#all because they eliminated third shift

[gabagoulie]

To the asshole who came to lock the gas station: FUCK you

[reiding-writing]

hi!! can you write more of the banter between enemy!reader and spencer but like now he goes beyond limits and like tells her the team would be better without her in their lives or something drastic and then she either goes missing or badly injured by the unsub??

404. /spencer reid/

if spencer is going to continue shutting down all of your ideas for leads in front of the team, then you’re going to track the unsub down yourself. you don’t need his approval anyway.

s1!spencer x enemy!reader 5.8k angst. series masterlist. main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, spencer is a real twat, details of kidnapping and grievous bodily harm, catatonic trauma response. imagine this like halfway through season one.

The moment you step into the precinct, you feel it in your chest—a tightness, a heaviness. It’s not just the fatigue of being called in at 3 a.m. or the smell of stale coffee and desperation thick in the air. It’s the kind of tension that says we’ve been chasing ghosts and getting nowhere.

You glance across the briefing room. The local PD is gathered awkwardly along one wall, arms crossed, faces pinched with defensiveness. They’re not happy to have the FBI here. You don’t blame them—getting sidelined in your own case is a bitter pill to swallow. But this unsub isn’t playing fair.

“This is the third victim in two weeks,” the lead detective mutters, flipping through crime scene photos projected onto the wall. “Each time, the unsub leaves a note. Always handwritten. Always addressed to us. Sometimes directly to me.”

Morgan leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s taunting you,”

The detective scoffs. “He’s gloating. This one said, ‘You didn’t catch me last time. What makes you think you’ll get it right now?’”

“Classic narcissistic behavior,” Elle murmurs. “But there’s more to it,”

Hotch’s voice is calm but pointed. “He’s not just showing off. He’s testing you. He wants to see if he can outsmart us next.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking from photo to photo. The unsub’s pattern is clean, almost surgical. No evidence left behind, no usable prints, no DNA. Victims all abducted within ten miles of each other, murdered within 48 hours, left posed—like the unsub wanted the scene to say something.

Spencer sits to your right, scribbling notes in that tiny chicken scratch of his. You pretend not to notice the way he looks over at you when you suggest a geographic clustering theory.

“I think we should be focusing on the clusters—if the unsub’s circling familiar territory, it could give us a window into their comfort zone. Maybe even a home base,”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “Or they’re using the local geography as a red herring. Throwing us off on purpose. Which is more likely with his intelligence level,”

You grit your teeth. “Or maybe you just don’t like when someone else has a theory first.”

There’s a flicker of tension across the table. JJ coughs awkwardly. Spencer finally glances over, his eyes sharp behind his curls.

“Just trying to eliminate bias,” he says flatly. “You might want to try that sometime.”

It starts small. A glance. A jab. You throw it back, and the fire spreads.

—

You and Spencer used to be good at this—banter, playful jabs, mutual intellectual sparring. It was light. It was fun. 9 months of almost playful hatred. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being any of those things.

You know why, you both do. But you’re still too stubborn to actually address it. So now, every briefing is a minefield.

“He’s organised,” you say, tapping a finger on the evidence board. “He’s probably keeping souvenirs. There’s no way he’s not revisiting these crime scenes in some capacity,”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s a reach. He’s already getting his fix from the letters. Revisiting is more common in disorganised killers with obsessive traits. But, by all means, let’s base our strategy on assumptions,”

You round on him, the heat rising in your chest. “You always do this—cut people down because they didn’t quote a research paper in their suggestion. Not everything is from a journal article, Reid. Some of us work off instinct

He doesn’t blink. “That’s a shame.”

The room stills. You can feel everyone watching you now—JJ's uncomfortable glance, Morgan’s frown, Hotch’s silent disapproval. Elle shifts like she wants to step in, but thinks better of it.

You clench your jaw. “Just because your IQ is the highest in the room doesn’t mean your word is law,”

“And just because you talk louder doesn’t make you right,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gideon’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “We are not here to flex egos. We’re here to stop a killer.”

You force yourself to look away, biting down on every retort itching to escape. Spencer doesn’t say another word either, but you can see it in the way he tightens his grip on the pen—he’s not finished. Not even close.

—

By midday, the briefing is over and you’re elbow-deep in case files, staring at photos of victims and crime scene reports that blur together. You’re trying to hold onto the idea that this is about the work, not about him, but Spencer’s voice grates in your head like static.

“Victim number two was killed in a different manner,” you point out, “which might indicate a loss of control or a change in the unsub’s emotional state,”

Spencer scoffs from across the room. “Or it might indicate that your profiling is, yet again, based on faulty interpretation,”

You look up slowly. “You’ve got a real talent for being insufferable,”

He shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts,”

“You’re not pointing out anything. You’re just undermining me. Again.”

He walks closer now, arms crossed, eyes full of cold disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being right, you’d actually be useful,”

Your jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “And maybe if you got over the sound of your own voice, we wouldn’t waste half our cases cleaning up your messes,”

Spencer steps in even closer, and now it’s personal. “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You go off instinct like it’s a badge of honour when really, it just makes you sloppy,”

You fire back without thinking. “You’re emotionally stunted and completely incapable of functioning outside a textbook,”

The words hang in the air like a punch.

Silence spreads. The local cops glance over from their desks. One of them murmurs, “Damn,”

Then Gideon slams his hand on the table.

“Enough,”

His voice is sharp, final. “Both of you. I don’t care how long this has been brewing—this is not the place. You’re acting like children, and you’re making this entire team look like amateurs,”

You glance down, throat burning. Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s stone-faced, but you can tell from the twitch in his jaw that he’s stewing.

Gideon’s not finished. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you unless it pertains directly to the case. Are we clear?”

You nod. Spencer doesn’t move.

“Are we clear?” Gideon repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer mutters.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

As you start gathering your files, Spencer’s voice cuts through the tension one more time—this time quieter, but not quiet enough.

“You know, we probably would’ve caught him already if you weren’t dragging us down.”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze.

The room goes dead silent.

Spencer looks away like he didn’t just say it. Like it didn’t just split something open.

You don’t respond. Not with words.

You finish collecting your files, slam the folder shut, and walk out of the room without a glance back.

—

You don’t say a word as you walk out of the precinct. You don’t slam the door or stomp your feet—there’s no drama, no outward explosion. Just a quiet, ice-cold silence that coats you like armour.

Let them think whatever they want. Let him think he won.

You move with purpose, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. You’re done trying to reason with people who have no interest in listening—especially a certain genius with a superiority complex. You tried to play by the rules, work within the team, but apparently the team doesn't think you have anything worthwhile to offer.

Fine. You’ll do it on your own.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—JJ, probably, or Hotch, maybe even Gideon trying to pull you back into line. You ignore it. Instead, you pull out your notes, flipping through the photographs you took earlier, the ones the team waved off as nothing—redundant, too similar to previous kills, “unremarkable,” Spencer had called them.

But they weren’t. Not to you.

The unsub had made a mistake. A small one, but a mistake nonetheless.

In victim three’s crime scene photo, the position of the body had been ever so slightly rotated compared to the first two—enough that most wouldn’t care, wouldn’t notice. But the shadows were wrong. There was too much light coming in through a window that didn’t face the same direction as the other houses in the neighborhood. And the blood pattern—it had streaked upward at an angle.

Someone had moved the body. After the kill.

You’d mentioned it in passing. Spencer had dismissed it as “grasping at straws.”

Well, straws were all you needed.

—

You hole up in a dingy motel room a few blocks from the latest crime scene, spreading every case file and crime scene photo across the bed like a map to something only you could see. Your eyes flicker between documents, stringing together tiny inconsistencies—the make and model of the air conditioner in victim four’s apartment, the mismatched doorknob in victim one’s home, the off-center towel rack in number five’s bathroom.

The unsub didn’t just kill these people. He replaced things. Adjusted details.

Controlled them, even after death.

You flip back through the files, heart hammering now, and scan the addresses again. You map them out on the motel’s bedside notepad, drawing circles, checking distances between the apartments and the kill sights. Mixing and matching scenes chronologically or otherwise. And then you stumble on it.

A perfect crescent, not random but intentional. All ten locations arced around a center point—a forgotten stretch of suburbia with an abandoned cul-de-sac, a place zoned for housing development ten years ago that never got off the ground.

It’s the only place the unsub hasn’t struck yet.

It’s also the only place that could tie them all together.

You glance at your phone again. The screen is blank. No new calls. No new messages. Not from the team. Not from Spencer.

And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t need him to validate you. You don’t need anyone.

You grab your gear, shove your files into your bag, and drive.

—

The cul-de-sac is quiet.

Not in the way quiet neighborhoods usually are, but dead quiet. No birdsong. No dogs barking. Just a biting, eerie stillness that settles in your bones the moment you step out of the car.

The houses are in varying states of decay—some half-built and gutted, others with boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. You grip your flashlight tighter as you move through the overgrown path between two units.

You keep your gun low, your ears straining for sound.

The data you gathered had pointed you to the house on the far end—the only one with signs of recent activity. The windows had been cleaned. The door, repainted.

You creep up the porch, careful not to make a sound. Your breath clouds in front of you, and the air feels colder here somehow. Heavier.

You reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

Unlocked.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

The interior is dark, but not untouched. A table in the front room is neatly set for two. Plates. Silverware. A bottle of wine. It looks more like a dinner party than a murder scene.

You sweep the room, clearing corners, keeping your steps light. Nothing jumps out at you, but your gut won’t stop twisting.

Then you notice it.

On the wall.

A photo.

Your heart stops.

It’s you.

Snapped from the side, no more than a few hours old. Shot through the window of your hotel room, small map of the city in hand. The image is taped to the wall with surgical precision. Below it, a tiny note, one you have to walk right up to to read.

Congratulations.

You barely have time to react.

There’s a sharp sting in your neck.

You reach up instinctively, but your fingers are already clumsy. You turn, try to raise your gun—but the world tilts violently.

A face emerges from the shadows. Smiling. Calm.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says, almost apologetically.

And then everything goes black.

—

You drift in and out of consciousness. Time becomes slippery—your mind fogged, your limbs numb. Every now and then you feel something cold against your skin, a tug at your wrists, the uncomfortable pinch of something sharp near your ankle.

When you finally come to fully, you’re tied to a chair.

Hands bound behind your back. Ankles strapped to the legs of the chair with zip ties. Your head throbs, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth—blood, probably.

The room around you is dimly lit. It’s not the main house anymore. You’ve been moved.

It looks like a basement. Concrete floors, unfinished walls, a single exposed bulb hanging overhead.

There’s a table nearby, neatly arranged with tools—not weapons. Instruments. Brushes. Tweezers. Surgical gloves.

You inhale shakily. You’ve seen what hems done with them before.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind you.

You flinch as he steps into view.

The man is unremarkable in every way. Tall-ish, average build. Brown hair, clean-shaven. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget within minutes.

“You came here thinking you’d be the hero,” he muses, walking around you like he’s inspecting art. “They all do. You think your badge makes you invincible.”

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to conserve what little energy you have, mentally calculating your options.

He crouches in front of you, smiling. “You found me. That makes you smart. Smarter than the rest of them, maybe.”

You meet his gaze, steel in your voice despite the pain. “They’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replies. “I’ll lead them right to you if I have to. Whether you’ll be salvageable though, is up for debate,”

He walks to the table, picking up a small silver scalpel, running a gloved finger down its edge.

“A portrait is a powerful thing. It’s like capturing a snapshot of a person’s soul. Of course no true portrait is taken without the proper preparations being put in place first.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t show fear.

You just stall.

“They’re going to kill you,” you say evenly. “The second they find out what you’ve done, you’re done.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then I guess we better speed things along,”

—

The sun had long since set when the rest of the team finally packed up for the night. The precinct lights buzzed with the kind of fatigue only unsolved murders could generate. Tension still clung to every surface, like dust no one could wipe away.

You’d been gone for hours.

And no one noticed.

Gideon assumed you’d taken some space after the confrontation—he’d scolded you both sharply enough in front of the local cops to warrant that kind of retreat. Morgan figured you’d gone to cool off, maybe back to the motel, maybe to follow up on a lead solo out of spite. JJ worried but didn’t say anything, not wanting to stir the already tense dynamic. Elle even offered to call, but Hotch had waved it off.

“She’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

And Spencer?

Spencer hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d returned to his paperwork, methodically scribbling notes, analysing patterns, and doing everything in his power to ignore the hollowness you’d left behind.

He told himself you were being petty. Immature. Childish, even. Storming off like a petulant child after a simple observation.

But by morning, the quiet had stretched too long.

The motel clerk confirmed you never came back last night. Your room key remained untouched. Your bed, still made. Your rental car, gone.

JJ’s face turned white. “She always checks in. Always.”

Morgan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She would’ve called if she was going somewhere. Even if she was pissed.”

Elle was already reaching for her phone, scanning through emergency numbers and local hospitals. “We need to start looking now.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, reaching for his radio. “She wouldn’t go dark this long, not in the middle of a case. Not without telling someone.”

Then Gideon walked in with a manila envelope in his hand, face grim. “We just received another message.”

Everyone stilled.

He handed it to Hotch, who opened it slowly, bracing himself. Inside was a note—typed, this time—and a single, polaroid photograph.

JJ read it aloud, voice catching:

“At least one of the FBI Agents you corralled to help was intelligent enough to track me down. Too bad they weren’t prepared for the aftermath.”

Hotch turned the photo toward the group.

You.

Bound, unconscious, head lolled to one side in what looked like a concrete room. Your face was bruised. Blood smeared your temple. Your hands were zip-tied behind you, your body slumped forward like a discarded puppet. The lighting was dim, shadows slashing across your figure like jagged teeth.

A basement. A storage room. Somewhere hidden, somewhere wrong.

JJ gasped.

Morgan swore under his breath.

Elle closed her eyes and muttered, “No…”

And Spencer—Spencer leaned forward slowly, brows knitting as he examined the image.

“We need Garcia to enhance it,” he murmured, already reaching for his phone. “Maybe we can track down the camera. Or a reflection. Or—”

“Well,” he added suddenly, voice clipped, “She obviously wasn’t that intelligent if she got caught,”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

The entire room turned toward him.

“What did you just say?” Morgan snapped.

JJ’s mouth dropped open. “Spence—”

But it was Gideon who moved first, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, “and I will bench you for the rest of this case.”

Spencer blinked. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Gideon cut him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want action. You think you’re the smartest person in the room? Good. Prove it. Use your genius to get over yourself and find her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything anyone had felt since the case began.

Spencer stared down at the photo, jaw clenched.

And then, finally, he swallowed his pride and got to work.

—

He isolated the enhanced image on the screen of his tablet, pushing aside his guilt and anger like clutter on a desk.

Don’t think about what you said.

Don’t think about the way you looked when you walked out.

Don’t think about the fact that you might not be okay.

Focus. Analyse. That’s what he’s good at.

“Lighting first,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.

He zoomed in on the image, filtering the background. The bulb overhead was exposed, casting distinct shadows.

“That angle suggests a single overhead source,” he muttered. “No side lighting. Probably a basement. At least eight to ten feet deep underground.”

He paused, adjusting the contrast on the image. “There’s no natural light at all, which rules out windows. Walls are unfinished. Cinderblock. Mortar lines are tight… That’s not a pre-’80s build. It’s too clean,”

Morgan leaned in. “So what—newer construction?”

Spencer nodded. “Late 90s or early 2000s. This wasn’t improvised. It was planned. It’s structurally sound, like a finished or semi-finished basement that’s just… been stripped down,”

Elle pointed to the corner of the image. “What’s that? Right behind the chair,”

Spencer zoomed in again. “It looks like… rust. A drainage pipe, maybe. Industrial-grade. Not common in most basements unless there’s risk of flooding. That, combined with the cinderblock, suggests this could’ve been built in an area prone to high groundwater. Maybe even flood plains,”

JJ frowned. “We’re not near the coast,”

“No, but if you look at the housing map…” He switched to a digital layout of the neighbourhood. “This cul-de-sac was supposed to be part of a larger development. Half of it was never completed because the land didn’t pass inspection,”

Hotch narrowed his eyes. “He’s in one of those unfinished units,”

Gideon nodded once. “Then we start there. We canvass the entire development. We don’t stop until we find her.”

Spencer looked at the photo one last time. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He thought of what he’d said—we would’ve caught him if you weren’t dragging us down—and suddenly it sounded less like a petty jab and more like a curse.

He looked up at the team.

“I’m coming with you.”

Hotch nodded. “Good. You’re going to lead the search.”

—

The SUV was quiet on the way to the development site. No one played music. No one made jokes.

Spencer sat in the front seat, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against his knee. He was trying not to picture you in that chair. Trying not to imagine what the unsub had done in the hours since that photo was taken. But he couldn’t stop the images.

You, bloody and bound.

You, unconscious and alone.

You, thinking no one was coming.

He had no right to worry.

No right to be scared.

But he was.

The words echoed in his head.

“She obviously wasn’t that intelligent.”

He wanted to take it back. Shove it into his mouth and swallow it down until it never existed. But that’s not how words work. They cut, and they cling, and they stay.

When they arrived at the development, the team split up fast. Morgan and Elle took the north end. JJ stayed with local officers to coordinate grid sweeps. Hotch and Gideon led the way into the southern row—newer units, all empty.

Spencer broke off on his own.

He had a gut feeling. It didn’t feel smart. It didn’t feel strategic. But it felt right.

And for once, he let himself trust that instinct.

The fifth house in the row was quiet.

Too quiet.

The front door was slightly ajar. No visible signs of forced entry. No sound from inside.

The front door creaked open under Spencer’s hand. The house was stale with disuse—thick air and thin silence. He moved cautiously through the entryway, gun raised, heart a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner felt wrong.

Footsteps pounded behind him seconds later—Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon falling in silently. Elle and JJ soon followed through the back, their weapons drawn, movements swift and precise.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak.

Second floor.

Hotch motioned with two fingers, and the team surged upward.

They found him in one of the back bedrooms. The unsub.

He was standing in front of a half-boarded window, arms crossed, calm like he was waiting for them. No fear. Just smug, eerie satisfaction, the kind that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too late,” he said simply.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. “On the ground! Now!”

But the unsub didn’t comply. He moved fast—reaching for something under his coat.

Hotch fired first. A warning shot into the drywall, forcing the man to freeze mid-movement. Morgan lunged in, tackling him with a grunt. They struggled, fists swinging, feet skidding across the half-carpeted floor.

Spencer stood back, watching the scuffle like it was underwater. His fingers twitched against his sidearm, but he didn’t fire. Couldn’t. His eyes were already scanning—behind the man, past the empty bedframe, to the blood on the floor.

He wasn’t thinking about justice. He was thinking about you.

By the time Gideon and Morgan got the cuffs on the man, Spencer was already moving—down the stairs, through the hallway, toward the door at the far end of the house.

There was a lock on it. Heavy. Old.

Spencer kicked it once. Nothing.

Twice.

On the third kick, the door gave way.

The basement smelled like mold, metal, and something sharper—sweat, maybe. Or blood.

The light flickered overhead as he stepped inside.

And there you were.

Slumped in the same position as the photo, tied to a chair, your wrists bound so tightly they’d gone purple. There was blood at your temple. Bruises down your neck. A split lip. Dirt smeared your cheeks. Rips in your shirt.

But you were breathing.

Barely.

Alive.

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief.

“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked. “Hey. You need to be conscious right now,”

Your eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Spencer's voice dropped lower, to fend with a failed attempt at lightheartedness. “You’re at a higher risk of permanent brain injury if you’re unconscious, and I doubt you need that on top of all of your other issues—”

His hands trembled as he reached for the zip ties, too afraid to touch you at first.

Morgan burst in behind him. “We need medics! Now!” he shouted up the stairs.

JJ’s voice echoed from above. “They’re already pulling up!”

Spencer carefully cut the ties, his fingers brushing your wrist. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

He looked at you again, eyes searching for any sign of recognition. A flicker of life. Of you.

Nothing.

When the medics finally came, they moved with military precision, lifting you from the chair, strapping you onto a stretcher. You didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“Low blood pressure. Likely concussion, threads pulse,” one of them said quickly, checking vitals.

They spoke in clipped medical shorthand as they wheeled you out. The words blurred in Spencer’s ears.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, in that grimy basement, staring at the chair you’d been tied to. The blood smeared into the floor. The shredded zip ties left behind like bones.

He should’ve stopped you.

He should’ve known something was wrong last night.

He should’ve said something—anything—besides the venom he’d spat.

His hands curled into fists.

Upstairs, he could hear Morgan shouting at the unsub as he was dragged away.

“You think you’re clever? Huh? You think this makes you some kind of genius?”

The unsub just smiled. “She came to me.”

Spencer’s stomach turned.

—

Outside, the late morning sun was rising, casting long shadows over the front lawn as paramedics loaded you into the ambulance. JJ stood nearby, arms folded tightly, barely breathing.

Elle was silent, her eyes rimmed red.

Hotch was speaking with local police, organising statements and chain of custody. And Spencer stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable.

He didn’t go to the ambulance.

Didn’t try to see you again.

He didn’t think he deserved to.

You were silent. Still unresponsive. Not out of stubbornness, not anger, but trauma. Something had shut off in you, and Spencer didn’t know how—or if—you’d be able to come back from that.

He hadn’t just pushed you away.

He’d left you alone long enough to almost die.

—

The hospital was a cold place. The sterile white walls seemed to hold no comfort, and the bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, as if trying to shatter the fragile quiet of the room.

But the team couldn’t shake the relief.

You were alive. Not unscathed—far from it—but alive. The doctors assured them you would recover physically, though they hadn’t made any promises about the mental scars.

But there was a sense of something else in the air, something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Gideon paced outside your room, eyes shadowed by a tiredness that went deeper than just the case. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face taut with unsaid words.

Elle was in the hallway, sitting on a chair with her head in her hands, her phone still in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the house. JJ hovered near the nurses’ station, keeping herself busy with menial tasks, but her face was pale—gripped by some invisible weight.

And Hotch, though outwardly composed, carried the same heavy air of guilt.

But no one felt it as sharply as Spencer.

He was pacing in the hallway, arms stiff at his sides, a muscle in his jaw twitching with every breath. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since they’d arrived at the hospital, and though he’d checked in with the doctor, he hadn’t really listened.

Spencer’s mind was still replaying the look in your eyes when you were pulled from that basement—the emptiness, the unspoken words, the brokenness. And for the first time, he was painfully aware of the distance that had been wedged between you.

The anger, the insults, the barbed exchanges—it hadn’t been just his defence mechanism, and he hadn’t realised how much damage it had done until now.

But now you were silent, and Spencer could feel the full weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a vice. You were the one who’d been hurt the most—physically—and still, it was his words that had broken you.

—

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

You were propped up in bed, the sterile white sheets bunched around your body. Your face was bruised—still swollen—but your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing there. No emotion. No spark. Just an emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill.

Spencer hesitated, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

You didn’t move when he sat in the chair next to the bed. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. Your gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused, distant.

For a moment, Spencer just watched you. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

It was only when he spoke, his voice sharp and broken, that the silence shattered.

“What you did was reckless and idiotic,” he said, his tone colder than he intended. “You could’ve died. You left without backup, without even thinking about the risks.” He swallowed, forcing his words to keep coming. “You could’ve—you should’ve—asked for help.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Something—anything—but there was nothing. You didn’t even blink. You just stared ahead, lost in the haze of your own mind.

Spencer’s fingers clenched into fists. “You think this is some kind of game? You think you’re invincible?”

Still nothing.

He leaned in slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. But you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who matters here. This isn’t just about you.”

Nothing.

The silence stretched on, a taut wire between the two of you, the gap between him and you feeling like an abyss. Spencer couldn’t stand it. His gaze dropped to the floor, a wave of shame crashing over him.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to fix it.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid felt like he was completely and utterly lost.

—

The team began to gather in the waiting room outside your room, and no one spoke. Even the air felt thick, like the stillness before a storm.

It was Elle who finally broke the silence. “I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. “She… she won’t even look at us.”

Hotch, though normally composed, looked exhausted. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the situation. “She’s been through hell, Elle. We can’t just… expect everything to go back to normal.”

Gideon looked up from his place near the door. “No, it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “But I’ve seen this before. Trauma like this… it changes you.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the door to your room. “She’s going to need time, and we’re going to need patience. But we also need to acknowledge what we did wrong,”

The room grew quieter, each member processing the truth in their own way.

Morgan, who had been pacing with his hands in his pockets, spoke up. “Spencer’s not handling this well. But none of us are.” His voice was strained, but it held a sense of certainty. “We didn’t see it. We didn’t see how bad it was getting for her.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, guilt flooding her expression. “We should’ve known. We should’ve stepped in. The way she and Spencer were fighting—it was too much. We should’ve told them both to stop before it got to this point,”

“I’m just…” Elle’s voice wavered. “I’m just so angry at him. How could he say those things to her? He was the one who pushed her.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and hurt. “He acted like he didn’t even care, like she didn’t matter

Hotch sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “We all failed her in some way.” His eyes flicked to Gideon. “And now Spencer’s struggling to process the fact that it’s his words that have hurt her the most,”

Gideon nodded slowly. “There’s no way to fix it right away. But what matters now is how we move forward. For her. Not for us.”

[angelfishe]

|| 🂱🂱 𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐃 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄. 🂱🂱 ||

<< yandere VIP Zhongli x Player!reader >>

After your mother suddenly has gotten her self into a large debt that seems it is never gonna end, someone recruited you to participate in a game to clean off that debt, but turns out it was a life and death situation as well meeting some familiar faces.

A one shot of my previous post

Warning : includes some dub-con intimacy, spoilers for the squid game series, blood, violence, as well mentions of intimacy

<< Viewers discretion is advised>>

Your mother has gotten herself into a large amount of debt for no apparent reason, she got Carried away in an illegal casino as well taking a loan from an illegal casino.

So you took odd jobs to pay off the debt to help her, but it never seems to end for you guys suffering. Everyday is tiring getting up at 4 am and going home at 11 pm, it was exhausting.

You were tired one day after a night shift, and was waiting at the train station to go home until a man in a business suit approached you, saying why don't you guys play a game for some money. You were desperate for cash so you accepted it.

After that, you receive some slaps but you eventually win. You get your cash and as well a business card about playing a game and clearing your debt.

You decided to take your chances and go with a friend to this so-called game. You and her wait for the car that was taken to you guys towards the game and when it arrives you guys suddenly fall asleep. You guys wake up in a green jump suit with different numbers on it.

After the game rules were laid out by the guards and the first game was "red light, green light", you didn't think much of it and followed the game as usual. Until one person moves during a red light and was shot, and soon all hell broke loss

People ran towards the exit and ended up getting shot left and right, you and your friend didn't know what to do and was scared to move and that's how you guys survive the first game.

During the dalgona shape game, unfortunately for you, you receive a star shape one. You were stressing about it until a guard next to you decided to drop a lighter right next to you and you unknowingly grab to use it.

During the third game it was a miracle that your team managed to win, during the night when there were lights out people left and right started to eliminate each other.

You were safe due to you hiding under the bed. Unfortunately during the 4th game, the marble game. Your friend decided to back stab you and cause you to lose the game.

She was allowed to leave and you were told to stay behind, you thought they were going to shoot you but they drag you into somewhere in the facility.

You were screaming and begging them to let you go, and you were pushed into a luxurious room inside a bed night stand and a man wearing an expensive brown suit and was wearing a deer mask facing the other way so his back was facing you.

"I'm so glad I've got to meet you again my love" he's voice sounds familiar, "it's a shame you don't recognize me have you forgotten my voice after those years being apart because the only thing that has kept me sane was your voice".

The man took off revealing it was your ex husband zhongli, you guys divorce about three years ago how possessive he was with you, unwilling for you to let you go anywhere but home saying it was dangerous.

He was a famous consultant when you guys were married and you both were living comfortably, until your divorce and you heard that he joined the army for 2 years and after leaving he managed to climb himself into the world of the elite reaching fortunes of those Unimaginable.

He seems way more taller and muscular since the last time you saw him maybe he's been working out. As well growing his hair to the point of reaching his back side.

He approach you and envelopes you into a large bear hug, saying how much he misses you and loves you. While you're there just shock contemplating why he is here in this game as well knowing where you were.

And the entire time he was also saying how he was right and the world is a dangerous place as well saying you would have been with him and not be in this game. He was about to give you a kiss until you pushed him to create some distance from him.

You ask him why he was here, and he answered that his friend "childe" tip him off about an entertainment experience that was once in a lifetime to enjoy. And that's how he became a vip to the squid game, he originally wasn't fond of these games but he was glad he came because he saw you on the list of participants. And now he's here to save you and bring you back home

He said he could clear the debt, saying that the debt of 100 million mora wouldn't make a dent in his fortune it was just a small amount as well about the dealings of the illegal casino saying his friends own it and will pay off the debt as long as he gets to have you back.

Without a choice you decided to take him back, and he enveloped you to his embrace as well kissing your lips. He walks you both towards the bed and pins you down.

He grabs the deer mask that was put on the night stand and puts it on your face and then he undresses you from the jump suit "let's get you out of these dirty clothes".

