#I just saw something about this and it just pissed me off

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓃𝓊𝓂𝒷 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Some people fall apart quietly. You were one of them. The weight of existence had always been relentless, pressing down on you like an unseen force no one else could feel. A lifetime of existential crises, quiet detachment, and numbness that never truly faded—it all led you here.

To your quiet space, where the world was silent, where you could exist without pretense, without expectation. But solitude was never yours to keep.

Not when they noticed.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Anonymous! Some angst pieces feature The Tkatb Men with an MC who has battled deep depression and constant existential crises since childhood. Struggling with emotional detachment, missed classes, and social withdrawal, they turn to self-harm as a temporary escape from the weight of their mind. 

soooo, Is it bad to turn to my "middle school” playlist just to feel something? I’ve been staying positive and relaxing on spring break; I need to be in my feelings when writing stuff like this. T-T

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 

Jericho has a way with words to make you feel better. 

You sat in the deepest part of the library, a place so tucked away that even the dust seemed undisturbed. It was quiet—too quiet, maybe—but that was the point. No one came here. 

No one except, apparently, Crowe.

"You're only here out of pity."

You didn’t bother looking up when you said it. You didn’t need to. The sound of his footsteps had already told you it was him before he even spoke.

There was a beat of silence. Then a soft exhale as Crowe dropped into the seat across from you, the chair creaking slightly under his weight. You knew that exhale—it was the same one he let out whenever he was frustrated but trying not to show it.

"You’ve been avoiding me." His voice was steady, but there was an edge underneath.

"I’ve been busy."

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "That’s bullshit, and we both know it."

You clenched your jaw. You didn’t need this right now. You didn’t need him looking at you like that—like he saw right through you.

Crowe leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His eyes, usually so unreadable, had that sharp focus he got when he was putting the pieces together. 

"You stopped showing up to class. You dropped out of clubs without telling anyone. I damn near had to get our friends to track you down, because no one knew where the hell you were."

You flinched, just barely. So he had noticed. Of course, he had.

“Thier, not my friends—I don’t see why you care so much." You finally looked at him, your expression blank. "You don’t have to play the role of the concerned friend, Crowe. You can go back to your life now. I’ll be fine."

His jaw tightened, and for a second, you thought he was going to snap at you. But instead, he just ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "That’s what pisses me off," he muttered.

"What?"

"You think I’m here out of pity."

You scoffed. "Tell me I’m wrong, then."

Crowe’s fingers tapped against the table—a small habit of his when he was thinking, calculating. Then, without warning, he reached forward and grabbed your wrist. His touch was gentle but firm, his thumb brushing over the edge of your sleeve where the fabric was just slightly worn from being pulled down one too many times.

"I don’t do pity," he said quietly. "I don’t waste my time on people I don’t give a shit about. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care."

His grip wasn’t tight. 

You could pull away if you wanted to. 

But you didn’t.

"You keep pushing people away," he continued, his voice softer now, almost tired. "But I’m not going anywhere, no matter how much you try to make me."

Something in your chest ached at his words, but you shoved it down, deep where it couldn’t touch you. You didn’t want to believe him. Because if you did—if you let yourself think, even for a second, that someone actually cared—what would happen when he eventually got tired of you? When he realized you weren’t worth the effort?

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay even. 

"You’re wasting your time, Crowe."

He studied you for a long moment, then let go of your wrist, leaning back in his chair.

"Maybe," he said simply. "But that’s my choice, isn’t it?"

The worst part? He said it like he meant it.

Crowe didn’t move from his seat, didn’t take his eyes off you. He let his words settle between you, filling the heavy silence. You hated it—hated the way he just sat there, like he wasn’t going to leave no matter how much you wanted him to.

Or maybe, deep down, you hated that part of you didn’t want him to leave at all.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning forward again, arms resting on the table. His voice softened. "You really think that little of yourself, don’t you?"

You opened your mouth to argue—to throw back some cold, dismissive remark that would push him away—but you hesitated. Something about the way he said it, like it wasn’t an accusation but just… sad, made your throat tighten.

Crowe didn’t wait for an answer. He just shook his head, like he was trying to figure out how the hell to get through to you.

"You act like you're nothing, like people only keep you around because they feel sorry for you. But that’s bullshit. You’re the smartest person I know, and not just in that textbook way—you're sharp. You see things other people don’t. And you're not just smart, you’re…" He exhaled, searching for the right words. 

"You’re strong. Even when you don’t feel like it."

You scoffed, but it came out weaker than you meant it to. "That’s a nice way of saying I’m stubborn."

Crowe let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, you are. But that’s part of it. You don’t just roll over when things get hard. You keep going, even when you think you don’t have it in you." He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. 

"And I hate that you can’t see that. I hate that you think so little of yourself when I—" He stopped himself, sucking in a sharp breath.

You stared at him. "When you what?"

Crowe hesitated. His fingers tapped against the table again, a steady rhythm. Then, finally, he met your eyes. "When I think the world of you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

"You matter," he said, and he said it with such certainty it almost hurt. "You’re not some burden. You’re not some pity project. You’re—you’re you. And that’s enough. That’s always been enough."

Your hands curled into fists in your lap. You didn’t know what to do with the warmth creeping into your chest, didn’t know how to process the way he was looking at you—like you were something worth holding onto.

"Crowe—"

"I mean it," he cut in before you could come up with some excuse, some way to dismiss it. "And I’ll keep saying it until you start believing it yourself."

Crowe’s eyes softened as he watched you, but there was something else there too—something unshakable, something that made your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for. 

You looked away, focusing on the grain of the wooden table, on the faint scratches left behind by years of students who had sat here before you.

You weren’t feeling those feelings anymore. Not really. Not the way you used to. It was like a switch had been flipped somewhere along the way, like something inside you had just… shut off.

And that scared you.

Because even the pain, the hurt, the exhaustion—at least it had been something. At least it had been real. But now? Now it was just numb. Like you were watching your own life from behind a glass wall, unable to reach through, unable to touch anything.

Crowe must have noticed something shift in your expression because, before you could pull away, he reached out—slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Hey." His voice was quiet, careful. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he said the wrong thing. "Where’d you go just now?"

You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. "Nowhere."

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw, the warmth of his touch grounding in a way you weren’t used to. Crowe never pushed, never forced his way in—but he had a way of making you feel seen, even when you didn’t want to be.

"You’re lying," he murmured, his grip steady but gentle. "And I get it. I do. But whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone."

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to let the words sink in, to let yourself reach for the warmth he was offering—but the weight in your chest was too heavy.

"I don’t feel it anymore," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t feel anything."

Crowe’s fingers twitched against your skin, his grip tightening just slightly as if grounding himself in the moment. A flicker of something unguarded passed through his eyes—raw, desperate, something he couldn’t put into words. It was brief, barely there, but you caught it.

And then, before you could pull away before you could disappear into yourself again, he leaned in.

His forehead hovered just over yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath. He wasn’t forcing you, wasn’t taking anything—just waiting, holding steady, like he’d stand there forever if that’s what it took.

"Then let me feel it for you."

His voice was hoarse like the words physically pained him.

"Let me hold it until you can again."

Your breath hitched, something inside you cracking at the weight of those words. You weren’t sure what broke first—your resolve, the numb wall you’d built, or the illusion that you could keep pushing him away forever. But in that moment, something shifted.

His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you—like he wanted to make sure you were still here. His hands weren’t trembling, but there was a tension in them, a silent plea he wasn’t voicing.

"You don’t see yourself the way I do." His voice was rough, edged with frustration, and something deeper, something almost unbearable.

He let out a slow breath, his forehead dipping against the side of your head, like the weight of what he said was too much to hold upright. "And that pisses me off."

That alone almost made you laugh. A quiet, breathless sound—more disbelief than humor.

Your throat tightened, and your chest ached. Your eyes burned. But you didn’t cry. Not yet.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, someone wasn’t just telling you that you weren’t alone. 

Crowe just proved it.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol had never thought it would be this hard to find you.

He’d skipped his own classes to track you down, not bothering to tell anyone where he was going, not caring that the clock was ticking and he was supposed to be somewhere else. But when he’d gone to your usual spots on campus and asked around, there was no sign of you. 

His heart had dropped lower with every dead end. When he reached your apartment, his gut twisted—he’d thought, maybe hoped, that you'd be somewhere else, somewhere safe, surrounded by other people. But you weren’t.

Sol knocked, but there was no answer. His breath came out in a frustrated puff. His instincts told him to push through, and he did. He twisted the knob, relieved to find the door unlocked, but he froze when he stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet. 

Too quiet. 

The only sound was the faint hum of an old air conditioner, the muffled traffic from outside the window. Everything felt still as if the space itself was holding its breath.

He moved cautiously through the small apartment, eyes scanning the room for any sign of you. There were books scattered across the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink. It looked like you hadn’t been taking care of yourself. Not for a while.

He moved down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest, as his gaze landed on the bathroom door—half-open, as though you hadn’t bothered to close it completely.

He stopped, instinctively bracing himself before stepping into the room.

The scene before him stopped him in his tracks. 

You were sitting in the bathtub, your knees drawn up to your chest, your arms locked around them as if you could hold yourself together that way. The water was still—too still. It was clear, untouched, yet it seemed to be drowning you all the same. Your hair clung to your face, soaked, strands matted and heavy. You hadn't moved for so long that the water had become cold against your skin, but you didn't care.

Your face was hidden, your eyes closed, and for a brief moment, Sol couldn’t tell if you were asleep or… if you were gone.

A cold panic surged through him, piercing through his chest like ice. His heart stuttered in his ribcage as his breath hitched. He didn’t care about anything else—he just needed to know you were still there, still breathing.

Sol rushed forward, reaching for your shoulder, shaking you lightly at first. But when you didn’t respond, the fear in him began to twist, hard and tight. He shook you again, harder this time, his fingers gripping you with urgency, his voice raw with anxiety.

"Hey." His voice was a whisper, but it trembled with the weight of his panic. "Hey, you okay?"

You jerked awake with a startled shout, your body stiffening in alarm, and immediately you pushed away from his touch. Your eyes flashed open—wide, but unfocused. The fear in your voice was sharp, raw, and you barely registered that it was him standing over you.

"Stop! Go away!" You snapped, your voice thick with exhaustion and frustration. It was bitter, the kind of bitterness that had been accumulating for days, weeks, months. 

The weight of everything you were trying to hide, trying to bury, came spilling out with those words.

Sol froze, his breath catching in his throat. His hands shook as he stood over you, watching your form curl into itself. Your clothes were soaked, clinging to your skin like a second layer, and your hair dripped onto your shoulders, wet strands sticking to your face. 

He couldn't bear to see you like this—this distant, this unreachable.

"What’s going on with you?" Sol demanded, his voice firm but laced with the underlying concern he couldn’t hide. His brow furrowed, and there was a weight in his tone like he was pleading without saying it. 

But you didn’t answer. 

You just turned your face away, pushing your hair back with a dismissive motion, trying to rid yourself of the mess both in your mind and around you.

The silence stretched between you both, and Sol’s patience started to wear thin, a hint of frustration creeping in despite his worry. He rolled his eyes, not at you, but at the situation itself. He couldn’t stand the way you kept pushing him away, pretending that you didn’t need help, pretending that you didn’t need someone to care.

Without waiting for an answer, Sol turned on his heel and went to the linen closet. You barely noticed his movements at first, too lost in your thoughts to even register that he had left. 

When he returned moments later, however, he had two freshly folded towels in his hands.

You blinked, your mind foggy as you tried to piece together how he had found them so quickly. You were lost, disconnected from everything but the fog of your head.

You sighed, exasperated, the weight of everything suddenly pulling at your chest again. "Go away." The words were barely more than a whisper, but they felt heavy on your tongue.

Sol didn’t budge. He took a step closer to the tub, his brow set in determination. But before he could say anything, you pushed him away, your hands weak but insistent.

"I don’t want you to touch me."

His expression softened, but the concern was still there, etched into every line of his face. He stood still for a moment, allowing you the space you wanted. 

You were pulling further into yourself, retreating, and he hated that. But he wasn’t leaving—not until you saw he wasn’t going anywhere.

Sol stood there, his gaze hardening as he watched you pull away, trying to retreat further into yourself as if you could escape the moment. That familiar edge of anger sparked in him—the kind that always flared up when he felt helpless. 

When he could see you falling apart right in front of him, all he could do was stand there and watch you push him away

"Try me," he growled under his breath, his voice low and controlled, but the roughness in it was undeniable. It was like he couldn’t hold back the frustration anymore, the pain of seeing you like this, watching you destroy yourself without any help, without any sign that you even wanted to fight it.

He took a step closer, his heart pounding louder with every second. 

The sound of it was deafening in his ears, but it only pushed him forward, closer to you.

You turned your face away, but Sol wasn’t having it. He reached out with firm, purposeful hands and grabbed your wrist, not roughly, but with a hold that wouldn’t allow you to pull away. His fingers brushed over the raised scars on your skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath. 

The reality of it hit him harder than he was prepared for, like a slap to the face. He swore under his breath, the anger shifting to something darker, something he couldn’t fully express.

"Why?" he asked, quieter now, almost afraid of the answer but still needing to hear it. His voice wavered with a vulnerability he wasn’t sure he wanted to show, but it slipped out anyway. He couldn’t help it—he needed to understand. 

Why did you keep doing this to yourself?

You remained silent, your lips pressed into a thin line, a stubborn refusal to give him any of the answers he was desperate for. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly, as though he was trying to tether you to him, not letting you slip away.

"You can talk to me," Sol said, his voice softer, more pleading now, despite the cold anger still simmering under the surface. "I don’t care how messy it is. I don’t care how bad it’s been, or how bad you think it’ll sound. Just—don’t do this. Not alone. Not anymore."

His words hung in the air, fragile and thin, like a thread that could snap at any moment. And for a fleeting second, you almost wanted to reach for it. 

Almost. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

 The thought of letting someone see you like this, letting them truly see the mess inside—you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t let anyone in.

"I don’t need saving, Sol." The words came out cold, clipped like you were trying to freeze everything between you both. But even as you spoke, your voice trembled, betraying you.

Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. If anything, his hold on your wrist tightened just a little more, like he was trying to keep you anchored to him, trying to keep you from disappearing into yourself.

"Good," he said softly, his voice steady but filled with an honesty that almost took your breath away. "‘Cause I’m not trying to save you."

He stepped even closer, his breath shallow as he dropped down to sit beside the tub, his body close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, even with the chill in the air. 

His face was just inches from yours now, his gaze locked on yours. 

"I just don’t want to lose you." His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, it almost felt like everything else stopped. His words were simple, but they hit deeper than anything else he could’ve said. 

He wasn’t trying to fix you. He wasn’t trying to save you. 

He just didn’t want to lose you.

Sol let the silence stretch between you, the weight of his words pressing down like a hand around your throat. His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, his fingers ghosting over the scars with an almost reverent touch. His breathing was slow, controlled—but you could feel the tension radiating off of him.

Then, without warning, he moved. Swift and sure, like he had already decided what to do before you could even react.

He grabbed the towel he had brought earlier, shaking it out before reaching for you again. You stiffened, instinctively trying to shrink back, but Sol didn’t give you the chance.

"Enough." His voice was firm, brooking no argument as he pulled you forward, wrapping the towel around your shoulders. The fabric was thick and warm against your soaked clothes, a sharp contrast to the chill in the room.

You didn’t protest when he dragged you up. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you didn’t want to fight him on this anymore. The moment your legs wobbled from the sudden movement, his arms wrapped around you, pressing you against his chest.

The warmth of him was suffocating.

"You’re shaking," he muttered, tightening his hold. His fingers dug into the fabric of the towel, pressing into your back as though he could physically hold you together. "Jesus, Pumpkin… what the hell are you doing to yourself?"

