#i mean it was kind of triggering but like

[luveline]

Hi Jade! Can I request Spencer and Nurse!reader? Maybe they meet when he’s wounded/she’s patching him up?

(Yes I’m a nursing student I promise we aren’t all mean girls 😔)

ty for requesting!! ik ur not all mean of course!!<3 —you meet the cutest FBI agent ever and tend his wounds. fem, 1.5k

One of the small pleasures of your job is when the patients are cute. Not many people come through as handsome as this one. You’re professional nonetheless. 

“What am I seeing you for today?” you ask, holding your hands behind your back. 

Your patient, charted as a Dr. Spencer Walter Reid, twenty nine years old, gives you a tentative smile. “Someone hit me really hard.” 

You can see the bruise forming against his temple. “Yes, I’d say so. Did you know the assailant?” 

“No, but it’s handled.” His smile turns to a grimace. “Uh, I get these, like, debilitating migraines, and I feel like I have one coming on.���

“A head injury could trigger that,” you agree, holding your hands out in front of you, little torch in hand. “Can I have a look?” you ask softly. 

When you’ve been a nurse for some time, you start to categorise people into boxes. All kinds of boxes for different things, but Spencer Reid gets a tick for a few things straight away: shy, pretty, and sensitive to touch. He must not get touched much, or he’s had a bad experience with strangers. He did just get hit in the head, you allow, brushing a sweet, mousy curl away from his head and holding it out of the way as you shine a light into each of his eyes. He flinches hard, but his pupils react as expected. 

Whoever hit him managed to break the skin, upon closer infection of the injury. The skin has turned purple at the edges of his cut. It’ll be a big bruise in just a few hours. 

“Spencer, please tell me if I hurt you, honey,” you say, voice still soft. If he’s got a migraine coming, he won’t want your usual overloud distinction. 

“It’s okay. It hurts, but not more or less when you poke it.” 

“You have a laceration, yeah? It’s about three centimetres long, but deep. I can close it with a butterfly stitch, if you’re okay with that.” 

“Yeah, please. Um, about the migraine–”

“Do you want a tramadol, honey? I think you deserve one.” 

“I can’t have narcotics.” 

You pull back and straighten the hair you’d displaced. “That’s okay, it just means you can’t have the strongest stuff. Most people try to avoid them anyhow. How about tylenol, would that be alright? Or do you avoid painkillers in general?” 

“Tylenol is fine as long as it doesn’t have the codeine with it.” 

You give him a gentle nod. “I’ll make sure it’s the right one. You can even see the bottle, if you like. Would you want them before or after the stitch?” He probably knows, but you add, “It’s not a real stitch. But it might feel tender when I’m poking around.” 

“Anything. Whatever you want to do first.” 

His eyes squeeze closed. You give him a frown he can’t see, and rest your hand on his arm. “Is there someone here with you?” you ask him.

“My friend is coming, I think. There was a lot going on.” 

“That’s okay. I’m not sending you home until I’ve fixed you, Dr. Reid.” 

He smiles, even with his eyes closed, but doesn’t say anything more. You wash your hands and find your bandages. A butterfly bandage, a sterile wipe, and a square piece of gauze to cover it cleanly. His eyes are opening again when you return, ushering him gently down the bed so you can sit on his right side near the injury. 

“What do you do for work?” you ask him. 

“I work for the FBI.” 

“You do?” You tear open the sterile wipe and again pull the curls from his forehead. “This might sting. Please tell me if it hurts too much.” 

“It’s not the cut that hurts.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say sympathetically. Migraines are a tricky business. If he’s already having one, you probably can’t do much to get rid of it, but that doesn’t mean pain relief won’t help. “I’ll do this as quickly as I can.” 

He’s quiet. You wipe around the laceration with careful, concise movements. The cut looks clean enough when you’re done, and it’s so small you won’t irrigate it. 

“Are you an agent?” you ask. 

“Yeah. Special supervisory with the BAU. The, uh, behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, putting the wrapping and the dirtied wipe into your cardboard bowl. “I think I’ve seen it on TV sometimes, you guys can track the serial killers and stuff?” 

“Mostly that, yeah. Uh, sometimes we find trafficking rings or missing kids. Sometimes we manage hostage situations. It depends on the level of the crisis.” 

“So you’re the big gun.” 

“I guess so. I’m not actually good with a gun.” 

“No one has to be good with a gun to change the world.” You pull the butterfly stitch from the packaging and pick at a finicky end. “I hate guns.” 

He sighs. “I do, too.” 

“They make my job hard. It’s not nice, seeing what they can do to people. It’s awful, really. Spencer, I’m so sorry, honey, I’m just gonna put this on here, it might feel uncomfortable as I pull the sides together.” 

“It’s okay.” 

You pull the plastic of the butterfly stitch on both sides, cinching his cut together promptly. It looks better now you can’t see the inside. 

“I’m gonna cover this with the dressing now. You don’t have to keep it on if you don’t want to, it’s a pretty small cut, it was just deep. I’d recommend you try to keep it dry for two days, really, you should keep it covered, but it’s up to you. And if anything happens, if it gets infected, you can always come see me again.” 

You’re mildly flirting, then. Just because he’s nice and shy. It might be a little cruel of you to proposition a man when he’s roughed up, though. 

Spencer, luckily, understands that you’re not trying to harass him. “Thank you.” 

You stand, peeling the plastic from the bandaid and exposing the sticky backing. Slowly, you stroke his hair back from the wound and line the bandaid up. He shivers under your nails. 

“So sorry,” you say, laughing under your breath, “it’s my nails, huh?” 

“It’s okay.” 

“You’re a great patient, Spencer. I’d give you a sticker if I could, I’m not kidding.” 

“You’re a great nurse.” 

“Thank you.” You smooth the edges of the bandaid down for good measure and step away from him to assess him. “How’s that migraine?” 

“Getting worse.” 

“You have them often, you said? Treated or untreated?” 

“Psychosomatic, apparently.” 

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Has your doctor talked to you about CBT?” 

“Some. I don’t really… want it,” he says awkwardly. 

“That’s okay. If it’s psychosomatic as they believe, it might get better with time. How’s the stress in your life?”

“Stressful.” 

“It must be hard, the FBI, everything. Life is hard enough. Stopping serial killers must weigh on your heart.” You smile carefully. “Was there anything else you wanted to bring to my attention? Any other injury, anything that needs urgent care?” 

“I was mostly worried I had a concussion.” 

“It doesn’t seem like it. You’re not nauseous, are you?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

He gets this awful, sad look on his face, it really isn’t nice to see. People come in by themselves all the time but it never gets easier to handle. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, taking his arm into your hand. 

“I’m fine.” 

He had the look of someone who’s always fine. Luckily for him, it’s your job to take care of people, to make sure they’re more than fine. “Okay. I’m gonna get you something warm to drink. Do you like donuts?” 

“Uh–”

“I’m getting a feeling about you. Chocolate frosting, I bet.” 

He smiles, startled and pleased at once. “Yeah.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna get those for you. A drink, a donut, and some much needed Tylenol. You can lay down if you like.” 

He nods but doesn’t move. 

As you’re leaving the room, you cross paths with a handsome man with dark skin and a bright smile. Must be something in the air today, you think. 

“Reid, you okay?” you hear him say. 

“Fine.” 

“You’re pink.” 

“What?” 

