#and I just cry thinking about it every time😭😭

[stellaspectral]

Sorry if the request is cringy but eh anyways asking doesn't hurt 😭 so what about rise donnie with reader who's completely overwhelmed with university finals, not understanding a single topica so donnie runs to the rescue and helps them out to study so kimda study date vibes? And also your writing is just *chefs kiss* 🤌 🫶

A/N: No worries, anon; this request isn’t cringey at all.

Though I wasn’t sure if you wanted Donnie and the reader to already be together or not. But I decided to write as if they’re friends, they like each other, but haven’t quite gotten to the point where they’ve confessed yet.

And thanks for the compliment! I hope you like this 💖

Not Just a Study Thing (fluff)

💜 ROTTMNT Donatello/Gender Neutral Reader 💜

CWs: Fluff, academic stress, and anxiety/feeling overwhelmed. All characters are aged-up.

Your dorm room is a disaster zone of discarded notes, empty coffee cups, and the growing weight of panic pressing in from every corner. The text in the book before you blurs into an indecipherable soup of academic jargon. It might as well all be alien hieroglyphics, you think, as your head drops to the open page.

“I don’t get it,” you mutter into the chapter on Advanced Quantum Thermodynamics. “I don’t get any of it.”

A groan escapes your lips as you try not to cry about the fact that the only thing you’ve successfully memorized is how close you are to a breakdown.

You’ve been wearing the same hoodie for three days. Beside you, a half-eaten bag of chips lay discarded next to piles of notes where your highlighters have bled through three pages. And you’ve re-read the same paragraph from your textbook five times in the past fifteen minutes—and it still feels like it’s written in ancient Greek.

You sit up, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower might make the equations on the page finally make sense. You reach for your phone, thinking maybe a quick scroll through social media will take the edge off. But the moment your screen lights up, a notification blares across the top: It’s a text from Donnie.

D 🐢💜: You still breathing?

You stare at the screen, thumbs hesitating, before replying:

You: Barely. I think academia is trying to murder me.

He doesn’t reply immediately. You slump further into your chair, your back aching from your poor posture resulting from hours hunched over textbooks. Just as you consider tossing your phone across the room, it vibrates again.

D 🐢💜: Need a study savior?

You don’t hesitate, your fingers flying over the screen before your brain catches up.

You: Honestly? I’m dying, Donnie. HELP.

D 🐢💜: Hang tight. Study hero incoming.

Your room’s a mess, but you don’t panic about the state of it; Donnie’s probably seen worse, considering he lives with three brothers and a father who’d rather be doing anything else but acknowledging his surroundings. So you decide to crawl into your bed and take a nap.

Eventually, there’s a familiar tap on your window. You rub your eyes, groggily rising from your cocoon of tangled blankets, and shuffle to the window. You peek through the blinds, seeing Donnie standing on the fire escape, and you slide the window up.

He enters, surveying the chaos with a raised brow as you flop back onto your bed. “Wow. This place could qualify as a Level 3 Disaster Zone. Should I call FEMA or just start a controlled burn?”

You half-heartedly throw a pillow at him, which he sidesteps effortlessly. “I told you. Academia is trying to kill me.”

He sets his tablet on your desk, sweeping aside an avalanche of loose papers. “Then allow me to counterattack. Let’s dismantle this quantum nightmare one equation at a time.”

Your heart skips at the sight of him. You pretend it’s the stress. Or the overabundance of caffeine. “I seriously don’t understand half this stuff,” you admit.

He pulls up your rickety desk chair, settling into it with that calm confidence he always exudes when he’s in problem-solving mode. “That’s okay. Understanding is kind of my thing. You just need to survive. I’ll do the rest.” He sits his backpack on the floor and unzips it, pulling out your favorite snack before tossing it to you.

You barely catch it, fumbling with it for a moment, which further deepens the flush on your cheeks. “T-thank you,” you stammer, trying to force a grin to cover up your awkwardness.

Donnie gives you a smirk, the kind that makes your stomach flutter. “You’re welcome,” he says casually, like he didn’t just show up like a knight in purple armor. “Now,” he claps his hands once and cracks open the textbook you abandoned, “let’s take a deep breath and start with the basics. Quantum Thermo’s just spooky physics with a heat problem. We can handle spooky.”

You move closer to the edge of the bed, still clutching the snack he gave you. “I’ve read this chapter like a dozen times. It’s all just … my brain going ‘nope.’”

He hums thoughtfully, scanning the page like it’s a casual morning comic strip. “Your brain’s probably doing the academic version of the blue screen of death.” He meets your eyes, tilting his head with a small smirk. “We’re gonna reboot it.”

You sigh, your shoulders slumping. “Can I just throw the whole thing into the metaphorical dumpster and walk away?”

“Tempting,” he replies with a grin. “But no. Come on, scoot over.”

You blink. “What?”

He points to the spare chair in the corner of the room. “I’m not letting you spiral alone.”

Your heart beats a little faster. But you grab the chair, put it beside his, and sit. He nudges your knee gently with his, just enough to ground you in the moment.

“Alright,” he says, eyes flicking from the textbook to your overwhelmed expression. “Step one: we’re not going to panic. Step two: we’re going to make this make sense. And step three, we’re going to keep you from exploding.”

You let out a weak laugh—more of an exhale, really—but it still feels like the first real breath you’ve taken all day. “You forgot step four,” you say, voice quiet.

“What’s step four?”

You glance at him. “Not letting me fail.”

He softens—and you think there’s something unspoken in the way he looks at you. “Not a chance,” he murmurs.

He slides the textbook a little closer to the two of you, flipping to the beginning of the chapter. As he reads, he grabs a nearby pen and starts scribbling on a clean sheet of paper. His handwriting is absurdly neat, his diagrams actually helpful instead of intimidating. He talks you through a problem slowly, explaining it in the most Donnie way possible, with the strangest metaphors.

And somehow, weirdly, it helps.

“Okay,” he says, pushing the paper toward you, “now you try.”

You stare at the problem, then at him. “What if I mess it up?”

“You will,” he says simply. “That’s part of it. Just give it a shot.”

So you do. Hesitantly at first, mumbling through each step, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches, chin propped in one hand, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When you finally finish, expecting him to correct you, he just nods.

“See? You didn’t spontaneously combust. Proud of you.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to smile. “Thanks, Donnie.”

