he leaned in closer, his tone softening as he continued talking. “Relax, though. The important stuff’s still intact.” He wiggled his remaining fingers with a mock flourish, then added with a wink, “Still got enough left to hold you, so we’re good, right?”

You let out a shaky breath, your concern still sharp but momentarily softened by his attempt to lighten the mood.

His hands left your waist only to grip the door tightly, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal as he yanked at it with all his strength.

"Come on, you piece of shit—“ Mike grunted, his teeth gritted as he pulled harder. The door groaned under his effort but barely budged.

"Mike—Mike, stop," you interrupted, stepping back slightly. He paused to look at you, panting, his face red and streaked with sweat.

"It opens from this side," you explained quickly. "I already tried everything." Your foot throbbing faintly as you remembered your earlier attempts.

Mike swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair as his gaze flicked upward, scanning the room until they focused on the big crack in the ceiling above you.

"Stay put, babe. Don't go anywhere," he said suddenly, his voice taking on a teasing tone as he stepped back.

You scoffed lightly despite yourself, your lips twitching into a faint smile.

He grinned, that familiar cocky smirk lighting up his face even through the dirt and exhaustion as he turned and jogged toward the far side of the hall, where a set of stairs led to an upper level of the sanatorium.

Seconds later, there was a loud grunt, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. You looked up just in time to see him drop through the crack in the ceiling, landing with a thud a few feet away. He winced slightly but straightened almost immediately, his gaze locking onto yours as he crossed the room in just a few strides.

Bug and warm arms were around you again, pulling you tightly against him. His face pressed against your shoulder for a moment before he leaned back, just enough to look at you properly.

"I saw you," he murmured softly, his voice rough and low near your ear. "I saw that guy dragging you up here, and I just—" His hands tighten slightly on your waist as if grounding himself. "I ran through the woods like a goddamn lunatic trying to find you…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

"If I see that man again, he's dead. I mean it."

Your heart squeezed painfully at his words. You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against his cheek. The dirt on his skin smeared slightly under your touch and you gave him a small, teasing smile. "You really ran all the way here? In the snow? With barely anything on?"

Mike’s lips curved into a faint smirk, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. “What, you think I was gonna just chill out? Cardio’s not optional when you’re trying to save someone’s ass.” His voice was light, but there was a raw intensity in his gaze, betraying just how far he’d go for you.

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his cheek to wipe away some of the dirt smudged there.

"Let’s get out of here," you said quietly, your voice laced with affection and determination.

Mike huffed out a laugh, his breath warm against your face as he leaned in closer.

"Absolutely." He muttered, his tone softer now.

The sound of boots against rusted metal reverberated in the room as you and Mike took turns slamming your feet into the stubborn door. Each kick sent vibrations up your leg, the pain from earlier attempts flaring with every impact.

Finally, the door gave way with a metallic shriek. The rusted frame buckled and the door collapsed onto the ground with a loud clang.

Mike was on you immediately, one arm looping around your waist as he pulled you close. "Stay with me," he murmured, his voice low but firm. He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and reassuring, before taking your hand in his and guiding you forward.

The air outside the room was colder due to the numerous cracks on the walls. The oppressive silence was punctuated only by the faint drip of water leaking from unseen cracks and the groaning protests of the building's ancient infrastructure.

"I’ll take you from where I entered," Mike said over his shoulder, his voice tight as his eyes darted around.

You nodded, following him closely, though every creak of the floor beneath your steps and every distant rustle made your pulse quicken. Peeling paint flaked off the walls like dead skin, revealing rotted wood and rusting steel beneath. The windows were long shattered and the air smelled damp, heavy with mold.

As you made your way through the main hall, a screech pierced the silence. It was distant, echoing from somewhere deeper in the building, but its inhuman quality made your blood run cold.

Mike stopped immediately, his body stiffening. "You heard that too, right?" he whispered, turning his head slightly. He didn't wait for your answer. His grip on your hand tightened briefly before he let go and stepped forward, scanning the room ahead. "Stay here," he said firmly. "I'll check it out."

You were about to protest but he was already pushing open the door to an adjoining room. The door groaned on its hinges before it closed behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway.

Your heart pounded as you strained to hear over the faint whistle of the wind. Something on the floor caught your eye.

Half-buried beneath a pile of debris lay a carved object, its strange shape just visible through the dust and rubble.

You crouched down, hesitating for only a moment before brushing aside the grime and pulling the object free. It was heavier than it looked, the weight solid and cold in your hand. Smooth in some places, splintered in others, as though time itself had tried to erase its details.

The moment you turned it over, the air thickened, the walls around you darkening until they melted away.

You and Mike were running through the hallway. Your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps as you limped, struggling to keep pace with him.

Mike reached a heavy metallic door, yanking it open with all his strength. his free hand reaching for you as he shouted, waving you forward urgently.

You stumbled inside, your entire body burning with exhaustion. Mike instantly slammed the door shut behind you with a loud, reverberating clang.

And then a grotesque hand, twisted and unnaturally sharp, shot through the broken window of the door before it could fully seal. You barely registered the flash of movement before it swiped across your throat in a sickening arc.

A warm, wet sensation spread down your neck and Mike's face twisted from relief to raw, primal horror.

Your body buckled, falling forward and getting caught in his arms.

"No, no, no, no—“ His voice cracked, the desperation was painful to hear. Blood poured over his hands as he pressed one against your neck, his fingers trembling as he tried to stop it. Tears streaked through the dirt and grime on his face as he shook you gently, his breaths ragged and breaking.

𝒟ℯ𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

The sanatorium was like a maze of nightmares. You and Mike moved quickly but cautiously, your footsteps echoing faintly as you descended the stairs to reach the back of the place from where Mike had entered. The lighter flickered in his hand, casting faint, jumping shadows across the walls.

"Almost there," Mike whispered, glancing back at you. His free hand hovered near yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips. "Just keep close to me, alright?"

You nodded, your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes darted warily around the darkened corners. Something about it felt wrong, as if you were being watched.

Mike was ahead of you, lighter held high, his head snapping from side to side as he checked the place carefully. His entire body was tense, every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble.

You gripped the railing tightly as you took another step, the cold seeping into your fingertips.

A low growl echoed from somewhere close, so sudden and guttural that it made your heart slam into your ribs.

A flash of gray shot out of a hidden passage beside the staircase. The gray wolf that had been with the flamethrower man snarled as it lunged, teeth sinking into your leg, forcing a strangled gasp from your throat as you stumbled backward. The wolf growled, its grip unyielding as it threatened to pull you to the ground.

The bite burned, sharp and immediate as blood quickly began soaking into the fabric of your pants. You tried to shake the wolf off, its teeth locked in like a vice.

"Hey!” Mike's voice roared through the space, cutting through your pain. His footsteps thundered as he ran back toward you.

"Get off him!"

Mike kicked at the wolf's side with all his strength, the impact making the creature stumble back with a growl. The wolf snarled, baring its teeth at Mike. He positioned himself between you and the animal, holding out an arm to keep you behind him as he shouted again and raised his arms to look threatening to the wolf.

"Go on! Get outta here!"

The wolf hesitated, growling lowly, its ears pinned flat against its head. But it soon turned and bolted back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Mike immediately turned to you, his face pale with worry. "You okay?"

You groaned, trying to stand upright as you grabbed at the stair railing for balance. "It's not that bad."

Mike crouched down slightly, his hands gripping your arms tightly as his gaze dropped to your leg. His lips thinned when he saw the blood seeping through your pant leg. He glared up at you, his face taut with frustration. “Not that bad? Jesus, you're bleeding."

He grabbed your hand to haul you up. "Come on, we've gotta move.”

You struggled to stand, your leg barely able to bear your weight. Mike tightened his grip on you instantly, keeping you upright. "Lean on me," he said, his voice softer now but no less firm.

Each step was agony, but Mike was relentless, his arm never wavering as he practically dragged you down the hall.

The distant growls echoed behind you, they were becoming closer the longer time went by. Was it still the wolf? How could it move so fast and loudly at the same time? You wanted to take a look behind you but it was impossible to do without slowing down Mike in the process.

"Screw this," he muttered under his breath. Before you could protest, he turned and scooped you up into his arms, holding you bridal style like it was nothing.

"Mike—"

"Don't even start," he interrupted, his tone clipped as he was now free to run. "I'm not letting you hobble around while Cujo's out for blood."

You opened your mouth to argue but shut it again when you heard a screech from behind you and him.

Whatever was behind, it was definitely not a wolf.

His heart was hammering beneath your hand, but his grip on you never faltered. You curled your arms around his neck, letting yourself lean into his warmth as he ran.

Mike didn't stop until he reached the door he'd entered through. With a grunt, he kicked it open, the metal slamming against the wall as he set you down as gently as time allowed, his hands steadying you as you leaned against the wall, your chest heaving from exertion and fear.

The heavy door swung shut behind you. Mike leaned against it for a moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Your hands instinctively went to the bite, pressing against the torn fabric of your pants. Blood seeped through your fingers, warm and sticky, but as you inspected the wound, you realized it wasn't as deep as it had felt. Painful, yes, but not life-threatening.

"You okay?" Mike's voice was soft but urgent as he crouched in front of you, his hands hovering near your leg. His eyes were dark with worry, his earlier bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. "Let me see."

"Just hurts like hell," you reassured him, though your voice was shaky.

Mike exhaled sharply, his relief visible as he glanced back toward the door. "Stupid fucking dog," he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. Turning away for a moment, he rifled through the room as something caught his eyes while you let your muscles relax.

A moment later, he returned with an old, green jacket in his hands. The fabric was worn and frayed in places, but it looked decently warm. He held it out to you, his expression softening slightly.

"Here," he said, his voice quiet. "Put this on. You're freezing."

You shook your head immediately, pushing the jacket back toward him. "You need it more than I do."

"Don’t start," he said, his tone firm but not unkind while shoving the jacket toward you again. "Just put it on."

You crossed your arms stubbornly. "I said no. I'm fine. You're the one who's been running around in the cold."

Mike stared at you for a long moment before cursing under his breath as he slipped the jacket on himself. "Fine. Fine. Are you happy now?" he grumbled, his tone dripping with offense.

You hummed softly, fighting the grin tugging at your lips as you reached forward and straightened the collar of the jacket. "It looks good on you," you whispered, your voice teasing but warm.

Mike's glare faltered slightly. His lips parted and you could see the way his chest rose as he inhaled sharply, the tension bleeding from his body. You brushed a hand against his cheek, your thumb grazing over the faint stubble there.

Mike leaned into your touch without thinking, his eyes softening as they locked onto yours. The corners of his mouth quivered into a faint smile, his warm breath brushing against your face as he pulled you closer by the waist.

"If that wolf comes after you again, I'm turning it into a nice, warm fur coat for you to wear. Deal?" He whispered, his voice low and playful.

You laughed, the sound light and genuine for the first time in hours. Mike's grin widened at the sound, his fingers tightening against your hips.

"My boyfriend deserves only the best, after all," he murmured softly, his eyes fixed on you as your body leaned into his.

ℳ𝒶𝓉𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝓎𝓁ℴ𝓇

The wind howled like a wounded animal as you and Matt trudged through the heavy snow, the outline of the radio tower barely visible against the foggy backdrop. Matt’s arm was wrapped snugly around your waist as you both moved in a quiet rhythm.

All of that road for your bag only to being left on the snow the second you heard about what happened to Josh and who did it. You couldn’t believe Josh was dead, you felt so bad for Chris when he told you everything and the sight of Ash covered in Josh’s blood made your your own run cold.

The only thing you could do now was to call for help.

Each step closer to the tower seems heavier, the sight of it towering into the foggy sky sends a ripple of unease through your chest. The closer you got, the harder it became to steady your breathing. Your stomach churned, an uncomfortable knot of fear tightening with every screech of the metal.

Emily marched ahead, her sharp voice cutting through the wind as she barked something about getting to the top quickly and calling for help.

But you weren't listening.

Your gaze was fixed upward. The thought of climbing those stairs made your legs feel weak.

You stopped abruptly, the hand you had around Matt's arm tightened to steady yourself. His warm brown eyes immediately shifted to you, concern flashing across his face as he stopped too.

“What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, his brows knitted together as he studied your expression.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. "I can't— I don't think I can do this.” Your voice was soft, cracking at the edges, a stark contrast to the person he was used to.

Your breathing was uneven, your lips slightly parted as if you were struggling to get enough air. There was a sheen of moisture in your eyes, not quite tears, but close enough to make his chest ache. Your brows were drawn together tightly and your jaw trembled ever so slightly. The fear in your expression was unfiltered and seeing it struck something deep within him.

"Hey, hey," Matt said softly, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

Your hands tightened their grip on his purple jacket, seeking something solid to hold onto. "I don't do heights, Matt. I can't climb that thing." You admitted finally, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Matt was quiet for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as he processed your words. He could feel the tremble in your hands, the way your body leaned slightly against his. It wasn't like you to be so afraid and it made him want to protect you even more.

"I can wait down here," you said quickly, as if trying to convince yourself as much as him. "You and Emily can go up and—"

"No," Matt interrupted, shaking his head firmly. His hands slid to your waist, holding you steady as his gaze locked onto yours. "I'm not leaving you down here alone. That psycho's still out there. I'm not about to let anything happen to you."

You bit your lip, the familiar warmth of his touch helping to calm the storm inside you, even if only slightly.

You were unsure of how to argue. The idea of being left alone felt awful, especially now, but the thought of climbing that tower was almost worse.

Matt sighed, his expression softening. "Look," he said, his voice low and soothing, "I get it. I do. But I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'll be right behind you the whole way. Okay? Every step. We'll get through it together."

You looked up at him, the sincerity in his eyes cutting through some of the haze of your fear. His hands tightened slightly on your waist. His unwavering kindness was the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.

You nodded slowly, the movement hesitant but enough to show that you were willing to try. Matt's face lit up with relief, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips.

"That's my guy," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, his hand holding your cheek softly in the process until he pulled away. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Emily's sharp voice cut through the moment, impatient as ever. "Are you two lovebirds done yet? We don't exactly have all night."

Matt turned to glare at her, but there was no real heat behind it. "Give us a second, Em," he shot back before returning his focus to you. "Ignore her. She's just cranky. Probably cold."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips and Matt's heart swelled at the sight of it. His hand lingered on your waist for a second longer before he reached Emily to explain to her the situation.

Emily tone was sharp as she spoke with Matt. His voice was soft, though there was a hint of an edge in it.

While they spoke, you took a small step back, trying to regain your composure. Something caught your gaze on the snow-covered ground. A faint shape sticking out of the frost, partially hidden under a layer of ice and dirt. You crouched, curiosity sparking despite your lingering fear.

A faint pattern like a jagged spiral ran along one side and despite the biting cold, it felt almost warm in your hand. You inspected the artifact, turning it over.

The dark, cramped space pressed in on you as you hid together with Matt. His arm was tight around your shoulders, holding you so close to his chest that you could feel his heart pounding against your back.

Your gaze dropped to your hands where blood was pooling at your fingertips, dripping steadily onto the ground. You clenched your fists, trying to stop the flow, but the crimson drops continued to fall.

A gaunt, twisted figure crawled into view from behind, its movements jerky and unnatural. Its sunken eyes glinted in the dim light as it sniffed the air, its head snapping toward your hiding spot.

𝒟𝒶𝓃ℊℯ𝓇 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

"Okay, fine," Emily said, throwing up her hands. "But if he slows us down, Matt—“

"He won’t," Matt interrupted, his voice firm but calm. He turned back to you, his expression softening the instant his eyes met yours. "You ready?" he murmured, his voice filled with affection.

You forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Let’s do this."

The climb to the first level of the tower had been slow but manageable, largely thanks to Matt. But as the three of you approached the second and final part of the climb, the reality of the height struck you again.

Your hands gripping the railing so tightly that your knuckles ached. The world seemed to tilt around you, a dizzying reminder of just how far you'd come… and how much farther you could fall.

"Almost there," Matt called gently from below, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind. "You're doing amazing, babe. Just a little further."

His words were meant to encourage, but you could barely hear them over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You reached for the trapdoor, your fingers brushing against its icy surface. A sudden gust of wind slammed into you, throwing you off balance and your foot slipped on the icy stare. Your stomach lurching as gravity pulls you backward, barely managing to catch yourself and clutching the metal stairs with both arms in a desperate embrace.

Matt's heart felt like it stopped at the sight of you losing your balance. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" The words tumbled out of him in a rush as he scrambled up a few steps.

You couldn't answer immediately. Your chest heaved as you clung to the cold metal, every fiber of your being focused on not looking down.

A shriller, far less comforting voice spoke from below. "I'm freezing my ass off down here! Just stop looking down! Close your goddamn eyes and open the damn trapdoor already!" Emily's unmistakable tone rang out from the base of the stairs. Her words hit like a slap and you flinched instinctively.

Matt’s usual calm demeanor cracked as he whipped around, his voice firm and louder than you'd ever heard it before. "Yelling isn't going to help, Emily! Just let him calm down, alright?"

Emily's jaw dropped, caught off guard by the sudden bite in Matt's tone. Her shock lasted only a second before wrath flashed in her eyes. "Excuse me?" she snapped, her hands gripping tightly the bars. "At least I'm trying to get him to move! What are you doing besides staring at his ass the whole time?"

Matt reeled back, his cheeks immediately flushing with embarrassment. "I—what?! I wasn't—what are you even talking about?!" he stammered, his words fumbling over each other in a rush to defend himself, unsure of how to even begin addressing her ridiculous accusation.

Despite your shaky state, a small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you at the absurdity of their argument and it gave you the last bit of strength to open the trapdoor and crawl on the floor of the tower. "I got it," you called down, your voice still trembling but steadier than before.

When Matt reached the top of the stairs, you were still crouched near the trapdoor. Your legs shook slightly as you forced yourself to breathe, to focus on anything but the dizzying height below. You felt Matt kneel beside you, his presence warm and grounding despite the cold wind cutting through the tower.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing his hands gently on your shoulders. His touch was firm but reassuring, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of your jacket.

His face was closer now, and you could see the worry etched into his features. The way his eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the right words to say, made your heart ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

Matt hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. There was a beat of silence, before he leaned forward, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulled you closer.

His lips pressed against yours, soft and warm, the kiss tender but filled with a quiet intensity. When he pulled back, his face lingered close to yours, his forehead almost resting against yours as he exhaled shakily with a small, nervous smile tugged at his lips.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he avoided your gaze. “I, uh… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity.

"And for the record," he added quickly, his voice low, "I wasn't staring at your ass. I mean, not on purpose! I mean—" He stumbled over his words, clearly flustered. "I was just… making sure you were safe. Like, in case something happened. Which it didn't! It kind of did, but you know what I mean."

The corners of your lips twitched upward and before you knew it, you were laughing. It was shaky and soft, but it was genuine. The sound seemed to disarm Matt completely and he let out a nervous chuckle of his own, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders.

"See?" he said, his tone lighter now as his own smile grew. "That's better. You've got a great smile, you know? Way too good to waste on freaking out about some stupid tower."

You shook your head, your laughter fading into a warm smile as you looked up at him. He stood, offering you his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

Your legs felt weak as you stood, gripping onto the nearest surface to keep yourself steady, refusing to glance at the windows and the dizzying drop below. Matt stayed close by your side, his arm brushing against yours, while Emily knelt by the radio, frantically fiddling with its dials as she successfully called for help.

Beneath the roar of the storm, you heard a sharp, metallic thud. Your heart leapt into your throat as the noise echoed through the tower.

Another sound. A loud, deliberate slam against the trapdoor you'd climbed through. Emily screamed as she backed away and hugged herself. The metal vibrated under each blow, the trapdoor shaking violently as someone—or something—tried to force its way inside.

Matt stepped in front of you, his arm shooting out to shield you. He was just as terrified as you were, but he wasn't going to let it stop him.

The banging stopped, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. Before a sudden, violent lurch threw you off balance as the entire tower shifted, the floor tilting beneath your feet.

Sparks erupted from the radio equipment as the cables outside snapped one by one, the groaning of metal deafening. Wires shorted out, sending a burst of flames crawling up the walls. The air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning electronics.

"Hold on!" Matt yelled, his voice barely audible over the chaos. He reached for you, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist as he pulled you against him. His grip was strong as he anchored you to him. His other hand shot out, grabbing onto the handle of a desk bolted to the wall, giving you enough time to grab the desk too.

The tower tilted further and Emily screamed as she fell into the window facing the black ravine. She hit it hard, the glass spider webbing with cracks under the force.

"Emily!" you and Matt cried out, but your voice was lost in the chaos as the tower fell violently on the ravine and got stuck temporarily. The desk Matt was holding onto creaked under the strain, its metal legs groaning before the one holding you snapped with a sickening crack.

The sudden loss of stability sent you sliding backward, the window on your left catching your weight just before the glass shattered, slicing into your skin as half of your body hung out into the void.

Panic exploded in your chest as the freezing wind roared around you. Your hands scrabbled desperately against the broken glass and jagged metal, trying to find anything to hold onto. Blood smeared the glass where your palms dragged across it and a strangled cry tore from your throat as you felt your strength fading.

You were seconds away from falling to your own death before Matt's strong hand gripped your shoulder tightly. You looked up, tears blurring your vision and saw his face.

"I've got you," he said, his voice shaking but steady and eyes wide with fear. "Don't let go."

You choked out his name, your voice trembling with both terror and relief. The sheer force of your panic made your words nearly incoherent, but he understood.

His grip on your shoulder tightened as he braced himself against the crumbling wall. With a grunt of effort, he began to pull you up, his muscles straining as he fought against gravity. You felt the jagged glass dig deeper into your skin as he dragged you back to the top of the tower.

Finally, you were close enough for him to wrap both arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He buried his face in your neck, his breath warm against your freezing skin. "You're okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Your body trembled against his, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but you clung to him tightly.

The sharp, panicked sound of Emily's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Oh, god, Matt, help me!" she screamed, her voice rising above the wind and the groaning of the collapsing tower. The structure swayed dangerously again, causing you to flinch violently as your hands gripped the splintered metallic floor beneath you, too paralyzed by fear to move. The glass shards dug painfully into your palms and your chest heaved with shallow, frantic breaths.

Matt was crouched beside you, his hand brushing over your shoulder in a silent reassurance, though his focus was pulled toward Emily. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together as his head darted between her dangling form and you, trembling on all fours right next to him. "Emily! Just—just hang on!" he shouted back, his voice strained with panic and uncertainty.