“You’re blushing. Oh, you had the pretty nurse, didn’t you?” 

“Shut up,” Spencer whispers sharply. 

“You can ask for her number.” 

“No I can’t, she’s working.” 

“But you want to,” his friend surmises. 

You bite down a smile, giving your head a shake as you go. You need to get a move on. Spencer needs a hot drink, a donut, Tylenol, and a pen. It should be okay if you’re both feeling up to it, right?

[misswynters]

Jinx having a gf who’s touchy and affectionate

requested. @luc1dw0rld

Jinx’s hideout was always filled with chaos, half-finished inventions strewn across every surface, faint scorch marks on the walls, and the constant hum of machinery that never quite worked the way she wanted. But today, it felt different. Calmer, almost peaceful. It wasn’t because she’d finally decided to clean up the mess. She hadn’t. It was because of you.

You were sprawled out on her couch, an old, tattered thing she’d salvaged from a junkyard, but it felt like a throne whenever you were on it. Jinx sat cross-legged on the floor in front of you, tinkering with a grenade she’d been working on for days. Your legs dangled over the edge of the couch, and every so often, your foot brushed against her shoulder. Each touch, light as it was, sent a warmth through her that she didn’t know how to handle.

“Y’know, I think I’ve got this one right this time,” Jinx muttered, her tongue poking out as she focused on the tiny screws and wires in her hands. Her usual frenetic energy was dulled and her movements slower.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” you said from above her. Your voice was soft, laced with the kind of unwavering confidence in her abilities that always made her stomach twist in unfamiliar ways.

She glanced up at you, her eyes wide and unguarded for a split second before she remembered herself and looked away. “Pfft. Don’t go jinxin’ it, babe,” she said, forcing a smirk as she set the grenade down. But her voice lacked its usual sharp edge, softened by the way you were looking at her.

You slid off the couch and onto the floor beside her, your legs folding neatly under you. “Need help?” you asked, even though you both knew your technical skills couldn’t match hers. It didn’t matter. The question wasn’t really about the grenade.

Jinx tensed for a moment, her fingers twitching against her thighs. She wasn’t used to this. To someone just…being there. It was a different kind of tension, though. Not the kind that made her fingers itch for a trigger or her mind spiral into chaos. It was much softer.

“Nah, I’m good,” she said, her voice quieter than usual. But she didn’t move away when your hand rested lightly on her knee.

You smiled at her, that small, knowing smile that always made her feel like you could see straight through her defenses. “Alright,” you said, leaning back on your hands.

Jinx’s gaze flicked to your hand on her knee, then to your face. She could feel the weight of your affection in the smallest gestures. The way your fingers curled slightly, as if anchoring her in place. It was overwhelming and comforting all at once, a contradiction she couldn’t quite wrap her head around.

“You’re all…touchy, y’know that?” she said, trying for a teasing tone, but it came out softer than she intended.

“Does it bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Jinx hesitated, her fingers drumming against her leg in a rapid rhythm. “Nah. It’s just…weird. Not bad weird. Just…weird weird.”

You chuckled, the sound light and easy. “I’ll take weird weird.”

She watched as you leaned closer, your fingers brushing a stray strand of blue hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so casual, it made her heart stutter. She wasn’t used to people touching her like this. As if she was something fragile, something worth handling with care.

“Why’re you always doing that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me. Like…like that.”

You tilted your head, your expression soft but serious. “Because I love you, Jinx.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to do with them. Love wasn’t something she was good at. It was messy and complicated and full of things she didn’t understand. Whenever she was with you, her entire world felt simpler.

She looked away, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. “You’re such a sap,” she muttered, but there was no bite in her words.

“That means you like it,” you said, your voice teasing but warm.

She rolled her eyes, but the faint smile tugging at her lips gave her away. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head.”

You didn’t respond, just leaned closer until your forehead was resting against hers. Jinx froze, her breath catching in her throat. She could feel the heat of your skin, the steady rhythm of your breathing, and it was…nice.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice shaky but sincere. “Just…not used to this. Feels…weird.”

“Weird weird?”

“Yeah. But, like…good weird.”

You smiled, your hand slipping into hers. Her fingers twitched, hesitant at first, but then they tightened around yours. She didn’t say anything, but the way her grip lingered said more than words ever could. For a while, the two of you just sat there, her hand in yours, her forehead still pressed against yours. The chaos of the hideout faded into the background, replaced by a quiet that was rare for her. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that came with loneliness. It was the kind of quiet that felt safe. Jinx absolutely loved the time she would spend with you. You are her world.

banner. @anitalenia

[killerelysia]

Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur!- Solivan brugmansia x Yan!G.N Reader! (Part 2!)

The kid at the back is a 18+ visual novel Minors don't interact!

Words:9000

Genre: Yandere-(Self aware yandere won the poll)

Summary: You’ve become consumed by your obsession with Solivan Brugmansia. What started as innocent curiosity quickly spiraled into a fixation. He started it and you began to stalk him, learning every detail about his life. You felt a sick sense of satisfaction in making Sol’s world safer while growing increasingly delusional about your connection with him. Your love for him deepens as you fantasize about the future, convinced that you are the one who truly understands him—better than anyone else. Despite the line between reality and obsession blurring, you remain certain: Sol is yours, even if he doesn’t know it yet.. You're his and he's yours...

( Reader is a g.n!)-

Trigger Warning: This content contains themes of obsessive behavior, stalking, manipulation, mental instability, and delusional thinking, Drugging, Yandere?, Hopeless in love for attention Please read with caution.

Obsessive behavior: The reader becomes dangerously fixated on someone, bordering on stalking and delusion.

Manipulation: The reader engages in schemes to control or harm others, often through deception.

Mental illness: Delusional thinking, possible dissociation from reality, and unhealthy fixation on someone.

Violence: There are references to bullying, physical harm, and emotional manipulation.

Emotional abuse: Both in terms of how the protagonist manipulates others and how they might internalize toxic behaviors.

Stalking: The reader watches and follows the person they are obsessed with.

EXTRA: He's a character from a game named The kid at the back!! Note, The relationship presented here between sol and reader is extremely toxic!! In no way, Just because I'm writing doesn't mean I support this kind of toxicity. Note, It's okay to like sol if you know the flaws and don't be a blind eye on them! Again, I don't support his actions etc! If you hate sol ignore this.

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee.

DAY 1: The Beloved

“I will not accept one paragraph! I need two whole pages filled with words. Everyone got that?”

The teacher’s voice grated on your ears like nails on a chalkboard. Not that the assignment was hard—you could churn out two pages in your sleep if you wanted to. Writing wasn’t the issue. No, the real problem was the waste.

Two pages of meaningless drivel on some boring topic when you could be filling those pages with him. Words dedicated to Sol, the way his green-streaked hair falls just so, the sharpness of his jawline, the way he speaks as if he’s barely trying and yet every word hooks you like a line to the heart. Two pages about Sol? Easy. Two pages about anything else? Insulting.

You shift in your seat, feeling the familiar burn in your chest. It’s not anger exactly—it’s this gnawing, this aching thing that starts deep inside you every time someone pulls your focus away from him.

And your journal. Oh, your journal. You’d filled its pages with his name, over and over again. Sketches of him, even ones of the two of you together—his hand in yours, his lips grazing your cheek. Perfect. You flip it closed quickly, sliding it under your textbook as a passing student glances your way. No one gets to see those. They wouldn’t understand.

