#Carmine never apologized though…

[im-no-jedi]

GUYS

OMG

I brought out Ogerpon to battle Terapagos as an act of “motivation” to get Kieran to help me

he ended up joining the battle after Ogerpon was in the red zone (I healed her afterwards), and he even ended up getting the final blow on Terapagos!!

I didn’t plan this at all!! I had no idea what was gonna happen!! the poetic cinema of it all is making me crazy!!!!

[impsandstars]

Blitz saving Stolas’s life.

I think Stolas is beginning to understand the depth of Blitz’s feelings for him (since Blitz STILL hasn't said anything aloud like Stolas has) when he saves him from Andrealphus. .

It’s important to remember that the last time these two have talked with one another was during Apology Tour, where we get this exchange between them. Stolas is being sarcastic but Blitz (who was lashing out here because he’s terrified of losing Stolas and doesn’t feel he deserves him so he pushes him away) confirms that yes, Stolas doesn’t need anyone to save him because he is a powerful Goetia. So Stolas believes (and I’m speculating here) that Blitz wouldn’t go to any lengths to save him. Not for him. Not now.

Let’s go back to the first instance that Blitz saves Stolas’s life (technically, if you squint, Blitz saved his life the very first time at Loo Loo Land but we the audience know that Stolas was never really in any danger to begin with so I don't count it).

Blitz interrupts Striker, poised and ready with a genuine carmine sniper rifle, who is about to kill Stolas at the Harvest Moon Festival. After that episode I believe many speculated whether Blitz actually told Stolas or not but we got confirmation that he did not in Apology Tour, meaning that Stolas did not know that Blitz had risked his life to save him. Stolas here is more focused on the fact that Blitz didn't tell him after the first attempt (plus is angry at Blitz right now for everything that went down during Full Moon) than he is about the fact that he saved his life. He sort of glosses over that part.

The next time this happens, in Western Energy, Stolas isn’t giving off the vibes of really being in danger and although we the audience know that Blitz was definitely ready to go straight to Stolas and save him (Stolas was cut off by Striker destroying his phone before he could hear that Blitz was going to choose him first), M and M volunteered instead. Blitz (now that we know his reason for feeling okay sending them) chooses Loona.

It was more saving him by association but it’s important here that he was 100% ready to go get and help Stolas.

For me those times are a bit tarnished and I am glad that Stolas, at the time, didn’t know Blitz saved his life. I think, back then, he might have seen it as some heroic act of his knight (a fantasy) coming to save him and not as an act out of actual real love and care. Blitz, at the time, would probably have outwardly waved it off as saving his meal ticket (while internally very much not wanting Stolas to die because Blitz cares about him and is actually a good person).

So when we get to this scene from Sinsmas, Stolas, I believe, still has not seen/been privy to what Blitz is willing to do to protect him when his life is in danger. He is still under the impression that Blitz would not go to such lengths to save him because he believes Blitz has never done it before. Why would he? Blitz just sees him as some privileged royal.

That's why he starts out looking confused.

So although this is not the first time Blitz has saved Stolas's life, for Stolas, it is the first time.

I think that’s why he kisses him. A simple hug or a thank you wouldn’t suffice for all the emotions that are running though Stolas at that moment. Look at his face, it is one of adoration, of relief, of happiness and joy. He is so overwhelmed by this revelation that he just has to kiss him. And at the back of his mind, a beautiful little flame of hope is starting to awaken because this means that maybe there is still a chance. Maybe they can work this out and be together for real this time.

[jordiemeow]

You wouldn't make love with him. You'd make art.

pairing: literature student / poet!patrick zweig x reader

summary: patrick is a genius in everything but matters of the heart. but you don't make it easy on an insecure boy's poor soul.

Patrick doesn’t know how to do any of this—he, an eloquent speaker, master of rhetoric, a man who knows almost all the dead and living languages of the world. He has always guarded his secrets as carefully as Odysseus hides his true name from the Cyclops.

Pathetic, is it not?

For a man such as him to be so utterly smitten by you. Enraptured by every little thing about you, from the way you toy with his fingers while he recites Virgil to you, or the way your stockings are always full of holes. The smudge of lipstick always present on the edge of your mouth from your lips planting against his own, or the way you pocket each of the poems he writes for you despite your outwards protests.

He’s a paradox. A contradiction. A romantic, but a cynic. A writer, but a misanthrope. And worst of all, a modernist who secretly longs for bohemians and decadence. A paradox of sophistication and nihilism. A vision of cashmere, draped in apathy.

It’s like he doesn’t know who he is anymore, when he's with you. Like you’re taking all the broken, ugly, shameful parts of him, and making it beautiful. It’s horrifying, but he wants more. Please.

And now he has to laugh, at how absurd it was that this girl who probably hated the world preferred to be around him, of all people. He knows all of this sounds terribly trite and unoriginal, but he couldn't help it anymore than he could stop the sun from setting. None of this makes any sense, and yet he has never seen something with more clarity in his life.

He loves you.

But, as usual, the words stick in his throat, and he exhales as through trying to exhale his nerves and uncertainty along with the oxygen into the stale air of his bedroom. He’ll scribble poems and declarations of adoration into a worn notebook his grandma bought him, but when it comes to uttering such confessions aloud? God, he’s a coward. So, all that comes out is a teasing:

“You know I like it when you’re rough, darling, but you really ought to ease up on the make him bleed thing a little—“

That earns him a bit of pressure added to his back, and a hiss of his own making. Patrick is quick to offer a half-grimace half-smile over his shoulder as an apology, bracing his hands against the sheets while you continue with your ministrations. Dabbing at carmine incisions along his bare back that look oddly reminiscent of a werewolf’s claws. He supposes you are quite the beast in bed together. The thought makes him stifle a snort, which quickly becomes a hiss of pain when you wipe over the nail scratches raking up his skin.

“Ow, fuck, be careful—"

“Don’t pout, Pat,” you chide, your voice low as you cut off his whine of a protest. There’s a teasing lilt in there somewhere, a hint of your dry humour creeping into the words. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

“I do not pout,” he scoffs, his eyes flicking over to meet yours, narrowed slightly. “At what point have I ever pouted?”

Patrick knows that he should not push his luck without you—not when he’s perched naked by the end of the bed and entirely at your mercy as you wield an alcohol-soaked handkerchief. Although the air between you is not quite the icy chill he expects it to be. On the contrary, it’s almost playful.

“Besides,” he continues defiantly, resolutely ignoring the stinging down his back, “I do not appreciate being attacked during… well, you get the idea.” A lazy smile flutters on his lips and he angles his body around, his hands finding the curve of your waist to tug you closer. "You are awfully passionate, you know."

He has a very peculiar way of apologising, one that is often too self-absorbed to be even considered an apology. And Patrick Zweig has never been particularly good at those, though his mother always insisted he should learn a thing or two about proper manners. Not that she was ever very present, mind you—boarding school will do that to you, he supposes.

Your fingers are sure and practiced as you tidy him up methodically, the pad of your thumb gently skimming over a small patch of inflamed skin. “Attacked? Oh, how you exaggerate so,” you scoff, a hint of mild amusement in the depths of your eyes that you hide between narrowed eyes as you focus on your meticulous task.

“I do not exaggerate,” Patrick insists through gritted teeth, his other hand grasping the sheets in a fist. The pain is not the issue here, though he does flinch upon feeling the gentle caress of your fingers over one of the indentations. “See, that’s the difference between us,” he continues, his voice now laced with an exasperated air. “You take no prisoners. Absolutely ruthless."

It’s hard, as always, to determine whether his irritation is genuine or just an act to mask his discomfort at your lack of tenderness. He hates the feeling of being so vulnerable when you’re so… put together, like you take no pleasure or interest in the moment you just shared. Not even when the evidence is stained crimson along his back.

He shifts around, pulling you closer without preamble, his free hand wrapping around your wrist to still your motions. Something in his eyes has changed, the pools of blue once glinting with playfulness giving way into a more serious look. His lips pull into a tight line as he speaks again, his voice carefully measured.

“I don’t appreciate your coldness. You act like a bloody automaton at times,” he mutters, his jaw clenching imperceptibly. But he knows you can pick up on any of his discreet little ticks at this point. He's grown to be utterly transparent to you, and he hates it, because it is the exact opposite of what you're becoming to him. More and more of a mystery with each interaction. He loves you, but you are so bloody difficult sometimes.

“I’m not being cold. I’m patching you up, darling,” comes your light reply. Your free hand reaches up, thumb brushing over a smudge of rouge lipstick still present on his kiss-bitten mouth.

It’s the use of the pet name that gets to him the most, the way your sweet voice wraps around that single word. His frown deepens slightly. “Patching me up,” he echoes under his breath, his grip on your wrist loosening in favour of capturing your palm against the bed.

“Stop treating me like a fragile thing that might shatter with one wrong word. I am not made of glass.”

There’s something in the petulant way he says the words, the mixture of anger, frustration, and something else that is a little more difficult to define—at least for Patrick, who isn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence when it comes to his own psyche. Said in a manner only a young man who has had the entire world served to him upon a silver platter could possibly manage.

Patrick Zweig has always been a self-absorbed, conceited ass, but he’s never been good with those who treat him with such apparent detachment. He’s the one who’s supposed to be casually flippant, indifferent. He is the one who’s supposed to be in control.

But you do not seem to care. Not even a little bit.

He doesn't quite recognise the desperation that colours his voice. He’s used to your indifference, the way you can just switch off whenever you want, but it stings. The more he tries to deny it, the more his own walls threaten to crack.

“At least look like you care instead of pretending that the last thirty minutes never happened,” Patrick snaps, his fingers tracing the delicate vein on your inner wrist absently, as if seeking comfort amidst the darkening atmosphere.

And you do soften somewhat. You settle upon the bed next to him, now dressed in only his half-buttoned shirt and your underwear, legs drawn up beneath you as your gaze drops towards your hand, and the way his fingers skim across your veins. It's almost uncomfortable, the tender touch in such a vulnerable place. You’re half-tempted to wince and withdraw your hand.

But it's Patrick. So, you do not. You allow it, even it makes you feel like you’re ready to claw your way out of your own skin. You allow it, because you love him, even if he is insufferable at the best of times.

Like now, for example.

"Sorry," you murmur, and it's not clear whether the apology is for the injuries along his back or the fact he's upset with your demeanour. Either way, you place a chaste, remorseful kiss to his shoulder.

Perhaps it’s your soft voice, or the light touch of your lips against his shoulder—but the tension in Patrick’s body is replaced by something lighter, something that could almost be mistaken for… relief. Something so unlike him. There is something about your words, your tone, the fact that you have given him any response that matters.

His grip on your wrist slackens, fingers sliding down the smooth curve of your palm before lacing through yours. “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he says quietly, his gaze fixed on your hands now intertwined against the sheets.

It’s his way of saying he forgives you, that the brief argument has been put behind you. For now, at least. His thumb brushes against the back of your hand in an almost absent-minded gesture; in truth, it’s more to soothe himself than anything else. The anger that was bubbling underneath the surface seconds ago is gone without a trace.

“And stop being so detached,” he adds in a soft whisper, his eyes finally lifting up to meet yours.

Patrick knows that it’s not easy to get a reaction out of you, that you’re guarded, that you’re reserved. He's used to your stoicism, to your tendency of shutting him out at the first hint of his vulnerability. He’s used to your coldness, but it never fails to annoy him, especially when he’s hurting and wants to just feel you.

His hand, still clasped around yours, pulls you closer, his free arm sliding around your waist. “You could at least act like it meant something.”

"It does. You do," you murmur insistently. Your own arms loop around his middle, chin hooking over his shoulder, although you’re careful to avoid the lingering passion-induced wounds.

His expression softens slightly, a mixture of relief (from hearing those words) and affection (from your chin against his shoulder) washing over his features. He takes a moment, savouring the feel of your body against his, the warmth of your breath on his cheek. The way your knee presses against his thigh.

He knows you have a hard time with expressing feelings, and words of affection from you are always hard-earned. They are not freely given, and Patrick knows that he treasures them even more because of it. His chest expands in a deep sigh, his eyes fluttering closed.

"Don't shut me out."

He's long since accustomed to the fact that you will never open up fully, that your relationship will always be one-sided in a way, with him baring his soul while you withhold yours. But it's the distance that he can't stand, the way you can retreat into yourself without warning.

His fingers tighten around your hand while his other hand rests on the small of your back, keeping you close to him. He's not letting you run from this conversation; one of you has to be brave for once. "It's almost like you're ashamed to be with me."

"No, that's not it at all," you reply, your voice quiet. It's an uncharacteristic softness, the way you speak when he gets in his head like this. A rarity. Or in the tender embraces you share after sex, reserved just for him. "You're the only good thing in my life sometimes, Pat."

Patrick almost wishes you could be less reserved for him, less protective and guarded. But he knows that it's wishful thinking. He's resigned to the fact that your detachment is part of you, your armour, your defence.

He's used to it, but it doesn't mean he likes it.

"Yes, but—" He begins, his thoughts cut short by the gentle touch of your fingers against his knuckles. You always do this. It's a habit you've picked up from him. Always toying with each other's hands when you're together. Something about the touch makes his chest tighten, and he almost forgets what he wanted to say.

He lets out a shaky, uneven breath, his forehead dropping against the curve of your shoulder exposed by the half-buttoned shirt. Part of him wants to tell you everything, how much he cherishes moments like these, how much your words mean to him—how much you mean to him.

But he's never been as eloquent as you are, even with a litany of poems under his belt. There's a difference between speaking them out loud and confessing them onto a page. So the words die on his lips. Something about the comfort of your touch silences any protest he has, even when it's only in his head. His fingers tighten around yours, and he places a brief kiss to your collarbone.

"Stay the night?"

"Mhm, okay," you hum in confirmation. You place your own kiss to the side of his head, directly into the dark chocolate strands of hair. The smell of sweat and sex still lingers between you, a welcome reprieve from the subtle tension a few moments before.

He allows himself to take some comfort in it, the knowledge that you will stay, that you will remain here with him. Patrick knows that it's not so simple, that you may yet disappear again, return to being that detached girl who could not care less about him—but for now, you are here. Warm and soft against his body.

One of his hands trails up to tangle in your soft hair, guiding your chin up to meet his eyes. And then he leans closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. His mouth moves over yours gently; he can still taste a hint of your lipstick underneath his tongue, a faded berry stain that smears between you.

And he takes a moment to just relish in it, the soft press of your lips together, before pulling away to speak into the scant air between you. "Sometimes I wish you'd be more demonstrative with me," he murmurs, entirely without thinking, his eyes fixed on your full, bitten-red lips. You don't even need lipstick like this, he thinks. Not when he can stain them red for you.

Patrick sighs, when his words are repeated in his mind—not that he has any intentions of taking it back. He's been craving your attention ever since you started this whole thing, ever since that night back in September, an entire season ago, but he hasn't ever been bold enough to ask for it. Not until now.

It was supposed to be a thoughtless confession, a passing remark, but the second the words leave his lips, he realises he meant them. Deeply. He wants your affection, your attention. Your love. Not this aloof, indifferent version of you that is always slightly removed and out-of-reach. He wants you to care.

"Demonstrative..?" You prompt after a moment of subdued silence. You release his hand, only to loop your arms around his neck in a loose embrace.

"Mhm."

His voice is low, the sound of it muffled by the way his mouth is pressed against your skin, his breath warm and uneven against your exposed collarbone. But there is an edge to his words—a hint of something more vulnerable than what either of you are used to.

"More affectionate," he clarifies after a moment, the words rushed. As if getting them out fast enough will lessen the inevitable blow of your scorn for being so weak. "More loving."

He feels almost like a child, begging for attention. Maybe he's searching for what his mother never gave him in you. That thought is a little too much to unpack right now, though. Especially when just your close proximity is making his head spin, his longing for you overwhelming any hesitation about voicing his thoughts. He knows that he's pushing further than usual, the words tumbling out as if he's physically compelled to say them.

But he can't help it.

The need for affection, devotion, is suffocating. He's not used to asking for more, to actually having to put his thoughts in words. Everyone else just gives him what he needs. The challenge is what drew you to him in the first place, but he is beginning to realise that he may have taken a bite of something more than he can chew.

His face is buried against the crook of your neck, lips grazing slowly over your pulse point. It isn't even fluttering, as if this doesn't have the same effect on you that it does on him. Truly maddening.

It is too much, perhaps. Too much honesty, too much neediness. But he cannot help the way his heart aches at the thought of your indifference, the way his soul cries for your love. His hands slide slowly up your back, tracing the warm skin just under the edge of your borrowed shirt. They don't stop until they reach the nape of your neck, his fingertips playing with the smooth skin and hairs there.

"Please?" He whispers against the shell of your ear. The quiet plea hangs heavily in the air, and for a moment, Patrick is tempted to just blurt it all out. To put all his cards on the table and let the pieces fall where they may. But he pushes the words down, locking them away in the depths of his heart.