He shrugs, but his tone is soft when he replies. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re important to me. I show up for my people.”

That makes your breath catch a little. You glance down at the page again, pretending to be more interested in what’s on it than the heat rising to your cheeks. You look at him, wondering if he realizes how easily he disarms your panic just by being here.

The study session stretches on. More problems, more snacks and caffeine—and more of Donnie casually dropping little encouragements like they aren’t melting your brain in the most pleasant of ways. Every time you falter, he’s there with a nudge in the right direction. Every time you get something right, he lights up like it’s a personal victory.

At some point, your head ends up resting on his shoulder as he reads out a confusing section. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t comment. Just shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable. You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself breathe in his smell.

At some point, he pauses mid-sentence and glances at you. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

He gives you a crooked smile. “Next time you’re drowning in finals stress, call me before you go DEFCON 1, okay?”

You hum your agreement, not trusting your voice. His shoulder is warm beneath your cheek. He shifts again, careful not to jostle you too much, and continues reading. Eventually, you sit up, blinking yourself back into focus. “Sorry,” you mumble, rubbing at your face. “Didn’t mean to drool on you.”

“Not the first time someone’s fallen asleep during my explanation on thermodynamics,” Donnie says, deadpan. “But definitely the first time someone’s done it on my shoulder, though.”

You snort a laugh. “I think I needed that,” you admit. “The nap, the help. The … you.”

“Anytime,” he says. “Also, I believe you’re understanding the material now, at least.”

“Only because you’re basically a genius tutor with the patience of a saint.”

He chuckles softly, adjusting his arm so it rests lightly around your back. “Nah. I just care. A lot.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. You open your mouth to say something—maybe something brave, maybe something vulnerable—but he beats you to it.

“You’re not alone in this, okay? Finals, stress, life—you’ve got me. Always.”

Your brain fizzles as you attempt to process his words.You stare at him, and for the first time today—maybe all week—your chest doesn’t feel so tight. “Donnie …” you start, your voice embarrassingly soft.

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. You don’t know how to say ‘I think I like you’ without sounding like your brain short-circuited. So you settle for something safer. “I don’t think I could’ve made it through today without you.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Well, good thing you don’t have to.” Then, he clears his throat, like maybe this—this closeness—is affecting him just as much. “We can keep going. Or take a break. Your call.” His gaze is steady, but there’s a softness in his eyes you’ve only glimpsed before in rare, unguarded moments.

You take a deep breath, attempting to rein in your scattered thoughts. The responsible part of you, the one that actually wants to pass this monstrous final, screams, Study! The other part, the one currently replaying, ‘You’ve got me. Always’on an endless loop, just wants to stay near him, whatever you’re doing.

“Let’s … let’s keep going,” you decide. “Just a bit more.”

“Excellent.” He taps the textbook with a pen. “Now, where were we?”

His fingers trace lines in the book, then sketch new, surprisingly clear diagrams on the notepad. As you both lean over the limited desk space, his hand brushes yours occasionally. Each accidental touch sends a little jolt through you.

“Okay,” he says, after patiently breaking down a concept so dense you’d previously thought it was written in a dead language. “Your turn. This problem here.” He points to a question that, just a few hours ago, would have made you want to curl up under your blanket and weep.

You take a deep breath, pick up the pen, and look at the problem. Then you work through it, verbalizing your thought process. Donnie listens patiently, offering encouraging nods, interjecting with ‘mhm’ and ‘Good, what’s next?’ when you pause, his gaze focused and supportive.

Eventually, you reach an answer. You stare at it, then quickly double-check your work. “Is … is this right?” you ask.

Donnie leans in, his shoulder pressing against yours as he scans your calculations before he pulls back slightly. “Not only is it right,” he declares, his voice laced with satisfaction, “it’s elegantly solved. See? I told you you could do it.”

A wave of relief, so potent it’s almost dizzying, washes over you. You can’t stop the grin on your face, feeling ridiculously light. “Only because of you.”

He smiles, then glances at his phone, then back at you. “We’ve actually made some serious headway. How are you feeling? Brain still intact?”

“Surprisingly, yes. And a lot less like it’s about to liquefy and ooze out of my ears.” You look at the textbook, then at your notes filled with his neat handwriting and your own, now slightly more confident, scrawls. Then you look at him. “Thank you, Donnie. Seriously. You didn’t just help me study; you saved my sanity.”

“Anytime,” he says again, his voice softer this time, imbued with a sincerity that makes your chest feel warm. He gathers his things slowly, packing his tablet.

You watch him, a pang of something—disappointment?—hitting you squarely in the chest as he prepares to leave. The methodical zipping of his backpack is a mournful sound in the sudden quiet of your room. A knot forms in your stomach.

You don’t want him to go.

Before you can censor yourself, the words slip out. “Are you heading out already?”

He pauses, hand still on the bag, and turns fully towards you. “That was the plan,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. “However, we can adjust mission parameters. Have a counter-proposal?”

Your heart gives a hopeful little leap. “Well,” you begin, feeling a blush creep up your neck, “we did just conquer quantum thermodynamics … or at least, survive it. I thought maybe … that deserves a small celebration?”

“I was gonna head out to give you time to rest, but …” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just … stay. Please.”

His hand, which had been resting on the zipper of his backpack, drops to his side. That one word—please—seems to land somewhere deep in him. His tone softens again. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You go over to your bed and sit. Donnie takes the hint, settling beside you. He doesn’t lean too close—not yet—but his presence fills the small space between you with something quiet and steady. For a few moments, there’s just silence. Then you lean back slightly, your shoulder brushing his. He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts, easing both of you down so that you’re both laying beside each other on the mattress. You rest your head on his plastron while his fingers trail slow patterns along the base of your spine.

“I could fall asleep like this,” you say, voice drowsy, words laced with more honesty than you usually allow yourself.

“Good,” he replies. “I was kind of hoping you would.”

You look up at him. His expression is soft, open in a way he rarely shows. His arm wraps tighter around you as you settle in again, heart beating steadily beneath your ear.

“Donnie?”

“Hmm?”

You hesitate, then, “This … isn’t just a study thing, is it?”

He doesn’t answer right away—but you feel his breath hitch. He swallows, hand stilling briefly on your back. “No,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Not for me.”

You nod against his chest, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “Good,” you murmur. “Me neither.”