He's more muscular, more broader and much more stronger as well having some experience in the bedroom after you guys divorce, I mean he would usually imagine the ones who were underneath him was you.

As well as having more stamina since the military training, leaving you breathless and thoughtless after the deed was done. After 3 years apart he must have been pent up a lot. Admiring and memorising your figure as well singing praises about your screams of pleasure and how he misses it.

After some time you receive some high end clothing from the guards as well having your own golden mask. You and him walk arm on arm in link together as if the universe doesn't want to separate you again and you guys take a seat watching the last player fight for the Fortune.

[puck-heaven-now]

From nhl.com:

The Dallas Stars were minutes from elimination Saturday when [Mikko Rantanen] exploded for three goals and an assist, leading his new team to a 4-2 win in Game 7 of the Western Conference First Round against the team that had traded him, the Colorado Avalanche.

The forward became the first player to record a hat trick in the third period of a Game 7 in the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

“Obviously, things happened not the way I expected to happen [with Colorado], but it’s business, like I’ve said many times,” Rantanen said. “I don’t know. Revenge? I’m just happy to win [against] another team in the playoffs. It doesn’t matter who it is. So, I’m just happy to be on the winning side and move on here.”

...

The Avalanche had to watch as crew members picked up all the hats the fans tossed onto the ice.

“It’s pretty shocking,” Avalanche center Nathan MacKinnon said. “I felt like we were in total control, and Mikko, credit to him, he made some amazing plays. He was the difference-maker. He took over. Yeah, I don’t know. I’m in shock, to be honest.”

...

Let’s be honest,” Stars coach Pete DeBoer said. “He took over the series the last three, four games. He just decided that we were not going to go home and we were not going to lose. I think it started then. But I mean, what you witnessed there was special. …

“This was Colorado and the team he had played for for a decade, and I don’t know all the behind the scenes, what went on there. But he was a motivated guy to make an impact in this series, and he just got better and better.”

There is no doubt Rantanen is one of the best playoff producers in NHL history. He entered this season averaging 1.25 points per game in the playoffs, tied with Mark Messier for sixth among players who had played at least 74 games. But people asked if that was because he had played with MacKinnon and Avalanche defenseman Cale Makar.

“I think he answered that question,” DeBoer said. “I’ve had a lot of playoff runs, and I know I haven’t had a player string together the three games he strung together -- 5, 6 and 7 -- how dominant he’s been shift to shift.”

The handshake line was emotional. Rantanen had gone through so much with so many of the guys on the other side, including winning the Stanley Cup in 2022. He called them his “brothers.” Present tense.

“I always love them off the ice,” Rantanen said. “It doesn’t matter if it was between games, the day off. I love every one of them. And then when we go on the ice, they’re enemies. That’s how it goes.

“Yeah, it’s emotional, for sure, because everything happened so quick. It’s only a couple months since I was still with them, playing with them and chasing a playoff spot and stuff, and now I’m, all of a sudden, a couple months later, playing against them in a Game 7, so emotional is the right word for sure.”

Surreal is another word. Rantanen was asked how he would have reacted had someone told him in training camp he’d have a hat trick for Dallas to defeat Colorado in a Game 7.

“I think I would have left the room in disbelief,” he said. “Yeah, for sure, would have not believed it if somebody told me that. Yeah, difficult year personally. Mentally tough overall, getting traded twice. It’s not fun ever to get traded even once, but twice in the season [is even harder].”

Rantanen thanked everyone in Dallas for welcoming him and helping him adapt.

“You can’t write it up any better than that -- guy comes over and knocks out his old team, puts the team on his back,” Stars goalie Jake Oettinger said. “One of the best individual performances I’ve seen in playoffs in my life, so just so happy for him.

“And it’s just the start.”

[full article]

[whizzing-fizzbee]

I Remember

Sebastian Sallow x GN!Reader

Rating: PG (death, mild violence) Words: 5,339 Tags: G/N reader, G/N MC, angst, grief, mourning, death, love, hurt no comfort, heartbreak, sad Sebastian Sallow

Summary: You died during your seventh year at Hogwarts before you could tell your best friend, Sebastian Sallow, how much you loved him. But when he discovers a box of your pensieve memories, he learns the comforting, yet cruel truth.

Notes: This is a little different from my usual smutty crackfics. So enjoy a bit of angst and have no fear, I’ll be back with more of my usual work soon.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Sebastian Sallow hadn’t been a fan of birthdays in years. He shared his own with a twin sister who no longer cared to speak to him. Their parents hadn’t been alive to celebrate with them in ten years, and now, you – the only person he ever loved romantically – were also gone.

Now, people couldn’t help but whisper and wonder if death favored poor Sebastian Sallow.

Life had been far too cruel to Sebastian for him to care about something as flippant as his seventeenth birthday – especially when it was the first birthday he’d spend without you.

Sebastian never told you how he felt. He could never quite find the words or the right time. A teenage boy plagued by so many misfortunes couldn’t be expected to understand such love anyway. All he knew was his eyes constantly searched for you in every room. He knew he craved lapsang souchong tea, because that’s what you drank – bold and smoky, just like you. And he knew that he would have died for you, without question, if he’d only been a little faster.

It happened three months ago, though it replayed in Sebastian’s mind with such frequency and clarity, it could have happened three days ago, for all he knew. 

The two of you had ventured into the Scottish Highlands in search of dittany leaves for a potion. It had been a soft, serene morning punctuated by a mild breeze and the maternal kind of sunshine that embraced you with warmth, offering no inclination you’d endure your demise that day.

After all, you’d eliminated Ranrok and his loyalists. You’d saved Hogwarts – and wizardkind – all while helping the Keepers preserve the secret of your ancient magic in the repository. Your biggest fears these days were Potions exams and Imelda Reyes’ taxing quidditch practices.

But poachers and Ashwinders remained, operating under new unscrupulous undertakings. You knew that – you eliminated them whenever you encountered them – but you hadn’t expected them to be camped outside of Keenbridge that day.

You and Sebastian laughed and joked, unaware that those three Ashwinders were very aware of your presence. So while the two of you cackled about Puffskein Duncan’s hideous new haircut, those Ashwinders were watching. They observed as you gathered your potion ingredients and stashed them inside your bag. They saw the way you tried to shove Sebastian in a creek when he teased you. They noticed the way Sebastian’s eyes lingered on you as you drank from a canteen you’d nicked from Gladwin Moon.

But they didn’t care. And then they struck. 

They ambushed you both when your guards were down, your eyes too busy clinging to each other and your thoughts too consumed by your pounding hearts.

An Incarcerous spell struck Sebastian first, whipping ropes around his hands and feet so that he fell at your side. You knelt to help him, shielding you both with Protego until you managed to hit one Ashwinder with a stunning spell. 

Another Ashwinder drove you backward with a slew of spell combinations, leaving Sebastian bound and helpless in the grass. He writhed and jerked in desperation. You took the second Ashwinder on, your eyes shifting between her and Sebastian. And when you saw the third Ashwinder approaching him, you lost all regard for anything but him. 

“Expelliarmus!” you shouted as you disarmed the third Ashwinder. You sent another cast at Sebastian, freeing him from his bindings so that he could scramble to his feet. You caught his gaze, admired those deep brown eyes, and he smirked at you. The two of you had been in similar scenarios more times than you could remember. And you always walked away unscathed.

And then, the explosion sent you backward. The Ashwinder you had been fighting seized that opportunity when you were lost in Sebastian and sent you flying off your feet until you toppled over the edge of a cliff.

You fell and fell, a slow-motion stage exit to the grand production of your short life. It was quite a letdown of a finale. Surely someone with experience like yours would die in a much more grandiose manner than a few lowly Ashwinders.

The last thing you heard was Sebastian’s scream before your body returned to the earth. Your soul never did, though.

So while Sebastian managed to escape those Ashwinders with his life, he walked away from that day drained of his will to continue surviving.

He’d lost nearly every person close to him. It made him question everything – his purpose, his resolve, and every choice that had led to so many devastating conclusions.

He had to be the one to apparate back to the Hogwarts grounds with your body. He could still hear the whispers – then the screams – as your fellow students realized what had happened. He sat through your funeral while Headmaster Black prattled on some performative prose about how wonderful you were. Then he clung to a corner of the Slytherin Common Room while your housemates drifted past, mumbling their condolences. 

And then, whatever spell had been placed on the world was lifted. Hogwarts was no longer frozen in time. Your classmates returned to their studies and professors went about their lessons. The morose hallways reignited with their old energy, ringing with jubilant chatter. Even the weather moved on, its summer blossoms and laughing waters wilting amid a cold cast of clouds and decay.

Life carried on for everyone but Sebastian. He remained there with you, rooted to the spot in time where he watched your spirited life reach its screeching halt. While everyone else drifted forward, Sebastian lingered in place, searching for you in every new moment while the old ones anchored him to his anguish. 

It had become a canon event in Sebastian’s life, a familiar foe he couldn’t outrun. He lost someone he loved, the world felt sorry for him, and then it moved on. It left Sebastian lonely and isolated, smothered by a grief few others could comprehend. Hogwarts had been his home for years, but your absence made him homesick.

That’s why no one blamed Sebastian for hating his birthday today. No one even dared to approach him, except Ominis in the morning. He urged Sebastian to eat but left when he was met with a cool response. It made no difference. Sebastian had mastered the art of saying words he didn't believe, even if Ominis saw right through them. Instead of attending classes, Sebastian retreated to the Undercroft.

The dark, damp dungeon missed you desperately. When Sebastian first introduced you to the space, you had insisted on tidying it up. You used scrubbing spells to clean the surfaces and fire spells to clear the cobwebs; then you used Professor Weasley’s conjuration spells to add furniture and desks. You even placed thoughtful little trinkets to a tabletop, a touch that reflected your desire to add warmth and comfort wherever you went.

But now, the Undercroft was achingly empty in your absence. Though the traces of your previous presence lingered, the room’s creaks and groans seemed to whimper for your return. The surfaces had collected dust and the floors were dingy again, desperate to be disrupted by your tread. The braziers were dimmer, begging for a blast of your fiery existence. 

Sebastian hated that room now. It was once his recluse; his safe space meant only for him and the three people he cared about. But now that your handprints were all over it, it was lacking the life you had once breathed into it. 

Sebastian left the Undercroft and ascended the Astronomy Tower. When the Room of Requirement appeared for him, he strode right in. It would provide him with whatever it was he needed.

He visited your room often, simply to stand and feel its pulse. You were everywhere. And unlike the Undercroft, you lingered with life here. Sometimes, Sebastian sat on a sofa in the side room until he dozed off. Other times, he’d venture into the vivariums to check on its inhabitants. Most times, he merely felt ; the room seemed to know Sebastian wanted to remember you, and it often hummed with a calm, quiet murmur reminiscent of your soothing tone.

Today, the room seemed to know Sebastian was in need of a birthday gift. As he wandered toward the side room, his eyes scanning the bookshelves you’d filled with your – and Sebastian’s – favorite novels, his eyes fell on a trunk. He had never noticed it before. 

Sebastian frowned and eyed the trunk’s lid. There was no lock on it. 

After you died, your friends had been careful with your belongings. Sebastian kept everything of sentimental value in a trunk of his own, from your school robes to the notebooks containing your scribbles about ancient magic. Everything that mattered to you was in his care now, so it struck him as odd that there’d be a secret trunk in your Room of Requirement.

Sebastian swallowed, unsure of what he would find as he kneeled over the trunk and waved his wand. The lid clicked open and he lifted it, revealing some old clothes. Sebastian blinked. It all seemed rather anticlimactic. But as he lifted an old sweater from the top of the pile, he stilled.

The familiar S.S. initials were embroidered across the left breast. He had wondered what happened to this sweater and assumed it was lost in the laundry ages ago. Beneath it, was a scarf. His school scarf. 

At the very bottom of the trunk was a package – a small box wrapped in brown paper with your familiar scrawl in ink. You had written his name across the top.

Sebastian stared at it, as if lifting it from the trunk would shift the paradigm of his universe. But curiosity was Sebastian’s Achilles, and he soon found himself setting his old clothes aside for the package.

He brushed dust from the top of the wrapped box, his fingers tracing over his own name as if the ink you’d left would leech into his fingertips, absorbing you with it.

He treated the paper with the utmost care, peeling it slowly away from the box to ensure it wouldn’t tear. It revealed an old wooden box, unremarkable and unassuming. Sebastian turned it over carefully, the sounds of delicate glass tinkling from inside. Once he confirmed there were no markings or inscriptions on the box, he flipped it back over and snapped the top open.

Inside was a folded sheet of old parchment and a set of tiny glass vials, each filled with clear liquid. Dust clung to the vials, leaving Sebastian’s fingers dingy as he examined each one for clues revealing their contents. Each cylinder was labeled with a date so small, Sebastian had to squint to see them.

He set the box on the floor next to the trunk and carefully unfolded the old parchment with both hands. Again, your familiar handwriting revealed itself.

Dear Sebastian,

Happy birthday! Please view these pensieve memories on your own time, in private. You’ll understand once you see them. Then come find me when you feel the time is right, no pressure. 

Love always, Your kindred spirit

Sebastian smiled. Your voice echoed in his mind and ears, like you were reading the letter aloud right next to him. He hadn’t smiled at the memory of you since you died.

Instead, his grief had crawled into every crevice of his brain and body, constricting him into a body bind of immobilizing heartache. It clamped down on his veins and arteries and cut off his blood supply. His brain screamed for some semblance of life. It left his nerve endings void of all sensation and pooled in the pit of his stomach, an omnipresent offering of torment and guilt.

Sebastian scrambled to his feet, cradling the box in his arm as if it contained the most important secrets in the world. To him, it did.

He scurried from the Room of Requirement and retreated back to the Undercroft, now grateful for its quiet seclusion. He set the box carefully on a table and sorted through each vial until he found the one with the earliest date.

After he uncorked it, his hand shook as it hovered above the pensieve. Its swirling liquid seemed to beckon him, pleading for memories to resurrect it back to life. But Sebastian hesitated, fearful for what lay on the other side of this moment.

He trusted you more than anyone, but you clearly had meant for these memories to remain a secret until the right moment. Sebastian was sure you’d packaged them up under the assumption you’d be alive for his birthday. What if your death had changed everything and these memories were supposed to die with you?

The last thing Sebastian wanted was to betray or dishonor you. Your life had been so full of intention – from your determination to stop Ranrok to your sincere endeavors to help cure Anne’s curse. Sebastian wanted to preserve your memory with love and admiration. But these were his memories now. You’d wanted to share them with him and he would honor that, no matter their contents, no matter the cost.

Sebastian tipped the vial and watched a single drop ripple across the pensieve’s surface. It glimmered and swirled, stirring wispy trails in its gentle wakes. Sebastian didn’t wait to plunge his face in.

More smoke swept past him and he hurtled straight into the Slytherin Common Room. He immediately spotted himself, pacing in front of the fireplace with his nose in a book. He recognized this moment better than his own wand. 

And then you appeared. You paused behind the sofa and watched Sebastian curiously. He had never noticed that. Your eyes studied him until he finally looked up from his book.

Sebastian had to watch himself meet you for the first time all over again. It tugged at his heartstrings, twisting and tightening them inside his chest. You were right there, mere feet from him, but he couldn’t reach out and touch you.

He watched as you introduced yourself and smiled as you inquired about his book. He told you not every useful spell could be found in assigned textbooks, to which you expressed your intrigue. And that was when Sebastian declared you kindred spirits; the phrase that would connect the two of you by an unseen thread for life.

Sebastian was uncertain why you chose to return him to this particular memory. He remembered it far too fondly to need a refresher. But as he watched your first meeting come to an end, he noticed as you walked away and paused to turn, your gaze lingering on his form long after he had returned his attention to his book. 

He hadn’t known that happened.

The memory ended and thrust him back to the Undercroft, where Sebastian stilled to process your replay of your first meeting. What was he meant to take away from such a simple moment? Of course, the events that followed had been anything but simple. You became the most complex person to ever enter Sebastian’s life.

He fumbled quickly through the remaining vials for the next and wasted no time tapping another drop into the pensieve. This memory seemed to shimmer and sparkle as it dispersed across the pensieve’s cloudy waters. Sebastian drew a breath and dipped his head.

This one was clearly Christmastime. You, Sebastian and Ominis were cozied up in the common room. You were seated between the two boys on the sofa, a blanket thrown across your lap while you clutched a mug of cocoa in your hand. Ominis looked relaxed, a rare change from his typical poise. Sebastian slouched lazily in his seat, a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans in his lap. The fire crackled as you laughed at one of Ominis’ dry remarks, though your eyes were on Sebastian.

He watched as you smiled at his pensieve form, warmth radiating from your gaze. Your lips curved as you teased him about his tousled hair, to which he became indignant and tossed a jelly bean at you. You squealed and nearly splashed your cocoa on Ominis, who squawked in displeasure.

You picked up the jelly bean and chucked it back at Sebastian, who caught it and popped it in his mouth before his features contorted in disgust.

“I think that one was dirt-flavored,” he whined. 

“Good, serves you right,” you declared happily. Sebastian’s pensieve version reached toward you to give your hair a sharp, playful tug. You swatted his hand away and laughed wildly, all while Ominis chided you and Sebastian for making a mess.

It was another moment Sebastian had committed to his own reserve of memories with clarity and fondness. But again, your version was different. 

This time, he noticed the way you noticed him. Your eyes never left him, even when Ominis spoke. You leaned closer to him, your body nearly touching his when you teased him. And then there was the moment your hands brushed – completely innocuous – but Sebastian noticed the way your breath hitched and your cheeks flushed. His did the same.

He watched as Ominis yawned and declared it was time for bed. Your mutual friend said goodnight and disappeared toward the boys’ dormitories, leaving you and Sebastian’s pensieve form in each other’s company.

The pair sat and talked quietly, an occasional giggle interrupting your murmurs, until the fire waned to soft embers and you dozed off on his shoulder. That was one of Sebastian’s favorite memories.

But he remembered the subtle smell of your hair, the warmth of your body and the soft breaths that sighed from your lips during your slumber. He didn’t remember what happened once he fell asleep.

And so he watched as the memory shifted like a leap in time, and then you stirred, likely in the middle of the night. You lifted your head and peered upward at Sebastian, smiling as you watched him sleep. Your chest swelled and eyes softened until you gently returned your head to his shoulder until the morning.

As the memory came to a close, Sebastian began to wonder. What were you trying to tell him? What did those stolen glances and secret smiles mean? 

The third memory surged inside the pensieve when the liquid met the surface. This one stirred a storm of dark and volatile streaks, which made Sebastian scared to see its contents. But once again, he dipped his head with bated breath.

He recognized the Feldcroft catacomb immediately. And in a sudden rush, he watched himself sprint past, toward the exit. Sebastian couldn’t forget this moment if he tried – and he often did.

“Sebastian!” you cried as you jogged into view. Tears streamed down your cheeks and your face was bleeding from your fight with Solomon. You begged Sebastian to stop, but he was far too gone – in every sense of the phrase – to even acknowledge you.

Shame surged through Sebastian as he relived one of the worst moments of his life. He followed after you as you pleaded with his pensieve version to wait until you eventually stopped calling his name.

But when you reached the exit, the memory shifted and Sebastian was thrust to your dormitory. This scene was new to him. 

His expression fell as he watched you sink to the floor, your body hitching with violent sobs. Your hair was still disheveled, robes torn and tattered, and blood streaked across your cheek from the fight in the catacomb. Sebastian had never seen you so anguished. The sight would haunt him the same way your death would. 

He stood in the corner of the room, tears welling in his eyes as he watched you unravel, scared and alone. You sobbed so hard your chest heaved and your stomach lurched. 

The scene blurred again until Sebastian was returned to the Undercroft, this time as a voyeur. He caught his breath as he watched you plead with Ominis to refrain from turning him in for killing Solomon. 

“I don’t want to lose Sebastian, but I don’t think we have a choice,” Ominis said. 

“We do have a choice,” you insisted. “What good would it do if we turn him in now? He clearly regrets everything. He’s not going to do anything like this again.”

“We both heard that before,” Ominis argued. 

“But we also need to think about Anne. She’s lost her health. Now she’s lost her uncle. Do you really want to take her brother away from her too?” you pushed. 

When Ominis finally relented, Sebastian watched as more tears streamed over your cheeks. Your eyes were empty, no longer brimming with your bold energy. Sebastian had drained it from you. The realization shattered his heart. 

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Ominis asked you. 

“I care about them both,” you answered. “I know Anne doesn’t much care for me, but Sebastian needs her… and I need him.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Ominis asked quietly. 

You nodded in response. “I do.”

Ominis sighed, though it was evident he wasn’t surprised by your revelation. You and Sebastian were as clear as diamonds — and as hard as them, too. As much as it frustrated Ominis, he knew it was also what made the two of you so simpatico. You understood Sebastian on a profound level few others could even scrape.

“You’ve got to save him,” Ominis whispered. “He can’t save himself. He’s too far gone. You have to be the one to help him. You’re the only one.”

You nodded in understanding, your cheeks now raw and red from the salty sting of your tears. 

“I will,” you said softly. “I love him too much to lose him to this.”

The memory ended and Sebastian swished back to the Undercroft, now in its present state. He gripped the edge of the pensieve to hold himself upright, its cold stone pressed hard against his fingers. He was crying now, his breath shaky as he fought for air. 

His legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor on his knees, his body bent in child’s pose as he choked on his own sobs. He remained there until his bones seemed to disintegrate. His body felt like a vacant home left to rot into ruins.

You loved him. He watched you admit it. You loved him, and you fought for him. When others wanted to give up on him, you were ready to step closer. You vowed to save him because he had meant that much to you. 

And you had succeeded. Because once your fifth year ended, you inserted yourself to Sebastian’s side, an extension of his own body. You resurrected him from the cavernous clutches of dark magic and desperation, and revived him with renewed energy. You let him lean on you in the days that followed Solomon’s death. You talked him through his guilt and reminded him he was worthy of a good life that shouldn’t be defined by his past. You refused to allow him to punish himself, but ensured he was remorseful for what he did. You showed him what it meant to become redemption. 

Your empathy and understanding nursed Sebastian back to his old form – the charming, friendly and resourceful boy he was before your fifth year – the boy you had never even met. You were his savior, not because you needed another person to rescue, but because saving Sebastian from himself also saved you.  

After all the evil you’d endured, you needed to believe that people could still be good. You needed reassurance that light could still outshine dark. And you needed to know if your love would be enough for someone, even if it wasn’t reciprocated.

Because the one thing that saved you and Sebastian Sallow both was your best shared attribute: your optimism. 

Sebastian lay curled up on the floor of the Undercroft for a good hour. He was overcome with grief, guilt and regret, and they all clashed at once, straining his heart until he was certain it would sever inside his chest.

What if he had simply told you he loved you? Maybe it wouldn’t have prevented your death, but at least you would have known. At least you would have died with a full heart and the comfort that the boy you cared about the most needed you in all the same ways. 

And selfishly, maybe you would have told Sebastian you loved him, too. 

When silence returned to the Undercroft after Sebastian’s sobs subsided, he sat up, his weight supported back on his hands. There was still one vial remaining.

He wasn’t sure he had the energy to witness any more monumental memories, but truly, he had no choice. He wouldn’t rest until he understood every message you were trying to send him. He owed you that, at the very least.

Sebastian gathered himself up off the floor to retrieve the last vial. He was cool and clammy, which caused him to grip the vial particularly hard amid concern he would drop it. As he tilted it over the pensieve with a shaking hand, it splashed and shimmered streaks of gold that reminded him of sun rays.

He recognized this memory instantly. It had taken place a week before you died. The two of you snuck out of the castle to explore another old cave. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, other than an adventure. Sometimes, the two of you merely created your own expeditions for old time’s sake.

This one led you all the way to the Clagmar Coast. Once you determined the cave housed nothing more than a chest of old spectacles, you and Sebastian decided to sit and watch the stars under the cover of the cave’s secluded opening. It overlooked the sea, which shimmered beneath the moon. You could hear the churns of the waves smashing into the cliffside below, but not even the surf’s rumble could drown out the slamming heart inside your chest.

You hugged your knees as you sat close enough to Sebastian that you could feel his warmth. The salt air whipped through your hair and he laughed as you struggled to keep it in place, finally admitting defeat when it plastered itself to your face.

Sebastian watched as you shivered. He had chided you for wearing only a knit jumper, even though he had done the same. What he hadn’t known was that your shivers weren’t from the cold. As so when he draped an arm around you and pulled you close against his body to keep you warm, your own body shuddered more. You welcomed its response because it meant he’d hold you even tighter. You did this more often than you’d ever admit – sometimes you pretended to be cold just so Sebastian would hold you.

Sebastian had dwelled on this memory at a damn near obsessive rate. His head had become a vast vault of moments with you, each one stored away in meticulous order that would make Madam Scribner proud. But this one sat on the nearest shelf, within easy reach so that he could call upon it often.

He hadn’t known it would be one of his final fond memories of you. 

But again, your version was different.

Because this variant exposed everything. The moonlight cast itself over your eyes, which softened every time Sebastian glanced at you. But as you snuggled closer to him, Sebastian watched as you squeezed them shut. They looked like a camera shutter, committing the moment to the film inside your head.

And then you stole one more glance up at Sebastian’s pensieve form and your eyes screamed louder than the waves below. You gazed at your freckled friend with so much love, it made Sebastian’s chest cave as he watched.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t utter the words that were perched on the tip of your tongue. You didn’t have to. Neither of you did. 

Finally, Sebastian understood. 

That was the beauty of it all. For all of your unspoken words, your silent declarations, and your desperate desires, you were both enough. 

You and Sebastian adored each other in secret and in silence. But you lived and loved out loud. 

And though you both wished you could have experienced that love to its full extent and in its truest form – raw, real and unrestrained – what you did share was enough.

So when Sebastian returned to the Undercroft for the final time, the last of your pensieve memories complete, he sank back to the floor with his back pressed against the wall.

Because even though he understood now, even though he realized he’d always carried your love, he was in mourning.

He mourned the romance you’d never have. He mourned your future cut short by the sharp, cruel blade of an unfair fate. And he mourned your memories – all of them – because this wasn’t how you’d intended him to see them. 

He was supposed to view them and then sprint to you. Had you been alive, he likely would have found you tucked away in a quiet corner of the library or en route to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeers with Poppy and Natty. He would have chased you down and told you he’d seen all the memories. He would have told you he loved you, too. The two of you would have laughed at how silly you’d been. And then he would have kissed you and stolen you away from whatever endeavor you had going on to make up for lost time.

But now, you’d lost more than time and nothing would make up for it. It would gnaw away at Sebastian forever. 

But the worst part was he couldn’t save you. He could return to your memories to see you again, but he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t feel you, couldn’t speak with you or reach out to pull you to safety. He couldn’t bring you back.

Soon, those memories would be gone, too. The vials you left were no bigger than Sebastian’s index finger. They’d run empty if he revisited the pensieve too often. He hated how he had to ration you like this. You loved each other. He deserved you with boundless abundance.

And though you’d found a way to tell him how you felt, he would never have the chance to tell you. He silently prayed you somehow secretly knew, but you deserved more than the cowardice of unspoken words. You deserved a loud and vibrant love, obnoxious to those who envied you and beautiful to those who understood you.

And then Sebastian realized. 

He scurried from the Undercroft, your vials left in their box to be retrieved later. Right now, he had to get to you.

You were buried just south of Hogsmeade, near the observation platform that overlooked the South Hogwarts region and the castle. It was your favorite place, because you said it presented you with a perfect view of home and everything you loved. 

When Sebastian reached your grave, he fell to his knees before it. Tears returned to his eyes and he choked back a sob.

“I saw them,” he sputtered. “I saw everything – all of your pensieve memories. I wish you’d told me. I wish we could have known how it felt to be together. And I wish I could have told you how much I love you, too.”

And then he wept. He wept for himself, for you, and for the universe that had to continue its existence without the privilege of your presence. 

He cried until every emotion had poured itself from his eyes into the soil of your grave. He prayed his tears would seep six feet under and find their way to you. You had given him your tears – they now sat in those tiny little vials that Sebastian would treasure forever. The least he could do was gift you with his, even if it was his birthday.

He stopped celebrating for good that year, electing to instead spend every birthday returning to your pensieve memories until one day, those were gone, too. 

[reasonsforhope]

"Samuel Onyango’s office at Kibera Primary School is serene and spacious. His table is neatly arranged, with an assortment of files and an array of books. One side of his cream-colored office is decked with aggregate performance scores, and another shows off several trophies in a glass cabinet. Last year, Onyango’s school performed a traditional dance and scooped third place in the National Drama and Film Festivals, where schools across the country competed for the top prize.

But today Onyango, the school’s principal, is bragging about something much more basic: Thanks to an innovative community program, his students and teachers are no longer getting sick from dirty water.

Onyango’s school, with a staff of 30 and a student body of about 1,700, is in Kibera, a neighborhood in the Kenyan capital of Nairobi that is widely known as Africa’s largest informal settlement. It is a community of houses made from mud or tin sheeting where residents have to hustle to meet even their most basic needs, like electricity or clean water.