"I love you," you say, tilting your head to catch his mouth in another languid, gentle kiss. A thousand words that you wouldn't dare speak aloud poured into the tender gesture, before you break free. But Patrick can't help but wonder whether it's a genuine confession or merely something to placate his aching soul. "I'm not good at this whole... romance thing, you know."

He shuts his eyes briefly at the sound of your words, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He does not trust himself to speak, his heart stuck in his throat.

I know, he wants to say. I know you're bad at this. You're bad at love and affection and vulnerability and relationships. But I need you to try. For me.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead he lets out the breath he's been holding and tugs you that little bit closer, fingers trailing slowly over the smooth curve of your spine.

"Yes, I know," he mutters. His tone is that of a sad, resigned acceptance of the fact that you have walls around your heart.

That this is it.

No tenderness, no declarations, no loving words other than those to appease him. You are fond of him, perhaps even fond of him too much, but he cannot expect you to love him in the way he does. He cannot have the love he desperately craves, and he is beginning to realise that there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.

He's not used to feeling so powerless.

A hint of bitterness creeps into his chest at the thought, and a part of him wants to pull away. He wants to put some distance between you, to distance his heart from this girl who does not love him but whom he loves with his entire being.

But it's impossible to resist the warm press of your skin, the soft brush of your fingers against his hair. He cannot push you away, and instead holds you even tighter against his chest. Some form of affection is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

And that is when Patrick realises that no matter how much he loves you, no matter how much he craves more affection, he will take anything that you are willing to give him.

His mouth trails along your jawline, planting gentle kisses there; he's lost in the warm, familiar scent of your skin against his lips, the feeling of your soft body against his. There is a certain resignation in his touch, a bittersweet acceptance that this will be enough.

His mind is still spinning, his thoughts muddled, but his body responds easily where his brain cannot. The touch of his lips against your skin grows more urgent. Despite his realisation, he craves you, and if this is all he can get, he'll take full advantage of that.

His lips return to your mouth in a hungrier kiss, the desperate need for you seeping into the way his tongue presses at the seam of your lips. His hands begin to roam the length of your body, tracing against the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips. He needs this, he needs this, and his touch grows more frantic with each passing moment. He can feel the bitterness begin to wash away, replaced with something else.

Something familiar. Desire.

Despite his earlier realisation, his need for you does not subside. No, it does not subside, instead replaced by a different need. His fingers move to the buttons of the shirt, a gentle tug in a silent plea for more—for your clothes to come entirely back off, for more skin against skin.

"Tired," comes your protest against his mouth. But you don't break away from him, hands still threaded into his hair. "I mean, we've already fucked, Pat."

His breath stutters in his chest at that, because he's not sure if it's an excuse for you to stop here, end this, stop them, or if you're simply tired.

It's not that different, he can't help but think. Not that different.

His lips trail over your neck, planting a line of hot, slow kisses down the side, but there is a hint of resignation in the way he touches you now. "You sure?"

"Mhm," you mumble. Your hand cards gently through his curls, the touch almost apologetic in nature. "We can cuddle, though."

Patrick almost lets out a sigh, his lips pausing against your throat. He's trying to push down any disappointment that threatens to break past the surface.

You do not want more. You're tired, you're done with him for the night.

It's fine. It's okay.

He presses one last kiss to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the sigh that follows almost inaudible even in the silence of his room. "Yeah. Cuddle."

His arms loosen their grip around you to give you room to pull away, although a part of him doesn't want to. A part of him wants to hold onto you, to keep you close forever. But he does not want to come off as even more pathetic than he already has tonight.

Instead he settles for slowly sitting back against the headboard, opening his arms in a silent invitation. You shift back up the bed to join him, tucking in against him, head pressed against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around you again, holding you close to his chest. A kiss is pressed to the top of your head, and he tries to find comfort in the sense of closeness.

But your words from earlier keep coming back to his mind.

I'm not good at this whole romance thing, you know.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and tries to settle against the pillow. Despite having you in his arms and the solace it should give him, he can't help the way he feels a pang of discomfort at your words. He's not asking for romance, necessarily. Not for flowers and poetry (ironically) and grand demonstrations of love.

He just wants your affection. He just wants to be wanted. He just wants to feel loved.

"Does it hurt?" Your voice cuts through the silence after a while, reaching up with a hand to trace the tender skin at the back of his shoulder. He lets out a soft, somewhat strained breath at the feeling of your fingertips over the sensitive skin there. It's not pain, exactly. More of a warm, almost aching sting around the scratches.

"it's fine," he mutters, and he's not entirely sure if the answer is referring to the physical wound or the emotional one. It's hardly much different at this point. No matter what happens, you always inflict him with something.

A beat passes, then another.

He keeps his eyes closed, listening to the silence, to the sound of your intermingled soft breaths. He can feel his own heartbeat, the steady thump against his ribs, but it's almost as if his chest is cold. As if there's something missing.

That familiar lump rises again in his throat, and when he speaks, his voice feels strained. As if it's been a week of not using it, rather than just two minutes.

"You're not falling in love with me, are you?"

"I told you I loved you five minutes ago, Pat. Sometimes it is a marvel that you are a scholar at all with that memory of yours," you say, your tone light as the hand on his shoulder trails down until your palm is flat against his heart, right next to your head.

And his heart, which had been thumping steadily against his chest, stutters at the sound of your words. He opens his eyes and looks down at the top of your head, his fingers tracing absent little circles against the skin of your forearm.

You had said the words—I love you—back in January, and now again tonight. Does that not mean you love him?

"That's not what I meant," he says, quiet and gentle, almost fragile.

"Then what did you mean?" You ask. You can feel the way his heart is picking up, the steady thump thump thump picking up into something more erratic.

Patrick swallows, his throat tight and dry, and another shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he grapples for words. "Like... emotionally. Emotionally in love."

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You love me, you've said that. But you're not in love with me. Not the way I'm in love with you," he goes on, his words quiet and faltering. He just wants you to need him in the same way that he needs you. Like water in a desert, or the way a body needs a heart. You are his heart, or at the very least you're in possession of his own.

"Pat, I'm your girlfriend," you say, tilting your chin to look up at him. "I wouldn't have accepted such a title if I wasn't smitten with you, you know."

He has to bite back something between a scoff and a sigh. That's the thing. That's the difference. This isn't about the title you give it, it's about what's under the title. About the true emotional depth behind the world girlfriend.

"Yeah," he says, softly and bitterly. "My girlfriend."

His fingers tighten reflexively around your arm, and he has to force himself to relax. "I see the way you look at me, you know," he continues, his words low but laced with an unmistaken hint of vulnerability. One that surprises even himself. "I know you care about me, that you like me in some way. Love me, even. But I'm not what you need. And I'm certainly not your first choice."

"Then who is my first choice?" There's almost a challenge in the way you ask it, despite the tenderness of your hand against his heart. And he almost laughs at the question. Are you really that oblivious? He shakes his head, even if you can't see it, and answers with a single word.

"Art."

You actually jerk up at that. The way you look at him is somewhat incredulous, or perhaps even disgusted that he could say such a thing out loud.

"Don't be so ridiculous," you say, your words coming out a tad bit harsher than expected. And his chest aches at the way you move with such speed, the harshness of your voice and the hardness in your eyes at his words.

"Why? Because it's a little too true?" He says, his words tight and bitter. "C'mon. You and I both know you've got a thing for him." He props himself up on his forearms, shifting to match your upright position. "I'm not trying to be ridiculous," Patrick continues, a hint of frustration injected into his flurry of words. "I'm just trying to get you to see it. To see how you really feel, about him, about us... about me."

He knows how the words sound, and that you will undoubtedly take them as some sort of criticism or rejection, as if he hadn't wanted you there. But you both know the truth, he thinks. Patrick swallows, and his heart feels lodged in his throat. "You only chose me because he turned you down."

"Oh, piss off, Patrick," you say, the words—his given name, as opposed to the Pat you've always called him—practically sneered at him. "That's not what happened at all. I don't know how you've managed to jump to that conclusion."

He scoffs, and his heart twists painfully in his chest. It's hard not to grow frustrated, the bitter hurt at both your words and the situation he's fabricated in his head bordering on anger.

"It's not that much of an exaggeration, and you know it," he shoots back, his voice increasingly tight and strained. "You were desperate that night. You only came back to me because you knew I'd get on my knees and worship the ground you walk on, no questions asked."

The words are like acid in his mouth, but he can't help but feel a sense of bitter satisfaction—of victory—seeing the way you react. And he knows it's unfair, but he's too riled up right now (a problem of his own making, naturally) to care.

“You knew I’d come running the moment you called. You wanted that, you wanted me to drop everything and come crawling to you again, begging at your feet.”

"I've never wanted Art, you delusional prick," you scowl. And then you withdraw yourself suddenly, the movement almost violent in the way you disappear from his arms so quickly it's like you were almost never there.

You sit at the edge of the bed, legs draped over the edge as you card a frustrated hand through your messy hair. And at that sudden withdrawal, Patrick almost feels like something has been wrenched out of him, his hands clenching around empty air as you move away. He sits back against the headboard, his eyes fixed on your slumped figure at the edge of the bed, the sudden distance in the room almost palpable. 

He wants to reach out and pull you back to him, to bury his face in your neck and kiss you until he can’t remember why he’s angry. But he doesn’t. Instead he swallows the words bubbling in his throat and lets the silence fall.

There’s a sense of resignation in the quiet that envelops the room. Patrick can feel the tension between you, the weight of all the things you’re refusing to say, while you stew at the edge of the bed.

He watches you, taking in the slope of your shoulders and the way your fingers are tangled in your hair (a nervous habit of yours, he's come to learn, but it seems more aggrieved than anxious at the moment), and his own heart aches with the need to bridge the distance between you. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s something he has to say first.

“You’ve never wanted Art?” His voice is quiet, and he can feel the resentment brewing at the back of his throat. “You’ve never even thought about it?” 

He’s grasping for something, anything, anything at all to convince himself that he’s wrong. 

“Answer me honestly, and don’t you dare lie.”

"I can't believe you would even say that," you say, shaking your head. Your gaze burns into the ground beneath your bare feet, your knee bouncing. You're itching for a cigarette, but you can't bring yourself to move to get one right now.

"No, Patrick. Art's a friend, at most."

He almost scoffs at the words, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, really. And it’s not that he doesn’t believe you, either. 

It’s just that he wants to. He needs to. 

“Bullshit,” he mutters. “I see the way you look at him, the way you act around him. I’m not stupid.”

God, he’s grasping, and he knows it.

“You keep coming back to me because you know it’s safe, you know there’s no risk,” He scoffs, bitter with self-pity. Or maybe self-sabotage. “You know I’ll always be here, at your beck and call, because I’m in love with you, and you know how much that hurts me. But God forbid you ever let yourself fall for me too. That might actually be a challenge. That might actually need effort from you.”

"Patrick Zweig, if you're going to sit here and accuse me of being in love with your best friend and not you, my fucking boyfriend," you snap, turning your head back towards him. "I'm going to walk out that door right now. I'm not doing this with you."

His chest tightens uncomfortably at those words, at the threat of you leaving, of you walking out the door and never looking back. But he can’t back down, not now. Not when he’s so sure of this. He needs to know. He has to know. 

He takes a breath, and ploughs on. Might as well dig his own grave at this point.

“I wish you would,” he scoffs, his eyes fixed on you in challenge. “I wish you would have walked out a long time ago.”

His heart aches as the words leave his mouth, the bitter irony not lost on him. He can see that they cut you, the way your shoulders sag and your expression clouds, and a small part of him hates himself for doing it. But there’s something else, some twisted, masochistic part of him that relishes the hurt he’s causing. Because at least you feel something. 

He laughs, a harsh, hollow sound, even to his own ears. “Maybe you should leave this time, for good.”

"Maybe I should, Patrick," you snap in reply, your words nothing short of biting. The only thing that's stopping you from getting up and storming out right now is the anchor of the regret you know you'd feel as soon as the door was shut. "Run off into the sunset with Art, shall I? And you can go off and find a girl willing to write you the little sonnets and love poems you so clearly need."

A volatile mixture of hurt and anger and resentment wells up in his chest at that. Mocking his adoration for poetry is a low blow, and you both know it. He's never asked that of you—that’s not your way of showing affection. It’s his. A way of expressing his love, and you act like it's some inconvenience?

“Oh, I’ll find one. You don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “I’ll find someone who actually wants me, instead of someone who just keeps me around because I’m convenient.”

He knows he’s treading dangerous waters now, that one wrong word might set you off like a powder keg. But he can’t seem to stop himself, the words tumbling out of his mouth like a flood he has no hopes of containing. At this point, he doesn’t even want to.

“I’ll find someone who sees me as something more than just a fallback, someone who actually cares about me, not just about what I can do for her.”

"And what can you do for me, huh? Except sit there and whine about the fact I'm supposedly in love with your dear old pal?" You fire back.

His heart aches at those words, the accusation like a knife to his chest. 

Patrick swallows, his voice tight. “I have been nothing but devoted to you. All these years, everything I ever do is for you. I would drop anything, anyone, at your command.”

He scoffs. “I would literally take a bullet for you,” he says, the words practically spat out.

“And all you’ve ever given me is your scraps of attention,” He continues. “You come and go as you please, taking whatever you want from me with no regard for my feelings, and you have the audacity to act like I’m asking for too much?”

"I have never once told you that you were asking for too much, Patrick. What I am saying, is that it's absolutely ridiculous that you could accuse me of... of what? Wanting to be unfaithful to you, with Art, no less? Am I supposed to just take that in my stride and not act as if it doesn't make me sick to my stomach to hear that?" You say, the words pouring out of you, laced with derision and perhaps just a little bit of... anguish? as you rise to your feet. Or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on his part.

He knows he’s crossed a line, that he’s gone too far this time. But he can’t stop himself from doubling down. 

“Why?” he says, his voice low. “Why does it make you sick, hmm? Because I’m wrong, or because I’m right?”

"Because you're wrong, Patrick. And it disgusts me that it could even cross your mind that I would ever do such a thing to you," you sneer in reply. "I mean, do you really think that little of me?" A dry, humourless laugh punctuates your words.

His heart aches to hear it, the disdain and indignation in your voice like a punch to the gut. He swallows down the retort that rises in his throat, the urge to hurt you back growing stronger with every moment you refuse to admit what he believes to be the truth. 

But he bites his tongue, his voice a quiet confession as he says, “Sometimes? Yes, I do.”

You scoff.

“I think you could tear my heart out, smash it to pieces, and not even bat an eye,” he continues, his voice dropping into a quiet confession. “I think you’ll ruin me without a second thought if it meant you got what you wanted in the end.”

He takes a breath, his voice strained with the weight of his admission. The same words have adorned a page a thousand times, but speaking them aloud is something else entirely. He's not sure whether it's making him feel worse or better.

God, he feels pathetic.

“And that kills me. It kills me to know that you’ve got me wrapped so tight around your finger that I’m just willing to follow you around like a lost puppy, waiting for the scraps of attention you deign to give me.”

He laughs, a dark, humourless sound. “I must look pathetic to you, yeah?”

He hates himself for it, but he continues. There’s no point in stopping now, right?

“Tell me, do you laugh about me behind my back with Art when we’re not together? Does he tell you how I’ll do practically anything you want, that I’ll bend over backwards just for the thrill of being the one who gets a scrap of your precious time? I bet he does,” he says, his voice laced with animosity at just the thought. “I bet he gets off on watching me trip all over myself just for your attention. It probably amuses him, I’m sure it’s very funny to watch me suffer. A big difference from the Patrick Zweig everyone else knows, right? How delightful.”

"Stop it," you interject, the words a harsh demand. But there's a hint of desperation in your gaze, as if you cannot stand to hear such vile accusations. "I don't do that, Pat. Nor does he."

And his chest tightens at the hurt in your eyes, at the raw emotion that’s there. But he doesn’t let up, he can’t let up. 

“Why should I believe you, hmm?” he says, his voice dripping with derision. “Why should I just take your word for it, just like that, when I know the truth?” Patrick scoffs, his eyes meeting yours in a defiant stare as he watches you tug your trousers back on. 

“Because you’re supposed to treat your boyfriend with faithfulness and respect,” he retorts, voice flat with accusation. “But I guess we’re both falling short, aren’t we?”

"I do treat you with faithfulness, you absolute tosser," you bite in reply. You cross his room to retrieve your shoes, your face contorted into a scowl. His stomach churns as he watches, at your clear intention to leave. 

“Where are you going?" he demands, his voice rising as panic floods through him. "You can't just walk out every time we argue like this, you can't—"

"I can't what? The only thing I cannot do, is sit there and listen to you accuse me of being unfaithful to you. I won't do it," you say, shaking your head vehemently as you drop down to the floor. Damn your stupid laced boots.