You glance at the clock. The rooftop. You’re running out of time. You bite your lip and glance at the book again. Just one more sketch… no, focus!

The doodle of you and Sol holding hands stares back at you. It’s so cute, you can’t help the small giggle bubbling in your throat. What would he think if he saw this? Would he call it pathetic or perfect? Would he notice the details? The way I drew him smiling?

The smile falters. No.

Not yet. He doesn’t get to see this yet—not until it’s perfect. Not until you are perfect.

With a deep breath, you slam the book shut and stand, forcing the manic swirl of thoughts into a neat little box in the back of your mind. Control. Stay calm. Don’t let anyone see.

There’s plenty of time to admire him later. For now, you’ll play along, just like always.

But inside, your thoughts swirled, chaotic and relentless. You could feel the edges of your obsession creeping in, clawing at your composure.

Why Sol? Why does he get to me like this? Is it his smile? The way his voice sounds like music when he talks to Hyugo about me? Maybe it’s his obesseion Or maybe it’s because I’m just...

You paused, staring blankly at the paper in front of you. Messed up. Rotten. Broken. No wonder I’m drawn to him. He’s the only one who makes me feel like I could be fixed.

You shook your head, banishing the thought. No time for self-pity. You had to get to the rooftop soon, and you couldn’t go up there acting like some lovesick fool.

Standing up from your seat, you were about to grab your bag when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

Turning around, you saw Brittney—the Chipette—no, Crowe’s friend. Her. You pause, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she’s trying to talk to you, pretend to be friendly. It must be Crowe’s idea. Of course, it is. Brittney doesn’t do anything without some ulterior motive, right? Sharp tongue wrapped in hard words. But… maybe she’s different. she’s kind. Sometimes, she actually tries. It's just she's bad at talking.

A fallen angel in disguise.

You tilt your head slightly, watching her fumble. She doesn’t know how to approach you. Does she think I’m some kid who needs to be scolded? Her nervous glance tell you that. She’s probably going to say something about how wrong it is to obsess over Sol. Does she know? She doesn't know. No one knows.

And Sol isn’t a “kid.” He’s perfect. He’s 6’ of celestial art, every inch of him carved like he was meant to be worshipped, adored. He’s everything. You feel your pulse quicken just thinking about him.

“Hey, you’re going to lunch with us, right?” Brittney starts, pulling you back. “I mean, you should. I don’t usually see you in the cafeteria nowadays, so you must not be eating properly…”

You blink at her. Lunch? The cafeteria? You don’t go there anymore. Not since Sol.

Because Sol hates it. He hates the noise.

He didn’t say it outright, of course. He doesn’t have to. You know it. You feel it in the way he moves, in the small looks he gives the space, in the way he brushes off people there. It’s loud. It’s annoying. He doesn’t like it. So you don’t like it either.

It’s one of the small ways you show your love for him, even if he doesn’t know. Even if no one knows. You don’t need their approval. You don’t need their judgment. You learned to cook, after all! Sol likes to cook too. Isn’t that just fate? It’s like the universe tying you together, thread by thread.

You learned to decorate your food everyday so when he sees he can smile. You made sure to change your wallpaper to a pumpkin so when he might try to check, he will think you like them..

Its all for him..

You always come early, leave your food on your spot on the rooftop so you can watch him later. Just watch. When he’s with Hyugo, you catch glimpses of their meals. Sol always seems to cook for him.

Sol cooks for Hyugo…

Your chest twists. Your grip tightens on your bag.

You wonder when it’ll be you. When will it be you he cooks for? When will you be the one he eats with, laughs with, looks at? Domestic, happy, married—together, forever.

"We will be a happy family together, right Sol? Don't we be together forever...?"

The thought makes your stomach flutter, your lips twitch into an almost-smile. You’re almost dizzy with it. Wouldn’t that be perfect? Wouldn’t that be just right? Sol and you, a home, no one else, just the two of you…

Your breath catches. Stop. Not here. Not in front of her. Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it—

“Hello? You okay?” Brittney’s voice pulls you back.

You blink. Smile. Tilt your head like nothing’s wrong. “I’m fine,” you say, even though you can still feel that wild, spiraling need thrumming in your chest.

Sol would be proud of how well you can hide it. Don’t you think?

You were about to refuse politely, maybe even brush her off, but then Brittney added something that made your blood freeze.

"How can you keep up with classes looking like that? You look like you haven't slept in months. You almost look like a crazed person."

Excuse me?

The words hit like a slap, a harsh reminder of how others saw you. You felt your skin flush, the urge to lash out simmering beneath the surface. No one, no one, was supposed to notice that. Not her. Not anyone. She didn’t know what you were really up to—how could she?

But you caught yourself, staring at her without blinking, trying to suppress the bitter taste in your mouth. You had to hold it together. She was just… clueless. Clueless in the same way everyone else was. She didn't know what you did, how you spent your nights, how you fed your obsession, how you kept everything in line. To her, you were just the weird, sleep-deprived kid who could barely hold it together in class.

You blinked slowly, trying to keep your expression neutral. Don’t let her see how much her words hurt. No one was supposed to see that. You felt a little… off, but you didn’t let it show. You were in control, at least, on the outside.

She realized, too late, that she'd crossed a line. The awkwardness in the air was thick, and you could almost see the regret flicker behind her eyes. Maybe she felt sorry for you? But no, it wasn’t pity. It was something else. Something… less clean.

In truth, you felt a small pang of something almost like guilt. It was strange. You felt… bad for her? You knew Brittney had no idea what she was stepping into. How could she? She wasn’t part of this world you had so carefully constructed, a world that only you understood. She was just someone who thought she was being kind, trying to make conversation.

You sighed softly, resisting the urge to show any emotion. She didn’t deserve to feel bad about it. No, she didn’t deserve that.

"That's really insensitive of you! Imagine if someone else told you about how you look," Crowe’s voice cuts through, a protector once again.

You glance at Brittney. Ugh, such a showoff, trying to play the hero. You barely let it phase you, though. You’re above this.

"Brittney’s just trying, Crowe, I don’t really take offense,” you say, smiling sweetly, but it’s more for your own benefit than anyone else’s.

Crowe looks at you, clearly taken aback. Oh, poor Crowe, so clueless. He thought you’d be hurt? You almost giggle at his innocence.

“Well, you’re the one who insisted on me initiating talk. If you really want to rescue them, there are better ways to be their prince charming, Crowe.” You throw a playful smirk his way. This game’s so easy. He’s trying so hard… for what?

You snicker, watching his face twist in confusion. God, he’s like a lost child when their momma takes away their candy. It’s almost adorable…

"You could’ve done it more nicely, you know. A simple invite would’ve sufficed,” he murmur, you still have the sweet smile plastered across your face. He’s pushing so hard for attention. What’s he trying to prove? You don’t need more friends. Friends are just competition… people getting in the way of your Sol. It's a distraction.

You glance over at the three people you know in the circle—one of them, Subaru. The thought of him nearly makes your stomach churn. Such a fool. You shake your head.

Love is what makes a Subaru a Subaru

You choke on your own thoughts, trying to push the smile from your face. Shut up, Y/n. Just shut up for a second. That quote doesn't deserve Geo

“Damn Brit, you sure are bad at socializing! Hey, Geo! Looks like you’ve got competition!” Deryl’s voice cuts in, a stupid grin spreading across his face.