"Matt you’ve got to do something right NOW what are you waiting for?!?!" Emily screeched, her hands gripping desperately at the metal beam she was clinging to. Her face was pale, twisted in anger and terror as she tried to haul herself upward.

"I’m thinking! Let me think—" Matt shot back, frustration and desperation bleeding into his tone as he glanced at her precarious position. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to do something, but the chaos made it impossible to think.

"Don’t think, you idiot, just get me out of here!" Emily yelled, her words sharp and cutting.

"Emily, you’re upset, you need to calm down. You’re gonna be fine—"

“Ugh, stop talking, I can’t take it!”

“Stop yelling at me and let me work this out, okay?” Matt’s voice was starting to crack under the pressure. The rare harshness in his tone shocked her into momentary silence, though her glare remained fixed on him.

“No, you stop it! Why do you keep questioning everything I say?! I’m goddamned sick of it!”

As they argued, you trembled next to Matt, your body betraying you under the crushing weight of fear. The dizzying height and the groaning metal beneath you all pressed down like a suffocating hand. Your arms were weak, hands and arms bloody from the shattered glass and your mind was spiraling into dark places you couldn't control. You wanted to move, to help, to say something, but the words wouldn't come as you kept staring down at the metal that kept moving and falling apart beneath you.

Matt extended his hand down to reach for her but the tower moved again, sliding further down and causing Emily to fall further down, her hands gripping tightly the metal were now the only thing keeping her from falling down.

Matt's head whipped toward you as the tower lurched again, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the look on your face. Your eyes were wide, glassy with terror, your lips trembling as shallow gasps escaped you. You looked completely frozen, your normally bright expression replaced with sheer, raw fear. The sight made Matt's chest ache in a way he couldn't describe.

His mind was racing, torn between what to do. He hated seeing you like this, so vulnerable, so scared.

"Matt!" Emily screamed again, her voice grating. He turned back to her briefly, his expression torn. She was hanging precariously, her fingers slipping further with every passing second.

Matt's breath caught in his throat as he realized he couldn't save both of you. The tower was seconds from collapsing entirely.

He had to make a choice.

He couldn't lose you.

Not you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos occurring.

Emily's head snapped up, her brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to figure out what he meant

Matt moved, his hand gripping tightly your arm as he hauled you to your feet with a surprising strength born of pure adrenaline. "Hold onto me!" he shouted, his voice breaking through your haze of fear.

You barely had time to process his words before he pulled you forcefully against him, his arms locking around you before jumping away from the tower.

The two of you leapt clear of the collapsing tower just as it let out an earth-shattering groan. The entire structure gave way, crashing into the ravine in a deafening roar of twisted metal, shattered glass, and flames.

You and Matt hit the ground hard, the cold bit into your skin, but the sheer force of the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled everything else. For a moment, you lay there, your body trembling uncontrollably as you tried to catch your breath.

Matt's arms were still around you, holding you tightly as if he couldn't bear to let go. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breaths coming fast and uneven. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wide and frantic as he scanned your face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You nodded shakily, your words caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his torn jacket tightly. "I'm okay," you managed to whisper, though your voice trembled.

Matt exhaled a shaky breath, relief flooding his features. But as he looked back toward the ravine, the guilt hit him like a physical blow, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it.

"She's gone," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I didn't—" His words broke off, his face twisting with anguish.

You reached up, your hands still trembling, and cupped his face gently. "Matt," you said softly, your voice steady despite the fear still lingering in your chest. "You didn't have a choice. "

His eyes searched yours, desperate for reassurance.

"Thank you for saving me," your voice firm this time as you cradle his head between your hands.

Matt's lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing as tears threatened to spill. "I couldn't lose you," he whispered finally, his voice breaking.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, trembling kiss. His hands cupped your face gently, his touch tender despite the strength that had just saved your life.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and for the first time all night, the tension in his shoulders eased. "I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible but heavy with meaning.

You smiled faintly, your own fear finally starting to ebb away. "I love you too."

For now, at least, you were safe and together.

𝒥ℴ𝓈𝒽 𝒲𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓉ℴ𝓃

The lodge felt emptier than ever.

The silence pressed against you from all sides, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint howling of the wind outside. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, flickering faintly with the light of the fire. The crackling flames did little to warm the place.

You sat on the edge of one of the couches, your elbows resting against your knees as you stared at the floor, your vision blurring with tears. One hand gripped the fabric of your jeans tightly, knuckles pale, while the other shakily wiped at your face. Your chest aches and your throat felt tight, like you couldn't quite catch your breath.

Josh was gone.

The image of it was still burned into your mind. It replayed on an endless loop: the look of horror on his face, the blood, the sickening sound of the chainsaw sliding him in half. You couldn't stop hearing it, couldn't stop seeing it, even when you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force it away.

And worst of all, you hadn't been able to do anything.

The tears started again, hot and unstoppable as they streaked down your face. You drew in a shaky breath, trying to hold it in, trying to keep it together, but the grief was relentless, clawing at your chest like something alive. You dropped your head into your hands, shoulders trembling as you let it out, the quiet sobs muffled by your palms.

You didn't even hear Chris and Ashley enter the room.

Chris's voice broke through the silence, soft but uncertain as he called your name. You stiffened instinctively, brushing at your face quickly as you turned your head, though there was no hiding the tears in your eyes. Chris stood near the doorway, his expression filled with uncertainty and guilt. Ashley hovered beside him, her eyes wide with sympathy, her hands twisting nervously around each other.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat as you tried to speak. "Hey," you croaked, though your voice cracked on the word.

Chris shifted awkwardly on his feet, glancing toward Ashley for a moment before stepping closer to you. His face was pale and tired, the usual spark of humor in his eyes replaced with something dull and haunted.

"Listen, man…" Chris started, his voice trailing off as if he didn't know how to finish. He ran a hand through his hair, his movements restless. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. About Josh. I can't even imagine…"

He trailed off again, his face contorting slightly as he struggled to find the right words. You could see the guilt written all over him. He'd watched it happen. He'd seen you break down in that moment, screaming and reaching for Josh, even when there was nothing you could do.

The words came softly, but they still cut deep. You didn't want his sympathy. You didn't want anyone's sympathy, because it didn't change anything. Josh was still gone.

But as you opened your mouth to say something, you paused. Chris's face was crumbling, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke again.

"I know how much he meant to you. And… God, I just can't believe it." His voice broke on the last words, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his grief was too much to bear.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him. Chris was hurting too. Josh wasn't just your boyfriend; he'd been Chris's brother in all but blood.

You sniffed, wiping at your face with the back of your hand before looking up at him.

"I'm sorry for you too," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. "He was your best friend."

Chris's expression twisted painfully and he looked away quickly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice tight. "Yeah, he was,” his eyes were glassy as he looked away.

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy with grief. For a moment, none of you spoke. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire.

Ashley, who had been silent up until now, moved slightly closer to Chris. She placed a hand gently on his arm, her touch soft but deliberate. Chris flinched faintly at first, but he looked down at her and seemed to understand what she meant

"Right," Chris murmured after a moment, his voice hushed. He looked back at you, his face softening with understanding. "We're, uh—we're gonna head upstairs. Sam should be there.”

You nodded faintly, still not trusting your voice to speak.

Chris hesitated, clearly torn, his eyes flickering toward Ashley and back to you. He looked like he wanted to say more, to stay, but Ashley gave his arm a small tug, silently urging him to leave you alone for now.

"Take your time," Ashley said softly, her voice kind but sad.

Chris let out a breath, nodding at you one last time before turning to follow Ashley out of the room. Their footsteps faded into the distance, and the silence returned, heavier than before.

You sat back against the chair, staring at the fire as tears started to burn your eyes again. It wasn't fair. Josh had been here just hours ago laughing, joking, grinning at you in that mischievous way that only he could. You could still hear his voice teasing you, the way he'd lean close to whisper some ridiculous comment that would leave you rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. He'd kiss you like it was the only thing that mattered, his lips soft and slow and full of affection. Josh had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world.

And now he is gone.

A sob escaped your throat, unexpected and raw and you curled in on yourself, your face pressing into your hands. The ache in your chest deepened, spreading like a crack in glass. It hurts to breathe, to think, to feel.

Josh lingered in the shadows of the lodge, his breathing controlled, almost imperceptible, as he watched you from a distance. The flickering firelight cast faint orange hues across your form, highlighting every shudder of your shoulders, every tremble in your body as you cried alone on the couch.

It had been hard enough to keep his composure when Chris and Ashley had been there with you. But now that you were alone, crumpling under the weight of grief he'd inflicted on you, it was nearly unbearable.

Josh's chest tightened as he watched you wipe your face with trembling hands. The sight alone carried enough pain to gut him. He hadn't anticipated this part of his plan, hadn't thought about how deeply his "death" would cut you, hadn't truly imagined the look of agony on your face as you mourned him.

Josh gritted his teeth, his jaw locking as he turned his head slightly, as though looking away might ease the ache spreading through him.

It didn't.

You were right there and every sound you made carved deeper into him, peeling back layers of guilt he'd tried so hard to bury.

He had envisioned this night countless times in his head, every piece of the plan falling into place. He would take the others to the brink of terror, make them feel the helplessness and fear his sisters must have felt, and then pull back the curtain. Show them that it was all a game, a carefully crafted performance.

They'd be mad, sure, but they'd understand. He wanted them to understand what it felt like to be alone, to lose someone you loved. To hurt the way he had hurt after his sisters disappeared.

But Josh hadn't anticipated how much it would shatter him to see you the way your body curled into itself like you were trying to disappear, to hear the way you whispered his name under your breath soft and broken, like a prayer that would never be answered.

Josh's fingers dug into the wood of the doorframe until his knuckles went white. He felt his chest tighten, his throat working around a lump he couldn't quite swallow.

You'd see. They'd all see. Once everything was finished, they'd finally understand what it felt like.

Josh inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze back to you. You would forgive him, he was sure of it. By the end of the night, you'd see what he was trying to do. That this whole thing was for you as much as it was for him.

Josh took a step forward, silent as a shadow as he took another. His movements were slow, calculated, as he stalked toward you. His figure wrapped in darkness save for parts of his mask and the edges of the gas mask slung over his shoulder. He kept his breathing steady, his footsteps light, his gaze locked on you.

You were his to protect, his to keep safe. You didn't belong out here with the others. You weren't supposed to suffer because of their sins.

You'd forgive him for this. You had to.

His grip tightened on the gas mask, the rubber creaking faintly under the pressure of his fingers.

His heart hammered in his chest as he hovered just behind you now, close enough that he could see the faint tremors running through your frame. His eyes softened for a brief moment as he crouched slightly, one hand tightening around the strap of the gas mask.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words slipping out so quietly he wasn't sure he'd said them at all.

You tensed at the sound, your head snapping up as you turned sharply to look over your shoulder. But before you could see him fully, Josh surged forward.

A sharp gasp escaped you, your body jerking back instinctively, but Josh was faster. He clamped the gas mask against your face, his other hand locking around the back of your head to hold it in place.

Your muffled shout rang through the room, your hands flying up to grab at his arms, your fingers digging into his sleeves as you fought.

Your struggles weakened as the drug took effect, your limbs growing heavy. Josh caught you as you slumped forward, your head resting against his chest. He cradled you in his arms, adjusted your weight carefully before lifting you into a bridal carry with ease.

Your head lolled against his shoulder, breath shallow but steady. He held you tightly, his arms wrapped protectively around you as he began moving through the lodge.

Josh’s grip on you tightened, his mind racing as he carried you through the lodge. He glanced down at your face, vulnerable and peaceful, a pang of guilt striking him even as he pressed you closer to his chest, his body tense with emotion as he moved through the hallways.

Josh's thoughts halted abruptly when his foot struck something hard on the floor. The object skidded across the hall with a faint scraping sound, breaking the stillness. He froze, his grip tightening on you instinctively as his sharp eyes darted downward.

A small wooden carving, unmistakable even in the low light.

Josh shifted your weight in his arms to free one hand. Almost hesitantly, he reached down and picked up the artifact, its rough surface felt rough, even edged under his fingertips. He turned it over in his hand.

You were standing in the middle of a dark place somewhere. Half of your body is submerged in water. You were frozen, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Your body was completely rigid, as though you couldn't move even if you wanted to.

Then a grotesque, elongated hand reached into view, its skin pale and stretched unnaturally tight over jagged bones. Its fingers twitched as they clamped down with horrifying force. The hand gripped your face tightly, its long, claw-like fingers pressing into your skin as if it meant to crush your skull.

ℒℴ𝓈𝓈 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

Finally, Josh reached the room he'd prepared. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a small, dimly lit space with a sturdy lock. He stepped inside, carefully setting you down on the couch in the corner. Your head lolled slightly as he adjusted your position, ensuring you were comfortable.

He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he cupped your face. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice barely audible. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, tracing the lines of your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Josh pulled back reluctantly, his hands lingering on your face for just a moment longer.

"You'll understand soon. I promise." He murmured, his voice soft but firm.

With one last glance, he stood and stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. As the lock turned, he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees. But he pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus.

You are safe now. That was all that mattered to him.

𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℋ𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓁ℯ𝓎

The basement was cold, darker than you'd expected, with a damp, heavy air that clung to your skin. The dim overhead light buzzed faintly, casting flickering shadows along the cracked stone walls.

You were in the lead, your pace quick and determined despite the growing fear gnawing at your chest. Your older sister, Sam, was down here somewhere, you knew it. She had to be. Every instinct told you to find her before it was too late.

"Sam's smart," Chris said from behind you, his voice low but steady as he tried to keep up with you, though you could hear the slight tremor of uncertainty beneath his words. "If she's down here, she's probably already figured out a way to hide or something. Right, Ash?"

Ashley nodded, her steps careful as she moved beside Chris, her flashlight cutting weakly through the shadows.

You didn't turn to look at them, focus locked on the narrow hallway ahead. The stone walls felt too close, the air heavy with dust and decay, your hands curling into fists as you marched forward.

"Hey, slow down!" Chris called after you, his voice laced with concern. "We don't know what's down here."

You ignored him, your flashlight sweeping frantically across the walls and floor for any sign of her. The further you moved, the more the basement seemed to twist and turn, like a labyrinth.

The three of you continued deeper into the basement, the narrow hallway opening into a larger, more cavernous space. The walls here were rougher, the stone uneven and jagged in places and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air.

"This place is insane," Chris muttered under his breath, his flashlight sweeping over the walls as he took in the eerie space. "Why does a lodge even have something like this? It's like a whole new place down there."

There was now a narrow corridor where the walls seemed to close in, the ceiling lower now, the air damp and stale. You paused for a moment to catch your breath, your flashlight flickering briefly as you swept it across the space.

Your eyes fell on something in the corner of the corridor-a faint shimmer, like something metallic. You moved toward it quickly, ignoring the chill that ran up your spine.

It was a small, cracked mirror, its surface marred with streaks of grime and dust. Beside it sat an old, rusted lantern, long extinguished. No sign of Sam. Just more emptiness.

Your chest tightened, disappointment and frustration flaring hot and sharp. You slammed a fist against the wall, the sound echoing in the narrow space. "Dammit!"

"Hey," Chris said gently, stepping closer. "We'll find her, okay? You don't have to-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" you snapped, turning on him suddenly. "She could be down here hurt, scared, alone and we're just…" You trailed off, your voice shaking as the words caught in your throat.

Chris froze, his expression softening. He didn't argue. He just stood there, his face pale in the faint glow of his flashlight, like he wasn't sure what to say.

Ashley shifted uncomfortably beside him, her brow furrowed with worry. "We're all scared but you're not alone in this, okay? We'll find her." She said quietly, her voice soft but steady.

You didn't reply. You couldn't. Your hands were shaking and you couldn't tell if it was from anger, fear, or something worse. Instead, you turned away from them and pressed forward again, following the set of narrow stairs descended further into the earth, the edges of the stone steps worn smooth from years of use.

"Hey, wait up!" Chris called, his footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. "We should stick together, man."

You ignored him, your mind too preoccupied with thoughts of Sam. The flashlight's beam swept across the walls, illuminating strange markings and stains that made your imagination run wild.

Their words barely registered as you moved further into the room, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. You scanned the floor and walls carefully, your eyes darting between every crack and crevice for any sign of your sister.

Then, something caught your eye.

Near the base of an old wooden crate, partially hidden beneath a pile of dust and debris, was a strange object. You crouched down slowly, brushing the dirt away. Its weathered surface felt cool and rough beneath your fingertips as you picked it up, the intricate patterns on its surface oddly mesmerizing.

Your fingers wrapped around it and you shifted it to analyze the foreign object.

You were inside a dark, broken-down shelter, your back pressed against the rough wood of the wall.

You were frozen, your body stiff with fear as your wide eyes stared forward. Across the room, something tall with unnatural limbs moved slowly. Its hollow eyes scanned the room, letting out a high-pitched screech that echoed, clawing at your nerves.

Chris stood at the doorway of the shelter. His face was pale, frozen in terror as he raised the rifle in trembling hands as his finger squeezed the trigger.

𝒢𝓊𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

Ashley placed a gentle hand on Chris’s arm, drawing his attention away from you. "You think she is hiding somewhere?" She suggested softly, though her voice trembled slightly.

Chris hesitated, glancing between her and the darkened stairs leading further down. "Yeah it could be," he said. He shifted his flashlight, his shoulders tense. "You should go back upstairs. Check the second floor again. Sam could've found somewhere to hide up there that we missed."

Ashley nodded slowly, her expression troubled. "You really think so?"

"It's worth a shot," Chris said, his voice quieter now.

Ashley bit her lip, glancing toward you with a look of worry etched across her face, her flashlight beam catching your face as she gave you a small, hesitant smile. "Ве careful down here, okay?"

"I will," you replied, your voice steadier now.

Ashley lingered for a moment longer, her gaze filled with concern, before nodding and heading back toward the staircase. The sound of her footsteps echoed faintly as she climbed, growing softer and softer until they disappeared entirely.

Chris turned to you, his expression serious as he adjusted the flashlight in his hand. "Alright," he said, his tone quieter now. "Let's figure this out. If Sam's down here, we're going to find her."

The dim, flickering light in the psycho's basement painted the horrifying scene in muted, sickly hues. The walls were cold, damp concrete, but they were far from empty. Photos of you and your friends on a wall, each one marked with red slashes, circles, and Xs. Some were crossed out completely, others circled with jagged edges, and the sight sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

In one corner, a row of gutted pigs hung from rusted hooks, their carcasses swaying faintly with every breath of stale air in the room. The metallic stench of blood was suffocating, mixing with the damp and decay to create an unbearable cocktail of rot. You gagged, your hand instinctively covering your nose and mouth as you tried to focus on anything else.

Chris's hand found your arm, his grip firm but trembling slightly. He pulled you closer to him, his flashlight beam sweeping nervously over the gruesome display. "Stay close to me," he murmured, his voice low but filled with tension.

You nodded silently, your heart pounding in your chest as you moved together through the darkened space.

She was out there, somewhere in this hellhole. You had to find her. You had to.

Your breaths came faster, shallower, the edges of your vision tingling as your chest began to ache. The panic set in, sharp and consuming.

"Sam…" you whispered shakily, your hand pressing against the center of your chest as it started to burn.

"Hey, hey, whoa." Chris turned to you quickly, his flashlight swinging wildly as he grabbed your shoulders. "You okay?"

Chris pulled you closer, his hands firm and steady against you. "Hey. Look at me, alright? Look at me."

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. Chris's face was pale and tense, but his eyes were focused, his voice steady as he spoke. "You need to calm down. Just breathe, okay? Slow and deep. In and out. Like this."

He exaggerated his breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly as he held you against him. "Come on, you can do this."

You tried to follow his example, your breaths coming out shaky and broken at first. But Chris didn't let go. He held you there, his arms wrapping protectively around you as he pulled you against his chest.

The steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hold grounded you, pulling you back from the sharp edge of panic. Slowly, the burning in your chest began to fade, replaced by the sound of Chris's heartbeat against your ear.

"Better?" he asked quietly, looking down at you.

You nodded weakly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as you exhaled shakily.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing his in a soft, fleeting kiss. It was barely a whisper of contact. A wordless thank you, a quiet plea for comfort, and something deeper you couldn’t yet put into words. Your breath mingled with his, the closeness leaving a faint heat between you even as you pulled back.

"Thanks, Chris."

Chris’s face flushed instantly, his eyes wide and startled. His hand hesitated for a moment before coming up to cup your cheek, his touch gentle and careful, as though you might shatter under his fingertips.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking slightly with emotion. His thumb brushed over your skin, his lips curving into the faintest, most heartfelt smile.

Then you heard it.

A scream ripped through the basement, sharp and desperate and your stomach twisted violently as you recognized the voice. "Sam!" you shouted, your voice cracking as you broke away from Chris, running toward the source of the sound.

"Wait!" Chris called after you, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the adrenaline roaring in your ears.

You sprinted toward a room at the far end of the basement. Your hands were shaking as you pushed the two doors open, gripping the handle tightly before throwing it open.

Inside, a single chair sat in the right corner of the room, its frame worn and splintered. Someone was sitting there, slumped forward, their body motionless.

"Sam," you whispered, your throat tight with fear.

You approached slowly, your steps hesitant as the world seemed to narrow around you. The air felt thick and suffocating as your hand reached out, trembling as you gripped the back of the chair and turned it around.

A mannequin stared back at you, a mask of a clown on it’s face. It was dressed in Sam's clothes. Your breath caught in your throat, a sickening wave of confusion and dread crashing over you as you stumbled back.

A sound came from behind. You turned sharply, just in time to see Chris stumbling backward, his flashlight clattering to the floor.

"Chris!"

The psycho loomed behind him. In one hand, he held a gas canister attached to a mask that he pressed to Chris’s face. Chris choked as he thrashed against the grip until he succumbed to the gas.

The psycho turned sharply, his movements swift as he lunged for you. You tried to backpedal, but his gloved hand shot out, closing around your neck with brutal strength.

Your body hit the wall hard, flashlight falling from your grasp. You gasped for air, clawing at his hand as he squeezed, his mask reflecting the faint light in distorted angles.

Your fists pounding against his chest in desperate, useless strikes. The edges of your vision darkened, your chest burning as your lungs fought for air.