He lets out a frustrated huff, his mind reeling with the panic and hurt that’s swirling inside him. 

“But it’s true!" he says, the words almost involuntary as they tear themselves from his chest. He's desperate at this point. To continue or resolve this fight, he does not know. But he can't have you leave. “You are unfaithful to me—maybe not in body, but at least in heart!”

"You are so... so stupid sometimes, Patrick, I cannot even fathom it. It hurts my fucking brain that you could even... you could even conjure up such a thing in your own," you say, as you fumble with the laces. He's the most intelligent person you know, sure, but that big brain of his is rendered utterly useless when it comes to matters of the heart.

Not that you're much better, really.

He lets out a humourless laugh, the sound both rough and bitter. “Yeah, I’m stupid,” he returns, his voice harsh. “I’m just the idiot who’s completely in love with you, who can’t see that you’re completely, utterly enchanted with my best friend instead.”

Another laugh, the sound hollow in the air. “I’m the fool who’s just willing to look the other way while you sit there and make a joke out of me, while you string me along while you decide whether you want me or him.”

"I don't want him," you snap. You're all but yelling at him now, the level of volume certainly enough to raise some questions on the floor of the dorm. But given your entire conversation, propriety is not on the table right now, as you finally do up your laces and rise to your feet.

"I want you, Pat."

The words cut through him like a knife, slicing deep into his heart. His chest tightens painfully at the admission, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh exhale. Because, unlike all those other placating whispers, the vehemence in your voice now feels real to him. He’s silent for a moment, the only sound in the room his breaths. All he can feel is the rapid, heavy pounding of his heart.

Finally, he speaks hoarsely. “Then prove it, for once in your life. Show me that you mean it, and it's not just... just some bullshit to placate me."

"What do you want me to do, huh?" You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Declare my undying love for you? Run off and elope with you in the night?"

He shakes his head, the motion sharp and frustrated. “No, not any of that soppy nonsense,” he says, his voice still roughened by emotion. “Just look me in the eyes and tell me, honestly, that I’m the only one you care about. That there’s nothing between you and Art Donaldson.”

"There is nothing going on between us," you tell him, crossing the distance back towards the bed. Your eyes are dark and steely as you look at him, unyielding. "Not a single thing."

His heart thumps in his chest, the palpable battle between hope and lingering doubt sending a shudder through his body. It takes a moment for your words sink in, the sound of his own harsh breathing filling the silence between them. 

Finally, his voice comes out in a raspy whisper. “You swear it on your life?”

"Do you want me to pull out a fucking Bible, too?" You snap back. And then the tension in your body seeps out a little, and you drag a hand through your hair. A moment's pause, and then your continuation is a lot softer, "I swear."

Patrick nods, swallowing hard. He's half-tempted to ask for a pinky promise, but that seems so ridiculously juvenile right now and would only lead to further embarrassment. But he needs to be sure. He has to be sure.

"Swear it on your family," he continues, his voice still choked. "On your father, your mother, your brothers. Swear it on everything you hold dear."

You let out a scoff at that; you're half-tempted to call him pathetic, to laugh at him for demanding such a thing. But you don't, tugging on the roots of your hair as you try to force the words out.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. But the moment of hesitation passes. “I swear it. On everything.”

He feels the tension drain out of him, his heart easing at that response. He lets out a long, ragged exhale, the pain in his chest slowly lessening. 

He believes you. He has to believe you. Because you are the substance he craves, and he is nothing but a lowly acolyte, ever at the mercy of his deity.

So in that moment, he just can’t bring himself to care if he looks ridiculous. He's already been enough of a twat tonight.

Without another word, he pushes himself off the bed and closes the gap between you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. He feels cold, standing up naked like this. But he’d face the harshest winds of the Arctic to feel you against him right now. A part of you wants to push him away, tell him that you want nothing to do with him right now. That you need time to process the fact that he had so little faith in you. Because fuck, that had hurt.

But the warmth of his embrace drains the fight in you. You melt into him, and you're almost tempted to cry as your arms loop around him. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of you—jasmine, cigarettes and lingering sweat from your earlier endeavours. God, that feels like a lifetime ago now.

The thought of you wanting to leave had terrified him, and it’s only now, with you safe in his arms, the reassurance you had given him settling in his chest, that the full force of the fear hits him. 

His voice is a hoarse murmur when he speaks into your soft hair, the words thick with emotion. “I’m an idiot. A total knobhead.”

He laughs, the sound dry and humourless. “I’m so stupid it’s a wonder I haven’t dropped dead yet from pure idiocy.” He takes another shaky breath, holding you tighter. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, I was… I was utterly wrong, and I didn’t—“

He cuts himself off, exhaling into your hair as he searches for the words his brain provides but his mouth refutes. “I just don’t know what I would do if I lost you. I love you so much, it’s unbearable. I think I’d go fucking mad. You’re it for me." The words are whispered with a fierce desperation. “I know I act like a selfish idiot most of the time, but you have to believe me, I just… I just can’t lose you. I love you. I love you so much, and I would do anything, anything to keep you. So just… please,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. “Just please don’t ever leave me, my beloved. Please.”

“Don’t call me my beloved right now, you absolute arse. You don't deserve it,” you huff out in reply. But the words are tinged with something lighter again, even if it feels like you might burst into tears at the familiar term.

Patrick lets out a laugh, his voice rough and ragged but tinged with genuine mirth. He can practically feel the weight lifted off his shoulders at your tease.

“Bloody hell, I just bared my bleeding heart to you, woman, and you’re more concerned with my choice of endearment. I mean, where’s your romantic spirit, hmm?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “Here I am baring my soul to you, and you can’t even muster up a single I love you, my darling Pat?”

“I hate you too much right now to muster up such a horrible thing,” you whisper in reply, words muffled against his chest. The way you're clinging to him right now shows quite the opposite of disdain, though.

He gives another huff of laughter, the sound tinged with relief; he can see right through your facade. For once, it feels like you’re letting him in. He lifts a hand to your head and threads it through your hair, his voice softer and more affectionate now. “You don’t hate me, and you know it. You just like to act all blasé and casual, to keep me on my toes. Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“You’re such a bloody prick sometimes, Pat,” you breathe out in reply. “Honestly, I just… god.”

You shake your head against him. You aren't entirely sure whether you want to take off your boots again or just collapse into the sheets with him and hold each other, whispering nonsense to each other into the dark hours of the night. Or, the complete opposite, and allow that lingering hurt to take precedence and drive you to bid him goodnight and spend the night in your own quarters. Patrick is thinking the same, his mind torn in two. Part of him is desperate to bury his fear, his doubt, in a night of love and tenderness. To drown it in the comfort of your body, in the taste of your skin.

The other part wants to cling to you, begging forgiveness over and over and over until it sinks in that you're not leaving, not now, not ever. That you're his, that he’s yours. And he’ll never, ever doubt you again.

But he knows you, he knows you, and he knows that you're still hurt, still angry, still upset by the accusations that he’d made. And while his instincts urge him to take you in his arms, his chest tight with the need for touch, for comfort, he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when it might piss you off even more than he already has. Because sure, the basis of his argument had been solid. The need for affection, for something more than just tender touches late at night...

The accusations, though? Far too much.

So instead, he just pulls you impossibly closer against him, holding you tight to keep you both anchored together, his voice rasping against your ear. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And you allow him.

“I was an idiot,” he continues, his voice hoarse. “A blind, selfish, stupid idiot. I let myself believe a load of bollocks when I should’ve trusted you. You’re the most faithful, the most wonderful, the most… the most goddamn perfect person—“

He cuts himself off, his voice catching in his throat. “You’re everything. You’re everything to me.”

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his heart thrumming in his chest. His eyes are shining with earnestness as he tells you, “I’ll never doubt you again. I promise. I swear on my dead grandmother, I’ll never doubt you again.”

“Oh, don’t bring your fucking grandmother into this,” you groan, shutting your eyes. “It’s so terribly morbid. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

Patrick lets out a shaky bark of laughter. He cups your chin, gently tilting your head up with the press of his fingers. “Can’t have my very serious and sincere promise to never doubt you again being tainted by the mention of a long-dead old woman in my family?” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with fond exasperation. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever known, did you know that? Any other girl I’ve had a tiff with, they’d’ve swooned at the mention of my undying devotion. But you just worry about the deceased.”

“Is it so hard to believe I hold respect for the dead?” You reply, with a tiny little smile that tells him some of your anger towards him has melted away. “Besides, I’m not any other girl, you know. There’s a reason you’re so hung up on me.”

He lets out a huff of laughter, his eyes dancing with affection. “No, you’re not any other girl,” he agrees, giving your chin a playful pinch between his thumb and forefinger. “Which is why I’m so hopelessly in love with you, even when you’re being difficult and contrary and obstinate.”

He sighs, his tone affectionate rather than exasperated. “And when you’re not letting me take responsibility and properly apologize for my idiocy, which, might I add, is an absolute crime against chivalry and romance.”

“Just shut your mouth and take my boots off, after making me go through such trouble to put them back on,” you sigh. You pull free from his grasp to take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him expectantly.

He lets out his own long-suffering sigh, though the corner of his mouth is quirked up in a smile. “My my, my stubborn girl has some demands tonight, does she?” he says, slowly lowering himself onto his knees in front of you.

“You’re very lucky I’m in a forgiving mood,” he adds as his fingers find the laces of your boot. A bold statement to make, judging by the argument he had started. But at least he's being a little more himself. “I don’t think anyone else would be so eager to give into such an entitled little princess.”

But he tugs the first boot off, gently setting it aside before moving on to the second, his hands moving with practiced ease. Despite the teasing edge in his voice, there’s undeniable care in his movements, a tenderness in the way he works. Fingers grazing over your ankles, working your shoe free and giving a teasing little tug to your frilled lace sock to watch it snap back against your skin.

“Honestly, you’re like a cat,” he teases as he tosses the second boot aside. “Spend all day lounging about and lazing in the sun, then expect me to come along and pamper you as soon as the sun goes down.”

He places a kiss to your knee, and then rises to his feet, settling back on the bed and leaning against the headboard. Patrick beckons to you, patting the space beside him. “Come here,” he says, his voice soft and coaxing; it’s not the first time he’s started an argument, and it probably won’t be the last. But he always knows how to ease the tension afterwards. “I’m not done pampering you yet.”

He gives a quiet hum of satisfaction as you settle in beside him, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders. He tugs you as close as physics will allow, right against his chest, his other hand coming up to idly toy with your hair. 

He’s quiet for a moment, simply basking in the feel of you against him, your bodies pressed together. Then, he finally breaks the silence. 

“I really am an idiot, you know.”

His voice is soft, tinged with just a hint of self-deprecation, a contrast to his normal bravado. He shakes his head, his fingers twisting in your hair unconsciously. “I mean… I honestly, honestly believed you’d cheat on me, with fucking Art of all people, just because I… because I had a terrible day. Like all the work you’ve done to prove your loyalty is rendered null and void just because I let my insecurities get the best of me. Art,” he repeats, as if the very idea is ridiculous. “I mean, come on. I know he’s handsome and all that, but he’s one of the most awkward men I know. I’m honestly not sure he even knows how to flirt, let alone have an affair with someone.”

Patrick shakes his head.

“And you,” he continues, his voice gentling once more. “You’re like the picture of loyalty. It’s one of the things I love most about you. You’re fierce and passionate, but you give that loyalty to people you care about, and once it’s given, it’s as good as cemented in stone. You don’t go back on it. You’d never betray someone you loved, not like that, even if you were offered the sun and the moon on a silver platter.”

He lets out a sigh, tightening his arm around your shoulder. “And I know that. I do. But sometimes I get so… scared that you’ll realize how much better you deserve and just… leave me. For someone else who’s better at this relationship thing, or less insecure and angry and just… better than me.”

“Pat, I literally could not care less about finding anyone other than you—“

“And for the thousandth time,” he counters, his voice tinged with feigned annoyance at your stubbornness. “I know that. But my stupid brain still tries to convince me you’re going to realize I’m just too rough around the edges for you to deal with.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with me as long as you have. I’m lucky to have a girl who doesn’t care about how incapable I am at everything outside of literature, and I go and accuse her of being in love with my best friend like a wanker.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a saint, is what you are, for putting up with me. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I thank whatever gods are watching that you put up with my idiocy on a daily basis.”

He gives one of the locks of your hair a little playful tug. “And if you ever do decide to leave me, just… make sure you have the decency to take pity on me and warn me in advance, hmm? I’d like the chance to at least grovel and beg for your forgiveness, before you walk out the door.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to give you a few days notice.”

“Good,” he says with a nod, his tone serious in spite of the mirth dancing in his eyes. “I think that’s reasonable. A few days notice, a good bottle of gin, and a chance to make an absolute fool of myself before you walk away. I doubt I’d be able to change your mind, but I’d at least like to go through the motions before you leave me to wallow in my own self-pity and grief.”

Patrick sighs.

"Probably find a new favorite bar to wallow in, too,” he adds. “I’d have to give up every spot we’ve been to together, especially the ones you like. Can’t go there anymore, since they’d remind me too much of you.”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers idly tracing the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere exposed by the half-buttoned linen. “I don’t think I’d ever find another bottle of gin I’d like as much, either. The one from the store down the street would be too sweet, the one from the high-end bar over on the main road would taste too tart… nothing would compare to the one we share.”

There’s a contemplative pause, where he taps his finger against you a few times.

“And I’d have to find an entirely new wardrobe,” he laments. “I could never wear these fucking argyle sweaters again. They’d remind me too much of you and how lovely you look in them when I loan them out to you.”

And oh, how beautiful he thinks you look in his clothes.

“I’d have to sell all my records, too,” he continues, his words tinged with a melodramatic amount of despair for the sake of comedy in an attempt to lighten the mood. “All of our favorites. Never listen to my Beatles records again, because every song I play would remind me of the hundred times we’ve bloody well sung along together and get all sad and pathetic about it. And don’t even get me started on all the poems I’ve written for you,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d have to throw out every single scrap of paper they’re written on. Or better yet, burn the manuscripts of my work as an offering to purge the memories. That would probably be more poetic. Much more fitting, I feel.”

He can practically feel you rolling your eyes against him, and he knows you’re moments away from telling him to shut up for the rest of the night.

“And I’d have never enjoy a cup of tea ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, exaggerated whisper. “Wouldn’t even touch the stuff. And God, the movies we’ve seen together. I’d have to steer clear of every theatre for the rest of my life, at risk of remembering how you look in the dark with the film playing across your face.”

He takes a deep breath (because he’s been running his mouth for so long his lungs are in dire need of oxygen), his hand (which seems to be permanently stained with ink) coming up to cradle your cheek. “And the places we’ve gone together. The restaurant with the good pizza, the one you like, I’d never be able to eat from again. The park down the road where we like to go for a quiet walk sometimes. The museum we like with the beautiful pieces you love to stare at for hours. The bookstore where we pick out the ones with the stupid titles so we can read them aloud to each other. The coffee shop with your favourite drink, the art store you like to go to that always makes me drag you out after you spend an outrageous amount on supplies…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Everything would remind me of you. Fucking everything.”

And as playful as he’s being, he knows that part isn’t an exaggeration.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I’d even survive.” He says with a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head dejectedly, the very pinnacle of a pitiful boyfriend. “I’d probably wither and die in my own self-pity and despair, wallowing away like the pathetic and miserable creature I am until someone found me, stiff as a board and dried up like a mummified corpse.”

“Jesus, Pat, stop being so dramatic. You’re like a broken record. Giving me a headache,” you groan.

“It’s not my fault I’m so maudlin when I’m thinking about your hypothetical exit from my life,” he defends himself with an indignant huff of protest, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Not many things get me all pathetic and poetic and melodramatic, my girl, but the idea of you leaving me is absolutely one of them.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can just tell whatever he says next is going to drive you mad.

“But…” he adds, with a hint of mischievousness in his voice, “I suppose your beautiful, angelic, radiant presence just inspires me with such overwhelming despair that I have to write a tragic Shakespearean sonnet to lament your absence in my life, for my heart is heavy and my spirit broken after your cruel, heartless abandonment.”

He gives another melodramatic sigh, one hand pressed dramatically to his heart next to your head. “Oh, the agony, the pain of it all. How I shall ever survive without you, my sweet, sweet darling… I can think of no other woman, no other soul on this earth, who can inspire such passionate misery and sorrow within me. Why, without you, I’m but a mere shell of my former self. A man wandering through life’s garden, stumbling and blind without the glorious sunshine, without the warmth and brightness that you so beautifully provide. Oh, you must find it within your heart of hearts to take pity on me, and spare me the endless abyss that would be my life without your light and love.”