It is also a community where creativity and innovation, at the heart of any hustle, are changing how some people can access clean water — and making major ripples in public health.

Onyango’s school has long gotten its water the same way many people in Kibera do: by buying it from independent suppliers, who truck water in and sell it for around $30 per 10,000 liters (about 2,650 gallons). But trucked water can be contaminated, despite suppliers’ promises, and Onyango’s students and staff were often using unclean water at home, too. It was common, he says, for both teachers and students to get sick and miss school because of waterborne illnesses.

Last November, Onyango’s school got connected to an aerial clean water system built by a local grassroots organization called SHOFCO, which stands for Shining Hope for Communities. “Once we got connected to SHOFCO’s water,” Onyango says, “cases of these ailments reduced to nil.”

SHOFCO’s water distribution system currently reaches about 40,000 people and distributes more than 3.7 million gallons of clean water per month.

Access to safe drinking water — and its equitable distribution — underpins public health. But for the estimated 250,000 people in Kibera, who live without any government infrastructure, clean water is often a luxury. Many people are using illegal water connections, which proliferate among the poor — there are nearly 130 in just three lesser-resourced Nairobi neighborhoods. But those DIY hookups can mix clean water with raw sewage, and Kenyan officials have recently warned of a looming public health crisis if water access is not prioritized.

Shifting weather patterns also increase the risk of waterborne illness, government officials say. The Ministry of Health and the Kenya Red Cross Society have called out severe flooding during the El Niño weather pattern as a source of a recent major cholera outbreak in parts of the country. Kibera was not spared this risk: The floods led to the contamination of various sources of water in the sprawling neighborhood.

But the aerial piping system SHOFCO built in 2012 — the one that brings water to Onyango’s school — saved some Kibera residents, quite literally. With collaboration from health and county authorities, SHOFCO has all but eliminated diarrheal disease in the communities that use its aerial piping system, according to Gladys Mwende, a program officer at SHOFCO. In the health facilities SHOFCO runs, the incidences of diarrheal infections have also gone down, she adds.

Pictured: People in Kibera’s Makina section pass by the signature blue pillars that hold up SHOFCO’s aerial water piping system. Visual: Sarah Waiswa/Harvard Public Health Magazine

“[Poor sanitation is the reason] that our water is aerial piped,” says Kennedy Odede, the founder and CEO of SHOFCO. Piping water in helps clean water maintain its integrity without interference from elements including tampering. In a huge community with no major infrastructure, piping seemed impossible — there was no money and no will to build a disruptive underground system connected to the city’s main water supply. Instead, Odede and his team put the pipes up in the air. “As somebody who grew up in Kibera, to see this clean water — which I have also drank — is powerful.”

SHOFCO’s water distribution system currently reaches about 40,000 people and distributes more than 3.7 million gallons of clean water per month — nearly 46 million gallons per year — at community water kiosks, which residents access with tokens linked to the mobile money platform M-Pesa. The water kiosks are pre-programmed to fill jerry cans that hold about five gallons at a cost of 3 Kenyan shillings, or about 23 U.S. cents.

A recent evaluation of SHOFCO’s clean water efforts, undertaken by the African Population and Health Research Center, shows diarrheal disease among children under age five have decreased by 31 percent where community members used SHOFCO water kiosks and received SHOFCO’s sanitation messaging.

“We don’t get as many cases of diarrhea even though now we are in the middle of the floods,” Mwende says. “Communities have not reported any outbreaks within the areas where we are working.”

Mohammed Suleiman is grateful for the change. Suleiman, 25, was born here, and it’s been his job for the last 18 years to fetch 135 gallons of water daily for his family’s personal needs and for their samosa business.

Two months ago, Sulieman contracted typhoid from the unsanitary water he was consuming. Once he recovered, he says, switching to SHOFCO water kiosks was a no-brainer.

“I don’t know where the other independent vendors get it from,” he says. But he trusts SHOFCO water. “Water sourced from SHOFCO is cleaner than that of other vendors,” he says. “I don’t have to treat water from [SHOFCO] kiosks before consuming it.”

And he’s the living proof: Since switching to SHOFCO water, Suleiman hasn’t been sick even once."

-via Undark, August 13, 2024

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 14: Your Young-il

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3!

word count: 6.1k

You should have known it would come to this.

Survival wasn’t about alliances. It wasn’t about outsmarting the system. It was about force. Because, in the end, the only way to break out of hell is to break something first.

A sharp crack shattered the silence. Gi-hun shot through the small glass window in the door. The glass broke, shards cascading like frozen rain.

He didn’t hesitate. His hand darted through the jagged remains, fingers fumbling for the lock.

With a click, the door swung open.

The guard recoiled, his face draining beneath the artificial lights. His gaze flicked to the broken window, then to Gi-hun’s outstretched hand. Fear rooted him in place—too long.

Gi-hun shoved him through the door and pressed the stolen gun against his skull before he could even inhale.

“Move,” Gi-hun growled.

The guard obeyed.

Young-il was already at Gi-hun’s back, measured, controlled, a step ahead. You matched his pace, your heart hammering against your ribs, a steady drumbeat of panic and determination. The others fell in line, their steps hesitant, but committed.

You forced your eyes away from Young-il. But your thoughts betrayed you.

Because in a place built to strip you down, to turn you into something unrecognisable, he had been the one constant.

And that scared the hell out of you.

Because the moment you start caring about someone in a place like this? You’re already dead.

He wasn’t supposed to matter. He was supposed to be just another body in this nightmare. But in the last few days, he had become something else.

A lifeline. A tether. The only thing keeping you from going insane completely.

You didn’t let yourself think about what that meant. What it would feel like to lose him. Because deep down, you already knew; If he died in this mess, it would feel like the sky had cracked open and swallowed every last bit of light.

And if the world is nothing but darkness, what’s the point of living in it?

The staircases stretched before you, twisting like a labyrinth designed to keep you lost. Sterile pink. Pale blue. The colours of a dollhouse, masking a graveyard.

Footsteps echoed. Then the speakers crackled. The lullaby started.

Soft. Eerie. Wrong.

It drifted through the air like a weighted blanket soaked in something sickly sweet. It didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong anywhere. But it played anyway, weaving itself into the walls, into your skin, into the spaces between your ribs.

“All players, it is bedtime now. Please return to your quarters immediately. Otherwise, you will be eliminated from the game. Let me repeat…”

A voice like glass, cold and smooth. A voice that has said these words so many times before.

Eliminated.

Like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t mean what it means.

Your fingers tightened around the gun. The metal grounded you. The weight was reassuring. A reminder that you are not powerless.

Behind you, Jung-bae exhaled sharply. “I think I’ll be hearing that voice in my dreams. Don’t you?”

You glanced over your shoulder. He walked too casually. Like he was pretending this was normal. Like he was ignoring the fact that so many died and now you were on a suicide mission.

Dae-ho shifted. The corner of his mouth quirked in something almost like amusement. But it didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t real.

And yet, the lullaby played on. The warning repeated. And the walls felt tighter. The air heavier.

Because even then, with a stolen gun and an open door—

You were still trapped.

Gi-hun stopped dead and released the guard’s shoulder. He lifted the weapon. The first shot slammed into the speaker. A violent jolt. The eerie lullaby stuttered, cut mid-note. The second shot followed. Then the third.

He didn’t stop until the speaker shattered.

Silence. No music. No mechanical voice. Just the sound of your own pulse, thundering beneath your skin.

You exhaled. Your shoulders dropped. But then you felt it. The hair on the back of your neck stood up—warning you before your eyes even caught the reason. Your head snapped up.

Three guards. Standing on the upper staircase. Their rifles were already raised.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Your hand shot out—grabbing Young-il’s jacket and you shoved him down.

Your voice tore through the stunned silence.

“GET DOWN!”

The group dropped.

Your back hit the steps—hard. Pain exploded through your spine. The bullets hit the staircase and you felt their impact shaking your bones.

Young-il moved beside you. Quick. He pressed low against the concrete, his eyes snapping up toward the shooters.

They had the advantage; height, position, power.

But what they weren’t counting on, what they never counted on, was how desperate you are.

Another shot rang out. It barely missed Young-il. It shot through the railing and embedded itself on the other side of the staircase.

You cursed under your breath. 

“Fuck this.”

Your shoulders tensed. Legs coiled beneath you like a spring.

The only way out was through. And you refused to die here.

“COVER ME SO I CAN GET THROUGH!”

A hand closed firmly around your wrist.

You turned—Young-il.

His grip wasn’t forceful, but it wasn’t soft either. He wasn’t stopping you. He now knew he couldn’t. But his fingers tightened nonetheless, just slightly. A silent plea. 

His eyes locked onto yours, so incredibly soft and full of sadness.

“Be careful.”

And then he let go.

The moment Young-il and Player 047 raised their weapons and opened fire, chaos erupted. The sharp cracks of gunfire tore through the air, echoing off the walls. You barely had time to think, before your legs moved on instinct.  

Up. I have to get up.  

You bolted, your feet slamming against the floor as bullets flew. The air was thick with smoke, with the scent of gunpowder. The guards had the high ground—that was the real problem.

A voice cut through the chaos, calling your name.  

“I’ll help you!”  

You turned your head just long enough to see Player 120 sprinting toward you. The kind of person who didn’t hesitate—who saw danger and ran straight toward it instead of away. You liked that about her. She wasn’t just brave; she wasselfless.  

The moment you reached the top, you didn’t think. You just fired.  

The recoil bit into your palms, but you held steady. The first guard barely had time to turn before your bullet hit him square in the chest. His body jolted before gravity claimed him. His hands grasped at empty air as he tipped over the railing, falling into the abyss below.  

Beside you, Player 120 wasn’t far behind.  

Her aim was true. The second guard collapsed instantly, his rifle slipping from his fingers as his body followed the same fate as his comrade—plummeting down, swallowed by the endless drop of the stairwell.  

Two down.  

The world didn’t slow.  

The gunfire below was still relentless, still ripping through the air, still pressing down on you. Your chest heaved as you turned, as you forced yourself to take in the battlefield below.  

And that’s when you saw him. Dae-ho.  

He wasn’t shooting. He wasn’t even looking.  

He was crouched low behind the railing, hands clamped over his ears, body curled in on itself like the gunfire was a physical thing pressing him down. His shoulders shook, and even from up here, you could see the raw panic in his face.  

You had seen this look on Dae-ho before.

You didn’t know what Dae-ho had been through before this. Didn’t know what memories gunfire dragged from the depths of his mind, what ghosts clawed at the edges of his thoughts. But whatever it was—  

It was consuming him.  

You wanted to call out to him. Wanted to tell him to focus, to pull himself together, to remind him that this was life or death. But you couldn’t.  

Because you knew what it was like to be swallowed whole by something bigger than yourself. And there was no quick fix for that.  

Your heart clenched for him.  

Another round of bullets slammed into the railing next to you, jolting you back to reality. You tore your eyes away from Dae-ho, forcing yourself to focus.  

Because no matter how much you wanted to help him; you couldn’t save him if you were dead.  

Out of the corner of your eye—movement.  

A guard. Positioned on the staircase parallel to yours. But their rifle wasn’t aimed at you. It was locked onto Player 120.  

You didn’t hesitate. You fired. A clean shot—head, down. They crumpled instantly.  

Another figure emerged beside them, barely a breath later. You squeezed the trigger again. Another body hit the ground.  

Somewhere in the chaos, you heard Gi-hun yelling—“HOLD FIRE!”  

But it was distant. Muffled. Like sound barely breaking through water.  

You scanned the area, heart still hammering. The others did the same, glancing around, breaths uneven, bodies tense.

No guards.

You turned to Dae-ho. His hands wrapped around his gun, his shoulders rising as he finally pushed himself to his feet.

Gi-hun’s voice cut through the heavy silence. “Is everyone okay?”

Young-il turned to you first. His eyes searched yours, waiting.

You gave a small nod. I’m okay.

He returned it.

Around you, the others responded—some nodding, others murmuring, 

“Yes.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Gi-hun exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. “All right, then.” He turned toward the stairs, jaw set.

“Let’s go up.”

Gi-hun’s grip was merciless as he grabbed the unmasked guard by the collar and yanked him forward. The kid barely stumbled to keep up. 

You didn’t waste time feeling bad for him.

You fell into step beside Young-il. He was quiet, but you knew him well enough to understand what that meant. His mind was working, taking in every detail, every risk, every outcome.

You noticed that Player 120 didn’t walk with you. Your eyes followed her movements, her gun was now aimed again.

Not at an enemy. At the ceiling. At the cameras.

The ones you had seen on the first day, red lights blinking like tiny, soulless eyes.

How smart.

The gunfire rang out. The first camera shattered, sparks flickering like fireflies before it fell. Then another. And another. The mechanical stare of surveillance was wiped out in an instant, one bullet at a time.

Satisfaction curled in your chest. You hadn’t even thought about the cameras. Not since that first day when survival had been about breath and heartbeat, about running and not looking back. But Player 120 had been thinking. She had been watching. And now, finally, she had taken away their eyes. You liked her more by the second.

You walked past a dead guard, your footstep landing too close to his outstretched arm. Your body jolted before your mind caught up. He wasn’t a threat anymore. Just a body now.

The sight of him should have felt heavier. The finality of it. But all you saw was an opportunity.

Quickly, you crouched. His rifle was no use, but the magazines strapped to his vest were still full.

Yours now.

You pulled them free in one smooth motion, stuffing them into your pockets as you rose. The extra weight sat snug against your thigh. You couldn’t afford to run out of bullets. 

Young-il saw. He looked at you as you fell back into step beside him. Then, without a word, he reached down—just as quick—and grabbed a second magazine from another fallen body.

This is who we are now.

The hall stretched ahead of you, lined with the remnants of the massacre you had left behind. The hushed breaths of the others following. For a while, neither of you spoke.

But then, softly, Young-il said, “You’re learning.”

Your steps didn’t falter, but something inside you did. A strange warmth bloomed in your chest—twisted, unfamiliar.

Was that pride in his voice?

You scoffed, shaking your head as you adjusted your grip on your rifle. “Don’t sound so surprised, Young-il.”

“I’m not,” he murmured.

That should have been the end of it.

But his voice lingered, curling around your ribs like smoke. And then he added, just a little quieter, too honest, “You’re different from when we started.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You weren’t the same person who had first walked into this nightmare, wide-eyed and desperate to hold on to some shred of humanity. That person would have hesitated before pulling the trigger. That person would have flinched at the sight of a corpse instead of stripping it down for ammo without a second thought.

You were different. But so was he.

You turned to him, watching the way the light caught the edges of his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the tension in his jaw. He had changed too.

“Good. Different means we’re still alive.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. Maybe amusement. Maybe something else.

“Yeah. I guess it does.”

Gi-hun stopped dead in his tracks. Too suddenly.

You nearly slammed into his back—until Young-il’s strong hands caught you.

His grip was firm, steady, pulling you. One arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you into him before you could stumble.

For a fraction too long, his hand stayed, fingers pressing into the dip of your waist, gripping like he had every intention of holding you there forever. His breath skimmed the back of your ear, and that was when you knew—you were screwed.

Because Young-il was close. Too close. Close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back. Close enough that when he exhaled, slow and measured, it felt like he was doing it just to see if you’d react. And you did.

Your pulse kicked up violently, face burning, stomach flipping like a live wire had been set off inside you.

You barely had time to process it before Gi-hun’s voice cut through the tension.

“How much farther?”

No answer. The hesitation cost him.

Gi-hun spun the kid around without warning, shoving the barrel of the gun against his forehead. The boy barely had time to breathe, let alone flinch. His eyes widened.

“Is this the right way?” Gi-hun’s voice was low, razor-sharp.

The boy swallowed hard, then lifted a shaky hand. He pointed down the hall, his finger trembling.

“The entrance to the management area is around that corner,” he stammered. “The control room is right above it.”

Gi-hun didn’t lower the gun. Not yet. He watched the kid, scanning his face for a lie, for a trap, for anything that might justify pulling the trigger.

Nothing.

Slowly, he released his grip, shoving the boy forward.

“Move it, then.”

Young-il still had his hand wrapped around your waist. His fingers dragged as he let go—trailing down your side in a slow motion, pressing just enough to make you shiver before finally, finally releasing you.

"Wait," the guard said, voice tight with hesitation. His hand dipped toward his pocket. Gi-hun caught his wrist before he could go any further.

"What are you doing?"

The guard swallowed. "I need my mask to pass security."

A pause. Gi-hun held him there for a second longer, measuring him, before finally releasing his grip. Slowly, the guard pulled out a square mask with shaking fingers.

That should have been the end of it.

But then his eyes lifted. And landed on Young-il. And froze.

Shock rippled through the guard’s face, his pupils shrinking, mouth parting like he had just seen something—someone—he couldn’t believe was real.

Recognition.

You felt your breath catch.

Your gaze snapped to Young-il, searching for an answer—something, anything—that might explain why this guard looked at him like that.

But Young-il didn’t move.

Didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

Cold, unreadable, his face was a mask even more impenetrable than the one the guard held in his hands.

And that’s when you knew. Not suspected— knew. 

Something was up.

Brick by brick, your mind started piecing it together—stacking every strange look, every calculated decision, every moment where Young-il had seemed just a little too prepared, too controlled, too aware of things no one else should have known.

You had wondered before. Questioned the way he moved through this place like he understood it on a level no one else did. You had caught the way he always seemed one step ahead. But what did it mean?

Who the hell are you really, Young-il?

A gunshot. The guard’s head snapped to the side. A brutal, sudden jolt. Blood spattered against the wall, and his body hit the ground with a sickening thud.

The thought—the question, the truth hanging just on the edge of your mind was gone. Ripped away like it had never existed.

Gi-hun moved first, pressing his back against the pillar.

Young-il’s hand closed around your wrist, yanking you down with him before you could even think to drop on your own. A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you hit the floor, but the sound was swallowed instantly by the chaos erupting around you.

You were caged.

Young-il’s body covered yours entirely, pressing you against him. His arms curled around your chest, his chest flush against your back.

A shield. Your shield.

Gunfire cracked through the air, bullets slicing past so close you swore you could feel them. You turned your head just enough to peek over the railing—at least a dozen guards on the other side, rifles raised, fire relentless. Young-il pulled your face down as another shot flew past you. 

All you could feel was him.

The heat of his body. The way his breath ghosted against your ear, hot and uneven. The crushing weight of him, keeping you there, keeping you safe.

For a second you forgot to breathe.

Young-il’s voice was loud in your ear.

“Stay down.”

One of yours turned to fire back—but the bullet caught him first, slamming into his chest with a sickening force. His body jerked, he let out a half-strangled gasp before his back hit the wall opposite you. Blood smeared in his wake as he slid down.

You stared.

The breath punched out of your lungs, your body wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t react. He was just— there. Alive one second, crumpling the next.

Young-il’s hand covered your eyes.

His other arm was still wrapped around you, he wasn’t only a shield against the bullets, but also against the horror in this room.

"Don't," he murmured, voice low, almost gentle. “Don’t look.”

His lips were too close to your cheek, that it made your pulse stutter for an entirely different reason.

He didn’t move his hand. His fingers curled slightly against your skin, keeping you here in the moment, with him.

"Focus on me," he said, softer this time. 

The gunfire raged on. But for a moment, all you could hear was his breathing.

You forced a slow inhale. Then another. In and out, in and out, until the panic settled into something manageable. Until your mind caught up to your body.

Young-il must have felt it. The way your breathing evened out, the way your body stopped trembling beneath his hold.

“I’m fine."

Slowly—reluctantly—his fingers dragged away from your eyes. The ghost of his touch lingered against your skin before finally disappearing. His arm still held you, firm and grounding, but looser now.

His eyes searched yours.

“I’m fine,” you whispered again.

Young-il didn’t move. His jaw tensed—like he didn’t quite believe you. He wasn’t ready to let go. But he did.

His arms unwrapped from around you, slipping away inch by inch, like he was giving you every chance to pull him back.

You didn’t.

The first thing you saw when you lifted your head was return fire from your group.

It started with Player 120. Then Jung-bae. Then, one by one, the others raised their weapons and started shooting.

The once-untouchable enemy line staggered, their formation breaking under the relentless counterattack. You saw a few drop down over the railing.

Gi-hun’s voice cut through it all.

“I’ll go look for the management area!”

Young-il turned to him immediately, eyes sharp.

"Will you be able to find it?" Young-il asked, his tone even, controlled, “Should I come with you?"

Gi-hun was already moving. "I’ll go with Jung-bae. I need you two to buy us some time."

"We’ll do that!" you said, before Young-il could argue.

Still, you felt the tension in him, the way his shoulders locked in place. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like not knowing what Gi-hun was walking into. 

Young-il looked at Jung-bae, then his gaze flicked back to Gi-hun. His expression was tight, but off.

It wasn’t frustration. Not exactly. It wasn’t relief, either.

Was he irritated that Gi-hun didn’t want him tagging along? That he wasn’t being trusted to see this through?

Or was he glad?

Because if he had gone, that would have meant having to bring you with him and possibly walk into more danger than you’re already in now.

"Jung-bae, let’s go," Gi-hun ordered.

Without another word, he grabbed the square mask from the dead guard and vanished around the corner, Jung-bae following close behind.

Young-il’s eyes lingered on the empty space they had just left. You didn’t give him time to get lost in his thoughts. You nudged him, hard.

"Young-il. We have to fight!"

He didn’t move. Not like he should have been. Instead, he just looked into your eyes.

"No. We don’t."

The finality in his voice made your stomach drop.

"What—"

"Gi-hun left us in charge," he cut you off, tone low, unwavering. "That means we control the fight. We don’t participate in it."

Your heart pounded against your rib cage.

"And even if he didn’t," he continued, voice dropping just slightly, "I don’t want you in that crossfire."

His jaw tightened, like he was holding himself back from something.

"I already didn’t want you fighting earlier, but I trusted your judgment. Now there are too many guards. If you fight, you’ll get yourself killed."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but before you could, his hand cupped your cheek.

"Don’t make me force you, (Y/N)."

The way he said it so pleadingly shifted something inside you.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to say screw that and charge ahead, but you couldn’t. Because he wasn’t wrong.

And the way he was looking at you? Like he was daring you to argue—like he knew you wanted to argue but also knew you wouldn’t—made your frustration crack apart into something warm.

Young-il had always been hard to read, a storm hidden behind sharp eyes and carefully measured words. But right now? He wasn’t hiding anything.

His concern. His frustration. That impossible pull between staying logical and caring too much. It was all there, laid bare between you.

You hadn’t even realised how close you were standing, how his body was angled toward yours, how his grip—while firm—wasn’t stopping you. If you really wanted to pull away, you could. But you didn’t.

His eyes were now on your lips.

The space between you was too small.

Or maybe not small enough.

For a fraction of a moment, everything else disappeared. The guards, the gunfire, the danger. There was just him. 

You leaned in. 

BZZT.

The static crackle of the walkie-talkie shattered the moment.

“Young-il. (Y/N). Do you copy?”

Gi-hun’s voice. Urgent. Dragging you both back into reality.

Young-il inhaled sharply and you could’ve sworn that he rolled his eyes.

His hand dropped.

Then Young-il reached for the walkie-talkie at his hip and pressed the button.

"We copy." His voice was level, steady—like nothing had happened. Like the past ten seconds hadn’t nearly undone something inside both of you.

You exhaled, forcing your heart to slow.

Not now. There was no time for this now. Later. If there was a later.

“We’re in the management area. We’ll make our way up.”

Young-il looked like he couldn’t quite believe what Gi-hun was saying. 

The walkie-talkie went dead. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“What’s wrong?” You nudged him. 

Young-il’s fingers flexed at his side. His gaze lingered on the walkie-talkie for a second too long before he clipped it back to his belt.

"Nothing." His voice was steady. "Nothing’s wrong."

You narrowed your eyes, unconvinced. But before you could press him, another shout cut through the chaos.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s follow them to the upper level.”

Young-il’s head snapped toward player 047.

"We might get surrounded if we move together without a plan!" he shouted over the gunfire, voice sharp, decisive. "Let’s wait until they find the control room!"

Finally, Young-il moved.

In one smooth motion, he lifted his rifle, took aim, and fired. A clean shot. The bullet found its mark—right between a guard’s eyes. His body jolted before crumpling to the ground.

You didn’t wait. Your hands moved on instinct, grip firm as you raised your own weapon. The recoil slammed into your shoulder, but your aim was true.

One.

The first guard dropped before he even registered he was dead.

Two.

A second collapsed beside him, barely managing a strangled gasp before hitting the floor.

You exhaled, lowering your gun just slightly.

"Took you long enough," you teased, glancing at Young-il from the corner of your eye. "Thought you were just gonna stand there looking pretty."

His jaw twitched, but you didn’t miss the way he smiled— just barely.

"Shut up and keep shooting. You’re good.”

Player 120’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.

"Everyone! Check your magazines!"

A chorus of responses followed, some quick, some hesitant—each one a grim reminder of how little time they had left.

“I’m down to half.”

"I've got two-thirds left.”

“Mine’s empty.”

You ejected your own magazine, fingers brushing against the cool metal as you scanned the remaining bullets. Not great. You clicked it back into place and exhaled.

“I’m almost out!”

Then—another gunshot.

You looked over your shoulder just in time to see another guard drop, a clean bullet to the head. You turned to Young-il.

"I'm almost out too.”

He didn't even check his ammo.

Your stomach twisted. Again.

That feeling—like pieces of a puzzle were right in front of you, but you didn’t quite know how to put them together. But this wasn’t the time.

You shoved it down.

Then the walkie-talkie crackled and Jung-bae’s voice tore through, sharp and edged with desperation.

“Young-il. (Y/N). Can you hear me?”

Young-il didn’t waste a second. He lifted the radio to his lips, thumb clicking down hard. “Go ahead!”

“I think we’re right below the control room. But we need backup and more ammo.”

Young-il cursed under his breath before answering, voice tight. “We’re running out of ammo too!”

A second voice joined Jung-bae’s, cutting through the static—Gi-hun, just as urgent, just as tense. “There should be spare magazines in the soldiers’ pockets in our quarters. Go get them!”

“Got it!” Young-il clipped the walkie back to his belt, eyes immediately snapping to Dae-ho. “Did you hear that? They need backup. Four of us will go, the rest will stay. Join us once you get the magazines!”

Without waiting for a response, he spun around to face the others, raising his voice to be heard clearly over the chaos. “Who wants to go with me?”

Player 047 stepped forward instantly, jaw clenched, gun still gripped tightly in his hands. “I’ll go.”

The player beside him nodded sharply, following suit. “Me too.”

Young-il didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go!”

He sprang into motion without looking back, assuming you’d follow his orders from before and remain behind. You moved right after him anyway. But the instant he sensed your presence at his side, he halted abruptly, turning on you with narrowed eyes.

“What are you doing? Stay here!”

You stood your ground, chin lifted stubbornly as your eyes locked onto his. Your heart thundered in your chest, adrenaline mixing dangerously with frustration.

“I’m not leaving you alone, Young-il,” you said, voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You either go with me or you don’t go at all.”

His voice was dangerously low. “Are you kidding me? No. Absolutely not.”

Your own jaw clenched defiantly, meeting his glare without flinching. “I’m not asking for permission.”

Frustration flashed in his eyes, raw and sharp. “I’m serious, (Y/N). You stay here, where it’s safer.”

Your chest tightened, anger and desperation curling through you in equal measure. “Safer?” You laughed dryly, gesturing to the chaos unfolding around you. “Nothing about this is safe. I’m not letting you go out there without me.”

He stepped closer, towering over you, jaw set and stubborn. But there was something else beneath that stubbornness—fear. “You think I can’t handle myself?” he snapped.

“I think you can,” you shot back, your voice dropping to something softer, more honest. “But I’m not sure I can handle losing you.”

His eyes flickered and his shoulders softened. “You won’t.”

“Then don’t leave me behind,” you whispered, desperation slipping into your voice despite yourself. “Please.”

He stared at you. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, fighting a losing battle against his own emotions. 

“Damn it, (Y/N),” he muttered, letting out a breath he’d been holding too long. “Fine.” He shook his head slightly, resigned. “But you stay right next to me. And you listen to me!”

Relief surged through you, the weight in your chest easing slightly. “Okay.”

“Good,” he said sharply, turning away. But you saw a reluctant smile fighting its way through his frustration. “Now let’s move.”

You moved immediately, matching Young-il stride for stride. Adrenaline buzzed through your veins, turning every sound sharper, every shadow darker.

He glanced sideways at you as you moved, tension still etched deeply in his jaw. He muttered something under his breath, too low to catch clearly, but it sounded suspiciously like, “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

You bit back a smile.

Another sharp burst of gunfire ripped through the air, forcing you both to duck behind a corner for cover. Young-il’s back pressed against the wall next to yours, shoulders rising and falling rapidly.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the chaos of bullets and shouts filling the silence between you. You watched him carefully from the corner of your eye, noticing how his breathing slowly steadied, his grip on his rifle tight but sure. Your mind kept replaying the earlier moment—his unquestioning certainty about his ammo, the guard’s strange look of recognition. Each piece gnawed at you, pushing doubt deeper into your chest.