Then you felt the cold metal of the gas mask press against your face. The faint hiss of the anesthetic filled your ears, and your struggles grew weaker. Your arms dropped to your sides, your legs giving out as darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke up to the sound of heavy breathing and the faint clink of metal. Your head throbbed painfully, your vision swimming as you tried to focus. Slowly, the room came into view. A cold, gray space lit by a single flickering bulb

Your wrists were tied tightly to the arms of a chair, the rough rope biting into your skin. Across from you, Chris sat in a similar chair, his face pale and streaked with sweat. One of his hands was free, but the other remained bound, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the chair.

There was a gun on the table between you and him.

You groaned, blinking against the faint light.

Chris stirred, his head jerking up as he blinked rapidly. When his gaze landed on you, his face twisted with panic.

"Shit," he muttered, trying to pull at the ropes around his wrist. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You winced, your throat aching with every breath. "I… I'm fine."

Chris's eyes darted to your neck. The purple bruises from the psycho's grip were already forming, faint lines marring your skin. His free hand clenched into a fist.

"I'm gonna murder his fucking face off," Chris growled, his voice low and sharp with barely restrained rage.

Before you could respond, the steady whir of machinery made your blood run cold. You looked up to see a series of big chainsaws mounted to the ceiling, its blade spinning as it began to descend slowly toward the two of you.

A distorted voice echoed through the room.

"Hello, there, my special little subjects. Here’s the twist: Chris has made one fatal choice already today, and now he must make another one. Chris, you can take the gun in front of you and shoot him, or you can shoot yourself. Whoever is left: lives”

Chris raised the gun up on the ceiling, pointing it at the chandelier and pulling the trigger over and over. You flinched at hearing the sound of gunshots so up close.

Chris paled instantly, his face twisting in disbelief as the chainsaw remained unscathed and kept moving down towards your heads.

His breathing grew ragged as his gaze darted between the gun and you. Your heart clenched painfully as Chris pointed the gun at the base of his neck, hands trembling and teeth clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his jaw, his breaths fast and uneven, hissing through his teeth as if the air was being forced out.

The barrel of the gun wavered slightly, his finger hovering over the trigger. For a moment, his lips parted, a faint whisper escaping that was too quiet to hear. His body shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, the weight of his decision pressing down on him.

"Chris!" you shouted, struggling against the ropes. "Don't you dare!"

His lips trembling as he tried to steady his hand. "I love you," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Tears were now blurring your vision as you fought with everything you had to break free.

Chris closed his eyes, took a final, shaking breath and pulled the trigger.

Note: let me know if you had a favorite among the four. I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3 I’m also open to any feedback or constructive criticism you might have.

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fanfics-i-find-here · 17 hours ago

Text

Do I know you? Part 5

Jason Todd x reader

Synopsis: You meet Tim and Steph, Jason is not happy about it.

Notes: Some drama is finally here brought to you by Tim and Steph. This is the power of embarrassing a sibling.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

The past week had been… odd. And that was putting it nicely. True to his word, the next evening was filled with Red Hood replacing your window locks with newer fancy ones attached to an “Out of date” alarm system (his words not yours). He showed you how to set it up and how to attach it to your phone, so if anyone got in while you were away you would know. It seemed a bit excessive to you, living on the sixth floor and all but he was adamant about it, so you let him. He told you if you wanted him to come in and share tea you would have to leave the window unlocked for a frame of time. If he didn’t show in that frame of time, you were to lock the window anyway.

“No later, understand?” He had ordered gruffly, and you had just shrugged. You’re pretty sure he rolled his eyes in response, but you couldn’t see them. In the days following he showed up every day even if it were just for a couple minutes. Sometimes you shared food, sometimes just tea. If he stayed for longer than a few minutes, you would sit amicably at the dining table or at the island. Sometimes in comfortable silence and sometimes conversing about your days, mostly you than him. You finally settled into a routine. After his visit, you would get ready for bed and repeat the day over.

Work at Jackie’s was booming. With the fall season in full swing, people came in requesting pumpkin this and pumpkin that, only to be disappointed to find out Jackies only had one pumpkin item and that was pumpkin bread. It was a blast. You kept up with the regulars and Darla would edge her way around you, collecting gossip. Over the next week and a half, she would sporadically bother you about if you had gotten Jason’s number or if you had fallen in with some other guy. She said she saw some of the signs of a guy but wasn’t too sure. When you asked what she meant she didn’t offer you any explanation.

It was a Thursday when you met Steph. When she came in, you mentally prepared yourself for another no-pumpkin showdown. You try not to judge a book by its cover, but her blonde hair and purple athleisure made it hard not to.

“Hi, Welcome to Jackie’s. What can I get for you?” your lips twitch into a customer service smile. She grins at you like this was the most excitement she had had all day.

“Hi, I’m Steph. How are you?” she asks politely.

“I’m good. What can I get for you?” she sags slightly at your shutdown of the conversation. Overly friendly new customers in Gotham were never good. They usually wanted something.

“Right,” she perks back up, “One hot chocolate and one black coffee.” She pauses for a moment while you put in the system. When you look back up, she asks “Do you know Jason?”

The sudden question slightly takes you aback and don’t answer, so she continues.

“He's about this tall,” she holds her hand in the air, “black hair, looks like he could punch a brick wall.” You nod slowly and she smiles, “Great, where does he usually sit?”

You point to the table nook he usually hides in, and she nods, “We’ll sit there. I heard that you bring the drinks out?” You nod again, still confused about this girl. No Pumpkin spice latte, and she knows Jason? Strange.

“How much do I owe you?” you finally snap out of your stupor. She pays, you thank her and tell her it will be out momentarily. She turns and greets a lean boy as he walks through the door. She tugs him to the booth quickly and they talk to each other in hushed tones, both glancing up at you occasionally. You try to ignore them as you stumble through making the two easiest items on the menu.

You glance up when the bell dings and a smile flits across your lips when you see Jason before it turns into a frown as he frowns. His eyes staring at his now occupied table. You pause in your task and come up to the register as he takes a few slow steps towards it.

“You okay?” you ask as you glance at the two at the table. They’re looking at Jason like they’ve won the lottery.

“Did they talk to you?” He ignores your own question.

“She did. Only to order though. Do I need to call the cops?”

Jason snorts at the question, “Yeah that’ll go well. She just ordered? She didn’t ask you anything?”

You give him a strange look. What is with people and odd questions today?

“She just asked where you sit. Sorry, I gave you away.”

He breaks his glare from them and meets your eye with a softness.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart. They would’ve figured it out even if you hadn’t given it to them.” Your heart flutters at the pet name. He had called you that the few times you had seen him since your walk home and it was starting to get to you.

“You want me to dump out their drinks and just make yours?” you ask as you try to force your focus away from the warmth on your cheeks.

“And ruin your hard work?” his eyes stare into your own and he finally breaks it when you hear giggles from your spies. You drop your chin down. “It’s okay,” he repeats, “I’ll sit with them.” He nods at you and heads for the table. The two sat there leaning together and whispering. You wonder who they are and how Jason knows them.

You get to work make the drinks, no longer stumbling, and with bounce your step. Darla stands next to you with a smug smile and makes some refills for customers.

“You could have asked for his number when he was alone but now there are people. Your poor self won't ever be able to do it.” She says teasingly.

“Thank you, Darla,” you say with an eye roll as you load the drinks on the tray. You take your time to meander to the table as Jason looks like he's berating the two that sit across from him. It doesn’t look like it's working as they both sit there with smug grins. You set the tray on the table and all eyes are on you. You keep your own eyes down as you move the drinks from the tray to the table. Your eyes try to catch Jason’s book for the day because you know you won't be asking like you normally do. You pull the tray from the table and rest it between your side and your arm.

“Anything else I can get you?” you glance at the two but meet Jason's eye. He looks flushed, possibly upset. Steph speaks up.

“No that’s okay. What was your name again?” she says like you had already told her. You break eye contact with Jason and look at her. She’s smiling and you can't find any malice in it, so you tell her. She nods like she already knows and points to the boy sitting next to her.

“This is Tim,” she points to Jason, “and obviously you already know Jason.” You hear a quiet thud from under the table and Tim flinches but smirks as he looks at Jason.

“You missed,” he turns to look up at you, “It's nice to meet you fin-” he cuts himself off and you wonder what the last word was.

You nod politely, “you too,” you say and look at Jason again for some explanation and a defeated look crosses his features as he shrugs.

“Brother” is all Jason gives, and you nod in semi-understanding. Based on the few mentions of family in passing conversations, you had always guessed he had a tense relationship with them.

“I didn’t know you had siblings.” You look back at the two. Tim and Jason could definitely be brothers. Aside from their stature and slight skin tone difference, everything else is similar. Black hair, blue eyes. Though you would argue that Jason’s were prettier because they were green sometimes. Not that it mattered. Your eyes meet Stephs again. Blonde hair, green eyes, bright smile. Very different looking than the two boys.

“Are you the only girl in the family?”

Steph makes a gagging sound, “I’m not family, Thank God!” Tim snorts at her over dramatics.

“I’m sorry.” Your face flushes slightly as you flounder, “Then what…?” Your hand gestures to them all sitting at the table.

Jason's eyes narrow on your embarrassed state.

“Don’t worry, she’s just a leech.”

“Hey!”

“Would you mind getting me one of those chocolate croissants?”

You shift on your feet with a look of confusion. He never asks for anything else. You nod, “Sure, anything else for the table?”

Tim looks like he’s about to ask for something, but Jason cuts him off with a glare. Instead, he shakes his head no. You hesitantly step away from the table but take your time going back to the kitchen to pull out one of the chocolate croissants and warm it up. Your eyes periodically glance back at the table. They crouch over the table and talk to each other. You worry for a moment that they’re talking about you and then decide that it doesn’t really matter. You had only met Tim and Steph today. Their opinion of you was worthless and You knew Jason wasn’t one for gossiping about others. You’ve watched Darla try and fail. Once you finally make it back over to the table with the croissant, Tim and Steph are gone leaving their half-full drinks on the table.

As you set the plate on the table you ask, “Scare them off?”

Jason lets out a sigh.

“If only. I’m sorry if they made you uncomfortable.” You shake your head in response.

“I'm sorry I made assumptions before I had all the information. I hope I didn’t offend.”

“I doubt you could ever offend anyone sweetheart” Your cheeks warm again.

“That’s not true I work in a public job, and I offend people all the time just standing” you joke. Jason smiles and nods.

“That’s fair. How could you be so lazy?” he teases. You giggle.

“Speaking of lazy, I should get back to work.” You point a thumb over your shoulder where a man leaves a table full of dishes.

“What time do you get off?” he asks. Your body freezes mid-turn at his abrupt question.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to” he adds on, “I just enjoyed walking with you the other day and I parked my bike around the same area again, so I thought maybe…” He trails off his own cheeks flushing. Your body relaxes as you look at your watch to think. He had convenient timing; you were off soon. It was nice having someone to walk with and it wouldn’t hurt to see him on his bike again. You nod with warmed cheeks.

“I get off in about thirty minutes if you don’t mind waiting?” you say as your eyes meet his. He nods, smiling.

“It’ll give me time to read.” He lifts his book that was sitting on the table, the cover reading Pride and Prejudice.

“Again?” You can't help but ask. He looks at the book cover and rolls his eyes.

“You really want to have this conversation again?” you shake your head quickly at his question.

“I'll see you in thirty minutes.” With that, you walk away from him and throw yourself into your finishing tasks.

Additional notes: This was originally a much longer chapter but I decided to split it up. So, the next chapter is about them walking home. I have to tell you I cannot wait for ya’ll to read the next one cause I got carried away for like three seconds and had to do some backtracking. The plot was happening where I didn’t want it. I loved having Tim and Steph involved in this and just not being subtle about anything. Jason may have tried to kill Tim once but that won't stop him from being a little shit. Thank you for your love guys. This has been such an interesting experience, so the support has been lovely. Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369, @g4bbi3xx

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #do i know you?#fanfics-i-find-here #kandywrites

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seoulbye · 1 day ago

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FINDING EQUILIBRIUM · GOJO SATORU

( PLAY EPISODE 2 : GIVE ME A MEOWTINI. ) gojo’s friends have gotten tired of the constant flaking and random rain checks. and because of it, gojo's starting to see the cat miraculous more as a curse than anything else now | watch time : 3.8k words.

── chat noir!gojo satoru & student!reader, akumatized!geto, ladybug!unknown character, mentions of alcoholic beverages, slightly dramatic gojo, features geto suguru, shoko ieiri & nanami kento, etc.

note. give me a meowtini, please... shaken, not purred! pur!

Thursdays and the weekends are the only days that Gojo, Geto, and Shoko have any availability to hang out outside of classes. Unfortunately for Gojo, most of those days, Hawk Moth likes to interrupt his plans, and he always has to make a rain check. Oftentimes, he felt guilty, but Plagg would always assure him that it was for the greater good and for the safety of the world. And while Gojo couldn’t and wouldn’t question, it grew tiresome to always have to come up with an excuse for his sudden departure.

Geto and Shoko would ask where he was going and what could have possibly come up at the last minute to send him off in a hurry, and he’d always have to throw some absurd excuse out there before running off without further explanation. He could see their growing annoyance the more time had passed. He’d be sitting down before his shoulders suddenly stiffen up and each excuse would start with an “uh.” They’d give each other an annoyed look before sending Gojo on his way, no longer bothering to ask what came up. This was typical Gojo behavior now. It’s a surprise that they still even invite him out.

They’re sitting in this small pizzeria that looks like it has many health violations. Two boxes of pepperoni pizza, one empty and the next halfway there— most of it eaten by the two men while Shoko only got three slices. It comes to a surprise that the white-headed boy is still with them, leaning back in the cushioned booth seats as he reaches for another slice of the too greasy pizza. He should really stop, but it’s just too good to. They’ve been catching him up about all the things that he’s missed, their voices chirpy but keeping an alerted gaze on him. They’re ready for one chime from his phone, for his shoulders to stiffen and his posture to straighten. But, there’s none of that.

It makes Geto skeptical the most, eyes squinting at his best friend in sheer curiosity and disbelief as he hums. Shoko continues on with her story about her shitty professor, reaching for her glass of lemonade when Geto interrupts her. “Are you alright, ‘Toru?”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Gojo nods. “Yeah, I’m all good. Why?”

“You’re usually gone by this time,” Geto says. “Nothing up with your dad or anything?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p.’ Then, he chuckles, knowing the direction of this conversation and where it’s going. Shoko silently listens in, clearing her throat from the tartness of the lemonade. “Nothing this time around… Unless, you want me gone.”

“I didn’t say that,” Geto frowns. “I’m just wondering if everything’s alright with you.”

“We’re wondering if everything’s alright with you,” Shoko corrects, chiming into the conversation. “This is the first time you’ve broken your streak of bailing out on us and we want to know if everything is alright.”

They’ve asked this question before— countless times over. Gojo always fanned it off and played it cool. Just telling them, You know, my dad and everything. Or, I just forgot about this one assignment I had to do and I don’t want the professors to kill me. Sometimes they’d catch him in a lie and try to press him for more information, but he’d dodge them all. Underneath the table, Gojo fidgets with his fingers as he knows he can’t keep this up for much longer. At some point, they’ll grow tired of him and that bond they both had since childhood would start to weaken. And, he’ll be all alone. Again.

“Everything’s alright,” he grits through his teeth in a low voice. “I just—”

“You’d tell us if something is the matter, right?” Shoko leans forward. Geto knows everything about Gojo— what makes him tick, what keeps him breathing, what makes him happy or sad, and when he’s lying. And he’s lying right now.

He’s had his suspicions for a while now. Every time he disappeared, not too long after are there news reports of Chat Noir and Ladybug fighting another villain. He’s seen the heroes in action as well. Strikingly white hair and bright blue eyes that were so unique to him that it couldn’t be anyone else. He knows it’s Gojo, and Geto knows that Shoko has her suspicions as well. They’ve talked about it— briefly, but they’ve voiced enough similarities between the hero and their friend to come up with a jurisdiction. Just, why wouldn’t he admit it? Why did he have to keep lying? “Are you hiding something from us?”

He couldn’t keep it in anymore. The question digging in his mind, begging him to ask and wait for Gojo’s answer. Gojo tenses up, holding his breath as his eyes flicker everywhere but to his two friends. His chest starts to heave and he groans inwardly at his best friend. He’s always been so intuitive and Gojo knows that he can try to diverge from the conversation all he wants, Geto will always have a sneaking suspicion. So, he sighs.

“No,” he says against his better judgment, watching as both Shoko and Geto’s shoulders drop at the blatant lie. Geto sneers at Gojo, reaching for another slice of pizza.

As much as he’d like to continue pressing his friend for more and to yell at him for his stupidity, he decides that he won’t. Instead, responding with a nod and a mere, “okay.”

The rest of the lunch is awfully quiet, the three of them barely uttering out anything over three words. Gojo would try to start a conversation up, asking Shoko to continue on with her story, but to no avail. This time, it’s their turn to create lousy excuses as they push back their chairs. The legs crying out harshly against the tiled floors as they stand and make a beeline for the door. They leave Gojo to pay for the bill as he initially promised— an apology for all his impromptu ditchings— and without a goodbye, they leave Gojo alone.

The pizzeria has always been a small restaurant, leaving only the college student and the employee watching the entire course of events play. He diverts his eyes when Gojo turns his head in his direction, finding work somewhere else in the kitchen to pass the time before sliding over the bill, a look of pity on his face throughout the short encounter. Sliding his card, Gojo lets out a sigh as he finishes the rest of the pizza by himself. And, Plagg— the otherworldly friend peaks out from his special spot in Gojo’s bag when the coast is all clear. He feels guilty for the sad exchange, whispering a small, “I’m sorry, Satoru.”

Gojo doesn’t answer. Just wallowing as he finishes the rest of his pizza.

—

“What’s got you feeling so fur-ocious?” Gojo chides, leaving his dimple prominent as he lands on the roof with agility. In his black suit that stretches, he’s on all fours as he stays on alert, not liking the menacing look that the akumatized villain gives him. In an all gray suit lined and threaded with zippers, an elastic balaclava to hide his features, it’s hair to detect just who the victim is today, but it didn’t take Gojo more than a couple of seconds to realize who it is. Piercing brown eyes that stare back at him with such venom, they’re distinguishing enough for him to know that it’s his best friend under that mask.

It takes everything in Gojo not to falter and break this facade, but he straightens his posture just in time as Ladybug comes into the scene. Geto has his teeth bared out right at both of them as he has poor innocent victims running around soundless and in fear, eyebrows furrowed as his fists ball up tightly. “I bet you two enjoy lying to everyone, don’t you?”

Standing tall with her hand on her hip, Ladybug cocks her head to the side, looking down at Chat Noir. “What’s got him so mad?”

He shrugs, “From what I understand, he’s mad about liars. Been going everywhere and zipping everyone’s mouth shut the moment he detects them not telling the truth.”

It cuts having to lie, even to Ladybug herself. However, they’ve both agreed that for the safety of each other and their identities, it best not to reveal to each other anything compromising that could detail each other’s identity on the off-chance they get akumatized. Anyone that possibly knew could breach their identity and lead them straight into Hawk Moth’s hands.

Gojo’s imagined it before, and he’s sure that Ladybug has, too. Imagine what it would be like to tell your friends and those who you trust the most, but hasn’t every superhero movie revealed that it’s always a bad move. It puts everyone at risk— not just the heroes themselves. When Gojo was trusted with the Cat Miraculous, he thought it was a gift— an honor to be given something so powerful because of his character. However, looking at Geto, or The Zipper, he’s starting to feel like it has become a curse.

“You don’t care who you hurt in the process,” the Zipper sneers. “Just as long as it’s all about you still—” He grows angrier with every growing second, Hawk Moth egging him on through the akuma moth. He grits his teeth as all he can see is red, the controlling villain in his ear saying, Get those Miraculouses. “—Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen anymore.”

Gojo can recall when Shoko was akumatized. It was over something that transpired because of a particular professor that kept on giving her bad grades. It was comical seeing her akumatized, running straight towards the old man with a vengeance for better treatment and better grades. Dr. Daisy was her villain name, a cruel weapon to the man that was allergic to pollen and had an irritated nose, but it gave Shoko the satisfaction and Chat Noir the giggles. If he could, he would never make Shoko live it down.

However, this isn’t Dr. Daisy and the look in Geto’s eyes doesn’t speak to petty vengeances over a simple friendship squabble. This one speaks more volume as both Chat Noir and Ladybug can feel the heavy tension looming over them. Chat Noir looks over at Ladybug with a sheepish look, eyebrows furrowing as a nervous smile graces his features as he tries to ease everything down. “I guess this won’t be an easy cat fight, will it?”

With his bloodthirsty eyes, the Zipper charges at Ladybug and Chat Noir with his weapon, but just in time, the heroes dodge it, going in opposite directions. Their feet paddling on the shingles of the roof, the sliding creating a bumpy sound as they made their escape. Ladybug goes and makes a clean getaway, while the Zipper’s eye line goes straight to Chat Noir, chasing him down with the weapon.

With every spray of the gun, they become faster and faster, a nonstop patter of the gun. And as fast and agile a cat can be, it cannot dodge every single attack made at them. Chat Noir’s eyes widen as he hears the clatter of metal inches away from landing on him. There’s no room to play any trick on the villain like this. With his heart racing, Chat Noir’s eyes dart out in every direction in hopes to find an alleyway or anything that he can escape.

However, with the Zipper’s fixation solely on Chat Noir, it creates a simple solution that her yo-yo could conduct without much help. Chat Noir will just… have to make sure he doesn’t get caught. Gojo makes sure he doesn’t look back, keeping his eyes forward as he runs down a jagged line. He’s careful with his footing, ducking and dodging at the very last second. He’s smug when he hears a disgruntled sound from his best friend, growing cocky for the moment only for it to bite him in the ass when his foot hits a leg and leads to Chat Noir’s downfall.

One fortunate thing is that he gains some distance, rolling down a hill as tomatoes come clattering with him during the long tumble. It’s embarrassingly, really, how the hero rolls and fumbles, unable to get any grip on the floor until there’s no longer a slope. With a final thud, Chat Noir groans while the Zipper only saunters over. He’s the one with the smirk now as he finally has a clear shot on the masked cat-hero. Panic rushes through Gojo as he tries to get quickly on his feet, but right at the last second, he sees the villain stagger. A flicker of hesitation onset in his eyes as his hand starts to shake.