As he begins to nod off, Donnie presses his chin lightly to the top of your head. “Sweet dreams, genius,” he whispers, brushing his thumb gently against your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

You’re too exhausted to retort.

It isn’t long before you fall asleep like this—in his arms, your breath evening out into the soft, rhythmic sound of sleep.

He watches you for a long moment, his gaze tender. The worried lines that had etched themselves onto your forehead hours ago have smoothed out, replaced by a peacefulness he finds himself ridiculously fond of. Carefully, so as not to disturb you, he adjusts his hold, nestling you a fraction closer.

Mission accomplished, he thinks, not just the studying, but this too. This quiet moment, this feeling of you, safe and resting in his arms.

His own eyelids soon feel heavy. He rests his cheek against the top of your head again, your hair soft against his skin. His thoughts, usually racing, slow. With a final, contented sigh, his own breathing deepens, mirroring yours.

A soft smile graces his features as he, too, drifts off to sleep.

[jungkooklover29]

hankcon shippers GTFUU DNI 👹👹👹

sorry lemme say something for a sec like whenever I see hankcon it feels proshippy like??? that’s his kid??? like didn’t the fucking writers confirm Hank sees him as a son???😭😭 like have yall seen the stream bryan and amelia (actors who play connor and traci) did with one of the writers of dbh??? the guy literally said Hank sees him like a son???

ALSO HANK CALLS HIM SON TOO??? I know it’s like when connor is dying but like… it makes it sadder imo

also correct me if I’m wrong but like if you keep killing connor doesn’t Hank say something about how he got reminded of Cole when he saw connor hurt?

“Y'know, every time you died and came back... It made me think of Cole... I'd give anything to hold him again... But humans don't come back...” (got that from the dbh wiki)

I don’t think he’d say that if he… yknow… wanted to date connor idk man

IDK it’s just like I absolutely cannot see any romance between them it’s just like Hank and his stupid android son who likes to fuck with him for fun idk man

like the interactions they have are so father son coded LIKE??!?!!?

like when Hank drags connor away by his arm when connor gets shot at by Simon?!??! and when he reaches for connor when connor starts running towards Simon?!!!

and like some of the times when connor dies Hank just holds him and it’s like. IM GONNA CRY DUDE😭😭😭 like when you fail to put Connor’s thirium pump back in Hank just looks so sad as he holds Connor’s body 😭

okay I gotta get outta here just thought I’d put in my two cents I’ll be back soon probably just had a thought about this and had to like write it down 😛

[mountsmase]

For concept night:

Imagine what Mason would be like during your pregnancy. I just know he’d be the softest, most caring man ever. He’d be completely obsessed with taking care of you, buying you every single thing you’re craving, even if it meant driving across the city late at night to get it. And every time you’d feel guilty and try to stop him, all embarrassed about sending him out at ridiculous hours, he’d just ignore it completely.

He’d be all excited helping you plan and decorate the nursery, picking out tiny baby clothes like it’s the most important decision of his life 😂

He’d drive you to every doctor’s appointment, looking more anxious than you each time, pacing the waiting room like he’s the one about to give birth and when you both finally see the baby for the first time during the scan, he’d be so emotional, holding your hand tight with tears in his eyes, completely overwhelmed 🥹

At home, he’d spoil you rotten, rubbing your back, your swollen feet, your legs every night after hearing you complain about how sore everything feels. He’d be sooo gentle, kneeling down to rub your calves while murmuring you reassuring words, telling you to relax and that you've done enough for the day.

And he’d never be able to stop touching your belly too lol, always resting a protective hand on it, rubbing slow circles when you’re lying in bed together, pressing soft kisses to your bump and whispering things to the baby. He’d probably lose his mind the first time he felt the baby kick too 😂

And when the hormones hit hard, when you’re crying over literally everything or suddenly irritated and sad for no reason, he’d be right there, wrapping you up in a hug, stroking your hair and telling you how strong and amazing you are and how proud he is of you. Whenever you’d feel insecure or think you look ugly because of how your body is changing he’d stop you right away and reassure you every single time, reminding you of how beautiful you are and how incredible your body is for growing his baby. He wouldn’t let you doubt yourself for even a second, always finding a way to make you feel confident and loved 🥰

Awww he’d be the best 🤭

I actually don’t think he’d struggle making decisions on what baby clothes to buy…because he’s just buy them all 😭 that babies wardrobe would be bigger than your own it would get the point where you have to put him on a baby clothes buying ban because it’s getting so out of hand

And when it comes to your cravings I don’t even think you’d have to ask him to get stuff, he’d just get it anyway, like if you message him whilst he’s at training or mention during the day that you’re craving something he’d stop off on the way home to get it, even if you hadn’t said it with the intention of wanting him to buy it, he just would 🤭

[tashiduncandonaldson]

every time someone talks about how art donaldson is a mediocre tennis player, an angel breaks her kneecap and loses her dreams and ambitions 🤧

tashi's somewhere screaming crying throwing up 😭 but also, this is so real. i've always firmly believed that art IS a talented tennis player. to win six grand slam titles, TWO OF THEM BEING ROLAND GARROS AS AN AMERICAN MAN DURING THE RAFA ERA?????? he's not mediocre. he's got an incredibly strong mental game, and knowing how seriously tashi takes tennis and probably coaches him, she made sure he was an all court player. i also will die on the hill that he loves tennis just as much as she does, and that's one of the reasons why he wants her on his team in the first place. he recognizes her talent, respects her AND her talent, and knows that she'll be able to identify what to fix in his game to make him the best player he can be. would he have become a 6x grand slam champion without her??????? probably not, though he still probably would've done extremely well. (i'm thinking kind of like how taylor fritz is. he's the american #1 but doesn't have any slams...yet). but the dream team together???? they were in it and working for it together.

it's been interesting being a challengers fan as well as a tennis fan (though still a very new fan early in my journey) because the conversations about art with his two french opens have been such polarizing conversations. some people refuse to believe an american man could be good enough to win two french opens during the rafa era, but i personally think having fun with the idea of it in fiction isn't worth some of the nastier comments i've seen about it. (not on here, btw, the people i've seen getting nasty about the idea of a fictional character winning have been on twitter) anyway, that might be controversial, and i might be stepping into something i have no business stepping into but...tl;dr - art donaldson, you're a 6x grand slam champion, and after the 2019 u.s. open, you're a 7x grand slam champion because you win it!!! i know this for a fact!!!!