You swallowed, your throat dry. You could feel the steady thud of his heart against your ear, and could hear the controlled breaths he was forcing himself to take. But it was the slight tremor in his voice that made you feel like the worst person in the world.

You didn’t deserve this.

You didn’t deserve him.

Your hands twitched at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or hold on. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. His warmth was a stark contrast to the coldness you had wrapped yourself in for so long, and for once, you let yourself feel it.

"Why are you here, Sol?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, cracking at the edges.

"Why the fuck wouldn’t I be here?" He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You think I’d just ignore this? Ignore you?"

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. What were you supposed to say? That he should have ignored this? That it was easier that way?

Sol exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before cupping the back of your head, forcing you to look at him. His fingers wove into your damp strands, grounding you with his touch.

"Hey now," he said, voice firm, unwavering. "If you think for a second that I’m gonna sit back and let you drown in this—" his grip on your hair tightened slightly, quiet desperation seeping into his words—"you don’t know me as well as you think you do."

The guilt hit like a punch to the gut.

You tried to look away, but he didn’t let you. His grip was gentle but firm, his thumb brushing against the back of your neck in a way that made you shiver.

"I don’t need saving," you repeated weakly, but it felt like a lie now.

"Yeah?" Sol’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a frown. "Then tell me—if I leave right now, if I walk out that door and don’t come back… are you gonna be okay?"

You opened your mouth to snap yes, to shove him away and tell him to leave you the hell alone. But the words caught in your throat.

Sol’s eyes softened, but there was something sharper lurking beneath. Something calculating. He saw the hesitation, the way your lips parted but no words followed, and he seized the moment.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your forehead.

You clenched your jaw, hating how easily he could tear through your defenses. Hating how right he was.

He sighed, his grip on your hair finally loosening as he rested his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"I’m not going anywhere, Pumpkin." His tone was softer now, almost tender—but there was something unshakable beneath it, something that made it clear you didn’t have a choice in the matter.

"So stop trying to make me."

You hated how much you wanted to believe him. How much you wanted to fall into this warmth, this safety he was offering. But deep down, you knew—this wasn’t just concern.

This was possession.

And Sol had no intention of letting you go.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo wasn’t the type to care about people’s problems.

At least, that’s what he told himself. It was easier that way—easier to stay detached, to keep his own peace intact. But you?

You made it impossible to ignore.

It wasn’t anything obvious. You still showed up, still spoke when necessary, and still wore that same carefully constructed expression that kept everyone from prying too deep. The others didn’t see it—they weren’t looking hard enough.

But Geo? He noticed.

The way your laugh didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. The way you lingered at the edges of conversations, only half-present. The way your shoulders carried just a little more weight than usual.

It pissed him off. Not at you—but at whatever had put that weight there in the first place. And the fact that no one else had noticed? That made it worse.

So when you weren’t in your usual spots after classes, he felt it. The unease settled into his chest like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and no matter how much he wanted to brush it off, he couldn’t.

Fine. If you weren’t going to say anything, then he’d figure it out himself.

The library? Empty.

Your club meetings? No sign of you.

Geo’s jaw tightened, his annoyance growing the longer it took. But then—then he found you.

The university greenhouse.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh blooms, the warmth of the sun filtering through the glass ceiling above. And there you were, sitting on a worn stone bench, eyes closed, shoulders relaxed in a way that felt almost unnatural.

For a second, he just watched.

You looked peaceful. Or maybe… maybe you were just pretending to be.

Geo hated that he couldn’t tell.

With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped forward, his footsteps quiet against the greenhouse floor. He didn’t say anything at first, just standing there like he was waiting for you to notice him. When you didn’t, he clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Didn’t think you were the type to nap in the middle of the day," he muttered, his voice just loud enough to cut through the stillness.

Your eyes flickered open, but you didn’t look surprised. Like you had already known he was there.

"Not napping," you murmured, voice slow, distant. "Just… thinking."

Geo sighed. "Yeah? And how’s that going for you?"

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head slightly. "Too loud."

Geo frowned at that. The greenhouse was silent—just the faint rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the fans overhead. But he knew that wasn’t what you meant.

He moved closer, his gaze sharp as he took you in. The way your fingers curled slightly against the stone bench. The way your shoulders were tense, even if you were trying to look at ease. The way your eyes had that tired look—the kind that sleep wouldn’t fix.

Yeah. Something was wrong.

And it was worse than he thought.

"...You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?" His tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it.

You huffed, shaking your head. "Nothing’s going on."

"Liar."

That made you pause.

Geo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I don’t do the whole ‘prying’ thing. But when someone who’s usually pretty good at keeping their shit together suddenly starts falling apart under the radar? Kinda hard not to notice."

You tensed, and he caught it immediately. He was right.

"...You’re imagining things," you muttered, but it was weak.

Geo just scoffed. "Yeah? Then why are you out here, alone, sitting in a greenhouse like some tragic main character?"

You shot him a glare, but he just raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

"Thought so," he muttered.

Silence stretched between you.

You swallowed hard, your gaze fixated on the greenhouse floor, tracing the cracks between the stone tiles like they held answers you couldn't find anywhere else.

Geo wasn’t the type to comfort. He wasn’t the type to pry, either. If you wanted to talk, you would. If you didn’t, fine—he wasn’t going to beg for your feelings. But he also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t see what was happening to you.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

"Listen." He exhaled sharply, his voice carrying that familiar edge of impatience, but not with you—never with you. More like he was frustrated at the situation itself, at the fact that he even had to say this.

"I don’t care what it is. I don’t care if it’s stupid, or if you think I won’t get it, or whatever excuse you’re using to keep your mouth shut." He leaned back against the bench, just close enough to remind you he was here, but not close enough to smother you. "Just don’t sit here acting like you’re fine when you’re clearly not."

His voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. But it was real.

And for some reason, that made it harder to breathe.

Your throat felt tight, something hot building behind your ribs, but you forced it down. You were good at that—at shoving things so deep inside yourself that they didn’t exist anymore. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Geo let out a slow, heavy sigh, his shoulders rising and falling as if this whole thing physically exhausted him. "I don’t like worrying about people," he muttered. "Kinda hate it, actually."

His words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.

His eyes flickered toward you, sharp but unreadable as if debating whether to say the next part.

"But you?" His voice dipped lower, quieter, but somehow heavier. "Yeah. You make that shit real hard to avoid."

That did something to you.

You weren’t sure what exactly, but it hit deeper than you wanted it to. Deeper than you expected it to.

Your fingers curled slightly in your lap, gripping at the fabric of your clothes like you could anchor yourself there. "I don’t mean to," you murmured.

"I know." Geo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice softened—not in the way people spoke to you with forced pity or careful concern, but in a way that felt... real.

"...Doesn’t change the fact that I still do."

And then—plink.

The first raindrop struck the glass above, a soft, barely-there sound. Then another. And another.

Within moments, the greenhouse filled with the rhythm of rainfall, steady yet heavy, each drop echoing against the glass panels. The scent of damp earth rose around you, rich and grounding, as the world outside blurred into a hazy wash of gray.

Geo exhaled sharply, arms crossing over his chest.

Of course, it had to start raining.

The timing felt cruel in a way—like the universe had been watching the whole time and decided this moment needed an extra layer of weight.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. But in the quiet of the downpour, in the stillness of the greenhouse, something in the air had shifted. The truth was, he wasn’t the type to comfort people. Wasn’t the type to sit around and hold hands, whispering empty reassurances. 

It wasn’t something he was used to. 

It wasn’t something he did.

Silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. The only sound was the rain pattering against the greenhouse glass, the steady rhythm filling the space between words you couldn't say.

Your chest ached. Not in a sharp, unbearable way—but in a dull, bone-deep exhaustion that never seemed to fade, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

"...Classes are draining." Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but somehow, it felt deafening. "I feel like I go through them in a daze. Like I’m there, but I’m not."

Geo didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze burning into you. So you kept going because now that you started, it was hard to stop.

"I wake up, I go to class, I do what I have to, and then... I just exist." You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And it never means anything. I don’t feel anything. I just... am. And I don’t even know if that matters anymore."

Your hands clenched tighter, knuckles turning white. The words felt too big, too raw, too exposed. It was terrifying.

And for the first time, you dared to look at him.

Geo’s jaw was tight, his fingers twitching against his knee like he was holding himself back. His usual sharp, cocky demeanor had faded into something else—something serious. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” His voice was quiet, but firm.

You didn’t look at him. “Doing what?”

His jaw clenched. "Acting like you don’t matter."

The silence that followed was thick—almost suffocating. And then, you laughed. Bitter, empty.

“Because I don’t.”

Geo stilled. The way you said it like it was just a fact like it wasn’t something that should sting—it pissed him off. He turned his head, eyes narrowing as he studied you, taking in the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your hands clenched in your lap like you were bracing for something. Like you believed what you just said.

Geo clicked his tongue. "Bullshit."

Your fingers twitched, but you didn’t say anything.

Geo exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t have the right words, the right softness people probably expected in moments like these. But he did know one thing.

His fingers moved before his mind fully caught up, wrapping around your wrist with a gentleness that contradicted the sharp edge in his expression. His thumb traced over the fresh marks you had tried so hard to keep hidden, his touch warm against the raised skin.

Geo didn’t say anything at first, just staring—his face unreadable, but his grip steady. Then, his jaw tensed, his voice coming out quieter than before, rough with frustration.

"You matter to me."

Your breath hitched. Something in your chest tightened, an ache you couldn’t quite place.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you turned your face away, shaking your head. "You’re wasting your time."

Geo scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Then let me waste it."

Before you could react, Geo pulled you forward, shifting you into his lap like it was nothing, like he had already decided you weren’t going anywhere. His grip was firm but not forceful, an unspoken message that he wasn’t about to let you slip away—not now, not like this.

Your breath hitched at the sudden closeness. His face was just inches from yours, the warmth of his skin brushing against the coldness that had settled deep in your bones. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, hear the faint hitch in his breathing as he realized just how close you were.

He still didn’t let go of your wrist. If anything, his fingers curled slightly, holding you there like an anchor, like some stubborn part of him thought that if he kept you close enough, he could stop you from drifting any further.

Geo’s expression was the same as always—mildly annoyed, slightly flushed—but when he tried to speak, he faltered. “I—uh, I just—”

His voice caught. He clenched his jaw, his usual sharp confidence replaced by something uncharacteristically awkward. His ears burned red, his gaze flickering away for half a second before snapping back to you. For the first time in your life, you saw Geo flustered.

And it was hilarious.

The sight of him—one of the smoothest, most put-together guys you knew—stammering like an idiot while trying to be serious? 

It was too much.

A laugh broke past your lips before you could stop it.

Geo froze.

Your shoulders shook slightly, exhaustion weighing heavy on your limbs, but you couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t fake.

It was real.

And somehow, despite everything, it felt good.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the suffocating weight of uselessness that always clung to you—the one that whispered you were just a burden, that you didn’t matter—faded into the background.

Geo huffed dramatically, shifting slightly but not letting you go. "Oh, great. Now you’re laughing at me."

You buried your face into his chest, still shaking with quiet amusement. "Because you suck at this," you mumbled, voice muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah, well—" He was about to fire back, but then he heard it again.

Your laugh.

Not the usual forced chuckle. Not the empty amusement you gave when you didn’t want people to worry.

A real laugh.

And just like that, he went quiet.

His arms wrapped around you more securely, holding you there—close, warm, real.

Fuck. Geo really cared about you.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Hyugo easily felt other’s emotions that he cared about.

It wasn’t hard to guess where you’d gone—he just knew. Like an instinct. Like something in his gut told him exactly where to find you, even before he started searching.

The rooftop was off-limits. Not just by school rules, but in the way most people never thought to come up here. Maybe they were too afraid of getting caught. Maybe they just weren’t the type to seek out heights when the ground felt unsteady beneath them. But you? You never cared about the rules.

You didn’t care about much of anything these days.

Hyugo exhaled sharply as he pushed the rusted rooftop door open, stepping into the cold wind that swept across the campus skyline. His uniform was slightly rumpled, tie loosened, the usual carefree expression wiped clean from his face as he caught sight of you—sitting near the ledge, drawn into yourself like you were trying to disappear into the horizon.

He hated seeing you like this.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

“…You missed class again.”

His voice was quiet. Careful. Not demanding, not scolding—just there.

You didn’t react. You didn’t even turn your head.

Hyugo sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The bench near the rooftop’s edge groaned as he sat down beside you, leaving just enough space that you wouldn’t feel cornered—but not enough to let you pretend he wasn’t here.

“Figured I’d find you up here,” he said, leaning back slightly, his arms resting against his knees. “Was hoping I was wrong.”

Still, nothing.

You just kept staring at the skyline, like if you looked hard enough, you might find something out there that made existing feel worth it.

Hyugo wasn’t good with words. Not like this. Not when it mattered. But he couldn’t just sit here and let you drown in whatever thoughts were eating away at you.

His eyes flickered to your sleeves. To the faint, fresh marks barely hidden beneath the fabric.

Something in his chest twisted.

“…I get it, you know.” His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges. “Maybe not exactly. Maybe not in the way you do. But…”

He hesitated, watching your fingers curl slightly in your lap, your shoulders stiff like you were bracing for something.

“…It doesn’t have to be like this.”

A sharp, bitter laugh almost escaped your throat, but you swallowed it down. Doesn’t have to be? It always was. It always would be.

You finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “Then tell me what it’s supposed to be like, Hyugo.”

He inhaled slowly, watching you—really watching you. He didn’t have an answer. Not a good one. Not one that would fix anything. But that didn’t stop him from reaching out, his fingers brushing over your wrist, tracing the edge of the pain you carried like it was something fragile, something worth holding onto.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his grip tightening slightly. “But I do know that this isn’t all there is. And I hate that you think it is.”

That did something to you.

Your breath hitched, the weight in your chest pressing harder, heavier. You squeezed your eyes shut, hands clenching into fists.

Hyugo just held onto you. Not forcefully. Not trying to pull you away from the edge—just keeping you here. With him.

“…Talk to me,” he murmured. “Please.”

You wanted to say no. You wanted to stay in the silence, in the cold, in the nothingness.

But when you finally turned your head, when you met his eyes—the way he was looking at you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—

For the first time in forever… You almost believed him.

Since Hyugo wasn’t the type to cry easily.

Sure, he was emotional—he felt a lot, more than he let on—but he was always the one with a bright smile, a teasing remark, a carefree attitude that made him easy to be around. He kept things light. Kept things fun.

But right now?

Right now, as he looked at you, really looked at you—at the exhaustion weighing down your shoulders, at the way your fingers trembled slightly as if you were holding yourself together with nothing but sheer will—something in him cracked.

His throat tightened.

You noticed the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes glistened under the dim rooftop lights, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he could.

Holy fuck. Did you almost make Hyugo cry?

The thought sent a sharp pang through your chest. It felt wrong. Unfair. He wasn’t supposed to be the one hurting. You were the problem here, not him. He shouldn’t—he couldn’t—

You shifted slightly, about to say something, anything to break the tension—

But then, before you could move, before you could even react, Hyugo suddenly lurched forward.

His arms wrapped around you, his face pressing against your chest, his entire body curling into you like he was holding on for dear life.

The impact startled you, making you stiffen, but he didn’t let go. If anything, he clung to you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away the second he loosened his grip.

“…Don’t do this to me,” he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled, strained.

You could feel the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breath hitched like he was barely holding himself together. His heartbeat pounded against you, fast, unsteady.

You swallowed hard, guilt settling deep in your stomach.

You didn’t mean to make him feel like this.

You didn’t mean to make anyone feel like this.

Slowly—hesitantly—you lifted a hand, resting it against the back of his head, your fingers threading gently through his messy hair. He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead deeper against your chest like he was trying to disappear into you.