“What are you doing?” Hawk Moth sneers into the Zipper’s mind. “Get that Miraculous!”

“Wait!” the villain falters, seemingly talking to himself. “No, there’s no time for waiting! Grab his Miraculous! Remember your friend! All of his lies! Get that Miraculous and exact your vengeance upon him!”

Reigniting that anger, the villain comes back to his senses, aiming the gun right at Chat Noir, pressing his finger on the trigger, a maniacal grin gracing his face as he’s got the hero right where he wants him. However, right at the knick of time, Ladybug appears in the corner of Chat Noir’s eyes, aiming the spotted yo-yo right towards the Zipper’s feet. When he goes to pull the trigger, he misses right as Ladybug yanks on the string, making the villain stumble and fall, crashing down to the ground with a thud and joining the male hero.

When Ladybug captures the akuma and the villain is unmasked, she goes to the sulking hero in a growing suspicion as her eyes sink in on Chat Noir. “Mind telling me what that was about?”

He still plays the ignorant card, standing up tall as he shrugs. “Tell you what exactly?”

“He was too focused on you,” Ladybug frowns, propping a hand on her hip as she glares at Chat Noir. He was a great partner, but he could be so insufferable and stupid at times. “And when I came to help you out, you’re on the ground watching him— not fighting back? Yeah, what was that about? You could’ve been discovered. He could’ve taken your Miraculous! How could you be so careless?”

Chat Noir sighs, his shoulders slumping as he looks down in shame. “I thought I saw him hesitate back there— wanted to see what he’d do.”

“So, you nearly jeopardize yourself— jeopardize us both on an off chance that he’d change his mind?” Ladybug grumbles. “Y’know what, it’s obvious that you two seem to be connected in real life, so I’ll just warn you right now, if you mess up again because of your stupid feelings, Hawk Moth won’t be the person you have to worry about.”

—

You find that one of the most appealing things that college has to offer are the vast amount of opportunities given to you. Whether it is mandatory for a grade or an optional occurrence that your professor highly recommends (and offers extra credit), you find them to be very fun. Especially the ones that offer food.

Luckily, this conference was held inside of a restaurant. The entire building booked for the event as your professor had asked which students wanted to participate. Taking up the opportunity, you had gotten dolled up for the occasion, beating your face with a light coat of foundation, lip gloss, and mascara before putting on a buttoned-up blouse and a pencil skirt, the attire requirement— business casual. You’re one of the few students to arrive early, taking a seat towards the end with those you find familiar. Nanami Kento, someone you’ve shared a few classes with and someone you start deeming as a friend, is on your right while the seat left of you is still vacant. His blond hair styled in front of his face with his typical stoic expression as the waitress makes her way around with a jug of ice cold water.

He’s the first to reach for it, pouring a glass for himself before looking over at you. “Want me to pour you a glass?”

You nod, accepting the kind gesture. “Yeah, why not?”

Nanami didn’t seem to be a very great conversation from what you’ve noticed. Whenever you’d start a conversation, he always hummed in acknowledgement as he listened in. When you asked him a question, the responses were always short and quick. Nothing to really sustain and carry it out, but you’ve come to appreciate his silence. Because what he lacked in one area, he gave in the next. He spoke a lot of words with his actions, always doing kind gestures to make up for his silence. He was so sweet and kind that it was adoring, making you enjoy his company. However, sometimes the quiet was overbearing and you needed something to spruce up the moment.

Your foot was tapping against the floor rather fast that it called for the blonde’s attention, making him finally muster up the nerve to say something first. “I’m pretty sure it’ll be fine.”

“Huh?”

“I’m pretty sure it’ll be fine,” he repeats, looking down at your restless leg. “We’re not the ones that’ll be talking.”

“Oh,” you hum, understanding what he meant and stilling your feet. “Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I’m fine.”

“Oh,” he mimics, cutting the conversation short. It’s a nuisance, he knows. He wishes he could start up something more with you, but he begins to feel all flustered and fumbles on his thoughts. He knows if he tries voicing them, he’d only make an embarrassment of himself and you’d lose all respect for him. In silent self-loathing, he grabs the glass and chugs the water until it’s empty, reaching for the jug to pour more.

Right as he does, you watch your professor rush in. “Sorry, guys! I was supposed to be the first one here, but some family business happened and it held me up.”

You all dismiss her tardiness as the place is still empty all things considered, but it seems like her arrival was the domino effect as people started piling in more, trickling inside. The professors sit on the opposite of you as everyone tries finding their seats. Breadsticks were brought to the table and nibbling on one now, you didn’t realize the presence of someone else until you heard the scraping of chair legs right next to you, the man with strikingly white hair pulling out the seat. “It’s fine if I sit here, right?”

Immediately, you nod, gesturing for him to take a seat next to you. The room is getting packed as the host comes to greet everyone, setting down more menus. Having already decided what you want, you watch as Gojo takes up his position. The evening goes smoothly, but you can’t help the glances you take at Gojo. You don’t know him too well, but he seems rather perplexed.

“I might be overstepping, but,” you call for his attention, “are you okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

His shoulders slump, making your eyes widen as you’re worried you’ve crossed a line. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Is it that obvious?” Gojo groans, head falling forward and his styled hair falling in front of his face. His glasses tilt off his nose, nearly falling off. Your heart races, mouth falling in an ‘O’ as you didn’t mean to make him have a small outburst. He groans, hiding his face in his hands before grabbing the jug of water and pouring himself a glass.

“I need something stronger than this,” he groans, which the professor hears. She gives him a pointed look, “No drinking, Gojo.”

He grumbles, looking away. “I was only joking…”

Gojo confides in you, telling you that a friend got upset with him. Though he didn’t go into much detail about it, he was evidently hurt about the course of the situation. You tried giving him as much advice as you could, but he always had an excuse for it. You were curious about his dodginess, but thought there must be a valid reason for it if he was adamant on his stance.

“Anyways,” Gojo says, a smile gracing his features and replacing his previously glum expression. “Less about me, and more about you. Got anything more exciting than me being a shitty friend?”

“I don’t think I do,” you succumb to the discussion change. Humming out as you pondered on a discussion to talk about, you jut out your lips as you do. “I’m going out to one of those frat parties later this week. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Really?” Gojo furrows his eyebrows before chuckling. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t expect you to be someone who likes parties.”

“I do when I need a good stress relief,” you admit. “They can be fun if you go with the right crowd.”

“And do you have the right crowd?” He cocks up an eyebrow. You giggle, shaking your head.

“Honestly, no,” you say. “My friends don’t really like partying like that.”

“Hmm,” Gojo smiles. “How about I be the crowd you need? I’ve been needing a bit of a stress reliever, too. I fear getting wasted is the only solution possible.”

“Oh, definitely,” your eyes light up at the invitation. “As long as you’re not moping around the entire time.”

“Trust me,” Gojo throws you a sly smile. “I won’t.”

When the conference is over, the professor has all of the students gather around. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you a last minute assignment to tell me what the conference is about.”

Everyone chuckles, relief flooding their systems. “I just wanted to let you guys know that in one of the next few classes, we’ll have a project. You’ll need to partner up with someone else, and for this, I’m assigning the partners.”

Some people grimace at the announcement, squirming on the spot as they’re not too sure who they’ll be paired with. You start to worry, not wanting to be matched with a slacker and end up doing the majority, if not all, the work. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll like who you’ll be paired with for the most part. I was watching you all tonight and your partners will be someone within this group. I’ll let you all know right now who they are. A little VIP treatment for you all—”

Your shoulders drop with relief, knowing the probability of having a slacker has lessened. Though, you still question a few of the people in attendance, at least, you know the majority here. The professor scrolls through a list before her eyes light up with an ‘oh!’ leaving her lips. “Nanami with Haibara…”

Reading through the pairs, she goes down the list before saying your name. “You’re with Gojo.”

Standing next to you, Gojo nudges you in the ribs. He looks down happily, “That’s very convenient for us.”

You nod. “Yeah, but you better not give me all the work,” you point at him. The professor dismisses you all as he throws up his hand in defense, “I wasn’t planning on it!”

( 🐾 ) : @r0ckst4rjk @thotwiththoughts @hellokittyish @myahfig4 @kasukuna @aerareads @pixelcafe-network @fluerful @satsattoru @juneslove21 @strngegirl @etsurunii @l-ilysm @moonchhu @starriesworlds @rirk-ke

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst #x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jjk x you

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eerie-august · 3 days ago

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Theory time because I accidentally connected some dots (??) after reading E91 and I have no one to talk to about it —>

(No spoilers for fast pass, please if this theory is disproven in the next four episodes don’t spoil it)

Ever since episode 66 I have been wondering what exactly was the significance of Ashlyn’s dream, because the more you look at it the more obvious it becomes that it wasn’t a dream.

To sum up the episode:

After being drugged by Mr.Thomas, the next episode starts with Ashlyn being surrounded by her friends, most of which are playing video games. She falls asleep, and when she wakes up it’s dark and her friends are gone. She goes looking for them (acknowledging how strange the situation is) and finds them (including Logan) all inside a separate room. Before she can interact with them, a whisper catches her attention. She looks over to see a different Logan, one who is clearly hiding/peeking around a corner, warn her “that’s not us.” She looks back at her “friends,” all of which now have scary phantom faces. Then she wakes up in the lab in a panic and this “dream” is never mentioned again.

At first this comes off as a nightmare. Makes sense, Ashlyn was unconscious for a bit after a stressful event. Even the background of the chapter is grey and staticy, very indicative of a dream or flashback. However everything feels too linear, too real to be a dream. Ashlyn seems to be fully conscious, and a dream doesn’t explain why Logan specifically would be there to warn her about the phantom friends. I mean I love the guy but realistically if episode was completely irrelevant I fear he wouldn’t be in it.

Now I want to jump ahead to what Tyler and Aiden were talking about in E91. They both reveal they’ve been having dreams where a phantom version of themselves was trying to kill them.

Coincidence? I sure hope not because that would ruin the theory.

If Aiden and Tyler have been experiencing these dreams because they died, then why would Ash be experiencing something similar?

To explain this I propose a theory: there is a hidden, dreamlike world in between the real world and the phantom dimension, which contains the phantomified versions of real people. Here they aren’t quite human, but not completely phantoms either. This is where Tyler and Aiden are going, and this is where Ash and Logan have visited. Why tho?

Before I go into that, I want to highlight some things said early on in E66.

I think it’s safe to assume that the Logan who warns Ashlyn of her fake friends was the real Logan who was somehow in the dream with her.

And I suspect this wasn’t his first time in that realm, either. During their video game banter, Aiden complains of how good Logan is at the game. This doesn’t really matter, unless you take into account that fact that Logan supposedly hasn’t played before. The explanation? He has played it before.

Ashlyn does not realize her friends are phantoms, but Logan has (hence why he warns her from his hiding place). It appears that Logan has experienced this dream before, possibly so many times that he was able to master the “brand new” video game they were playing. It might work like a time loop, sending the kids though the same actions every time they visit.

Okay, so, if this is some third/subconscious dimension, then why are specifically Ashlyn and Logan the only ones experiencing this? I have a couple ideas:

1. It results after near-death or panic-inducing experience.

As far as we’re aware, Ashlyn only went to this “dimension” once, during the time she was being kidnapped. The drugs combined with her frantic fighting combined with her panic probably took a pretty big toll on her physical well being in addition to her mental. It makes sense that she might be in a weird headspace for a bit. As for Logan, I would like to point out that we are still missing crucial backstory details for his character. Maybe he experienced something when he was younger, or even at the start of the series that would cause him to go into panics resulting in dreaming about this “dimension.” Admittedly this theory has some problems.

- All of the kids have had many traumatizing experiences, why has Ashlyn only had this dream once?

- If Logan suffered from a traumatic event before being sucked into the rift in Savannah, why is he now experiencing this dream?

Theory 2: this dimension is where the kids go when they’re unconscious.

This one also has some major problems, but let me give the supporting evidence first. For starters, we’ve seen both Ash and Logan physically pass out within the Webtoon.

Logan went night-night as early as E22, which gives him plenty of time to experience this dreamworld before Ash got there. I also want to point out that both of these occurrences were from actually passing out, and not just sleeping. If this theory is to work then it must be from forced unconsciousness. However the plotholes for this theory are strong.

- We also saw Ben and Taylor knocked out in the same episode as Ashlyn, and it doesn’t appear that they had the same dream.

- If Logan has had this dream enough times to memorize hidden crawlspaces in a game, then he probably needs to spend a lot of time unconscious. That’s not good for his brain

Theory 3: the dream occurs depending on damage sustained from the phantom dimension.

This one doesn’t explain why Ashlyn has only had this dream once and specifically during E66, but it does solve a few issues regarding the other’s lack of this dream.

As far as I’m aware, Ashlyn and Logan have been directly injured by phantoms while the others haven’t. I’m pretty sure. (I also want to point out that when being tested in the lab for a connection, Logan was the one chosen to be nicked by the phantom, continuing the pattern that he’s been hurt by them while others haven’t)

Although not fatal, Logan sustained a pretty nasty scratch from a phantom in E22. It was so bad the scar existed in E32 and appeared in his shadow in E42. This implies it’s/he’s now heavily connected to the phantom dimension.

Ashlyn was also scratched way back in E10, then again in E73. Both were minor but left a scar and occurred during emotionally charged times. I don’t understand why a scratch occurring in E10 could result in a dimension hop in E66, but it could work in combination with the other theories. Maybe by being injured by phantoms, Ash and Logan were both “marked” and introduced to this in between-world. Then in times of great emotional or physical stress they come back to this dream because the fabric between dimensions is thinning.

This is about the extent of my thoughts but I do think I’m onto something. Let me know of any additions or contradictions to this theory

#school bus graveyard #sbg #sbg (webtoon)#sbg theory #school bus graveyard theory #ashlyn banner #Logan fields #I may be going insane #I came up with this whole thing while brushing my teeth

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dashielldeveron · 3 days ago

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Binding Magic and Other Medievalisms | 2 | Shinsou Hitoshi Series Masterlist Summary: Reader and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (the binding magic ritual + combination wedding, the reception, and the wedding night).

Warnings: female reader. Ritual bloodletting/self-harm. Sexual content (including virgin!reader and sexual coercion). Food discussion (reader needs to eat a lot to replenish energy from magical ritual).

~14k

“And if I don’t drink?”

“We don’t leave this room until you swallow. I’ll pry your jaw open to trickle it down your throat if I have to. Hurry up,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the limestone table, its curved edge cutting into your hip, “We have an hour and a half until it starts.”

“Hm.” Shinsou rolled the stem of the chalice between his fingers and peered into the swirling, indigo liquid. “I deserve a more thorough explanation of what it is, I think.”

“It should be enough that it’s an order from Yama—fine. Fine! The binding ritual assumes the roles of the two involved: the conquering lord—me—and the captured—you, since your side surrendered.” You took the goblet from him to set on the table, lest he strategically spill it. “But even though you’re not a weeping, wailing captive in hysterics, the traditional precautions still apply: this potion renders us both silent so that neither of us can cast any spells during the ceremony. A good deal of magic depends on verbal incantations, so this potion prevents that.” You sighed, shooting a longing glance towards the exit. “I don’t know why you’re insisting I tell you this; you probably somehow already have this information.”

Shinsou draped his arm over the back of his stone chair. “How could I know? The dealings of the Court Mage are meant to be secret,” he said, crossing one leg over the other, “Who’s making the arrangements for the ceremony, since you can’t?”

“Yamada,” you said without thinking, slumping, leaning back on your hands, “He knows the most about it, otherwise. I tried to commission Keigo to come help, but he says he’s busy sourcing a backorder of—hm.” Shinsou really was only feigning ignorance—he’d known that participants in the binding ceremony can’t make the arrangements for it themselves, lest the ingredients start attaching themselves to the participants early. “Shut up.”

“If you like,” said Shinsou, and before his fingertips grazed the base of the goblet, he withdrew them and turned to you with a weary grimace. “You first.”

You watched Shinsou’s scarred hand returning his lap as he sat back in his chair, tilting his head back, inadvertently exposing more of his neck, to scrutinise you with half-lidded eyes. For a moment, you could’ve sworn you made out a tangled swarm of paper-thin, white scars along his throat, crisscrossing over his Adam’s apple and pulse point, but when he nodded towards the chalice, shadow engulfed them.

As you drank, the potion’s magic hissed and skidded over your tongue, leaving a shock of electricity sparking at the roof of your mouth and the faint aftertaste of pears at the back of your throat. Lightheaded, you slid your grip up to cup the bowl of the goblet in your palm, and you held it out towards him, tilting the stem his way for him to take.

Instead, Shinsou slid his hand directly under yours and squeezed, his scarred fingers trapping yours around the goblet, and in your moment of confusion, he yanked the goblet towards himself—he spread his legs to bring you close, and you had to rush to stand between them so that this intricate potion wouldn’t spill.

“Perfect,” said Shinsou, extracting the goblet from both of your hands to set it on the table but keeping your fingers in a crushing grip, “I doubt I’ll ever have you like this again, so indulge me, if you don’t mind.”

You moved to slap him with your free hand, but he caught it before it could even come near his cheek. With a smile that was closer to a wince, Shinsou shifted both of your wrists to one hand, and he—he started unbuttoning the top few of his waistcoat with one hand (you squirmed in his grasp and tried to look elsewhere). “You’ve been so good this past month, haven’t you? I’ve noticed. You’ve kept your head down. Hidden yourself in your tower. I can guess why, so—hey. Look at me. No, c’mon; it’s not that hard,” said Shinsou, reaching up to tap the side of your jaw towards him, breaking your gaze from the indigo trails running down the side of the chalice, and when you deliberately averted your eyes again, he cupped your cheek for a moment before striking it with the flat of his fingers—too soft to be a slap, barely enough power to be more than a rough pat, but smarting nevertheless and completely out of line.

You jerked at your wrists, but he simply squeezed around them, bones grinding together for a moment, as he got back to unbuttoning his waistcoat—and, unfortunately, in your frustration, you gave him what he wanted: you finally looked at him and what he’s become.

What struck you the most was how much space Shinsou seemed to take up. Back when you were children, he’d always seemed so determined to make himself smaller, like he wasn’t even there, like he didn’t deserve to be on the same bench as you, Midoriya, and Todoroki as you scribbled down the runic translations that Aizawa had assigned. Shinsou still retained the same, poignant silence, but he undoubtedly had a presence now—broad-shouldered and lithely muscular, biceps bulging despite his attempts to hide them underneath layers and layers of black fabric, the long legs you stood between—honestly, you kind of hated him for it, because by most accounts, Shinsou gave the visual impression that he was nothing but a lanky, pretty-boy nobleman, run gaunt through the war, but—you eyed the stretch of bare skin down his chest he was exposing—he was hiding a solid physique, once you got close enough to notice.

Once he’d one-handedly unbuttoned all but the last two buttons, Shinsou took one of your hands and roughly smushed it over his heart, scrunching his shirt’s fabric.

(You winced, not exactly because you were abruptly forced to touch his pec, but because you were reminded of a fact about Shinsou that had always bothered you: Shinsou ran distressingly cold. It had led to his falling ill frequently when you were children and subsequent teasing from the others for his falling behind in his studies. A voice in the back of your head wondered if he still got sick as often.)

“Oh?” His voice was just as cold. “Disgusted by my touch? Get used to it, sweetheart; I’ll be your husband before the day is over.”

The back of the hand that clamped yours to his chest was littered in fading scars, some trailing up into his sleeve. Too many. Hardly any unmarred skin, but he’s so pale that you couldn’t tell unless you stood this closely. The skin underneath your fingers felt smooth, but higher on his chest, you could make out the edge of a deep, splattering incision. But the scars you’d thought you saw on his neck were non-existent, except for a curving burn mark almost in the pattern of a beheading, and the only scar on his face was an old, thick, diagonal scar through his left eyebrow, with hair refusing to grow through the scar tissue—that, at least, has remained unchanged since the day you met.

“Hey. Your inability to speak doesn’t excuse you from responding to me.”

You shook your head, drooping in his grip. God, if he weren’t such an ass, you could pretend he’s still your friend—but the kid you knew wasn’t this talkative, even, let alone mean. You’d jerk awake from dreams, sometimes, in which you were both children in Tiirnham Wood again, skiving off from sparring sessions to practise the druidry spells you’d learnt that day, only to wake up and stare at a dark ceiling, chest tight with the weight of the war crushing down on it. But y’know? Perhaps Shinsou felt the same way. Maybe he was grasping for some way to reconnect and reconcile—

“Kill me. Now. I won’t offer again,” said Shinsou, and he clicked his tongue. “Not that I can offer after today, with the binding magic. But this is your last chance out. At the end of the ceremony, no power on this earth can turn us back to the way we are right now. You’ll be shackled to me from that moment on, and you couldn’t want that, could you, after all I’ve done? I deserve to die, don’t I?”

Absolute idiot. It didn’t work last time, and it’s not going to wo—

(The thought occurred that if Shinsou kept living, you would be on guard for the rest of your life. You could never fully trust him. You’d never wake up feeling rested; you’d always feel like you’re being watched; you’d never have any secrets. He would know everything almost as soon as you did.

You’d never truly get to be alone.)

“C’mon,” said Shinsou under his breath, with a grin, for the first time, pricking at the corners of his mouth, “You can do it. I know you can. You study enchantments. You have to have nonverbal magic by now. I know you’re just faking helplessness for the sake of peace.”

(You narrowed your eyes. Isn’t he doing the same?)

He pressed down on your hand on his chest. “I invite death. Let me meet her.”

Oh, stop being ridiculous. The death of an heir would be messier than even you could walk out of, but, moreover—your gaze flitted over to the goblet, half full of indigo potion, and you shook your head, trying to pull away from him.

Shinsou let you pull your hand from his chest, but he kept it gripped in his and rested your intertwined fingers on his toned thigh. He followed your line of sight to the goblet, and the grin finally stretched across his face. “You always reveal too much about yourself without saying anything at all,” said Shinsou, shaking his head, “because you’ve just let me know two incredibly valuable pieces of information: one, that you have access to the lesser-known information about binding magic. Suspiciously hard to find. Makes me interested in your sources. At this point, you’ve drunk the silencing potion, but I haven’t, and those rare sources have told you that in order to get your voice back, we both have to drink of the same cup after the ceremony. Otherwise, you’ll lose your speech forever, unable to use the majority of your magic, and that can’t be remedied if I die before the ceremony. So, that leads us to fact two: you love your magic more than you hate me.”