Young-il felt your stare and glanced over, eyes cautious. “What?”

You hesitated, nearly voicing your suspicions—but swallowed them down. Now wasn’t the time. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed briefly, reading you far too easily, but he didn’t press it.

After a second of silence, Young-il flicked his wrist sharply, a silent Let’s go, and stepped out into the hall once more. You followed, the others close behind.

The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, cold and empty, the quiet punctuated only by distant bursts of gunfire and muffled shouts. Every muscle in your body felt taut, wired, waiting for another ambush. But none came.

Finally, you reached the end of the corridor. Ahead stood a heavy steel door, held ajar by the barrel of a discarded rifle jammed between the frame and floor. Young-il paused, his eyes locked onto the weapon.

You swallowed, pulse kicking up. A clue left behind in chaos. Young-il nodded once, as if deciding something.

He stepped over the rifle and walked into the dark corridor. 

You moved forward cautiously behind him through the corridor. Then your eyes caught something—a familiar shape, abandoned on the ground a few steps ahead.

You reached forward and tapped Young-il’s shoulder gently. He turned immediately, eyebrows knitting together in silent question.

You pointed toward the mask lying discarded on the floor. “Look.”

Without a word, you moved toward it, about to pick the mask up before you see something in the corner of your eye. 

You turned your head sharply, heart jolting at the sudden realisation of what lay sprawled on the cold concrete floor.

A dead soldier.

“Shit,” you breathed out, barely audible.

“Looks like Gi-hun left us a breadcrumb,” you muttered. “Very thoughtful of him.”

Young-il stifled a laugh, shooting you a sideways glance that clearly said seriously? before he shook his head and stepped forward cautiously.

You, Young-il, and the other two moved quickly up the staircase, your steps echoing off the concrete walls. At the top, another body lay sprawled across the ground. Young-il paused, his gaze flickering briefly over the corpse.

In the distance, faint gunshots cracked through the air, muffled and disorienting. Young-il’s head snapped sharply toward the sound, body tensing instantly. With another quick flick of his wrist, he signalled for everyone to follow. You moved toward the noise, climbing yet another flight of stairs.

At the next corner, you and Young-il pressed yourselves flat against opposite walls, carefully checking for guards before signalling the others forward.

Clear. 

Young-il flicked his wrist again, silently ordering Player 047 and the other player forward. You followed right behind them, only to stop short when you noticed Young-il hadn’t moved.

Confused, you turned back. He stood frozen, staring upward at something on the ceiling. You quickly jogged back to his side, gripping his elbow.

“Young-il,” you hissed, urgency tight in your voice. “No time for a break. Come on.”

His eyes snapped toward you, briefly unreadable. “Right. Sorry.”

He moved to follow, but curiosity tugged at you, forcing your gaze up toward whatever had held his attention. 

A camera. Still operational. Untouched.

You lifted your gun instinctively, but before you could aim, Young-il’s hand shot out, intertwining with yours, pulling you along. Fast.

“Wait—” You tugged back against his grip. “We need to take out that camera, or they'll—”

“Leave it,” he cut in sharply, voice low but firm.

“But they’ll see—”

He stopped abruptly, turning toward you. His expression hardened, eyes flashing. “(Y/N).” He hesitated just a fraction, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Trust me. Leave it.”

Your jaw tightened, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. You tugged your hand sharply out of his grip. “Fine,” you muttered, breath clipped. “But if you're wrong—”

“I’m not,” he said quietly, grabbing you and pulling you forward once more. “Now move.”

You let him lead the way, but the unease settled deeper, tightening like a knot in your chest.

Young-il pulled you around the corner, and the second he saw Gi-hun and Jung-bae, his fingers slipped from yours instantly.

Your hand felt cold the instant he let go, like a sudden void had opened. Your fingers flexed involuntarily, and you shot Young-il a look, trying to read his face—but he was already focused on Gi-hun, like nothing had happened at all.

“Gi-hun! Did you find the control room?” he asked.

Gi-hun turned sharply toward him. “I think it’s right up there but we can’t go this way. I want you to find another way.”

“I did a quick scan of the layout here. I’m sure there’s a way to get around them.”

Your brows knitted together tightly.  

When did he do that?

You’d been with him the entire time. He never left your side. And why was he suddenly acting like he knew exactly where everything was—like he’d studied this place?  

A sharp sting of suspicion rose again, bitter in your throat, but you swallowed it down once again. 

This is Young-il you’re thinking about. Your Young-il. 

The man who has always had your back, who has pulled you out of the fire more times than you can count. The one who stands at your side when the world is crashing down, whose presence is the only constant in this nightmare. Who literally shields you from death.

And yet—doubt slithers in. Because you’ve seen too much, heard too much. Because a single look from a dying man was enough to crack the foundation of everything you thought you knew.

You shook your head. This is ridiculous. 

So, you tucked your empty hand against your side and just looked at him.

Young-il continued, “I want you guys to keep their focus on you. We’ll hit them from behind.”

Gi-hun nodded firmly. “Okay.”

Young-il had already turned to leave, but Gi-hun caught his shoulder quickly. “Wait.” He pulled out a magazine, holding it out. “Here, take this. You’re going to need it.”

If you hadn’t known better, you’d swear Young-il looked almost sad. “Are you sure?”

“Dae-ho will be back with more.”

Young-il studied Gi-hun’s face for a moment, then grabbed the magazine from his grasp without looking down.

Without wasting another second, Gi-hun and Jung-bae raised their weapons to cover you as you jogged past them, heart racing once more.

[peppertoastuniverse]

more than a late night snack – gojo satoru chapter 4: chicken curry

contents: gojo satoru x reader, tw!ptsd, mental health issues, swearing, mild angst/comfort, hesitant fluff, no one is good at feelings, 2 idiots summary: gojo shows up unannounced during one of your solo missions. in a battle of egos, you pick a fight when you mistake his worry for bravado. 

wc: 4.1 k

something in gojo’s stomach drops, barriers breaking, white anger over taking his thoughts.  “fine, fucking fine! next time babe, I’ll just stand by and watch you get slaughtered- ”  “you should have left me to die then, save yourself the trouble! Looks like you regret your decision.” You counter deathly calm, not sparing him a second glance before slamming the door in his face. 

previous chapter ll master list ll next chapter

you had to start running faster. the growing pounding of your heart led the rhythm of your quick steps. your lungs started to feel the strain as you dodged yet another attack, adrenaline carrying you. you grinned, blood pumping through your veins, there was a guilty and growing part of you loved the chase.  perhaps it was because you felt the most alive when you were running for your life. you felt the wind in your hair - it was colder than usual for this time of year, your breath making clouds from your rapid exhale. the rustling of the trees stilled as they turned into ash beside you, a reminder of your mortality.

in the brief yaga provided instructed you to locate and eliminate a second grade curse in Hiroshima. there were multiple reports of disembodied giggling near the primary school and mysterious cuts that appeared on children near the forest but when reports escalated to missing children is when you were assigned. on the third day you quickly found that it was stemming from the abandoned orphanage near by. the mission was straightforward, a walk in the park -  until multiple lower level curses decided to join all the fun. 

now you were running through the forest the low sun chasing you, trying to lead all the curses away from the town. You scoffed sensing at least 20 weaker curses within the area, converging together.

where did they did they all come from? 

shit. you dodged another blast that formed a deep crater in the ground to the left of you, you slightly stumble at your sloppy the landing.  sensing something close, you take another curse just in time before choosing to make a run for it rather than fight them all at once. You’d rather avoid a battle of attrition - you had to save your cursed energy for the second grade still lurking around  - you needed to be careful. 

the trees looked familiar, branches snapping easily, just like the necks of the children screamed and screamed when -  you tsked, as you felt a searing hot pain on back of your right bicep. 

you sighed heavily. how annoying. this really wasn’t the time.  it was the first flashback from Shirakawa that you had in a long while. you frowned, you thought you were doing better. for a while you worried if you were losing it, and this recent set back confirms that you may have.

you felt the blood trickle down your forearm, while you jumped to dodge yet another attack, perching in the trees to see where they were all coming from. concentrating your energy, you send a blast from behind you, effectively taking care of the 2 curses tailing you at once. gazing through the bush, you can see at least 10 curses converging in the distance.

fuck. this was getting bad. you had to move it before-

your breath stalls, the air shifts.  you feel it before you see it, cursed energy surging… this was definitely more than a second grade - this was at least a first grade. huh. It wouldn’t be the first time that the brief was slightly off, but it seemed like this was happening more and more lately.

quickly jumping to the ground, you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up - it must be close. turning, you see it: a creature with multiple gangly long limbs, its  body covered in long, dark black hair. rising 16 feet behind the trees, attached to it’s thin neck was an upside down humanoid head, in place of its eyes and mouth were black holes filled with multiples rows of sharp teeth. the lower level curses wind around the black mass of hair, swarming with renewed energy. you dont want to think about what happened at the orphanage to create this monster.

once it spots you, it jerks its legs uncoordinatedly, running on it’s 6 legs as it stalks towards you with surprising speed. 

fuck the strategy. if it wants to play, let’s play. a chaotic grin dances its way to your face. you love a challenge. 

you begin to run towards the curse, it charges towards you in return the cold air filled with it’s echoing giggles with the voices of hundreds of children. 

you remembered the children, you saw them in your nightmares as their heads rolled off their bodies, their screams for help right before - stop. stop. you had to concentrate what was left of your cursed energy before - 

abruptly you sense an unmistakeable force, his cursed energy. your jaw tenses in annoyance, it was unmistakable.

why was he here? you didn’t need his help. 

you felt another sharp pain on your left calf as a smaller curses slices into you. Shit.

you needed to focus, breathing heavily now you jolt to avoid the multiple curses trailing you as you blast a curse away – there were just way too many of them. in the chaos you take your eyes off the of the long limbed monster, dodging a gangly limb at the last second, cringing as you feel the coarse hair on your skin.  

“OYYY! BABE. MOVE!” you hear in the distance. your eyes widen, you turn your head just in time to see a ball of blue tumbling quickly towards you. swearing at his recklessness, you sprint as fast as you could through the trees just in time before the ball of energy lights up the darkening sky, overwhelming the shaggy haired curse and obliterating the remaining smaller curses. just like gojo, the blue energy leaves only destruction in its path - the silence after the chaos deafening.

breathing heavily, a grating voice brings you back to reality.

“heh, I knew I’d find you. suguru owes me 1000 yen.” gojo appears from behind the trees, dark glasses shielding his bright eyes, his stark white hair almost glowing in evening sky. “did ya miss me?”

your temper soars. you were almost shaking with the bitter anger that filled up your stomach, shame anchoring your rage. 

“why are you here, gojo?” you have yet to turn around and face him, you're afraid that if you do you're going to kill him.

“what I can’t see my favourite  - what?” at his cocky tone falters when he notices your shaking clenched fists.

“are you fucking kidding me right now?” you spit out, hands crossed across your chest acting as a lock to prevent your raging emotions from escaping. you stomp past him as the veil above you disappears.

“.. what’s wrong? hey!” 

he trails after you in the halls, calling your name. 

“–look, it’s fine! at the end of the day, the curse is gon-“

you slam the door to your room, leaving gojo standing at the threshold.

pacing around your room, finding some pajamas before practically ripping off your uniform. you were done for the day but more importantly, you were done with him.

how dare he? did he think that you were weak? incapable? useless? worthless? 

you scoff, pulling up your shorts. he had no right to make decisions for you - he was so fucking inconsiderate, selfish and so, so infuriating. you shove the oversized tshirt over your head, muttering profanities about the white haired menace.

his incessant knocking on your door was adding to your rising blood pressure. “heyyyy! hey! cmon, don’t be difficult. let’s talk about this!” he calls your name multiple times, each time his tone getting progressively less and less playful.

gojo whines your name from behind the closed door. “…are you going to make me wait here all night? At least get your wounds fixed by shoko!” 

of course you were. he could rot there for all you care, it’s what he deserved. 

“You can’t keep running forever, babe!” 

you hear his persistent knocks, echoing the beat of your heart.  

“look if you don’t open the door, i’m going to blue it open in three, two, on-“ 

It’s so like him to force your hand.

you rip open the door, hot tempered and ready to tear into him. standing in front of you, his foot was tapping, gojo’s patience wearing thin.  

“what? gonna try and blue me again tonight?” you spit out, resentment dripping from your voice. you would have rather been caught in the crossfire than rely on him. 

He scoffs. His hands frustratingly fluffing his already messy hair. when you looked into his eyes, the blue was stormy electric, his presence oozing with frustration. 

he scoffs. "please, I knew where you were. you were being reckless. If i hadn’t showed up-“

“I was being reckless?” you step towards him, temper showing. “How would you know, you didn’t even let me try! i didn’t need your fucking help! and then you – you show up –unannounced –  to my mission, and –“ you turn your back to him clenching your fists. You were showing too much - you had to control yourself.  You didn’t want him to see you like this. you had to reign in the storm that brewed within you, the same one that you saw currently in his eyes.

“yaga said you were missing for 4 hours. if I hadn’t shown up you could’ve gotten yourself fucking killed, ba –“ he adds taking a step closer to you. you whip your face towards him, meeting him half way , your face right up against his, noses almost touching. The tension is thick, his condescending tone stomping on what little control you had.

“don’t you fucking dare call me babe.” you whisper, dangerously challenging the strongest. “youre so full of yourself that you can’t even see what you’ve done wrong.”

his eyes dart to your lips, and back up to your furious face, his cheeks blushing for millisecond before his eyebrows further slant down to match his lips. 

he spits out your name with malice, a warning, his cursed energy being to swirl dangerously. his eyes narrow, 

“just swallow your fucking pride and say thank you for your help, gojo and move on -“

he’s so close that you feel his frustration, you feel the tenseness in his muscles, the tightness in his jaw, the thinness of his lips

“thank you?” laugh humourlessly, your bruised ego poisoning your rational mind. “you know what your problem is?” You tense your jaw. “you always think you know better.” Your eyes narrow, “you just don’t fucking care as long as you’re right do you?”

“what the hell are you talking about– why would I still be here if I didn’t care!?”

“you don’t - do you fucking pity me? Is that it, gojo? you think that im so weak that I can’t take out some stupid curse by myself? that I can’t even win against my own mind?” you take a step back, turning away from him, insecurity consuming you. you rope your arms around yourself, unable to hold back your finely controlled feelings back from him.  “you think I want to hear the screaming of people i failed to save? How I see them dying?” you couldn’t look at him. you want to beat at his chest, make him understand what he’s done, but you were too embarrassed that he not only destroyed the curse in Hiroshima but your pride and ego as well. You hated how he made you feel this way, how you he made you lose control in his presence.

“what?! that’s not –I didn’t know-  “ his eyes flashing. 

you had enough. he was too much. he was always too much.

“I don’t need help. I don’t need your pity. And I sure as hell don’t need you.”

something in gojo’s stomach drops, barriers breaking, white anger over taking his thoughts. 

“fine, fucking fine! next time babe, i’ll just stand by and watch you get slaughtered- ” 

“you should have left me to die then, save yourself the trouble! looks like you regret your decision.” you counter deathly calm, not sparing him a second glance before slamming the door in his face. 

through the closed door you hear him sigh heavily before his retreating footsteps signal his leave. 

you watched the shadows move across your wall, how long has it been now? 

tossing and turning, you dramatically sigh: you couldn’t sleep. giving up, you decided to grab your phone to check the time: 2:17 AM.

sighing you rub your face with your hand, you grab your phone and irritatingly shift the covers off of you. you feel your stomach rumble. maybe if you ate something you’d be able to get some sleep. as your socked feet stomp across your dark room, your mind wanders, would you have been able to take down that curse if he hadn’t shown up?  afraid of your answer, you wrench open your door, you stumble at the mass of sanrio plasters, disinfectant and gauze left at the foot of your door. 

you blink owlishly. ah. gojo.

your gaze softens slightly, before irritation returns at the echo of his scalding words. grabbing the medical supplies you put them on your desk before shutting the door once more. 

heading to the kitchen, you turned on the lights idly.

opening the fridge, you sigh. moving over geto's neatly labelled kimchi fried rice and shoko's half empty strawberry milk, you take out some chicken, potatoes, carrots and onions.  you could've gotten yourself killed, he said.

grabbing a pot you sear the chicken, ensuring that there was even browning before adding the prepared vegetables. 

you were reckless, he said. that was the first time you’ve seen gojo so irritated at you. his eyes looked so different, no playful glint complimenting blue, no bounce in his step, no humour in his tone. 

reckless, my ass.

you roughly add some water to the pot before adding the curry cubes. 

why did he have look at you like that when he showed up anyway? 

closing the lid you wait for it to simmer as you take out some leftover rice from the fridge, moving it to a dish to heat in the microwave. you tapped your fingers on the countertops, mind still restless.

suddenly the kitchen door swings open. wide eyes meeting tired blue. gojo looks unusually worn and tired, his back slightly hunched over. a stand still, a pregnant pause, eyes meeting unsure of how to start a conversation. it's awkward. he opens his mouth before the beeping of the microwave interrupts him. 

“i’ll.. i’ll go,” he says in a low voice. through his hardened expression you can detect that his eyes void of irritation, fatigue replacing it. he sheepishly fluffs the back of his hair, your eyes spot his loose tshirt riding up uncovering his toned abdomen. 

gojo turns his body to leave, but your feet lead you to him. out of your own accord you find that your arm quickly reaches for him. you grab the back his bicep to stop him in his tracks.

“..was it you? the uh.. medical supplies?”

“..yeah.” be gulps, unsure if he should prepare for another fight. he cant help but notice how sweet you look - messy hair, comfortable clothing, a soft frown painted on your face. you were usually so controlled, seeing you this way felt almost forbidden. a secret that he wanted to keep for himself.

“.. thanks.” a quiet thought.

eyebrow raised, he turns back toward you, “I knew it…” he mutters, a playful grin slowly appearing on his face - the first bright smile to melt the ice away. 

“i knew you liked me! don’t worry babe, we can be best friends, I know you've been silently begging for-“ 

your eye twitches. you quickly drop your hold on him, slow hands moving up to his pale neck to strangle him, your expression unwavering. gojo senses your rising cursed energy before yelping your name, “it’s a joke - I swear I’m joking!”  you turned around, hands morphing into closed fists. closing your eyes, you massaging your temple before stirring the simmering curry. 

“.. hey.. uh- whatcha makin?” he asks, hesitantly moving closer to you.

“… what?” he’s relieved find no aggression in your eyes.

“i’m making chicken curry. Uh.. sit,” you say “if you want,” you add hastily. 

reaching to grab another bowl for him, you hear gojo take a seat at the kitchen table. watching you curiously, he drums his fingers on the kitchen table, an unsteady rhythm. feeling warm at his gaze, you split the warmed up rice and spoon out the simmering curry into the two bowls. handing him chopsticks and spoon, you set down his bowl of food in front of him as he says his thanks. a peace offering, one that you don’t realize that he’s been wanting the minute you slammed your door. 

the meal is silent, hung in limbo, two large egos taking up the space. you savour the way the curry tastes, mild and satisfying but with an underlying sweetness to it, lurking in the background waiting to be appreciated. you watch gojo’s satisfaction as he spoons the rich curry into his mouth, you notice his knee bouncing up and down. 

was he nervous? 

he clears his throat. “...another one of your mom’s?” he asks conversationally.

“yeah. the first one she was really proud of.” you spoon some curry into your mouth, chewing thoughtfully. 

“yeah it’s really good. was it your favourite?”

“not my favourite but.. it reminds me of her. she kept remaking the recipe until she got it right, she always said something tasted like it was missing…” 

“eh, really? what was it?”

“nothing, everything was there. it was like.. a miscommunication with the person who gave her the recipe over the phone. mom got the measurements wrong.“

concentrating on eating, you look up at gojo to see him already staring back at you. 

“i was.. you need to focus, you’re going to get hurt.”

you sigh irritatedly. “gojo, just leave if you’re gonna be-“ you shoot him a look, curling defensively inwards.

his tired eyes widen in surprise, he feels you retreating, slipping like water through his fingers. “no, no, no- just listen...”

something in his tone begs you to listen, curiosity getting the better of you. you hesitate, unsure of his intentions.

“i just knew that you couldn’t sleep.. I didn’t know it was - and I didn’t want.. I mean like - last time you came back injured…and you….” his ears tinging pink. words spilling out clumsily, venturing into unknown territory.

wait was he.. was he worried? is that why he showed up - you slightly blush with realization. you sigh, what a waste of energy. he shouldn’t worry about you, you weren’t worth worrying over when you knew he had so much on his plate already.

“i’m working on it. I was doing just fine.” you say irritatedly, walls crumbling at his words.

“yeah, but y’know one day you won’t be.” he says as he takes off his dark glasses rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“that doesn’t mean you can show up to my missions.” 

“I won’t anymore, if you dont want me to…” he retorts in a chipped tone.

“…you don’t have to worry about me.”

he rolls his eyes in response. “i don’t have to but I do. i want to.” you wither under his gaze, you felt too warm, the air thick with something other than the scent of curry.

“you can run all you want, but i can always find you.” he says with a shrug and an air of finality. “… and, one day you might seriously need help, babe” he slides his glasses back on his face.

“… i need to learn from my mistakes even if that means I get hurt.” You say softly to yourself. you wanted to improve, if you were stronger they wouldn’t have -

you swallow roughly.

“there are ways to learn that don’t involve pain, yknow?” he says, with a mouthful as he scrapes the bottom of his dish with his spoon.  blue eyes challenging yours as his dark glasses slide down his slender nose. 

you hum thoughtfully, mulling over his words.

a long finger pokes your cheek irritatingly. “where’d you go babe? OooooooOoOoOh gonna cry, huh? I know, I know it’s our first fight, it’s hard - I almost cried too.” he clutches his chest dramatically while poking your cheek.

why was he always so close? 

“god, you’re insufferable.” You slap his hand away with a scowl, while he grins fully. you’re surprised that you’re happy to see it again. 

he snickers as he promptly gets up to put your empty dishes in the sink. you sigh, getting up to tidy up the counters. gojo starts humming the digimon theme song to himself but when he notices a ghost of a smirk on your face it prompts his humming to progressively grow louder and louder until he’s enthusiastically singing. a new comforting warmth spreads across gojo’s chest at your smile, he wonders if he could make you smile everyday. only when he starts doing an interpretive dance to accompany his singing is when you move to you smack his chest.

  “shhhh! You might wake the others up! It’s like almost 4 AM!” You hiss, unable to contain your laughter when he tries to get you to dance with him blocking your attempts to put away the left over vegetables into the fridge. gojo easily side steps your slaps to move behind you to finish clearing up the table. you turn around in time to see gojo quickly placing your phone back down. you narrow your eyes suspiciously. 

sensing your questioning gaze he quickly skips toward you. “pfff you just act like a meanie but deep, deep down I know you love me!” he says wiggling his eyebrows.

“uh huh. sure, keep dreaming, gojo,” not looking at him, concentrating on tidying up the kitchen.

halting your cleaning, gojo sneaks up behind you swing his arm around your shoulder, squeezing you slightly. your cheeks flush at the feeling of his firm arm around you, the softness in his tshirt against your face, his smells like a mixture of the ramune candy he always eats in class and the fresh scent of his laundry.

“y’know babe, i don’t want you dead.. that was a shitty thing of you to say.” the words spill out, voice low and soft, something that he didn’t know how to express falling out clumsily.

you hum in acknowledgement. unconsciously you lean into his touch, the familiar warmth radiating off him comforting you. your apology evident in the way you react to his touch, gojo grins fully.

“mhm… thanks for the curry, babe,” he says softly in your ear, too intimately. you turn to meet his gaze, there was something there that you couldn’t discern.

heh, probably his body thanking you for giving him vegetables for the first time this week. you smirk.

“see? told ya - you love me” he playfully whispers. you blink, smirk disappearing instantly.

this fucking asshole.

you roughly shove him off you, earning a laugh from the white haired menace. breaking whatever …. that was.  huh. weird.

he ruffles your hair affectionately as you hiss his name in annoyance. flashing you another grin as gojo practically sings good night to you as he waltzing out of the kitchen. you glare at his retreating figure.

feeling lighter, you turn off the lights in the kitchen walking down the dark halls to room, closing the door gently. you move to sit at your desk to disinfect your shallow wounds, absentmindedly choosing a cinnamoroll bandaid to put on your right bicep.

clearing up, you hear your phone vibrating with in a string of messages.  you grimace.

 oh god that’s what he was doing. 

💙🎀 MY BB SATORU 🎀💙

physically recoiling at his contact name, you fight the urge to throw your phone across the room. you called him neither of those things. you quickly move to change it. 

gojo:  b <3 i know u can handle urself  just msg me when u r safe next time or if u need me just lmk lol (4:11am)

you roll your eyes. typing in a response before deleting it, instead replying with:

you: k (4:16am) 

you yawn as you make your way into your cold bed, undoing the half made covers, grabbing one of your pillows to fully sink into comfort. your eyebrows raise at gojo’s quick response, your phone singing.

gojo: ૮(╥﹏╥)ა.  ur so mean 2 me b  (4:16am) thought we were  finally bffs  dw we have loads of time 2 get closer tmr (4:17am) (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ gud nite <3 <3  (4:18am)

turning to feel for Bun Bun laying on the other side of the bed, you sigh contently as you feel his plush body. you place your phone on the night stand table beside you as you shut your eyes. an insistent vibration causes you to groan, disturbing your growing drowsiness.

gojo: heyyyy  (4:20am) hey don’t ignore me? lol  say gudnite!!11! b omg  say gud (4:21am) nite  omg stopppp !! ૮(╥﹏╥)ა (4:22am) mfw b hates me  (4:23am)

scoffing you lazily type out a response since he was begging you for one. Bun Bun's plush pink arm against your cheek, mimicking gojo's earlier actions.

you: omfg go to bed gojo

gojo: (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) SAY IT  B CMONNN SAY IT IM GONNA CRY IF U SONT (4:21am) ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡ (4:22am)

biting your lip to prevent the grin you threatened to escape, an amused smile makes its way onto your tired face. he was ridiculous.

you: nite  (4:24am)

gojo: (◡ ‿ ◡ .) ♡ gud enuf 4 me  nite <3 <3  (4:25am)

hugging Bun Bun, you silence your phone as you settle in comfortably, blankets settling finally. the last thing you think about before drifting to sleep is the way he felt when he had his arm around you. you huff softly, what an idiot.

a/n: i totally see gojo as someone who does not give a fuck and will triple text you. omg this chapter was difficult to write, but i hope y'all enjoy it -- head image credit: Isekai Shokudo dividers from: @/adornedwithlight

[carriedawatermelon]

Doing some little kinktober ficlets because why not. Please find the first installment of soft Ronance filth, which in this case is not actually that filthy, below.

Prompt: Seven Minutes in Heaven

Someone bumps into Nancy for about the hundredth time, a shoulder jostling her own near the wall of the living room, which Nancy uses to brace herself. At least the girl—Megan, third grade, sixth grade, a few years of ballet and most recently, second period US history—apologizes, genuinely. 

“Sorry, Nancy. Too many people.”

“Too many people,” Nancy agrees and tries for a smile, which maybe works as she gets one in return. 

And there are too many people, and there’s too much noise, and Nancy knows the occasional, protesting throbbing behind her eyes is going to become a full-fledged headache soon, but still, she stays. She stays and makes her way successfully out of the living room and into the kitchen. It’s still too crowded but only with people moving through, grabbing beer and whatever godawful punch is on the counter as they pass into the backyard or the living room or the den, where a whole other mass of bodies has congregated to talk and flirt and try to pretend like this is a normal week-before-graduation party. 

It’s why she’s still here, that last part. Because it’s the week before graduation, and she’d been sitting with Hopper and Steve talking logistics two days ago and realized that the enthusiastically offered invitation from Becky, who like Megan, she’d known for most of her life and also hardly knew at all, would be the last one she ever got. Shit, she’d thought, absently correcting Hopper’s patrol map to accommodate for the newest construction. Shit, this is it. 

She’d had that thought many times over the last few years, in a life-or-death way. It was jarring, to have it in the way she was supposed to, in the way that pretty much every other teenager in Hawkins and if John Hughes was right, everywhere else in America, had it, too. 

“Steve, switch with me for Friday,” she’d said, and he’d done it, and now Nancy is leaning against a kitchen counter, wincing as something lukewarm soaks through the back of her pale yellow button-down and watching as her classmates do exactly what they should be doing the week before summer break. 

She doesn’t feel angry that they’re pretending, the way she had with Steve. Well. She does feel angry. She always feels angry. But for the most part, it’s not with the people around her. For the most part, it’s on their behalf. On Barb’s behalf. On her own, even, when she can let herself. 

They’ve all suffered. They’re the ones who stayed or came back, the crowded party at this point consisting of most of what remains of Hawkins High, grade irrelevant. Nobody is trying to kick anyone out, and nobody’s policing the door. 