Brittney’s face turns red. You feel your lips curl into a soft, dangerous smile. Time to save the poor thing.

"At least she tries something," you say, cutting into the moment. "Unlike Mr. Scaramoose over here… Mister Deryl Helianth. It’s okay…"

Deryl’s eyes widen. "You know my full government name?!?" The jock is practically bouncing with excitement. How cute. He thinks it matters.

You smile sweetly. "No, not at all." You really didn’t need to know anything about him. You’ve just been collecting information on everyone. Your eyes flick over to the name data you’ve carefully pulled from the class roster. But Sol’s name isn’t on there… why isn’t his name listed? The thought itches at the back of your mind. I’ll check the Art class today.

Sigh…

"They must have gotten it from the student council. You helped me a lot that day, Y/n. Thanks," Crowe says with a soft smile. Oh, how genuine. How sweet.

But you did it for yourself, didn’t you? You did it to make sure you knew everything about him. To see if Sol was in the same room. Same class..

Any class...

Crowe’s obliviousness is almost painful, but you don’t let it show.

You shake the thought away. Sol, Sol, Sol. There you go again, thinking about him. You feel a silly, wild smile threatening to take over your face. Great job, Y/n. You almost look like a crazy person again.

“Shut the fuck up, Deryl!” Brittney screeches, saving you from your own spiraling thoughts.

You sigh in relief. Finally, a distraction.

While they bicker, you look at Geo, sticking your tongue out. You know it’ll annoy him, and that’s just too fun to pass up. His angry gaze snaps to you. You flash him your sweetest, most angelic smile in return.

Oh, Geo… you think, enjoying his discomfort just a little too much. You turn your gaze to the meek girl beside Brittney, Jess, who’s been silent the whole time. Poor thing. Probably doesn’t even realize how much you hate her existence.

“Sorry,” He says putting on a sympathetic voice. “They’re kind of a rowdy bunch, huh?”

Crowe laughs, scratching the back of his head. “You’re the most normal person I know, Y/n.”

Normal? Oh, if only you knew. If only he could see the things you hide. The way your mind swirls with dark thoughts. The plans you’ve already made.

"Normal?" You smile sweetly again. "Yeah, sure!"

Normal? Sure, if that’s what they want to think. But behind those eyes of yours, it's a whole different story. Behind those closed doors, in the stillness of your room, you sit there, mapping out every move Sol makes. Watching. Waiting. Planning.

You’ve got this figured out. It’s mutual craziness, isn’t it? Stalking is just a step closer to true love, right? After all, Sol’s already there, watching you too.

Crowe introduces Jess to you, and you can’t help but pinch her cheek. Just like Sol would. Your heart skips a beat at the thought, the way you’d touch Sol the same way, so tenderly, so possessively.

You smile, your eyes glazing over, lost in the fantasy.

"Thank Beyonce," you think, when Brittney screams again, snapping you out of your daydream.

"Are you coming with us or what?" Brittney asks, her voice cutting through the haze of your thoughts.

Geo and Deryl exchange whispers. You don’t hear the words, but the feeling between them is thick, charged. Geo glances at you, his eyes narrowing, an intensity behind them that makes your stomach twist in knots.

You just smile and shrug. “I’m not coming. I’ve got to do something about the assignment.”

Crowe furrows his brows, unsure. “Are you sure?”

Geo pushes him out of the way, throwing a glance at you. His eyes are cold, pissed off. But why? Why would he be mad?

You don’t care. “Yeah, I’m sure. I want to see how the show plays out today, just like yesterday. Like the day before. And so on.”

You giggle, the insanity behind your eyes barely concealed. “Thanks, George of the Jungle!”

Geo hisses under his breath, storming off. Good riddance.

Finally, you’re alone, the game once again in your hands.

You approached the usual vent that led to the rooftop, your thoughts on the familiar, quiet solitude awaiting you there. You needed it more than ever. But as you got closer, your heart sank. The vent… it was blocked. A large metal panel, freshly installed, covered the usual opening.

You froze for a moment, blinking in disbelief, your mind racing. No, no, no… This was your only escape. Your only way to break free from the suffocating weight of everything. You reached forward, pressing your hand against the cool metal, but it didn’t budge. It felt like the world itself was closing in around you.

Your gaze shot over to the construction worker nearby, the one handling some tools by the wall. You quickly approached him, a sense of urgency bubbling in your chest. "Hey, what's going on with the vent?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He looked up, wiping his brow before answering. “Oh, that? A tall student, Subaru, complained about the vents being damaged. The university decided to get it fixed right away. They’re installing some new system to keep people from sneaking up through there. Too many people have been climbing in and out, I guess. They said it needed to be blocked off.”

Your blood ran cold as the realization hit you like a sledgehammer. Subaru. That tall, irritating… Scaramouche wannabe.

Damn it.

You almost couldn't breathe, the frustration building inside you so quickly it hurt. You clenched your fists so tightly, your nails dug into your palm. It was him. That bastard had complained about the vents just to block your access. He knew! He knew how much you relied on that small escape, that bit of freedom. And now it was gone—ruined because of his petty complaint.

“Wait," you snapped, your voice dangerously low, "Can you fix it? Please. I need to get through." You could feel the heat rising to your face, a mix of anger and panic. You had to get up there. You had to see Sol. There was no other way.

The construction worker shook his head. “Sorry, kid. They’ve already decided to seal it up. The system’s being locked down. No going through there anymore. If it's rooftop just use the damned stairs. Even then, kids are not gonna listen. Even grownups like you are idiotic."

But you use it for...Rooftop so they can't see

Your world tilted, your vision narrowing. No… no! You could feel your chest tightening, the walls closing in. You were so close. You were this close to seeing him, to feeling something again, but now it was slipping through your fingers.

Geo, that fucking prick! Your heart raced with frustration, your mind spinning. Why did he have to ruin everything?

You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, the urge to scream rising inside you. It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t even reach Sol now, because that damn fool had gotten in the way. You paced in front of the blocked vent, your mind unraveling. You tried to breathe, tried to think of something—anything—but all that came to mind was the surge of anger that made your head spin.

You turned away abruptly, fist clenched tightly at your side, barely holding back the raw frustration that threatened to burst out of you. "Fucking bitch," you muttered under your breath. You didn’t even realize the words had escaped until they echoed through the air.

You cursed under your breath again, letting the anger rage inside you like a storm, unable to quell it. All that rage, all that tension was boiling over, and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

You stood there, Your fingers trembled as you tried to think of another way. The stairs, you thought. The staircase that led to the rooftop—it was a long shot, but maybe you could get up there without anyone noticing.

You glanced around, hoping no one was watching. The stairway to the other side of the rooftop was a bit more hidden, so if you were careful, maybe—just maybe—you could sneak your way up without anyone spotting you. Your mind raced, trying to calculate the risks. There was a chance they’d notice you going up, but you didn’t care. You had to see him today. It wasn’t a choice anymore—it was an obsession, a need, a desperate craving.

You made your way toward the stairwell, a strange mix of hope and anxiety flooding your chest. Just be quiet, don’t get spotted… you repeated to yourself like a mantra.

But the moment you stepped into the stairwell, you felt something shift inside of you. What if they catch you? What if they find out? The thought of someone seeing you make your way to the rooftop, of someone witnessing you sneak away like this, made your stomach churn. The fear crawled up your spine, but you couldn’t stop now. You had to do this for yourself.