Your mouth twitched. You’ll kill him. I mean, you would, but you can’t, but you—

“Rest assured, I’ll drink it. Now, get out of here,” he said, releasing his grip on you, spinning you by the hip towards the door, and prodding the small of your back to make you stumble towards it, “Your father will bewaiting for you.”

You shot Shinsou a scathing look over your shoulder, but he was right, more or less: Yamada was just outside the chamber, gesturing loosely in his conversation with Aizawa, and he was more than pleased to whisk you away to be readied for the ritual.

If you’d had your words, you would’ve asked the women bathing and scrubbing at your skin if the rumours that Yamada were your actual father were circulating again. He’s not, of course, but he has been more parental than any other adult in your life, including your true parents.

You don’t have too many memories of them. Stricken by poverty and too many children, they’d sold you to the palace to work in the kitchens much too young, and you suffered because of it. You’d discovered an incantation carved into a loose brick two years in, and, not knowing what it was, you’d kept those magic words to yourself, saying them over and over in your mind until the day you’d said them aloud—and all that time practising them had stored up the spell’s power, culminating in an explosion that collapsed a kitchen wall and ruined meals for the whole castle for a week. You swore Master Cook was going to strangle you, so when you were brought before Yamada, a newly appointed duke and not yet Nezu’s heir, you’d figured Master Cook wanted an authoritative witness to your death.

But Yamada had been interested in you. Said that you might be a good conduit of magic, if you studied enough. And you were put in classes alongside noble children for an orthodox education and in smaller, tutoring sessions for magic with every magic user Yamada could find.

Honestly, you were extremely grateful to Yamada, but he’s not a father figure. You don’t think he meant to use you as much as he does, but it’s happening, regardless. You’re not grateful at the moment, for example, for being rubbed down with oil and having your nails trimmed by these women—you usually take care of these things yourself, acts that further alienate you from other nobles who leave drudgery to the lower classes. You wouldn’t want to use servants the same way you’re used as Court Mage. Plus, you’ll always hold a grudge for how the court treated you, a commoner, as you got a noble’s education…

God. Some days, it seems like Yamada’s the only one you can trust. He’s the only constant, the only reliable person in the whole six provinces, the only person who can consistently get things done and do them correctly. The only one who’s on the same page as you and can understand anything you throw at him.

But there’s a reason for that. He’s shown that he trusts you more than anyone else by telling you alone his greatest secret, and to repay his trust, you’ve devoted your life to him until now.

You looked at him behind you in the mirror, as your hair was manipulated into something subdued for the ceremony. What would he have planned for you if this marriage weren’t happening? Would he have fought your retirement? Would he have helped you train an apprentice? Would he plunge them too early into battle, too?

Yamada caught your eye in the mirror and beamed. “Looking good! We’re only a few minutes out, so let’s go ahead and paint the runes on your arms.”

He guided you to a cushioned chair and popped the cork on the runic ink, wheezing from the pressure. Yamada wrote the small, neat letters down your arms, and while he waved his hand back and forth over the black ink to dry them out before the ink could run, he dismissed the servants and asked them to close the door behind them—odds were that he was about to tell you information that he shouldn’t officially know.

“Right, I don’t want this to go the same as last time you cast a fae spell,” said Yamada, snatching a bulletin off a far table to fan your arms more effectively, “No one deserves to be that sick, and we’ll need you out of bed as soon as possible. I’ll take care of you again, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still furious about last time.

“Now. I don’t know how a binding spell is going to affect you. When I’ve seen binding magic cast by humans before, it’s always varied immensely in how badly it affects them. Unfortunately, that variance tends to be in extremes—people tend to die or feel something as minor as a headache. Which is why I’d like to draw an additional rune, with your permission.” Yamada pointed towards your collarbone and down along the top of your boob. “It’s long. Vertical. But it’s a protective measure, meant to keep your organs functioning if they get close to failure. I’ve seen it used once before; it doesn’t change the ritual in any other way,” Yamada provided, because you couldn’t ask.

You nodded, and Yamada re-dipped his brush into the ink. “Stellar. Now, the difference between this fae spell and others is that you have to drink that silencing potion immediately afterwards. Otherwise, the ritual won’t end. It began the moment the potion touched your lips, and the binding magic is volatile right now, unstable enough to kill either of you, should something happen to the other. So, drink it as soon as you can. It helps the magic settle.

“You’ll probably want to sleep for days afterwards, and you should, but there’s also court expectations. You’ll be wanted at the banquet that follows.” Yamada squinted as he inspected his work. “Try to eat as much as you can. The ritual will take a lot out of you, and you’ll need to replenish it. I don’t know how long you’ll be required to stay there, but if the worst comes, I can make an excuse to get you out. But you know how people are,” he said bitterly, fanning the ink again, “They’ll want to congratulate you on your wedding.”

***

Shinsou stood at the entrance to the stone amphitheatre, hands clasped behind his back and looking disturbingly docile in traditional silver robes (similar to yours but with impractically wide sleeves, as required for the role of the conquered), offering you a tight-lipped smile and a raised brow once his eyes flitted down your figure. You purposely knocked into his shoulder as you passed through the archway.

Halting once you’d stepped foot into the amphitheatre, you raised a hand to shield your eyes, blinking to adjust to the light (your own sleeve didn’t do much to block it, since the intricate, curving pattern caught any shaft of light it could to make its swirls seem to churn and spin). Someone’s brought in many more lamps than usual, illuminating the whole of the stage—so bright you almost could’ve missed the absurd amount of people crammed onto the audience benches. Who allowed so many witnesses?

You caught Yamada sneaking into a seat on the front row that Aizawa had been saving for him, and you scowled.

Steeling yourself, you crossed towards the table down centre of the otherwise vacant stage, with Shinsou trailing behind you, footsteps silent but presence palpable. Glyphs in the fae language, drawn in chalk on the stone floor, shivered and vanished once both of you stepped over them.

At the table, you shoved downwards hard on Shinsou’s shoulder to seat him in the sole chair—the position of subservience, the position of the subjugated. He acquiesced easily, blinking slowly up at you, as if he’s brainless and merely waiting for your next command.

(You couldn’t imagine doing this ritual with an actual captured war…bride. Fighting you every step of the way.

This shouldn’t be such a spectacle, but everyone’s got that glaze in their eyes, when they’ve seen so much violence that they can do nothing but keep looking. Numbed themselves, because otherwise, you’re tearing yourself up over everyone who’s bleeding.

You’re just giving them something to look at for a while.)

You drew your focus to the table, bearing a silver blade so thin it’s almost a cylinder, a small bowl of white powder that Yamada had intentionally kept unlabelled, an empty silver bowl, and a jar of thick balm. They’ve been gathering dust in Yamada’s spell-locked trunk since the first and only time he explained binding magic to you. You picked up the knife, careful to grasp what you could of its miniscule handle, and when you turned to Shinsou, he was already offering his hands, palms up, with his sleeves pooling into his lap to expose his wrists.

(How did he know that was the next step? What are his sources on binding magic, then, if he found yours so suspect?

It occurred to you that Yamada may have briefed him, just as he did you, but it’s more comforting to imagine strangling Shinsou for having access to information you’ve considered halving your lifespan to know more about.

And he’s sitting upright, motionless save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, cold gaze on you, as if you weren’t about to hurt him. Pliant little bitch.)

Furrowing your brow, you took his left hand first. You gripped it by the tips of his fingers and made the swift cut into his palm, from the bend of his wrist to just below his middle finger—he didn’t so much as twitch, just tilted his head a bit as he watched your expression rather than the knife in his skin—and you did cut his palm again, from the bend to his ring finger. You guided his hand over the empty bowl to catch his dripping blood.

Holding his gaze, you squeezed his fingers firmly to say that he should keep them over the bowl. Shinsou gave a subtle nod, almost absentmindedly, and he was already reaching his right hand up for you to cut, first pressing his fingertips against yours before lacing your fingers together.

The moment your palms touched, you glowered and shook his fingers from yours, and you made the two slices in his right palm with a great deal more frustration, a fresh rush of blood trickling into the bowl.

You pressed the blade to your skin with his blood still dribbling down it. You made the customary cuts in your palms as quickly as you could, the weight of the painted runes sinking into your skin as your pooling blood blended with Shinsou’s.

You dipped your first two fingers into your combined blood and again into the jar of balm, and you smoothed the mixture over his cuts and then yours, healing them into threadlike scars, a stark, sparkling silver against your skin.

(Shinsou needed to stop fucking staring at you, damn it, because he’s making you more self-conscious than the fact that most of court was watching. Why can’t he be more focused on the ritual itself? He didn’t even glance at his palms when you’d healed them, just set them on his knees and waited for you to continue.)

Now came the actual binding. Taking a generous pinch of white powder, you flicked it into the bowl of blood. Yamada had never told you what came next in this particular step, nor did he explain its purpose—too old of a spell, too fae for humans to remember—just that something would happen with the blood. As the runes dug into your forearms, each one growing heavier by the second, the blood vaporised into a cloud of smoky silver, swirling and spreading in a mist more like moonlight than anything.

You held your breath in the case that it’s toxic, and you gripped the table’s edge to steady yourself, but you let out the breath in a rush: Shinsou had been staring into the bowl of silvery blood, the mist eddying around him like it knew its master, and he turned back to you, lips parted, eyes wide, looking at you as if seeing you for the first time.

You stuffed down the jolt of fear in your stomach at what he might know that you don’t.

Swallowing thickly, you dipped your fingers into the blood again, this time withdrawing a gob of a silver, congealed cream, and you took Shinsou’s hands again to trace a line of it around each of his wrists. The instant you’d closed the second circle on your own wrists, all four circlets buzzed and shined, swelling for a moment before fading quietly into slender cuffs etched into your skin like silver ink, thinner than the ceremonial blade’s tip and barely discernible if you hadn’t already known they were there.

A bit lightheaded, you leant your weight against the table and glanced over the runes on your forearms, a few of them sunken so far down into your skin that they were starting to bleed at the edges. You discovered you were panting, heart pounding in your ears, and, placing a trembling hand over your heart, you tried to steady your breath and to slow your heartrate.

You’d put off the next step if you could, but considering how you might pass out soon, you couldn’t afford to hesitate. Blinking to focus, you found Shinsou just waiting for you. Legs parted. Arms open, fingers tapping a rhythm on his knee. The bastard knew what was coming, but even if he’d consider having mercy on you, he couldn’t: the conqueror has to initiate the seal.

You extended a shaking hand towards Shinsou, and he leant forward so that it would reach his face, cupping his cooled cheek as you took a wobbly step towards him. You told yourself that he’s gripping your hip to keep you from keeling over, squeezing his thighs around your legs to stop you from stumbling back, that he’s placing his hand over the back of your own as it cradles his cheek so that you can feel how his fresh scars burn against his skin.

If only this were Hitoshi, instead of whomever he’s become.

You bent to kiss him, anyway, wrinkle between your brows fading at the first swipe of his tongue—because at the first exchange of saliva, the binding magic was sealed, and the runes shimmered (so brightly you can even tell through closed eyelids) and dissolved, leaving you light, dazed, and just a bit dizzy—or was that the way Shinsou nibbled at your lower lip to draw your tongue into his mouth? How he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, how he gripped the back of your neck to tilt your head just barely so that he could kiss you more deeply, how he stuck his tongue down your throat like most of court wasn’t watching, how he fucking kissed you like he would kiss a lover—your stomach lurched at the thought that he’d never have one, that he’d have to make do with you, and if you’d had your voice, you would’ve involuntarily whined into it—and you hated yourself for it, because all your good sense was leaving you; c’mon, woman—Hitoshi is dead, and Shinsou killed him.

Shinsou pulled away, eyes flicking upwards towards your frown, but before you could harden into a scowl, the weight of casting the fae spell overtook you: your knees buckled as your eyes rolled back (you remembered weakly grasping at Shinsou’s shirt, but you can’t remember if you managed to close your fingers or not).

You didn’t faint; the binding magic wouldn’t let you. Barely able to distinguish anything more than changes in light, you tried to make sense of a series of distant sensations: cold hands at your waist, toes repeatedly bumping against stair ledges, the circulating air of a room above ground, and a sparking fizz as liquid passed your lips.

You grew cogent enough to recognise the chirp of nearby goldfinches around the time your vision focused again, this time on gently wafting lace curtains of your tower workroom. Grunting, you pushed yourself up with difficulty from a slump in your own, threadbare armchair, scooted over by the window to encourage breathing in fresh air, rather than the residual fumes larking about your workspace. With a throbbing head, you wiped at the sweat dripping down your neck, and at the motion, sharp pangs stabbed into your stomach. You hissed through your teeth.

“You still have no healing magic?” Shinsou’s voice came from somewhere deep in your bookshelves.

Vertigo overtook you when you tried to stand, so you plopped back onto your chair and rubbed your temple, pressing down hard. “Never had the aptitude for it. Sorry to be so useless,” you said with a click of your tongue.

“It’s not me that it’s hurting at the moment.” Shinsou emerged from the far end of your archive, a stack of handbound books underneath his arm as he paused at your sink.

“Put those,” you said, tripping over your tongue, too big for your mouth, “Put those back. I have those organised in a partic—particular system—”

“Stop thinking about your job for once,” said Shinsou, approaching with a mug of water and forcing it into your hand, clamping your fingers around the handle for you to ensure you wouldn’t drop it before he withdrew, sitting back on his haunches a step away from your feet.

How dare this man coddle you; you were more than—stop going through the books! Stop it! And actually, yeah, water sounded nice now that you were noticing how parched you were, but have you washed this mug since you used it to make Todoroki a sleeping charm?

“Drink it. Now’s not the time for restraint,” said Shinsou, pulling a small, flip notebook to copy from your volume of Night Wyrms and Burrowing Dragons: the Carnivorous Reptilia of the Six Provinces of Yuuei. “The binding ceremony has sapped almost four days’ worth of nutrients from your body. I don’t know how you’ve woken so quickly. That glyph on your collarbone must be working overtime.”

Your eyes dropped to your left boob, where the long rune’s ink flashed boldly despite trails of sweat passing over it. All other runes had vanished during the ceremony, so—oh. You must be dying.

“Drink,” he said, flipping a page, “I was hoping to avoid the reception, but I can’t find any food in here—the way you live is insane—and you need to eat as soon as possible.”

You sipped at your water, deciding that the remnants of the sleeping charm would be a worthwhile trade for making your throat less like a desert. “Then why didn’t we go there first?”

“You’ll want to change,” said Shinsou, nodding towards stains on your ceremonial, outer robe, where, evidently, you’d spilled previous attempts to drink something.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care too much. “Bring me my cloak? The patchwork one I wear every day?”

“Don’t you have something more suited to go over your wedding dress?” asked Shinsou, fetching it from over the back of a chair for you regardless.

“Don’t call it that,” you said, stumbling a bit as you stood and let the ceremonial robe drop to the floor, its silvery patterns no longer swaying once it separated from you. He laughed through his nose as he steadied you, catching your arm, and you shook him off. “Shut up. My cloak is tacky with purpose; each patch is imbued with a different protective spell. I can tear one off if I need a spell to apply to someone else. I don’t care about appearances when I can keep someone safe.”

“I see,” said Shinsou, holding up your cloak for you to slide your arms into its bell sleeves, “That explains why you were throwing what I thought were potholders to soldiers in your war camp.”

“Oh, rude!” You drained your mug and set it on the wicker end table nailed to the floor, lest it float away, and you braced yourself for the long walk to the great hall. “Never speak to me again.”

***

Nothing good came out of this war. Except you, alive. And right now, you’d like to be dead—or, at least, unconscious for months on end, so that no one could ask anything of you.

Too many people were coming to talk to you. You could hardly lift two spoonfuls of the cheesy, potato soup before someone else needed to speak to you, either with paper-thin congratulations on the binding ritual and marriage, their greater impact on public opinion, what you were going to do next professionally, or asking after commissioning you for your magic—or, rather, how to coerce you to work for them while weaselling out of the payment, because isn’t a public servant meant to serve?

And too many people were talking about the damned war, when you’d like you erase all memories you have of it. You might be happy again. Things might make sense again.

Yamada, on your left, tried to answer for you when he could, but for once, members of court cared more about what you had to say. Almost acted like you were human. So, Yamada spent more of the evening in conversation with Aizawa, and you sweltered, answering what you could and making empty promises because you couldn’t keep track.

The stomach pangs gnawed at your insides, and you had to fight the urge to chomp into the bread bowl and slurp the soup directly from it. If you were in the privacy of your own chambers, you’d probably have eaten through about two meals’ worth by now, but you were witnessed by a public that demanded to speak to you.

And only you. It’s as if Shinsou never drank the potion to return his words, because he’s being purposely ignored by every person who approached your table. He sat at your right, able to clear his soup and a plate of gyoza and idly sip at a glass of honey-apple cider with cinnamon sticks, cloves, and translucent apple slices floating in it. His eyes darted around the great hall, flat and uninterested, and your conversations with nobles must be incredibly irritating, since he kept getting up to leave, always bringing you back different foods as an excuse.

(Damn, Yamada must have arranged for most of your comfort meals to be served to encourage you to recover, because Shinsou kept placing in front of you foods that you daydreamed about during your school days. That Master Cook broke two bones in your thumb for stealing. That bleakly flitted through your mind while organising warding spells for a military unit. If only you could eat more than two bites in a row.)

“—I actually don’t know if I’d able to get you a warriors’ talisman before the next new moon; the type you’re asking for requires a fair amount of dried dragons’ blood, and that’s been hard to source within the six provinces, ever since the trade laws on non-edible organic matter cracked down. But if you went outside the kingdom—I,” you said, jaw slackening and losing your train of thought as Shinsou set down a tall glass of tea with pear fragments and a smaller plate of the same gyoza you’d enviously watched him down half an hour prior.

You had the privilege of noticing your mouth was dry.

Gripping the glass like a hawk clings to a dead mouse, you turned back to the earl asking for help with investigating whatever was killing sheep in his shire. You popped a dumpling into your mouth before he could ask you something else, and he seemed glad to have the attention of the Court Mage and carried the conversation for a while. As you chewed, your eyes started to water.

You’d like to be warm. You’d like to be clean. You’d like to have a full stomach. You’d like to bury yourself under your quilts in your own bed. You’d like assurance that you’re sane.

Can no one tell something’s wrong with you? That you’re not the same?

“—looking a bit tired, Court Mage,” said the latest noble to approach—some…hm. Everyone and their ranks have flown out of your head. He and his gaggle of boisterous friends were younger than you were, probably around a few years past their coming-of-age celebrations—no, you recognised them from the final battalion trained, the one that never fought in the war. They’d been so eager to fight then, and they held that same eagerness in their eyes now. “But I guess anyone would look that worn out after a bedding ceremony.”

Shinsou choked on his cider, recovered enough to swallow, and slammed his glass onto the tablecloth. “That is inappropriate to say to your superior,” Shinsou said to the knights-in-training while glaring intently at you, knuckles white around his glass, “You need to back off—”

“Sod off. I’m not talking to a traitor.”

You were still caught up in wondering why anyone would willingly go to war, like these knights-in-training did. You’d do anything to get out of here. Finally taking a swig of that pear-slice tea, you found yourself saying, “What are you talking about? I don’t think there was supposed to be a bedding ceremony.”

Brow furrowed, the young knight raised a cautious finger towards you, his voice reverberating, “Have I misunderstood, your excellency? Have you not consummated the marriage yet? Weren’t you supposed to in the time between the ceremony and the banquet?”

…what?

You glanced at Shinsou to confirm, and for the first of many probable incidents, your husband looked at you like he wanted to kill you.

“Yeah,” said another knight-in-training, “Wasn’t that why you missed the beginning of the reception?”

Shinsou, you fucking dunce. Why did he assume you both had the same information? How were you supposed to know that—that you two were supposed to—

“The bedding ceremony remains in place for political marriages between major houses,” came the booming voice of the earl who’d been keen to endear himself to you earlier, and with the input of a member of the landed gentry, more and more heads were turning your way.

God. God. You’ve spent too much time studying magic and not enough politics. Your wilful ignorance of governmental procedure has worked in your favour so far, but tonight, it bit you. The existence of a bedding ceremony tingled somewhere in the back of your mind, but you couldn’t recall the last instance—or any instance, really—and what the circumstances had been.

“Shinsou,” you said in a susurrant whisper, and he flinched. “Did you know about this?”

He’s scowling, eyes lightless. “You weren’t in any condition, your excellency.” With a quiet, controlled fury, he hissed the last part, your proper form of address as Court Mage. He’s never said it before. “You could hardly stand,” said Shinsou, and he took pains to enunciate his next words, more for the benefit of the eavesdroppers than you, “I thought it best to wait until you—”

“I see,” said the earl, fist to his hip, “Honestly, Court Mage, you can’t allow a traitor to the crown to control your actions, even in things that might seem harmless on the surface.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes squinting as they darted to Shinsou for a second but quickly returned to you, as if he were scared to look at Shinsou for too long. “If you’ll allow me to be frank, your excellency, this man is probably sowing the seeds of trust in you to catch us all off guard when he tries to betray our kingdom again. You should watch your back for your own good and the six provinces’.”

Shinsou stiffly unclamped his fingers from his glass and set both clenched fists onto his lap, seemingly very interested in his napkin.

Oh, he’s not going to help? Fine. Fine! You can handle this. “Sir, it’s my wedding. I appreciate the warning, but I’d rather not discuss betrayal at the hands of my beloved husband at the moment,” you said through a fake smile and murderous intent, willing every bone in this man’s body to grind into powder.

“Forgive me,” said the earl, bowing slightly, “but the point stands that political marriages need to hold a bedding ceremony, and the traditional time for it has passed.”

You held up a finger, took a few, slow gulps of your pear tea to make time to think, but all you managed to come up with was, “I’d like to consult Lord Yamada on this.”

But the chair to your left was vacant, and so was Aizawa’s seat on his other side.

In fact, because of the absurd number of people who’ve approached you with distracting conversations, most of the head table had emptied, save for a horrifying combination of people towards the end: Iida, captain of the knights, Snipe, an artilleryman who cared for nothing outside of his weaponry, and Todoroki Enji, retired military leader. People this particular group of onlookers would respect.