He goes silent as your hand presses against his mouth, his lips parting beneath your touch. He meets your gaze with an equal mixture of amusement and mock despair, his eyebrows arching in a comically dramatic display of desperation. It's a testament to his theatrics that the expression he manages to maintain is just believable enough to look genuine, with his wide, puppy-dog eyes that convey nothing less than a hopeless devotion.

What an absolute fucking idiot. Unfortunately, he’s your absolute fucking idiot.

He sighs against your palm, the sound coming out more like a low, resigned whimper (that he’ll absolutely deny outside of this interaction), his eyes pleading with you to show mercy on his poor, wretched soul. He lets his lower lip jut out in the slightest of pouts, as if that will do the trick in persuading you to remove your hand from its place against his face and spare him a kiss in its place.

You can’t help but scoff, even as you acquiesce, rolling your eyes as you withdraw your hand. "You are utterly ridiculous, you know."

“Can’t fault a man for pouring his heart out,” he counters with a dramatic sigh, his hand coming up to dramatically clutch at his chest in a gesture of mock grief. “I can’t help that you’re my muse, the source of all my inspiration. I mean, look at you,” he says, gesturing towards you as you sit up and fix him with a flat look. “You’re so beautiful, it leaves me weak and helpless to the machinations of my own mind.”

You move to cover his mouth again, but he catches your wrist.

“How can I be expected to contain myself in the presence of true, unparalleled beauty such as yourself, my love?” He adds, lowering his other hand to reach for you, gently taking hold of your chin again.

He studies your face, his eyes tracing the shape, the curve of your lips, the flare of your nose, with an intensity that borders on obsessive. The look on his face could only be described as one of utter adoration. “You’re the very definition of an Aphrodite, you know. The living embodiment of divine grace and heavenly radiance.”

Patrick ignores your scoff in pursuit of maintaining his theatrical display of affection.

“It’s enough to drive an ordinary man mad, with your flawless skin, your sparkling eyes, the beautiful curve of your mouth. I swear, the heavens themselves would weep at the sheer injustice of it all,” he continues, his thumb gently tracing the line of your lips. He gives a dramatic, shuddering sigh. “To have a goddess of beauty on the arm of a mere mortal… the gods would be furious, don’t you think?”

“You disgust me sometimes, Pat,” you say, fixing him with a pointed look. “I ought to tell Tashi about how much of a snivelling fool you become when you’re laying it on thick for forgiveness.”

"No, no, you mustn't," he returns quickly, releasing your chin to clutch desperately at your wrist with both hands. "I'd quite literally die if she knew that I'm such a snivelling, pathetic, lovesick fool around you. She'd never let me live it down, I swear it. I'd never hear the end of it."

"Then stop it with your flowery words," you huff, rolling your eyes softly. (Although, you both know you secretly love it. Except it’s much preferred in the form of the poems you can pocket, not this ridiculous display following an argument.)

"I can't help it, my darling," he groans, the perfect picture of despair and melodramatic pleading. "It's like a disease, a sickness that courses through my veins and fills me with the most desperate, pathetic, romantic nonsense. You're like my own personal muse, you know. My inspiration. My entire world wrapped up in one beautiful, flawless goddess of a woman."

“Stop it.”

"And if I didn't take every spare moment to worship the ground you walk on, the stars you shine amongst, the very sun and moon themselves that pale in comparison to your radiant brilliance," he sighs. "I might spontaneously combust. Or drop dead from the pure intensity of the love you've inspired in me."

"No more talking," you declare.

Patrick pouts as you (heartlessly) cut off his dramatic ramble, falling silent for a moment. "But I—" he starts to protest, before thinking better of it and stopping himself with a huff. "Fine. No more talking."

"Good," you say, placing a chaste little kiss to the corner of his mouth to placate him. "I cannot stand it when you become such a sap."

Despite his earlier protest, he softens at the feeling of your kiss, the subtle pout on his face softening into a fond, almost boyish smile. His hand comes up to touch his mouth, as if to capture the lingering sensation of your lips against his skin.

"Can't blame a man for his poetic tendencies, my love," he quips, his voice dropping into a soft, mock-offended tone as he lowers his hand to admire the rouge lipstick stain on his finger. "Especially in the presence of such an inspiring, radiant woman."

“No more talking,” you repeat, fixing him with a warning look.

Patrick’s smirk widens into a teasing grin, his eyes sparkling with a playful defiance. He parts his lips as if to protest once more, but a raised eyebrow from you has him pausing, his words dying on his tongue. Instead, he simply gives his thousandth sigh, his expression a perfect picture of mock-forlorn obedience. "Fine, not a word. My lips are sealed, sealed tighter than a safe from Fort Knox itself."

“You’re like a fucking thesaurus sometimes,” you sigh. “Or Shakespeare himself. It drives me insane.”

Patrick just grins. “I prefer to think of myself as a modern-day Shakespeare,” he says. “Just replace all the swords and daggers with cocktails and cigarettes, and voila! A modern bard of the highest order.”

And, just like that, the pair of you laugh, your earlier transgressions melting away in the light of the familiar banter settling between you. A warm blanket to ease the tension until only a puddle of young, imperfect, stupid love remains.

[hoseoksluna]

THE END OF THE WORLD | pjm

pairing: best friend!jimin x f. reader

genre: fluff

rating: 13+

summary: when you thought your period cramps would bring in the end of the world, you didn't realize your feelings for jimin would get reciprocated in the middle of it all.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: reader is on her period; brief mention of period blood, jimin has a cute (non-sexual) fixation on reader's feet, kissing, anxiety, the problematics of heavy thoughts, insecurities and feeling not worthy of good things.

luna's note: this little thing literally came out of nowhere. i started writing this at work on friday when i had severe cramps and i felt soft enough to write a little fluff. where my jimin girls at? i've been heavily fixated on jimin lately, seeking comfort in him, buying pcs from muse photoshoot bc it's my favorite. the jimin i wrote about is an older, buffier jimin with blond hair bc that's my weakness. i hope you like this figment of my imagination and that it makes you as soft as it made me. i love you all, sending kisses mwah.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

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The pain that coursed across your lower tummy felt like the world ending, and your boy friend carried more beauty than a mere mortal could ever achieve. Too bad there was that doomful space between those two words that speak of his role in your life, even though his current position suggests such closeness that those letters could easily melt together. 

Jimin rests the side plane of his face on the middle of your thigh. You repose on the left side of your bed, seemingly bloodless while you exude liters upon liters of the carmine liquid, which makes you wonder how you’re still alive. The wings of your ovaries constrict and constrict, right under his face, reflecting the membrane of his own pair that you’ve watched grow into those of an archangel throughout the trajectory of your life with him. You try to ignore the pain, even as your features twist in helplessness, and instead imagine the colors that could swift through those feathers. 

Pistachio green. Brown that fades into a soft pink. Maybe a little subdued yellow. 

You’ve always thought he was an angel by the way his presence in your day simply made it better. More joyful, more loving, more gentle. But the more you blossomed into adulthood with him, and your frontal lobe developed as well as your unconditional feelings for him, the more you comprehended he was your angel. And not just an ordinary one. 

He was your archangel. 

He would protect you from people that had no space in your life, no luck or love to pepper your nose with. On the packed public transport, he would cover your knees with his hand so no male strangers would touch you with the back of their legs. If a guy came to make a mess out of your life, he would deal with him in a way that would force him to apologize to you and never bother you again. If someone, no matter their gender, caused you sadness in any small or big form, he made sure they regretted it. And, more often than not, your archangel bought you boba. 

You must’ve tried all the flavors from your favorite bubble bar by now. And by all means, crème brûlée was your favorite—only because when you drank it for the first time, you realized that you irrevocably loved the boy with the faux blond hair, pillowy lips, kind heart and confidential tattoos. And when this dawned upon you, it seemed as though Jimin knew—because he blushed and didn’t say anything for a while. The unspoken information, kept safely in the cores of yours and his being, not born into this world. That’s why it’s your favorite. 

It’s the one that is set on your nightstand right now, unopened, with the straw still captive in the translucent foil. It took only one response to his daily how are you text for him to drive to your usual bubble bar on his way to you, and upon seeing the beige peek through the cup, along with the brown sugar syrup, it’s a miracle your knees didn’t give out on you. The fact he chose this drink over all the other ones you love fed your heart the delusions that maybe, just maybe he loved you back. 

That he wasn’t just a kind boy, whose love language was physical touch, and that’s why he’s laying in your lap. 

Maybe, if you did any good in your life, Jimin gazes at you from this lower position while fondling your aching tummy because he feels something deeper than a sympathy for you. 

The pain almost forces you to ask that life-altering question for clarification. Almost. It is on the tip of your tongue, perfect and fluid, breathless and fearless, but you hold it back because Jimin extends one finger and traces patterns on your bloated belly. 

And not just any patterns.

He’s drawing wings. 

His own flutter in the air. Green, brown, pink and yellow. As if he’s giving life to them by drawing a miniature version of them on your clothed skin. And as they flutter, they open and close, open and close. They lift him, leave him hovering above you for a mere second while his hands find a good spot on the mattress outside of the lines of your body, until he settles. His body plops down onto yours, bringing in such heat that you softly gasp and close your eyes at the impact, and you don’t know what to feel, what your hands are doing as they lift, too, and interlock behind his neck, and you don’t know what this is. 

Is this what friends normally do? 

You wouldn’t know. Jimin has been your only boy friend since… forever. And you can’t think properly because the heat penetrating you mingles with your cramps and his body weight messes with your brain, emptying it out until there’s only two sentences that linger. 

One: I love you, Jimin.

Two: We are connected beyond the laws of this world, through strings which are transparent. 

The second sentence only expands, in metaphorical terms, on the first one.

Jimin’s cheek is reddened by his former position in your lap. A circle of soft and wrinkly skin that must be as warm as the rest of him. His blond hair is a bird’s nest, which an entire league of lesser angels must take care of. And his mellow smile gives off such snug light that it reaches his eyes, dissolving there like sparks of a dying fire. 

You love him, and you fail to understand how it has come to be—him laying on top of you. Did you smiling at the cashier in the grocery stop while you paid for your pads earlier get you this blessing? If the world ended in the next minute, you’d be happy, you wouldn’t mind at all because this, this is everything to you. You’re afraid to speak, to break the spell of the moment, and you feign an absolute calmness, not daring to move an inch, despite the fact your internal organs are colored by fireworks that burst and burst as soon as his breathing syncs with yours. 

It’s not that your lungs copied his—his lungs copied yours, and there’s something terribly intimate about that. 

You can’t halt the scarlet tinge rushing through your cheeks, one of the flower-shaped fireworks flung through you. Jimin’s tender eyes fall to them, one by one, and his mouth cracks the tiniest of smiles, as if he, too, held himself back from ruining the moment. The room is saturated with rosiness that feels light, and you wonder how long has it actually been since you’ve put on these rose-colored glasses. 

How strange it is in reality, to love someone without them knowing. 

You’re a slave to things hitting you all of a sudden. You tend to live in a dreamy headspace, walking through life seeking the arts, the poems, the book lines that cut through your heart without any ounce of pity, and when reality infiltrates that fog like the winter’s sun, the rosiness loses its hue. 

Just like right now. 

What are you doing? What is Jimin doing and why is he doing it? It’s not right, it shouldn’t be like this, you haven’t done anything to deserve this. You don’t think smiling at a cashier would make you deserve—

“Is the pain any better?” 

His tender voice percolates into your anxious thoughts like a pyrotechnic with colors inside its throat, the very fireworks inside you, and they meet in the middle of your sternum, connecting, clicking, never to be torn apart—at least not for a while. Their bond erases your fear, making space for a clean frame of mind, and your brain cells focus on your aching lower belly. The pain has lessened due to the heat radiating off Jimin’s body and seeping into yours, you let out a long breath that caresses the shorter pieces of his hair, and your muscles loosen, your senses returning to you. 

You can smell Jimin.

Apple shampoo, the sweet vanilla of his fragrance, laced most delectably with the manly spice of his aftershave. And the savoriness of his natural scent. 

A moment of physical serenity. 

Your fingers twitch behind the nape of his neck, pining to play with his hair. You take a lungful of the whole essence of him, your pining dilating as your instinct begs you to fist the downy material of his cashmere sweater, drag him up and bury your nose in his neck. 

You do none of those things, however. Your fingers keep on twitching, and so you close them into a fist, holding your thumb for comfort, willing the blackness of your thoughts away. 

You nod your head and suddenly, your body does as it pleases. For a reason unknown to you, your free finger taps the center of the back of his neck, and you’re not sure if it was that brief touch that cast such light in his eyes, or whether it was the fact that he’s helping your cramps. 

You wish you’d stop thinking at all. It’s exhausting, fighting and analyzing all the fucking time. You wish you could just live in the moment, experiencing the beauty of your senses quietly without any intrusions of your thoughts, and as Jimin sizes you up with all that light glossing over his irises, it seems as though he knows the ins and outs of your daily struggles. 

You don’t know that he’s been paying attention all this time. A very close one, at that. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, throwing you off balance enough that your eyes widen and the blood in your veins turns cold. The pain in your belly stops at once as all your concentration is fixed on the call-out. “You haven’t touched your favorite boba. You haven’t said a full sentence since I came over and you keep frowning. What’s wrong?” 

His chest lifts and he reaches over to your bedside table, grabbing the drink he spoke of and placing it on your swollen tummy. His teeth rip off the plastic foil over the straw and he plunges it with utmost expertise inside the large cup, setting off the fireworks inside you all over again as if it was New Year’s eve. And maybe it is—maybe Jimin has fast-forwarded the time and given you a chance to make a change in your life, a new year resolution that could make everything better. 

If only you weren’t such a coward—a wolf of bravery in a foolish, timid sheep’s skin. 

But the tears that rush through when Jimin tilts the cup and the straw to your lips while holding it steady, they have the power to clean you off the old and the ostensibly innate structure of your insecurities. And when they roll down your cheeks and Jimin’s mouth parts in abrupt shock molded by compassion, you sense that their power is bigger than you. 

Your lips wrap around the thick straw and suck in the saccharine, creamy delight. It suffuses all of your senses, and once the black, squishy tapioca plops into your mouth, a soothing tendril of joy overwhelms every inch of your being. To such an extent that you begin to bawl. 

And splutter out the contents of your mind. 

“My mind is always running and I’m so tired of it, like I can’t catch up anymore,” you sob, chewing the boba while your tears freely fall. Jimin continues holding the cup and when your hand wraps around his, the other one encloses around your wrist—the gesture propelling you to spill out more. “I’m always analyzing, always thinking if I’m worthy of this and that. If it’s okay, if I should stop, if I should do something or not, if I—” You sigh, not able to find the words to describe what you’re experiencing. Frustration latches onto you, inciting your anger that begins to ooze out of your every pore. “When you were laying down on my lap, all I could think about was—” You stop yourself, slapping your mouth, realizing that you nearly said too much. 

But Jimin knits his brows, and the hand that held your wrist tugs away the limb that halted the flow of your words. “Keep going.” 

Your heart pounds, violently. The moment feels too severe, and yet your mind is oddly… silent. As if the anger that washed over you scrubbed it completely clean—clean enough that you perceive this to be an interruption rather than a saving. Your mouth wants to continue to speak and your heart… it pushes the words up your throat. 

You feel like puking your guts up, although there’s a strange determination prickling the ends of your fingertips. 

You swallow and in the middle of the interlude, Jimin sits up. Sets your boba on the hard surface of your closed laptop nearby. The sudden distance pulls you, as if by a string, to a sitting position as well, and both of you simultaneously criss-cross your legs while your heart threatens to leap out of your esophagus. You’re stomaching the feeling that you’ve done something wrong, which caused him to exit the closeness you were in, and you tense up and nearly tremble with the need to fix it. 

Jimin opens his mouth, about to say something, but you’re quicker. You’re going to give him what he asked you, just so you can have him close again. 

“When you were in my lap, I couldn’t believe it,” you start softly, graced with the attention of his eyes as they flick up to you in surprise. Your nerve endings sizzle, giving you the words to continue, no matter how devastatingly acute this situation is. “I tried to think of all the things I did that made me deserve having you this close, but I came up short every time. I didn’t understand how our closeness happened to begin with and I didn’t think I was worthy of it. Still do. That’s all.” 

You exhale loudly, detecting no heaviness on your chest, but absolute freedom, out of which blades of grass grow, a perfect home for wildflowers. But a cloud extends over it and it begins to rain as you watch Jimin’s natural expression break into a vivid canvas of dolefulness. The eye contact breaks along with it. The faux-blond boy hangs his head low, his long eyelashes flitting, and you think the world is ending right now as you’re taking small, careful breaths, knowing they’re the last ones. 

But Jimin’s forefinger finds your big toe, and he plays with it. Moves it back and forth, fondles it, squeezes it. Makes the last seconds of this life a little more bearable before it collapses over your head. Ponders something unknown, seemingly prolonging this end. And when he’s had enough and he fists all of your toes and looks up at you, it’s not that he stops this finale. 