[respectfulrebel]

No joke, I am already so in love with him 😭 he’s flirty, and sensitive, and soft for her and has trauma???? Literally the perfect man 😭 I love their dynamic so much, and they have so much chemistry it’s unreal 🥺 I’m sooo invested in that story!

"It means you should probably let it go, I'm sorry."

Amber! Don’t do this to me, girl, I trusted you 😭

"Really, stop thinking about him," Amber said. "He's not worth it."

AMBER! Friends are supposed to support their friends delulu fantasies 😭 (although hers are not delulu, it’s real loveeee 😭🥺)

And then, almost invisible unless you knew to look for them: freckles. Just a light dusting across his nose and cheeks. You hadn't even seen them until the morning in the abandoned building he called home, when the sun slipped through the broken windows and kissed his face in just the right way.

She’s soooo in love with hiiiiimmmm 🤭🥰🥰

Somewhere nearby, water dripped from a pipe in slow, rhythmic taps. As you walked, your sneakers scuffed lightly against the asphalt, each step echoing just enough to make you feel too exposed.

Your world building is soooo good, I love the little environment details, makes it so much more immersive

No urgency in his posture. No guilt. No "I called my girlfriend out of bed at almost 2 a.m. and I'm sorry" energy.

🙄 he doesn’t deserve heeeeeeeer

He gave a small, crooked smile. "If you want, I can sign it for you."

He’s funny 🥹

You gave him a flat look. "Oh, look at that. Mr. "You should stay away' playing Twenty Questions now?"

🤭🤭 and the description of his laughter after that??? 🥹🥹🥹🥹

"I mean it, you have that.... something in you. Something good."

🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Noah listened, smiling in that quiet way he had, like he wasn't just hearing the story, but tucking it away somewhere, saving it.

Stooooopp 😭😭😭😭

"No," he said, pretending to be offended. "It's one of the best things l've ever eaten. I swear. The sweet from the peanut butter, the salty and sour from the pickles... it's... genius."

You know what? I can see it, I wanna try that now 😩

And you found yourself wanting, absurdly, to find him a jar of peanut butter and the weirdest pickles you could, just to give him that again. Even for five minutes. Even if it was dumb.

Do it! 🥺 we need to make this boy a peanut butter and pickles sandwich and bring it to him asap 😭

But with you...he hadn't felt the usual tightness in his throat when he spoke. You felt sate.

Every time you two talked, just a little longer than the time before, he felt lighter. Like something was slowly being unhooked from inside his chest and set down, piece by piece. He didn't feel fixed, but he felt better. And that was rare.

Stooooooooopppp I’m crying 😭😭😭

But Noah had felt it. That almost.

To feel your fingers, smaller and softer than his, sliding between his. Feel the contrast, your clean skin against his, covered in bruises and tattoos.

The guy didn't deserve you. Not your kindness. Not your laugh. Not your touch.

That’s what I saaaaid 😭😭😭😭 Noah needs to steal her away asap 😭😭😭 can’t wait for Kole to fuck up big time so we dump his ass 😭

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Series summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Tw: mentions of deceased family members, drinking.

Series masterlist

The walls of the tattoo shop were full of framed flash art and faded photos of past clients, the front counter had stickers scattered across its glass surface.

Amber was sitting in the chair across from you, legs tucked under her, scrolling on her phone as you answered the phone: a woman booking a consultation.

Nick, as usual, was posted up near the back, focused. His gloves were ink-smeared, head down as he worked on the sleeve of some guy sitting stiffly in the chair.

You wrapped up the call, set the appointment, jotted a few notes, then hung up.

“So?” Amber prompted, “You were saying?”

You gave a small, tired huff of breath and leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your temple.

“I gave him the bracelet. He gave me back my shirt...clean, actually. And for a second it was almost… good. Like, normal-good. He even smiled. He was joking around.”

Amber blinked, skeptical already.

“But then I asked him why he still fights,” you continued. “He just...flipped. Said we weren’t friends. Basically yelled at me, so I left.”

You looked over at her. She didn’t look surprised. Not really, but still a bit disappointed.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “sounds about right.”

You tilted your head. “What does that mean?”

“It means you should probably let it go, I'm sorry.”

"Yeah, I should." You said tapping your fingertips on your sketchbook.

The tattoo machine's sound faded as Nick powered it down. He carefully wrapped a layer of plastic around the fresh tattoo on his client’s arm and then peeled off his gloves.

The guy nodded his thanks, grabbed his coat and headed out the door, the bell above it jingling behind him.

“Really, stop thinking about him,” Amber said. “He's not worth it.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. The whole thing is pointless. We gave each other our stuff back, and that's it.”

Amber didn’t add anything else.

A few seconds later, Nick approached you, stretching his arms over his head. “Alright,” he said, raising a brow at the two of you. “What are you girls whispering about over here?”

You shrugged, giving him a faint smile. “Nothing important. Really.”

He tilted his head, unconvinced but not pushing. “Mmm. Okay. So. The butterfly, right?”

Amber smiled. “Exactly.”

Nick reached over the counter to grab his book of tattoo designs, but his forearm accidentally knocked your sketchbook off the table. It landed on the floor with a soft thud, pages flipping open.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, crouching automatically to pick it up. But then he paused, looking down at the open page. “Wait, these are yours?”

You leaned forward, a little flustered. “Yeah.”

“Damn. You’re good.”

You gave a modest shrug. “Thanks.”

Nick handed the book back to you, grinning as he did. “No, really. Now I'm scared you're gonna steal my job.”

You chuckled.

Nick turned his attention to Amber, flipping open his design book and gesturing to different butterfly styles.

“Okay, so...” Nick pointed to a geometric one in the book. “This one’s kind of sharp and very symmetrical. Good for forearm or ankle. Clean lines.”

“Too sterile,” Amber said, wrinkling her nose. “I want it to feel…alive.”

“Alive?” Nick chuckled. “Should it breathe too?”

As they began discussing placement and color, you sat back, flipping slowly through your own sketchbook.

If it had fallen open to the wrong drawing, Nick would have asked who the hell the guy on that page was. And Amber would have probably guessed it right.

Noah's face was drawn from memory, defined jawline, but not too sharp, dark hair falling just past his eyes. His expression was serious, but in his eyes there was something softer.