You stood and tried to misdirect the group. “I believe I saw Lord Yamada exit to the parapet. I’ll go search for—”

“Captain Iida,” one of them called, and you cringed away from the table, pinching the bridge of your nose.

You’re too tired for this. “No, we should find Lords Yamada and Aizawa. They have the true authority; none of—”

“Very well,” said the first, young knight-in-training, “Let’s start with the parapet, you said?”

“No need to accompany us,” said Shinsou, sliding his chair backwards to stand and brushing against your arm, “We can find them ourselves.”

“No, we need to witness the order,” said the earl, “We need to affirm control over those who rebelled. I hate to see you involved in this, Court Mage, but I assure you it’s more about putting the traitors in their place rather than you. Your—husband—” The word could hardly exit his mouth. “—is the most cunning and most headstrong of the defectors, so if our co-regents can tame him, then they can subdue anyone. If they can make him follow this one tradition, then I can believe that everything will return to normalcy under the current rule.”

People around you were nodding.

Huh.

Shaking off Shinsou’s hand, you spun on your heel and strode towards the doors leading to the parapet with the intent to jump off of it and into the gardens. Shinsou jogged to keep up with you for your last, few, glorious seconds of freedom—the door opened on your face, and while you were clutching your nose, Aizawa, carrying two, empty glasses, was briefed on the situation by the gathering crowd, more and more of them onlooking now that Aizawa had appeared.

Something strange passed over Aizawa’s face as he listened, taking in Shinsou’s repressed wrath and the way you kept blinking, distant and detached, sensitive to light, with Shinsou clamping a hand on your swaying shoulder to keep you in one place. His voice was quiet when he spoke, more to Shinsou than to you. “And did you not expect this? This court expects us to follow customs, no matter your opinion on it. A bedding ceremony is traditional for political marriages across the six provinces.”

“It shouldn’t be,” hissed Shinsou, edging closer to Aizawa with wide eyes, blown pupils, “You can’t make me do this. It’s—” Shinsou caught himself, and he took a step back, curving in his shoulders to make himself look smaller. “—out of order,” he finished lamely.

“Well, aren’t you clever?”

(And the crowd tittered uneasily at Aizawa’s comment: firstly, that he’s speaking directly to Shinsou, one of the so-called rebels. [Unfair that Aizawa was excused of this lesser status because he’s become co-regent and close with Yamada, which no one can openly criticise. Shinsou, a landless, noble-in-name-but-not-by-blood who delighted in unsavoury, dishonest work, was the next obvious scapegoat to bear the brunt of public disdain.]

Secondly, that Aizawa was complimenting him. No one liked to admit that the opposing side had talent. For all of Shinsou’s shadowy dealings, no one could deny he excelled at it.)

“You’re not allowed to talk your way out of this, regardless of what pretty words may fly off that silver tongue,” said Aizawa, and for the first time in years, you could’ve sworn you saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I would advise you to go to the ceremonial bedding chambers by yourself, unless you’d like for Lord Yamada to vox you there.”

Shinsou was biting his bottom lip so hard that it turned white, and but after a moment, all emotion wiped from his face as he took a breath. “She needs to eat first.”

Aizawa frowned, taken aback. “Hasn’t she?”

The earl cleared his throat. “Your heir may be manipulating you, my lord. There’s no need to delay any further; she was at the banquet, the same as all of us.”

If you had any strength at all, you’d cast something to teleport away—no, an invisibility spell requires fewer components and less mental fortitude, so that’d be more apt for—please shut up. You can’t waste your energy on all the thoughts scrambling in your head when you need to focus on things like standing, which you could hardly do without swaying at the moment. Shinsou’s solid chest behind you was probably the only reason why you hadn’t toppled backwards yet.

Huh. The lightheadedness was returning.

You probably should eat something.

Things were blurry again. You found yourself jostled up a narrow, winding staircase you haven’t been up before (and you could’ve sworn you knew this castle inside and out), up and up and up. Too narrow for anyone besides you, Shinsou, and Captain Iida to continue, unlit and sweltering. Iida lighted the way with a dim lantern up the path Aizawa had directed him towards, but at the very top, the light emanated from the crack underneath a heavy, wooden door so brightly that Iida could lower his lantern.

Shinsou allowed Captain Iida struggle to try to heave open the door for a minute before reminding him that Aizawa had instructed the two of you to each place a hand on the wood to unlock the door. Your hand was seized and laid flat next to Shinsou’s on the very solid cedar, warm and humming under your touch, and the door swung open with such force that you lost your balance, with both Iida and Shinsou helping you stay upright.

You passed through the low archway into a cramped, attic space, directly under the roof, based on the close-sounding rain pelting onto it. This tiny, windowless space was probably usually left to cobweb and rot, but the scent of fresh linens and wood polish cut through the fustiness. You’re horrified to see that the main feature of the room is a double bed, fitting perfectly in the scant space from wall to wall, as if it had been carved from the same, polished wood of the walls to fit only in this space. Otherwise, two, carved chairs were split by a low table, and space enough for a maniac to pace back and forth separated them from the bed.

There’s not enough room to throw up, which you currently felt like doing.

When Shinsou followed you across the threshold, some magic triggered to slam the door behind you. Sucking in through his teeth, he grabbed your hand to slam it flat against the wood, the same as you did on the other side to open it, but the door remained still. Shinsou released your hand, and you would’ve fallen to the floor, had you not caught the back of one of the chairs.

Shinsou swore under his breath, and he spun on his heel to help you up into a chair. “You’re fine. Relax for a minute, will you? Get your bearings,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice, and he threw a napkinned bundle into your lap, clinking. “Eat this while I work on the door.”

You untied the napkin into a smattering of fruits, cold gyoza, and what looked like a smushed mooncake. Any urge to monitor what magic he was trying was quelled by the rumble in your gut. Shinsou had always been worse at magic than you—one of the worst in the class, really; he didn’t seem to have any natural talent for it—so he probably wasn’t going to be able to do anything drastic.

You blankly chewed at sour slices of clementine and tried to search for an escape. You didn’t have high hopes; this whole room looked like it was carved out of one, big piece of wood. Hold on—there’s no light source. The room is just bright, equally spread, with not even a floating orb to radiate it. Well, that’s a nice spell. Would be nice to know. You’ve always had to assign a light source, so that was impressive.

The light somehow flickered when Shinsou slammed his fist against the door, swearing under his breath, and he continued to mutter attempts at counter-curses as he dragged his fist down the wood.

Okay, you’ll bite. Taking the first mouthful of mooncake, you placed your palm on the polished, wooden wall—and recoiled instantly. Too much. Too strong. Damn, this place was coated in magic, so thickly sludged on that it vibrated and heated under the magically trained touch. Whoever did this had to know what they were doing, because this many spells at once might overload the structure. Almost felt like it would crack if one more were added to it.

You tried to touch it again, this time with only your fingertips. Chewing with the mooncake stickily heavy on your tongue, you felt around for specific spells, and it was interesting how old but vaguely familiar these felt, like versions of your favourite recipes in a cookbook from a hundred years ago. Okay, that’s probably a warding spell; it’s got that piney aftertaste in the back of your throat. That has the cut of a mild sedative charm; oh, that’s vile—encouraging less arguing to get to the—

“What are you doing?” Shinsou asked from behind your chair, seizing your wrist to separate you from the wall. “You can’t be doing any magic right now. You’ll make yourself pass out, and it looks like we both need to be awake to get out of here.”

“Sure,” you said, wrist going limp in his grip in the moment before he dropped it, taking another bite of the mooncake, “In that case, we need to figure something out soon. I’m about to pass out, regardless.”

Shinsou crossed to the other chair and spun it to straddle it backwards. “What do you know about the spells cast on this room? Just describe the magic. No need to perform any.” He squinted at your throat as you swallowed mooncake, after which he offered you a flask from a pocket somewhere in his ceremonial robe.

You glanced at it, reflecting the sourceless light, before flicking your bleary eyes back to Shinsou. “I’m not willingly drugging myself.”

“Come off of it, your excellency. If I wanted you incapacitated, I wouldn’t ask you to do it yourself. Food’s all right, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you said, grumbling as you took the flask from him and taking a tentative sip of cool water. “I know nothing more about the magic on this room than you do.”

Shinsou scoffed, and he crossed his arms to prop them on the back of his chair. “I find that hard to believe. You expect me to—”

“I didn’t know this room existed—”

“You’ve been living in this castle most of your life, and I know you’ve investigated the hell out of—”

“I didn’t know bedding ceremonies even happened in real life. I’ve only ever read about them in stories and—”

“No, c’mon, work with me, Court Mage. The magic around the door’s hinges is weaker than the rest of the room. It’ll unlock at some point. How does this magic measure progress?”

“Huh,” you said really intelligently, static gathering in your brain while you sank your teeth into a clementine slice, juice spurting. “I didn’t know it’s looking for checkpoints. All I could tell before you interrupted me was that there’s probably at least one warding spell, to discourage anyone from intruding, and that there’s at least one charm to make us calmer, to make us more amiable instead of—what we’re doing now.”

“I can be much, much worse.”

“I don’t care to see that.”

“Right. Some Court Mage you are, if you don’t even—”

“Does it not say something that I’ve never been up here before?” you asked flatly, grasping at straws and lifting the flask to your lips, “Meaning I’ve never had to renew the spells. They’re old but potent enough to last. Someone cared about this space. Someone cared that this room got used properly.”

Shinsou nodded. “I see what you mean. Older magic from a less civilised time. Cruder ways to measure progress,” he said, wetting his lower lip, “I bet they don’t even care if you orgasm.”

Choking, you set the flask on the table with a deliberate calm and wiped water off of your mouth and chin with the back of your hand. “I wouldn’t think that would be—something like that—wouldn’t be the sort of thing needed to unlock the door.”

“Really. What do you think could get us out of this bedroom designed for political consummation, my dear lady enchantress?”

You really cannot hold a conversation with this man, can you? “Stop calling me that.”

“Hm? But it’s what you are. It’s what you study, though you haven’t bothered to correct any else on that subject. You seem to be content to let them stew in their ignorance when it comes to you—would you have me misunderstand you as well, not just those who hold your strings?”

“I am more than content to be misunderstood by you.” You popped a slice of clementine into your mouth and flipped a corner of the napkin over the peel. “I’d actually appreciate it if you kept out of my business. It’s not your place to—”

“And what is my place?” Expression hardening, Shinsou narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, tendons in his forearm tensing as he clenched a fist. “Is it three paces behind you? Kneeling at your feet? Rotting underground? It’s certainly not at your side, as so graciously demonstrated by your lovely gentry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he threw his head back, exposing his neck and those tiny, cobweb-like scars that flinched with the light. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so humiliated as a human person before. Speaking about me instead of to me, and when…” He inhaled sharply, running his hands back through his hair, yanking at the roots. “I can’t believe these are the people we fought for. These are the survivors.”

“So are we,” you said, raising the flask in a sardonic toast, and you took another sip under Shinsou’s careful gaze when it returned, your senses finally returning to you, ground growing more and more solid under your feet. “We are the only good things to come out of the war. And look where they’ve put us: where they think we should be. You saw. You heard. They haven’t accepted you in. But then—how can they? You’ve been away far too long, indulging in whatever grime you drag yourself through. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re the face of what they consider to be a rebellion. You’ll have to move mountains to take your place again. And I don’t think you can.”

“My place again,” he said, sneering, “You have yet to tell me where that is.”

(You were struck by a blurry vision of Shinsou in the cottage you’ll build in Tiirnham Wood, stirring the ladle in soup over the fire, while you compiled dried herbs for spellcasting on the kitchen table. But the scene focused, bringing into clarity you and Shinsou as thirteen-year-olds, as you were as students, before it all.)

“I don’t know where your place is,” you said bitterly, crossing your legs at the ankle, “but I know where Hitoshi’s was.”

A flash of silver, and the flat of a thin blade pressed against your neck, blood beading at the tiny puncture at its point. For a moment, Shinsou himself looked startled that he was holding the minute dagger against your skin, but he wiped the alarm from his face as he leant farther over the table, furrowed his brow, and gritted his teeth as he said in a growl, “You can’t call me that. No one does. Listen.” Shoulders heaving, he drew the tip of the blade along your skin, from the pinprick over your pulse point all the way up to just underneath your chin, which he lifted with the blade to look you in the eye. “You cannot live in memory. The pain of losing me will fade. So, that’s the last time you’ll ever say my given name, got it? Keep it off your tongue. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” you said, unable to tell if he were cutting you, because the glide of the dagger was so incredibly, delicately sharp, and you fantasised about driving it into his own throat. “How, then, would it please you to be addressed?”

Shinsou blinked slowly, eyes lightless. “Am I not your husband?” He broke eye contact, exhaustion sweeping over him, and he withdrew the blade, with his rapid sleight-of-hand hiding the dagger somewhere in the folds of his ceremonial robe before you could get a good look at it.

Shinsou sat back in his chair, creaking under his weight, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much longer do you think you’ll be awake?”

“Depends on high-spirited our fight is,” you said, running your hand over your neck for blood, “If the energy dies down, I’ve got about ten minutes.”

“I have no intention of fighting you,” said Shinsou, opening his eyes and dragging his hand down his face, stretching his skin as he went, “because there will be no further insubordination from you. From now on, you will do whatever I say.”

“Just who do you think you—I will not.” You kicked him underneath the table, hard, but he kicked himself away from the table before you could dislocate his kneecap. When you stood to elbow him in the face, he caught your forearm, the toes of his boots on top of your feet to keep you from kicking him again.

“Hah, you used to be able to pin me. How long has it been since you stopped your physical training? You do rely on magic too much,” Shinsou said through a bitter grin, perfectly calm and controlled, as if your struggling were nothing to him.

“Get fucked,” you said, grimacing when he stopped your other punch (He’s right, of course, that you’ve spent more time honing your magic than physical strength, because a scholar doesn’t need to lift anything more than a tightly packed box of books; anything more could be moved with a spell—but he didn’t need to rub it in).

“Not yet,” he said evenly, and he released your arms and turned you towards your chair. “Now, sit back down.” When you tried to shove your elbow into his chest, he caught your bicep in the windup. “I don’t think you understand how gentle I’m being. I’d prefer to have this conversation in civilised a manner as possible, if you don’t mind, but we could have it with your cheek underneath my boot.”

Damn, well. Without your magic, you can’t overpower him. All you can do is kill time, trying not to anger him further, until you pass out.

Would he do anything to you in your sleep? He wouldn’t, right? (Hitoshi would never.)

You took a deep breath and eased yourself into your chair, its legs scraping on the floor. “All right. I’m listening.”

“See that you do. I’ll say this once.” Shinsou crossed his legs, an ankle resting on his knee. “I happen to know which foreign gentry are looking to buy land in this province. Which council members I could convince to increase guild taxes or tighten trade regulations to make the wool shortage worse. The location of every ward you’ve placed protecting crops and livestock, and how to destroy them. Of the lengths the House of Yamada has gone to conceal the starstone mine underneath Tiirnham Wood.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” You wrapped your cloak more tightly around yourself, snuggling into it. “I can repair the wards. I can—”

“I know enough to keep you busy for the rest of your life,” said Shinsou, swiping his middle finger underneath his eye, “You’d never get to leave this place.”

You frowned. “I haven’t told anyone that I’m—that I might want to leave.”

“Please,” said Shinsou, rolling his eyes, “You’re packing your books. Some of your bookshelves were already cleared when I was riffling through them earlier. Anyone who knows anything about you and how particular you are about where you keep your books could deduce you plan to get out of here before long.”

“Fine,” you said, “but you wouldn’t release any of that information. You wouldn’t do anything that would endanger your relationship with Lord Aizawa—”

“I would murder Aizawa and Yamada to start a war of succession all over again, if it meant I could watch you find yourself stretched so thinly that you run out of tears.”He scratched the inside of his wrist, along the silver scar. “I could make it personal, for you: I could reveal Takami Keigo as an illegal buyer of dried dragons’ blood. Or you as a corpse-robber. I could provide proof you practise witchcraft—”

“I don’t study witchcraft—”

“You think they’d know the difference?” Shinsou cracked a cold, toothy smile. “I could convince the right people to raze Tiirnham Wood for its starstone. I could light the national archive on fire myself.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you bit your lip hard, curving it into your mouth and letting it roll back outward, giving yourself time to think and coming up with very little. “And I could boil your insides until you burst,” you said, running your hand back through your hair before propping your chin on your fist.

Shinsou cocked his head. “And there’s something you couldn’t do. Because of the binding magic, of course, but also because there’s no situation possible in which you could bring yourself to kill me. But, carrying on. I might not say anything. I could be persuaded to move mountains for you,” said Shinsou, eyes finding their glint again, “I could squeeze any resistance from court for you. Whisper a word here and there. Manipulate whomever you need to get what you need. Keep your academic work funded. Maintain your access to the archive. Get you out of here as soon as possible. All without these nobles noticing they’re being had—and if they ever did, I could ensure they’d never know it was by you. Nothing could ever touch you.”

He unfolded himself for a moment: he reached into the napkin on the table to take a clementine slice.

“I could work so nicely for you. I could make it all simpler. Allow you to close your mind when you don’t want to know. Take care of what you don’t care for. Play the part of the perfect husband. I could act like I’ve been tamed, after struggling against the House of Yamada for so long—and like you’re the one who holds my chain,” said Shinsou, holding up the slice between his first two fingers before popping it into his mouth, “I would break myself, should you ask it.”

You tilted the flask back to wet your dry throat, and swallowing made your throat ache. “What do you want?” you asked quietly.

“Nothing but a balance of power.” Shinsou rubbed the back of his neck, cold gaze never leaving your face. “I would be sacrificing my dignity out there, so I would want you to do the same in here. If I serve you professionally, you’d serve me personally, privately, whenever I should want you. However I should want you.” Shinsou leant forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “If you’ll tremble at my touch, turn your head at my slightest whim, and do it all with the semblance of love, I will follow your will to the ends of the earth.”

You opened your mouth but couldn’t come up with a response. You closed it.

“You could, of course, report all this to Lord Yamada,” said Shinsou, shrugging one shoulder before rolling them both backwards, vertebrae popping as he sat back in his chair, “but alerting him to any danger couldn’t reverse the damage I could do to this peaceful life you’ve carved out for yourself. You can’t kill information once it’s wormed its way in the minds of men, and what I know could start an awful lot of trouble.” Shinsou stretched his arms above his head, catlike, grunting as his arms fell to his lap again. “Your decision, really. It’s just that everybody loves you now, and I want a part of you that you’ll never give anyone else.”

Your head was pounding.

Did you really have a choice?

(The thought of working as Court Mage forever made your stomach turn, and if he did even one of the things he threatened, it’d delay your retirement by at least a year—and who knows what pawns he kept to himself—and all of them would erode the province’s order or peace somehow.

But Aizawa and Yamada could stay together. The cottage in Tiirnham Wood might arrive sooner. And the country deserved more than a month’s worth of peacetime; it needed years and years and years of it to scrub at the stain of all who’ve died in war.)

“Damn,” you said, scrunching your eyes closed and rubbing at your temple.

Shinsou laughed through his nose. “Made a decision?”

“Shut up,” you said, and before you could continue, the long, vertical rune on your chest glowed iron-hot, its silver light visible through your closed eyelids. You peeled them open to the rune shaking, animated, above your breast before falling still and fading completely into your skin. You made a stupid noise from the back of your throat, fatigue washing over you anew as your mind emerged from fog, the clearest it’s been since before the fae spell.

“Your body’s no longer trying to kill itself, it appears,” said Shinsou, “Interesting that it stayed active for so long. Did not Lord Yamada inform you that glyph is for specifically designed for humans who want out of binding magic? That it keeps the body from giving up on—”

“Shinsou, you’re so fucking stupid,” you said, heel of your palm at your temple again, applying as much pressure in circles as you could, “It’s a goddamned rune, not a glyph. Runes fade as a spell passes through, and glyphs affect the subject permanently. Don’t talk to me again until you’ve reread the structure and properties chapter of Suoh’s Standard Book of Spellcasting.”

Shinsou blinked slowly, his eyes staying half-lidded, something odd crossing his expression. “Bakugou still has my copy.”

“Wha—he never gave it back? That bastard,” you said without thinking, and you paused when you caught yourself, palm frozen at your temple.

“Regardless,” said Shinsou slowly, “I don’t think you addressed me properly. Do it correctly, and I’ll know you agree to the terms. And we can begin.”

There’s no more stalling, is there? No solutions are coming to mind. If you cast a spell, you’ll pass out, and the man locked in here with you is the only person who’s ever been as curious as you.

Pushing on your knees, you managed to stand, and you wobbled over to the door to lay your palm flat against it.

“Do be reasonable, Court Mage; if you pass out, they’ll think I did it to you.”

“Quiet,” you said, resting your forehead against the wood as well, and if you concentrated on its vibration, you could weave around the layers and layers of spells to hear the slightest hum. That settled it: you were in no shape to handle any magic strong enough not only to make a sound but to hide it.

He clicked his tongue. “Didn’t trust me enough to check the door? It remains very locked.”

“Cut that out,” you said, turning to face him and leaning your weight against the door, the warmth of the magic vibrating almost pleasantly through your cloak, “We’re both exhausted. Can’t you make your point in the morning?”

“Afraid not. No use delaying any more, your excellency. Step away from the door, and tell me your answer,” said Shinsou, “Call me what I want to hear, or else doom the six provinces to disasters of my choice—and yourself to an endless loop of ignorant nobility tugging at your sleeve.”

Sweat beaded at your hairline, the warmth of the wood growing hot. At your sides, your palms lay flat against the door, its vibration reminding you that you’re awake, that this was happening, that it wasn’t just another of your walking nightmares.

“As you wish,” you said, each word pulled from your gut like a hooked fish through ice, carving a scar deeper into you than the fresh silver ones burning through your palms, “My lord and husband.”

“Come here.” He held out his hand. Wiggled his fingers when you hesitated.

You walked over, impressed with yourself for staying upright, but when your fingers curved into his, the weight of the situation crashed around you in ear-splitting icicles—he’s still so cold.

Tilting his head, Shinsou looked up at you from his chair, expression unreadable, and he slowly parted his legs for you to stand between.

Last chance. “I’m a virgin,” you said, breath hitching when his free hand cupped your cheek.

“You think I don’t know that?” Shinsou rubbed his thumb over your cheekbone. “I have sources on you for more than your war tactics, you know. Kiss me.”