You tried to silence the little voice that whispered doubts in your ear. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about being caught.

But the stairs—the stairs were the wrong ones. You turned the corner too fast, your heart pounding louder with every step. You’d entered the wrong pair of stairs, a different exit leading to an entirely different side of the building. A side where the students could see you—where he could see you. The panic rose in your throat. No, no, no… You cursed under your breath.

The walls felt like they were closing in around you. Your hands gripped the railing tightly, trying to steady yourself as your chest tightened with dread. It’s too much. It’s too risky. You’ll be caught.

The weight of it all hit you then, the tears pricking at the back of your eyes. Sol… you can’t even see him anymore. You’re losing everything.

A soft sob escaped your lips, quickly smothered by the desperate need to control yourself. You wiped your eyes, but they wouldn’t stop, your tears betraying you. Why was it so hard? Why did everything feel like it was slipping through your fingers?

You felt small, insignificant, lost in a world that was spinning too fast. Why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn’t you just have a simple moment with him? To see his face, to be near him, to exist in his world for just a little while.

Your breath hitched again, sobbing softly to yourself, trying to stifle the noise. You hated how weak you felt, how exposed you were. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to be crying over something so ridiculous, over something you couldn’t control. But in that moment, you didn’t care. You just wanted to see him.

You needed him.

Why couldn’t you just be normal? you thought bitterly, wiping your nose as you swallowed the lump in your throat. Why did it have to be so complicated? Every day felt like a fight—a fight against yourself, against your own cravings, against everything pulling you toward him.

The sobs were quiet, but they felt so loud in the silence of the stairwell. You felt pathetic—helpless, even. But there was no turning back now. You had to get to the roof. You had to see him.

You blinked hard, forcing your tears to stop. It was time to take action. Be sneaky, be careful. You can do this.

You wiped your face, sucked in a breath, and kept climbing the stairs, hoping that just one more turn would lead you to him.

You couldn’t stop the tears from falling as you reached the rooftop, your breath shaky and uneven. The cool breeze barely brushed your face, but the overwhelming sense of sadness flooded your chest, crushing it under its weight.

Sol… Sol… where are you? Your heart hammered painfully in your chest as you looked around, searching desperately. But the rooftop was empty. No sign of him. Not a shadow, not a glimpse.

You felt a sob tear through your chest, the tears flowing freely as your eyes glazed over with an almost feverish kind of longing. Why isn't he here? you thought with a sort of irrational desperation. But deep down, you knew. It wasn’t about finding him here on the rooftop. It was about needing him so badly that it felt like your insides were turning to ash.

Your vision blurred with the endless cascade of tears, and your head dropped, defeated. A few soft sobs escaped you, echoing in the emptiness. Why did it hurt so much? You didn’t care that the tears were endless, that the ache in your heart was growing. It felt both agonizing and strangely satisfying.

Your eyes were wide, lovesick and sad, the desperation leaking out of every pore. You couldn’t stop the thoughts from spinning. I need him… I need him so badly… It hurt, but the hurt was like some sick form of comfort. Every pang of longing, every tear that slipped from your eyes only added to the twisted ache that thrummed in your chest.

You wiped your face, but it didn’t matter. The tears kept coming, flowing out like some uncontrollable river.

Sol… you whispered softly to yourself, your voice trembling.

You felt so small, so lost in this need for him, yet at the same time, you felt alive. Alive in a way that only came with this kind of madness. This kind of longing.

And it felt so good.

A high, sick laugh that made your stomach churn. You couldn’t even believe it yourself, but there it was—uncontrollable and desperate.

"Ha…ha…haha…" you whispered to yourself, almost crazed with it, your tears mixing with your laughter in a strange, disorienting way. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t healthy. But it felt right. It felt like it made sense in some deranged, twisted way.

And still, you looked around, trying to get a glimpse, even just a hint of him. But there was nothing. The emptiness was deafening.

.

You felt a sob tear through your chest, the tears flowing freely as your eyes glazed over with an almost feverish kind of longing. Why isn't he here? you thought with a sort of irrational desperation. But deep down, you knew. It wasn’t about finding him here on the rooftop. It was about needing him so badly that it felt like your insides were turning to ash.

Your vision blurred with the endless cascade of tears, and your head dropped, defeated. A few soft sobs escaped you, echoing in the emptiness. Why did it hurt so much? You didn’t care that the tears were endless, that the ache in your heart was growing. It felt both agonizing and strangely satisfying.

Your eyes were wide, lovesick and sad, the desperation leaking out of every pore. You couldn’t stop the thoughts from spinning. I need him… I need him so badly… It hurt, but the hurt was like some sick form of comfort. Every pang of longing, every tear that slipped from your eyes only added to the twisted ache that thrummed in your chest.

You wiped your face, but it didn’t matter. The tears kept coming, flowing out like some uncontrollable river.

Sol… you whispered softly to yourself, your voice trembling.

You felt so small, so lost in this need for him, yet at the same time, you felt alive. Alive in a way that only came with this kind of madness. This kind of longing.

And it felt so good.

The rooftop’s chill stung your tear-soaked cheeks, and you were ready to leave with a heavy heart when an unfamiliar voice caught your attention. It wasn’t Sol’s—no, you’d know his voice anywhere—but someone else entirely. You walked fo the sound of the voice cautiously, you spotted Hyugo.

He stood a few steps away, holding a phone to his ear, speaking in a language you couldn’t quite identify. His tone was firm, measured, but whatever he was saying wasn’t your concern. You were only focused on how this wasn’t Sol.

Still, you watched for a moment longer, curiosity briefly flickering through your sadness. You took a step back, intending to leave unnoticed. But just as you turned, a hand clamped down on your shoulder, freezing you in place. Your heart jumped to your throat as you felt his breath near your neck and something cold—too cold—pressed against your skin.

A knife.

"Who are you? Speak, unless you want to get yourself into big trouble," Hyugo said lowly, his voice sharp and unforgiving.

"I’m—uh, Y/n L/n of class 4-B! Please don’t kill me!" you stammered, panic slipping through every word. You couldn’t help but hope—no, pray—that he’d recognize your name as someone Sol would vouch for, even if it was just in your own delusional mind.

The grip on your shoulder slackened slightly. Relief bloomed in your chest, though it was short-lived as Hyugo shifted, striking a pose that reminded you of Sherlock Holmes—a pose you knew he adored. You’d overheard him ranting about it to Sol once, and that memory made you laugh internally. Sol’s pained expression had been adorable.

But now wasn’t the time for that. You were trapped here, and Hyugo seemed more amused than threatening at this point. His eyes narrowed as he muttered, “Y/n L/n… Why does that sound familiar? Class 4-B too…”

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath, “Probably because you won’t stop teasing Sol about me.”

Foolishly, you threw a punch in frustration, aiming for his smug face. Hyugo caught your fist with ease, still holding that ridiculous Sherlock pose. The corner of his lips twitched in amusement as he tightened his grip on your hand, making you wince.

"Sol, save me from this bitch," your thoughts screamed as you glared at Hyugo, who seemed all too entertained by your antics.

Hyugo clapped his hands together in mock prayer, bowing with theatrical flourish. “I remember now! What impeccable timing, Y/n!” he said, his voice dripping with faux gratitude.

You stared blankly. What was he doing?