You’d shaded a darker halo around one of his eyes: one of the bruises that hadn’t yet faded. There was a small cut along his bottom lip, another along his cheekbone, and a bigger one on his nose, like the last time you saw him.

And then, almost invisible unless you knew to look for them: freckles. Just a light dusting across his nose and cheeks. You hadn’t even seen them until the morning in the abandoned building he called home, when the sun slipped through the broken windows and kissed his face in just the right way.

You flipped the page before anyone could glance over. Then again. And again. Until the drawing was buried deep in the middle of the book.

Amber laughed at something Nick said, and you looked up, forcing your attention back to the moment, tapping your pencil absently on the edge of the sketchbook and telling yourself not to think about him again.

The apartment door creaked open and slammed shut again in one fluid motion, the sound echoing through the quiet living room.

You glanced up from the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, your sketchbook balanced on your knees. The pencil you’d been idly chewing on stilled as Kole strode into the room, hoodie half-zipped, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.

“Hey,” he said, already halfway to the kitchen. “Just grabbing something to eat real quick, then I’m out.”

You blinked. “Out? Where...”

And then it clicked.

You sat up straighter. “Again? Seriously?”

Kole opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic container, something leftover from the night before. He didn’t even bother microwaving it. Just popped the lid, grabbed a fork, and started eating cold pasta straight from the container.

“Dean told me,” he said between bites, “there’s this guy fighting tonight, maybe Leo? I don't remeber his name. Says he’s got about seventy-five percent odds to win. Can’t pass that up.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “Kole, this shit is not football. It's illegal.”

He snorted. “Come on, don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not. I just…” You trailed off, setting your sketchbook aside. “You’ve been going quite a lot lately.”

“It’s not like I’m fighting,” he said quickly. “I’m just watching. Betting a little. That’s it.”

“That’s still your whole night.”

He paused, chewing slower, eyes flicking toward you. “I’ll be back before midnight.”

“That’s not the point.”

There was a beat of silence.

Kole sighed and set the container down, fork still inside and walked towards you.

“I know you don’t like it,” he said. “But it’s not forever. It’s just... a thing for now.”

You exhaled, crossing your arms. “A ‘thing’ that ends with somebody in the ER.”

He gave a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Okay?”

You hesitated.

Then, finally, with a tired kind of resignation, you muttered, “Okay.”

“Okay-okay?” he asked, stepping closer. “Like... tranquility okay?”

You let out a reluctant huff of laughter. “I don’t even know what that means.”

Kole leaned down and gave you a light kiss, quick and familiar.

When he pulled back, his face was close, eyes scanning yours for a second like he wanted to say more. But he didn’t.

He just smirked. “I’ll text you if Leo gets knocked out in the first round, alright?”

You rolled your eyes. “Great. Can’t wait.”

He grabbed his keys from the dish near the door, then paused before stepping out.

“See you later, if you'll be still up.”

You didn’t answer. The door shut behind him with a dull click.

A moment passed. Then another.

Outside, the sound of his car engine hummed to life, then faded into the distance.

You sank back onto the couch, staring at the spot where he’d just been. The kiss still lingered faintly on your lips, but it didn’t bring much comfort.

You stayed on the couch for a while, wrapped in your blanket, the TV humming faintly in the background as some random movie played on Netflix. You weren’t really watching it. Every so often, you glanced at your phone, but there were no messages. Just the usual notifications: missed memes from Amber, TikTok updates, a promo email from a store you kept forgetting to unsubscribe from.

Eventually, you gave up on pretending to be invested in the movie and let your thumb wander over your phone screen, watching some tiktoks.

At some point, your eyelids started to droop. You barely noticed when your phone slipped from your hand and landed beside you on the couch. The last thing you remembered was a girl on your screen arguing with her cat.

And then—

bzzz... bzzz...

Your phone lit up, screen vibrating on the cushion.

You blinked awake, confused for a second, your neck stiff from the way you’d slouched into the side of the couch.You reached for your phone and squinted at the caller: Kole.

You answered on the second ring, voice scratchy. “Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice sounded… off.

You sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

There was a pause.

“I, uh… I’ve got a flat. Like, completely flat. Back right tire’s toast.”

You rubbed your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I came out for a smoke and it was just… gone. Totally flat. I didn’t even notice at first, until Dean started laughing and pointed it out.”

You frowned. “Did you run over something?”

Another pause. Then: “I don’t think so.”

You stayed silent, waiting.

Kole sighed. “Look, I can’t say for sure, but I think it was the guy who owed me money. From the bet. He didn’t take it well.”

“Are you serious?”

“I didn’t see him do it,” he added quickly. “But he was pissed and acting twitchy. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

You let your head fall back against the couch. “Jesus, Kole.”

“I know. I know. But now I need you to come get me.”

You exhaled slowly, already swinging your legs off the couch. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Late,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t ask if I had any other way back. I swear.”

“I’ll be there in like fifty minutes.”

“You’re the best,” he said, "I'll be inside drinking something with Dean and the others."

"Alright." You hung up and went to grab your keys.

When you arrived, you made sure to park not too close. You didn’t want your car anywhere near the place, not after what had happened to Kole’s.

When you stepped out, the air was cool but it had stopped raining.

Somewhere nearby, water dripped from a pipe in slow, rhythmic taps. As you walked, your sneakers scuffed lightly against the asphalt, each step echoing just enough to make you feel too exposed.

Outside the warehouse, three men lingered. Two were huddled in a corner, cigarettes glowing between their fingers as they murmured to each other in low tones. The third paced slowly while talking into his phone.

You approached the steel door and knocked twice, and the sound echoed, sharp.

You waited.

After a moment, the door cracked open. The same guy from the last time stood there, thick arms crossed. He gave you a once-over, clearly recognizing you. Then he stepped aside.

Inside, no one was fighting, not anymore. The ring sat empty in the center of the room, and around it, clusters of people lounged or leaned against the walls, drinking, laughing and chatting.

You scanned the room. And then you saw him.

Kole was sitting on a worn-out leather couch near the far end with Dean and two other guys you didn’t know. A bottle of something half-empty in his hand, head tipped back in laughter. He didn’t see you. Didn’t even glance toward the entrance.

No urgency in his posture. No guilt. No "I called my girlfriend out of bed at almost 2 a.m. and I'm sorry" energy.

You stayed where you were, trying to decide if you should storm over or just turn around and leave him there for the night.