He snatches you and takes you to the other world.

“I have something to tell you as well,” he says, his voice coated by that sadness and regret his whole energy is permeated with. He blinks rapidly, running his tongue over his bottom lip inside his mouth, gathering courage or perhaps waiting for your full attention because you’re dipping your gaze in and out of the intimacy of the way he’s holding your foot and the nipping graveness of this moment. 

Everything is too much at once.

“I’ve been a fool,” he starts, similarly like you did, biting the bottom lip he moistened as if to punish himself while busying his eyes on your pink toenail. He strokes the lacquer, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve done all of those things and I still do them without telling you the truth, without confessing.” He flicks his eyes up at you from his downward position, elbows propped on his knees, his stature hunched and buffy. Stops the beat of your heart with that brief look as you anticipate his next words. Sighs, the sound loud and heavy, bearing the kind of guilt and affliction that gnaws at the flesh he owns. Your brain turns off and every morsel of your feelings desires to help him, to make him feel better, but the following words that come out his mouth are the last stop to the other world, and everything is born anew. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you. Soaked like a puppy in the rain, waiting all alone for your friends to finish flirting with the guys outside of the club in Hongdae. I’ve loved you since that moment because you were just like me. You weren’t in the mood, you didn’t want anyone to talk to you. I’m still surprised you smiled your beautiful smile at me when I waved at you, that you let me talk to you.”

The memory sails before your eyes like a murky cloud. All of your friends standing under the roof, smoking and talking to guys, not leaving any space for you to hide yourself from the rain. Jimin finding you in that crowd, waving at you, perceptibly softening when you waved back and smiled because you felt lonely, overlooked and profoundly depressed and he was the only one who saw you. The memory ends at the scene when Jimin walks towards you, takes off his jacket and holds it over your head while getting soaked himself.

Your cheeks were dry from your tears, but they get stained all over again as new tears begin to pour, your heart tender, beating hard but quietly from his confession. Jimin moves your foot over to his lap, drifting his fingers over it, and the tickling sensation prevents your anxious thoughts from reappearing. You breathe in his words, letting them in, letting the change in, all while you squirm and hushedly giggle from his tickles. 

Strange, strange emotions, towering over you, but they feel right—they feel like heaven, and you think that’s where your archangel has taken you.

He loves you. 

You love him and he loves you back.

He loves you.

“I’m sorry that I confused you. I should’ve told you sooner, but I was… afraid,” he says, boring his eyes into yours, sending out the authenticity, with which he covered his words, and the regret he deeply feels. “I was afraid you were comfortable with us being just friends, but still I couldn’t physically keep my distance. It was a mistake on my part, so again I’m sorry I made you feel this way.” 

Your heart grows and your body is too small to cage it inside, ferocious and wild with all the love it feels for the faux-blond boy. You feel constricted and you rid yourself of the iffy sensation by inching a little closer and enveloping your arms around his shoulders. And this time, you have the freedom to sink your fingers into his chamomile-colored hair. You have the freedom to feel the softness, to hear his quiet, confidential purr of pleasure from your touch, which essentially spurs you on to move a little further upon this trail of freedom. 

“I’ve loved you for a long time, too,” you confess, and it’s the easiest thing your mouth ever emitted. No dark thoughts ruin it, but instead you understand that everything Jimin has done for you was through the strings of love that connect you to him. Your delusions weren’t delusions; they were all true conceptions and they were broiling, begging to be let out. “I fell in love with you because of your actions, because of the way you took care of me, because of the way you treated me. No one has ever treated me like you did. You’re a beautiful person with a kind heart—”

Jimin interrupts you with a cry of your name. He yanks you fully into his lap, wrapping your legs around him to make you comfortable, and he embraces you. Tightly, heartfully. You fit into him like petals to disc florets, and you never want to leave. An ardent awareness of safety swallows you whole, especially when he scrunches up your hair and nuzzles his face in your neck, breathing against you so heavily that your entire world spins. 

And then he pulls you away, and asks you the kind of question that deprives you of everything you ever knew, romantically. 

“Can I kiss you? Please, let me kiss you. Jebal.” 

The smile that stretches over your face aches as you vehemently nod and Jimin doesn’t waste a singular second. 

He smashes his mouth against yours, igniting hundreds, if not thousands, of butterflies with a loving fire that they spread across every inch of you. The kiss is deep, and unlike any kiss depicted in any kind of art that you ever longed for. Your mind is gone as soon as Jimin breaks the kiss for a millisecond and goes for another one, seizing your lips, owning them, doing to them whatever he wants. The past world is gone, heaven is in full bloom, with a legion of lesser angels celebrating the kiss of the ending century. The time is gone, too, as both of you kiss until your lips get numb, and the look you give to each other makes those innocent winged creatures cover their eyes in shyness. 

The kissing doesn’t stop there. 

With every turn of the head, with every peck and with every brush of the tongue, it fulfills everything you ever lacked. You forget every poem you learned. The colors of the paintings you liked pale in comparison. And every book scene you envisioned before you went to bed is filled with emptiness. Jimin becomes the center of your new life that stands above the fictional one you so earnestly wanted, and you tell him of it with every kiss you reciprocate.

With words, too, later when you’ve caught your breath and Jimin is spooning you with his hand on your lower belly, occasionally stretching his neck over your shoulder to take a sip of your delicious boba. And you tell him again in your dreams, where the comprehension that you no longer have to live in your headspace in order to be happy and fulfilled unfolds. You make friends with the angels and tell them as well, watching what they do as they run their fingers through his hair, making mental notes, folding them into your heart. 

You do what you learned in the bathroom the following morning, even through the excruciating pain of your cramps. Jimin kisses your feet for it, orders you to rest as he massages them, having brought you some painkillers. And when they take effect and you can function like a normal human being, you note down your first life full of art with him.

And title the first page—“THE END OF THE WORLD, THE BEGINNING OF MINE”.

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[cielito--lindo]

a starting point

wc: 2.3 k

parings: bakugou katsuki x reader, some iida tenya x reader

a/n and warnings: aged!up au, prohero!reader, afab!reader, swearing, angst and a small amount of fluff, maybe eventual smut??

Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Part Four. Part Five

Get.

Up.

Come on, get up. Get up. Get up. Get up.

Bright. Why was it so bright? Get up, you can do it.

Your body groaned in protest at the movement as your eyes slowly blinked open.

That’s it, get up.

Moonlight. Big and bright, bathing you in its comforting embrace.

You can do this.

***

“Well, this is an interesting turn of events.” Makoto Oishi had been your therapist for the past few months, she came highly recommended by Izuku when you moved out on your own. Her bright yellow eyes squinting at your over her glasses. She adjusted her long red hair that she kept in a loose braid. 

You sat on her plush couch, hugging one of her throw pillows to your chest. A few days had passed by since Katsuki’s apology, which you internally dubbed “the Incident”. Miriko caught wind of the event and gave you a few days off to “get your shit together”, which you deeply appreciated.

“Not to be the stereotypical therapist here, but how does all of this make you feel?” You simply blinked at the older woman sitting across from you. You opened and closed your mouth a few times in an aborted attempt at a response.

“Conflicted, I think? There’s so much up here” You tapped your temple “it all feels so jumbled and convoluted..”

Your therapist nodded, jotting down a few notes on the pad in her lap. “Let’s break it down into two scenarios. How did you feel having him in your home?”

Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and tried to picture the moment his sneakers crossed your threshold. The soft lighting of your home causing his blonde spikes to glow like a halo once he slipped off his hood. The way his carmine eyes scanned your home like he was trying to find something. “I-He.” Another deep breath “Even though I pulled him into my space, it still felt like..an invasion? I had my own space that I created for myself a-and having him admit to basically stalking me was unnerving.”

You tried to ignore the scratching sound of pen on paper “How did it feel when he left?”

“Cold” was your immediate response, surprising yourself. 

Makoto raised an eyebrow “Cold” She repeated “As in temperature or cold as in..”

“I felt..cold.” Your own brow furrowed as you tried to explain yourself. “My quirk relies on the moon, I thrive in her beams. But I’ve always felt this lingering cold, the kind that settles in your bones.” Some of your Dark Matter seeped out of your finger tips, manipulating itself into different shapes. “I didn’t realize it until he touched me that that chill also felt like...loneliness. I know I’m not actually alone, I have my friends, colleagues, I’m surrounded by people all the time. I-I” Your voice faltered “The moment he touched me, it felt like standing in the sun again. And I hated it. I hated how much I missed it...missed him.”

Makoto set down her notepad and glanced over at you “When you started to come and see me, whenever we would talk about Bakugou, you would immediately shut down the topic. You came into these sessions with the mindset of hating him forever. If the roles were reversed or if it was one of your best friends and they all of a sudden went missing and couldn’t get ahold of them, what would you do?”

You gaped at her “I’d do everything I can to make sure they were okay..”

“I needed to make sure you were okay”

“You asked him why he never called, but how could he have when you severed every point of communication?”

A flash of defensiveness flashed through you and as you were about to voice it, she raised a hand “Let me finish. You slowly began to open up and talk about him and when I asked you why you packed everything and left in the middle of the afternoon when he was on patrol, you responded with” she flipped through her notebook “there was no point in talking with him about how I felt, he’s too stubborn and headstrong to change. To make things right.””

“I’m gonna make this right, angel. I’m gonna be good for you, I promise.”

“You didn’t bank on him actually trying, did you?” Makoto’s voice was soft, but her words were filled with hard truths. You only managed to shake your head, your chest feeling tight. “Look, honey. I’m not blaming you, you did what you felt like you needed to do in that moment to find peace. But, I also need you to understand that as much as you felt hurt by Bakugou’s actions, you probably hurt him too. The way you’ve described this man would be an emotional constipated, work obsessed, hot-head, right?” Another nod “And from the notes I have about his family, I would say he didn’t grow up having emotional heart to hearts, right? So, when you come at him with all the complaints you have, he probably thought the immediate worst and closed off.”

She noticed your hesitation and leaned forward, taking your hand in hers “I’m not saying you have to immediately reconcile and pretend everything is fine again, but if he’s willing to listen and put in the work, maybe hear him out? Definitely talk about the stalking though, boundaries are important. Closure doesn’t always mean forgiveness, you know. Six months is a long time, anything is possible.”

God, sometimes you hated therapy.

Makoto gave you a sympathetic smile and helped you come up with a game plan for your talk with Katsuki. 

***

“Oh thank god, it took you long enough!” Jirou exclaimed, getting up from your apartment stoop. “My ass was starting to get numb.” She winced. 

Ochako held up a little plastic grocery bag which looked filled to the brim “Some comfort food as you tell us about what in the fuck happened last night?” 

“Oooh, are you going to tell them about the handsome young man that was over?” Mrs. Ishimoto’s popped out from her kitchen window. You felt your cheeks blossom with red embarrassment as your friends' heads whipped around to stare at you. “He was quite the looker! He was a bit of a grump, but really concerned for our girl.”

Jirou’s eyes grew wider and wider “Oh my god.”

“Again, thank you so much, Mrs. Ishimoto!” You gave her a tight grin “Always a pleasure!”

You quickly ushered your friends into the apartment and prepared yourself for the hoards of questions that were about to follow. “Before the interrogation begins, there are a few ground rules. I will try to answer as truthfully as possible, you may ask one question at a time, and we can start once we pour some drinks.”

Jirou and Ochako gave you a quick salute before scurrying to the kitchen to make drinks. With all the commotion in the kitchen, you trudged into your room to change. There was a lingering pain behind your eyes from the sheer amount of stress and tension that came after therapy. You and Makoto decided that you would reach out to Katsuki and keep him at arm's length, you didn’t trust yourself at home, so a public space would be best. Is this something you truly wanted? Hearing the girls giggling in the other room made your heart clench. The kitchen was a sacred space in your old home, what Katsuki would call “his domain”, you were hopeless in the kitchen when you had first met.

“What the fuck is burning?” Katsuki yelled over the smoke detector, he grabbed a dish towel and began waving it around, trying to dispel some of the smoke.

“Bakugou!” You practically dropped your phone as he rushed in. You looked up at the commotion “Fuck, my pasta!” You screeched, rushing over to dump the burnt pot into the sink.

“Are you trying to burn this whole place down, you idiot?” Katsuki looked down at the charred remains of your dinner “Oh, you better be fucking joking.” The burnt noodles were still smoking as piercing red eyes bore into you “You didn’t add any fucking water?!”

“I thought that’s what the sauce was for!” 

“You have to cook the pasta first, Space Case! IN WATER. How in the fuck are in the top 3 of our class?” Bakugou ground out “You were probably going to use jarred sauce, weren't you?.” He glared.

You tried to sneakily hide the store bought sauce behind the fruit stand on the counter “Of course not” You scoffed “Jarred sauce? Uh gross... that would be so..yucky.”

“Oh my fucking god, come on. You’re lucky I’m the only one fucking capable to teach you this shit.”

Your eyes widened at him “Really?”, you had been getting to know Bakugou more and more since getting paired as sparring partners, but you weren’t sure if you had reached cooking class level of friendship. Not even Midoriya had achieved that rank yet.

Your cooking lessons had become your weekly bonding moments, it was the way he had asked you on your first date and eventually, moving in together. As much as you loved your freedom and the peace it had brought you, you knew it was time to confront everything that happened. At the time, you felt hopeless and felt like you were emotionally dependent on a man who didn’t seem to have you in consideration. 

Katsuki Bakugou’s life motto was to be the best at everything he could and he excelled the majority of the time, but it seemed like the only thing he didn’t prioritize was becoming the best partner to you. 

You knew you weren’t perfect, your moods could shift as quickly as the tides and you were too empathetic for your own good. Putting everyone’s needs above your own. The breakdown felt like a ticking time bomb - something that was never an if, but when. Being on your own forced you to put yourself first, to prioritize your own self worth. 

To learn to live for yourself and not for someone else.

As you sat on your bed and listened to your friends clatter and laugh in your kitchen, the realization hit you.

If you could change and show yourself you’re capable of that change, why would you assume someone else wasn’t?

Had Katsuki genuinely changed that much in the six months you were apart?

You hurriedly slipped into some comfy sweats and a hoodie, wandering back and seeing your best friends dance to the “hot girls only” playlist Jirou made for your girl nights. Once they caught your eyes, they waved you over with flushed grins and waggled eyebrows. 

“Shots first!” Uraraka handed you and Jirou shot glasses filled with a clear liquid that you knew would make you regret in the morning. “And we already ordered pizza!”

“Kanpai!”  The three of you cheered, the burn settling in your belly. You were handed another drink, thankfully one with less alcohol as you made your way back to the living room.

You settled in with crossed legs, hugging your emotional support couch pillow. Jirou and Ochako nestled in on either side.

“So are you gonna start or are we gonna bully it out of you?” Jirou smiled.

Your eyes closed as you took in a deep breath “I’m going to ask some questions and I need y’all to be as truthful as possible. We listen and we don’t judge.”

“We listen and we don’t judge” The girls recited back.

“I’ve never wanted you guys to choose between me or Katsuki, especially since we all still have to work together.” One eye peeked open “Do you think he’s changed since everythings happened?”

The girls next to you were uncharacteristically quiet “We listen and we don’t judge” You reminded them “I know you guys still hang out, babes. It’s kind of hard to avoid Mina’s incredible insta.” You turned to Uraraka “And you, ma’am. Katsuki and Izuku are attached at the hip, that’s impossible to avoid.”

“He does seem..different.” Jirou spoke up first “I mean don’t get me wrong, he’s still an asshole the majority of the time, but he..thinks before he speaks now. I can tell he’s trying to open up more? Honestly, I think the Bakusquad would know more than I do.”

“God, he hated that stupid group name.” You snorted, sipping your drink.

“He’s in therapy!” Ochako blurted out, covering her mouth in surprise. You and Jirou blinked at her outburst.

“Therapy?”

Ochako nodded at you “He made me swear not to say anything, but holy shit it felt like I was suffocating.” She let out a sigh in relief. “After everything happened, he and Izu had a really really long talk. Like almost 3 hours and I guess he asked Best Jeanist to help him find a counselor.”

It felt like your brain short-circuited. Katsuki Bakugou, the man who refused counseling after being kidnapped by the League and refused counseling after dying then resuscitated during the War, willingly went to therapy because...of you? “Shi-Shinsou told me-” You cleared the knot in your throat “Shinsou told me that he asked about me and then suddenly stopped.”

The girls nodded “Yeah, he did the same with us. Well, he’d try to ask me, but I’d only give him minimal updates.” Jirou shrugged, “I didn’t know how comfortable you were with us telling him about you, so I wanted to play it safe.”

You squeezed her hand in understanding.

Ochako took a swig of her drink and drew her knees to her chest. “I remember overhearing him talk to Izuku about it and it seems he stopped around the time he started therapy.”