As of about two weeks ago, curfew had been lifted. Officially, the army finally managed to secure the area after the earthquake. Unofficially, El had demolished a weakened Vecna, the party offering her backup in the real world and the upside-down and the space in between. The work that’s left is still left, but it’s eliminating stragglers and maintaining vigilance, and El and Will both have a kind of ease and confidence that makes the rest of them feel hopeful, that made Nancy feel like she could switch a patrol shift to Steve to go to a party. 

“Nancy,” someone shouts from the door of the kitchen. Ally, eyes bright with a plastic cup in one hand, shakes her shoulders. “Come play spin the bottle.”

In a small mercy, she’s being dragged toward the den before Nancy is forced to provide an answer, laughing an “Okay, okay, okay!” 

In a bigger mercy, her body is replaced by one that makes Nancy’s shoulders relax, a genuine smile break across her face. 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to sneak out back and smoke, but I’d hate to stop you from a game of spin the bottle with Hawkins High’s most eligible bachelors.”

Robin’s grin is big, her hands shoved into the pockets of her black jeans, an oversized green t-shirt tucked into the front under...Nancy’s favorite jean jacket. 

“Thief!” 

Robin’s grin grows. “Fair’s fair.”

And, well, Nancy can’t exactly argue. Robin’s black jacket is in her possession—currently neatly folded in the passenger seat of Nancy’s car—where it’s been since about two weeks after their first encounter with Vecna and where Nancy intends for it to remain until…until. 

She scowls anyway, pushing back from the counter and making her way to Robin, who stiffens for a second at Nancy’s hug before relaxing into it, wrapping her arms around Nancy’s shoulders and holding her close. The jacket smells like the detergent her mom uses and a little like Nancy’s perfume, but underneath is all Robin, lavender and cloves and the cigarettes her mom smokes. She can smell weed, too, and she pulls back a little to look up at Robin, who’s looking down at her with a faint blush. 

When Robin told her, fingers twisting and face paler than usual on the couch in her basement, that she likes girls, she’d put herself as physically far from Nancy as possible in the shared space. Nancy, heart broken as she listened to halting, stuttering sentences so far from the Robin she had grown used to, had tentatively scooted closer, lifting an arm in offer. Robin had hesitated for a second and then collapsed into her, crying while Nancy reassured her. Now, with Nancy’s constant encouragement, she’s getting better about touch, about initiating it and accepting it.

Of course, it is different now, but that’s Nancy’s fault. That’s because Nancy, as she has let herself admit for the past six or so weeks with increasing acceptance, wants to kiss her. She hasn’t yet and doesn’t now, but she does reach down and lace their fingers, tugging Robin toward the sliding door to the back. 

“There’s a Robin/robber pun here somewhere but I can’t quite get there,” she admits, happy to see that the crowd of their peers thins significantly after the deck.

Robin snorts, follows easily as Nancy begins pulling them past small groups of people and toward the grass. It makes her bristle, still, the relative quiet in the largely dark yard, and Robin squeezes her fingers like she understands, because she does. The house and the summer night give enough light to navigate well enough, and Nancy has her eyes on a set of lawn chairs that seem to have been abandoned by a group now moving back toward the house, but as she moves toward them Robin stops her. 

Her grin is pulled up at the side as she looks from Nancy to a tree with a tire swing and a set of boards nailed to its trunk. Nancy sighs, and Robin moves toward them, grinning, letting go of Nancy’s hand to pull at the steps and look up at the tree house. 

“Robin. No.”

“What?” She says, in a terrible attempt at guilelessness. 

“You know what.”

“I don’t.” She says easily. “I don’t know what.”

She shades her eyes like that’ll help her see in the dark, and Nancy rolls her own, stomach swooping with affection, before reaching into her bag and pulling out a flashlight. 

When it clicks on, Robin looks back at her and bites her lip. “Nancy Wheeler. The Boy Scouts have got nothing on you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nancy says, like she isn’t about to indulge a terrible idea. “Investigation purposes, only, Buckley. We didn’t survive the upside-down so you could break yourself climbing a tree.”

“Totally, totally,” Robin responds, like she doesn’t know Nancy is about to indulge her terrible idea. “I’m just gonna investigate these first few steps and, uh…” When the first two hold, she looks down at Nancy happily and keeps climbing. 

“You have no sense of self-preservation,” she calls after her. “Ms. Delayed Walker.”

When she reaches the platform at the top, she pouts down at Nancy, features a blend of shadows in the strange light. “That’s really rude, Nance. I think you should come apologize.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Nancy says, already on the second plank, flashlight shining up from where she’s tucked it vertically in her purse. It catches Robin’s grin, and Nancy stares, feels like she’s falling with her hands securely gripped on the wood. Robin’s not the only one who’s ridiculous. 

She pulls herself into the plank next to Robin, who wraps an arm around her waist. It’s reflex maybe, because the platform is small, and Nancy sees the flash of panic across her face so she leans into Robin’s body before she can pull away, hand moving to hold Robin’s against her. 

“If we fall out of a tree before graduation, I’m going to be so pissed at you.”

Robin laughs, squeezing her, and then begins scooting back, Nancy releasing her so she can make her way into the little house behind them. For all her talk, she wouldn’t be up here if she didn’t think it were sturdy. The climbing planks are relatively new, wood stained and smoothed against splinters, so she suspected the house would be, too, and she’s pleased to find that she’s right.

It’s big for a tree house, and tall enough that Nancy can almost stand comfortably, bent just a little to explore, fingers on the cross beams below the roof so she doesn’t bump her head. There’s a little table shoved into one corner, a window in each wall where she can see that the little platform they landed on extending around the house like a porch. When she turns around, Robin has made herself comfortable on some cushions against the back wall, a pink floral print that looks like maybe it was stolen from lawn furniture. She has a joint in one hand and pats the seat next to her before reaching into her pocket (Nancy’s pocket) for a lighter. 

There’s a lantern hanging from a hook near her head, two candles inside and Robin lights them as Nancy clicks off the flashlight and settles, close enough that their knees touch. Robin hands her the joint but keeps the lighter, and Nancy bumps her shoulder as she lights it. 

“Such a gentleman,” she says, before inhaling, and Robin rolls her eyes but blushes. 

Nancy doesn’t cough, though it’s still sometimes a close thing, the weed a post-Vecna addition to her life. It helps her relax and it doesn’t make her feel bad the way drinking does and it’s given her some of her favorite nights, sitting around smoking and talking and watching movies with Steve and Robin and Eddie and sometimes Jon or Vickie. 

She passes the joint back, and props herself back against the wall, lets herself look at the girl next to her as they smoke together for a little while, making aimless conversation. There’s something undeniably attractive about watching Robin smoke, the shape of it between her lips and the way they move as she pulls, the smoke that she exhales slowly, eyes exploring the little house. 

Eventually, Nancy asks, “How’re you feeling about next week?”

“Eh,” Robin offers along with another hit, which Nancy takes. “Weird. Fine. Nervous. Excited.” She brings her eyes back to Nancy, who smiles at her. “How ‘bout you?”

“Eh,” she echoes, and Robin pokes her gently. She’s warm, this close to Nancy, and she wants more, scoots closer, takes her hand and twines their fingers. Twirling the thick silver ring around Robin’s index finger, she feels Robin’s breath stutter, her own breath escaping with a happy sigh at their proximity. Robin mutes the joint and sets it against a Coke can. “Fine, I think. I feel good about what’s coming. Good about Chicago.” She squeezes at Robin’s fingers and Robin squeezes back. “Good about Chicago with you. I’m ready, I think. It’s not like…I didn’t exactly love,” she stops playing with the ring for a second and gestures out toward the yard, the house, “all of this. High school. You know.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”

Nancy presses closer, drops Robin’s hand in favor of wrapping it around her under her (Nancy’s) jacket, bullying her way into her side until Robin wraps an arm around her shoulders, laughing, thumb running a gentle up and down against her arm as they settle. 

“The ending hasn’t been so bad,” Robin says, pauses. 

Nancy can’t help but repeat, stoned and uncertain she’s heard correctly, “The ending hasn’t…” She can’t even finish, her voice cracking on what surely is a joke, and then they’re both cackling, clutching each other. 

“Dingus,” Nancy gasps, mostly in Robin’s lap now, and Robin groans. 

“I am. I’m a total dingus. ‘The ending hasn’t been so bad,’” she repeats, mocking herself, and Nancy tucks her head into her neck, laughing, Robin’s arms tight around her waist. “That’s what I get for trying to be smooth, I guess.” And then she shuts up so fast Nancy hears her jaw click. 

And maybe Nancy should be nervous, but instead all she feels is immensely pleased. “Oh?” She says, voice teasing as she pulls herself away, adjusting until she’s straddling Robin’s thighs. Robin looks terrified and also can’t stop staring at Nancy’s legs where they now bracket her own, eyes flitting between Nancy’s and their laps. Her hands are hovering at her sides, fingers opening and closing around nothing, and Nancy takes pity, full of smug affection as she takes them and puts them on her thighs. 

The noise Robin makes is something between a groan and a whimper, and it makes Nancy more than a little feral. 

“Trying to put the moves on me, Buckley?” She doesn’t try to hide the want in her voice as she lets her own hands settle on Robin’s neck, thumbs tracing the corners of her jaw. 

Robin finally holds her gaze, fingers spreading and squeezing at Nancy’s thighs. Nancy shivers. Robin squeezes harder. 

“Nancy.”

Robin’s lips are warm and waxy, the last of the vanilla chapstick she likes clinging on through their smoking. It’s perfect; she’s perfect, hands climbing to Nancy’s waist, where she holds her steady as she deepens the kiss, the taste of weed and lemonade and Robin filling Nancy up. 

“Nancy,” Robin says when they pull away, voice breathy. “What’s happening right now?”

The affection Nancy feels is almost violent, it’s so overwhelming, and she lets herself kiss Robin again, hard and quick. “Well,” she says. “You attempted one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard.” She keeps her tone teasing, and Robin closes her eyes and groans, head thudding against the wooden wall behind her. 

Nancy tsks, and Robin blinks open her eyes, blush in full force in the candlelight. She’s fucking gorgeous. 

“And it worked,” she says primly, moving a hand to Robin’s sternum, flattening her palm and feeling her breathe before tugging at the lapel of her (Nancy’s) jacket. “Because it appears I like you so much that I’m willing to overlook things like thievery and terrible come ons.” 

“You…you like me so much that…” And then she’s kissing Nancy again, less gently, and Nancy sighs approvingly, sucking at Robin’s bottom lip. Robin’s mouth moves to her neck, her hands shifting to Nancy’s hips to urge her closer, and she goes easily, moving a hand into Robin’s hair and moaning as her tongue and then her teeth find a spot that makes her hips cant.

“Fuck, Rob.” 

She pulls away, gasping, hands flexing on Nancy’s hips. 

“Do you…do you want…” She shakes her head, eyes closing, and Nancy kisses her gently. 

“I want to date you,” she says, watching as Robin’s eyes snap open. “I want to hold your hand while you talk to me about whatever the movie of the day is, and I want to fix your collars and leave lipstick on your cheek when I kiss you goodbye, and I want to ask you to stay over and have you know exactly what I mean.” 

“Yeah?” 

Her voice is small, almost scared, and Nancy channels as much love as she can into her own as she says, brushing a thumb over a beautiful cheekbone, “Yeah. Is that something you could want, too?”

“Yes.” A hand cups Nancy’s jaw. “I want that so much, Nance. I can’t even…I want you so much. I’m…it’s…” She laughs, running a hand through her hair. Nancy misses it. “Sorry, um, sorry. I just, I really can’t believe this is happening. Holy shit.” Her smile is wide, her eyes bright. “Nancy Wheeler wants to date me.”

Nancy laughs, tucks her hair back. She feels the flush in her own face and doesn’t hate it, for once. “Yeah, I really do.”

“You’re beautiful,” Robin says, and bites her lip. “Is that…I think it all the time, you know. Like, all the time. Like, yesterday when you got mad at that guy for turning without his blinker, and you made this face, and your lips did this thing, and all I could think was how gorgeous you were. And then tonight, when I showed up and you were leaning against the counter, and I could tell you were trying to figure out how you were gonna say no to Ally, you know, you have this, like, thinking face, and God, Nancy, all I wanted was to press you back against the counter and…”

She stops, catching herself, but Nancy wants none of that. “And what, Robbie?” She takes Robin’s hand and puts it back on her hip, greedy and pleased as she watches Robin’s eyes grow big, feels her fingers flex. “What did you want to do?”

She moans into the kiss, into the grip of Robin’s hands, letting her hips roll into the body pressed against hers. When her mouth moves to her neck again, kissing and sucking, Nancy throws her head back and holds Robin close. 

Hands move from her hips to the buttons of her shirt, tentative, and this had probably been the conversation Robin wanted to have earlier, about what Nancy wanted.

It takes an incredible amount of willpower but she manages to pull back, panting, tilting Robin’s face to meet hers. Because Nancy will absolutely let Robin fuck her in this treehouse, but Robin’s a virgin, and she deserves better than cramping hands with their clothes still on. Nancy has plans. 

“Come home with me.”

“Okay,” Robin agrees immediately, head bobbing eagerly, and Nancy grins, kissing her gently.

They tidy themselves as best they can, hands untangling as they reach the house again, and the party’s still in full swing, loud and bright and smelling like cheap beer and fruit punch. 

They pass by the group playing spin the bottle on their way out, a series of shouts coalescing into a chant as a couple is sent off to the closet for seven minutes in heaven. 

Robin shakes her head. “Nightmare,” she says under her breath, and Nancy laughs. 

“I don’t know.” She grins at Robin and uses the crowd as an excuse to grab her hand again, keep her close. “I feel like you’d find lots of jackets to steal.”

She doesn’t need to see her to know her eyes are rolling. “I would bet 20 of Steve’s dollars that my jacket will be in the passenger seat of your car when we get there. The hypocrisy is heavy, Nance.” 

“So, what?” She shrugs as they break through the front door, making their way to Nancy’s car up the block. “I like wearing my girlfriend’s jacket.”

It’s quiet, and Nancy’s worried for a second that she’s overstepped, but when she looks, she finds Robin staring at her with heat in her eyes, her jaw set. 

“I bet,” Robin says, looking around and keeping close to Nancy, voice low, “I bet you’d look great in that jacket and nothing else.”

Nancy swallows, stops as they reach the car. “Wanna find out?”

[haletostilinski]

Best Teen Wolf Episode: TOP 10

Hey all! To round out the best teen wolf episode tournament, I'm going to give the rankings of how every episode placed of the 100 teen wolf episodes. How I'm ranking them is going by the rounds. So the episodes that didn't make it past the first round are the lowest, then second, third round etc - within each round, they're ranked by how many or few votes they got.

So if an episode made it past the first round, I'll put their total votes just to see how many they got throughout the whole competition, and just for those who might be curious - but total votes don't have any bearing on their placements. So one episode might have gotten a lot one round and very few the next round, but have more total votes than the episode ranked above them because that episode got more votes the second round.

I know this ranking isn't full proof, but I'm just doing this for fun, so again let's not take it too seriously. This way just made the most sense for how each episode should be ranked. Also I will highlight an episode's vote count red to indicate that it was eliminated that round.

Additionally, I thought it would also be fun to add where the episodes rank on IMDb. Obviously they are not a perfect comparison as IMDb got more votes and such, but just for fun anyway I thought it'd be fun to see the differences and similarities in our rankings.

So, without further ado, the rankings! Part 5 😁 (Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 3)(Part 4)

#10-#1

10. 1.04 Magic Bullet - 89 votes

(Round 1: 208 votes | Round 2: 149 votes | Round 3: 154 votes | Round 4: 89 votes | Total Votes: 600) (IMDb's #10: 6.09 Memory Found)

9. 2.10 Fury - 101 votes

(Round 1: 221 votes | Round 2: 161 votes | Round 3: 125 votes | Round 4: 101 votes | Total Votes: 608) (IMDb's #9: 3.11 Alpha Pact)

8. 3.22 De-Void - 107 votes

(Round 1: 189 votes | Round 2: 152 votes | Round 3: 168 votes | Round 4: 107 votes | Total Votes: 616) (IMDb's #8: 6.10 Riders on the Storm)

7. 2.02 Shape Shifted - 127 votes

(Round 1: 224 votes | Round 2: 134 votes | Round 3: 111 votes | Round 4: 127 votes | Total Votes: 596) (IMDb's #7: 3.23 Insatiable)

6. 3.02 Chaos Rising - 26 votes

(Round 1: 201 votes | Round 2: 139 votes | Round 3: 165 votes | Round 4: 111 votes | Round 5: 26 votes | Total Votes: 642) (IMDb's #6: 3.24 The Divine Move)

5. 3.19 Lutheria Vulpina - 35 votes

(Round 1: 203 votes | Round 2: 161 votes | Round 3: 171 votes | Round 4: 172 votes | Round 5: 35 votes | Total Votes: 742) (IMDb's #5: 3.12 Lunar Eclipse)

4. 1.09 Wolf's Bane - 93 votes

(Round 1: 232 votes | Round 2: 123 votes | Round 3: 143 votes | Round 4: 123 votes | Round 5: 93 votes | Total Votes: 714) (IMDb's #4: 3.06 Motel California)

🥉3. 3.10 The Overlooked - 39 votes

(Round 1: 206 votes | Round 2: 130 votes | Round 3: 159 votes | Round 4: 143 votes | Round 5: 155 votes | Round 6: 39 votes | Total Votes: 832) (IMDb's #3: 6.01 Memory Lost)

🥈2. 2.04 Abomination - 77 votes

(Round 1: 239 votes | Round 2: 191 votes | Round 3: 193 votes | Round 4: 172 votes | Round 5: 156 votes | Round 6: 77 votes | Total Votes: 1,028) (IMDb's #2: 3.18 Riddled)

🥇1. 3.24 The Divine Move - 78 votes

(Round 1: 236 votes | Round 2: 193 votes | Round 3: 176 votes | Round 4: 133 votes | Round 5: 97 votes | Round 6: 78 votes | Total Votes: 913) (IMDb's #1: 6.05 Radio Silence)

[lxke02]

SERPENT STYLE

—soshiro hoshina x fem! iguro obanai! reader

CHAPTER ONE

MASTERLIST | PREV. | NEXT CH. | NAV.

It was a quiet night at the Third Division base located at Tachikawa-that is if you ignore the sounds of muffled telephone rings occasionally coming from different rooms of the building or the sounds of printers printing out important documents or even the sounds of a sword slicing through thin air from one of the building's training rooms as a soldier recounting the kaiju he encountered earlier that day and continues to train despite his aching muscles.

Despite the mundane happenings inside the base, [Name] Iguro, the Third in Command knew that there is absolutely no peace unless all kaijus are eliminated.

She stood in front of the large window of her office, her reflection mirrored by the glass. Heterochromatic eyes gazing down below, watching as her fellow troop members worked their night shifts. Her albino red-eyed snake, Kaburamaru was wrapped comfortably around her neck.

Sharp turquoise and gold eyes narrowed as she finally took in her features-that is reflected from the glass window. She often wore bandages around her lower face, to hide the single hideous scar that stretches to both sides of her cheeks-resembling like a serpent's mouth.

The marred and uneven skin tone of her skin. It disgusts her. The seemingly permanent smile that was carved into her face, it makes her horrified.

"This is taking a long time to fade." She muttered, hand caressing the scar on her cheek, feeling the rugged skin underneath her fingertips. She winces, hand immediately moving away from her face.

There it is again, the phantom pains.

Even though it's been years since she got this scar, sometimes she can feel pain that's not supposed to be there. She can still feel it, the blade cutting through her skin, the iron taste that fills her tongue, the undescribable burning pain of her skin being sliced apart.

She can still sometimes feel it. It haunts her.

To this day, she sometimes still sees the kaiju that did this to her whenever she looks in the mirror. The snake-like kaiju still haunts her to this day, making a mockery of her.

A cruel mockery to her entire being. Reducing her humanity to nothing but monstrosity, all because that wretched creature sliced her face to resemble her like a serpent-the very creature that monster was.

"God, I truly despise myself." She muttered with bitter resentment.

Brrr... Brrr... Brrr...

The sounds of muffled sounds of vibration coming from her phone was heard, she raises an eyebrow as she fished out the device from her pocket.

Heterochromatic eyes widened as she read the message, Kaiju Alert: South Yokohama Hospital.

"These fuckers really don't know when to stop, do they?" She grumbles, her eyes widened ever so slightly when she hears the rustling sound of the doorknob to her office.

Her eyes landed on the bandages on her couch, a few feet away from her.

There's not enough time to grab it!

She thought, eyes widened.

The doors opened, the familiar figure of the Third Division Vice Captain entered her office-already dressed in his combat suit, fox-like eyes scanning the room until it landed on heterochromatic turquoise and gold ones.

"Iguro-san, let's go. We have work to do." Soshiro says, looking at the woman who stood a few feet away from him, her arm covering the lower half of her face. He decided not to point it out.

"Yes, let's go." [Name] muttered and watched him leave the room first. She grabs the bandages on the couch and quickly ties it around her face—making sure it's tight and secured.

She removes her standard uniform jacket to reveal her tight black compression shirt and black pants. She immediately grabs her combat suit that she placed on the couch's armrest, immediately putting it on-the fabric glowing in white as it slowly adjusts and closes on her body.

She shuddered, feeling the suit slowly tighten and cling to her body like a second skin, the familiar heat of the technology spreading all over her body.

She grabs the gas mask, placing it over her mouth and nose.

And lastly, her specialized weapon—a long katana with an odd design that resembles a wave-like a slithering serpent.

"Let's go, Kaburamaru." She muttered, heterochromatic eyes dark in blood lust and her snake just slithered his tongue in response as they left the room.

[Name] stood beside Soshiro, her heterochromatic eyes sternly looking around her fellow troop members gathered outside, with two armored vehicles waiting for them.

Loud footsteps were heard, yet they remained firm on where they stand. Not moving a muscle.

Commander Ashiro along with her pet tiger, Bakko walks in the middle of the two units.

"The kaiju was discovered in the hospital, we must prevent any human casualties." She sternly says, walking in front of the group, standing in front facing them, "We'll defeat this kaiju at all costs." She says, the tone of her voice stern. This was a command from the captain, and everyone will make sure that it is met.

"Let's split into two groups, Iguro and Hoshina both of you will be on the same cart as me." Ashiro ordered, the two officers gave her a salute.

"Yes, Captain!" They both say.

[Name] sat beside Soshiro on the armored vehicle they were riding along with a few troop members including the captain.

Her heterochromatic eyes staring at the golden holographic screen-that contains the map of Yokohama in front of Soshiro, a red blinking dot was seen.

"Another kaiju?" Soshiro muttered, hand on his earpiece, his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Cart 2, continue right ahead. We'll head to a new point." Ashiro orders, [Name] can feel the vehicle shifted and turned to a new direction, she clenches her fists, her eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

Soshiro turns to look at her, noticing the glare in those heterochromatic eyes of hers. He nudges her gently to the side, "Hey, calm down, we'll arrive there soon. We'll make sure to neutralize them." He whispers and [Name] just sighs and nodded. Closing her eyes as she tries to envision the possible moves she'll be using when the moment comes.

"What the hell happened here?" [Name] muttered, heterochromatic eyes scanning the destroyed and utterly bloodied area, her hands tightly gripping her sword.

"What the hell is this?" Soshiro asked beside her, looking around the area with his hands on his hips before slowly walking towards Captain Ashiro's side.

[Name]'s eyebrows were furrowed as she looked at the surrounding area in disgust—blood, guts, broken kaiju bones everywhere. The stench was horrifying despite the gas mask she was wearing.

Kaburamaru seems to hate the foul iron smell as the serpent decided to hide underneath her long black hair.

She watches as the medic carried the injured woman on a stretcher before her eyes followed Captain Ashiro who was walking towards the small girl.

[Name] decided to approach them, standing on Soshiro's side as they watched the older woman knelt in front of the small child.

"Tell me about the kaiju you saw." Commander Ashiro spoke softly, [Name] observed the two.

"Kaiju..." The small child softly says, slightly whimpering in fear as tears begin to form at the side of her eyes, Ashiro patted the smaller girl's head to comfort her.

"It'll be okay, I'm going to defeat all the kaijus." Ashiro says, truthfulness was evident in her voice.

The girl's eyes brightened, as she began to smile, "Really?!" She asked before her face fell, catching the attention of the three high officers of the Third Division.

"Please don't kill that nice kaiju-san though," She begged softly, eyes filled with innocence.

[Name]'s, Soshiro's, and Ashiro's eyes widened in surprise.

"Eh?" Commander Ashiro muttered, shock and confusion evident on her face.

"He saved my mom." The kid answers, truth evident in her voice.

[Name] scoffs, sheathing her sword back to its scabbard, "There are no such things as nice kaijus, we'll make sure to eliminate all of those creatu-hey, wait, where are you taking me?!" [Name] asked, a surprised tone in her voice as Soshiro decided to grab her wrist and pulled her away, "Let's go." Soshiro deadpans as he pulls the woman along with him.

Commander Ashiro and the child just sweat dropped as they watched the scene.

➤ THE NEXT MORNING.

The sounds of shuffling papers were heard inside the staff room, the smell of freshly brewed black coffee lingers in the air.

Yet, Soshiro can't focus on his work as he feels a certain woman's sharp glare on him.

"Why are you glaring at me?" Soshiro asked, who was working beside [Name]. Currently the two are working in the staff room-busy with multiple stacks of paperwork that Commander Ashiro asked them to do.

And [Name] was occasionally glaring at the Vice Captain, Soshiro sighs, "Is it because I stopped you from crushing that poor girl's hopes and dreams?" He asked, fox-like eyes looking at her.

"I was about to give her a reality check." She muttered and Soshiro just sighed before deciding to change the subject, "Enough about that, have you seen this year's batch of applicants? I must say I'm impressed." He says with a grin, canines poking out of his lips.

[Name] just sighs and nodded, "Indeed, this year's batch is rather impressive. Though, I have a question." She muttered, eye twitching in annoyance before showing the Vice Captain a paper with an applicant's details on it.

"Why do we have an old man here?" She grumbles and Soshiro cackles, "Oh, right! I forgot about him HAHAHAHA, Commander decided to raise the limit because of Japan's lowering birthrates, something like that." He answered, occasionally wheezing.

[Name] just grumbles before returning the paper back to the stack then immediately slapping her own forehead, "I don't know if he's stupid or not."

Soshiro just grins before shrugging, "He is determined, no doubt about that." He says before chuckling, "Gonna ask, is there a certain applicant that caught your interest?" He asked and [Name] shook her head, her heterochromatic eyes landed on to the top most paper on a different stack, containing the details of blonde haired and emerald-eyed girl.

"No one caught my eyes, unfortunately." She says avoiding the male's wine-red eyes that shines like rubies. Soshiro snorted, crossing his arms, "Somehow, I feel like yer lying." He says with a smirk and [Name] ignored him, turning her attention back to the papers on her side of the table, her cup of coffee untouched as she refuses to eat or drink when others are around.

"Anyways, you're going to proctor the exam, right?" [Name] asked, placing her right elbow on top of the table before leaning her head against her right palm.

Soshiro grins, giving the girl a thumbs up, "Yup! Maybe I should ask the Captain to make you a proctor too." He suggested with a smirk and [Name] glares at him, "Don't you fucking dare."

He just looks at her with a mischievous look inside those wine-red eyes of his, "What? Scared you'll lose your free time to read haikus?" He teasingly asked and an irked mark was on [Name]'s forehead, "Damn right."

"Too bad, I'll still ask the Captain anyways, think about it as hanging out." He cackled, and [Name] just deadpans at him, "You're really annoying, Hoshina." She flatly says.

"You loved me anyways." He grins and she just blankly looks at him, "Loud incorrect buzzer." She says and Soshiro laughs

"Did you just say "loud incorrect buzzer?"" He asked in between wheezes, "I said what I said." [Name] flatly says but unknown to Soshiro, she was smiling underneath her bandages.

[Name] ended up accepting to be a proctor anyways when Commander Ashiro asked her.

[lumosinlove]

Vaincre

May Part Six

cw: mentions of past injury

~

They lost game five.

Maybe, Remus thought, they had expected the Rangers to be hurting. Their footing unsure. After Archer, Remus knew he felt shaken. It was an accident. The phrase rang in his mind, complete with Archer’s face—and, even worse, Leo’s face. Heartbroken.

Remus had thought, more than once, that Logan would be off his game because of Finn.

But the Lions had been the ones feeling thrown. Sirius had stolen two goals, but one was overturned for being off-side. They missed Finn in the lineup badly. Kasey was hurting in the net. Leo had swapped in for the third period and was obviously hurting in an entirely different way. He had hardly looked at Logan on the ice and Remus hadn’t seen them say goodbye before the Lions’ flight back home to Gryffindor. He had simply slipped right out of the visitor’s locker room and onto the bus for the airport.

It should have been a complete spiral. They were facing elimination tomorrow. Their summer could begin right then, too early for anyone’s taste. Sirius should have been silent with his shoulders up to his ears. But Sirius still seemed…locked in. Captain mode, Thomas had dubbed it. It came with an exaggerated salute every time that made his stud diamond earrings flash. It still made Remus do a double-take every time he saw Sirius smile. Every time he caught him humming while loading the dishwasher or getting ready for bed in their shared hotel room. Maybe it was that they were both exhausted. Worried, too, about Finn, or about making it—that vague feeling that one was never quite doing enough.