Then something pulled your attention.

On the far wall, half-obscured behind an old speaker and a stack of folding chairs, was a makeshift gallery, dozens of photos taped up messily, some curling at the edges. All of them from the fights.

Close-ups of broken noses, fists frozen mid-swing, blood spraying in arcs. Some people screaming. Some smiling through bloody teeth.

You stepped closer. And then your eyes landed on one in particular.

Noah.

Frozen in motion. Shirtless, chest covered in tattoos, hands still wrapped, mouth parted like he’d just let out a loud scream for the crowd. He looked flushed, victorious, a cut above his eyebrow barely scabbed.

He almost looked like he belonged here.

Suddenly, a voice behind you made you flinch.

“Ugly, right?”

You turned.

Noah stood a few feet away. Black hoodie. Hood up. Hands deep in the front pocket. His posture relaxed. You hadn’t heard him come up.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “If you want, I can sign it for you."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“No thanks,” you said coolly, nodding once toward the photo. “I don’t need souvenirs.”

Noah’s smirk faded.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

You blinked. “Talk? Thought you didn't want to see me ever again.”

“Just… a minute. Please.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your voice low. “I didn’t come here for you.”

“I know.”

“I came to pick up Kole.”

And yeah, you were still kind of mad at Noah.

Noah’s eyes flicked over your shoulder toward the couch where Kole still sat, now leaning forward, animatedly telling a story to the guy on his right. His bottle swung loosely in his hand. Dean laughed too loudly at something, nearly knocking over a cup balanced on the floor.

Noah raised a brow. “Doesn’t look like he’s in any rush.”

You followed his gaze. And yeah, he wasn’t. Not even close.

Your jaw tightened. You looked back at Noah.

“…Okay,” you said, reluctantly.

He didn’t say anything, just turned toward the exit. As he walked, he paused at the door and pushed it open, then looked over his shoulder, waiting.

You realized he was holding it for you.

You slipped past him in silence, the night air greeting you again with its damp chill. The laughter and noise of the warehouse faded as the door closed behind you with a heavy thunk.

Noah walked a few steps ahead, then turned down the side of the building and toward a short stretch of pavement lined with a single skinny tree. Beneath it, half-hidden in the dark, sat an old wooden bench. It looked warped from weather, one leg slightly uneven, but still standing. Still enough for two.

He gestured to it wordlessly.

You followed. The sound of your footsteps on wet concrete filled the space between you.

And then you sat next to him. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

“You’re wasting your minute, fighter boy.”

Noah huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh, then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For the other day. I shouldn’t’ve snapped like that.”

You didn’t answer, just kept your eyes forward, watching the way the leaves on the tree above you trembled faintly.

“It’s just…” he went on, “I don’t like certain questions. That’s all. But that’s on me."

You glanced at him, just briefly. His jaw was set, but not in that defensive, shut-everyone-out way he’d had before. It looked more like he was holding something in, like it actually cost him to say that out loud.

You shifted slightly on the bench, crossing one leg over the other.

“It’s your business,” you said, not unkindly. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. Since the first time you saw me, you’ve been… I don’t know. Just, so fucking kind. No one's kind to me around here, not unless they want something.”

He gave a crooked, almost embarrassed smile.

You cleared your throat. “Well, apology accepted,” you said finally. “But mostly because I hope I get to see Alpine again.”

That earned a short laugh from him. “Figured that might be the only way back into your good graces.”

You looked over at him fully now. The hood still shadowed most of his face, but the edge of his mouth was curled up. The tightness around his eyes was less than before, like he was relieved that you were joking again.

“I still think,” he added, “you should stay away. From me. From this place but your boyfriend seems to love it, so I'm not sure I can do something about it now.”

"Yeah. I hate him sometimes." You realized how this sounded just after you said it.

“You ever tell him that?”

You sighed through your nose. “He knows I don't like this. All he does is laugh, make a joke and kiss me like it could fix everything.”

Noah tilted his head, studying you. “So why are you here tonight?”

“Because I still care. And because a flat tire in this part of town at 2 a.m. is a pretty shit situation, even for someone acting like an idiot.”

“Fair.”

After a quiet moment, filled just by the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant voices from inside the warehouse, Noah shifted slightly beside you.

“You work?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked, turned your head halfway toward him. “What?”

He repeated, slower this time, almost like he wasn’t sure it was a weird question. “I asked if you work.”

You gave him a flat look. “Oh, look at that. Mr. ‘You should stay away’ playing Twenty Questions now?”

He laughed, and god, you loved that sound.

It burst out of him unguarded, loose and warm, with that almost high-pitched edge that didn’t suit his face or his body or anything about the way he usually carried himself. But it was real. The kind of laugh you only got out of someone when you caught them off guard in the best way. When they forgot to keep their walls up.

He ducked his head a little like he was embarrassed by it, which only made you smile.

“I’m just curious,” he said, still grinning. “I don’t actually know anything about you.”

“Exactly,” you said, “And I don't about you. That’s the point. You don't tell me shit, why should I?”

He looked at you for a moment.

"If you answer my questions, I'll tell you something about me too."

"This could work."

"Good." He chuckled.

“I work in a tattoo shop,” you said eventually. “Receptionist, mostly. Scheduling, phones, paperwork. I wipe down the floor too.”

He nodded, watching you. “Cool.”

He leaned back a little, shoulder grazing yours for just a second. “You got any pets?”

You let out a breath, half amused, half thoughtful. “No. I wish. But it’s hard, you know? Taking care of something… breathing, alive… in your house.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him look at you.

Then: “I think you’d do a good job.”

That surprised you. Your eyes slid over to him. “Why?”

He shrugged, barely lifting one shoulder. “Just would. I can tell.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Come on. You’ve seen me, what? Three times? Don’t start getting poetic on me.”

He turned toward you more fully, eyebrows up. “I’m not being poetic. It’s just true.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it, you have that.... something in you. Something good.”

You blinked at that. Your mouth opened slightly, like you might say something, but nothing came out at first.

Noah rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I know that came out weird.”

“No, it’s just…” you trailed off, then offered a small smile. “Unexpected.”

He smiled back, just a little.

You gave him a slow nod. “Okay, your turn. Tell me something.”

You expected him to dodge. To crack a joke or say something vague and slippery, keep playing the part of the guy who never lets anyone in. You didn’t expect what actually came next.