“…Sorry,” you murmured.

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle, though it came out more like a choked sob.

“God, don’t apologize,” he muttered, voice cracking just slightly. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize right now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You didn’t even realize how cold you’d been until now.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Hyugo just held onto you, like he was afraid if he let go, you’d fade away completely. And maybe—just maybe—you let yourself sink into him too, just this once.

“…I’ll stay.”

The words barely made it past your lips, fragile and uncertain, like they might dissolve into the night air before they even reached him.

Hyugo sucked in a sharp breath. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared at you, wide-eyed, like he was afraid to blink in case he somehow imagined your words.

Slowly—cautiously—he pulled back just enough to see your face. The rooftop lights cast faint shadows across his features, but even in the dim glow, you could see it. The raw emotion pooled in his eyes, the way his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

His eyes were red-rimmed, glossy with unshed tears.

“…Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse and uncertain, like he needed you to say it again, to confirm that you meant it.

You nodded.

And that was it. That was all it took for whatever was holding him back to finally break.

A sharp, uneven breath escaped him, and his lips pressed into a thin line as his brows furrowed. His whole body trembled, hands curling into fists against your back like he was trying to ground himself.

Then, before you could process it, before you could even brace yourself, he lunged forward.

His arms wrapped around you, tighter this time—desperate. His entire body pressed against yours, warm and trembling, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

“Good,” he breathed against your skin, voice thick, raw. “Good. You better. You fucking better.”

You felt him shudder against you, his breath uneven, like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, gripping you like you might slip through his grasp at any second.

“I—” His voice caught, and he shook his head slightly, swallowing hard. His next words were muffled, spoken so quietly they were almost lost against your skin.

“I’d miss you too much, you know?”

Something inside you twisted painfully.

You exhaled, closing your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—warm, faintly like the wind, like something alive. His heartbeat pounded against yours, frantic and real, a stark contrast to the numbness that had sat heavy in your chest for so long.

You knew.

You knew.

And maybe, just maybe—Hyugo was enough.

[devdozes]

♥ Who's the cute doctor with a white jacket and a cute accent?

Phainon is a vigilante who kills heroes :0 and reader is a doctor who owns a clinic

The street was empty when you stepped out of your small clinic, stretching your arms with a yawn. The neon glow of streetlights flickered against the pavement, a steady hum of crickets filling the air. It was well past midnight, your usual closing time. The last patient had left hours ago, leaving you with only the scent of antiseptic and the ever-present exhaustion clinging to your bones.

And that was when you saw him.

Slumped against the alley wall right beside your clinic’s entrance, a man lay sprawled out, one leg bent awkwardly, his clothes torn and stained with blood. His messy silver hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and from the way his chest heaved unevenly, he was in bad shape.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, already moving toward him. “Don’t tell me I’ve got another late-night idiot with a hero complex.”

Kneeling beside him, you gently prodded his shoulder. “Hey. Still breathing?”

A soft, pitiful whine escaped him, followed by a lazy blink. Then, like a puppy realizing it had finally been noticed, the man perked up almost instantly. Despite his obviously battered state, he offered you the most ridiculous, lopsided grin you had ever seen.

“Angel,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “Have I…died?”

You stared at him. He blinked up at you, expectant.

“…No, but you might if you keep bleeding all over my sidewalk.”

His grin widened, eyes gleaming under the dim light. “Then I must be in heaven, because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a short, exasperated sigh. “Great. You’re one of those types.”

Deciding that talking would get you nowhere, you looped his arm around your shoulders and, with a great deal of effort, hauled him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle beneath the torn layers of his dark hoodie.

“C’mon, Casanova, let’s get you patched up.” ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The clinic was quiet save for the rustling of medical supplies and the occasional hiss of pain from your unexpected patient. He sat on the examination table, swinging his legs slightly like a child as you cleaned a particularly nasty gash on his forearm. His hoodie had been discarded, leaving him in a black tank top that did nothing to hide the bruises blooming across his torso.

“You got into quite the fight, huh?” you mused, applying a fresh bandage.

He hummed, tilting his head. “You could say that.”

“You don’t look like the street brawling type,” you continued, noting the way his wounds were oddly precise—like someone had been targeting specific areas to incapacitate rather than kill. “Pissed off the wrong guy?”

“Something like that,” he said, watching you with an intensity that sent a small shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, he reached out and poked your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re all serious, y’know?”

You smacked his hand away. “I will sedate you.”

He laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. It was such a stark contrast to his earlier state that you had to pause. This guy…was weird. But you’d dealt with weirder.

“Alright, mystery man,” you said, stepping back. “You’re patched up, but you should probably rest before you start running around and getting into more trouble.”

His expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flashing through his eyes. Then, just as quickly, he was beaming again. “So you do care about me, doc.”

You rolled your eyes. “I'm a doctor; if I don't care, I will lose my license.”

Little did you know, you had just invited the most dangerous, yet oddly devoted, presence into your life. And he had no plans of leaving any time soon.

It started with small things.

The next evening, Phainon showed up at your clinic’s doorstep, miraculously uninjured this time, holding a single flower in his hand. “For my angel,” he declared dramatically, offering it to you with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow. “You realize this is a medical clinic, not a flower shop, right?”

He pouted. Actually pouted. “Can’t I just appreciate my favorite person in the world?”

You huffed but took the flower, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

The visits didn’t stop. Each day, he came bearing small gifts—some fresh fruit, a book he claimed “reminded him of you,” even a plushie one time. You didn’t know where he got them, and you didn’t ask. He never overstayed his welcome, just long enough to chat, flash you that infuriatingly charming grin, and then disappear into the night.

There were…odd moments, though. Bruises appearing overnight. The way he sometimes winced when he thought you weren’t looking. You questioned him once, but he only ruffled your hair and said, “I’m just clumsy.”

You didn’t buy it. But you let it go. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

It was nearly 3 AM when you heard the familiar knock at your clinic door. You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Phainon, if you brought me another bouquet, I swear—”

The door swung open, revealing a very unimpressed Phainon holding a Tupperware container. “Stop eating instant noodles 24/7,” he deadpanned, marching straight to your desk.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I saw the trash,” he accused. “You are a doctor, and yet you treat your body like a college student cramming for finals.”

You gaped at him as he shoved the container into your hands. “I—You—Did you make this?”

He crossed his arms, looking almost smug. “Of course. You deserve real food.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest, unexpected but not unwelcome. You sighed, popping the lid open to reveal a neatly prepared meal. “...Fine. But if this kills me, I’m haunting you.”

Phainon beamed. “Deal.”

And so, your strange dynamic continued—one clueless doctor, one overly devoted, not-so-secret vigilante, and an ever-growing pile of suspiciously extravagant gifts you pretended not to question.

But as the days passed, you couldn’t ignore it anymore—the way his grip lingered when he handed you something, how he always seemed to know when you were exhausted, the fleeting shadows in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

Something about Phainon was undeniably dangerous. And yet, when he smiled at you like you were his whole world, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The city breathed at night. It wasn’t the kind of breath that brought life—it was shallow, ragged, laced with rot. Beneath the neon glow of the skyline, the filth that called themselves "heroes" thrived, hiding behind capes and empty words.

Phainon had no patience for them.

He crouched on the rooftop of an abandoned parking structure, the cool wind ruffling his platinum hair. Below, the target moved, blissfully unaware of the predator watching from above.

Adrian Vaughn.

A hero by title. A parasite by nature. His record was pristine in the public eye—dozens of successful operations, multiple civilians "rescued," a shining beacon of hope for the people. But beneath that fabricated veneer, Vaughn was filth. Human trafficking, drug smuggling, bribery. He sold out the very people he was meant to protect, sending them into the hands of the highest bidder.

Phainon had been tracking him for weeks, studying his routines, his weaknesses. Tonight, he would erase his name from existence.

Vaughn turned into an alley, accompanied by two bodyguards dressed in sleek tactical gear. They weren’t ordinary thugs; they moved with the precision of trained killers. But Phainon wasn’t concerned.

He relished the challenge.

As Vaughn leaned against the brick wall, pulling out a cigar, Phainon dropped from the rooftop in complete silence.

The first man didn’t even have time to react. A dagger plunged into his throat, severing vocal cords before he could scream. Blood sprayed across the wall as Phainon twisted the blade, then yanked it free. The second guard barely managed to spin around, gun raised—

Too slow.

Phainon sidestepped, grabbed the man’s wrist, and snapped it with a sickening crack. The gun clattered to the ground. Before the guard could register the pain, Phainon drove his knee into the man’s ribs, sending him crumpling. A swift strike to the temple, and the body hit the floor with a thud.

Vaughn stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror. “What the f—”

Phainon was on him before he could finish.

A brutal punch to the gut sent Vaughn reeling. He gasped, dropping his cigar, but Phainon didn’t let up. He grabbed the so-called hero by the collar and slammed him against the brick wall.

"Scared, ‘hero’?" Phainon murmured, voice dripping with mockery. His usual cheerful demeanor was nowhere to be found—only cold amusement remained.

Vaughn wheezed. "W-Wait—"

Phainon drove his fist into the man’s ribs, feeling something crack. Vaughn let out a choked sound of pain.

"Did your victims get to beg?" Phainon asked, tilting his head. "Did you let them plead before you sold them like cattle?"

Vaughn trembled. "I—I can pay you! Triple whatever you’re getting! Just—"

The words died in his throat as Phainon unsheathed a second dagger, pressing it lightly against Vaughn’s cheek. A thin line of blood beaded where the blade kissed skin.

"Oh, Vaughn," Phainon sighed theatrically. "You really think this is about money?"

Vaughn whimpered.

Phainon’s grip tightened. His blade trailed down Vaughn’s neck, slow, deliberate. He could feel the man’s pulse hammering beneath his skin.

"You pretend to be a savior," Phainon whispered, his breath warm against Vaughn’s ear. "But you’re just another parasite, feeding off the innocent."

With a flick of his wrist, he drove the dagger into Vaughn’s shoulder.

A scream tore from the so-called hero’s lips, echoing through the alley.

"Shh, shh," Phainon cooed, twisting the blade. "Screaming won’t help you. No one’s coming."

Vaughn gasped, clawing at Phainon’s wrist, but the grip was unyielding.

"Please—!"

Phainon’s eyes darkened.

He yanked the blade free and, in one swift motion, slashed downward. Vaughn’s body convulsed before sagging against the wall. His eyes, once filled with arrogance, were now lifeless.

A pool of blood spread beneath him.

Phainon exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

Another name erased. Another stain cleansed.

Wiping the blood off his blade, he stepped over the corpses, retrieving the gun one of the bodyguards had dropped. He turned it over in his hands before smirking. A hero’s own weapon, used to kill his accomplices. The police would find the bodies in the morning and spin whatever story they wanted.

He didn’t care.

All that mattered was that Vaughn wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

The night welcomed him as he vanished into the darkness.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

You sat on the worn-out couch of your clinic, a half-eaten pancake held loosely in your hands. The morning air was still crisp, the warmth of your blanket cocooning you, yet something about Phainon felt…off.

He was smiling—he always was—but there was something different about it. A flicker of exhaustion hidden behind his golden eyes, the way his fingers drummed against his knee, restless.

Something had happened.

You swallowed a bite of your food, tilting your head. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Phainon blinked, then grinned, feigning innocence. “What? Me? Angel, I am the very picture of health.”

You narrowed your eyes, setting your plate down. “Phainon.”

He flinched. You rarely used his name like that, not unless you were serious.

"Okay, okay, maybe I took a tiny night stroll," he admitted, waving a hand dismissively. "But look! I still had time to make you breakfast. Aren't I the best?"

You huffed, standing up and walking over to him. He was still sprawled lazily on your couch, but you could see it now—the tension in his shoulders, the subtle twitch in his fingers, as if his body hadn't fully come down from something.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. "You're tense."

For the first time since walking in, he hesitated.

You weren’t stupid. Phainon was good at hiding things, slipping past questions with honeyed words and cheeky grins. But now, up close, you could see the faint traces of red beneath his nails, the way his hoodie sleeves were rolled just enough to hide fresh bruises blooming along his skin.

Blood that wasn’t his.

The realization hit like a whisper of cold air.

"You’re hurt."

Phainon blinked. Then he smiled—small this time, softer, a little weary. "Not really," he murmured. "I’ve had worse."

You sighed, grabbing his wrist more firmly now. "Sit up."

He raised a brow. "Bossy today, aren't we?"

You shot him a look, and with a chuckle, he obeyed, straightening as you moved to inspect him properly.

Your hands were gentle, fingers tracing over his knuckles, noting the split skin. A fresh bruise painted the side of his hand, likely from impact. His sleeves had smudges of something darker—wiped-off blood.

You didn’t ask who it belonged to. You didn’t think you wanted to know.

Instead, you focused on tending to him, pulling out your medical kit. "You always come to me like this," you muttered. "How many times do I have to patch you up before you stop throwing yourself into trouble?"

Phainon leaned back against the couch, watching you with a lopsided smirk. "Mm… I dunno. How many times are you willing to fix me up?"

You paused, fingers hovering over his bruised skin. He always did this—teased, danced around the weight of his actions. And yet, the way he looked at you now, cerulean eyes searching, waiting—

It made your heart stutter.

"You're an idiot," you murmured, dipping a cloth into antiseptic before pressing it against his hand.

Phainon winced slightly but didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned into your touch.

"Maybe," he hummed, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. "But I'm your idiot, aren't I?"

Your breath hitched.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft rustling of bandages as you wrapped his hand. He was watching you too closely, his usual playful mask slipping into something else—something heavier.

You could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his breathing had slowed. His free hand—uninjured, warm—lifted slightly, brushing against your wrist.

A silent question.

You swallowed.

"...You are," you admitted, barely above a whisper.

And that was all it took.

Phainon grinned, lazy and triumphant, before tugging you forward by the wrist. You barely had time to react before you found yourself half in his lap, your knees pressing against the couch cushions, his warmth seeping into your skin.

"Phainon—"

"Shhh," he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was softer now, playful but laced with something deeper. "Just let me have this, angel."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You could feel his breath against your lips, the lingering scent of blood and something sweeter—cinnamon, from the breakfast he'd brought.

"You’re ridiculous," you mumbled, feeling heat creep up your neck.

Phainon chuckled, fingers brushing against your cheek. "And yet, you’re still here."

You wanted to argue, to shove him away and scold him for always making your heart race like this—but you didn't. Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a moment.

The air smelled like rust and rain. Blood pooled into the cracks of the pavement, seeping into the earth like ink on paper. Phainon flicked his blade once, crimson droplets splattering against the nearby wall, before slipping it back into its holster.

The "hero" at his feet gurgled one last, pitiful sound before falling silent.

Pathetic.

Phainon sighed, running a gloved hand through his pristine white hair, pushing back strands that had fallen loose from his usual messy style. His blue eyes gleamed under the dim glow of a streetlamp, their usual mischievous shine dulled by the weight of his work.

"You done being dramatic, or should I start playing sad violin music?"

A voice, flat and unimpressed, cut through the night air.

Phainon turned his head, spotting a familiar figure standing against the alley wall—arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking as grumpy as ever. Mydei.

Phainon grinned. "Aw, come on, don’t be like that, Mydei. You’re making it sound like I don’t do good work."

Mydei sighed, pushing off the wall with an irritated huff. His white uniform, pristine even in the grimy alley, barely had a speck of blood on it—contrasting Phainon’s more…chaotic approach. His ash-blonde hair with red tips was in a loose ponytail, with a braid out of place from his left side, and his sharp golden eyes burned with constant disapproval.

“I swear, working with you is an exercise in patience,” Mydei muttered, stepping over the corpse with little care. “You take too long.”

Phainon shrugged, stretching his arms above his head lazily. “Art takes time, Mydei. You can’t rush greatness.”