You inhaled sharply. “Wha—”

“C’mon,” he said, and he roughly patted your cheek, the reverb of the soft smack dying in the cramped space, “It’s not that fucking hard. Do it. Or am I not your lord and husband?”

Stomach in a knot, you leant down to press your mouth to his—and your younger self is rejoicing, taken aback that she’s finally getting to kiss her best friend, the boy who sits next her to her on the bench during Aizawa’s transfiguration lessons, who sneaks her past Master Cook when she’s terrified out of her skin to pass through the kitchens, who lures in bumblebees to pet with a single finger, who talks to bird as if they could understand him, who handles her with a deliberate gentleness that she never finds elsewhere—but she’s buried far, far beneath the current you and how she feels about her tongue brushing against that of the man who’s leaked enough misinformation to cause casualties by the thousands, who’s spread enough propaganda to turn half the population against you and the House of Yamada, who’s sliced too many throats in the dead of night and slinked away unscathed, who’s parting his lips to suck your tongue into his mouth, nipping at it a bit too sharply to be kind, and furrowing his brow so deeply that you could feel it. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you against him, ensuring you didn’t break away, and he’s leaning up into you, almost pushing off his seat as he kissed you more deeply.

He took a deep, gasping breath, keeping your forehead pressed against his, eyes still shut while he asked, “How soon do you plan to leave this place?”

“I don’t—”

“Forget practicality.” He kissed you again, hard and close-mouthed. “How soon were you hoping?”

You swallowed when he grabbed at your waist. “Within the year.”

Shinsou sucked in through his teeth. “Doable. But that’s gonna cost you.”

And he’s—he threw the drape of his ceremonial robe back over his leg as he shoved you to your knees by the hand on the back of your neck, allowing you full view of the bulge in his trousers, and as you glared up at him from between his legs, you seriously thought about killing him.

(What did the binding magic mean that you couldn’t kill each other, anyhow? Did it mean that it would just stop you, if you tried to stab his heart? Would it mean that any wound you inflict on him would heal? Would it mean that you could squeeze the life out of his eyes over and over again, but he would resurrect each time?)

One hand resting on his clothed cock, Shinsou heaved an exaggerated sigh as he ran his other hand back through his hair, springing back instantly. He narrowed his eyes as he glowered down at you, and he hunched forward in his seat and clutched your face in both hands, fingers digging into your skin.

“Poor thing,” said Shinsou, leaning down, “What a life you’ve had. The world is filled with terrible men, and you’ve borne the brunt of their wrath and negligence—Yamada, your father, Sasaki, that Kurono whelp—do you still call him Master Cook in your head? Can’t shake that beaten-in subservience? Open your mouth.”

You took a moment, but you did. He edged his thumb into it, hooking it onto the inside of your cheek. You closed your lips around it and gave a weak suck.

“No.” Shinsou gave your check another soft slap. “Did I tell you to suck? All I said was for you to open your mouth.”

Blinking profusely, you opened your mouth again.

“Right. All this resilience you’ve built up over the years, all this numbness you’ve had to resort to, and it still leads you here. On your knees between the legs of a man you hate,” said Shinsou, and he started feeling around your gums and the roof of your mouth, seemingly not looking for anything at all, just poking around what was his. “I grew up into a fine weapon, didn’t I? Our training may have been the same as children, but considering what I went through once we split, I’d say I’ve earned my place above you, however ephemeral and clandestine it is. Now you may suck.”

Again, you closed your mouth around his thumb.

“Very good. You should be grateful that I’ll be the one to stretch you out. I’ve seen men on both sides—including some you respect, even—turn into something monstrous when they think they’ve got complete control over someone else. They take and take and take. Whereas I could be persuaded to give every once in a while,” said Shinsou, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a pop at the broken suction and rubbing your saliva on your face, “That’s enough. Undress. And get on the bed.”

You stumbled to your feet while he shucked his ceremonial robe to the floor, leaving him in the bare bones of one of his more formal outfits for court—the tight trousers, the loose shirt, the bejewelled chain belt, its long ends clinking. “My lord,” you said, scared to remove your patchwork cloak, seemingly the last remnant of normalcy, “I—apologise for, for my impudence, but my dress—I can’t take it off by myself.”

“What?” said Shinsou, picking up his robe to fold it and drape it over the back of his chair. “Don’t tell me you’re that incomp—hm.” He cut himself off once you’d pulled off your cloak, letting him see the long line of tiny, rounded, pearl-like buttons down your back, starting at your nape and ending just above your ass.

“Yeah, I—sorry about that,” you said, back to him as you pulled the sleeves of your cloak rightside-out again, “It’s not even my dress. Too elegant and much too expensive for me to have, with my status. But Lord Yamada pulled it out of nowhere and said it belonged to an old friend—Kayama, I think? I can’t remember her given name.”

Shinsou let out a low whistle. “They did dress you up for me.”

“What?”

“Nothing important. Eyes forward,” he said, hands coming to rest on your waist as he drew near, “Get your hair back to normal while I undo these.”

His fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, startling you as you pulled the first pin out of your hair, and you steeled yourself in anticipation of those cold hands gliding over your bare skin. But first—once he’d gotten the first three buttons undone—he pressed his lips to the back of your neck, not to soothe but to claim.

“You owe me,” he said through a harsh whisper, dry lips grazing your skin as his hands moved down the line of buttons down your back, “Battle of Alderside. I was controlling the route of a death-breathed dart meant to pierce your heart. You grabbed the dart by the shaft and stabbed it into the mountainside. The arrowhead exploded and caused an avalanche, forcing our retreat. Battle of Redera.” Shinsou wrenched the dress off your shoulder, and he kissed the bare skin, nipping at it, dragging his teeth, as he unbuttoned another. “You fell over the bridge. Plunged into the river. I threw a knife where your chest had been not two seconds earlier. Even saw the blood in the water. Yet I got a report of you crawling onto the bank half a kilometre downstream. The Siege of Irrishir Gard.” He slid his hand from your bare shoulder, along your neck, and to grip your jaw from beneath, and he tilted your head backwards to look up at him. “You sneaked into my own tent under the light of the full fucking moon to steal supplies,” he said, crowding you, his chest against your back, his other arm coming around to pluck the hairpins from between your teeth, and he cast them to the floor. “And if you hadn’t taken the time to tie the tent flap back down on your way out, I’d never have woken up at all. I can go on, sweetheart, but I don’t think you want me to.”

What was he saying? He’s got to be saying something. You couldn’t keep anything strai—oh, God. You staggered, but Shinsou grabbed your waist again. “What are you talking about?” you asked, adjusting your stance.

“Times you should’ve died by my hands. You somehow slithered out of all of them. I don’t miss the mark, so the fact that you’ve eluded me several times—well,” said Shinsou, keeping a hand at your hip to keep you standing while he returned to the final few buttons with the other, “I’ve considered it nearly written in the stars that I would be the one to kill you. That you were meant to suffer because of me. And this damned binding magic has stolen that privilege from me. Now, someone else gets to end your life—or worse, you’ll die of old age.” Upon reaching the last button, Shinsou curled his fingers into your hair at the nape of your neck and pulled, tilting your head to the side as he stepped closer. “So, I repeat,” he said into your ear, breath washing down your neck with each harsh consonant, “You owe me. You owe me a thousand, tiny deaths, one for each time you slipped out of my grasp. And you’re going to give them to me. Even if I have to tear them out of you.” He trailed his middle and ring fingers down the side of your neck. “I want to see how close to death the binding magic lets us get.”

He released you, and you took the opportunity to crouch to the ground, unable to stand any longer. Your hairpins lay scattered against the polished wood, and the fabric of your dress pooled around your chest.

(This is frustrating. The voice in the back of your head said that you should be more outraged, but compounded fatigue and dissociation shackled you from any real protest. You know you should be doing more. You can’t bring yourself to.)

His scuffed boots came into view. “You’re fine,” Shinsou was saying, taking you by the forearm and guiding you to the bed, “Come here.”

“I,” you said, growing more distant by the second and you pressed two fingers to your wrist to check your pulse (numbers weren’t coming to you). “I need to get to bed.”

“Glad we’re in agreement,” said Shinsou, setting you on the edge of the bed, and the instant he joined you, his mouth was one yours, kissing you in that infuriatingly tender way that made it much easier for you to slip off into the distance, in the thought that this could be nice, that this could be good—that you’re spending your first night together in your cottage in Tiirnhaam Wood, that you’re married of your own volition, that the war never happened, like it all could’ve been—and that made his laying you down on the bed more palatable, made his crawling over you easier to bear.

You’re kissing Shinsou back, even, letting both the dress’s fabric fall farther down your chest and him nibble at your lower lip while you wrapped your arms around his neck, and when he drew his hand to your cheek, he jolted backwards, sitting back, resting his weight over your hips, as his eyes darted from the smeared tear track on the back of his hand (when had you started crying? You don’t cry anymore) to your face, searching for something.

“Where’d you go?” Shinsou took both of your hands in his and checked your scars, running his thumbs over them. Brow furrowed, he glanced up at you and asked flatly, “You really don’t want this, do you?”

Scrunching your eyes shut and letting the tears run, you squirmed in bed, stretching and arching your back and letting a whine escape you when you popped something, and you curled your fingers around his. “Icy,” you struggled to say through a yawn, “Do you still—still get sick often?”

With a sigh, Shinsou dropped your hands. Shifting his jaw, he unstraddled your hips to sit back on the bed. “C’mon,” he said, patting your thigh, “Head on the pillow.”

(How long has it been since you cried? No, really, how long? Kind of nice to know that you still can, you supposed, but you could’ve sworn you’d stopped feeling anything past the surface years ago.)

You scooted towards the headboard and adjusted yourself when he pulled the blankets back, hitting you with the pungent scent of something floral and whatever cedar closet the sheets had been stored in.

“Thank you,” said Shinsou, bending to retrieve from his boot yet another knife (obsidian, this time), “Spread your legs.”

“Wha—put that—”

He held up a hand. “That’s enough,” said Shinsou, bending your legs and parting them for himself, and he knelt between them, tossing the knife to himself. For a moment, he pressed the blade to his own palm, but he withdrew, muttering under his breath.

Even on the brink of falling asleep, you almost see the cogs turning in his head. You just wished it wasn’t with his gaze on what was between your thighs, however concealed by the dress it may be (if you were more alert, you’d be more embarrassed that someone were seeing your bare thighs, but—what is he doing?).

Shinsou was fiddling with his trousers, unfastening the front and—and slipping them down to mid-thigh—but he was completely ignoring his half-hard cock and instead dragging the knife across his thigh, cutting a deep, horizontal gash. He leant forward, too focused on squeezing blood from the incision that he didn’t realise the way he’s spreading your legs farther to get closer to you, his weight pressing against you as if—

The door unlocked the moment blood stained the sheets.

His head snapped towards the opening door, sweeping in a rush of chilled air from the darkened stairway.

“Oh, that is vile,” he said, shaking his head, and he grimaced down at the blood between your legs, swiping his thumb over the one of the spots on the sheets to smudge it. With a flash of his eyebrows, he brought your legs together, deliberately avoiding eye contact as he pulled the dress down your legs, and he had hardly yanked his trousers back up before he’d clambered off the bed and out of the room, footsteps silent as ever.

The door remained wide open, breaking the attic’s claustrophobic hum. You didn’t even have the impulse to return to your tower; you simply yanked the blankets over yourself, flipped onto your side, and fell asleep in the same moment the sourceless light flickered out.

taglist: @babypeapoddd

#bnha #shinsou hitoshi #shinsou x reader #shinsou/reader #shinsou imagine #shinsou fic #mha #shinsou headcanons #shinsou fanfiction #shinsou fanfic #shinsou hitoshi x reader #dash it all

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aphrodyx · 2 days ago

Text

We’re all we have

supernatural oneshot: Sam Winchester x Dean Winchester x y/n (mainly Dean)

tw//: mentions of death, mentions of suicide, self-hate, victim-blaming, and mentions of being unlovable

synopsis: you’ve been waiting for your brothers to come back from their hunting trip, however, you and Dean get in an argument. It makes you question his thoughts about you and your place in the family.

fem! reader x sam winchester, fem! reader x dean winchester, family au, some angst, and some foul language

an: sorry if this is shit, i just luv my bbs 🙁

It’s been a while, too long even. It’s been over a week since Sam and Dean went on their hunt in Valentine, Nebraska. It was suppose to be only a nest of vampires. Seven? Eight? Maybe nine? They could take them easily, so why is it taking them forever to return my calls. One last time, I swear if he doesn’t answer…

Pang! Pang! Pang!

“Open up y/n!” Dean’s voice muffled through the metal.

Seriously? Now they come what the hell. I rush to the door to open it.

“Hey! Hey! How’s my favorite girl doing?” Dean walks in shuffling around me, down the stairs to the table.

“Dude c’mon— hey y /n… how are you” Sam stopping in his tracks to acknowledge me with a soft smile.

“I’m angry and you know that, what the hell Sam!” I turn haltingly and follow Dean.

I pace around Dean, angrily waiting for an explanation. They were gone for seven full days with zero contact, and it’s not like we had an argument. Over 70 messages sent and 50 missed calls, I thought of the worse. They could have been dead in a ditch or heads ripped off; why didn’t they call me, text me, sent cass, absolutely anything to me to make sure they were still alive.

“Dean, I need answers right now!”

“Y/n, I’m sorry okay… I should’ve texted you. We’re alright, see?” Dean spins in a 360, showing himself injure-free.

“No! I’m sick a tired of these excuses, you’ve been so distant. You’re so quick to go from one hunt to another, your not slowing down at all. Im worried about you. You’re not eating good or sleep properly, and when was the last time you took a shower. Seriously?

“Y/n…” Dean starts getting frustrated walking up to her.

“Y/n…” Sam interferes, trying to calm her down.

“No! fucking talk to me! What’s the matter with you!” I slam my fist down on the table.

“My dad is dead! Do you know what’s that like? To have your father taken away from you and not even knowing who did it!” He slams his fist down, kicking a chair away.

“Dean, calm down please. Yelling at each other isn’t going to mend our problem right now” Sam puts his hand on his older brother’s shoulder.

“I lost him too, you know? He was like my dad too Dean?” I say up in his face.

“He wasn’t your dad though, as much as you think he was” He pushes around y/n and storms off to his room.

I stand there. Zero thoughts flooding my mind. Am I angry? Upset? I don’t even know. I know we aren’t actually siblings and I know John wasn’t my real dad, but… he took care of me. He took me in when no one else would, fed me, gave me a roof over my head, and a family: sam and dean. Why would he say that to me… did he really not consider me as his sister… as his family? I sniffle a bit, crouching down on the floor.

“Y/n…” sam says quietly, sitting down with me on the floor. “You know Dean didn’t mean that.. John was your dad too. He was a dad to all of us, you know… he takes grief harder than the rest of us”

Sniffle… Sniffle… Sniffle

“Still, I don’t know… that felt different” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. “He’s never raised his voice up at me… I never wanted anything less for him.”

“I know… me too… it’s just been a rough couple of weeks, he’s been sleeping terribly and drinking a whole lot more than usual” Sam rubs his face with his hands.

“It’s my fault though… I should’ve returned your calls and texts. I know you mean the best for both of us; I’ll be honest, it’s been rough for me too. I just… I don’t know ive kept my phone on silent and just didn’t want to deal with anyone… even you.”

Hearing sam confess his true feelings felt like a demon blade right through my chest. He didn’t want to talk to me either. All this time, they’ve been grieving. Maybe I didn’t truly understand, John did raise them all their lives. Their mom died when Dean was just four years old and sam at six months. I don’t know anything about how they feel. They’re broken and lost. A piece of them has been shattered and they can never get that back.

“Im sorry Sam. Im so sorry, ive been so selfish and I wasn’t caring about you guys at all and I-“

“No. Stop, you are the most caring, loving, kind-spirited person I know and I love you so so much. Dean is just… We’re just… We have a hard time regulating our emotions especially right now. If we give ourselves the chance to sit down properly, we’re going to lose our minds.” Sam exhales fast, holding his thoughts in for so long.

“It’s not you, I swear. But he shouldn’t have done that to you, it was fucked up and he knows it. I promise he will come around and apologize, you know he’s stubborn so it might take a couple of days, hours if you’re lucky, but knowing Dean… were pretty lucky all the time., right?” Sam chuckles, glancing at y/n’s glossy eyes. “Please stop crying, it hurts me a lot more than it does for you to see you like this.”

“I know… I’m okay...”

I had doubts, I know Sam says Dean said that out of frustration but I don’t know. I’ll give him some time though, I know he looked up to his dad for everything. He cared so much for him in deep admiration and devotion. Just like how I feel about Sam and Dean. I push myself off the floor, dried tears smudged on my cheeks.

“Rest now, you’ve had a long day, and there should be Chinese take out in the kitchen” I hug Sam: rubbing his hands up and down, letting him know I’ll be alright.

—————— ————time skip———————————

I lay down on my bed with music blasting in my headphones, listening to “Carry on Wayward Son” by Kansas; Dean’s favorite song. He told me anytime I’m upset, mad, happy, or confused I can always play this song and I’ll know what to do. I gave him space for a couple of hours and now I can’t fall asleep. I hate being in any grey area with Dean, he took care of me after John was gone on hunts as well. He was always there for Sam and I.

I hear a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in” I sit up, taking off my headphones to see who’s about to walk into my room.

“Hey… can we talk?” Dean says leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, what’s up” I scoot over making room for the both us on my twin xl bed.

“Y/n… Im so so sorry for how I acted with you today, I was a complete fucking jerk and I didn’t mean anything I said.” Dean spits out disappointingly. “John— dad. You lost him too, not just me nor Sam. You. You lost the only man who ever cared for you, loved you, knew you”

“Dean—“

“No. Let me continue. Dad was in your life for fifteen years. Fifteen! What right did I have to say that he wasn’t your dad either? I knew you since I was twelve, sammy was seven. We grew up together. We’re always and will be family. How the fuck could I say that to you?” Dean covers his face in his hands in shame.

“Y/n, ive been so selfish, I should’ve stopped what I was doing after dad died and just been there for you, for sammy. He’s been trying to stop me from going on all these hunts, but I won’t listen. I never listen. That’s my problem, im such an idiot.”

“Please forgive me, I didn’t mean it at all. Ive been in my head and these aren’t excuses but it’s just been so hard. It’s just always been so hard, and now dad gone just feels like my breaking point. I should’ve replied back to your calls and texts, Ive just been so angry and I just needed to kill. I needed to get out all these thoughts, and the voices out. I couldn’t stand a second staying in the bunker.” Dean’s softly sobbing now uncontrollably.

“Dean… I know… I just know how close you were with dad, I should’ve considered what would happen-“

“No, you shouldn’t consider anything. Im the oldest, I shouldve been there for you, and not the other way around. It’s just been so suffocating lately. I can’t breathe, I can’t walk, I can’t eat, for life doesn’t feel real anymore.”

I scoot closer to Dean, picking up his head.

“Don’t talk like that, we’re here still: sam, cass, and me. Your family is still here and we care so much for you. We are so loved Dean, please see that. I know it’s hard right now but going through this alone, and isolating yourself? That isn’t the way to go, we will get through this together. Like we always do. Family sticks together, Winchesters forever”

Dean’s glossy eyes reaches y/n’s; he reaches out, grasping to the sides of head, and brings it closer to him. Kissing the middle of her forehead, he says, “I never deserved you.”

“I never deserved you; I never knew I’d get loved like this ever again from people. Until John came, and told me it’s okay to come home with him. He told me he’d protect and care for me. But within all that, I never knew I would get two amazing brothers along the way.”

Dean rests his forehead against y/n’s. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it. Dean has always been this hard core man from the outside, but truly he’s just a hurt child. He always has been. It hasn’t been easy for him: losing his mom, being forced into the family business, surviving each hunt, and caring for sam. I could never blame his behavior now, he just hasn’t had the time to heal. He needs to heal, but he can’t.

“I love you a lot Dean, I hope you know that. I truly do.” I kiss the side of his head.

“I know you do, I love you a lot too y/n, you’re my little sister. Forgive me please.”

“I forgive you… but no more hunts, at least for now, we need to all take time and grieve, and spend some time together. No hunting business, no demon or angel business, just family. We can even go see Jodie for a few days?”

“Thank you y/n, seriously. Thank you for forgiving me because I don’t think I would have been able to sleep tonight if you didn’t. And yeah whatever you want to do: a family trip! Seeing Jodie will be amazing, little trip into the forest to the cabin.” Dean smiles facing y/n while pushing her hair out of her face.

“Perfect! We’ll tell Sam in the morning, it’s almost three a.m. we should probably try to sleep now.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he gets up and walks towards the door. Turning around abruptly, he says “thank you again, sweetheart. I know I let my emotions get the best of me, but I’ll try. I’ll try because I don’t want to make you feel like you don’t belong in this family. I could never let myself live again if I said that to you again.”

“I know Dean, trust me I do. Im glad we talked, dad wouldn’t have wanted this between us would he now?”

“No, he wouldn’t. He’s probably calling me an asshole for saying that to you, Im definitely on his bad side right now.”

“He knows we’re struggling, he won’t blame you and neither will I.”

Dean chuckles, smiling to the ceiling. I can still see how broken he feels inside, but it won’t go away in one night. It’ll take time and im willingly to help him out, im willing to help them both out.

“Goodnight y/n” Dean whispers

“Goodnight Dean” I whisper back.

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kathlare · 3 days ago

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lingering shadows

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Tensions reach a boiling point as Lando confronts the end of a fleeting relationship, facing accusations that cut deeper than he’s ready to admit.

Wordcount: 1.0 k

Warnings: just fluff

request over here!

September 8th, 2023 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The setting sun cast a golden glow over Monaco, the vibrant hues of the sky contrasting sharply with the tension brewing in Lando’s penthouse. The air inside was heavy, oppressive even, as Lando leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Across from him, Magui paced the floor, her sharp, frustrated movements betraying her growing anger.