“I need your help,” he continued, straightening up dramatically. “You see, I have a familial emergency and can’t attend my next class. I promised my partner I’d be there, though, and since you’re from the same class… could you take over for me?”

You blinked, incredulous. “What kind of person are you? You just threatened me with a knife, and now you’re asking for��favors? What are you, some yakuza kid?”

Hyugo’s smug smile faltered for a moment before his eyes widened in realization. “Oh,” he muttered, fixing his posture. Then, as if nothing happened, he threw you a wink and a thumbs up. “The name’s Hyugo Sugimoto! From class 4-A!” he declared proudly. “But I take mixed classes with Mister Allan to catch up on some, uh… subjects I missed last year.”

You folded your arms, unimpressed. His attempt at charm wasn’t working, especially when he pulled out his knife again, dangling it casually. “It’s for self-defense,” he explained, launching into an unnecessary monologue. You stopped listening entirely, your mind already halfway to its breaking point.

But then, something in his tone shifted. The goofy grin fell from his face, replaced by a much more serious expression.

“Do you have friends, Y/n?”

You recoiled slightly, the question catching you off guard. “Yes, I do,” you shot back defensively.

Hyugo tilted his head. “Yeah, but don’t you ever feel like… you’re doing too much for them?”

The words struck a chord, silencing you. Was he talking about Sol? Your chest tightened, but you refused to let it show.

“He’s not the best guy out there,” Hyugo said, and you winced. You knew Sol wasn’t perfect. His methods were unconventional, his actions borderline obsessive—but that was fine. You loved him. You understood him. Your relationship thrived on the kind of chaos no one else could grasp.

“But you…” Hyugo continued, his gaze unwavering. “Maybe you’ll be the one who understands him.”

Your breath hitched. “I do,” you murmured, so quietly you weren’t sure he even heard.

You smiled faintly, a flicker of something almost kind crossing his face. “I’m sure Solivan Brugmansia appreciates what you do.”

The mention of Sol’s full name sent your heart racing. You froze, staring at Hyugo, trying to process the weight of his words.

Hyugo clapped his hands suddenly, breaking the tension. “So please, be his partner in Art Appreciation!” he pleaded, his dramatic energy returning full force. “He needs someone who gets him! He needs someone like you!"

Your mind spiraled. Was the next class Sol’s? Could it really be? Your lips parted in shock, but before you could speak, Hyugo’s expression darkened. “Wait,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Did you just say his name?”

You blinked, regaining some composure. “What? No. You misheard me,” you said, feigning calmness. Manipulation came naturally to you, and you knew how to keep your face unreadable. “I never opened my mouth."

It was weird.

Hyugo dropped to his knees in a dramatic, pleading pose, resembling a pitiful clown more than the dangerous man who had just threatened you moments ago. His serious tone dissolved into a mess of blubbering theatrics.

“Please! I’m begging you! Be his partner!” he wailed, hands clasped as if in prayer.

“Alright, alright! I’ll do it! Just get the hell up already!” you snapped, exasperated.

Hyugo’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “You mean it? Thank you, Y/n! I knew you were the right person for this!” He shot up, nearly knocking you over in his enthusiasm.

“His name is Sol! Solivan Brugmansia! Don’t worry, you won’t miss him!” he said brightly, grinning ear to ear.

Your heart stopped. Sol. It was Sol. A jolt of electricity shot through you like the world had just revealed a cosmic secret. This was how you were going to meet him for the first time? Your head spun, and you couldn’t decide if you wanted to scream, laugh, or cry.

Without waiting for a reaction, Hyugo gave you a firm pat on the shoulder, his demeanor softening just enough to catch you off guard. “Crying doesn’t suit people like you, Y/n,” he said, his voice oddly sincere. Then, just as suddenly, he turned on his heel and sprinted off, leaving you stunned in the middle of the rooftop.

Your thoughts swirled, tangled in emotions you couldn’t even name.

You felt the tears still clinging to your cheeks, but instead of sadness, an uncontrollable smile spread across your face. The weight of earlier despair evaporated as Hyugo's words echoed in your mind. Solivan Brugmansia… you’ll be his partner…

Your heart leaped as you imagined him, the way his name rolled off your tongue like a song written just for you. “Ahhh… Sol!” you squealed softly, bouncing in place like an overjoyed child. You hugged yourself, spinning in a circle with daydreams overtaking reality.

This was better than any rooftop sighting—this was fate pulling the strings of your love story! Your knees wobbled as you imagined what it would be like sitting beside him, sharing notes, the way his hand might brush yours while pointing at something in a textbook. Your daydreams spiraled into a symphony of possibilities, each one sweeter than the last.

You clutched your chest dramatically, the hopeless romantic in you fully awakened. “He’s perfect,” you murmured, giggling as your face burned with a lovesick blush. You jumped again, unable to stop yourself from squealing, “I love him!”

Lost in your swirling thoughts, you didn’t even notice the bell ringing in the distance.

There's still. Time. I'll head to Library...For.. Maybe assignment.

You stepped into the library, the comforting mix of coffee and aged books wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Normally, this was your safe haven—a place to sketch and dream without interruption. Your perfect little corner, tucked away from prying eyes, was waiting.

But today… everything shattered the moment you saw him.

Your heart came to a screeching halt, and your lungs forgot how to breathe. There, sitting at one of the tables, completely absorbed in his book, was him. Solivan Brugmansia.

Your legs locked in place, and every gear in your brain shifted into overdrive. You couldn’t move, couldn’t think—just stare. His long fingers lightly turned the page, the soft motion oddly captivating. His sharp jawline framed his face, leading up to cheekbones so defined they looked like they were carved from marble. His dark, slightly wavy hair fell messily over his forehead, catching the faint sunlight streaming through the window.

His lashes were long, casting delicate shadows over his cheeks as his eyes—those intense, unique hues you couldn't forget—traveled across the words in his book. The air around him felt magnetic, an invisible force pulling you closer, drowning you in admiration. His lips moved faintly as if he were silently mouthing the words, and you almost melted on the spot.

It hit you all over again. This is him. This is Sol.

You felt like a mess—your clothes felt wrong, your hair felt wrong, you felt wrong. Why now?! Why does he have to look like an angel when I look like this? You were so close to running out, but your feet stayed planted, refusing to move.

You drank in every detail, heart hammering like a lovesick fool. The way his shoulders leaned slightly forward as he read, his posture casual but refined. The faint scuff on the corner of his book as if he had been reading it everywhere. Even the small crease in his brow hinted at his concentration.

Your fingers itched for your sketchbook. You wanted to draw him again, every line and curve, as if your pencil could capture even a fraction of what made him so perfect. But then your gaze shifted—there were other students around, eyes occasionally darting toward him. Of course, you thought bitterly. How could they not?

The idea of pulling out your sketchbook felt risky, almost too obvious. And yet the urge to immortalize this moment, this sight of him, was clawing at your chest.

You swallowed hard, stepping back toward the corner, hoping he wouldn’t notice your frantic gaze. But even as you moved, your eyes refused to leave him. So close, yet so far... you thought, feeling every bit the love-drunk, hopeless fool you were.

Oh, how my heart shivers, lovesick and wild, Caught in your gaze, like a star-struck child. Your eyes, deep constellations, chart the skies, Pulling me closer with each soft sunrise. Your hair, dark rivers where the moonlight dips, Your name a melody upon my lips. I see you in whispers, in shadows, in dreams, A presence that wraps me in love’s silent screams.