Mydei gave him a look. “We’re not painting a fucking masterpiece. We’re eliminating scum.”

“Eh, same thing.”

Another sigh. Mydei pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine. “Just tell me it’s done so I can leave.”

“It’s done,” Phainon confirmed, rocking back on his heels. “You know, I don't get why you're always in such a rush. You should take time to appreciate the little things in life. Smell the roses, bask in the moonlight, think about the people you love—”

Mydei groaned. “Oh my god, do not start.”

Too late.

Phainon’s golden eyes softened, and a ridiculous, lovesick grin spread across his face. “Speaking of which, you won’t believe how adorable my angel looked this morning.” "Phainon shut up."

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion. It was late—too late for anyone to still be working, and yet, there you were, hunched over a stack of medical files, barely blinking as you scribbled down notes.

Phainon leaned against the doorframe, watching with mild amusement and growing concern. He had come to visit—not because he was injured (for once), but because, well… he missed you. Not that he’d ever say it outright.

But the moment he stepped inside, he noticed something off.

Your movements were sluggish, and your usual sharp focus seemed dulled by exhaustion. There were dark circles under your eyes, your lips slightly chapped, and your uniform was wrinkled—like you hadn’t had a proper break in days.

Phainon frowned.

“Hey, Angel—”

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered, barely looking up from your work.

“Alright, alright. [Name].” His tone softened slightly. “How long have you been at this?”

You hummed distractedly, flipping a page. “Since morning.”

Phainon’s brow twitched. “…It’s midnight.”

“Mm.”

Oh, hell no.

Before he could argue, you sniffled slightly. Then—

A single drop of red hit the page in front of you.

Phainon stiffened. His cerulean blue eyes widened slightly as he watched another drop fall.

You blinked. Touched your nose. Oh. Blood.

“Ah…” you mumbled, finally acknowledging your own state. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Phainon echoed incredulously.

You waved him off, already reaching for a tissue. “It’s fine. I just need to—”

“Sit. Down.”

Your hands froze.

When you finally looked up, Phainon was giving you a look. His usual easygoing grin was gone, replaced with something serious. It wasn’t often you saw him like this—jaw tight, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

"Phai, I still have—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You’re overworking yourself to the point of bleeding, [Name]. That’s not normal.”

You scoffed. “It’s just a nosebleed.”

“It’s not just a nosebleed when you’ve been running on fumes for who knows how long,” he shot back. “Have you even eaten today?”

You didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

Phainon sighed, dragging a hand through his messy white hair. “Unbelievable.”

Before you could protest, he was already moving. You barely had time to react before he grabbed the chair you were sitting in and spun it around so you were facing him. Then, to your surprise, he crouched down in front of you, resting his arms on his knees as he looked up at you with an unreadable expression.

The change in height was jarring. He was always towering over you at 6’2, but now? Now he looked genuinely concerned.

“Hey,” his voice softened. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, but you met his gaze.

“…When’s the last time you slept properly?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

You swallowed. “Um.”

“That’s what I thought.” He clicked his tongue. “Angel—”

You shot him a weak glare.

“Fine, fine. [Name].” He sighed again, softer this time. “You can’t keep this up.”

You glanced at the files on your desk. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “The world isn’t gonna end if you take a break.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Phainon reached out and—

Tapped your forehead.

You blinked in surprise.

“Rest,” he murmured, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic warmth. “For me?”

For a moment, you just… stared at him.

The cerulean blue of his eyes was unusually soft, like the glow of the sky just before dawn. His messy white hair framed his face, strands falling over his forehead, but he made no move to fix it. He was just there, crouched in front of you, waiting.

You sighed. “…Fine.”

A slow, satisfied grin stretched across Phainon’s face. “Good.”

Then, to your utter horror, he stood up—grabbed you by the shoulders—and physically dragged you out of your chair.

“Phai—! What are you—”

“Bed. Now.”

“I hate you.”

“I know,” he said cheerfully, leading you toward the break room. “I’m amazing.”

You groaned. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Shut up.”

He only laughed.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

For the first time that night, the clinic was quiet.

The usual hum of your overworked mind had finally been silenced—replaced by the soft, even breaths of sleep. Phainon leaned against the doorway of the break room, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You had knocked out almost immediately after your head hit the pillow. Figures. Your body had probably been screaming for rest, and yet, you'd kept going until you'd collapsed.

He sighed through his nose, running a hand through his messy white hair.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, but there was no bite to his words.

The dim clinic lights cast soft shadows over your face, highlighting the exhaustion that had settled deep into your features. He had never seen you like this before—not just tired, but completely worn down. It made something tighten in his chest.

You always worked too damn hard. Too much responsibility. Too much weight on your shoulders.

Phainon hated it.

His cerulean blue eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally moved. Quietly, he stepped forward, pulling the blanket over your shoulders. You barely stirred, only sighing in your sleep as you curled further into the warmth.

He huffed a quiet laugh, crouching down beside you.

"You really do too much, y'know," he murmured, mostly to himself. "What would you do without me, huh?"

Silence.

A small smile ghosted over his lips.

His gloved fingers brushed against a stray strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. You always looked so sharp, so focused—yet here, like this, you looked… peaceful.

He let out another sigh, softer this time.

“…Rest, Angel,” he murmured.

And for once, you did.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the silence.

No beeping machines, no shuffling patients, no ringing phone. Just the soft, comforting quiet of a world you weren’t used to.

Then, the second thing hit you.

You felt… rested.

Which made absolutely no sense.

Your eyes shot open, and the moment you glanced at the clock, your stomach dropped.

2:07 PM.

You had been asleep for over thirteen hours.

Panic surged through you, and you shot up so fast that the blanket slipped off your shoulders. "Oh, shit—I—"

"You’re finally up, Angel."

Your head whipped toward the source of the voice.

Phainon leaned lazily against the doorframe, his usual easygoing smile in place. He looked completely unbothered, like he hadn’t just let you sleep through half the day.

"Thirteen hours?!" you nearly shrieked, throwing the blanket off yourself. "Why the hell didn’t you wake me up? I have patients—I have work—"

"You don’t," Phainon said smoothly, pushing off the doorframe and strolling toward you. "I told the nurse to cancel all your appointments for the day."

You froze.

"You what?"

Phainon only grinned, placing his hands on his hips like he’d done something heroic. "Today, you’re gonna rest and take care of yourself."

Your brain short-circuited. "Phai, you canceled my entire schedule?! Do you know how many—"

"Yup. And I’d do it again." He patted your head before you could dodge, his cerulean eyes glinting mischievously. "You're lucky I didn’t call a damn intervention."

You smacked his hand away with a scowl. "You can’t just decide that for me!"

"Yeah?" He arched a brow. "Then tell me, oh mighty doctor—when’s the last time you actually got a full night’s sleep?"

You opened your mouth—then closed it.

He had a point.

You hated that he had a point.

"...Exactly." Phainon ruffled your hair again, this time dodging your half-hearted attempt to swat him. "Now, c’mon. I made breakfast."

You blinked.

Your eyes trailed past him, toward the break room, and sure enough, you smelled it—the unmistakable scent of eggs, toast, and something slightly sweet.

Your stomach betrayed you with a low grumble.

Phainon’s grin widened.

"...Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms. "But only because I’m starving."

"Uh-huh," he teased, motioning for you to follow. "C’mon, Angel, let me spoil you for once."

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, warmth curled in your chest. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

After reluctantly agreeing to Phainon’s so-called "rest day," you made your way to the bathroom, still half-convinced this was some elaborate prank.

But the moment you stepped into the warm shower, feeling the tension in your muscles slowly melt away, you realized just how much you needed this.

For once, you weren’t rushing.

No patients waiting outside. No phone buzzing with emergency calls. No back-to-back shifts looming over your head.

Just peace.

You took your time—longer than usual—letting the hot water soothe your overworked body. Once you finally emerged, refreshed and slightly dazed, you dried your hair, slipped into comfortable clothes, and stepped out into the main clinic space.

And the first thing you saw was him.

Phainon sat on the couch, casually twirling something between his fingers. The moment his cerulean blue eyes landed on you, his entire face lit up.

Like a puppy seeing its favorite person.

"You look cute all cozy," he teased, tilting his head.

You scoffed, but before you could throw back a retort, he suddenly reached for your hand.

You blinked as he placed something cold and sleek against your palm.

A… black credit card?

You stared down at it, then back at him. "Uh, Phai? What the hell is this?"

His smile only grew. "Your new best friend."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why do you have a black credit card with no limit? And why are you giving it to me?"

He leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

"Because," he drawled, tapping the card in your hand, "I want you to spoil yourself."

You deadpanned. "Phai."

"Angel."

"Phainon."

"[Name]."

You groaned. "This is insane! I can’t just—"

"Sure, you can," he interrupted smoothly, flashing you a grin. "Buy whatever you want. Clothes, skincare, a new bed, hell—buy a whole damn island if it makes you happy."

"Why are you like this?" you muttered, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Because you deserve it," he said, voice softer this time. No teasing, no smugness—just pure, genuine sincerity. "You work your ass off for everyone else. So, let me take care of you for once, yeah?"

You bit your lip, suddenly unsure how to respond.

The idea of spending his money—let alone this much money—felt ridiculous. But the way he looked at you, so effortlessly warm and unwavering in his care, made your chest tighten.

"...I’ll think about it," you muttered, shoving the card into your pocket.

Phainon beamed. "That’s my girl."

You flushed. "Phai—"

"Shhh." He grinned, standing up and ruffling your hair. "Now, go pick something. Or better yet, let’s go out, and I’ll help you spend it."

You were lounging on the couch, finally allowing yourself a moment of rest, when you heard a loud thud.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Phainon stumble back, one hand clutching his forehead after walking straight into the wall.

For a second, there was silence. Then—

"Ow."

Your stomach dropped. "Phai?!"

Without thinking, you shot up from your seat and rushed to him. His cerulean eyes blinked in mild confusion as you cupped his face, tilting it down so you could examine his forehead.

"Let me see," you mumbled, scanning for any signs of bruising. "God, you’re such an idiot. How did you even—"

Before you could finish, Phainon suddenly turned his head—

And pressed a soft kiss against the inside of your palm.

You froze.

The warmth of his lips lingered against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours, impossibly fond and teasing all at once.

"Don’t worry, Angel," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "You won’t lose me that easily."

Your breath hitched, heart thudding a little too fast. "Phai—"

But before anything else could happen—

The door slammed open.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

You jolted in shock as a familiar figure stormed inside.

Dressed in his usual crisp uniform, Mydei stood at the entrance, his golden eyes immediately narrowing at the scene before him. His already grumpy expression twisted into something even darker the moment he spotted you—cupping Phainon’s face—while Phainon was holding your wrist way too tenderly.

For a long, tense moment, there was silence.

Then—

"BRO GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY SISTER!"

Your brain short-circuited. "…What?"

Phainon, to your absolute horror, simply turned to him with a shit-eating grin. "Ohhh, so now you decide to show up?"

"PHAINON, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"Wait, wait, wait," you cut in, still trying to process literally everything. You looked between the two men—one your unbearably clingy not-so-secret admirer, the other your grumpy older brother who should not be here. "What do you mean ‘sister’?!"

"What do you mean ‘now you show up’?!"

Mydei scowled, ignoring your question entirely. "I knew something was up. The way you’ve been talking about some ‘angel’ non-stop—"

"Ohhh," Phainon mused, leaning back slightly. "Now it all makes sense."

You turned to him, utterly bewildered. "What makes sense?!"

He simply beamed at you, still completely unbothered. "Angel, did I forget to mention?* Your brother and I are coworkers.*"

You blinked. Then, slowly—painfully—you turned to Mydei. "You what?"

Your brother pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about "just one damn night without problems." Then, exhaling sharply, he shot Phainon a glare that could’ve killed a man on the spot.

"This is exactly why I told you not to get involved," Mydei growled. "But nooo, you just had to imprint on my little sister like a lost puppy—"

Phainon grinned. "You call it imprinting. I call it fate."

"Phainon, I swear—"

"Everyone shut up!" you finally snapped, massaging your temples. "Someone start explaining before I actually lose my mind."

Mydei glared at Phainon like he was this close to throwing him out the window. "You first, dumbass."

Phainon chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Where do I even start? The part where we’ve been hunting down corrupt heroes together? Or the part where I fell for your sister the moment she patched me up?"

Mydei’s eye twitched. "Get the fuck out."

"No can do, big bro," Phainon said, grinning. "I live for danger, and your sister happens to be my favorite one."

Mydei clenched his fists. "I am so going to kill you."

Meanwhile, you just stood there, completely overwhelmed.

Your brother was a secret vigilante.

Phainon was his partner in crime.

And apparently, Mydei had no idea that Phainon had been sneaking into your life like a love-struck idiot this entire time.

You let out a slow, suffering sigh. "I need another bath."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Its been 47 fucking minutes and those two gigantic men are STILL arguing

You inhaled sharply through your nose, gripping the bridge of your nose as both Phainon and Mydei continued their bickering like two overgrown children.

"I swear to god," Mydei seethed, jabbing a finger at Phainon. "If you so much as breathe near my sister again—"

"Too late," Phainon interrupted smoothly, looking completely unbothered. "I’ve already done much more than breathing. Did you know her hands are so soft—"

"PHAINON, I WILL MURDER YOU."

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!"

Your voice boomed through the room, silencing both men immediately.

They both snapped their heads toward you, wide-eyed, as you glared at them with the force of someone who had been through way too much in one day.

"I don’t care who kills who," you hissed. "I don’t care who works with who, and I especially don’t care about your dumb territorial bullshit. Both of you, just—SHUT UP."

A thick, heavy silence filled the air.

Then, very slowly—

Phainon’s expression crumbled into the most heart-wrenchingly sad look you had ever seen.

His cerulean eyes went wide with devastation. His lips wobbled slightly. His shoulders slumped. His entire demeanor changed into that of an abandoned puppy who had just been kicked out into the rain.

And then—he sank onto the floor.

"...Okay," he mumbled, looking utterly defeated.

You blinked. "Phai, what are you doing—"

Before you could finish, Mydei also stiffened.

Your brother—grumpy, terrifying, merciless vigilante Mydei—visibly swallowed, his golden eyes darting between you and Phainon. Then, hesitantly, with all the grace of a cat who didn’t want to admit guilt—he sat down beside Phainon.

"...Sorry," he grumbled.

You stared at them.

One sad, abandoned puppy.

One guilty, grumpy cat.

Sitting on your floor.

Like two children who had just been scolded by their mom.

You let out the biggest sigh of your life and rubbed your temples. "You both have got to be kidding me."

Phainon, still looking like he had been emotionally devastated, peeked up at you through messy white bangs. "Angel… are you still mad at me?"

You exhaled sharply. "No."

Phainon immediately perked up, tail-wagging energy returning. "Okay, cool. So I can—"

"DON’T PUSH IT."

"Okay," he whispered, sitting back down.

Beside him, Mydei grumbled under his breath before side-eyeing Phainon. "...Why are you sitting on the floor?"

Phainon turned to him and blinked. "Because you sat down."

"I sat down because she was mad at me!"

"Yeah, and she was mad at me too."

"So what, you just copied me?"

"Pretty much."