Still. He felt some pride in seeing Sirius like that.

There existed an odd liminal space where Sirius wasn’t his. Not his fiancé, not his boyfriend. Not the man he kissed good morning, or showered with, or watched fold his laundry oh-so carefully. Not the one he’d mostly taught how to cook or the one who stole the covers ‘on accident.’ There was a space where Sirius was his captain, and only his captain.

These past few days were closer to that space than anything else. At home, they moved around each other in their own, focused routines, but Remus didn’t mind. At night, Sirius’ arms were tight around his waist. Sleepy kisses to his shoulder. It was a season balance that they were only going to get better at—and wasn’t that a strange thought. This year had felt like a dream, and it still struck Remus each time he remembered that he didn’t need to wake up.

The weight room smelled like sweat and metal and Remus let out a breath as Thomas spotted the bar back to rest.

“Shit, Looper. New PR, boy.” Thomas grinned at him upside-down.

Remus ducked the bar and sat up, using the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face. “Somethings up with Leo and Logan.”

Thomas came around the bench with his arms crossed and an incredulous look on his face. “Maybe you missed the part where Leo’s ex slammed Finn’s head against the ice.”

Remus tried to side-step that mental image and stood to help him release the clips. “Why would that make them stop talking?”

“How do we know if they’re talking? Tremz lives in a different city and, let me tell you, FaceTime hits different when you’re in love.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “They didn’t even look at each other in New York.”

Thomas looked like he wanted to argue, but they both knew he couldn’t. They’d both been there each time Logan came into the Lions’ room to take Leo and Finn into his arms, win or lose. It hadn’t happened last game.

“Gotta be tough,” Thomas said more quietly. “First Tremzy now Harz. Maybe it’s just Leo sorting through it all. Plus…”

He darted a look towards Kasey on the bikes. Remus had realized the other day that he braced himself every time Kasey opened his mouth in the locker room. He’d been waiting to hear the word retirement for so long that it hardly felt like a secret anymore, just an unspoken fact. These kind of things were felt by a team. An energy shift. A change in the heart of it all.

“Team dinner tonight,” Thomas said. “We’ll sit Knut between us, see if we can’t—”

“He’s not going,” Remus said.

“Why-huh?”

“Says he wants to be there for Finn at home. Logan flies in later today, so.”

Thomas clicked his tongue. “No, man. Boyfriends are killer and all, but sometimes you need you friends.” He stuck two fingers into his mouth and let out a sharp whistle across the room. “Knut! Get over here.”

Leo looked up, settling the dumbbells he was curling near his feet, sweat gleaming across his bare chest. “What?”

Thomas gave an impatient jump. “Get over here, Cub.”

Leo still looked confused when he stopped beside them, eyeing Remus who was sliding his weights off the bar.

“You’re coming to team dinner,” Thomas said firmly, and when Leo opened his mouth to protest, Thomas jabbed a finger into his chest. “No, I’m pulling rank. You’re coming to team dinner.”

“Jesus, T,” Leo rubbed over his chest. “Ow. No, because Finn—”

“Has been very well looked after by his mommy, if I’m not mistaken, and will be very well taken care of by Logan, too. Meanwhile, you will be with us letting that weight of the world off of your stupidly toned shoulders.” Thomas slapped Sirius’ chest, who had walked up beside Remus. “Isn’t that right, Captain?” Thomas saluted.

“Quoi?” Sirius said. His fingers had started rubbing softly below the hem of Remus’ tank top. Remus bit back a smile.

“Leo is coming to team dinner,” Remus said. “Right? We’re going to drive him and he can leave his car here at the rink overnight and we’re going to buy him a drink or two.”

“Uh.” Sirius nodded when Remus did. “Ouais. Yes. True? Was this not true before?”

Thomas took Remus’ place on the bench press with a sigh. “You gotta get better at pulling rank, Cap.”

Sirius sent him an unimpressed look, then patted Leo on the shoulder. “We would like if you came to dinner.”

Remus knew Leo would have probably melted at that at one time in his life, but standing there now he just looked conflicted. Worried. It was enough to make Sirius glance at Remus.

“Not if you really don’t want to,” Sirius added softly, and in French.

“I do,” Leo said quickly. “I just…No, yeah. I do. Logan…Logan’s got it.”

“I mean, he’s done it before, right?” Thomas said. “Twice.”

Leo’s expression crumpled a little more, but he nodded and ducked away back towards his weights.

“What the hell?” Thomas whispered.

“He’s worried,” Sirius said. “Give him a break.”

Thomas scoffed. “I’m helping.”

“And I’m pulling rank,” Sirius said with raised eyebrows. “Give him a break.” Sirius turned his eyes on Remus. “And you, come with me.”

Thomas looked up from where he’d laid down on the bench. “That’s my spotter, Black!”

Sirius just threw an arm around Remus’ waist, settling it low on his back—very low. “That’s my fiancé. Rank.”

“Fucking hell,” Thomas sighed. “Warn me next time I create a monster.”

Evgeni stepped up behind Thomas’ bar, flipping his hat backwards. “I spot.”

Thomas looked mildly horrified. “Dude, you never catch it when I tell you to.”

“Work hard,” Evgeni said sagely. “Do better than you think.”

“Whatever, Yoda.”

“I am force.”

Remus reached behind him and tugged at Sirius’ wrist when his touch got more insistent, but Sirius only used the leverage to spin him around completely.

“Can I help you?” Remus asked.

Sirius’ eyes did that thing Remus liked—the very boyfriend thing, no salute required. They flit over the room behind Remus, almost playfully, before settling back on his own. Remus knew he was either about to get a secret, or blush.

“You look good right now, that’s all.”

This. This right here was the anti-spiral. Had they lost a game five like that on enemy ice a year ago, Sirius might have broken his stick. Yet here they stood.

“Thanks, baby.”

Sirius just tilted his head at him, smile slight, then asked, “What are you doing right now?”

“Well, breaking records.” Remus brought a hand around Sirius’ waist when he began walking them towards a bench press of their own. “Spot you?”

Sirius hesitated. “Uh, ouais.” He lay back on the bench and looked up at Remus upside-down. “You got a new PR?”

“Sure did.” Remus watched Sirius grip the bar of the weight and drew in a slow breath. It made his wrist bones flex with the strong cords of muscles over his forearms.

It had been good at home between them. Balanced. Focused.

Quiet.

“Ready?” he asked Sirius.

Maybe a little too quiet with Regulus in the house. Remus had watched Sirius’ bare back through the bathroom doorway that morning, muscles moving gently as he went about getting ready.

Sirius flexed his fingers around the bar twice, a little superstition of his, and Remus darted his eyes up to the room. He couldn’t get hard in the weight room. It didn’t matter how quiet home was or how busy life was.

Remus glanced towards Leo. It occurred to him then that he’d never seen him without Logan or Finn. At least, not here. Not within the team. He hardly looked up from his workout. Checked his form in the wall mirror a few times, smiled at something Olli or Jackson said, but that was all. Remus frowned. Maybe it felt as weird as it looked for him to be alone.

“I could die on your watch right now?” Sirius’ slightly strained voice said from beneath him.

“Oh,” Remus replied distractedly, and took the bar from his hands easily. “Sorry.” He settled it in the racks.

“What—non, I didn’t mean—I was half way through a set! I was joking.”

“Hm?” Remus looked down at him. “Oh. Shit, sorry.” He reached down to touch Sirius’ cheek, laughing a little. “Sorry, here.”

Sirius shook his head. “Non.”

“Non?”

Sirius’ smile was slow and secret. “I have something better in mind.”

Remus drew in another breath and reached forward to settle a hand over Sirius’ on the bar. Without another word, Sirius ducked out from the bench press and was off striding out of the room, only turning once for a last look at Remus.

James stopped on his way over to the water bottles and looked after Sirius, then at Remus.

“You know what you two are?” James said, stretching a resistance band between his hands and very nearly smacking himself in the face with it. “Subtle. Yep. That’s the word I would choose.”

Remus, at another time, would have cared. Now though, they were facing elimination from the play-offs, and he didn’t have enough fingers on his hands to count the amount of people he was currently worried about. And things had been…quiet at home.

“Thanks, James,” Remus said, then patted the weights. “Bench is all yours.”

~

Cabin and crew, please prepare for landing, came the pilot’s voice overhead, and Logan looked up from the iPad that Luke was holding between the two of them. It had Sirius’ line on it, with Finn, and the only reason it didn’t hurt to watch was because he would see Finn in less than an hour.

“Why did that feel like forever?” Logan rubbed at his eyes. Maybe he’d slept a little. He couldn’t tell. There was one thought in his mind. LeoLeoLeoLeoLeo.

“Because you get a little desperate when you’re excited,” Luke replied, then nearly dodged Logan’s well-aimed knock to his head.

“How’s he doing?” Luke asked. “Finn.”

Logan thunked his head back against the plane seat. “I don’t like seeing him quiet and hurt. I don’t like it when he pretends to be all right, but at least if he can pretend, then he’s not as bad as he was.”

Luke looked like he was thinking about laughing at him again, but the look ended up boarding impressed instead. “Man. That’s a lot to figure out.”

Logan looked down at his phone. The background was lit up, Finn and Leo smushed together in bed, laughing. He stroked a thumb over Leo’s smile. “I like figuring them out. Even if I get it wrong…” Logan trailed off. “Sometimes.”

Their row was a bit of a mess. Headphones hanging from the jack, a stack of plastic cups that had once held ginger-ale and coke. The discarded containers of their take-out lunch and the crumpled bag of left over chips they’d been sharing.

“I just want to see him,” Logan said. In truth, it felt like more than a want. He thought he might die if he didn’t get his hands on Finn soon. And Leo…

He closed his eyes at the thought of Leo.

“Wanna talk about it?” Luke asked softly.

Logan shook his head. He supposed he hadn’t been very subtle, staring into the empty visitor’s locker room like he had after game five, but he didn’t have the words. Not yet.

“Non,” Logan said. His voice sounded scratchy to himself. “Thanks.”

“Lucas.”

When Logan looked again, Saint was leaning against the seat in front of them, his curly hair tucked away beneath a blue backwards hat.

Luke’s posture relaxed at the sight of him. It always did. His shoulders lowered, knees spread a little, fingers reaching behind him to rub at the back of his neck and the star tattoo there. Logan was still waiting to hear what it meant.

“That’s not actually my full name and you know it,” Luke said.

Saint ignored him. “Will I be seeing you tonight?”

“We did say we were grabbing dinner, so…” Luke smiled a little.

Saint’s eyes darted to Logan, then away. “Is that what we’re doing now? Grabbing dinner.”

Slowly, Logan watched Luke’s smile falter. “Seb, I…”

Seb. Logan had only heard that a handful of times now, too. No one called Saint by his real name, Sebastian. Luke did, though. When he was really celebrating on the ice, gloved hand cupping Saint’s goalie mask and tilting their foreheads together. Fuck, Seb, gorgeous game. Logan had heard it in softer settings, too. Late night, at Luke’s apartment, when they thought he was still in the kitchen. Seb…stay tonight. Will you?

Saint just looked at Luke, hip against the plane seat, and Logan felt a familiar squirming in his stomach, even if it was second-hand this time.

What if I said I wanted to spend the night with you, Logan? What if I said that? What if my night would be good with you in it?

This look of Saint’s was one of a boy who had been waiting on an answer for a while. And Luke’s was one of a boy who was trying hard, trying with everything in him, to give one.

“Well,” Luke said haltingly. “Let’s go to dinner. Like we said.”

So precisely put. Kind. Careful. Nervous.

Saint rolled his eyes, but he put a hand on Luke’s shoulder as he passed them by. “Tonight, then.”

Logan looked away. He pretended to tidy up the floor beneath them. Cups, wrappers, crumbs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luke look between their seats to the row behind them. It was empty. He cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes, then spoke.

“You know,” Luke said softly. “Don’t you?”

Logan straightened. He crumpled a chocolate wrapper in his fist.

“I don’t know anything. Not if you don’t want me to.”

“But I do,” Luke said. Even with how clean the admission was, Logan could see that it was hard. The familiar struggle flickered right through his eyes. Luke wet his lips, checked around him again, then looked back at Logan. “I…I do want you to know.”

Grabbing dinner. How many times had he and Finn and Leo said that to each other before actually taking each other to dinner? It sounded the same, but it wasn’t.

“Then, yeah,” Logan said. “Ouais, I know.”

Luke nodded. He looked at the screen in front of him, showing the icon of their plane on the electronic map.

Logan tried desperately to think what to say, but, then again, maybe that’s what Luke was doing, too. Leo would have known.

“I know…” It’s hard. It’s so hard, but it’s so wonderful when—

“Think they’ll call Archer back up?” Luke hardly seemed to want the answer to his own question. He looked mournfully down the aisle where Saint had retreated. “He played well besides…you know.”

Logan cursed himself. He’d have to be quicker. More sure. He’d have to be those things if he wanted to help.

“I don’t want to win with Archer.” Logan gave his head a sharp shake. “To be honest. I don’t want him to get any credit for how young he is and how much he’s done. And I don’t care if that’s too personal.” The coaching staff’s reprimand still tasted bitter in Logan’s mouth.

“Right,” Luke said. He was distracted. He needed Logan to talk.

“I think…Je…Uh, quand—” Logan looked out the window and closed one eye, thinking. “You know, uh, c’est la—Have you been to Low Moon? Best ramen in the city. Really, Leo and I love the spicy one and that’s really saying something that we both think something spicy is good. Usually he hates it if I like it because it’s not enough—”

“I’m taking him out to dinner,” Luke said suddenly. Soft, but not quite as under his breath as before. He looked over at Logan. “I’m taking Seb out to dinner. Tonight.”

Logan was startled to find his throat thick.

“Good,” Logan said firmly. He offered Luke a small, sure smile. “It will be so, so good.”

~

Remus’ plan was already half gone. It had been something about fast, and quiet, and pinning Sirius against the equipment closet shelves. Something about Regulus always being in the house, and them not having much time, and wanting to see that look on Sirius’ face that was entirely his, no captain in sight. Something stupid like making Sirius come when anyone could walk in at any moment and anyone could hear.

But Sirius was kissing him slow now, taking his time, and feeling up Remus’ ass like he had absolutely nothing better to do. He kept the kisses sloppy, little nips to Remus’ lip, probably too much tongue than Remus should actually be enjoying, but he was. He knew that Sirius liked it this way sometimes. Especially when everything was so figured out. So in routine. It was making them both hard in their shorts, and Remus knew they should probably do something about that if they were going to make it through this without any embarrassing encounters.

He had come in here wanting that look in Sirius’ eyes that put him at sea with only Sirius’ hands to save him. It was his very own color blue. He wanted to watch Sirius have to lean against him, and feel that fine tremor that started in the muscles of his lower back. He wanted the shadow of Sirius’ shoulders arching around him when he came. It made Remus feel completely covered, hidden from the rest of the world.

Sirius had a smile in his voice when he spoke next. He leaned back, hardly at all, and pressed a thumb into Remus’ bottom lip. “I know we should be quick but…” He leaned in again, thumb sliding down to hold Remus’ chin, and Remus had to wrap his arms around Sirius’ neck to keep himself steady.

“You’re—” Remus had to catch his breath. He reached between them, he needed to feel. He tugged at Sirius’ waistband. He was hot and silky to the touch. Remus looked at the shine smeared across his stomach, the way Sirius had to catch himself against the shelf behind them. The way he had to spread his legs, the slit of his cock giving way to shining drips of want.

Sirius ducked down to press their foreheads together. Outside, Remus heard someone pass them by in the hallway.

“Shit,” Remus whispered against Sirius’ mouth. He felt it when they both started laughing, breathlessly.

“I love you,” Sirius whispered. His hand was gentle, a little cool, when he reached for Remus, tugging the front of his shorts down. God, he had had these shorts in college and now Sirius was—

Remus tried to stay quiet, tried to stop smiling, but laughed more when Sirius’ next kiss was more to his teeth than his lips. “Shh—hm…”

Sirius had hitched one of Remus’ thighs up around his waist and brought their hips together. He looked like he did when he was actually fucking Remus. Sweat on his temples, eyes so soft Remus could have died. He thought for a moment maybe they could—but no, too much time. Not enough time. But Sirius’ hand was still on his ass, fingers tight and digging in, and he lined the two of them up perfectly. Sirius’ cock looked so ready that Remus’ mouth watered. His t-shirt was done for, white stains smearing over the dark hem.

“I’m—” Remus breathed. His voice sounded shaky in the silent, muted room. Something was rattling on the shelf behind him—metal?—and he could hear the music blasting from the weights room—something country sounding with, thank God, heavy bass. Sirius’ fingers slipped down an inch. “Sirius…”

Maybe it was his thigh being up like that. Maybe it was Sirius still smiling into their next kiss, or the drag of the play-off scruff, dark on his cheeks and chin, against the sensitive skin of Remus’ neck.

“Re,” Sirius whispered. Remus, with his hands locked on his shoulders, could feel his muscles working. “Fuck…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Remus chanted, tilting his head back. “Yes, yes…”

“Shh…” Sirius whispered and then he was kissing him again, swallowing the sound Remus made as he spilled between them. “Re, Re…”

They were heat against heat when Sirius tipped over right after him, and there it was. That tremor. That ocean that held just the two of them. Just Sirius. Just his boy, crushed against him, all warmth, and all that was those cool, rain water eyes.

They listened to the music down the hall as they caught their breath. Someone had gotten tired of country obviously, and what sounded like Thomas’ sugary pop was blasting now.

“I don’t know—” Remus swallowed around a dry throat. “No idea how long we’ve been here.”

“Probably too long…” Sirius kissed his throat like he had no plans of moving, and Remus pressed a hand to the coarse beard across his cheek.

“Hm…” Remus thought maybe he was going to fall asleep, right here in this dark, smelly closet. “It’s still going to be light outside when we leave though. If we can even make it to the showers without…Jesus, we’re dumb.”

Sirius grinned. “I would say I’m going to take you out to dinner now, but…”

“Can’t,” Remus said. He had the most wild urge to jump straight into Sirius’ arms though. “We have a team to take care of.”

~

Logan had his face tilted up into the shower’s hot spray, letting it wash the airplane from his skin, when the fogged up glass door opened.

“Non. I told you—” The words were hardly out of Logan’s mouth before he even turned, but Finn was already inside, sling left behind on the bathroom floor along with all of his clothes.

“For five minutes,” Finn groaned. He had his bad arm cradled protectively against his chest. “I missed you.”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Logan said, pushing wet hair out of his eyes. “That means still.” When Finn just shuffled right under the spray and up against his chest, Logan couldn’t help but laugh and rub a gentle hand up and down his side. “Who’s the puppy now? I said I’d be right back.”

“Yeah,” Finn said simply, and cradled Logan’s jaw with his free hand to kiss his other cheek. “Thing is, I’ve had enough distance from you to last a couple lifetimes.”

Logan clicked his tongue but leaned forward to kiss right over Finn’s collarbone. “You’re bad.” Then, what was it Finn was always saying? “Low blow.”

Finn just pushed his face into Logan’s neck with a pleased, rumbling sound. He was warm in the way that Logan associated with him being hurt. A little too warm, like his entire body turned all of its multitudes of attention on itself. Okay, it made Logan think. Five minutes.

“Sit, then,” he said.

There was a little stone-tiled alcove in their shower wall, and Finn only complained a little at how cold it was when Logan eased him down. He tucked his good hand under his injured arm’s elbow for support and ignored Logan’s pointed look.

“Hm,” Logan said. “What could be supporting your arm, I wonder?”

“Hm, what should I do while I’m sitting?” Finn asked with a smile, eyes low on Logan’s stomach.

“Not that,” Logan said.

“Yes.” He leaned forward and kissed over a dark mole on Logan’s stomach.

“Non, doctor says—”

Finn just ducked lower and kissed the tattoo on Logan’s hip. “What doctor?”

Logan cupped the back of Finn’s head gently and tried to will the heat in his stomach away. This was new. Never had he ever had a concussed Finn in his arms and going for sex. “Harz.”

Finn looked up at him, steam curling the parts of his hair that were still half-dry. “It feels like it’s been decades. Between this and the play-offs…”

Now that Logan was considering it, Finn was sporting a semi, fattening against his thigh. He felt Finn’s hand on his hip slid a little lower over his ass.

“Lo.”

“You shouldn’t have come in here,” Logan sighed.

“Light exercise within 72 hours,” Finn recited the doctors words. “Helps speed up recovery.”

Logan laughed and watched Finn’s eyes light up with it. “This is light exercise?”

Finn grinned. “As light as it gets.”

“Shoulder.”

“Minimal movement helps speed up recovery. I want you.” Finn leaned forward to rest his forehead against Logan’s stomach, then nuzzled against it. “I missed you.”

Logan closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy, for a moment, the hot water down his back and the feeling of Finn’s mouth against his skin. He had another set of months to look forward to of not being able to get the image of Finn’s hurting eyes out of his mind. It happened like this every time. Seeing Finn hurt scared him, a true and unforgiving nightmare.

He wanted Finn. God, did he ever. He was gone for the way Finn seemed so like himself. Those first few days had been hell, an unwanted flashback.

He knelt on a knee and rubbed his hands slowly up and down Finn’s thighs, watching the way Finn smiled at him.

“Really?” Finn said softly. “Thanks, baby.”

“I missed you, too,” Logan said, looking between his brown eyes. “I missed your jokes and your eyes and the way you walk around the house.” He cupped Finn’s elbow. “But if you think I’m letting you sit on hard stone right now and do this, you’re insane—C’est fou.”

“Foo-who?” Finn sighed. He jerked a chin towards Logan’s knees. “Trickery.” He reached out to tangle one hand’s fingers in Logan’s wet hair. “Viens ici.”

Logan raised his eyebrows. “How hard did you hit your head again?”

Finn just smiled against his lips when Logan leaned forward for a kiss. “Knocked some French right into it, I guess.”

“Shh…” Logan laughed into the word and pushed up on his knees to kiss him gently again. “I’m tucking you in bed.”

“You can take me to bed after this, for sure.”

“Put your sling on.” Logan kissed the corner of his mouth and got back to his feet. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”

Finn leaned forward and pressed his teeth into the muscle of Logan’s stomach.

“I’m just gonna take that as a yes. Ow.”

Finn bit harder.

Logan could have run his hands through Finn’s hair forever. Thick red strands that he’d spent years looking at—soaked through by rain, drying in the sun, curling and coarse from salt water, stuck to his skin from sweat.

God, did Logan want him.

“Shut up,” Logan whispered, a little nonsensically, at the sight of Finn’s brown eyes looking up at him. Finn grinned like he knew.

“You are a beautiful boy,” Finn said. “Hot fucking damn, I’m a lucky one. You, Le…”

Logan combed his hair out of his face. His eyes were bright. Clear. He looked all right. Still, Logan flinched through lingering glimpses of his body on the ice. It hadn’t been like that the other times. Not the first, when he’d dropped against him on the bus home. Not the second, when he’d gotten himself off the ice and into the locker room on his own, to scared to try and hide it.

“What did I do in a past life to deserve you two?” Finn asked softly.

Logan passed his thumb over the freckles on his cheek, the familiar pattern of darker ones on the left side of his nose and under his eye. One, two, three, four.

“What did you do?” Logan repeated. “Make drinks.” Finn was kissing his tattoo again, wet darts of his tongue stroking Logan’s skin. Logan let his head tip back, he couldn’t look for too long. “Make trouble…”

“And?” Finn asked. He was drawing a palm up Logan’s inner thigh.

Logan hissed a breath in through his teeth and reached for something to hold onto. His eyes flashed open when Finn’s body flinched away from his touch and Finn cried out.

“Oh…” Logan yanked his hand away from Finn’s shoulder. “Finn—”

“It’s okay.” Finn was hunched in on himself a little, eyes closed and holding his shoulder. “I’m good, I’m good.”

“Non,” Logan said with finality. He shut the shower off. “Non, non, non. Deslolé, sorry, sorry, Rouge, Rouge…” Logan bent to kiss the opposite side of Finn’s neck, avoiding the shoulder any way he could. “Desolé, mon coeur, sorry—”

“Lo, I’m good, I’m fine. Surprised me.” Finn put a hand on the back of Logan’s neck, rubbing gently. “I’m good, baby.”

Logan just pressed his nose gently against Finn’s jaw, then pulled back to look him in the eye. “Sling.” He raised his eyebrows. “Dinner. Bed.”

When Finn just sent him a mournful look, made almost sweet by the way the shower had plastered his bangs against his forehead, Logan kissed him softly on the mouth. “Rouge. Let me.”

Finn let him rub a towel through his hair. He let Logan sit him on the edge of the bed and then help him into a soft pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt—Leo’s, he requested. A big, worn out summer camp one. It was a bad memory, doing everything by dim light like this, but Finn looked good in the soft glow anyway.

“You look like you do in that bookstore you love,” Logan said as he gently loosened the sling to accommodate the thicker fabric. “The small one. In New York.”

“I do?”

Logan stroked Finn’s hair out of his face. He hadn’t been wearing his glasses. There was no point. Logan missed them. “Mhm.”

“What does that even mean?”

Honestly, Logan didn’t really know how to explain it to him. He didn’t know it beyond the feeling of soft, looking at me, warm hands.

When he leaned down and brushed a kiss over Finn’s mouth, Finn wrapped an arm around his hips and scooped him right into his straddling his lap.

“Harz,” Logan complained, but he did it right against Finn’s mouth so it probably lost some heat.

“Hey,” Finn said. “Don’t tell me I can’t handle even this.”

Logan snorted out a laugh when Finn’s fingers squeezed. “You need your medicine.”

“Ooh, you gonna give it to me?”

Logan nodded, and cupped the back of Finn’s head, touching their foreheads together. Finally, he felt Finn relax. When he risked a glance, Finn had his eyes closed.

“Missed you,” Finn said softly.

It took Logan back to that first day, getting him home from the hospital. It hurts, Finn had whispered to him in the darkness—a thunderous admission. He’d slept hard that night, barely moving from his place against Logan’s chest.

And no matter how much Logan tried to pull him close, Leo had been distant, claiming he was just tired. He’d kissed Finn’s forehead, squeezed Logan’s hand, then rolled over, his back facing them. It twisted Logan’s heart all up, just thinking about it.

Logan settled him and Finn on the couch to scroll through Grubhub, keeping the TV off. Finn looked happier with the sling taking the weight of his arm and his night round of medication for his head.

“Soup,” Finn said when he saw Logan’s phone screen—Logan jerked it away from his eyes.

“No screens.”

“Fine, fine, but Le made me soup. It’s in the fridge.”

“Baby, I love you,” Logan said. “But I need more than soup.”

“Ugh. I miss being, like, full-on hungry.” Finn pushed his good shoulder up against Logan’s. “You’ve never called me baby this much in your life.”

Logan slid his eyes over to him. “So you’ve said. Taco’s? Or do you just want soup?”

“Soup,” Finn said—not the best of signs in Logan’s book. The second Finn requested a bagel and lox he’d feel ten times lighter. Though, Leo’s soup did smell like heaven.

“D’accord. I’m gonna put my order in then I’ll heat it up for you.”

“I can do it—”

“Non,” Logan said. He clicked his phone off and kissed Finn’s temple. “Let me.”

“I’ll come with you,” Finn said the second Logan got up.

He turned around and laughed. “Harz. Did you follow your mom around?”

“No,” Finn said. “Those days I mostly just slept.” He went to push himself up from the couch, but he must have moved something wrong—shoulder, head—because he cursed, eyes squeezing shut, and he rested his head back against the cushions.

Logan sat down, reaching out a hand to his thigh. “Rouge—”

“I’ve been exhausted and in pain and tired of both,” Finn sighed. “There. I admit it. I’m sick of sitting still, I’m sick of being cooped up away from the light, I miss you both so much it’s insane, I drive myself insane, and I’m sick of…” He cut off, a frustrated pink to his cheeks and neck. He stared at the blank TV, as if there was a game playing. “I want to be out there. I don’t like listening on the radio.”

“I know,” Logan said. “I know you do. But you’ll be able to come to a game soon—”

“I want to be on the ice. Helping. We lost the last game and…God, I’m sick of you not being on my team and—and you and Le are fighting.”

Maybe Logan should have seen that last one coming.

Maybe those words had been hovering in the room, in the apartment. A tight, thick feeling of unrest that had kept him staring at his ceiling most of last night and on the plane.

He didn’t like the look of those words on Finn’s face. Bitter as the aftertaste of the pills he had to swallow.

“Aren’t you?” Finn asked quietly.

“Non,” Logan said uncertainly. “We…”

Was it so real as that? A fight? He couldn’t stand the idea of Leo going through practice all day, sitting at a restaurant somewhere downtown, mad at him.

“He won’t say what happened,” Finn said. “He won’t say something’s wrong at all, but there is.”

Logan swallowed. “We…” Words clogged up his throat.