—So, that's it then?— she snapped, spinning on her heel to glare at him. —You're just ending it, out of nowhere?—

—It’s not out of nowhere,— Lando replied, his voice strained but measured. —I told you from the start this wasn’t serious, Magui. I thought we were on the same page.—

Magui let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through her dark hair. —Right, because you’re so good at being upfront. You think I didn’t notice how you started pulling away? How you’ve been avoiding me?— She stopped pacing and fixed him with a glare that could have cut glass. —What changed, Lando? Or should I say, who?—

Lando sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He hated confrontation, especially this kind. —No one changed anything. I just… I can’t give you what you want, Magui. And I’m not going to pretend I can.—

—What I want?— she scoffed, her voice rising. —What I want is for you to stop acting like you don’t care about anyone but yourself!—

That stung, but Lando refused to let it show. Instead, he kept his voice steady. —I care about you, but not in the way you deserve. That’s why this has to end.—

Magui took a step closer, her anger morphing into something sharper, more pointed. —You’re such a fucking coward, you know that? You’d rather keep running from your feelings than actually deal with them. And I know why, Lando. It’s because you’re obsessed with her.—

Lando’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t react, refusing to give her the satisfaction. —Don’t.—

—Oh, I’m going to fucking say it,— Magui shot back, her eyes blazing. —Amelie. That’s who this is about, isn’t it? You can’t stop stalking her on Instagram, looking at her pictures like some lovesick idiot. And for what? She’s never going to want you back. Hell, does she even know how pathetic you are?—

Lando’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the edge of the counter. He didn’t owe Magui an explanation, but her words were hitting too close to home.

—This has nothing to do with Amelie,— he lied, his voice cold.

Magui laughed again, this time softer, almost pitying. —You really believe that? Because I don’t. Every time we were together, you were somewhere else. And I know exactly where, no, who your mind was on. She’s in your fucking head, Lando. And until you get over her, you’re going to ruin every single thing you touch.—

Her words sliced through him like a knife, each one landing with brutal precision. Lando opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because deep down, he knew she wasn’t entirely wrong.

Magui took his silence as confirmation, shaking her head in disbelief. —You’re pathetic. You don’t even realize how much you sabotage yourself. You’re so hung up on someone who clearly doesn’t give a shit about you anymore. And you know what? She probably never did.—

That was the final blow. Lando felt something snap inside him, but instead of lashing out, he simply straightened up, his face unreadable.

—You should go,— he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Magui hesitated for a moment, as if expecting him to fight back, to say something, anything. But when he didn’t, she scoffed and grabbed her bag from the couch.

—You’re going to end up alone, Norris. And it’ll be no one’s fault but your own.—

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Lando alone in the deafening silence of his penthouse. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where she’d been, her words echoing in his mind.

He wanted to believe she was wrong, that he wasn’t still hung up on Amelie, that his feelings for her were a thing of the past. But as he sank down onto the couch, his head in his hands, he couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

He still thought about her. All the time.

The way she used to laugh at his terrible jokes, her voice lighting up their late-night gaming sessions during the pandemic. The way her eyes sparkled when she was passionate about something. The way she’d fit so perfectly into his arms, like she belonged there.

But she wasn’t his anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time. And maybe Magui was right—maybe she never really had been.

Lando let out a heavy sigh, his chest tightening with a familiar ache. He grabbed his phone from the coffee table, his thumb hovering over Instagram. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t do this again, but the temptation was too strong.

Before he could stop himself, he was on her profile, scrolling through her recent posts. There she was, radiant as ever, smiling brightly at the camera. She looked happy. And that, more than anything, was what tore him apart.

He tossed his phone onto the couch, leaning back and closing his eyes. Magui’s words lingered, taunting him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was pathetic. But the truth was, he didn’t know how to let go of Amelie.

And he wasn’t sure he ever would.

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perpetual-enjine · 3 days ago

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So, do you see Touya as a victim? I’m like divided on this so hard 😭 a part of me is like no but then I also think yes he is, and more on the stance of he is a victim but not the biggest one especially out of the 4 siblings. I also read a post where they talked about Touya and they mentioned how Touya definitely has some serious mental health stuff going on, and that his parents' abuse definitely contributed to/worsened, but they did not force him to become Dabi and his mental health issues are major factors to why he acted the way he acted!

People can be many things at once. Admitting someone was a victim doesn’t absolve them of their crimes. All for One was a victim. Someone should have done something when literal babies were crawling around on the street. But being a victim in your childhood doesn’t mean that you are good to go with the life of crime, nor that you have to become a criminal. It’s still a choice what you do with your pain. Yoichi suffered the same but chose to be kind and forgiving. Shouto was treated way worse than Touya - he didn’t even get the brief years of happy childhood, of holding up his flaming fist to a proud and smiling father. And yet he chose to work on himself, to be kind to others, to admit that he could be wrong (like he did during that test where he fought with Momo against Aizawa).

Meanwhile, Touya took his victimhood and mental illness and made it everyone else’s problem. He attacked his siblings who were already victimized like himself, he tried to kill Enji multiple times - a disproportionate response even considering Enji’s abuse, and he killed innocent people and then blamed it on Enji. He rarely if ever considered anyone else’s trauma. When Toga tried to talk to him about her family, he out of nowhere brought up Endeavor, and then he burned her house, which is his default response to any and all problems.

Mental health problems can be an explanation but they’re not an excuse unless a person cannot tell right from wrong - that’s the legal definition of insanity defense in many justice systems. Touya can tell right from wrong. He calls himself a villain, he admitted in the video that he killed innocent people, he escapes from heroes and police because he knows he did bad things (legally insane persons are not able to tell that punishment is coming for them after what they did). When your mental illness is causing you to want to harm others and you’re aware of it, it is your responsibility to prevent yourself from doing so if possible and to seek help. It’s not a carte blanche to go around committing crimes.

So, you don’t have to be conflicted. Touya is a victim, and a mentally ill one, but after all these years, he should have worked on himself or at the very least not victimized people who didn’t abuse him.

#touya todoroki #enji todoroki #endeavor #shouto todoroki #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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lumiy-a · 35 minutes ago

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I appreciate a lot the explanations and I think it’s fair to give some space also to later arcs. Thanks for that! I’m sure that there are good things to take away from these, I can’t say much about the quality because as said, I haven’t read them. Even though I have them, physically, in paper, almost all of them and in their original edition for collection reasons. Since I’m one of those who only talk and create about this Meridian-Arkhanta-Basiliade-Kandrakar axis, I feel a bit called out here so I’ll share my two cents:

For me, and I think for others too, the point is not really a decline in quality or a prejudice because I heard the quality is worse.

The main reason I cannot read after arc 5 is that my favorite characters are not there. My favorite pairing is 50% dead and 50% weeping in Kandrakar. Another one of my absolute favorite characters is falling off the tower of Kandrakar for eternity. And another one is ruling on Meridian and forgotten by everyone. It’s certainly my problem if my favorite characters of a comic about five teenagers are not the five teenagers themselves, but that’s the reason. Had the comic kept these characters, I would have read all the issues even if the quality sucked. I would read literally anything where Cedric appears, even when he’s drawn by artists who hate him!

Another point I wanted to mention is that I don’t think the fandom is focused that much on Metamoor or Basiliade. One may have this impression from Tumblr because the few active blogs who post regularly with the w.i.t.c.h. tag (which can be counted on the fingers of one hand!) focus on these side aspects. But the thing remains that in bigger spaces like the subreddit or the general fandom server, the focus is mostly on the five girls and their stories (including later arcs) or on the cartoon storyline. I think on Tumblr there is just a higher concentration of fan creators who happen to be fans of these aspects and create the content they want to see on these.

Anyway, I think it would be great to give some visibility to the later arcs and to any aspects that are less talked about or subject to more prejudice so I’m curious to see what you will share!

Thanks for coming to my TED talk

Alright people let’s do it, I’m curious:

Reblog for sample size!

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synonymroll648 · 5 months ago

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headcanon that the reason sophie still has eyelashes to pull on the regular is that grady and edaline worked something out with the dizznees to get a tasteless formula to help eyelash growth specifically to put drops of in her bottles of youth. because there’s no way her ptsd-induced trichotillomania (oversimplified definition for those who aren’t familiar: hair pulling disorder) is gonna die down during the war, so they’re trying to make sure she doesn’t move from eyelashes to eyebrows or her Hair hair by giving her More Eyelashes

#tw trichotillomania #ask to tag #sophie foster #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #i don’t have trich so if i’m being insensitive with my wording or ideas here please let me know so i can learn and move forward #i just thought it was an explanation that made sense (canon compliant) and also showed a sweet sense of community even if sophie doesn’t #know about it #sophie not knowing about it could also lead to some hilarious shenanigans if some of her friends drank too much of her bottles of youth #like keefe and fitz have long lashes in canon i think. so if they drank too much they’d have like. human fake lashes levels of eyelashes #tiergan asks fitz if he got into drag in telepathy before sophie shows up. fitz says he’s sitting not dragging in the most genuinely #confused voice ever. tiergan dies inside #alternatively we could also have keefe comparing himself to boobries (birds that roar and have really fancy eyelashes and feathers)#also we could have both. it can be both. both is good #i imagine fitz would land himself in that position after having sophie check on him while he’s recovering from a brutal workout #sophie would probably share her bottles of youth with keefe a lot since he lowkey lives at havenfield and probably doesn’t hydrate enough #for many reasons but my primary one being That Bitch Is An Artist And We Rarely Drink Enough Water Ever

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fumifooms · 4 months ago

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Dungeon lord Chilchuck

What would his wish as a dungeon lord be? What would he be like? Headcanons & speculation post for fun. But I’ll start with analytic lead up because that’s always fun for me, though feel free to skip and skim.

When it comes to what Chilchuck’s dungeon lord desires could/would be like we have mainly 3 hints: His nightmare, his succubus and what the winged lion says to him.

Why: — From what we see nightmares are based on the person’s worst fears and insecurities, both Laios’ and Marcille’s nightmare were closely tied to their dungeon lord wishes (Laios’ dream monster being summoned to crush the ghosts of relationships that represented the pressure to fit in and belong, Marcille seeking control over death and aging through magic to avoid loss), the fuel behind their desire/goal if you will. Fear and deep-seated desires are seemingly closely tied, something also supported by Thistle and Mithrun’s reigns as dungeon lords (Thistle proving his worth through fulfilling his given duty + protecting his loved ones, being listened to instead of having to listen, Mithrun escaping rigid two-faced elven society and living in a wonderland where he has no enemies and he’s loved, free from everyone he knew yet propped up by the person symbolizing his brother being chosen over him, the bastard child).

— I’ve talked about the significance I assign to the succubi often by now, but rundown: What we see of each character is all very telling if you care to listen, it shows not only someone’s "ideal form" but what they want from it. Izutsumi’s is familial, offering a hug and comfort, Marcille’s is romantic with a character she knows and loves, offering a kiss on a hand and a connection regardless of how distant it actually is, and Laios’ is platonic, arguable at first but then Laios’ fear of judgement is placated and he is offered the picture perfect friend group that accepts his interest (if you want my full look at Laios’ succubus go here). They take on the most alluring form, most ideal person of their victim, even uncovering deep subconscious desires, so precisely and effectively to the point it leaves victims physically frozen before the object of their desire. Succubi and the demon are themselves tied in lore and it’s easy to see how similar their core skill are. Succubi don’t give a good idea of what a character would wish for on their own but they certainly give hints on what they crave, regardless of how you want to read it.

— Last bit is self-explanatory. To placate Chilchuck and win his compliance over, the monster that reads your soul like an open book offers to give him something specific. But! It’s also important to remember that the lion isn’t offering to fulfill Chilchuck’s dream world wish here, it’s a second prize, because his goal with what he promised Laios is that they’d stay in this world, away from everyone and everything else. Chilchuck wants to get away but is kept back, and it’s here the lion placates him with "hey it’s okay! You can’t do that but I can still give you this! This is enough right? It’ll make everything easier on you".

What each bit says: — Long version in another post. Tldlr: His daughters and family are obviously important to him, and this reinforces that he takes on the role of protector a lot, he’s constantly worried for his party members’ lives and implicitly his family’s. Safety and stability, both economical and otherwise, are his core values and goals, and he berates both others and himself if someone fails on those fronts. Here, there’s the fear of not being enough, of not having been able to protect, and of course of loss.

— Chil’s succubi are obviously sexual, and not only that but agressively and straightforwardly so. It’s not like Marcille’s where there’s personality involved, all they do is give him sultry looks and pretty smiles before jumping on him. His succubi aren’t like Izutsumi’s, always the same exact person and appearance, so it’s not someone but an appealing general idea. The idea of a sexual being he can regard as simply a gorgeous piece of meat and a good time no strings attached. In my interpretation, especially with my reading of Laios’ succubus where even with deep-seated desires negative emotions can be too intense to effectively freeze a victim, I think this doesn’t contradict his character. Relationships have been painful to him in the past, in the succubus scene when his wife gets mentioned his immediate reaction is to yell "Don’t bring her up now!", like with his habit of drinking and as a tallman liking his senses feeling dulled, it’s about not having to feel emotions with how difficult they are to deal with sometimes and just feeling good, or at least not having to think, for a while. If a succubus showcases someone’s ideal connection with an ideal person, then Chilchuck’s is with a pretty person that doesn’t stir any negative memory or drama, someone low stakes and low maintenance that doesn’t require him to manage or talk out feelings because there’s none involved in the first place.

— Once more, wife and family are important! He does long for his family, not only his wife but his daughters, and vice versa. This suggests not only that he wants good relationships with them but that he wants them to be with him, a family life. Far from the cut communication they all more of less have during canon, and perhaps far from their life pre-canon when he worked away from home a significant amount of time. We’ve seen recreations of people by the winged lion before with doppelgangers and monsters (naga), and though he claims he can make satisfying imitations, what we’ve seen is that they base themselves on the best memories of that person, like with Marcille’s dad, or twist behavior to be more pleasant, like Mithrun’s lover (and possibly twist appearances depending on the person’s view of them, but that’s Mithrun analysis). The line does suggest Chilchuck would want his family members as they are in reality and not idealized versions, but the circumstances are chaotic and urgent enough in the scene (and again the lion isn’t fulfilling Chilchuck’s wish but trying to make him content for Laios’) that it could just be the winged lion saying what he needs to to convince him the fastest possible, and like we see with Laios that can crumble to give way to deeper or more complex desires.

On top of that we just have general info on Chil. How does Chilchuck deal w his issues? What does he like to do? He likes alcohol and ignoring his problems. We have to remember there is a split between what someone would consciously wish for and what their soul uncontrollably irrationally craves. As always with Dunmeshi, there’s a narrative of irrational deep-seated desires vs active wants, what you crave vs what you strive for, what you dream of vs what’s actually good for you, the animal vs the human inside you, heart vs mind. Chilchuck craving a harem of hot babes in his fantasies but wanting his family life & wife back again is not mutually exclusive. You may crave becoming a monster and tasting what humans are like a little but still want to save the world & your friends more.

Btw can we adress the irony of him terrified of being the last one alive, of being left by his daughters and wife, of having left and coming back home one day to see everything gone or rampaged, yet not caring about dying of liver failure himself, knowing every time that he enters a dungeon there’s a real risk he may not come out. Die somewhere I can’t see you. I prefer leaving you than being left behind. He’s selfish and shortsighted like that… Chilchuck is selfless in many ways of course, but perhaps also due to his own relationship with his parents, he often undermines the effects he has on others in his relationships, both the good and the bad (he talks himself down about being cowardly and greedy yes, but never hints at his bad health habits, alcoholism and starving himself, may have affected his loved ones, doesn’t question his wife falling into a bad mood the night before she left, and talks about the possibility of dying here and there very casually, though obviously he tries his best to stay alive when it doesn’t concern his health).

Chilchuck king of "Let me just avoid and ignore my problems surely they’ll go away, things might work out and if they don’t well tough luck I’ll survive and I probably deserve it anyways". If I don’t look at it it will dissapear <3 Why care when you can simply not think about it.

You might not understand Mister "my love will stay strong through months of work travel and also 4 years of separation" and Mister "well idk my siblings and me are kinda strangers and my dad is dead but that’s kinda whatever", but typically relationships need some form of maintenance and emotional availability…

The actual headcanons finally

I kinda have 2 routes in mind for dunlord Chil and both of them are centered on "I care too much, i wish things were easy", so first is a lot like his succubi, it’s full on indulging in his guilty pleasures like alcohol and bodies and it’s to keep him in a constant state of thrill and euphoria and distracted, unfeeling about stuff that really matters. "Nothing matters except that I’m enjoying the moment!" vibe. He gets to live a life worthy of Dionysus, with alcohol and women and debauchery and like— never having to think again, never having to feel anything but pleasure again, never have to feel guilty or shitty or angry or sad. He has a harem and gets everything on a silver platter.

Breaking news demon magic-induced rush of euphoria and power still not enough to cure this man of his self-hatred nor his capacity for thought!! But in his case a state of euphoria is what he seeks I think, to kinda mask or replace the Everything Else.

The other is what I think closer to what canon suggests, with what WL implied too with "I’ll make you a new wife and kids like the originals!! 😊", it’s a (spoilers) Wandavision type thing where it’s a slice of life where he’s never at work and always at home and the family eats lunches at the dinner table together and everything and everyone at any moment is just. Happy. No issues. It was all a dream, this is real and everything is fine and your family is perfect and happy. I like to think the timeline would be wonky, his daughters would fluctuate in age, but he’d want to be there for what he missed, would want them to still rely on him and look up to him like when they were young, would like to forget that they’re now independent adults and the distance that grew between Chilchuck and his siblings is happening between them as well. Chil would want doppelgangers of his family imo, at its core just a general wish for a peaceful happy family life with no drama, no need to compromise, a little paradise of unconditional love and no consequences. It’s for sure straightforward, but Chilchuck is a man with straightforward desires…

But see Chilchuck is a greedy man, and he wants it both ways without having to sacrifice anything or expanding any efforts himself. He wants to have his cake and eat it too. I think playing with these two opposite directions and mixing and matching is most fun. Him leading a life where he indulges in all his worst habits while still having everything he wants… Him getting to have BOTH his wife and any woman he can imagine up, his life like two sides of a coin he can flip at any moment where he’s partying then he’s at home enjoying the quiet and his toddler daughters playing with toys on the carpet. Christ when you remember it’s all an illusion that’s terrifying, the doppelgangers and succubi from the winged lion playing chilchuck ping pong.

A safe little haven both security-stability wise and emotionally. Gets to have both the relaxing and the thrilling in any dose he wants, mixed or separatedly. What I’d argue he had pre-canon too: Can live it up in taverns away from home, stays away from home for long periods of time, and can come back to home aka the symbol of relaxation and safety whenever he decides to. Something he can leave and come back to at will, an anchor he can trust in (until it’s taken from him and his wife leaves. Or in his worse nightmare people rush in and kill his daughters). The ideal of a house and family to a working man, perhaps…

I think it’s fun to think on wether or not these desires would be interesting at all to the winged lion… In canon he seeks out "rare/complex desires", common simple things like I imagine riches, sex, substances and pleasure would be are boring to him, he’s eaten those so many times already. So perhaps he wouldn’t last long as a dunlord, the WL would want to eat him fully quick, can’t keep him interested or waiting long for a meager meal, too much effort raising the cattle and too low quality meat. By making it more twisted or layered Chil’s desire would become more desirable to the demon, it’s part of what’s fun with the third option to me. But whatever. Has he ever eaten a guy with this much repression and self-sabotage... Like trying to get the meat out of a walnut, enrichment…

Other dunlord Chil takes I’ve seen that are fun and good:

@feelo-fick and @pluvio-floret have a dunlord Chilchuck AU project dubbed "tragedy AU" where Chilchuck is said to be "on vacation", in a weird delirious state, only half-there half of the time… From which he doesn’t want to wake up </3 Quoting Feelo, this is why the vacation thing is only a half-joke cause he is 1) letting all his responsibilities go 2) indulging in himself and 3) "spending time with his family" <- lie but you get what i mean. Additional comments that have me vigorously nodding: because changing is hard why cant things just be okay right now without the effort !!! Life is hard he’s so so tired he just wants to feel good… he just wants life to feel nice and easy for a sec while he can learn to breathe again and lose the stress and trauma he’s accumulated…….. spoiler alert yes !!! in fact a depressed person can suck themselves into their job and lock out the world who wouldve thought !!!

And then Cabinette I know posted about his dunlord take once but I don’t have the link, in which Chil has a lot of nosebleeds because of mana overload which is fun and interesting to think about imo~

In dunmeshi, where characters get underground pockets of the world as their playground disconnected from everything outside and the rest of the world, it’s important to remember to face reality even if it has conflict and people with different views and stances from you, it’s something Chilchuck and Marcille and everyone needed to learn, and the thing with a dungeon lord AU is that you imagine a timeline where he fails to <3

A timeline where his dungeon lord wish is to desire nothing bc hope and want has only ever hurt him would also go so hard. Very universal thing though I suppose.

… And this is why a Chilchuck-centric Coraline AU is really really interesting and fitting and topical— Ok that’ll go in a separate reblog/post at @Fumiku I need to let this end

#Dungeon meshi #chilchuck tims #Analysis #dungeon lord chilchuck #Spoilers #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #Wish we could put just parts of a post under a ‘click to read more’ box that scrolls open and closes neatly #Bc 3/4th of the post is just extra explanation for ppl who don’t See The Vision already but like that’s not what i wanted most of the post #to be really gdbdg #Headcanons #You could say the family also represents something he’s built up with how own hands. If he has self-worth issues and thinks he’s a screw-up #in the virtue/honor and likability department especially— his family destroyed/killed also represents the one biggest good thing #he’s done/created crumbling also. Like his wife leaving without a word while he trusted their relationship this can hugely impact #one’s sense of identity and self-worth and what you’re living life for. In his case it’s not too surprising he turned to simple #physical pleasures for comfort and enjoyment. Like with tasting good food having moments feeling good keeps you going #He always focuses on the bad relationships bring and never the good aghhhh #The reverse of Marcille who often idealizes. They both ignore problems in their relationships in opposite ways.#What do you mean why do i bring up marcille. Okay yes this’ll get a marchil Fumiku short brainstorm reblog as well #Chilchuck is so… curse of having feelings and not realizing the extent of them. Underestimating how much you care #It’s either ‘i’m fine who cares’ or falling into the pits of despair and blaming himself n spilling his whole bag no inbetween #Dunmeshi succubus #Fumi rambles #boy that’s what this boils down to i suppose #Family angst “Hey I came back home from work and i’m tired so don’t talk to me about problems or anything k? I’m here to relax smh damn”#< unwilling to admit he has issues he should be working on or that some things are affecting others negatively #Chil you are so enneagram 6w7 <3

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