Noah looked down at his hands for a moment, thumbs rubbing together, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to show the scabbed-over edge of a healing scrape.

Then he said, almost too quiet to catch, “I grew up without my dad, I never knew him.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

“My mom died when I was twelve.” He said. “I lived with my grandparents after that. They took me in. They were... good.”

He paused. The silence stretched.

“They’re gone now too.”

You swallowed, your heart heavy all of a sudden. “Noah…”

He shook his head once, not sharply, but like he was brushing something off his own shoulders. “It was a while ago. I was maybe seventeen when my granddad passed. Nana lasted a little longer. After her, I just… started doing this. The fighting. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so…”

He trailed off. You didn’t press. You didn’t need to.

There was a long, quiet moment.

Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded once, like that was enough.

You reached over, without really thinking, and let your fingers brush his sleeve lightly. A small touch. Not much. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch.

You didn't hold his hand, even if you wanted. Didn't even touch it. But that was the closest thing to it you could do right now.

You knew it wasn’t the whole story.

You didn’t know why he kept fighting. Or why he had started in the first place, and why he didn't even consider other job offers.

You didn’t know why he refused help, why if you offered him a way out, he shut the door harder.

But this was a beginning, because he’d opened up, even if just a little.

“No reason you would,” he said quietly. “I don’t talk about it. Not with people here. Not with anyone, really.”

“Why tell me?”

He looked over at you.

"I told you there was something in you, didn't I?"

And just like that, as if you’d both quietly forgotten you were sitting just a few steps from an illegal fight club, where your boyfriend was probably still downing cheap alcohol with his idiot friends, you and Noah ended up talking for almost an hour, in the middle of the night.

The conversation had shifted less heavy aspects of your lives.

You told him about that one guy who came into the shop to get a hyper-realistic portrait of his girlfriend’s face tattooed on his ass cheek.

“Dead serious. Full shading. Dimples and all,” you said, grinning as you mimed the size of it with your hands. “And the worst part? She broke up with him three days later.”

Noah had laughed, really laughed. “That’s tragic. But also, if you’re getting someone’s face permanently inked on your ass, you gotta be prepared for heartbreak.”

Then there was the time you and your best friend got completely lost in Italy, accidentally boarded the wrong train, and ended up two towns over, arguing with a bakery owner who didn’t speak English but kept handing you pastries.

Noah listened, smiling in that quiet way he had, like he wasn’t just hearing the story, but tucking it away somewhere, saving it.

At some point, he’d pulled the hood down from his head and now his hair was falling forward, a little messy, loose in the front.

A few strands framed his face, brushing past his eyes the same way they did in the drawing on your sketchbook.

It softened him somehow. He looked less like the guy who took punches for a living and more like someone who used to be a boy, who maybe still carried the ache of being one.

He told you about his grandma, how when he was a kid, she used to make him peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, just for him.

“She thought they were disgusting,” he said, the fondness in his voice so clear it caught you off guard, “but she made them anyway. Every single time I asked.”

You made a face. “That sounds awful.”

“No,” he said, pretending to be offended. “It’s one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. I swear. The sweet from the peanut butter, the salty and sour from the pickles... it’s... genius.”

“It still sounds kinda gross.”

“I promise it's good,” he countered, a hand over his heart.

You were both smiling now. The kind of easy, involuntary smile that just happens when you’re having a friendly conversation with someone you enjoy spending time with.

He let out a breath, leaning back against the bench with a quiet sound. “I haven’t had one of those in years. Kind of miss it, actually.”

There was something gentle about the way he said it. It was not just about the sandwich, but everything it stood for, like moments spent with someone who loved you and wasn't there anymore, moments of safety, of being looked after.

And you found yourself wanting, absurdly, to find him a jar of peanut butter and the weirdest pickles you could, just to give him that again. Even for five minutes. Even if it was dumb.

You didn’t say that. You just looked at him, watching the way the glow from the streetlight hit the edge of his profile, softening every part of him.

From this angle, side by side, you could see the curve of his nose clearly. Sharp but soft at the same time, the kind of nose that made you want to draw his face over and over again, trace it with your eyes just to memorize the shape. It suited his face in a way that felt unfair. You wondered if it had ever been broken, and if so, how it had healed back still looking like that.

“You’ve got weird taste,” you murmured eventually.

He grinned. “You’ve got no idea.”

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until a sudden breeze cut through the quiet and you reached for your phone out of habit. The screen lit up with the time.

3:12 a.m.

“I should… probably go check on Kole,” you said softly, eyes still on the phone. “It’s past three.”

Noah glanced over, the faint lines of a frown tugging at his brows. “Right,” he said after a second, pushing to his feet. “I’ll come with you.”

Inside, the space had thinned out since you'd left. Most of the crowd was gone, the ring dark and still in the center of the room. A few folding chairs were tipped over. Someone’s hoodie lay abandoned on the floor. Dean was across the room, stacking empty crates with the kind of slow, distracted movement that suggested he'd been drinking too.

Kole was slumped over at a folding table near the corner, head tipped back against the wall, mouth slack. His arms dangled limply at his sides. A scattering of empty bottles formed a loose semicircle around his chair. One had rolled to the floor and lay spinning slightly from the draft you’d let in.

You sighed, already exhausted.

“Kole,” you said, shaking his shoulder gently. “Hey.”

He stirred, barely. Mumbled something incoherent into the collar of his hoodie and turned his face to the side like you were the world’s most annoying alarm clock.

“Kole, come on,” you tried again, voice firmer this time. “We need to go. It’s late.”

He groaned, made a weak attempt at lifting his head, then gave up and slumped back down.

You straightened up slowly as you looked at him, not really knowing what to do.

Behind you, Noah shifted.

You turned and met his eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Kole, then at you. Then he let out a long breath through his nose. The kind of sigh that said he couldn't care less about your drunk boyfriend, but he still was going to help. For you.

“Take one of his arms,” he said simply, already stepping forward.

You bent down, looping one of Kole’s arms around your shoulder. Noah took the other. Between the two of you, you hauled him upright. His head lolled forward, chin to chest, as dead weight as a sack of wet sand.

Noah adjusted his grip. “I got him,” he murmured, as Kole started saying something like ‘babe… m’fine…’ into the crook of your neck.

You didn’t answer.

And like that, the two of you carried him out into the dark.