“I’ve told him over and over again that this isn’t his fault,” Finn said. “And for a while I thought that was it, but it’s more like…I don’t know. It’s more like…”

“I maybe, um.” Logan paused. “I maybe got a little protective…that first night.”

“From Leo?”

“Non, of course not, I…I don’t know, Finn. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to, I just—you were so—I don’t know.”

“No one is still telling me what the fuck happened—”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it me?”

Logan pressed a hand over his eyes, groaning. “Finn. Non. Of course not. Just let me get our food.”

“Tremz…”

“Look, I’m starving.” Logan pushed his hands through his hair. “And I need to think how to say it, d’accord, so—I’m getting our food.”

He didn’t want to leave Finn on the couch like that, staring after him. He waited for footsteps, Finn’s socks on the floor, following him like he promised. But when he had ordered and peeked back into the living room, Finn had his eyes closed.

~

Remus loved the beginning of team dinners. They rarely hopped around from place to place, not when it was all of them. More often than not, they booked out the third floor of the Golden Lion bar. Remus could still see Sirius at his first one, standing across the room, a rookie, guarded, unwilling to even accept a drink. Even then, he had been so beautiful.

Everyone stood around high-top tables and the bar, helping themselves to the chips and salsa or mozzarella sticks passed around by waiters, ice cold beers sliding across the bar. The scene made Remus feel a little like he used to, as the PT. He could stand more towards the edges of the room, only just on the outside of things near the stairs, and look in.

Sirius and James were talking to Regulus near the far end of the bar. Regulus rolled his eyes at something Sirius said and James threw his head back, laughing. The brothers looked similar to Remus in their gray t-shirts. Regulus looked like he had taken back up with the gym, and Remus watched James pluck at his t-shirt like he had noticed, too.

Evgeni was being firmly told off of a shot of vodka by Jackson and Layla, who was standing back to back with Cole—and Remus swore he saw their fingers brush sometimes whenever one of them put their hand down.

Pascal had Celeste cornered against the bar with a soft smile on his face and one hand on her waist. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek and she said something that made him duck his forehead her her shoulder and laugh.

And Leo. Remus could tell, almost just by the way he was slowly stirring his gin and tonic, that Leo was missing his boys. Even as he laughed at something Thomas was saying to him and Cole, he kept brushing a thumb over a back pocket where his phone was.

Remus took a sip of his beer and turned to Lily. “I don’t know why but it’s really bothering me. The Cubs thing.”

Lily looked up from the chip in her hand, dangerously cradling too much salsa. “Lupin, you can’t go worrying about everyone else the second you’re not on the rocks yourself. It’s Leo. It’s Leo and Logan and Finn—Jesus, I’ve seen the way they treat each other. I’m surprised they don’t use all that money to build monuments to worship at.”

“Yeah,” Remus said absently, frowning at the back of Leo’s head.

“I’m surprised you and Black don’t build monuments,” Lily mumbled, then put the whole chip in her mouth.

“Sirius’ would be to slap shots.”

“Mm, pretty sure it’d be to you.”

Remus leaned back against the dark-wood bar and grinned. “Huh. Yeah, it would be.” He held up his hand with his ring on it. “Aren’t offerings the beginning?”

Lily slapped his chest. “Okay, that joke’s over now. Get that thing out of my face before it catches light and blinds me.”

Remus just turned his hand to look at it himself. The stupid big rock had grown on him—as if, some how, Sirius had known it would. He loved slipping it back on after practice. He even didn’t mind the Instagram account dedicated to Remus-Ring-Sightings that Thomas had shown him.

“We’re here!” came Natalie’s voice right behind them. She finished walking up the stairs and spun on her heels, flashing Remus her red-bottomed boots. “Hello Remus Lupin, we brought a soldier behind enemy lines.”

“Oh?” Remus asked.

Kasey followed her, smiling slightly, and behind him came Alex.

“Oh, boo,” Thomas yelled. “Wrong O’Hara!”

“Get lost in big city, Ranger?” Evgeni called out.

“What can I say?” Alex grinned. “I was promised whiskey.”

Remus laughed, sharing an eye-roll with Kasey. He was holding tightly to Alex’s hand, and Alex didn’t let go even when Leo walked up to hug him.

“How’s my baby brother?” Alex said, keeping a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Not smothered by my mother?”

Leo pretended to think on it. “Don’t think so.”

“Surely Logan, then.”

Leo’s smile wavered. “No. They’re good. Lo’s there now. Got home after I left for here.”

Alex nodded. “Well, guess he’s done it before. Knows his way around the I’m fine’s and I can do it’s and It doesn’t hurt’s.”

Remus saw Leo’s throat move around a swallow. “Yeah. He does.”

Lily got taken up by Natalie (and her boots) and Remus was left to settle back again and watch. Sirius was talking with his hands, replying to something Kasey had said, and then pushing his palm through his hair in the way he did when he was really loose. Not worried about seeming too much, too loud, taking up too much space. Remus smiled watching him smile. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more, to steal him away into another hidden corner or to take him out to dinner, just the two of them. He wanted to trace the way he rubbed at the beard he was growing for the play-offs. He wanted to tangle his fingers in his hair.

“Hey, heart-eyes.”

Remus blinked and looked up at Leo, who took a bar stool for himself.

“Hey yourself.” Remus gave himself a little shake. “Hey, it’s hard not to. You get it.”

“Oh, I get it.” Leo glanced Alex’s way. “But wrong O’Hara.”

“Ha.” Remus grinned. “Yours is doing okay?”

When Leo let out a long sigh, Remus clinked their glasses together apologetically. “Sorry, you’re probably so sick of being asked that. I can ask him myself.”

“No, no…” Leo took the lime off of the edge of his glass. It had been squeezed already and was dry between his fingers. “No, it’s not that.”

Remus wondered where Thomas had gone off to. Noelle was with Natalie and Lily. He’d wanted to be here for this.

“We—T and I…” Remus shrugged. “We’d noticed you’d been a little…down. And I mean, understandably, but…you and Logan sort of…”

Leo huffed. “Stop wincing at me, Loops. I’ll tell you if you want.” He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink, crunching ice between his teeth. “If I even know what to tell.”

Remus frowned. “What does that mean, Knutty?”

Leo’s jaw worked as he let the ice melt in his mouth, blue eyes down. Remus stayed quiet, though part of him was dying to guess, to try and help.

“I’ve always thought that I’d feel their history more than I do,” Leo finally said. “More than I ever have. I’ve always been a little surprised by it. By how little I feel…you know. Like I wasn’t there. Because I wasn’t, I wasn’t there. And it doesn’t actually come up, honestly. Until…”

“The concussion brought it up?”

“Yeah. A little.” Leo looked down. “I don’t know, I think Lo’s just sort of in the mode of feeling guilty about the other times, when Finn got hit in college and he couldn’t…”

“I guess that makes sense.”

Leo’s smile was sad. “It all makes sense, and I’ve got it all figured out. That’s how I always am. I get it, and I can say it. That doesn’t always make it better.”

Remus nodded. “Yeah. No, I see. It’s still there. And you haven’t said anything to Logan?”

“I don’t know if it’s fair of me to.” He looked over at Remus. “Re, we’ve never…we’ve never fought before. And the worst part is, I’m not even sure if that’s what we’re doing or if I’m just being stupid and, like, stubborn or something. Or just childish. Or selfish?” Leo shook his head. “And I just can’t stop thinking about the night it happened. We brought him home—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Alex threw his arms around them both. “Which one of you is gonna buy me a drink before me and Tremblay wha-hip your asses next game?”

Leo, to his credit, did a pretty good job of dredging up a smile.

“Not me. Goalie privilege.”

Alex pushed his bottom lip out. “Kase never told me about that one. I think you made that up.”

“Oh, it exists,” Leo said, then ducked out from Alex’s arm. “I’m sure of it.”

Remus sighed, watching Leo go. “Hazard, I was getting somewhere.”

“What do you mean?” Alex looked at Leo over his shoulder. “I thought we were cheering him up. That’s what Walker just said.”

“Well—yeah.” Remus shook his head. Leo, maybe, didn’t need another person on his case. “Yeah. All right, so I guess I’m buying. What’ll it be?”

~

Finn was on the very edge of their bed, on top of all the covers like he had barely lay down before falling asleep. His injured arm was cradled protectively against his chest in its sling. Leo checked the time on his watch. He couldn’t have been out for more than a few minutes since Logan and him had finished bringing all their things inside. He glanced behind him from his place in the bedroom doorway, listening to Logan doing something in the kitchen. Probably leaving every single cupboard open in the way he always did. Finn would usually be out there bothering him. Lo, whiskey? We could share.

Leo knew where that came from. He knew all the stories. The roof. OKN House. But he didn’t know. He never cleaned up Logan’s knee when he cut himself climbing back through the window from that roof perch. He’d never watched the sunset from up there. He’d never passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth with them beneath the pink and orange sky.

He knelt beside the bed, bringing his face close to Finn’s, and reached out to push the hair out of Finn’s eyes.

He’d never done this. He’d never seen such a soft Finn. A needy Finn, too exhausted to hold himself together. It was different than the hurt, desperate Finn that he’d seen when Logan first went to New York. That one had been wound so tightly that he was bound to fly apart. This one was all loose sadness and helpless pain.

“Howdy,” Finn whispered without opening his eyes. His voice cracked with exhaustion. “Butter.”

“Hi,” Leo said. “You don’t look very comfortable.”

“Come to think of it, I’m not,” Finn mumbled. “You have practice?”

“No, honey,” Leo said.

“Oh. Wait, what time is it?”

“It’s really late,” Leo said. “Don’t worry, you can sleep.”

“Good. Hmm, good, that’s good.”

A moment later, he was asleep. Leo frowned, reaching up to smooth his thumb over a crease between Finn’s eyebrows. He watched Finn’s eyelashes flutter a little across his cheeks before trying to decide how to get him comfortable. He was too hot, his shirt sticking to him. No sooner had Leo reached for the hem than did Finn suck in a breath, half-waking.

“Lo?” Finn mumbled sleepily, reaching a hand out to blindly grasp at Leo’s shirt.

Leo bit his lip, looking towards the living room where Logan was. “Oh. No. No, it’s Leo, Harz. But I can get him—”

But Finn grabbed onto his arm and opened his eyes. The honey-brown looked so, so tired. “No. Stay, Le. Sorry, I was still half asleep. Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” Leo whispered. “You want to get out of your clothes, sweetheart? Get under the covers?”

“What?” Finn asked. “Oh, sure. What time is it? Do I…Wait, I’m getting dressed?”

“Let me help you,” Leo said.

He got at Finn’s shoes first, slipping them off while Finn lay back on the bed. Next came his sweatpants.

“Okay,” Leo said. Finn eased himself up with his good hand, and Leo could hardly stand the slight shake in the muscle of his forearm.

“I think I can do it,” Finn said.

“Okay.” Leo knelt between his knees, ready, as Finn gingerly took his sling off before pulling his t-shirt up and over his head—one arm first, head out, to be eased off his shoulder. Leo helped him out of his sweatpants. He blinked down at Leo when he was done.

“You know…” Finn put his good hand on Leo’s cheek. “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

“We don’t have to talk about that now. You need to rest—”

“You know this isn’t your fault,” Finn said again. “Leo.”

Leo closed his eyes. He pressed a kiss to Finn’s palm and then rose to go to their dresser. “Which t-shirt?”

“Yours,” Finn said softly. “Your Saints one.”

Leo looked back at him. He looked sad, worried. The opposite of rest. He was holding his arm protectively, cradled against his chest, but he seemed to forget for a moment. He went to reach out and then flinched, sucking air in through his teeth.

Leo grabbed the shirt and pants quickly and shut the drawer. “You need to lay down and put that sling back on.”

“Not until you tell me you don’t think this is your fault.” Finn blinked up at him as Leo gently eased a t-shirt over his head, his sling over it. It mussed his hair in a way that made Leo want to lay right down and curl into his side.

“Lay back,” Leo said shakily. “Sweetheart—”

Finn held onto his wrist even as Leo managed to get him to lay on his back, head propped against the pillows. “No, you’re about to cry, I can see it. I can see it.”

“And I really don’t want to,” Leo whispered.

“Lay down,” Finn said. “Lay down with me.”

Leo put a hand on Finn’s cheek. He took Finn’s fingers off of his wrist and Finn let his head sink into the pillow.

“Le?” Logan said from the doorway. He was holding a bowl and Leo could smell that it was chicken broth. Leo frowned.

“Did you bring in the bag of medicine from the doctor?” Logan asked.

“I—yeah,” Leo said. He stepped back from the bed. “It’s in the hall.”

Logan sat on the edge of Finn’s bed and set the soup down. Finn’s eyes had slipped closed, but they opened again at the weight at his side. “Mon rouge, drink a bit of this, d’accord? Just a little.”

Leo stared at Logan’s back. Had that been a request that he go get it? He took a step back, waiting for Logan to look at him, but he only set the broth down at the request of a protesting Finn and, when Finn put an arm around his back, leaned over him.

Leo watched as Finn just blinked up at Logan and gave a weak shrug with his good shoulder.

Logan brushed a finger over the skin under Finn’s eye. “You’re so tired, Rouge.” The kiss he let rest against Finn’s mouth was the softest thing Leo had ever seen. “It’s okay.”

“Lo.” Finn let his head sink into his pillow and closed his eyes.

“Tell me,” Logan whispered. “Tell me how to help.” He brushed their noses together, back and forth, back and forth, feather-light.

“I love you,” Logan whispered.

“Love you,” Finn said, barely, a little slurred from exhaustion. “It hurts.”

That admission, from Finn, was almost terrifying.

The guilt welled up so fast that Leo had to take a step backwards. He went to the kitchen—every cupboard open, a little soup spilled on the counter. Can knocked over, can opener splayed out. It was a mess, it was the mess Logan usually made, but it felt ten times worse just then. Ten times bigger.

“Did you get his medicine?” Logan’s voice came from behind him, brushing past Leo and going over to the bags in the entry hall. “He should take it before he really falls asleep.”

Leo turned, watching him rummage through their things.

“You made soup,” Leo said.

“Ouais, it’s always the only thing he’ll touch,” Logan said without looking up.

Leo nodded wordlessly. He thought about going over to the stove. Cleaning up. His feet didn’t move.

“Quoi?” Logan passed him by, headed to the fridge. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Why was he?

“I don’t know,” Leo heard himself say. “Just that if there was one thing I…”

Logan had yanked open the refrigerator but paused, a water bottle in hand.

“What?” Logan asked. He looked surprised by Leo’s tone. It had come out harsh. Angry.

Leo looked down, a little embarrassed. Wishing he could take it back. “Nothing.”

“Leo—”

“If there was one thing I could have done right tonight, that was probably it,” Leo said in a rush. He sighed, motioning to the stove. “Like, okay, you’ve done all of this before but I…”

He suddenly didn’t even have the energy to finish the sentence. He wanted to crawl into bed. He wanted to listen to Finn’s even breathing. He wanted the image of him with his eyes closed against the ice out of his head.

“Le.” Logan looked down at the water and medicine. “I’m—I didn’t…”

“He needs the pain killers before he sleeps,” Leo said. “You should give them to him.”

~

Leo shut the door to their apartment and shut his eyes against the memory. He didn’t like this lumpy ball of guilt, misplaced, overworked, and unguided. It was dark except for the hall’s night light, and he imagined that he could hear Logan and Finn sleeping. Synced breathing and body heat.

The bedroom door was open, but he forced himself to go right to the shower. He took his time. Let himself cry a little. Let himself be angry at Jack, angry at himself.

Angry at Logan.

The team dinner had distracted him, but Kasey brought a new round of what felt like grief. He’d really thought Kasey was going to make the announcement tonight. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could’ve taken it tonight, hearing Kasey go.

His own mind rang between his ears, so muddled that, if asked, he wouldn’t have been able to put a name to the feeling. He wouldn’t have been able to say if it sprung from the ever looming possibility of losing Kasey, or the general pressure of the game, or the past of Finn and Logan that he would never know the half of.

It was his own fault, letting all these hopeless and irrational feelings stir up now of all times. The soup didn’t matter, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. He couldn’t have known Jack would do this. His mind skipped around, but it always landed in the same place. He just wanted Finn to be okay. He wanted his loud laugh, dancing around the kitchen, pausing with his hands on Leo’s hips. Back in the locker room. Coming home from a run and bringing him coffee in bed. Good morning, rise and shine, sunshine.

Toweling off his hair, he came into the dark bedroom. Finn’s head was on Logan’s chest, sleeping on his side without the sling. He was passed out hard, his mouth open a little. Logan was pulling gentle fingers through his red hair and watching Leo through the dim light.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” Leo whispered.

Logan just open his free arm. “Ici.”

Leo hesitated. He knew his blocked up nose would give him away. He turned to hang the towel over the ajar door, then walked into one of the closets. “One sec.”

He grabbed for a pair of pajama paints and, on second thought, a long-sleeved shirt. He didn’t feel being exposed anywhere. He felt too shivery, too wound up. He wished one of Logan or Finn’s sweatshirts would pull easily over his hands.

Logan was still waiting with patient green eyes when he emerged. He’d propped himself up on a pillow a little, but Finn had hardly moved. Logan opened up his arm again, insistent.

Leo lay down beside him, but Logan didn’t have it.

“Non, ici.” Logan pulled until Leo’s head was on his chest, too, a mirror to Finn. He kissed Leo’s hair once, twice. The third time, his lips stayed and Leo nearly closed his eyes. Finn looked peaceful, this close up. He was holding himself tight, just a little, as if the discomfort didn’t dissipate even in sleep. His hair was damp, like he had showered. Come to think of it, Logan’s was, too. Maybe they’d had theirs together. And he’d just cried through his own.

“Was dinner good?” Logan whispered. Leo felt the words against his skin. He nodded, but he didn’t think he could speak.

“Good.” Logan rubbed Leo’s back in silence for a few moments. Leo felt him draw in a long, slow breath. “Good…”

Finn seemed to have felt the disturbance, too, because he cleared his throat and rolled onto his back. They both looked to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself. The pillows he’d been sleeping with along his bad side to keep him from rolling onto his shoulder were still in place.

“Does he look okay?” Leo whispered, eyes darting over the sling.

“Ouais.” Logan, his arm free, rolled towards Leo until his leg was over Leo’s hip and his arm drawn tight around his back. They were face to face now and Leo got a ticklish face full of curls when Logan bent to kiss his neck, then his chin, then a quick peck to his mouth. He said nothing, though, and Leo wasn’t sure if this was just Logan being Logan, or some sort of apology. Leo wasn’t even sure he wanted an apology. He didn’t want Logan to feel like he’d done anything wrong. He wanted this weight on his chest gone.

“Reg was there?” Logan asked. At Leo’s confused look he said, “Saw some pictures on Natalie’s instagram.”

“Oh. Yeah.” It had been nice, being with friends and not just on the rink. He felt like the last week had been consumed by a fog of worry and hurt. Being away from Finn, hearing his voice on the phone, weak and tired sounding.

Him and Logan feeling awkward in New York.

Leo leaving without saying goodbye.

He regretted that. He really regretted that. He’d hated himself all the way home.

He should be saying sorry to Logan. About getting mad about the soup, about being quiet, about leaving.

Logan was all tensed up in his arms. Worried. Trying to test the waters without jumping in. Trying to gauge Leo.

Logan’s heart was going a mile a minute beneath Leo’s fist and Leo couldn’t help it. He lay his palm over his chest and rubbed his thumb over the pounding.

Logan drew in a breath. “Le…Desolé.” Logan pressed his forehead against Leo’s sighing. “I’m so sorry, mon amour. I’m a mess, and—and I love you. And I’m a mess, this is hard and…”

Something in Leo loosened.

“The soup thing was stupid of me,” Logan continued. “And I didn’t mean to ignore you and…” Logan pressed harder, his whispers shaky. “This scares me. So bad. And I know it’s not just me, but I…I didn’t get to take care of him the last times. Not like I really wanted, and part of me just—jumped for it. I needed to know I could do it, I think. Do it the right way.”

So, all this quiet, all this tension in Logan’s muscles, had been him trying to gather the words.

“Mais—but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you can. Of course you can.” Logan pulled back some to look at him. “None of this is your fault, okay? And I’m so sorry.”

The right words. The English words. Leo should have known.

“Me too,” Leo said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you that night and… I hated myself for leaving New York like that the second it did it.”

Logan shook his head. He drew a thumb over Leo’s lip and Leo felt it shake, just a little. “I should have come sooner.”

“I should have waited for you. God, I…” Leo worried he had lost them that game and now they were facing elimination and—

And then Finn was moving again, pushing a hand over Logan’s arm in his sleep until Logan fell back onto his back so Finn could settle on his chest again. He sighed in his sleep, mouth open. Leo looked up at Logan and they both smiled a little. This time, Leo settled his head on Logan’s chest without needing to be told. Logan put a hand in both their hair.

“I really feel like I…” Leo looked for the words, too. “I rely on him to be…”

“Happy,” Logan nodded. “Je sais, I know.”

“Yeah,” Leo said. “But is that good of me? I…Just—not even just happy, but like, solid and upbeat and…joking, making me laugh. And then when he’s not it…like something is wrong. Really wrong.”

Logan took his time answering. Leo leaned into the feeling of his fingers stroking through his hair. Finn’s breathing was gentle. Peaceful. He seemed so content, resting against Logan, ear over his heart. Letting himself be held.

“The first time,” Logan finally began. “I hadn’t even known him that long. But it was so weird. I couldn’t figure out why I was so scared every time he didn’t smile.”

“Mhm,” Leo said softly. He wanted more. He wanted to hear.

“We slept like this every night,” Logan whispered. Leo felt him shift, mouth and nose against Finn’s hair. “I was so terrified someone would see us, but I never moved. Not once. I think that’s the only time I never backed down. Or backed out. Maybe both.”

Leo pressed a kiss to Logan’s chest through his t-shirt.

“He would only eat this one canned soup and only if we put, like, so much pepper in it. Knutty, it was insane. You would have hated how much pepper. Only pepper.”

Leo smiled a little. “He does like pepper.”

“It was kind of freaky, like he couldn’t taste it otherwise or something. But he said it just cleared his nose up so I was like, okay. He loves your soup. I tried to get some, like, sushi delivery into him or something and he wasn’t having it.”

Leo smiled. “He’s gonna get so sick of it.”

“Non, don’t think so.” Logan’s thumb was making small tracks across his neck. “And he couldn’t read or anything, like his homework. So I read to him.”

Leo smiled. “He’s the reader.”

“He interrupted all the time. It’s like going inside his mind. It’s—the only thing better I can think of is watching you two read.”

Finn sighed in his sleep like he’d heard. Leo touched the curl of his fingers poking out of the sling. “Did he fight you then? Trying to take care of him.”

“Not for the first couple days,” Logan said, then his chest rose and fell with a sigh of his own. “But once he starts feeling better its harder. Like tonight. Followed me everywhere.”

Leo turned his head up to Logan and smiled softly. “He did that to me, too. Followed me right into the shower and—”

Logan darted a mocking little glare towards Finn. “Oh, he tried that on you, too?”

“Almost gave in, to be honest.”

Logan grinned and leaned a little closer. “Would’ve like to see that. But same. Took me a bit to realize how badly he needed to lie down.”

“Good thing we’re Harzy-whisperers,” Leo whispered against his lips.

Logan’s laugh was quiet and his kiss was tender. “Finn-fluent.”

Finn made a sound, a little hum followed by a soft snort.

“Ouais, Harz,” Logan whispered. “Your blowjob efforts failed.”

Leo suppressed  a laugh and reached up for Logan’s jaw, turning him down into another kiss. Logan’s mouth was soft, a little sleepy maybe, but he opened Leo’s lips gently and squeezed him closer by his shoulders.

“I love you,” Leo whispered. “And I…I like hearing about it. The two of you, before me.”

“It doesn’t compare to the three of us,” Logan said.

“I know. I just don’t want you to think I don’t know that, I just felt…I felt like I would never live up to it for a moment.”

Logan’s brow knit. His skin and eyes took on the darkness. He lit it up, blue and green, and for a moment Leo was lost.Like this, Leo could almost imagine it. Knowing Logan back then. Knowing Finn. Having even more time than he would already be given. He was selfish for those years.

“He used to leave his backpack unzipped,” Logan said. He pet a hand through Finn’s hair and it was almost fond.

Leo smiled. “Oh no.”

“He would probably get all the way to class like that if I didn’t tell him every time. Shit falling out behind him.”

It was a sweet image, Logan catching Finn’s things. It was always Fall when Leo imagined them there, he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because of the sweatshirts they wore around the apartment, the maroon color, or the idea of school, just something that started in September.

“He’s never late for anything,” Leo whispered.

Logan smiled. “Not now, maybe. I used to wake up to him banging his hip on the dresser every morning while he rushed around.”

Leo reached down and put a hand on Finn’s waist, dipped a little with the way he was curved against Logan. “He still does that.”

“And you already know about our bagel place,” Logan said. “And his insane order.”

“It’s not so insane,” Leo said. “Plenty of people like capers that much.”

“Ouais,” Logan said. “But I only know one.”

Leo’s laugh was too loud for the time, and he turned his head into Logan’s chest.

“Là, take over for a second,” Logan said. “I’ve had to pee for two hours.”

“Hurry back.”

Logan eased Finn off of his shoulder with kisses and plenty of pillows, and Leo slid over into the warm spot left behind by him until Finn’s cheek rested against his chest instead.

“Hm…” Finn pressed his nose against Leo’s neck. By the kiss he placed there, Leo was sure Finn thought he was Logan still but he enjoyed it anyway.

“If I’m here, will you fall asleep okay?” Finn mumbled. When Leo hesitated in replying, Finn pressed his cheek harder against his chest. “Can I sleep here, Le?”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Leo said, throat tight. “Of course, sweetheart.” He pressed his nose into Finn’s hair. “Of course you can.”

“Did the boats leave?”

Leo arched a brow. “Uh. What?”

“I gave them the money,” Finn mumbled. “No one ran to the top.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t… What?”

But Finn didn’t reply, just breathed out, fast asleep.

Logan came back in, switching off the bathroom light.

“Did he used to talk in his sleep?” Leo whispered.

Logan paused with a knee on the bed. “Non. Did he just?”

Leo tried not to laugh, nodding. “Something about boats and money.”

Logan made a half-bewildered noise and lay down against Leo’s side. “There’s a lot going on in that brain.”

“There is,” Leo said. He had Finn’s head on one shoulder, Logan’s on the other. The game might’ve been tomorrow, but he’d reclaimed his prizes tonight.

[neartheeasternfence]

Four Years Ago, Yashiro “Got Away”

Impressions; Chapter 56

Yashiro on the title page seems exposed and vulnerable. The appended phrase is an eye-catcher or advertising slogan, not a part of the work. It must be the editor in charge who is the first, professional reader and companion of the serialization that devises them each time. It is a little regretful that they are eliminated from volumes. 56’s eye-catcher can be interpreted as “[A] want any excuse to stay close [to B],” I wonder. If A is Doumeki, B is Yashiro, and vice versa. Doumeki is the one staring at Yashiro, and at the same time, Yashiro holds feelings for Doumeki.

Doumeki did not confirmed the contents of the video. To Doumeki, whatever the situation, it was Yashiro’s privacy. Asked why he has gotten so much pleasure with Doumeki, Yashiro’s face turns straight one moment, and he replies that only their bodies have good compatibility. While he must have had the same question too, has he adjusted it that way for the time being? Doumeki seems delighted to learn that Yashiro is interested in Doumeki’s personal life. However, Yashiro almost runs away from the scene. He fears getting attached to anyone or anything as ever -- “I am afraid of losing you (I will not lose you if I do not get you) (ch.23, vol.5).”

Something is horrifying about the interaction over “You prefer cruel treatment, don't you?” It is the same as “You go in for pain, right?”, “Yes,” and “Without pain, I cannot arouse…” (ch.24, vol.5). It clearly shows that Yashiro’s trauma has not changed in any way and remains there. Even though Doumeki comprehended something at the end of volume 6 (Tobu tori ha kotoba wo motanai, the translated title: Flying birds never speak), he was not privy to everything... In chapter 25 (vol.5), he minded Yashiro giving tears, but little did he know that Yashiro was having such flashbacks. Since Yashiro is positive to Doumeki’s questioning, the context goes to ‘I prefer cruelty.’ Still, Doumeki cannot help settling Yashiro’s words, plus his enraptured tone, on ‘I prefer you’ or ‘I prefer doing it with you,’ I think.

Doumeki longs to touch Yashiro skin to skin, not to bite or restrain him. His pleasure lies in bringing Yashiro pleasure. For Doumeki, rimming is a symbolic act, an attempt to reach back to Yashiro’s past he cannot fully know, to reclaim the entirety of Yashiro. In chapter 52, I realized that he must have lived a life in the Sakura Family ruminating over the whole memory from the three months with Yashiro. In chapter 56, I recognized that it was Yashiro’s ‘taste,’ his figure and essential parts, and every ‘texture’ of him that occupied Doumeki’s private fantasies. His side face expression is the same when he looks up from Yashiro’s lower stomach, takes a small breath over Yashiro’s heart, shifts from fingering to rimming, or lightly stirs Yashiro’s emissions with his fingertips. Doumeki must be profoundly impressed by experiencing in reality what he has only imagined for the past four years.