Mydei groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I hate you so much." "But your sister loves me ;)"

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

~~~~~Sorcerer's Dormitory~~~~~~

Yuji, Megumi, Panda, and Toge said nothing but they were silent not happy with what Ryuji did. He did something that was uncalled for. Even when he insulted Yuji's and Rin's girlfriends just because they were demons. It wasn't right.

They didn't even blame Rioto for being pissed off, he should be!

"Kisho's right. Even if what he did was uncalled for, we shouldn't be angry about it right now. I know things are a bit heated after what he did but we still are trying to work together with them. Ryuji just don't see that right now." Megumi sighed looking at the ground yet he was worried about Hana as well. The girls were in their own dormitories but mostly worried about Hana too.

"But he's also right about this. We just need to calm down..." Yuji said with arms crossed still. He was worried about his friends and her. He was even close to almost beating Ryuji himself since he could have hurt everyone else. Including Taz too.

"So what will happen to him?" Panda asked.

"..I heard he might be heavily punished for this. Even with attacking another student. Though, they also might call this a intermission till things cool down." Yuji said even seeing Toge nod.

"Salmon.." he mutters quietly.

"I just worry for the girls too knowing their worried as well...." Yuji mutters. Kamo also agrees with him too at this.

~~~~~With the girls~~~~~~

"I can't believe that asshole! How dare he do that! He really hurt Hana today or worse! He could have killed someone!" Nobara was not happy seeing the girls in the room being quiet. Yuria was worried about Miko who was holding Anaconda and Dennis however, she was still worried.

"Easy Nobara. Getting angry won't solve anything." Miwa said with Maki agreeing hoping to calm her girlfriend down.

"She's right Nobara. All we can do is wait for Mi-sun to heal her and she'll be alright again. "she said.

"..Tch..I rather smash that bullies head in!" Nobara said even if she was calming down. However, she saw Maki sitting by Taz to insure she was alright.

------ Exorcists' Dormitory ----

"D..do you think Hana is going to be okay? Those burns looked really bad.." Shiemi mutters worried about her new friend yet she only looks at the window.

"I'm sure she will be alright....I heard this Mi-sun doctor is treating her right now....but still....that dummy over pushed it. He didn't have to insult the others, Rin and Yuji's girlfriends, and almost caused harm to everyone else." Izumo said with arms crossed.

"..Yeah but still...." she said. "I heard Yukio sensei is not happy with him right now..given a lecture to him.." she mutters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their was shouting in a room but it did show a very angry Yukio along with Ryuji who was trying to argue back.

"Look! I didn't mean to misfire the fire ball sir! I just got-"

"NO! You got angry and attacked someone Ryuji! We are trying to work with the sorcerers not try to cause another war between them! I understand you hate demons but did you forget that Rin is also a demon himself!?" he said.

"..I didn't forget that! I learned to understand him and you sir but they...the two of them are dating other demons! It took me a while to get used to that even if he shouldn't be dating a demon monster!"

"..*Sighs* Ryuji. Ink and her friends are not what you think. Not everyone is like that! Most of them are friend and is willing to work together to make things right. YOU! You crossed the line with endangering someone, injuring one of the students, insulting two people that was not called for, and even trying to start fights! What is your problem!?"

"NOTHING IS WRONG! I JUST GOT ANGRY THAT WE LOST TO..TO SORCERERS! WE CAN DO BETTER THAN THIS!"

"You don't understand. Do you realize we could get sued by the sorcerers school! You hurt one of their students just because you can't control your temper! I told you time and time again your temper will get you into trouble and it did! Even insulting Ink and Jinx."

"Wait..that's their names!?"

"*Sighs* Yes. Ink and Jinx are not evil people or evil demons as you keep saying. Their two ladies I've met when I was on a mission in NYC resulting in something else. Their not what you think they are. I know that was very insulting of what you said about them which leads to another issue here Ryuji-"

"But their just demons!"

"So is Rin and you accepted that didn't you!?"

"Well, yeah of course!"

"So what's different about them!?" Yukio said slamming his hands on the table looking to Ryuji.

"........"

"RYUJI!" Shura shouted as she couldn't believe what he did. "What the heck are you doing?!" She bonks him on the head.

"OW! WHAT DID I DO!?" he shouted hissing.

"You know what you did!? What is your problem!?" Izumo shouted even bonking him too. "Were not here to start a fight! Were here to train and learn!" she barked at him as Shiemi was worried hearing Hana's crying and sobbing.

"Mi-Sun!" Ichiji said, telling the nurse as he went to get Hana. Hana was crying while shaking hiding her hands or trying to. It really hurt even if they were a different type of flames. They burned a lot more differently than what she's seen.

"Hana? Hana, let me see. Come on, let me see.." Mi-sun was worried but Hana wouldn't move her hands. They were stinging and bleeding worse.

"No! It hurts! D..don't touch me! It hurts!" she cries but Miko and Yuria was trying to calm her down worried about their friend.

Shima gasps, looking up, and Izumo sees that it's from Rioto, who looks downright furious at Ryuji's actions. "You..." Rioto growls as ice shards form, pointing at them from above. Then a big fireball hits the ice boulder, and it explodes in water, drenching the Exwires. Some was coughing and soaked from the water seeing the anger in Rioto's eyes.

"DAICHI! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THEY-"

"ENOUGH RIOTO! THIS ISN'T A BATTLE!" Daichi said, going up the stands to reach Ryuji and the other exorcists. "This match is over, and so this is a sparring session."

"Tch..........fine, defend demons for all we know-" He got bonked again. "Stop hitting me that hurts!" he said. "Besides, I was-"

"Enough!" Rin said mad at him but he saw Mi-sun seeing Gojo carefully helping with picking Hana up. She was crying still curled up.

"Easy Hana, we got you. Were is the med area?" he asked.

"Come with me. I'll lead you. The rest of you please head to your dormitories please." she said before Gojo follows Mi-sun along with the other teachers. MIko was worried about her but Miwa was helping Kamo with getting Rioto ready to leave. Maki was glaring at Ryuji but he was looking quiet.

Yuji even leads Taz but he didn't want Ryuji to try anything else. Even if he was pissed himself he was to keep Taz calm and safe. The same for his friends too that was heading back.

"Tch, I don't get why she's upset. I'm sure she'll heal....she's a healer!" he said but as he said that, growling was heard that the exorcists sees a very angry Anaconda who was giant. They tense seeing him snarling at Ryuji while being huge! He was snaring knowing Miko was pissed.

"!?!?"

"Miko!! Miko, no no calm down!" Yuria said touching her worried but Miko said nothing while closing her hands into fists. "Easy.....Lets just head back.........."

"........." She said nothing but slowly exhaled but she was not happy. Her golden eyes were darkened in anger almost making Ryuji tense. However, after a second, she slowly turns away even if she was loo mad even leaving burning footprints. Anaconda saw her leaving but he looks mad before shrinking and follows after Miko with Dennis as well.

"........."

Seeing this, Yukio sighed then glares to grab Ryuji's ear. "OW!! What the-" that's when he was dragging him along with a quiet look. "HEY THAT HURTS! DON'T PULL ON MY EAR!" he said wincing.

"Everyone head back to your dorms...Now." Yukio said only once not happy with Ryuji's actions while Rin was mad but he didn't want to upset his brother so he sees everyone starting to head back.

[celuere]

Pooks I just had the unfortunate experience of coming across a comment that Arle, our Arle, is literally for the "male gaze" because, and I quote "she is a cold hearted mommy" 😫 Likeee?! Fuck this pains me so much. But I digress, that woman literally loved women, she loves tits and pussy. I hc her as someone who gropes her wife's chest (privately ofc) whenever she's busy or like stress. I know she has like.. warm blood? Or something, I'm definitely more than eager to be of service and warm her hands (not that she needed tho). Favorite bra fr

-🎐

STOP BECAUSE I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT VIDEO YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT AND WHAT COMMENT YOU MEAN. I LITERALLY SAW THAT LIKE TWO DAYS AGO OR SO AND IT PISSES ME OFF SO BAD

the whole point of arlecchino‘s character is that she is NOT the „nonchalant mommy“ people think her to be. it‘s her ENTIRE lore and personality that this woman is ANYTHING but nonchalant, she would literally die for her children are we serious???? and the people trying to still describe her as „mommy“ i am BEGGING you to shut up like we need to glue your lips together. god forbid arlecchino would happen to be a man i can’t even fathom the amount of „alpha male“ shit that would hit the towers if arlecchino was a „nonchalant daddy“ but women always have to be watered down to their tits and ass because men are unable to view a woman outside of a motherly role.

that being said, she does NOT like men. every single encounter this woman ever had with a man throughout the game has been negative. signora’s funeral? ripped her colleagues a new one. lynette’s assaulter? killed his whole fucking family. that one guy from her trailer? stabbed him to death with her literal heel and LIED into neuvillette‘s face about her connections to the case. then she went home to her wife and buckled up the strap and NOBODY will convince me otherwise.

arle would internally crash out the moment a man makes any moves on her or even worse. her wife. that’s a dead man right there. start planning your funeral buddy because you won’t be seeing tomorrow’s morning sun🙏🏼 the type of woman to kiss the living daylights out of you if a man happens to look at her or you the wrong way, hands shamelessly resting on your ass and she couldn’t care less about the judging looks.

i lowkey crashed out myself here but please stay FAR away from me and my blog if you are any of the people above mentioned because my account is not a safespace for illiterate idiots🩷🩷🩷

[sturnsblogs]

Petty revenge PT.2

Nerd!Chris X Mean!Girl!Reader

—

Chris wasn’t talking to you.

And you noticed.

You tried. When you try, you really do try.

You had sent him apology messages the night of the party, trying to explain, trying to fix things.

— “Chris, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

— “Baby, please talk to me.”

— “I feel horrible, I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

— “I love you. You know that, right?”

And all you got in return?

— “K.”

— “It’s fine.”

— “I’m busy.”

— “Whatever.”

Chris had never been like this with you before.

He was never cold. Never distant. Never the type to brush you off, to act like you didn’t matter.

But now?

Now, he barely gave you anything.

At first, you told yourself he was just being petty. That he was milking the situation, trying to make you suffer a little before he inevitably forgave you like he always did.

So you tried harder.

You showed up at his apartment with his favorite snacks, smiling at him like nothing was wrong, pressing kisses to his cheek, to his jaw, whispering, “Chris, baby, come on… don’t be like this.”

He barely reacted.

You cuddled into him when you saw him in person, running your hands over his chest, tracing shapes into his skin, whispering, “I’m sorry, baby. I swear I didn’t mean it.”

He hummed. That was it.

A simple, indifferent hum—like your words meant nothing to him.

You kissed him, desperate for something, for any sign that he was warming up to you again.

But when your lips met his?

He barely kissed back.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t him.

And when you tried to pull him closer, when you tried to deepen it, he pulled away.

You blinked, brows furrowing. “Why won’t you kiss me?”

Chris exhaled, leaning back, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Y/N. Maybe because last time I cared about something, you laughed in my face?”

Your heart dropped.

“Chris, I didn’t—”

He shook his head. “Can we not? I don’t wanna talk about this.”

You swallowed, trying to push back the tightness in your throat. “I just— I just wanna fix this.”

Chris’s jaw clenched. “Yeah? Well, some things don’t get fixed that fast.”

And Then He Started Hanging Out With Lauren.

You tried everything.

You sent sweet texts. You showed up at his place. You did anything you could think of to remind him that you loved him.

But Chris?

Chris was petty.

And his latest form of pettiness came in the shape of a study session with Lauren.

The same Lauren from his old study group. The same Lauren whose name had popped up on his phone once before, sparking the whole argument about whether he liked smart girls more than you.

You had made plans to see him. He was supposed to come over.

But then, an hour before he was supposed to show up—

— “Can’t come over. Gonna study with Lauren instead.”

Your stomach twisted.

You stared at the message for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you finally responded.

— “What?”

— “Why?”

Chris took his time replying.

— “Because I want to.”

That was it.

No excuse. No explanation. Just a simple, dismissive because I want to.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

Chris wasn’t doing this because he needed to study.

He was doing it because he knew it would piss you off.

Because he wanted you to feel what he felt.

Because this was the same toxic shit you pulled on him whenever he messed up.

And the worst part?

It was working.

And He Didn’t Stop There.

A few days later, when you finally got him to come over, he was different.

Not just cold—cocky.

You curled up beside him, desperate for any sort of affection, but he barely acknowledged it, scrolling through his phone with a smug little smirk.

You glanced at the screen. Lauren’s name.

Your stomach twisted.

Chris noticed.

And then?

He smirked.

“She’s actually really sweet, you know,” he murmured, still typing.

You stiffened. “What?”

Chris shrugged, finally setting his phone down. “Lauren.” He stretched his arms behind his head, letting out a small sigh. “She’s just… nice.”

Your jaw clenched. “Chris.”

“I mean, she actually listens when I talk,” he continued, completely ignoring your tone. “Doesn’t interrupt me or change the subject.” He tilted his head slightly, a slow smirk forming. “You know, sometimes I think you zone out when I talk about stuff I care about.”

Your stomach churned.

Chris chuckled. “Lauren doesn’t do that.”

You swallowed hard. “Chris, stop.”

He hummed, pretending to think. “She also doesn’t get annoyed when I get excited about something.” He turned to you, raising a brow. “Do you know how many times you’ve rolled your eyes at me when I try to explain something? How many times you’ve sighed like you couldn’t be bothered to care?”

You looked away. “I didn’t—”

“Lauren likes the things I talk about,” he cut in. “She actually wants to hear them. She doesn’t just tolerate them.”

Your breath hitched.

“She’s funny, too,” he added, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Not in a mean way. Not in a hurtful way. Just… naturally.” He let out a soft chuckle. “She laughs at my jokes.”

Your chest tightened. “Chris, I—”

“And she actually compliments me,” he continued like you hadn’t spoken. “You don’t do that a lot, you know.”

Your eyes burned.

Chris just smiled.

And then, just when you thought he was done—

He said it.

“Maybe I should’ve been with someone like that instead.”

The air was ripped from your lungs.

Your throat closed.

Chris didn’t take it back.

He didn’t soften. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t say he didn’t mean it.

He just sat there, arms crossed, watching you fall apart.

And then—

He fucking smirked.

Because for the first time?

He was making you feel small.

—

A/N- should he forgive her next chapter?

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @slvtme0utt @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl l @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill

[followingthebutterflies7]

Cabin Fever

Spencer Agnew x GN!Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Summary: You’re forced to share a bed during a week-long cabin retreat with your infuriating coworker Spencer Agnew. Somewhere between all the snide remarks and bickering, fighting starts to feel a lot like falling.

Warnings: Mild language, enemies to lovers tension, forced proximity/one bed trope, lots of pining and mutual emotional avoidance.

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

You and Spencer Agnew had… a history.

Not the cute kind. The “I can’t be in a room with you for more than fifteen minutes without arguing about something completely irrelevant” kind.

He got under your skin in that effortless way that only certain people do. Always quick with a sarcastic quip, always pretending not to care, always right when it mattered most, which only made it worse. He was charming in a smug, insufferable way. Infuriatingly quick-witted, too good at comebacks, and always had that damn half-smile on his face like he knew something you didn’t. You two clashed constantly, like flint and steel.

Everyone at Smosh knew the two of you didn’t get along. You were constantly being separated in group shoots to “keep the peace,” and when you were both unfortunately stuck in a group together everyone was walking on eggshells around you both. The tension between you was so thick, not even a sword could cut through it.

So when the team planned a full week retreat in the mountains for some downtime and brainstorming, you didn’t even think to worry. You’d be sharing a cabin with the crew, maybe bunk beds or couches or something. No big deal.

But the moment you saw Spencer Agnew’s name next to yours on the room assignments list, you knew the week was doomed. The Smosh cabin retreat was supposed to help everyone destress and relax, to disconnect from screens, and allegedly “bond.” How were you supposed to do any of that with Spencer Agnew in your room.

You had agreed to go to the cabin mostly for the free food and promise of hot chocolate by a fireplace. You had not agreed to be stuck sharing a room with the only person at Smosh you couldn’t get through a conversation with without biting your tongue.

“Room three,” Courtney said, handing you a key to your room upon your arrival. “Please be nice.”

“Define nice,” You grumbled, glaring at them through your lashes.