God damn it, you hated when your therapist was right. You let out a groan, letting your head fall back against the sofa.

“I’m guessing he didn’t tell you all of that when he came over...” Ochaka asked, peeking over her knees.

“He definitely did not.” The eager looks of anticipation on your friends’ faces made you roll your eyes fondly “Alright, alright.” You recounted the events of last night.

“Bold of you to answer the door in a robe regardless.” Ochako giggled. 

You gave her a playful shoved and continued “According to my nosy neighbor, he had stopped by after our fight, but I obviously wasn’t home.”

“That’s probably when he started freaking out.” Jirou murmured and you nodded in confirmation.

You continued your tale, earning gasps and colorful commentary. 

“When he crowded me in the kitchen, I thought he was going to keep touching or even kiss me, but when I called him by his first name...” You paused, remembering the look of reverence on Katsuki’s face. Like a man who has prayed for salvation and finally heard the voice of God. “I swear to God, I almost thought he was going to cry. I-I didn’t recognize him.” 

Ochako reached over and wiped the wetness that had collected on your cheeks. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying.

“I had t-to b-b-beg him to g-go. I didn’t want him to see m-me..” You gestured to yourself, hoping they understood. “And he-fuck. He fucking apologized!” You wiped away the rest of your tears, your face flushing in annoyance “God, he fucking apologized and he promised he would fix things. Whatever the fuck that means.” You downed the rest of your drink.

Jirou and Ochako leaned against you, trying to give you some comfort. “That’s a lot, bestie.” Ochako commented softly, earning a snort from you.

“My therapist thinks it’s time he and I talk.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“Ura, you literally threatened to go fullTonya Harding on his PR girlfriend two days ago..”

“And I’ll do it again!”

“Look, babe. Whatever you feel like you want or need to do, we’re here.” 

You felt your eyes get watery again as you enveloped your best friends in a hug “Thank god for Aizawa’s dorm assignments.” You giggled.

DING DOOONG. DING DOOONG.

“Pizza!”

The three of you rushed over and swung the door open.

Several dozen flowers occupied the front of your entryway. Marigolds, tulips, daises, roses, peonies, even fucking succulents. You blinked at the garden in front of you “Oh my god.” You leaned down to pick up a vase, plucking the card from within “Spicy chicken curry?”

Confused looks were shared. Jirou grabbed the card from the lily bouquet “Vegetable udon..”

“Tamagoyaki?”

“Yakisoba!”

“Tonkatsu ramen..” You froze. 

Oh my god. 

Oh my god

Katsuki placed two steaming bowls of ramen on the table in front of you, you felt your self grin “And it’s not even my birthday!” You teased. 

Katsuki rolled his eyes, but you could still see the small smirk on his lips “What? A man can’t cook his lady her favorite dish?”

You let out a soft hum of appreciation as you took your first bite “By all means, do it more often.”

“Brat.” His full grin making a rare appearance. “I-uh. I wanna ask you something, angel.”

“If this is about that All Might figurine we saw in Shibuya, I already confirmed with Ochako that Midoriya doesn’t have one.” 

Katsuki let out a snort “Not what I was after, but good call. Remind me to go back and get that.”

“Nah, I already ordered it for you, it’s on the way.”

“Fuck, I love you.”

A blush colored your cheeks “Yeah, yeah. I love yo-”

“Move in with me.”

You felt the card fall from your hands as you looked at the gifts in front of you with new eyes. He had remembered each flower he had bought for you on your dates and what he had cooked for dinner. You felt the card slip out of your fingers. When you first started dating, Katsuki made sure to always buy you flowers, even when you had begged him to stop because you didn’t have any more space in your dorm. If you even commented about a certain flower, you could expect it at your door, he had even imported a few on your birthday.

Jirou let out a low whistle “What a fucking way to start.”

so...it's been a bit?

turns out increased depression and the urge to have the Eternal Sleep™ actually makes it super hard to write anything, so apologies if this is actually shit lol

as always, please leave comments, concerns, or literally anything. thank you for all the likes on the previous parts!!

luv u pookies 🫶

taglist: @raeroowrites @onlyisaa @kimsrie @zennypiee @arfbarkwoofmeow

dividers: @saradika

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hope you dont mind an angsty request but

Can i request Kieran, Carmine, and Drayton see (or heard for Drayton’s part) the reader in a comatose state after taking the blow that was meant for Kieran when Terapagos went out of control. Like they, in the moment, sacrifice themself for Kieran and was somehow still standing after taking the hit but after they caught Terapagos, they immediatley fainted and havent woken up ever since.

(Btw i enjoy your posts!)

Ough this hurts, it's an absolutely devastating concept <//3

(and thank you!!!)

.....

Kieran

Instead of summoning your 'raidon, you shoved him aside and took the full brunt of the tera energy-infused blast, not caring what happened to you.

As long as he was safe.

He couldn't understand why you'd do this for him.

Even after going on that angry tirade about you, even after he caught Terapagos with a master ball solely to "get even" with you....you chose to save his life when you could've just saved yourself, Carmine, and Briar.

How could you be so kind and selfless to someone like him? Who's done nothing but talk about how much he envied you?

And somehow you're still standing, convincing him to fight by your side so you could both quell the legendary's fury.

Seeing the light return to his eyes made you smile as your pokemons' combined strength defeated it, with Kieran deciding to let you properly catch it.

What nobody expected, though, was for you to pass out shortly after you picked up the pokeball you used..

Your 'raidon got everybody safely out of Area Zero, but you still haven't woken up and were rushed to the hospital.

The attack left you in a comatose-like state, according to doctors, and there's no telling when you'll awaken...if ever.

There was overwhelming tera energy coming from your body, which caused any Pokémon within the room to start terastalizing themselves. So you had to be isolated, having only human visitors.

Of course, Kieran was the most devastated.

Now he might never get the chance to apologize to you..and it's all because he got obsessed with defeating you and was willing to use a dangerous legendary to do just that.

This was all his fault.

If you were to die thinking he still hated you...he'd never forgive himself.

He definitely doesn't wanna think about you reincarnating into a Phantump and haunting him for the rest of his life.

He visits as often as he can, holding your hand while he talks to you.

While he's not sure if you could even hear what he was saying, but somehow he believes you're listening.

"I went too far, [y/n]..I only ever wanted to be like you. But instead I....I-I did this to you. I did this to someone who still believed in me. Someone who still saw me as....a-as a friend..." His voice breaks, never having felt such remorse in his entire life. "I'm so, so sorry...please wake up soon."

Although he had let go of his bitterness towards you entirely, his bad sleeping/eating habits are still there, and there's not much that anybody can do to help him cope.

With every visit, he grows more desperate for a positive update on your condition, chatting with you and always ending with a plea for you to wake up.

Hell, he's even willing to become friends with Drayton again if that's what it took to see your eyes open.

When you do finally awaken after the tera energy readings have dropped to practically zero, you see Kieran asleep in the chair beside you, his hair messy and reminiscent of what it looked like a year ago.

You muster up enough strength to lightly ruffle it, and that's what makes him jerk awake, shocked.

At first he thinks he's still dreaming when he sees you're now conscious...but when the doctors confirm you're gonna make a full recovery, he just collapses into your waiting arms and sobs into your shoulder, having held back all of his tears until now.

You simply comfort him, reassuring that you didn't blame him at all.

It was you who chose to sacrifice yourself.

And you'd do it all over again.

Carmine

Seeing you take that devastating hit for her brother shocked her to her very core...and even moreso when you were still standing despite the powerful blast.

But when you pass out shortly after capturing Terapagos, she's quick to snap Briar for pushing Kieran to terastalize it, blaming her for the reason this all happened.

She doesn't care if she gets in trouble for backtalking a teacher.

Her obsession with this "hidden treasure" ended up hurting a student, someone she was supposed to protect...and now you may never wake up.

At the hospital, Carmine sometimes visits you alongside her brother, and other times the two go in separately, leaving their pokemon outside.

When it's just her, she mostly talks about how Kieran has been doing, mentioning how you literally brought the light back into his eyes and how he wasn't some battle-crazed stranger anymore.

You saved him in more ways than one, and she cries a little just thinking about that, wishing you'd wake up and see that he was willing to let go of the past.

Whether it takes days or weeks, she never stops visiting you.

What you did for her brother was noble...and something she wishes she could've been brave enough to do.

The day you finally wake up and start to remember everything, Carmine quickly tries to cover up the fact she was crying.

But when you start talking, she's quick to breakdown as she (lightly) berated you for doing something so reckless, making you swear to NEVER do that again.

Soon Kieran rushes in the moment he hears you're awake..and he starts crying, too.

You just comfort the two siblings in your groggy half-asleep state, wondering how you'll tell them that this wasn't your first near-death experience...

Drayton

All he hears is that you were involved in an accident down in Area Zero...and it feels like a punch to the gut when he learns it put you into a coma.

Now he wishes he went with you. Maybe he could've kept an eye on Kieran just in case he did anything stupid for the sake of defeating you in-battle.

But he didn't, and that's exactly what ends up happening.

Despite not knowing all the details, he 100% believes Kieran is at fault for your condition.

Even though Drayton only knew you for a short time, he cared enough to frequently visit your room, trying to stay his chill and relaxed self while he talks to you about whatever came to mind (in case you were listening, he didn't want you to worry over him).

But it gets harder with every passing day and no clear confirmation on when (and if) you'll wake up.

Carmine was afraid he was going to strangle Kieran if he saw him...

Yet whenever they so-happen to visit you at the exact same time, words are seldom exchanged between the two.

Although Drayton will often glare at him, thinking to himself "only now he's sorry?"

Even so, he doesn't verbalize it.

There's no bitter reminders of what Kieran did. No petty insults to get the other ex-champion riled up.

They just sit in silence, although seeing the tears in the younger boy's eyes and the way he holds your hand made Drayton's gaze less icy the more he saw it.

Whenever you wake up, he's one of the first to know and brought you a Dragonite plushie as a gift, relieved to see you talking, his eyes slightly stinging and a huge smile on his face.

Once you recover more, he'll ask you what you remembered of Area Zero....and becomes shocked after you explained everything that happened down there.

All this time, he thought Kieran used Terapagos to attack you directly, but to learn it actually got out of control and turned its back on him??? And you chose to push him out of the way???

Drayton isn't sure if you're brave or dumb, but he's glad you're okay now.

When Kieran comes in, he leaves you both be to update the Elite Four, although he'll be back to help you on the long road to recovery.

[shiny-kaibernyte]

Avahjdiaksvvxhsx this blog is so silly in a good way

As much as I love toothpaste, edgy onion deserves some love as well

Can I get hcs of Kieran x reader set after the end of Indigo Disk where Kieran and the reader's rekindled friendship slowly grows into romance over time? I just think the idea is cute

Your wish is my command!💜💜

Pokémon Headcannons | Kieran (Post-game Romance)

Pokémon Scarlett and Violet DLC Spoilers ahead!

Warnings: mild obsessive behaviour. Kieran being a sweet bean

SPOILER WARNING For The ending of The indigo disk

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

After the whole Ogerpon, Terapagos, situation was finally over, the guild Kieran felt was unfathomable. The people he had hurt, the things he had said to everyone he cared about were weighing on him more than they ever did before.

So when he had practically yelled at you to forgive him on the bridge to the academy. To see your smile once more, to know after everything he had done you’d forgiven him! His only friend had forgiven him after all of this. Not a chance was he letting this go, not a second time. You are his best friend and he’s making sure he doesn’t lose your trust or you again.

Getting your forgiveness was pretty easy, as for the others… that was more of a challenge. Carmine never really held a grudge, Kieran’s her brother she cares for him! Drayton forgave him quite quickly, though he still holds a grudge against him for what he’s done, and will remind him of this if he slips out of it again. 

It took weeks for Crispin and Lacey to forgive him, so much persuasion, apologies, gifts, everything under the sun so they would even remotely forgive him. So many times he wanted to give up, thinking he had failed them as he had himself. But with your constant motivation and joy, he continued trying to gain they’re trust again, for you.

His grades began shooting up as well. He began actually focusing more on the Pokémon world and the people around him instead of his obsession with getting stronger. Which caused Amarys to admit to him how proud she was of him. Be it stoically.

After some time he was even able to earn Ogerpon' s love and trust, becoming good friends with the adorable Pokémon. 

Kieran had even begun spending a lot more time with you, going on shiny hunts with you, catching Pokémon with you and just genuinely wanting to be around you! It reminded him of how he felt back on Kitagami, the joy he felt running around doing all those challenges with you. 

But it also brought back some feelings he had bottled away. Feelings he never thought would resurface, and yet, running around the Terrarium with you, running through the stories of your adventures in Paldea with him. He wanted nothing more than to just hold you.

Little did he know you felt the same.

It wasn’t until a few months after that he finally mustered up the courage. And by that I mean Carmine practically dragged him to you and demanded he tell you how he felt. Much to your confusion.

But he does confess telling you straight up how he felt, how much you make his heart ache when you're not around, how seeing you so focused on catching a Pokémon makes his face go all red and warm. How your focused battle face was so refreshing to him, your smile being the cutest thing in the world to him.

Granted he stumbled over every word, the old shy Kieran you knew before, showing his face one last time.

When you plant a kiss on his cheek, followed by a hug, he knew your feelings were mutual and he couldn’t help but smile a beaming smile, hugging you for the first time in so long. And he was never letting this moment go. And never again was he letting you slip from his grasp again.

[bennie-jerry]

My Beef with Wanda Maximoff - An MCU Rant

Sorry not sorry, I will ride the Wanda-ain't-shiitake train till the wheels are worn out. I do not care what her fangirls say. And if you're legitimately going to be so overly offended just from me disliking a FICTIONAL character, I highly suggest you click off, make some tea, and watch a Ghibli movie.

How many times does it need to be said? Just because someone suffers from some form of (small or big) trauma, IT DOESN’T GIVE THEM A PASS TO DO EVIL SH—

I really REALLY sincerely hope there's lore or bits I'm missing here (and if so, PLEASE tell me because I WANT to be wrong so BAD). But from what I know and remember, I feel as though I have every right to be disgusted with who Wanda is as a person.

It frustrates me so much how this carmine-colored narcissist will whine about people being scared of her, but she does stuff only a scary person WOULD do.

Purposefully setting the Hulk off so you could use him as a wrecking ball on innocent civilians in Johannesburg during Age of Ultron? Seems scary as heck.

Literally warping the universe itself to hunt and kill a teenager who did nothing to you during Multiverse of Madness? Seems scary as heck.

Brainwashing an ENTIRE town JUST so you can live in delusion about your man not being dead during Wandavision? Seems DOUBLE scary as heck.

Don't even try to defend what she did in Age of Ultron. Even if she supposedly didn't INTEND to have civilians killed, she sure as HECK didn't seem all too sorry that it happened. She wasn't ‘regretful’ that she did it. She was only ‘regretful' when Bruce confronted her on it. She has the nerve (the utter AUDACITY) to hate Tony Stark for the same CRAP that she does (if not worse, which let's be honest—it’s worse).

At least Tony Stark DIED out of an effort to save everyone, whereas Wanda usually tends to only help others when it benefits HER.

Wanda is nothing more than a Multiversal brat with a god-complex and no one can tell me otherwise. If something does not go 100% her way, she completely acts out and throws a reality-warping tantrum.

“Oh, but she tried to fix everything in Wandavision!”

Yeah, only after finding out she was BRAINWASHING people!

How the FREAK do you reality warp an ENTIRE town (especially at the large radius she used her magic) and expect NO one to be under mind control? Would you NOT try to fly around the premises to see if ANYONE else was there?

Once again, even if this was an example where she didn't INTEND for it to happen, then that proves another great flaw that she has.

Wanda hardly (if ever) thinks through her actions. And then when her actions bite her in the butt, she has the nerve to be surprised. Wanda almost never (and I'm being generous here) considers how her actions harm or affect others until it turns around and affects HER.

She did not deserve Vision, he was too good of a man for her, sorry not sorry.

Just the stuff she did BEFORE Multiverse of Madness ALONE is enough to not like her.

Let's not even get into the fact she never ACTUALLY apologized to Bruce Banner for everything she put him through. All she said at most when he confronted her is, “I know you're angry…”

Oh wow, REALLY? I couldn't POSSIBLY understand why Banner would EVER be angry at you for essentially brain-raping him (going into his mind and memories without his CONSENT) and using his worst fears against him to trigger Hulk so you could use him like a personal killing machine, further lessening the very few support systems he already HAD. She should feel grateful Banner didn't immediately throw her through a wall upon seeing her.

“But she became an avenger and helped them in Endgame!”

I could not give less of a DOOKIE about the fact she did that. Wanda fighting Thanos was literally the ONLY option she possibly had if she didn't wanna turn into dust along with the other half of the population. Sure, she also did it because she was forced to kill her boo BECAUSE of Thanos, but let's be honest—she would've had to fight him regardless. Her handing Thanos’ butt to him (while a very cool scene) doesn't prove JACK about her character.