You took a steadying breath, willing yourself to act composed, to not let your trembling hands or lovesick expression give you away. Solivan Brugmansia—your Sol—was sitting in your seat. That sacred corner, your little world, now graced by his presence. The thought made your pulse race, equal parts thrill and terror.

You couldn’t help it; your eyes roamed over him, absorbing every detail like a parched soul drinking in the rain. His hair caught the faint library light, the strands gleaming like silk. His posture was casual but poised, one hand flipping through a book while the other rested lazily on the table—oh, that hand, the one you’d heard was hurt recently. He punched a guy for you.

You bit your lip, an involuntary whimper catching in your throat at the thought of his pain.

He hadn’t noticed you at first, but your dazed stare must have drawn him in. Slowly, his gaze lifted, those striking heterochromatic eyes locking onto yours. The air felt electric, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

“...?” His expression was unreadable, but the subtle furrow of his brows suggested mild curiosity—or was that amusement? You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your knees weak.

“You’re, um... in my seat,” you managed, the words stumbling over each other like a desperate escape. “Can I have it back, Mr. Solivan Brugmansia...? Also, I, uh, heard about your hand. Are you okay? I hope you’re not overdoing it. And, uh, your partner—”

You froze mid-ramble as his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He looked surprised for a brief second—had you actually caught him off guard? But just as quickly, his expression smoothed into that same cold, enigmatic mask. It was like looking at a wall of ice with flames just barely flickering underneath.

“You... know my name?” he asked, his voice a soft drawl, laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Control, maybe? Suspicion? Whatever it was, it sent a shiver down your spine.

You exhaled, trying to suppress the ridiculous giddiness that threatened to bubble over. Stay cool, stay cool, you reminded yourself, even as your heartbeat rivaled a drumline.

“I know your name because Hyugo told me. He said you needed a partner in art class,” you began, keeping your tone casual, though you were certain your cheeks were giving you away. “And one time, when I went to the nurse, she mentioned feeling bad about a student named Solivan who’d been injured. That’s you, isn’t it?”

His eyes widened for the briefest moment, and then he averted them, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of his book. Was that... a blush? You almost squealed internally, but you swallowed it down like a pro. He didn’t respond, clearly not used to being read so easily.

You leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to something soft and steady. “I was worried when she said that,” you admitted. “But hey, a student is a student. Don’t overthink it. Now... can I please have my seat back?”

For a second, you thought he might actually listen. His eyes flicked to yours, a rare vulnerability peeking through before it was swallowed up by his usual mask. But instead of moving, he arched an eyebrow, glanced under the desk, and then back at you.

“I don’t see your name on it,” he said flatly, his expression neutral as he turned back to his book like you weren’t standing there, brimming with barely-contained exasperation.

You blinked. Oh, hell no.

Your jaw clenched, and a vein in your forehead might’ve popped. What was this guy’s deal?! Soulmate or not, your seat was sacred. You puffed your cheeks in frustration, unintentionally looking like the most adorably indignant person in the room. Not that Sol noticed—he was already back to reading.

Unbelievable, you thought, your inner monologue screaming .

"So cute..." It was silent but you heard it/\.

Your whole system short-circuited. Did you just hear that? Did he really say that? If it were possible to combust on the spot, you'd already be a pile of ashes.

HE CALLED YOU CUTE?!!?

Your brain spiraled into chaos. Your inner monologue devolved into nothing but incomprehensible shrieks: "IDIOEYDOWEOHCOWEODHEHUFEWFE8FR80EG8YE!!!!" Words were officially out of service, leaving you stranded in a whirlpool of overwhelming emotions.

He was blushing too, barely visible but undeniably there. His cheeks held a faint dusting of pink, and his lips curled into a barely-there smile—just enough to devastate your heart completely. How could someone be so effortlessly adorable and infuriating at the same time? Someone save you from this man, please!

But wait—did he notice your cheeks puffing up in anger? Was that why he smiled? No, no, no. If being an angry little cutie made him smile, then you’d be doomed to accidentally fuel his amusement for eternity. Yet the thought of making him smile set off a whole new wave of screaming in your head. Wahhh, he's so cute! Why does he have to be like this?

You couldn’t decide if you were furious or lovesick. One thing was certain—you were absolutely doomed.

Sol tilted his head, a sly smirk playing at his lips. "Tell you what," he drawled, looking entirely too smug for his own good, "you get me a cup of coffee, and I'll give you your seat back."

You froze. Was he serious? Coffee? For a seat? You locked eyes with him, giving him your best unimpressed glare. So what?!?! You don’t just barter seating arrangements with caffeine!

But before you could even voice your protest, your brain betrayed you.

He’ll drink it... That means he’ll touch the cup... Oh no, oh no, OH NO.

Your inner monologue kicked into overdrive, spiraling faster than you could keep up. "AN EMPTY CUP HE TOUCHES WILL BE MY SHRINE!!! I’LL FRAME IT. PUT IT IN A GLASS CASE. AHHHH!!!" You were practically vibrating with joy.

And then it hit you. Wait. Wait. I know his favorite drink. Latte. You knew it because you may or may not have totally-not-suspiciously stalked him during lunch breaks, one time even spying on him while he hung out on the rooftop. It’s fine. It’s research. You’re not weird at all.

Your face lit up with an almost chipmunk-like grin, your mood swinging like a pendulum.

It’s okay. You’re buying him his favorite coffee. Totally normal. Not because you’re secretly losing your mind over his cute smirk or planning to preserve the cup for eternity or anything. Yep. Totally normal.

Sol's silence was maddening, and you were done with his smug attitude. Crossing your arms, you let out a huff, glaring down at him as he coolly flipped another page in his book, pretending you weren’t there.

"Do I look like a servant to you!? Just move already!" you snapped, trying to keep your frustration in check. He barely glanced at you, letting out a tired sigh before returning to his novel.

Oh, no. That was not the reaction you wanted. You wanted him to look at you—to really see you.

Fine. Two could play this game.

Without a second thought, you stomped around to his side, his gaze flickering up just slightly to follow your movements. He was clearly unimpressed. That was fine; you had something planned. Gripping the back of the chair he was sitting on, you gave it a firm pull, causing him to wobble precariously.

“Whoa, what the hell—” His voice cut off as you smirked, satisfied with his startled reaction.

Before he could reprimand you for your actions, you cut him off, effectively shocking him into silence. By settling yourself on top of his lap.

He froze instantly, his book forgotten, his breath catching in his throat. He swore to whatever god looking down on him right now to take him. His ears were burning red, his entire body tensed under you, and yet… he didn’t move to push you off.

You, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was amiss, casually pulling your bag onto the desk as if this was just another day. But inside, your thoughts were spiraling out of control. Your love-struck gaze lingered on him as you rested comfortably, your heart pounding in time with the storm of emotions threatening to spill out.

What are you, Solivan...? you wanted to ask, your fingers itching to reach out and touch him. Why does everything feel so good when you’re near me? Is this how you feel when I’m around? Why are you making me feel like this?

You bit back a grin, feigning indifference even as your cheeks warmed. Sitting on him like this… felt normal, almost natural. You weren’t even processing the fact that you were quite literally perched on the lap of the boy you’d been stalking—er, admiring—for weeks now.