Courtney just laughed. “Try not to murder him. Some of us actually like him.”

They gave you a quick hug and sent you on your way to your own personal hell for the week.

You convinced yourself it would be fine. You would be the bigger person, not make a big deal about the room assignment, and have a fabulous time at the cabin retreat just to piss Spencer off.

And everything was fine, until you opened the door to your assigned room and saw a single queen-sized bed.

And Spencer was already sitting on it, scrolling on his phone.

You stopped dead in the doorway just looking in with your suitcase in hand. Your brain had short circuited and all hope you had for the week disappeared.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

He didn’t look up. “I didn’t say anything. So I can’t be kidding.”

You stared at the bed. “There’s only one.”

Spencer finally glanced up, one eyebrow raised. “Wow, you’re great at counting. This’ll be fun.”

You groaned. “I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“No, you’re sleeping in the bed.”

“You’re not sleeping next to me.” You said quickly.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he said, already setting his bag on the floor. “I’ll take the floor. Not like it’s the first time I’ve slept on hard surfaces.”

You blinked. “Be my guest.”

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

Night One

Spencer had made a makeshift bed out of throw pillows and a folded blanket from the linen closet. It looked fine. Not ideal, but you were determined to avoid sharing a bed with him.

You had to be honest, you did feel a little guilty, but you’d rather he woke up with a crick in his neck than risk kicking him in your sleep and giving him bragging rights for the rest of eternity.

Spencer didn’t say much as he changed into a t-shirt and joggers, and you brushed your teeth in the shared bathroom, already in your pajamas. You didn’t listen to what little he was saying, just like how you had ignored him the majority of the day. You just wanted to escape this horrid situation by sinking into your soft pillow and sweet dreams.

You curled up on the bed, back turned to the room, feeling weirdly tense even though Spencer wasn’t even on the mattress. You had glanced down to see him wrapping himself up on the cold floor like a disgruntled burrito, muttering something to himself that you couldn’t hear.

But you caught the end of his words, just as you rolled onto your side:

“…you know there’s room down here.”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Despite your best efforts, you couldn't fall asleep. Not because of the cold, not because of the bed. Because just knowing that Spencer was somewhere in the darkness set you on edge.

You could hear him breathing. Soft and steady and too close for comfort.

You hated that you noticed.

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

Night Two

You two argued about firewood. Being the bigger person be damned.

You argued over who should’ve grabbed it, whether it was stacked correctly, if it was even real firewood. What was kindling and what was tinder, and how to place it in your room's fireplace correctly. You stormed across the room and paced around him, fuming.

“I don’t get why you have to act like you know everything,” you muttered, digging through your bag for your extra hoodie. You pulled it on, then threw your coat over it.

“I don’t act like I know everything,” he said calmly, sitting down in the chair in the corner. “I do know everything. It’s a burden, really.”

You threw a pillow at his head.

He dodged it, laughing. “Wow, mature.”

You just flipped him off, proving his point, and stormed out of the room.

“Hey, are you alright?” Courtney asked as you stomped through the living room and towards the front door.

“Yep. Just need some fresh air.” You said shortly and accidentally slammed the door behind you, making the windows of the cabin quiver.

You trudged around the cabin, the snow inhibiting your desire to stomp around in rage. You couldn’t stand Spencer’s smug attitude. You hated how he was actually right a lot of time. You hated how his mouth curled up in a little smirk when he saw you knew he was right. You hated how much you stared at his lips in that smirk.

You walked a couple laps around the cabin, just trying to blow off steam. Finally coming to a stop to catch your breath, you noticed you were standing in front of the window to your shared room. Peeking inside, you caught Spencer pulling off his sweatshirt, the fabric riding up just enough to flash a glimpse of skin. Despite the cold, your cheeks instantly got warm. You looked away immediately, deciding it was time to go inside.

Upon reentering your room, you purposely kept your eyes far away from Spencer. If you so much as looked at his feet you started to feel a little hot. You didn’t speak as you gathered your things to take a shower and get ready for bed.

When you were done, you were expecting the lamp in your shared room to be turned off and Spencer to be once again curled up on the floor. What you weren't expecting was him to be right outside the bathroom door. You nearly ran into him.

“Did you enjoy the show earlier?”

“I- what?” Your face got hot again.

“In the window. Did you enjoy the show?”

You scoffed. “Please. I’ve seen more defined abs on bread dough.”

He snorted. “Don’t pretend you don’t look.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You don’t deny it, though.”

You pushed past him to get into your bed. “Shut up and get in your blanket cocoon.”

Later that night, a storm rolled in. It was loud, wind howling through the trees outside. It was cold, so much colder than the night before. You shifted under the covers, listening to the occasional crack of thunder.

Then a whisper: “Are you awake?”

You rolled over. “What?”

“Do you think anyone else is sharing a room this awkwardly?” His teeth chattered.

You stared into the dark. “Only if they also hate their roommate.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then: “Do you actually hate me?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure how to say “I think I might like you too much to just hate you.”

Like the night before, you lay awake in bed just listening to his breathing. You waited until it slowed and deepened. Then you got up, trying to not let the bed creak, and you silently placed your spare blanket on top of his huddled form.

As you crawled back into bed, you didn’t see the small smile appear on his face.

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

Night Three

Courtney and Shayne had to pull you aside after dinner. They claimed it was your turn to help with dishes, but you knew it was supposed to be Angela. You helped regardless.

“You guys have to stop fighting,” Courtney said, handing you a plate to dry.

“We’re not fighting,” you replied too quickly, whipping the towel around a little too forcefully.

“Your entire vibe is aggressively like an old married couple on the brink of divorce,” Shayne added, his arms elbow-deep in soapy water. “It’s unbearable.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not like that.”

Courtney gave you a long look. “You sure?”

You just finished putting the dishes away and walked away from them, not wanting to discuss Spencer any further. Unbeknownst to you, your two friends had taken matters into their own hands. Courtney had “accidentally” taken all the extra blankets for the group movie night, and the floor was officially freezing.

That night, when you walked into the room, Spencer was shivering in the fetal position on top of just the few throw pillows that were mercifully not stolen by Courtney. Spencer’s back was turned and didn’t say anything when you entered.

You stood there, staring at his pitiful floor setup. You knew his back was sore, you had seen him stretching and groaning in pain from the corner of your eye all day. You knew he was tired, he had a concerning amount of energy drinks during the day, at least four more than usual.

And you were tired too, tired of how quiet the room felt when he wasn’t tossing jabs your way because he didn’t have the energy. He didn’t even try to get another rise out of you after your third “fight” of the day. You wouldn’t stand for it.

“…Fine,” you mumbled. “Just get in the bed.”

Spencer rolled over to look at you over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Romance isn’t dead.”

“I’m serious. I’m not letting you freeze to death just because we’re emotionally stunted.”

“Fair.”

You crawled into the bed slowly, keeping to your side.

He climbed in slowly, leaving a polite three feet of space between you. Neither of you moved. Neither of you slept. Neither of you really tried.

After twenty minutes of silence, he finally spoke, voice low. “ You didn’t answer me last night. Why do you hate me?”

You exhaled. “I don’t.”

He turned to face you in the dark. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You swallowed. “I don’t hate you. You just… get under my skin.”

His voice dropped an octave. “Is that a bad thing?

You turned to look at him. His face was inches from yours now, barely lit by the glow of the moon through the curtain.

“No,” you said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

There was a pause. Then a very, very quiet: “You drive me insane, you know that?”

“I lose brain cells talking to you.”

“Every time you roll your eyes at me, I want to kiss you just to make you stop.”

Your breath caught.

You could barely see him, but you could feel him, warm and close, the air between you charged and heavy and full of something that had been buried for too long.

And then:

You kissed him.

Just once. Soft, cautious, like a question neither of you had been brave enough to ask before.

When you pulled back, Spencer didn’t move, but his voice came soft through the dark. “Took you long enough.”

You laughed, quiet and surprised. And even though you couldn’t see it, he smiled like he hadn’t in months.

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

Night Four

Something changed.

Not dramatically, just barely enough to catch the corner of your eye if you knew where to look.

It started on the trail for the “Team Bonding Hike.” You didn’t argue during the hike. Not even once.

You’d both also ended up near the back of the hiking group, not deliberately, but not entirely by accident either. The rest of the cast was ahead, laughing about how Shayne tripped over a funny looking root. You and Spencer? Quietly walking. One could say even peacefully so.

He offered you his water bottle when yours ran out. No teasing, no smirk. Just a simple, “Here,” and a glance that lingered too long.

Later, when the wind picked up, you tugged your spare beanie from your backpack and held it out to him. “You’re gonna complain the whole way back if your ears freeze.”

He took it wordlessly. Pulled it on. And smiled just slightly.

When you returned to the cabin, the others filtered inside in pairs, stomping snow from their boots and shedding jackets. You hung back to kick off your own boots, fingers still cold and clumsy.

Spencer leaned against the doorframe behind you, watching you wrestle with the laces.

“You’re not as annoying as I remembered,” he said casually.

You looked up, frowning. “Is that your version of a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved into a smile before you could stop them.

He saw it. You saw that he saw it.

And neither of you said a word.

He just kneeled down, pushed your still struggling fingers aside, effortlessly untied your boot laces for you and walked away without another word.

That night, when you slid into bed, it was quieter than usual. No jabs. No grumbles about the blanket being uneven or the pillow “mysteriously” moving closer to the center of the bed.

Just warmth.

You both lay facing away from each other, suddenly shy as the memories of last night resurfaced. Your legs stretched toward opposite corners of the mattress.

But under the blankets, your feet brushed.

Neither of you moved away.

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

Night Five

You couldn’t sleep.

Not from the cold, Spencer ran warm. His side of the bed was a furnace, radiating heat like a human space heater. But your mind wouldn’t rest. It had started replaying every moment from the last few days with new clarity. A look here. A laugh there.

The water bottle.

The beanie.

The way he hadn’t pulled away from your touch.

The kiss.

You stared at the ceiling, eyes wide in the darkness, heart thudding far too loudly in your chest. You were sure Spencer could hear it.

But next to you, Spencer was still.

Too still.

You rolled on your side to face him.

“Hey,” you whispered. “You awake?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. You were about to roll back over when-

“…Yeah.”

You hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”

Sheets rustled. He shifted slightly, just enough to turn and face you. “Sure.”

Your voice came quieter now. “Why do we fight so much?”

There was a long pause. You could hear the wind against the cabin window, the distant creak of old wood and footsteps upstairs.

Then Spencer breathed out.

“I think…” He sounded unsure. Not like him. “It’s easier than admitting I like you.”

The room went silent again. Your breath caught and your chest clenched. “What?”

He didn’t try to explain it away. He just let it sit there, honest and a little raw.

“I mean, I’m not good at it,” he went on, barely above a whisper now. “But I’ve been trying to show it. I brought you tea last week. You didn’t even notice.”

Now your chest ached. “I noticed.”

He stilled.

“I noticed everything,” you admitted, voice fragile. “You gave me your seat at lunch even though you made it look like you didn’t want it. You offered me gum when I was nervous. You let me have the bed while you slept on the floor. The cold, hard floor. You always act like I’m a pain, but you’ve been kind in all these quiet little ways, and I didn’t know if it meant something or if I was just imagining it.”

In the dark, you reached across the invisible boundary line that had lived between you since the first night. The line that had only been broken once before with a forbidden kiss you two still hadn't discussed.

Your fingers brushed his arm, hesitant, barely touching his wrist.

His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours gently. Solid. Steady.

Spencer whispered, “You weren’t imagining it.”

You stared at each other in the dark. Not a word more passed between you.

But you did not let go.

Not all night.

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

The Next Morning

You woke up slowly.

Soft morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains, and for a moment, you didn’t register why the bed felt… different.

And then you realized.

The space between you was gone.

Spencer’s arm was draped across your waist.

Your head was on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

Your legs were tangled together under the blankets, and the space between you that had once been filled with tension, complaints, and imaginary lines was now filled with warmth. Breath. Connection.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You just… stayed there.

Content. Warm.

Home.

He was awake, you realized, a few minutes later. His hand was gently rubbing circles on your back through the fabric of your shirt. Not suggestive. Not playful.

Just comforting.

He was holding you like he’d always meant to.

“I could get used to this,” he murmured eventually, voice rough with sleep.

You smiled into his chest. “So could I.”

At breakfast you sat next to each other without thinking, without any awkwardness, and without needing to explain anything.

Spencer handed you your coffee without asking how you liked it. You leaned into his shoulder when you laughed at something Shayne said. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table and didn’t move.

No one said anything. But they noticed.

You could feel it in the way Courtney looked over and smiled for half a second too long. In the way Angela bit her lip to keep from grinning. In the way that no one cracked a single joke about the two of you being civil, like they didn’t want to break the spell.

But it wasn’t a spell. It was something real.

Later, as people drifted outside to start packing the van, you lingered back to rinse your mug. Spencer stood behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his presence at your back.

When you turned, his hand came up gently to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear. It was quiet in the cabin, just soft footsteps upstairs, and the distant buzz of someone zipping a duffel bag.

“Hey,” he said.

You looked up.

“I don’t want this to stay here,” he said, voice low. “Whatever this is. Us. I want to keep figuring it out when we’re back.”

Your heart flipped. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I really, really do.”

You nodded, unable to stop the smile that bloomed on your face.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I think I’m already used to waking up next to you.”

Spencer leaned in and kissed you, slow and sure, like a promise.

And for once, there was no fight left between you.

Just warmth. Just honesty. Just him.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

❤︎ first meeting ❤︎

❤︎ Butcher x Sunny ❤︎

Warnings: language.

Word Count: 1,555

Butcher met you in a fucking meadow.

No, seriously. An actual meadow. Wildflowers and all. Looked like the cover of a bloody indie folk album.

He was already in a foul mood—hay-fever, jetlag, the vague threat of another supe hiding out somewhere nearby. Should’ve been a quick recon stop near the safehouse. Should’ve been quiet. Uneventful.

Instead, you were there.

Sat cross-legged in the grass like a little gremlin hippie elf thing, bashing away on a tiny portable keyboard propped on your knees. Headphones on. Daisy chain looped around your wrist. Yellow fucking Converse tapping along to whatever sunshine bullshit you were playing.

You had a picnic blanket under your arse, speckled with sheet music, cracked-open poetry books, and two jars of honey—one already half gone. You were eating it with your fingers. Straight out the jar. Like Winnie the bloody Pooh... if he was even more of a cunt.

Butcher stopped dead, mid-step, and blinked like he was hallucinating.

Didn’t look like you’d clocked him. Too busy giggling to yourself at… something. Maybe the music. Maybe the honey. Maybe the cloud shaped like a cow overhead. He had no idea. And frankly, it pissed him off how curious he was about it.

He crossed his arms and squinted.

What the fuck were you doing all the way out here? No car in sight. No phone. No weapons. No backup. Just a yellow bag spilling with god knows what—he saw a feather boa, a kazoo, a bloody banana with glitter on it. Christ.

“You lost, sweetheart?” He called out eventually, gravel in his voice.

You jumped. Blinked up at him with the widest brown eyes he’d ever seen—like two pans of hot caramel left too long on the stove—and pulled your headphones off with a bashful little grin.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there,” you said, brushing grass off your skirt. “You’ve got eyes like a storm, huh?”

Butcher stared at you. Then at the field. Then back at you.

You beamed. And he fucking hated it.

Butcher didn’t move. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like he was trying to decide whether to shoot you or set up camp and die quietly.

You didn’t seem bothered. Just turned back to your keyboard, tapping a few keys with honey-sticky fingers, humming something that sounded like a lullaby dipped in glitter. Not a care in the world. No fear. No backup. No fucks given.

He squinted. There was something wrong with you. There had to be.

“What the fuck are you doin’ out here?” He muttered.