The fact she ever BECAME an avenger after effectively traumatizing the MAJORITY of them is mind-boggling to me.

“Oh, I'm sorry I weaponized all of your traumas against you for my own personal gain because I wanted to work with a genocidal robot, can I join you guys?”

“Sure, Wanda! Come into the team and we'll pretend like you didn't do a darn thing!”

(The fact this isn't even ALL that she's done is absurd, I can still keep going—)

Don't even get me STARTED on Multiverse of Madness. And before anyone tries to say, “She did it so she could have a reality with her children!”

BRO, HER KIDS WEREN'T EVEN FREAKING REAL—

Wanda Freaking Maximoff wanted to murder a TEENAGER all for some children that were not even ACTUAL people. And when she did have them, didn't she make them FIGHT against the military in Wandavision or am I mistaken (which I VERY MUCH hope I am because what the he---)?

I do not care whatsoever what her reason is or what trauma she went through. Attempted murder of a minor (ESPECIALLY in this case, a minor who didn't even do anything) is inexcusable to me.

There is no way in frog fingers you guys are ACTUALLY trying to justify and/or downplay a grown ADULT trying to murder a CHILD (because that's what America was—a CHILD).

(Her and Miguel O'Hara would get along GREAT, when's the collab--)

And by then, she had ALREADY brutally murdered a whole bunch of people and probably corrupted the multiverse even FURTHER than she already had.

It wasn't until an ALTERNATE version of her (who ACTUALLY had her kids) told her to sit the [BLEEP] down (I'm paraphrasing here, but you get my drift).

Wanda is NOT a victim. Is she a good villain? Yes. But this witch isn't a victim. Not anymore at least. She doesn't apologize for her actions. She doesn't take responsibility. She doesn't reflect on what she does.

And even when she DOES finally do ANY of those things in ANY capacity, the damage is already done. In fact, it's not JUST done, it's also BURNT inside the oven causing smoke to go everywhere.

There is no rhyme or reason you could pull out that will convince me to be anything short of angry with this character and I'm so tired of her fans trying to defend her just because she was a lab rat and lost her man.

Once again, it's not bad to like a character that does awful stuff. But please, for sanity sake, STOP acting like they're a lost little angel BECAUSE you like them. I know they say "hurt people hurt people" but that still doesn't justify doing bad stuff just because bad things happened to YOU.

[radioisntdead]

I'd like to request Velvette and/or Camilla with an assistant reader who has a crush on them, and one day they get hit in the head and suddenly they can't filter their horny/romantic thoughts about their crush/boss when speaking.

"Yes ma'am, I'll get that to you within the hour. By Lucifer, you're thicker than a bowl of oatmeal."

"I'll call the supplier right now. I'd forego a week's pay just to get a kiss from you."

Stuff like that. And it just comes out nonchalantly and without rhyme or reason throughout the day.

As much as I love Carmilla Carmine, I gotta go with my favorite Vee, Velvette!!

Brain damaged

Velvette x reader

Warnings: reader is uh, very silly, also reader has glasses for no other reason than the fact I was listening to confessions of a rotten girl with Hatsune Miku while writing the first half so take that as you will, ending is a little rushed because I was about to pass out.

Also this started out as a oneshot but I got stuck in the middle so it kinda faded into headcanons my apologies for the wonky formatting!!! I think this could classify as a drabble+ headcanons??

You were an average sinner, didn't do anything particularly in life to get down here, you went to work and you came home at the end of the day, ate, browsed the Internet and slept.

Nothing special, if you could say there was something that made you stand out from the rest was that you were one of the Vee's, specifically Velvette's assistant, one that's been with her for years and still has yet to be replaced or worse.

Although that may soon change since during your time off you had a horrible accident involving a turf war and long story short you were the lucky victim of a concussion!

You didn't go to the hospital because, while being Velvette's assistant actually gave you great health insurance, you were late because your favorite webcomic finally updated and you were not missing it because of some concussion.

This will be a decision you come to regret because once you returned to work all your inside thoughts became outside thoughts!

Whether you realized that or not.

The first instance of this was you waltzing into work at the crack of dawn, Velvette was a busy woman who valued her beauty sleep, so for her to get that sleep others must sacrifice theirs.

Oddly enough today she was up and about the same as you, so as her assistant you followed her around with your notepad.

This is when the first accident came about.

"Can you believe the nerve of that fucker? Who does he think he is?! What do you think [Name]?"

"I think that if I were to die I'd like it to be by your hands,"

"What."

"What?"

Going from shit talking someone to your assistant to them telling you that they would like to die by your hands was jarring, Velvette immediately sent you off to grab her coffee and you not even realizing what you had said just skipped away to grab her coffee.

Maybe this was a once-off incident, maybe she had misheard you in her precaffeinated state.

It was NOT.

You handed her files? "Here are your files Miss Velvette," "Great, anything else?" "I'd like to bury my face in your chest but other than that no, I'll take my leave now."

Honestly that should've gotten you reported to HR but the Vee's don't really have an HR department, it's actually just five Niffty size sinners in a trenchcoat.

You accidentally brushed hands? "I have been blessed."

You fall down the stairs and she's standing over you? "Oh, an angel?"

That one actually got you kicked.

Velvette's not... Mad...

Mostly because she finds you quite cute, like a little silly thing.

She is REALLY CONFUSED THOUGH BECAUSE???? you've never been like this before??? And you don't seem to be realizing what you're saying????

She decides to Uno reverse you.

"Anything else you need me to do for you?" You ask handing her lunch or something,

"You can sit on my lap."

Cue you spiraling

Cue the rest of the day where you'd blurt out something and she'd retort in kind.

Your coworkers are confused for the most part because??? The last time someone tried this they uh...

Let's just say the Vee's swap employees.

anyways cue the end of the work day where Velvette ends up taking you on a date because??? You're flirting with her and she's reciprocating so obviously the next time is to take you out.

Eventually in true cartoon fashion you get another concussion and everything just swaps back, your inside thoughts are back to being your inside thoughts but you did get a girlfriend out of your concussions!!

She did drag you to the hospital though because you had TWO concussions!!

Your job may or may not be in jeopardy though because you're dating your boss and uh.... That's kinda messy soooooooo good luck with that!!

Good evening folks!! I do hope you enjoyed!! Happy Valentine's day! Whether you're spending this day with a loved one, family, friends or by yourself I hope you have a wonderful day, and remember if you like chocolate it's supposed to go on sale soon, I want caramel chocolates :]

Anyways as always thank you for tunin' on in! Have a great rest of your night!

PSSSSSSSSST!!!!! Join our discord! It's welcoming to all fandoms not just hazbin and it's filled with amazing people!

[razorblade180]

What is love?

Carmine:Mom, how did you fall in love with dad?

Ruby:Oof, that question has no real answer.

Carmine:You don’t love him?

Ruby:Not what I said in the slightest. Why would you even- I meant there was no single instance!

Carmine:Oh…

Ruby:We bonded as friends and relied on each other physically, emotionally, mentally; at some point it just sorta hit me how happy he made me and that life without him would be so…miserable. I can’t think of a single person that I’d want in my life like this other than your father.

Carmine:Hmmm, yep, don’t really get it. Sounds nice though.

Ruby:What’s with the interest in love? You like Aero or something?

Carmine:….*looks away*

Ruby:…Awwww, my baby~

Carmine:Stop! None of that. It’s not love. Honestly I don’t fucking get it. I just know he’s important to me and it pisses me off to see him struggle.

Ruby:He’s kinda your first friend. It’s natural to feel that way. You do know he likes you, right?

Carmine:I’m aware. It’s interesting. He got mad at me for calling him out on it and wasn’t really happy about me asking for help with a case.

Ruby:Carmine it sounds like you might be taking advantage of him a little.

Carmine:But he likes to help me. He gets more upset when I do something crazy and without involving him.

Ruby:….

Carmine:What!?

Ruby:Nothing. I’m just wondering if I was this dense back then. *pats head* You want things okay between you?

Carmine:Yes.

Ruby:Then openly express your thoughts. Tell him how you feel and have an honest conversation.

Carmine:But that’s what I- isn’t that what’s been happening!? I’ve never hid anything from him; aside y’know, my eyes.

Ruby:Have you told him you care about his safety and like spending time with him.

Carmine:Y…Yes? No? I mean, isn’t that obvious? I wouldn’t fight thugs messing with him or visit often of if I didn’t care.

Ruby:Sometimes you have to say those things. You know I love you, but i still tell you that you’re my little happily ever after. *hugs her* My sweet little rose.

Carmine:…I guess that makes sense. *hugs back* Okay, maybe your advice is pretty good.

Jaune:*walks in* Hello my two roses.

Ruby:Hello, the author of my fairy tale. My beloved.

Jaune:Your mother is trying to stop me from telling you she had a crush about two weeks after we met.

Ruby:Don’t listen to him! He weaves lies and tricks! I would never get attached that fast!

Carmine:You loved me instantly.

Ruby:That’s different!

Carmine:Did you fall for mom immediately?

Jaune:Nah I crushing on Weiss.

Carmine:Makes sense.

Ruby:What do you- I can’t even be upset honestly. Weiss had a 13 step skin care routine and I couldn’t be bothered to wash my hair some days.

Jaune:*hugs both* It just meant you spent more time with me. It was a long con.

Ruby:Thanks for the out but let’s be real, I was just lazy.

xxxxxx

Aero:*opens window*

Carmine:*sitting in a tree* In case it wasn’t obvious, I actually care how you perceive me.

Aero:Spell “perceive”

Carmine:*red* I also don’t like arguing. I care about your thoughts and emotions.

Aero:Okay? I figured. But like…can you actually apologize.

Carmine:…Oh! I didn’t- I’m sorry.

Aero:….

Carmine:I’m really sorry.

Aero:…..

Carmine:*lip quivers* Am I out of friends now?

Aero:Oh my god; shut up and come inside already before your density snaps the branch.

Carmine:You shouldn’t call the girl you like heavy. *crawls inside*

Aero:You’re doing this on purpose now.

Carmine:Little bit. *hugs him*

Aero:!? You don’t like hugs.

Carmine:Yeah, but you do. So why not?

Aero:…You’re so weird. *hugs her with wings*

Carmine:Okay, if all hugs were this cool I might change my opinion.

[zorosdimples]

kae.. bats my eyelashes at u… vampire diluc…

mondstadt’s wealthiest bachelor is elusive.

you’ve heard of his keen wit, of his business acumen, of his no-nonsense personality. his icy stare is enough to make grown men flounder before him, and greatly contrasts his irises, which glow and blaze like a fire. he’s more local legend than man; rumors swirl, spreading whispers that he can only be seen tending to his tavern or prowling his estate under the cover of darkness.

never in your wildest dreams did you think you would meet the wine magnate in the flesh.

but the local paper you work at is indebted to mr. ragnvindr. ever since he bought up all the ad space, he’s the only reason why the business is still afloat—why you still have a job. when your editor assigns you to write a feature about the businessman, you are told (under no uncertain terms) that the future of your journalism career will hinge on this piece.

so here you are, sitting across from diluc ragnvindr in his home office.

it took you weeks to get into contact with him. after sending countless letters and visiting both the winery and the angel’s share on a daily basis, your annoying presence was noted by his head housekeeper, adelinde. you had to do a significant amount of convincing to get her set up a formal meeting between you and her master; you made grandiose promises about the breadth and significance of this article—you hope you can live up to your words.

you shift uncomfortably in the tufted leather armchair across from your benefactor, his bone-chilling gaze almost too much to bear. it’s dark out, and while the room you’re in is windowless, you can picture lightning bugs flitting between rows of grapevines. you also can’t help but think of how unseemly it is for you to be here in the dead of night (though this was allegedly the only availability on his busy schedule). there’s a bottle of dandelion wine between you, two glasses half-filled with the carmine liquid, untouched.

mr. ragnvindr has an unsettling presence.

it isn’t that he’s unkind or cruel; rather, it’s his aura—thick and charged, almost magnetic. his hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a mane of flames cascading down his back. a high-necked coat, simple breeches, polished boots, and black leather gloves cover all the skin on his body, save for his face. his skin is smooth if not a little wan, a few pale scars the only imperfections you can make out in the low candlelight.

all in all, the interview goes well. diluc is polite, well-spoken, and thoughtful. he doesn’t scoff when you yawn in exhaustion, but instead apologizes for the hour of your meeting. when it’s time for you to wrap up your conversation, you switch gears.

“what do you like to do in your free time? in those rare moments when you aren’t working and have room to breathe?”

he contemplates your question for a moment before speaking. “moonlit strolls are one of my favorite pastimes. i enjoy the serenity of the grounds, the plants and nocturnal animals my silent companions.”

“would you call yourself a night owl, then?”

for the first time all evening, diluc smiles, his eyes crinkling. his lips pull back to reveal knife-sharp incisors that glisten in the gloom. you swallow at the sight.

“yes," he chuckles, voice full of mirth, "something like that.”

[usedtobethelegendcreator]

If we take both the pilot and the show into account, we get a very complicated picture of who, exactly, knows who and/or what Alastor is.

The Pilot

When Charlie is talking to Vaggie after answering the door, she says “The Radio Demon is at the door,” and she mimes a smile. She doesn’t know his name, just his title, and the fact that he smiles a lot. And when she goes back to the door, Alastor introduces himself by name.

Vaggie clearly knows who he is, and knows his name as well. She also knows some of his backstory. She tells Angel Dust that he’s a “violent monster of chaos” and that they shouldn’t get involved with him unless they want to “be erased”. This implies that Alastor is perfectly capable of destroying other demons—but the involvement of angelic steel is not known. Now, we have to take into account that Vaggie probably doesn’t know all of this personally, and doesn’t have the full story. In fact, she says something that might contradict the backstory we get in “Dad Beat Dad”: Vaggie says “They started calling him the Radio Demon,” as if everyone already knew it was him. Meanwhile, Mimzy says “That’s when Alastor revealed himself as the Radio Demon.” So—did everyone know from the get-go, or was it a reveal? More on that and Mimzy later.

Angel Dust, who has been in Hell longer than Vaggie, doesn’t know anything, saying that he isn’t “big on politics”.

Husk and Niffty obviously know what he is, considering he owns their souls, but Husk is terrified to the point of shaking when Alastor goes into his true form. And he clearly knew what he was getting into when he made the deal in the first place, even if Alastor was still relatively tiny (compared to his true form) when it was made.

We also see random demons watching Charlie on the news with Alastor among them. Now, the average demon’s reaction to the Radio Demon is “Oh shit,” so what’s up with that? They might not have seen him. Or…maybe they didn’t recognize him in that form. More on that later.

The Show

Now, we get to Sir Pentious. Oh god. Sir Pentious. He knows Alastor’s name, and has battled him “like, twenty times”. He was so bad at it that Alastor doesn’t remember him, even though “I literally attacked you last week.” But when Sir Pentious apologizes to him in the same episode, he says “Mister Radio Demon Sir”. So, did he or did he not know what Alastor was? Well, he might not have known that Alastor was the Radio Demon until Alastor went apeshit on him for ripping his coat. All he seems to know is that, if he defeats Alastor, the “almighty Vees” will finally see him as their equal. Sir Pentious looked up at him and said “Oh shit,” like he hadn’t thought there would be consequences. This shows us that Sir Pentious:

1. Didn’t know Alastor was the Radio Demon, and

2. Only realized it when he saw Alastor’s true form.

So, it seems to be based on form. Alastor is usually in his day-to-day form (since it would be very bothersome going around in his true form), and he never introduces himself as the Radio Demon. He seems to have the general population of Hell fooled by his form. After all, in “Dad Beat Dad”, Mimzy says “At first, people wanted to dismiss him.” So when Alastor revealed himself to Sir Pentious, Sir Pentious got the ultimate “Oh shit” moment of his life.

The other Overlords keep confusing me. Zestial, who is ancient as fuck, says Alastor has been “an enigma” since he manifested, so even Zestial doesn’t know what’s up with him. No one, not even Zestial, knows how he got so powerful so quickly. “T’would be grander folly by far to assume the workings of your mind, Alastor,” indeed. So, in essence, no one knows what the fuck Alastor is up to or thinking at any given time, and it’s seen as a bad idea to try to outplay him. And, given his history with taking down Overlords, he’s the wild card of any battle. But Carmilla Carmine, at least, wasn’t wondering where he’d gone for seven years. Did that absence make the other Overlords (except for Zestial and Rosie, at least) forget how terrifying he can be? Forget how he has a reputation for taking down “heavy hitters” like themselves? Or have they been assured that they won’t be his victims?

Because Velvette says “They’re all a joke.” In front of Alastor. The demon known for taking down Overlords. Yeah. Not a good move there, girl, especially when that “joke” scared Vox shitless a week ago. So either Velvette is too “respectless” for her own safety, or she genuinely doesn’t think Alastor is a threat.

