Chishiyafanfiction mga kuwento

Girl/Boy: I'll take care of you. Boy/Girl: it's rotten work. Girl/Boy: Not to me. Not if it's you.

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗ I'll lose my sanity ── next to you ╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝ ❝In which , chishiya is strangely surprised to see another player on the seventh floor ── or , In which , yui chishiki possesses a troublesome knack for danger ──❞ lowercase intended | shuntarō chishiya x oc | alice in borderland | @_artemisian_2021 contains violence , gore and possible mentions of transphobia

There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from being seen but never truly noticed. From living so quietly, one begins to fade into the walls around. To know this grey existence well is to know the weight of wanting something just out of reach. But what happens when the walls open? When one is lead through a door that shouldn't exist? When one steps into a world that offers everything a grey life had denied---colour, attention, and recognition? What if it demands something one is yet to understand? Or, in which a girl bored of her colourless, mundane life finds an alternate world where everyone seems to be a reflection from wonderland. Inspired by Coraline

two freaks of a genius get to know each other through one thing they both love. m u s i c.

The Red String of Fate was a myth that was whispered between the souls and the skies. It said to guide two destined hearts across lifetimes, undeterred by distance or time. But belief is a fragile thing. To tether one's sense of self to a thread is to be haunted by the silence at the other end. Yet still, hands reach--for fate only weaves through hearts willing enough to be bound. Inspired by "the flowers bloom" by @rainsoughtflowers

Chishiya is your enemy because he is part of The Beach and you are part of The Night. In the fight for life and death in Borderland, you "unfortunately" keep running into each other...

shuntaro chishiya x oc The last King had ruled through paranoia, through the kind of weak-willed fear that saw threats in allies and let power slip through trembling fingers. The noise swelled, folding in on itself, growing larger than the sum of its parts. It was no longer sound; it was weight, crushing down on me, sinking into the marrow of my bones, pressing into hollow spaces of my mind. It tangled with my thoughts, wrapped around them like a vice until I couldn't tell where the shouting stopped and where my mind began. Some were composed, faces and expressions unreadable. I recognized it for what it was. Panic didn't always look like screaming, sometimes it was just the way someone swallowed hard, as if trying to keep it down. The wall bore the marks of time, not in cracks or stains, but in etchings of survival - a tally of days carved with a dagger. At first, I had carved them close together, expecting to leave before the space ran out. But as the marks stretched, as the numbers climbed, the gaps between each tally mark grew wider, as if denial could be traced in spacing, as if putting more distance between each stroke would make it less real. I ran my fingers over the final mark, the last one I was allowed. I focused on the way the air felt when no one else was breathing it. The visa was not an empty threat, nor an arbitrary limit designed to keep me playing - it was a fuse reminder that time did not stop simply because I had. I wondered why I wasn't so scared, but when you realize you're being controlled by fear, things stop being so scary.

shuntaro chishiya x oc The last King had ruled through paranoia, through the kind of weak-willed fear that saw threats in allies and let power slip through trembling fingers. The noise swelled, folding in on itself, growing larger than the sum of its parts. It was no longer sound; it was weight, crushing down on me, sinking into the marrow of my bones, pressing into hollow spaces of my mind. It tangled with my thoughts, wrapped around them like a vice until I couldn't tell where the shouting stopped and where my mind began. The wall bore the marks of time, not in cracks or stains, but in etchings of survival - a tally of days carved with a dagger. At first, I had carved them close together, expecting to leave before the space ran out. But as the marks stretched, as the numbers climbed, the gaps between each tally mark grew wider, as if denial could be traced in spacing. I ran my fingers over the final mark, the last one I was allowed. I focused on the way the air felt when no one else was breathing it. The visa was not an empty threat, nor an arbitrary limit designed to keep me playing - it was a fuse reminder that time did not stop simply because I had.