You didn’t answer straight away. Just reached into that ridiculous yellow bag beside you—stuffed to bursting with sheet music, flower crowns, and what looked like a kazoo—and pulled out a plastic tub.

“I like the way the wildflowers sound,” you said, like that explained anything.

Butcher blinked.

You held up the Tupperware. “Pineapple?”

He stared at it. “You always feed strange men sittin’ in the dirt?”

“Only the ones with a jaw that could cut glass and a face like a thunderstorm.” Then you popped a chunk into your mouth and closed your eyes like it was transcendental. A little hum slipped out of you. Soft. Pleased. Fucking dangerous.

Butcher should’ve turned around. Left you to your fucking fruit and your keyboard and your absolutely concerning levels of optimism.

Instead, he stepped closer.

You opened your eyes and smiled like he’d just passed some secret test.

He crouched—grunting, knee popping—and accepted the pineapple. You watched him, chin in your hands, like he was the most interesting thing you’d seen all day.

It was sweet. Warm from the sun.

So were you.

He glanced down at your fingers—sticky with honey, glitter smudged across the knuckles. You looked like a fever dream. Like a hallucination with good taste in fruit and no sense of self-preservation.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You high?”

“Nope.” You beamed. “Just happy.”

He scoffed. “Same bleedin' thing.”

You tilted your head. “You always this grumbly or is this just for me?”

Butcher huffed out something like a laugh. It startled both of you.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“There what is?”

“That sound,” you said, grinning. “Sounds good.”

He stared at you. The way the sunlight hit your braid. The way your skirt fluttered in the breeze. The way you looked like you belonged here, in the middle of nowhere, like some kind of sun-drenched cryptid who only came out to feed people fruit and ruin their day with joy.

You pulled another pineapple chunk free, then tossed him a look over your shoulder.

“If the world’s ending, might as well eat fruit in a meadow with someone mysterious and grumbly, right?”

Butcher blinked.

Once. Twice. Then looked at you like maybe—just maybe—you were something worse than a supe.

You were hope. And that scared the ever-loving fuck out of him.

Butcher was seriously debating fucking off.

He’d had enough of this sunshine-scented acid trip. Enough of the yellow shoes and sticky fingers and the way your laugh kept slipping under his ribs like it was trying to make a home there.

You were draining the fuck out of him. Like staring into the sun too long, all squint and ache and after-burn.

But still, he didn’t move. Just sat there on the edge of your ridiculous little picnic blanket like some war-torn gargoyle, pineapple chunk halfway to his mouth, watching you play your shitty plastic keyboard with all the focus of a concert pianist.

And then—

“What’s your name?” You asked, voice like sunlight on wet grass. Bright. Soft. New.

Butcher looked at you. Didn’t answer.

Gave you the smirk instead—the one that made people flinch, the one that said you don’t wanna know, love. That sharp little curl of lip, tongue pressed to his teeth, head tilting like he was about to say something unholy.

Your eyes widened. Big. Innocent. Fucking gleaming. Then you smiled.

“You’re handsome,” you said, so sincerely it made his brain short out. Like you were complimenting the weather. Like it was just a fact you’d noticed, and weren’t planning to keep to yourself.

Butcher snorted. Loud. Ugly. Real. It ripped out of him like he’d been holding it in since the war.

“You’re fuckin’ weird,” he muttered, but he was smiling. Almost.

You held out another pineapple chunk like it was a reward. He took it.

“Butcher,” he said after a beat.

You blinked at him. “Like… a butcher?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Exactly like a butcher.”

You nodded solemnly. “Cool.”

And you meant it. Fucking hell.

He stared at you, trying not to grin, and then said, “Alright, sunshine. What about you?”

You brightened even more—if that was possible—and said, “Sunny.”

Butcher barked a laugh. Loud and sudden. Shocked even himself.

“You’re takin’ the piss.”

You shook your head, curls bouncing, that same honey-smile on your lips. “Nope. Swear. My mom says I came out smiling.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, still chuckling. “Sunny.”

You kicked your feet out in front of you and flopped back into the grass like a kid at recess. “You don’t like it?”

He looked at you—really looked. Daisies in your braid. Glitter on your fingers. Joy in your bones.

No. He fucking liked it too much.

Butcher swallowed.

Thing was… he didn’t think he’d find anyone cute again. Not after Becca. Not after all the blood and bile and blackened shit he’d crawled through. He thought that part of him was dead. Gone.

But here you were.

This mental little sunshine gremlin in a pissing meadow, eating pineapple and honey like a bear on acid, playing music like it kept you alive.

And you’d looked at him like he was something worth feeding.

Fuck.

He was in trouble.

You were watching him. He could feel it—those big, sunlit eyes studying him like he was a song you hadn’t learned the words to yet. Like you were trying to figure out where the chords were off.

It made his skin itch.

Then you said it. Casual. Kind. Catastrophic. “You look like someone who’s forgotten how to rest.”

Butcher froze. Just for a second.

Like you’d cracked something open without meaning to. Like the words had found a wound and pressed.

He coughed once—gruff, sharp—then looked away.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You always go ‘round psychoanalysin’ strangers in meadows?”

You just shrugged, smiling like you hadn’t just kicked him straight in the ribs. “Only the ones who need it.”

He hated how warm that made him feel. Like a sip of whisky you didn’t earn.

So he changed the subject.

“Right,” he said, glancing around. “How the fuck did you even get out 'ere?”

“Oh!” You sat up, brushing grass off your skirt. “I rode my bike.”

Butcher blinked.

You pointed vaguely toward the treeline, all cheerful and useless. “It’s somewhere in the forest. Maybe near a big rock? Or a log? Or… maybe a weirdly shaped stump. I dunno. I left it when I found this spot and kinda wandered off.”

“Wandered off,” he repeated, flatly.

You nodded, popping more pineapple into your mouth.

He stared at you. At the glitter on your face. The scuffed-up yellow Converse. The sheet music fluttering in the breeze. He tried—really tried—not to find you adorable.

Failed.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “You need a fuckin’ lift home?”

You lit up like he’d offered you a puppy. “Would you?”

“‘Course I would,” he grumbled, already regretting it. “Not lettin’ some mad pixie keyboard goblin get murdered in the woods on my watch.”

You beamed at him. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me.”

He shook his head, but there was a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth, and you saw it.

He hated that.

He hated you.

He also thought you might be the most dangerously lovely thing he’d seen in years. And that scared him more than any supe ever had.

A/N: AHH! My first ever Butcher x Reader fic (obviously I've written him before, but never as the main character/main love-interest.) I hope I've done him justice. I think I have. It helps that I'm also British, but we'll see what you guys think! I am SO excited for this storyline, guys. Honourable mention: Sunny is largely based off of Zoe, because she is actual sunshine, and massively gives me Sunny vibes. <3 I hope y'all likeeeey! Please let me know. All the love.

@losers-clvb @drakulana <3

[sagesturns]

What The Hell Did You Do To Me? -M.S

Matt didn’t do love. He didn’t do attachment, or affection, or anything that required his heart to actually be involved. His life was neat, orderly, and emotionally untethered. He kept things simple. No complications. No strings.

The arrangement with you had always been straightforward. A mutual release. A way to unload the stress of the day, to let off steam. Nothing more. At least, that’s how he saw it. He didn’t need more, and you didn’t seem to want it either. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t do relationships. He didn't do feelings. And you’d never pushed.

But somehow, little by little, things had started to shift. He tried to ignore it at first—dismiss the way your smile made his chest tighten, the way your laugh lingered in his mind long after you’d left. Your habits, the way you spun the ring on your finger when you were nervous, or how your eyelashes fluttered when you looked up at him—all of it started to invade his thoughts. He hated that he noticed. He hated how his eyes seemed to always find you, how his mind followed your every movement.

You’d say things sometimes—innocent things, really. After a night together, when the air between you both was heavy with sweat and whispers, you’d murmur something like, “Maybe this could be more, Matt. Maybe we could be more.”

And he’d shut it down, every time. Quickly. Firmly. No hesitation.

“No,” he’d say, voice flat, “I don’t do that. You know that.”

It was always easy to push you away in those moments, to remind you of the boundaries. He kept everything in check, just the way he liked it. But over time, it wasn’t so easy. The words, the touch, the way you made him feel—he could no longer ignore it.

It was like a constant hum in the background of his mind. And it pissed him off.

He tried to fight it. Focus on his work. Keep his distance. But no matter how hard he tried, you were there. In the quiet moments when his mind was free to wander, there you were. The way your hand grazed his skin when you passed him in the hallway, the way you sighed against him in the dead of night, making him feel like he was drowning in something he didn’t want to feel.

He hated it. Hated how you made him feel. How he could no longer go a day without thinking about you, without wondering what it would be like to have you in his life, to actually have something real with you.

And then, one night, it all came to a head.

The frustration, the confusion, the raw need to just get it out, to scream it all into the universe—Matt couldn’t take it anymore. He was shaking, his heart racing as he drove to your apartment, unable to stop himself, as if some unseen force was pulling him toward you. The road blurred in his vision, his hands tight on the wheel, his breath coming too fast. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew he needed to get to you. He needed to yell at you. To tell you exactly what he was feeling, what you’d done to him.

He knocked on your door, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. When you opened it, you barely had time to register the fury in his eyes before he pushed past you, forcing his way inside.

“I fucking hate you,” he growled, his voice sharp and dangerous.

Your eyes widened at his words, your mouth opening to respond, but before you could say anything, he was already on you, his hands gripping your arms, shaking with pent-up anger.

“I hate you,” he repeated, his voice a low growl, “for what you’re doing to me. You made me feel this... this thing, and I can’t get rid of it. Every time I look at you, it’s like I’m losing my mind. You’re all I think about, and I fucking hate it.” He let out a airy laugh, but it was a bitter sound, twisted like a knot in his chest, as if the anger and disbelief were clawing their way out, refusing to let the truth in.

His breath was ragged, his chest heaving as the anger spilled out. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling.

“I didn’t want this,” he continued, his voice quieter now, a mixture of frustration and something else he couldn’t quite name. “I didn’t want to care. But here I am, thinking about you all the goddamn time. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop this... this feeling you’ve given me.”

You stood there, silent, trying to process what he was saying, but before you could speak, he was there again, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for something he couldn’t find.

“You’ve fucked me up,” he muttered, his voice breaking on the words. “I hate the way you make me feel.”

There was a silence, thick and heavy, as you stood frozen in his gaze. You could see it in his eyes—the conflict, the anger, the raw emotion. You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t seem to know either, but before you could say a word, his lips crashed onto yours, hard and desperate. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t soft—it was a kiss that carried all the frustration, the confusion, the need he had been trying to suppress.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven, his face just inches from yours.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he whispered, his voice rough, like it was the hardest thing he’d ever had to say.

It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an admission of something he wasn’t ready to face, something that had been building up between you both for so long that neither of you could pretend it wasn’t there anymore.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t hate you. Not really. What he hated was how you made him feel, how you turned his world upside down with just a touch, a smile, a word.

He hated it because he didn’t know how to control it. How to stop it.

And now, neither of you could pretend anymore.

🏷️: @sweetshuga @strnilolover @sturnmeovr @marrykisskilled

wc: 1k

©sagesturns

[butch-bakugo]

Don't wanna be a party pooper system but the treatment of doey by the fandom isn't just becoming weirdly hyper focused on infantilizing ALL of doey's alters, not just Jack, but it's absolute obsession with tearing them apart back into singlets(non-sys) is 100% just becoming ableism at this point.

The first time I saw people making each of them have their own bodies by making smaller doey's with their colors to match, It kinda irked me but I could look at it through a lense of someone who isn't a system and see why it wouldn't occur to them that they are basically ableizing him/removing his mental disability in favor of cute tiny ones. It is bad to basically erase his mental disability period, it doesn't matter the reason.

But now it's super fucking common and it's starting to just piss me off. There's something so uncomfortable and insidious to specifically watch non systems go out of their way to physically rip a system apart into different bodies to make the character a singlets and then infantilize all of them so they can treat each of them like different people. It's like if an au came about that specifically gave a wheelchair bound character cyborg legs so they could walk and basically turned them into an able-bodied character and then everyone starting doing that au everywhere all the time. Y'all only think this is ok because you have no systems in your life period or none who will push back against you and DID/systemhood is a demonized and rarely understood mental disability.

Yes, it is weird and ableist that singlets are specifically obsessed with re-splitting doey into individual people. Not just in an ableist sense of making doey a singlet but also it's just kind of... Ooc? We see and hear the alters interact with each other and soothe each other and if doey wanted to be separated where each alter had their own hunk of dough, he would of done it by now. He would of split off on his own either at some point before we got there and Poppy's playtime would of mentioned it or while we were there. Except he doesn't and although there are plenty of alters within numerous systems who, if given the chance, would happily have a body of their own but that is not a common desire and certainly not the entire system. Not to mention this au is usually meant to be post-chapter 4 after doey's death. Are y'all literally killing the system to save the alter?? Like?? Healing for most systems isn't final fusion, it's healthy multiplicity. Also the fact y'all are basically implying that the only reason doey didn't like you was because he was a system and the only way for him to heal is to be forcibly ripped apart are quite literally just ignoring that doey was justified in attacking the player. Y'all blew up safe haven and killed everyone he loved, you would just have a bunch of really angry little doey's... That are all still systems. Even then to portray that the only way he could "heal" ( be nice to you as the player) is being turned into a singlet is quite literally starting to tip into eugenics.

I don't want to imply or suggest malice where it's not but there's something so poetic and gross about singlets just assuming that they know what's best for a system and the choice they immediately come to is completely ableifying him, separating his alters into their own bodies and force him to be happy about it. Out of all the aus that could become popular, their choice is to erase someone's disability. Oh, and infantilize every alter into tiny doeys that their grey ex-worker y/n must take care of like literal children... Despite 2 of them being older teens?

The Au is ableist, stopping splitting doey up. You are basically erasing his disability and trying to portray it as him "healing". Y'all look like the people who constantly give characters with amputations prosthetics even though the media showed them being happy without them then basically turn it into a normal arm with a sleeve and a joke.

It's just ✨ ableism and disability erasure ✨ at some point.

Non-systems/singlets in the Poppy's playtime fandom please reblog this, more people need to be aware of the implications they make with this au.

[bakuchrome]

Sweetest Temptation ☆ Katsuki Bakugou

☆𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭☆ ➥@𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭!!

Master List

Bakugo had always prided himself on being a loyal guy. He wasn’t the type to stray, wasn’t the kind to entertain thoughts of anyone other than the person he was with. But somehow, he’d ended up in the worst possible scenario: falling for the younger sister of his own girlfriend. And the worst part? He hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

You were everything he wanted— sharp-witted, effortlessly alluring, and completely unattainable. It was just bad luck. That’s what he told himself when he lay awake at night, frustrated beyond belief, replaying stolen moments with you over and over again. If he’d met you first, things would’ve been different. But he hadn’t. And now he was stuck in this impossible situation, trying to be a good man while his thoughts betrayed him.

Tonight, he was supposed to be here for your sister. He needed to talk to her about something important, something he barely remembered now because the second he walked through the door, his attention was drawn to you— and the guy sitting way too close to you on the couch.

Your laughter rang through the room like a taunt, like a challenge. Bakugo clenched his jaw, his entire body stiffening as he took in the sight of you leaning into some random asshole, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. You looked good— too good. Dressed in some skimpy little thing that made his fists clench in frustration. His girlfriend’s little sister shouldn’t look that good. He shouldn’t care. But he did.

He swallowed down the bitterness crawling up his throat and forced himself to sit in the living room, waiting for your sister to come home. But his patience ran thin when he saw the way the guy touched you— his fingers grazing your wrist, a cocky grin tugging at his lips like he thought he had a fucking chance.