Noah’s arms ached faintly from holding Kole up, but he ignored it. The guy was deadweight, reeking of sweat, booze, and some awful cologne.

Still, Noah kept a steady grip, matching your pace as you both half-dragged, half-carried him toward the door.

It had been the first time in years that Noah had opened up to someone. Even just a little. He hadn’t meant to. But with you...he hadn’t felt the usual tightness in his throat when he spoke. You felt safe.

Every time you two talked, just a little longer than the time before, he felt lighter. Like something was slowly being unhooked from inside his chest and set down, piece by piece. He didn’t feel fixed, but he felt better. And that was rare.

He kept thinking about your hand.

About how, for a second out there in the dark, you’d almost taken his. You hadn’t. Your hand had just hovered there for a moment before you brushed his sleeve instead, just the edge of his hoodie, like you’d caught yourself at the last moment. Like you’d remembered who you were supposed to belong to.

But Noah had felt it. That almost.

And now, as he walked beside you in silence, Kole’s weight dragging against him, all he could think about was how it might feel to actually hold your hand.

To feel your fingers, smaller and softer than his, sliding between his. Feel the contrast, your clean skin against his, covered in bruises and tattoos.

Would your hand flinch? Or would it fit?

He tightened his jaw and swallowed the thought.

Because now he was here, helping carry your drunk boyfriend out of a half-empty warehouse at three in the damn morning.

No, he didn’t care about Kole. Not even a little.

He remembered that night in the alley. Kole had looked down at him, grinning like a dumbass, and said thanks for getting his ass kicked so he could win a couple hundred bucks.

The guy didn’t deserve you.

Not your kindness. Not your laugh. Not your touch.

But Kole was still your boyfriend.

And Noah was doing this for you.

Because every goddamn day that passed, it got harder to pretend he didn’t care.

About you.

About the way your eyes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. About how you smiled when he tried to say something funny. About the way you’d sat with him tonight, listened to him, chatted like two people who met under better circumstances and were slowly growing closer.

He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, repeating himself that you still belonged to someone else, and that just because you didn't deserve someone like Kole didn't mean you deserved someone like him.

Noah leaned back as you finally got Kole settled in the passenger seat, the door clicking shut behind his dead weight. The guy slumped immediately against the window, cheek smashed to the glass, mouth slightly open.

You turned back to Noah, exhaling. “Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your hands over your face.

“I give him... maybe a 3 for effort.” He said.

You snorted, the sound pulling a tiny smile from him. “Generous.”

You glanced at Kole, who made some unintelligible noise and shifted in his seat.

Noah made a face. “I hope he doesn't throw up inside.”

"Trust me, I'm hoping harder than you."

He chuckled and watched you settle into the seat, but you didn’t start the engine right away.

“Night, Noah.”

Noah gave a small nod, stepping back from the car. “Goodnight,” he said. “Drive safe, alright?”

You nodded, then reached out and gently pulled the door shut with a dull thunk.

He stood there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, as your headlights swept across the cracked asphalt.

Noah stayed there until you drove away and he couldn't see your car anymore.

He exhaled, and finally, with one last glance down the empty road, Noah turned and made his way back toward his building.

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @bloody-spades @rumoured-whispers @astronoids

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper @overmydeadbodysblog @fear-its-beauty @xslavicprincess @concreteangel92 @super-btstrash-posts @pipidoll @pipidoll @bluehairpunklol @tktstomydwnfall @jesuisunchaton @brutallysoftmuse @acatatonicpeace

[hyohaehyuk]

Sam talks about Jacob being 'an exceptional person' and answers what would have happened if Dale interviewed Lestat and whether or not Dale and Louis would be "friends" in The Emsolation Podcast Extras!

Note: Unf this is not the complete video where he answears that question(s). I had to edit it with a few excerpts i found so it might not make much sense. if someone put the whole segment of this question(s) i will edit this with that video

Source: The Emsolation Podcast - Sam Reid talks the FINAL season of The Newsreader, urvampiregirls, loustatsoup, comeappraiseme and pixielayer

------

Him saying that he can't imagine Louis giving two f*cks about Dale 😞 Well the fanfics says otherwise 🙃 i am really surprised they didn't told im about the Louis x Dale fanfics on AO3 🤣

i cant find the tweet now but i swear that i saw someone one twitter saying that Michael Lucas and the lady in the video talked about it a few weeks ago in one of The Emsolation podcast eps.

Anyway, it's funny that Lestat possessed him both times: one (where Sam clearly was able to control him) where he was totally down to the idea of f*cking Dale and in the other where he cant stand the idea of Louis f*cking Dale (Lestat you fake poly. A cheater is what you are) I didn't believed 100% in the Lestat possession allegations until i watch this 🤯

[femmeloverboy]

Adventure time fans when you enjoyed the Fionna and Cake finale and don't want their miserable unnecessary nitpicky opinions on a silly happy cartoon ruining ur joy and love for the show:

[h0estar]

some of my favorite moments of yato & yukine during my reread. i read the scanlations occasionally bc it gives me sm nostalgia. anw, the two of them are so cute... they're just like family :(

yato referring to yukine as his "boy" or "kid" always gets me man. i take a shot every time he says it 🥹

[spacedlexi]

the way the ericson group were at the outbreak just a bunch of troubled kids who made various mistakes or committed crimes and were judged by a system that punished and abandoned them instead of giving them the support and love they needed, are then nearly a decade later put into a situation where now they must judge a troubled child for the mistakes and crimes hes committed against them. and 5 to 3 vote them out 😭

[evocatiio]

if chibnall was the one writing this season you lot would be talking VERY differently

[vani-ash]

Everything about the ending?? If Mo had stayed in bed. If Jingna and Thongkam had been in bed. If Mo hadn't married Tang. If Mo gave up looking once they weren't in bed. If Thongkam had untied Mo sooner. If Jingna had used more pesticide. There is so many ways the ending could've been avoided and I'll never stop thinking about it 😭

[pickled-flowers]

Saw some of the grossest parenting today in the bus

[marsbotz]

DAMN its insanee even after so long… undertales story is still fucking crazyyyy

[doctorwillsolace]

holy shit my brain really can not handle having to remember more than 5 things at once can it

[obvslybatgrl]

MY LITTLE PRINCE 😭😭😭😭

[ukulelegodparent]

grrrr why did people ever stop wearing mid-renaissance clothes