When Yashiro first used the word “rape” (in katakana), I was surprised (ch.47, vol.8). Words are labels and categorize things. All the sex Yashiro had experienced, even as he had grown up and regained a certain degree of sexual agency, had been substantially so. He found Doumeki was the sole exception. At that time, it was sorted into the category of “something different from what I know” (ch.25). Although it may not derive a name even now, the rest was categorized eventually as rape. One night with Doumeki drastically altered Yashiro’s perception of sex.

So, what is this? Despite its not being rape, yet not the equivalent as four years ago either… (I suppose that means). Doumeki seems to have developed an understanding that four years ago, Yashiro “got away” because he imposed his emotions on Yashiro. Doumeki takes a breath at the top of the vertical panel, while the bottom two-thirds of it is blank (filled with screen tones). It suggests the passing of time and indicates that he has chosen his words prudentially.

[omgkalyppso]

Tav Étoile as a Companion Part 2 of 4

Questions from here. You can press J to skip this post on desktop.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

7. Do they have their own personal quest that spans the course of the game?  Can it take different branching paths depending on the choices the Player Character makes?

I'm calling it:

A Cold-Hearted Pal

Quest Act 1:

Triggered when the player loots a piece of the Mourning Frost staff in the Underdark. Can obviously be missed if you only travel through the Mountain Pass, but Étoile will not leave the party if it's missed.

A. If the player character cures Dhourn Ba'Tol of petrification, Étoile will notice that he has the Icy Helve, and will take it off Dhourn's person.

Étoile: Where did you find this?

Dhourn: Excuse me, faerie—

Étoile, shoving against his collar: Where did you find this?

Narrator: Your companion has pulled a long shaft of metal from the Drow's belongings. Cold radiates from the Helve, crackling upon the air like too-cold-ice left to separate in tepid water. A ring of snowflakes coil around the hand guard.

[Lolth sworn drow women only] Quickly, whelp.

[Intimidation] I think you better tell them.

[Intimidation] I think you better tell them, I won't be so kind.

Étoile, stand down.

Just watch.

Dhourn: I bought it. Spoils from a long ruined House. House Baenre surely sold the pieces of the staff separately to incite — ahem, competition. Even shattered, it was the last piece I needed to confirm the duplicity of House Shobalar. By now, my matron mother shall have used this information to increase the standing of House Ba'Tol. Sadly, as a third-born son none of this glory extends to me, but I still have my research.

What research?

Étoile, are you satisfied?

Spoils from which long ruined House?

[Persuasion] Tell us of House Shobalar's duplicity.

House Shobalar's Duplicity

So House Shobalar was once all but eliminated. They had been responsible for the enchantments of weapons and armor made by House Baenre with the Adamantine Forge, a power thought lost when the forge was claimed in a mighty battle by heretics — worshippers of Shar, who knew of the Adamantine Forge's location because House Shobalar was, without the consent of House Baenre, nor the blessing of Lolth, selling enchantments, even to colnbluth — non-drow.

After losing the forge, House Baenre moved to destroy House Shobalar on Lolth's behalf, but upon arriving, discovered all had already been slain by the youngest daughter, Xullrae'Hael Shobalar, whose ignorance of her family's actions and loyalty to Lolth was rewarded with her life.

Publicly, House Shobalar was removed from the Council of Eight, and dishonored to fifty-second in rank, but Xullrae'Hael, house of one, played drow politics well for one so … disadvantaged. She would have spun in her grave to know it was all for naught, with her great grand-daughter allowing House Shobalar finally being destroyed in the War of the Spider Queen as punishment for women practicing arcane magic, rather than Lolth's divine magic.

Étoile's Perspective

But Étoile knows this staff, the Mourning Frost was depicted in a tome of Auril's treasures in their mother's temple. It was not gifted to her in a moment of divine inspiration as the Revelations of the Icedawn was given to Iyraclea, Chosen of Auril and the Ice Queen of the Great Glacier until 1373 DR. Étoile's mother, Aranea, would sit with her open book in the storms atop their mountain, praying as frost coated the pages over days and hours. Her thin, dry hands would crack so that when she could finally trace the images, messages, and blessings upon the book the pages were also anointed with blood.

Étoile was only permitted to look upon this book on the coldest days of the year, only with supervision, only to recognize the value in frozen waterfalls, weapons, and adventurers.

The Mourning Frost was gifted to a priestess who oversaw the shifting rivers of a frozen temple deep underground. Where molten earth and stale air should have thrived, Sozican, Elderteeth, The Ghost, a white dragon who favored the guise of an albino drow, channelled Auril's power in the heart of an unwelcoming land.

What Research

Dhourn wishes to bring the knowledge of the Forge back to Menzoberranzan. To either recreate the legendary weapons and armor of old with techniques that have the benefit of advances in magic and materials. Or better still, to recreate the forge. If he could build but one for House Baenre or one for each great House that would offer him more than his place as a third son. He would marvel to see such magic wielded in the greatest regimes and assassinations with his name on the lips of every Matron Mother as either a praise or a curse…

Spoils from which long ruined House?

Dhourn would ask, What does it matter?

B. If the player character loots or pick pockets the Icy Crystal from Filro the Forgotten then the next time the player character speaks to Étoile at camp, Étoile will say that it was a pretty thing they procured, and ask to see it. Agreeing will have Étoile confirm that it is a divine chill that eminates from the crystal, and then they will recognize it as a piece of the Mourning Frost.

C. If the player character loots the Icy Metal from Xargrim's body, then Étoile will comment that it has an angelic shape, doesn't it? That they appreciate that cold magic gives everything a frost or a sparkling shine, and then they'll stop, stunned, and will recognize it as a piece of the Mourning Frost

If the Mourning Frost is reforged and Given to Étoile. Reminder that they would default to using it one-handed with a shield, but that it is a versatile weapon, and can be taken away immediately after to be given to a caster if you like, lol.

Étoile: I— Are-are you sure? Heh, I am used to … temptations, like this, if you feel it would better suit another in the party, but … I am honored to hold it. I am not my mother, but I will pray on it, perhaps despite our distance from the frost and the mountains, my god might also hear me, and offer us some manner of aid in these … extenuating circumstances.

You're welcome.

Please keep me out of your prayers.

Isn't Auril the weakest she's ever been? I wouldn't keep my hopes up.

Maybe try to sound more humble if you're entreating your god.

It's just a weapon.

Étoile, to 1: I'm so sorry. Thank you. I appreciate that we took the time to restore the staff.

Étoile, to 2: [Disapproves] Of course, my apologies, I shouldn't have presumed you'd be comfortable with it.

Étoile, to 3: I think it's far more likely that she'll look us over than not have the power to assist. No harm in exhausting another means of dealing with the parasite.

Étoile, to 4: Oh, that's … You're very correct. I will be most supplicant.

Étoile, to 5: [Disapproves] A fine weapon. One I will strive to use ably.

Étoile unlocks a new camp idle animation of sitting cross-legged in meditation. If Mourning Frost is in their inventory, it will be draped across their lap.

Quest Act 2:

In Act 2, there'd be some scratches in the earth in the shadow-cursed lands that you could talk to Étoile about, where they point out that they're not made by twig blights or the other moving trees the party has seen. They were made by a werewolf, keep an eye out.

After discovering Locke's fate in the House of Healing, Komira is still missing. We discover her curled up against a wall from a number of Harpers. She shrieks at the heroes for failing to save them, for failing to save everyone, about all the horrible things those nurses did to Locke. She couldn't even take his body when she had to sneak out the window. And now everyone's gone.

There are other survivors, we can take you to them.

Arabella needs you, she's in our camp.

I don't need to listen to this.

Harper: It doesn't matter. She's been transforming back and forth the past four hours. The shadow-cursed lands are calling to the curse in her blood. She's a danger to everyone, even if she leaves.

Komira: These accursed lands have taken everything. They've already taken my sanity, I just feel so … weak. The grip I have on myself is slipping, there's only the pain, and the rage, and the sorrow, and this horrible, aching …

Queue werewolf transformation. Étoile cursing Malar's mercy, and calling on the party to hold back.

Defend Komira. (Harpers hostile)

Defend the Harpers. (Komira hostile)

Refuse to take a side. (Komira hostile)

If the player character initiates combat against Komira, Étoile greatly disapproves, but if they let her feed on the corpses of the fallen Harpers (Wyll, Gale, Karlach and Lae'zel disapprove), then Étoile's Paladin Oath breaks, and the Oathbreaker Knight arrives. Komira doesn't transform back at this time, runs off.

The next time the party long rests Étoile swings wildly between being confident that defending Komira was the right thing to do and that they've lost everything that made them a paladin, that made them useful to the party, that made their late werewolf mother proud of them, that connected them to their drow mother and their shared god.

After that long rest Étoile can confide more about their mothers. Including that House Ienith was once the thirteenth House in Menzoberranzan until it was crushed under the young heel of Malice Do'Urden; she had only been a Matron Mother for thirty years. While it had simply been a power play, Malice probably would have had an even easier time of it, if she'd known that the second daughter of the House, Aranea, had not been keeping Lolth in her heart, and was instead entertaining whispers from the Mourning Frost. The information Étoile revealed previously about Sozican was true, but not the whole of it, and they didn't want to seem personally motivated in obtaining the staff, but to think that their mother had once been protected by Auril, and now Étoile has let them both down …

But they're still conflicted, Komira deserved to be treated kindly in her affliction, to be allowed to learn or taught to live, not executed.

Conversely, if Komira is killed Étoile is extremely short with the player character. They feel they've betrayed themself.

Killing Komira:

Shadowheart: This place is one tragedy after another, isn't it? But I think it will be for the best, wouldn't want Komira to injure her daughter in a fit of— Well. It's done now.

Astarion: Werewolves are … undisciplined, unmanageable, extraordinary horrors. How Étoile could keep hope that the tiefling could be saved— It was a sign that they needed to be faced with the reality of things. You did right.

Gale: You know … historically speaking, Lord Urtos Phylund II was a very able patriarch of Waterdeep. Notably, a lycanthrope, and so it was decreed none of his children could inherit his lands or titles, but … It's unfortunate that not more cursed souls aren't given the opportunity to learn to manage such a volatile condition.

Lae'zel: While I do not envy her fate, I imagine Komira would rather die as she was than live as a monster. The soldiers will make far more able allies against the growing threat from the towers. Do not allow the others to lose focus.

Wyll: Étoile might mourn Komira, but those Harpers deserved their lives too. How many more would she have hurt if she'd made her way to Last Light? To Baldur's Gate? Hard decisions need not make hard hearts, but there was a right choice.

Karlach: I dunno, soldier. That was hard. That was— Gods only know how hard her life was before the Descent, and then Elturel — can you imagine being a young mother with a family to worry about in Avernus? And then this … This was all there was for her.

Saving Komira:

Shadowheart: Despite their association with the night, and the dark, werewolves have never been creatures of Shar. It is strange to find Komira corrupted in this way. We should be vigilant for whatever turned her.

Astarion: Do you think our little thief's magic will help or complicate the transition of living with a monstrous mother? They'll make quite the pair.

Gale: Those were just people we killed. They were not opposed to our recovery from the parasites. They were not threatening a member of the group. They were people. Frightened of monsters in the dark. What does that make us.

Lae'zel: The wolf has as much control over her power as a t'phret. They are … like wyrmlings filled with poison. When the beasts lick even themselves they cause serious injuries and blinding scars. She is a danger to herself and all around her. The Harpers were right not to turn their backs.

Wyll: Keep Étoile away from me. They know where I stand on this. I … I cannot believe what you've made me party to. Has the shadow-curse affected your senses?

Karlach: That was … supremely unheroic of us. I mean, how often do you hear of heroes who had to put down an old friend for the greater good? That's— That's why Étoile's Paladin Oath broke. This wasn't a good thing we did … But what's worse is … I don't know that I wouldn't do it again.

The next long rest Komira will join camp, will hug her daughter and tell her that she doesn't know that she can stay. Withers weighs in that her transformations will be restricted to the full moon (and, one day, her own will) once she leaves the shadow-cursed lands, which Arabella needs to do anyway to pursue her destiny. Arabella is afraid of and for her mother, full of grief for her friends and father, and uncertainty. Withers still uses his magic, and assures all that they will be safe on their own.

Quest Act 3:

Étoile is very embarrassed to show you where they were living in the Lower City of Baldur's Gate. I'm adding an alley to the south of the Basilisk Gate or to the east of the Guildhall Entrance. I'm adding an Adventurer's Guild building. Étoile lives near this building but not in it. Some kind of large building that is mixed use, most people rent a room and both operate out of it and live there, selling clothing or tool or shoe repairs, but not clothing or tools or shoes (etc.) themselves, herbs they've home-grown, healing, prestidigitation, and so on. Étoile's been living there a while and so has the benefit of three rooms on an upper floor, away from flooding and theft.

When Étoile goes to investigate if they've been replaced (yes), they find that most of their things have been sold or given to the new family that has moved in, but they have some things they can retrieve. A neighbour or four, perhaps a member of the Adventurer's Guild, is relieved to see that Étoile isn't dead, having been missing for so long, they suggest having a party sometime over the next few days. It isn't the high society party that everyone wishes was in Wyll's or Astarion's quest, it's lower class, in the residential street, but find some nice 'camp' clothes because there'll be drinking and dance, music and gambling — maybe an optional party game, like Charades or Yes And No (that the tadpole squad can cheat at if you like, Étoile disapproves).

Neighbour: I thought you were dead. We should celebrate.

Étoile: We don't have to do that, there's so much terror with the Absolute and —

Neighbour: Precisely. Let's have a few hours to be merry, the 'we may all die tomorrow' kind of merry.

Étoile is right, it's inappropriate.

That sounds wonderful.

Let us get back to you.

In the meantime, because you'll probably want to prepare, the next time at camp, Étoile can be comforted, with the player character having the option to be upset on their behalf over the loss of their home and their things; that was their whole life in there. And Étoile can be gracious about it, tapping their chest, indicating that they have their life; a romantic tilt on this for romanced Étoile (but they still wouldn't call their romantic partner their whole life).

When it comes time to dancing, the player character can choose to dance with Étoile or allow Étoile to choose their partner. If the player character is Étoile's only partner, they will dance with them, and if they are in a polyamorous relationship then Étoile will choose a companion over the player character for this dance. Otherwise Étoile will dance with a random party member.

Afterwards, Étoile will be approached by a pale drow for a dance. They accept.

Étoile: Do I know you?

Sozican: Not in this life. Not for ages. Ienith. I thought you'd be a drow, I— You have no memory of me?

Étoile: (amused) Not in this life. (thoughtful) But …

Sozican: There's much in your soul that's gone unchanged. Your heart. Your faith. The way people love you. ... What drew you to my staff?

Étoile: Your staff?

Sozican: How I mourned you once … this is not the reunion I envisioned. You were not easy to find. Obscured by time, by blood, by Lolth, by Shar. You, a high elf babe with no connection to the chilling dark ... but you found your way to Auril regardless, and to me.

Sozican stops moving, the ground frosts from beneath her outward in all directions slowly, and then all at once in a burst of white-blue light. The music stops and the celebration is frozen. The party finds themselves able to move.

Sozican: The others will thaw, but the hour grows late. (She offers her hand) I would have no other. Come, slay me that i might reincarnate, and someday, in another life, we need no longer be strangers.

Étoile: We need not be strangers in this one.

Sozican: No … Do not ask this of me. Simply take Auril's favor, through force and victory as a champion should, and help me move on, please.

They do not require Auril's favor.

They no longer want Auril's favor. [Étoile disapproves]

They will not fight alone. [Étoile approves]

Auril would have an Oathbreaker? (conditional)

[Persuasion] You don't have to do this.

Sozican, if 1: Then I will fight you all the same.

Étoile, if 2: Do not speak for me.

Étoile, if 3: I would. I would spare you this hardship.

Sozican, if 3: (laughter) Gentle Soul, you will need your allies.

Sozican, if 4: The Orders of mortals are not the tenets of the gods. They have broken no vows to Auril. The frost still welcomes them. Come, and you will see just how much.

If you selected 3 or 4, Étoile begins the fight with the buff Auril's Faithful and is immune to being Frightened or knocked Prone for 4 turns.

Étoile, if 5, Persuasion failed: No, but I'm going to. With or without you.

As if you'd stand a chance without me.

With me, obviously.

Good luck.

It's your funeral.

1 or 2 lead to the fight. 3 or 4 sees Étoile teleported away with Sozican, and they permanently leave the party; whether deceased or otherwise is left up to speculation.

Étoile, if 5, Persuasion succeeded: (gets down on their knees) Sozican, Elderteeth, I cannot risk my life for you while my allies need me.

Sozican, if 5: So much respect for these new lives ... and none for me. (kneels, holds Étoile's shoulder) Perhaps in the next life, Gentle Soul.

Étoile slowly frosts over and turns to ice. Étoile is permanently removed from the party. The party takes 3d6 cold damage as Sozican teleports away.

Sozican teleports the party to a scene of white. A quick look around might make it look like there is a black sky high above, but a longer look around reveals that it is a bowl of onyx, her frost white temple deep in the Underdark, three moving rivers of ice acting as a boundary to the combat map / her lair.

Sozican fights the party with the stats of an Adult White Dragon.

After the fight the player character can still convince Étoile to spare Sozican. Doing so changes Étoile's personality to be more distant and distracted, their smiles are strained and their approval is forever skewed to favor merciful outcomes, even at the cost of their faith. Additionally, Sozican can be summoned in the final battle. If the player character allows Étoile to sacrifice Sozican, Étoile is briefly conflicted but quickly back to themself and expresses their relief that whatever of the past, that they, in this life, feel like releasing Sozican from her grief was the correct choice. They wouldn't wish to suffer that sort of loneliness.

Completing the fight upgrades the Mourning Frost to instead be the Dead of Winter. In addition to the Mourning Frost's previous abilities it is now a +2 weapon and allows wielder to cast Auril's Flowers once per Long Rest.

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Hello MBTI Notes . I hope you are doing well . I really enjoy the Blog you provided us with . It's really a gift . Thank you very much .

I am an INTP and still feel maladaptive and I really have some few problems I need to explain if you could help me with them . I will be really thankful . I have Seen that you ask your audience the purpose of their Questions .

My purpose for asking is the following : To understand myself better and also Improve myself and be self-actualized as I progress through Stages of ego development and cognitive function Mastery .

My Questions are the following :

Question #1 : How can I overcome the obsession that I have for the perfect way of starting my self-development Journey and what is wrong with starting now and every moment I feel so rather than obsess over starting the next morning fresh ? - I mean what do I need to do to internalize the shift in my mindset that this is how it should be done rather than gather information and organize them and create a framework for how to work and not do the actual work but just '' seem to do '' and plan rather than do the effective work .

I am aware that I generate activities to avoid doing the actual work by citing the importance of waking up early , having the right plan , right mental models and many more excuses for postponing but it feels like an addiction and I don't know how to break the pattern . How can I understand it better , is it just Underdeveloped Ne and weak Si due to more brainstorming ideas but difficulty implementing ?

Question #2 : When I have a mental model to work with , let's say , Maslow's hierarchy of needs , or The DEAL In 4 Hour work week to grow and Improve my Life and uplift myself using this mental models as they would help me grow through how loosely they become frameworks from which I could invite goals from different branches like Improve My Introverted thinking or Build a YouTube Channel about Conscious Politics , I have to somehow go on to Reddit to look for validation . Ask differently to get validation from different people but never experiment and derive the answer or Just find out and stop needing people excessively . Is this some sort of Fe grip ? -- Can I know how to undo it through cognitive function Improvement and what I would be aiming for to end it ?

Question #3 : My Third Question is more like why I am as an INTP and many others I met passive and apathetic and can't seem to find an ambition that drives us restless and hungry . I have been excited at times about specific ambitions but this seems to have dissolved when I reached 26 years . I definitely have introspected on more and more and had some answers like the following : Eliminate escapism language , put myself in no return environment like a different city where I am far from home and there is a prospect of being fired from apartment from a landlord , act before I am ready and other behaviors that would create the urgency to make it . But again , I lack self-trust In my answers ? - I don't trust myself much this days . I want to be ambitious because of the energy and burning desire to make it through different stages of my life improvement but passivity seems to be the overwhelming energy . Maybe because since the last 5 Years , I lost my father who I was doing more studying to impress , Lockdown lowered myself esteem through media and fear , Getting sick with terbocolusis . How to have a breakthrough from this ?

Notes : Sorry for all this questions , I would be really appreciative if you help me through them . Thanks for everything you do .

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

I worked as a teacher for many years, so sometimes I can't help but look at situations from that perspective. To me, you sound like a student who is good at following instructions (and can thus get a good grade) but ultimately doesn't understand the purpose of the assignment (and thus hasn't really learned the lesson). Such students are good at reciting nice sounding words they heard from teacher but aren't yet capable of independent thought, which might explain why you depend on others to validate you. Even though you stated your purpose explicitly, there is something about it that doesn't quite ring true, as though the string of fancy words is masking an underlying issue. If the underlying issue is a mystery because you're not fully aware of it, there's not much I can do but speculate as to what it might be.

I often say that self-improvement must be motivated by a genuinely positive intention if one hopes to get truly positive results. Unfortunately, when people lack self-awareness, they aren't aware that their intention is actually negative, but they can convince themselves that it's positive nonetheless. Generally speaking, a negative intention unconsciously attempts to cover up a deeper psychological issue, usually because it would be too difficult/painful to examine it directly. In proceeding with a negative intention, attempts at self-improvement remain superficial at best, only ever addressing symptoms but never able to touch deeper root causes. This is a common pitfall of self-help methods. Addressing symptoms can of course bring some emotional relief or minor life progress, but it doesn't produce lasting psychological change or spiritual transformation of the sort you seem to be seeking.

Although you asked three questions, they seem related and all tied back to the same mysterious underlying issue. I believe the major clue comes in the third question about apathy. It's possible that your intention is actually negative because you're really just seeking to fill a void of emptiness within. If that's the case, even if you're able to reach all the goals you've set, you'll still feel inexplicably unfulfilled, because the goals haven't addressed the root problem.

A common manifestation of unhealthy Fe is being devoid of feeling inside, which can lead a person to seek sources of feeling from the outside world, in vain attempts to fill the void. The void is like a black hole, bottomless, so trying to fill it is a never-ending task. It can even turn into a sort of addiction that has to be fed regularly. In INTPs this addiction is usually fed through Ne via constant novelty-seeking or through Ti+Ne via constantly seeking out some new horizon to conquer. Unfortunately, novelty always wears off and then it's off to find something else for the void to consume.

How does one get out of this addictive pattern? Ideally, the first step is to confront the problem of emptiness directly, to understand it and find the right ways of resolving it. I don't know your history, so I can't tell you all the reasons for why you feel empty, how it originated, or how it evolved over time. It's something you need to reflect on.

The most I can say about it only relates to functional stack dynamics, so whether the following is true in your particular case is for you to decide. Being disconnected from Fe means that one lives in a state of emotional disconnection from the world. This existential state of disconnection creates emotional emptiness, which can manifest as boredom, indifference, or apathy. Related to your first two questions, the goals you set for yourself seem to exacerbate the disconnect rather than heal it. Your attempts at self-improvement can be self-sabotaging if, unconsciously, your intention isn't actually to grow but rather to cover up the problem of disconnection.

The way to heal emotional disconnection is to actively form emotional connections. You can change your physical environment all you want, but as long as you have no real emotional connection to it, you'll continue to feel empty. This would be an example of knowing how to follow instructions but not really grasping the lesson.

In essence, you have to make the choice to care and take responsibility for things other than yourself, things out in the real world. E.g.: How much do you care about what is outside of yourself? Do you live your life in a way where your existence matters to more than just you? Do you make any difference in other people's lives? Do you take on duties or get involved with causes that would allow you to offer the best of yourself to support and enhance a greater good? Do you value something more than your own personal gain? Do you nurture an appreciative and loving attitude toward all the objects and people surrounding you?

Working on Ti doesn't accomplish much as long as your knowledge and skills aren't being put to good use. Building a youtube channel where you talk to no one in particular doesn't accomplish much as long as you continue to shield yourself from any real entanglements or consequences. For some people, getting their life in order is the challenge they need to progress and grow. But for others, imposing order on life is a way to avoid the messiness of actually living a life (one of the temptations of Ti-Si loop). Perhaps the activities you have chosen keep the world existing as a mere abstraction or always at a comfortable distance, either way, the result is you remain emotionally disconnected from it.

To be connected to the world means being a full part of it. You can't just dip your toe in the water here and there, whenever it suits your mood, always safely in control, always free to walk away to something else. At some point, you have to dive into the sea, sink or swim on your own, immerse yourself completely and risk getting swept away by the tides. You claim to have done something like this through your "no return" scenarios, but it's possible those scenarios are well within your ability to manage and don't produce any significant stakes. The challenges you've set up are good personal challenges to conquer for learning some practical life skills, but they somehow conveniently leave the problem of Fe emotional disconnection untouched.

Eventually, most personality issues go back to auxiliary development. As mentioned, seeking out novelty or challenge as a means of filling an emotional void is a misuse of Ne. You mention "ambition" but Ne is more about aspiration - the two aren't the same. You aim for things you define as "higher" but they aren't anything greater in terms of grand vision. Ne requires investment of blood, sweat, and tears in an aspirational attempt to create great positive changes in the world around you.

Perhaps you focus too much on yourself, i.e., your feelings, your journey, your methods, your models, your goals, your race to prove you can reach some imaginary finish line (that would help cover up low self-esteem), etc etc. All that inward attention without the outward connections to balance it just maintains and worsens disconnection, doesn't it? But why is your attention so misplaced? Why do you get so caught up in nitpicking the details of what you should be doing? Well, sowing doubt and hesitation is a good way to forestall the scariest aspects of Ne+Fe development, isn't it? It seems your idea of what makes a good life is too small or narrow. I'm speaking of putting yourself FULLY out there in the world, committing to something important and risking all of your feelings and emotions in the process, i.e., what it takes to live a full life. Keep finding "reasons" to hold back from living and you'll eventually feel stuck in place.

[disregardcanon]

some new project 2025 pages, some new analysis

the third "promise" focuses on "sovereignty, borders, and global threats"

"ordered liberty" is SUCH an interesting choice of wording as a national ideal! who exactly gets to "order" this liberty! i have about 40 guess for you.

the woke left does not trust "the american people" and "disdains the Constitution's restrictions on their ambitions"! what are these restrictions, exactly? you haven't argued for why exactly you think the "administrative state" is unconstitutional? is it perhaps because you don't have evidence, you just have buzz words?

never seen such anti-intellectualism in my life.

however... there are some points being made towards legitimate, justified anger that was not at all addressed by the democrats going into this election. the line "contemptuously call fly-over country" is. just an accurate description of how a lot of people on The Side of the Aisle I Belong To view me and mine.

they really hate being part of international clubs and being beholden to other nations. at all. like oh no nato treaties that didn't go through congress! un treaties that didn't go through congress! yeah. we kind of. share the planet. american isolationism is back in!

.... are they really alluding to fucking waco as the pillar of american ideals? WACO?!?!

"intellectual sophistication, advanced degrees" have "no bearing" on a person's knowledge of how to live well. well actually people who know things about subjects tend to know How To Make Those Things Happen. that kind of. comes with the territory.

apparently they hate woodrow wilson specifically with a passion. that's new info to me.

..... open borders are not an example of "cheap grace". i don't think that anti-nazi lutheran theologian dietrich bonhoeffer would agree with you that Actually Some People Broke The "Right" Law that Makes Them Subhuman.

environmentalism is "not a political cause but a pseudo-religion meant to baptize liberals' ruthless pursuit of absolutely power in the holy water of environmental virtue". huh. have you ever heard of a little concept called... projection? like it is not WRONG that some people take environmentalism to religious extremes and that ecofascism exists, but that doesn't make The Very Concept of Not Killing the Planet something you should get rid of to own the libs. again, nuances that aren't being addressed properly on the left because we're so holier than thou and eat each other with infighting

there is a point to be made about the way that the american business industry has shifted most production overseas has hurt this country, but the idea that this must make Everyone Else Everywhere Else the super scary bad guy is absurd.

"the corporations profiting failed to to export our values of human rights and freedom" i don't trust your view of those concepts "rather they imported China's anti-american values" again, don't trust your view of "anti-american" document that views me personally as a sex offender for being kind to trans children at work.

wall street "outright cheered the elimination of america's manufacturing jobs (learn to code!)" this cheerful If You Were Only As Cool and Smart As Me You Would Be Fine IS an issue, and it is one that hasn't been addressed or rectified. however.... the way that people are allowing the President Utilizing This Document, who put elon "worst offender on earth" musk in power proves that they don't care!

"illegal immigration should be ended; not mitigated." well that's fucking terrifying. "the border sealed, not reprioritized" again: terrifying.

.... how the hell do they expect america to "control the global energy market". this is at least partially about greenland oh my fucking gOD