And then, just as Bakugo was about to explode, you stood up, your fingers curling around the guy’s wrist as you led him toward the stairs.

Something inside him snapped.

Bakugo was on his feet before he could stop himself, moving with a sharp, predatory energy as he followed you up the stairs. The door was barely shut when he barged in, eyes blazing with fury. You and the guy barely had time to react before he was grabbing the asshole by the collar and dragging him toward the door.

“Get the fuck out,” Bakugo snarled, shoving the guy back into the hallway.

“What the hell, man?” the guy sputtered, glancing at you as if you’d do something about it.

You just stood there, lips parted in shock, watching the way Bakugo’s chest rose and fell with heavy, angry breaths. You knew he was jealous. You knew it the second he laid eyes on you tonight. And maybe, just maybe, you had done it on purpose.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Bakugo growled. “Get out.”

The guy left without another word, slamming the door behind him, and then it was just the two of you.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

Bakugo took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, intoxicating. “Oh yeah? And what the fuck does that make you, huh? Flirting with that loser just to piss me off?”

You smirked, a dangerous glint in your eyes. “Is it working?”

He was on you in an instant, his hand gripping your chin as he tilted your head up, his breath hot against your lips. “You have no idea how bad I want you,” he admitted, voice rough with restraint.

And then he kissed you.

It was a clash of desperation and hunger, a long-repressed desire finally breaking free. His hands were rough as they roamed your body, gripping, claiming, like he was trying to make up for all the lost time. You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed you back against the bed.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, even as you arched into him.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growled, lips trailing down your neck, hands sliding under your shirt. “You think I can just sit back and watch some other guy touch you? Fuck that.”

The moment was electric, teetering on the edge of something irreversible when—

The front door opened.

Your sister’s voice rang through the house, casual, oblivious. “I’m home!”

Bakugo froze above you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide with lust. You stared up at him, lips swollen, heart pounding. Reality crashed over both of you like a cold wave.

What the hell had you just done?

☆𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭☆ ➥@𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭/ask 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭!!

[helaegoncore]

Aegon cares for his children

Since, even after season two and Tom's interviews, I still see some comments from users who present the same old story "Aegon never cared about Helaena and their children!!", I thought to give here some precisions as to why this remark, in the book, is totally false (it is in the show as well, but this is another matter, since book!Aegon is very different from show!Aegon for some aspects).

1) I often say this, but I am keeping doing it: Aegon and Helaena shared a bed. You don't share a bed with someone you don't care about, expecially in medieval times, where it was customary for couples to sleep in separate rooms. The exception rather was to sleep in the same room. This is valid also for ASOIAF. Eddard and Catelyn, despite loving each other, slept in separate rooms, and Viserys and Alicent as well, just to make a few examples.

2) Immediately after Blood and Cheese, Aegon is described as "in pain and fury". As a result of this, as in the show, he gives orders to kill all the ratcatchers in the city. Later, he also expresses his wish to "avenge the murder of his heir at the hands of Blood and Cheese", wanting to personally fly on Dragonstone to seize Rhaenyra and her sons. It took the intervention of the ENTIRE Green Council to dissuade him. Does this sound as the reaction of a parent who doesn't care for their child? Quite the opposite.

Also, Rook's Rest is the result, in the book, of his desire for revenge, thought by Criston Cole INVOLVING Aegon, and with his full approval and consent.

3) Aegon realises that Helaena is unfortunately no longer able to take care of Maelor after the tragedy, so he entrusts the child to Alicent. If Aegon had been neglectful of his children, he certainly wouldn't have noticed this and wouldn't have taken steps to ensure that his child was well cared for.

4) When Rhaenyra takes King's Landing, despite it all happens very quickly, Aegon sends away also his children, Maelor and Jaehaera, entrusting them to two King's Guards. This one actually was one of the worst changes in the show. Aegon would have never let his children in the city in the book. The fact they left Jaehaera in King's Landing in HotD is their new attempt to show Aegon as a "neglectful father" when huh, guess what? There isn't any evidence of it in the books.

As for the show, Tom (who, unlike other actors, I remind you read F&B) often pointed out in many interviews how Aegon is proud of BOTH his children (Maelor doesn't exist here and this pisses me off a lot), and how he used to present them to court, etc.. He also refers about Helaena and the children as to "the sanctity of my family". The fact the show didn't include any scene between Aegon and Jaehaera is actually a new proof of bad writing (as it is the fact Jaehaerys never shares a scene with Helaena!! It was all orchestrated from the writers in order to sideline Helaegon and TG as much as possible). It proves nothing about Aegon being this supposed "neglectful parent" TB stans wished he was. We literally never saw them interacting - they didn't even care to spell out Jaehaera's name, for what matters. So it is really fool to jump to conclusions for something that isn't even been adressed in the show, expecially when Tom said otherwise multiple times.

[so-i-did-this-thing]

I saw your shoes in one of those acgas cosplay posts the other day and I was like "huh those are some nice shoes"

Well today I was out not really planning on ahopping for anything like that but I walked by a shoe store I had been in before but hadn't been able to find the kind of thing I wanted, but today I just impulsively walked in again and immediately saw these shoes I liked that look very classically masculine but still casual. Like I could wear them and feel like a "well dressed adult man" but they're not fancy dress shoes and they were just pretty much what I had been looking for! Also because they're lowkey pointed so they make my feet look bigger which is a huge plus for me.

So anyway idk I just feel like looking at your blog and the way you dress inspired me even subconsciously to look for some nicer options for myself.

It's kinda funny because when I was younger (late teens/early 20s) and starting to socially transition I got a lot of nice clothes but they weren't quite my style because I guess I was just trying to compensate and appear as "regular cis guy" as possible, then in the last few years I've abandoned all the nice shirts and sweaters because I've gotten lazy and just go with shirts and cargo pants and sneakers that make me look like a teenager.

But now that I'm almost 30 I'm really starting to feel more like... yeah.. maybe I would feel and look more like a grown up if I actually made the effort to dress like one XD

So, those shoes just made me feel really good and seem to be a good step. Now to find a pair of nice pants and a jacket that fit me well...

Also I'm the anon who talked some days ago about having conflicting feelings about binding, and today I chose to bind and yeah I actually felt so much better in a way. Like I could walk and move more freely mentally with more confidence. So the not binding, like the very casual clothes I typically wear, is more a matter of physical comfort and laziness I think. But making a bit of an effort to look nicer/more like how I actually want to does pay off when it comes to lifting my mood

Sorry this is so long and also not really an ask XD I guess it's more of an appreciation message and a thank you for always being encouraging and motivating us to explore our options and style preferences more and for reminding us to not "make ourselves smaller" (or understate aspects of masculinity and settle for something safer and more neutral) when we really don't need to or want to, if that makes sense!

That's wonderful, and congrats on the new shoes!

Ain't it just the piss to find out that, yes, making some effort to nicely groom and dress oneself boosts one's mood. And you gotta do it. Every. Damned. Day.

I think I relearn this lesson every 3 or 4 months. 😅

Enjoy discovering your style!

[edwardteachswombtattoo]

This isn't related directly to the current Discourse (TM) about Iggy Fingers and racism, but I'd like to point out that the two most thematically important people in Ed's life are Mama Teach and Stede. And there is a lot to be said about how indigenous women are treated (i.e. discarded) in various narratives, but there is something to be said about how Mama Teach influences and permeates the narrative despite having so little screen time. Ed's actions as a young boy, spurred by his desperate need to protect himself and his mama from his abusive father, are corrosive and defining moment of his entire childhood. He literally carries a piece of his mama (the red silk) close to his heart. We spend so little time with Mama Teach, but she's also kind of...always there, she's been there since the very first time we meet Ed (he's had the red silk the entire time, let's not forget).

One of the big reasons all this "Ed is abusive/Ed has anger issues/Ed is just like his dad!!!" stuff confuses and pisses me off so damn much is because like. Back in June of 2022, soon after I finished bingeing all of Season 1, I saw a lot of completely serious takes equating Ed's behavior towards Iggy as equivalent to Ed's dad abusing his mother. And those takes made me uncomfortable and baffled, but, you know, didn't want to start shit so I just blocked and moved on. But those takes have stuck with me all this time, not just because they are so blatantly wrong and very anti-canon but also because they kind of miss a fundamental aspect of Edward Teach that the show clearly wants us to notice. And you know, I made a post about this before, but I'm going to say it again.

During this scene that is being played for comedy (because, you know, it's a romantic comedy) where Ed is essentially recreating a family unit that is familiar to him, there are likely intentional parallels between this recreated family unit (father, son, mother) and the family unit he grew up in. But in this recreated family unit, Ed is taking on the role of his mama. We even have a (comical, but again I'm sure they did this on purpose) rehash of what we see in that Season 1 flashback, violence breaking out during a meal! Yeah, sure, this is being played for laughs but I really can't imagine the writers would make such strong parallels completely by accident and not intend this to mean something. Also, I have watched a lot of shows that have very serious scenes being played for laughs because the comedy aspect is meant to off-set what would otherwise be deeply uncomfortable and a jarring shift in tone. Ed's suicidal spiral at the start of Season 2 also does this, blending comedy with drama. I actually think it's a keystone of how Ed is written and in general how this show approaches these serious topics while maintaining tone. The "snail fork" scene being the perfect example. The racist French captain calling Ed what amounts to/is clearly meant to be read by the audience as a racial slur and Ed (understandably!!) getting very angry and having the guy skinned with a snail fork in what is meant to be both serious and a comedy beat in context.

Idk guys. Maybe let's stop focusing on Iggy Fingers for a hot second and think about how Ed's love for his mama is so strong and beautiful and eternal and in many ways the show seems to want us to draw parallels between Ed and his mother? Like. You can argue about how "people who are abused abuse people" and shit like that, but OFMD doesn't seem interested in turning abuse victims into abusers. It seems more interested in exploring how abuse victims (like Ed and Stede, for example) can easily fall back into the pattern of seeking out abusive relationships and/or validation from people who remind them of their abusers. Yeah, obviously abuse victims can abuse people, but they can also be trapped in a cycle of victimhood because they seek comfort in relationships that recreate this abusive dynamic.

And I'd just like to point this out: Stede also had an abusive dad who treated him like shit. And he was physically and emotionally bullied for a great deal of his life!! But the worst thing we ever see Stede do is neglect his wife and kids, which is bad but he never like. Treats them the way his dad treated him. And Stede isn't perfect especially at the start of the show, he has some racist tendencies to unlearn and some realizations he needs to make, but even when he's putting himself in the role of patriarch on The Revenge he never abuses any members of his crew, even though he is literally part of a culture where stuff like that is normalized. For all of Stede's faults, he genuinely doesn't want his crew to experience what he did as a child (an angry emotionally and physically abusive patriarch, constant bullying from his peers, etc.). And you know, if we can accept that Stede grew up with an abusive dad and actively chose to never recreate that abusive dynamic even in an environment where such actions are encouraged, I think we can also make the very easy realization that we are not meant to read Ed as an abuser/future abuser who takes after his dad. Because a big part of this show is that neither of these men take after their shitty dads.

Anywayyy go listen to "Suffocation" by Against Me!, a song that I feel encapsulates Ed and Stede so well. And while you're listening to that, I'd also recommend "Delicate, Petite, & Other Things I'll Never Be", which is an Edward Teach song if I've ever heard one. Peace and love on Planet Earth.

[blond3ang3l]

I just read your Billy butcher stripper fic and loved it! Could I request a homelander one where he’s too stressed from vought so he goes to the supe strip club from the first episode. After meeting reader he’s addicted and just starts to go back even when vought isn’t involved to…let’s just say take out his frustrations!!!

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

To him it was stupid that Vought even told him about this place, let alone invited him to meet a friend of the Deep’s that worked there. Sure he had urges here and there but a stripper? He was Homelander for fucks sake. He felt like an idiot sitting in the private room with The Deep grinning next to him like a dumbass. When they heard the door open Deep got up and practically rushed over to you, pulling you in front of the supe “this is one of my closest friends. Been doing this for a while so Stan thought they’d be perfect for you. Homelander, or John, was intrigued to say the lest when he saw you.

An exude of confidence that made you seem different. Confidence but not cocky, he could see it in how you walked towards. Looking at him as if he west anyone else. It pissed him off, throwing a glare your way, but it also made him want this dance a little more. To see if you were as good as you came off. And damn you were to his shock. His chest heaved when he had you in his lap grinding against him. He had some experience but you were more than he expected it was like yo read through, knowing where to touch and what to say.

Three months the is how long he had been pining for you. Your touch. Your presence. Without Vought even telling him to he had been visiting the club more and more often. He would outright refuse to let any other stripper touch him. He expected you to be there siting for him in the room, and if you weren’t there then your boss would literally have to call you and get you in there for him.

You had the supe completely obsessed with you and you knew it. And tonight was no different. Coming to you with his attitude after a mission that almost went wrong because he wasn’t listened to by the team resulting in the idiots being hurt. He needed to be distracted and you would do just that for him. Hearing the door open and your heels click against the floor he knew his anger would soon be taken care of.

You were squished against the couch, ass high in the air and his hand planted right on the side of your face so you wouldn’t be able to move. “Tell me how good I’m fucking you. Your hands gripped the couch to push yourself up the small bit that he allowed. A lazy smirk on your face when you hear his request, something not surprising for him. “Fucking me so good baby. Can feel you so deep inside me. Better than anyone else I’ve ever been with.”

His eyes glowed a low purplish color before rolling back taking in every word you said to him. He was being louder with you with how he was moaning. Everyone could hear him outside the room but he couldn’t give a damn at that moment. He was too busy enjoying the feeling of how you sucked him in. His hand came down on your ass harshly leaving a handprint. Hearing you wince only egged him on to grope you further. Spreading your ass to see his favorite prized possession.

“Look at you. Taking a god just like how it was meant to be.” His head rolled back as he felt himself getting closer, hand wrapped around your throat while his pelvis slammed into your ass so you took every single inch of him. “Jesus fucking- take it take it take it.” He chanted out before slamming into you with one final thrust. His head falling to your shoulder as he came inside you.

“You’re coming back with me. Get your stuff ready so I can tell your boss.”

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

[grim-ghosty]

I want to rant about some people in this fandom coming out of the woodworks saying that Brozone is toxic or some shit like that.

Did we even watch the same movie? Like seriously?

I think one of the biggest things these people overlook is this scene here.

This is his brother’s face after he said that he had to take care of himself after his grandma died. Are you going to tell me that they don’t feel any regret or guilt for leaving?

And look how shock and sadden they are to learn that Branch built the bunker for him and his brothers. They 100 percent feel guilty for telling him they're going their separate ways and for blowing off his feelings.

They also were in the heat of the moment. They were already mad at each other and said things they didn't mean. like shit man, I've said shit that I didn't fucking mean and instantly regret it. That's just being human.

There is also the end of the movie when the brothers are together again. Even if it's a brief scene, you can see how they're trying to reconnect, to be a family again, one step at a time.

And I will say it again, NO ONE IS DISMISSING WHAT BRANCH'S BROTHERS DID OR SAID, but you can't deny how much Branch's brothers love and care about him and each other.

How they all reacted to seeing Branch again after so long and finally listened to him in the end. How Bruce sent a postcard to John even tho he was still mad at him. How Clay hugged John after saving Floyd and asked him to join his book club (seen by John reading a book that looks like the one Clay is holding when he was asking Branch) and how he apologized to Branch (I do agree that the apology was lack luster), saying he can't wait to get to know him more. How they all risked their lives to save Floyd.

There is way more I can say, but I'm not going to waste my time anymore than I already have.

[latenightsundayblues]

Fucking love the final flashback montage in saw VI because the way they edited it makes it look like hoffman is pissing directly on an unconscious erickson's bald head

Ive been cry laugghing for five fucking minutes