Well, we do know Alastor has some kind of moral code. Maybe the Overlords there know they don’t match his MO, to the point where they feel comfortable. I mean, Rosie is obviously excepted from any danger from him, which is an assurance no other Overlord has. But Velvette is in deep shit if she does that again, especially considering what Alastor tells Husk in “Dad Beat Dad”. “If you ever say that again, I will tear your soul apart and broadcast your screams for every other disrespectful wretch who dares to question me.” He doesn’t need their soul to do it, considering Alastor did the same thing to random Overlords.

Disrespectful. “Dares to question me.” Yeah. Velvette is fucked, and not in the fun way.

Mimzy, on the other hand, has a much closer view of things. She’s known Alastor since they were alive, so it’s safe to say she knows him pretty well. She knows a much more detailed version of Alastor’s…escapades, since she was there. Instead of the cut-out style Vaggie used in the pilot, it seems that Mimzy remembers it personally.

So. Mimzy. She knows Alastor is the Radio Demon. She’s likely seen his true form a million times. She repeatedly brings her problems to him so he can clean up her mess, and Alastor puts up with it because it’s a “chance to let off steam”. It’s gotten to the point where she genuinely isn’t scared of him. So if Mimzy brings her problems to Alastor, the Radio Demon, why haven’t her ‘problems’ learned not to fuck with her?

Her problems likely didn’t live to tell the tale.

And okay. I have no idea why Lucifer, the King of Hell, is clueless.

He doesn’t know who Alastor is, to the point of asking if he’s the bellhop. He doesn’t know what Alastor is, at least until Alastor says “A reminder to all: not to mess with the Radio Demon!” And he doesn’t know what the Radio Demon is or Alastor’s reputation because he missed Mimzy’s monologue…and also because he seems to have spent most of his time hanging out with his wife. There is no other way the King of Hell would not know it’s a bad idea to try to get a rise out of Alastor. And a worse idea to call him tacky.

Cherri Bomb hasn’t really interacted with Alastor yet, so we don’t know what she knows.

Adam obviously didn’t know who Alastor was (“Who the fuck are you?”) even after all those exterminations, so it’s safe to say none of Heaven knows. The only angel present when Alastor introduced himself was Adam, and Adam’s dead. And note that Alastor still didn’t introduce himself as the Radio Demon, so Heaven still doesn’t know that either. He seems to be setting himself up as a secret weapon.

Oh, but it doesn’t end there. Adam made a couple comments that seem to be personal, but then again, it’s Adam. He may have just made assumptions. “Jazz is for pussies”? “Radio is fucking dead”? Hmmm. Who knows what Adam really knew? Did Lillith, who was apparently in Heaven the whole time, ever tell him anything? And if Lillith told Adam, why wouldn’t she tell Lucifer?

Questions, questions.

Who knows?

[midnight-light]

Pokemon Scarlet and Violet Characters AGAIN~!

So I decided to do ANOTHER character post, because I played through the DLC's not that long ago, so let's just dive right into this shall we~? (Pokemon Scarlet and Violet's; Teal Mask and Indigo Disk Spoilers ahead! YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.) Starting with my new favourite character~! (Sorry not sorry Arven!) KIERAN

Where do I start???

Upon first meeting him, my inital impression was; 'Aww, adorable wet cat boi! He needs a hug!

Throughout the course of teal mask I began to feel REALLY bad because well...

How dare the game make me lie to that face-

I went into the DLC's practically blind, so his change in personality, while I saw it building up in Teal mask, still got me HELLA off guard in Indigo disk.

Like DAMN boi!

I personally really liked the idea of the theory of the toxic chain (Though I know it was not what actually happened in the game) twisting Kieran's desires, that might just be me though.

For those who might be curious...yes, yes I did use Ogrepon against Kieran.

The fact that he was so desperate to beat Juliana/Florian (Player Character) That he used a master ball to catch terapagos and then recklessly used the pokemon that he barely knew anything about... said something

I liked the overall character arc for Kieran (though I wish I could have given him a hug at the end when he apologized)

Definitely throwing him onto the therapy bandwagon with Arven though.

CARMINE

Moving on to Carmine, I...had a mixed first impression of her.

She agitated me at first, but I knew i was only looking at the surface so I didn't want to jump to conclusions

and damn was I glad that I didn't, she proved to be an enjoyable character.

She started to win me over when Kieran tells the player character, "Actually, she was tearin' the shed apart, trying to find a third mask for you before you got there..."

That finally tipped my dense brain off that she's not all mean and that she does care, just doesn't exactly show it in front of others.

she completely won me over when she told me I could sucker punch Drayton (I love him but sometimes I stg-)

When she was genuinely showing worry for her brother during Indigo disk I just kinda sat their like; "I did this, and I'm sad that I did this." regretti spaghetti was hitting hard.

She also paid witness to Kieran nearly DYING near the end of indigo disk, not to mention helping with battling terapagos... and so...

*Yeets her into the Therapy Wagon* That makes the therapy count four now. (I never mentioned this in my previous character posts but Arven and Penny are ALSO in the therapy bandwagon) Whose next?!

DRAYTON

This guy

THIS GUY.

Don't get me wrong, I love him as a character

But sometimes, SOMETIMES, I want to punch him.

For me at least, he's like the older sibling that LOVES to annoy the hell out of his younger siblings.

but I wont lie I was definitely giggling a bit under my breath when he swaggered up to Kieran and called him "Ex Champion"

It was like he'd been WAITING to say that in revenge for when Kieran beat him and dethroned him from his champion spot.

He is cunning and I love that to bits.

he knew EXACTLY what he was doing when he dragged you into joining the league club and getting you to challenge the elite 4 + Kieran.

"I've got a feeling you're trying to play puppet master." He was not just trying, he was playing puppet master rather successfully.

BRIAR

This may turn into a rant but here we go regardless!

At first, I thought; ah a professor, surely she must be pretty responsible!

and yeah at first she was decently responsible for the students she was in charge of.

Then I started getting near the end of indigo disk

Madam, I know that Kieran is a strong trainer, but also, let him mentally spiral in peace.

Also the fact that Kieran literally says this; "Ms.Briar can be so reckless sometimes... I feel like I always have to keep an eye on her."

Okay, mild concern is officially rising.

'Terrastrialize Terapagos' she says, Ah yes, let's terrastrialize this pokemon that was only JUST caught and we know nothing about, that's totally safe!

Now we're BOTH to blame for Kieran and Carmine requiring therapy!

Despite this I don't hate her

but GodDAMN she nearly gave me a stroke-

[joeemaru]

INTRO POST HAII

this feels necessary because i am posting and being insane more now. hello.

my name is mug!! :)) or muggy.. i think i’ve been called every variation of mug, i do not really care.

i use she/her pronouns and i am a lesbian!!

🌟 i will pretty much only post pokemon until my insanity goes away.. which may be in months. or years. who knows.

you can also find me on tiktok and twitter!!

also, my disc is muggyfart and.. if u have pokemon servers (especially scarlet + violet) i will gladly join them .. (｡’▽’｡)♡ i need pokemon people to talk to!!!

🌟 carrd + strawpage for more info !!!

more about stuff i like.. :)) ↴

hello again. this is gonna be a lot of rambling cuz i’m great at that but YEAH I APOLOGIZE HELP

fav characters: PENNY!!! i love her a lot! she’s my favorite ever she is so me OH MY GOD I LOVE HER.. i also really like arven, nemona, rika and carmine. and most of the sv cast. they’re all great I LOVE TEAM STAR A LOT. TEAM STAR LOVER ME I LOVE THEM

i also like anzu kinashi, yuri + sayori (ddlc), and toko + syo fukawa!!!! i’m not interested in them as much rn though.

POKEMON STUFF: ive played alpha sapphire (i remember almost nothing. i played it in second grade.), sun and moon, sword, and scarlet + violet!! my favorite game is sv, but sun + moon and sword are also great.. i really like lillie and sonia!!! fav character is penny though. my favorite pokemon are tinkatink, tinkatuff AND tinkaton!! i love them all.. i also REALLLY like jirachi, eevee + the eeveelutions, CHARCADET, mabosstiff, ogerpon, and a lot more probably. i’ve also watched horizons!! at least what’s out on netflix in the US. i’ve also watched the scenes with penny because i could NOT wait!! ive seen most of the sun and moon anime too, but i never got to finish it 😭 ive seen some of journeys too.. i did watch the episodes with sonia and i think two seasons maybe but it was in 2022!!!

ships?!? i am not that interested in ships right now (surprisingly) but i really like giarven, mela and eri, rika and geeta, and NEMOPEN SOMETIMES!! there are probably others that i forgot about. OH MY GOD WAIT I LOVEEEE LIKODOT!!!! A LOT!!!!

i also like joemaru + saranzu (yttd), tokomaru + syomaru (danganronpa), and like a million others i think. those r my favorites though :) again not interested in these as much rn!!

not ships but i really like team star bffs.. and penny + arven. penny and a lot of people tbh, she needs all the friends i think

other fandoms i’m in areeee. danganronpa.. yttd, ddlc, liar liar (THE GAME!!!!!!), and other stuff i think? i lose interest in stuff and forget about it.

my favorite music artists right now are chappell roan and kimya dawson :)) I LOVE KIMYA DAWSON!!!!

i like drawing. a lot.. obviously cuz that’s what i post here but i make edits sometimes!!! and i cosplay occasionally..

okay that is it goodbye gang..

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So, now that the DLC is out, I was wondering if I could request a part two to the pokepasta trainer reader? Like them and their team meeting Carmine, Kieran, and Perrin?

Oooo yeah!! I'm guessing you meant this post (being part 1). I'm honestly impressed by the notes ghshghsh but I'm glad ya'll love the pokepasta!reader <333

Gonna format these as hcs if that's okay

.........

Carmine

She's seen tourists bring in weird Pokémon, but you brought the scariest ones she's ever seen in her life.

She sends out her Poochyena to do battle, thinking she can intimidate you....and she SCREAMS when your Freakachu comes out to play.

It's loud enough for all to hear and for the caretaker to arrive and prematurely end the fight.

Well, at least she finally got off your back before things could get too heated.

Kieran was shocked though bc his sister was usually so brave.

During your time in Kitakami, she's just going to,,,,stare at your Pokémon team, especially when you introduce her to Purin and Disabled (she definitely thinks they're some weird gray regional variants and nothing more)

She's extremely confused as to why you named your Wigglytuff after a status move.

And Missingno.....is something she can't even begin to wrap her brain around, but she buys the story of it being from a really old Kantonian myth. That's something she can 100% believe.

After meeting Ogerpon and learning she's been misunderstood all along, Carmine slowly realizes she may have treated your Pokémon the same way.

They've been through some horrible things, and she was quick to judge them, so she apologizes for that.

Although Freakachu's smiles still creep her out..she's friendlier towards Purin and Disabled (not that she'll ever admit this, ofc).

Kieran

Like Carmine, he's gonna be pretty spooked by how your Pokémon team looks, at first.

But considering he never thought the Ogre was scary. he's nowhere near as judgmental.

During your walks together and at dinner, you explained where your 'mons came from--or at least the short and least terrifying versions of those tales so you didn't freak him out too much..

He's just fascinated that you've gone out of your way to help them despite their reputations as "monsters".

He hopes to one day have a strong bond like that with his team, or Ogerpon.

Tbh he found it really sweet when you purchased a Pikachu mask for Freakachu to wear so he could visit the festival of masks without scaring anybody.

Missingno was, understandably, the most bizarre Pokémon Kieran has ever seen, but once you explained how it's an old Kantonian myth...he's like "wowzers..that's so cool!!"

He genuinely believes you and him have a lot in common: being outcasts and adoring Pokémon most people were afraid of.

So it's even more heartbreaking for him when Ogerpon ultimately chooses to go with you instead of him.

Despite your team being utterly terrifying, she felt more comfortable being by their side...and it doesn't make sense to him at all.

It just doesn't seem fair.

He envies how your Missingno can pretty much give you whatever items you wanted--and an infinite number of them, too.

You warned him that it's not something you messed around with (plus, it corrupted an old friend of yours long ago), but he didn't care about any of that.

He wanted to know how to harness that power.

Maybe when he becomes even stronger, he'll challenge you again...

And the winner got to keep Missingno.

Perrin

She thought the Bloodmoon Beast was a terrifying and ominous force to be reckoned with, especially in the photograph she obtained.

But what you had on your team was nothing short of both amazing...and downright horrifying.

She assumes Freakachu, Purin, and Disabled are some Pikachu, Jigglypuff, and Wigglytuff variants she's never heard about or have gone extinct.

Maybe like Bloodmoon Ursaluna, they were from a distant land or some time period.

So she keeps an open mind and convinces them to do some cool poses (despite her Hisuian Growlithe always hiding behind her, tail tucked between its legs, and being certain that Purin's stare is gonna haunt her dreams now).

The only one she's heard of before was Missingno, having once believed it to be a myth from Kanto...and now she can see that it's real! And it's in your possession!

She wants a photo of it. Not for any sort of recognition or accolade, but as proof in the books that it's legit.

Unfortunately, while she can see it glitching, changing forms, spawning items for you, etc. right before her very eyes...it never shows up on camera.

Every photo she attempts to take gets corrupted or lost in the developing process.

You politely have to ask Perrin to stop before she breaks her camera.

She is, however, free to photograph your other Pokémon as they are in their natural state (aka acting like their normal counterparts and not creatures that really should've been dead long ago).

[crystalelemental]

Full tier list is here, breakdown of D-tier. I can generally be inclined to like these ones, but you know. They're a little lacking.

Mallow: Couldn't tell you why, but I cannot get into her games iteration. Anime Mallow's cool, and dating Lillie.

Chuck: I love Johto, I'm a bit biased.

Cheren: My wife will be mad, but I think he's kinda bland. His arc doesn't feel like it goes very far.

N: Now this is potentially controversial. I don't really care about N. I think he's kind of uninteresting. There are tidbits of interest, but I think he fails to seriously stick the landing as a dude with stuff going on, and is also like weirdly belligerent when you disagree with him on literally anything.

Pryce: Johto fan, sorry.

Melli: Listen. He's a bitch. I kinda love that for him.

Dreyden: Neat dragon man.

Roark/Kiawe: Sure.

Brycen: I kinda like that he acts as a villain, but otherwise not doing much.

Roxie: I owe an apology to someone, but I stand by it. She's not that interesting to me.

Juniper: she's a decently fun professor figure.

Arezu: she's kinda cute, has a bit of attitude, the game doesn't lean into much with her though.

Ryme: I couldn't tell you. I just didn't feel it. I'm not happy about it either. This is the unfair one.

Olympia: uninteresting.

Grusha: Volkner vibes, but at least he feels young and like there's a reason for his ennui given his snowboarding career's end.

Acerola: kinda quirky but does very little.

Tulip: just doesn't exude much.

Zisu: she's fun enough.

Kamado: Kind of a shithead but I think for interesting reasons. Still don't like him.

Dendra/Miriam: Sure, I'll ship that on the side.

Mai: Daybreak made me like her less. Oops.

Rose: Dude you are so close to being Lysandre-esque but you just miss the mark.

Colress: I legitimately don't know what the point of you is. Seriously, why are you here? What's your goal?

Brawly/Sidney/Phoebe/Aaron: they're fine.

Brock: The anime did not grip me, and he does nothing otherwise.

Nessa: Just never felt the connection.

Oak: "Oh, the most esteemedest professor ever who-" did fuck-all. His only achievement was the Pokedex, and invention we find out is at least two centuries old. Get with it.

Allister: boring.

Karen/Bruno: E4 members I feel very little about.

Elm: I always felt some like because Johto but he really is like the least interesting professor in some ways.

Milo/Byron: sure.

Raifort: Listen to me. I should love her but for some reason I cannot get into it. I could not tell you what the blockage is, I just cannot connect with her.

Hapu: we need to talk about her hands. Those are not hands a human has.

Villain flunkies: these ones have personality!

Zossie/Dulse: I don't remember Ultra Moon's goons but I hated them. These two had a cuter dynamic so I had a bit of attachment, but very little.

Drayton: kind of a punk bitch. I am down for his dynamic with Carmine, but not because of him. I think she should break his bones.

Palmer: he's fine I guess.

Crispin: exudes nothing.

Riley/Marley: sure.

Saturn/Jupiter: less personality than Mars.

Petrel: My man, but he is still a Rocket.

Plumeria: being Team Mom to the goon squad does nothing for me.

Camera lady: Literally forgot her name. WAIT PERRIN! I don't care about her. I do not find her pretty and hate her outfit.

Green: she has some quirkiness but they don't really let her do anything fun.

Protag squad: sure.

Masters squad: Masters OCs do nothing for me, sorry. I think gacha OCs are more in the way than anything.