Sol, on the other hand, looked like he was about to combust. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure where to go. His mind raced with a mix of flustered panic and something darker—something possessive. His beloved was teasing him, and every ounce of self-control he had was being tested.

For now, he stayed silent, his face flushed and his heart hammering so loudly that he was sure you could hear it. But the way your smug expression softened with the barest hint of affection made his resolve waver.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

Sol’s heartbeat quickened, a low curse escaping his lips as he tried—and failed—to compose himself. Meanwhile, you continued your work as if nothing had happened, utterly unfazed by the situation. Or at least, that’s what you wanted him to believe.

Oh, sweet, naive you—you couldn’t help yourself. With a small tilt of your head, you gave him a quick glance, the corners of your lips curving into a subtle, teasing smile.

It was driving him insane.

Inside, though, you were a chaotic mess. YOUR ASS IS ON HIS LAP?! HOLY SHET! You could barely hold back the urge to laugh or scream—or maybe both. What’s worse, you noticed out of the corner of your eye that a few students were starting to notice. Some rolled their eyes at the scene, while others moved away entirely. Sol must look like a total pervert with his flushed face and the way he seemed frozen in place.

His cheeks burned an even deeper red. The sheer embarrassment almost had him wishing for the ground to swallow him whole. But despite it all, his gaze lingered on you, his chest tightening at how adorably unbothered you looked, simply focusing on your work. He couldn’t see the lovestruck expression on your face, though—thank god. You were practically drooling as you scribbled away, overwhelmed by the proximity and the faint scent of his cologne.

Sol inhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. It was no use fighting it. It’s my lucky day, he thought with a bitter sweetness. My pumpkin— No, no, that sounded weird. My beloved—better—is sitting on me. This is fine.

Gathering what was left of his composure, he hesitated before placing his arm next to yours on the desk, trying to act like this was completely normal. He stared down at the pages of his book, though none of the words made sense anymore. You had completely fried his brain.

You, meanwhile, decided to make yourself more comfortable. A subtle shift in your seat elicited a low groan from him, one that sent a shiver up your spine. It was clear you were doing this on purpose, and the realization made his jaw clench. You bit your lip to suppress a grin, your thoughts wandering to the way his lips looked. Soft, kissable, and so, so tempting.

Your heart thudded at the thought.

A minute passed, the tension slowly dissipating, but your heart was still racing. You could almost taste the calm, but it wasn't the peaceful kind. Not when Sol was so close.

He muttered something under his breath, and you perked up, curious. “Seldom we find,” he quoted. You tilted your head, watching him closely. Was he really interested? His voice sounded serious, focused.

You gave him space to read the rest of the stanza, allowing the silence to linger, but inside, you were buzzing.

"Half an idea in the Profoundest sonnet. Through all the flimsy things we see at once..."

You couldn’t help but lean in a little closer, your eyes flicking to him as he was so absorbed in his book. Could you feed him this poem, like feeding him words? No. You were supposed to focus, act normal. But it didn’t matter because he was so... charming. And it wasn’t just the poem—it was him. The way his voice softened when he read, the intensity in his eyes. God, you wanted to be the one to impress him.

His eyes didn’t stray from the page as he continued. “As easily as through as Naples bonnet—An Enigma by Edgar Allan Poe, huh? Not a bad choice."

A small smile tugged at your lips. Does he like poems too, or is it just him?

You could practically feel his presence wrapping around you, the air thickening as you tried to focus on the text. But the more you looked at him, the more the words blurred. You felt drawn to him, closer and closer...

"Do you know this poem has a puzzle?" he asked suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts.

"What...?" You blinked, unsure at first.

He smiled—God, that smile—and pointed at the first line, then the second. "Yes, a puzzle. This is one of the few works of his that I find quite charming..."

Charming? He's the one who's charming, you thought as you looked at him. You could barely keep your thoughts in check, wanting to record everything about him. This was... this was it. He was it.

You stared at the poem again, pretending to think. The truth was, you were just trying to keep yourself from throwing yourself into him completely. You needed a reason to stay calm. But his finger was still so close, his breath just slightly grazing your ear as he leaned in to guide you.

“Is it Sarah Anna Lewis?” you whispered, not wanting to say the wrong answer.

The shock on his face was enough to send a thrill down your spine, but he recovered quickly, sighing in defeat. “You got it right,” he whispered back, the words almost sinking into your skin.

Your heart fluttered wildly, as if you'd just won a game... his game.

You were... so happy. You couldn't hold back the soft giggle that bubbled up, your pride shining through. Your smile grew, unable to hide how pleased you were.

"I deserve another pat!" you exclaimed, pride spilling from you. "I got it right, yeah?"

Sol chuckled, but it was a hesitant sound—something almost shy. His hand brushed against your head again, giving you another gentle pat. And fuck, you couldn't help but close your eyes and savor the moment. You were addicted to the way he touched you. You’d never get enough.

"Just happy to see someone likes his poems, or at least deciphers them," he murmured.

I like you, you wanted to say. I like you so much...

But you couldn’t. Instead, your body betrayed you. As you leaned forward in excitement, you accidentally pressed your front against his chest, causing him to freeze.

Shit.

Before you could even process it, his hand shot out to grab your waist, holding you in place. Your heart skipped a beat as the room felt too small, as if everything around you was fading except for the pressure of your bodies being too close. You didn’t even care that it looked like two lovers in a moment.

Two lovers... just like in the novels.

You looked up, ready to joke about the situation, but his relaxed posture had vanished. Sol was tense, his face flushed a shade of red you had never seen before. He was literally trembling now, his eyes wide as dinner plates. His breath quickened, and before you knew it, he was leaning forward and gently—gently—placing you back down on the table.

"I’m sorry! I forgot I was sitting on you!" You scrambled to get off him, your hands shaky from the sudden shift in the situation.

But the truth was—you loved it.

You giggled, a deep, warm feeling spreading in your chest as you realized how easy it was to fluster him. But as soon as your feet hit the ground, you saw it—Sol was already up, clutching his book like it was his lifeline.

Without a word, he hurried to the exit, his pace like that of a speed walker, trying to escape from what you both just created.

And you, standing there with a blush on your face and your heart still racing, knew one thing for sure:

You trudged down the hall, your footsteps slow and reluctant. Sol was just ahead, but there was a slight distraction—Crowe. Damn it, you thought. You didn’t need this right now. Sol was slipping away, and you needed to be with him.

But then, you saw Brittney—her uniform a disaster. It was a mess of ketchup, mustard, and oil, a perfect blend of clumsy chaos. Jess was trying to help, but nothing seemed to work. What did happen? You were so relieved you hadn’t been involved in that mess. The last thing you wanted was to be caught up in that.

"Y/n! I was about to check up on you, how are you feeling?" Crowe’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you tried to keep your frustration in check.

"Good, better..." you muttered, though your mind was still on Sol. You couldn’t care less about the unfolding drama; it sounded ridiculous, but you had to admit—it was probably fun. Geo wasn’t around, thank God.

Then there was Brittney’s confused face, looking at you as you handed her the key to your locker.

“I have some fresh button-down shirts. You can wear one of them—or just keep it. I didn’t even get them properly, but I got both male and female sizes... You can have the female one. Just give the key to Crowe. I’m heading somewhere.”

She looked at you quizzically, but you didn’t have the patience. “Move, Ichabod...” You practically hissed the words, a tone of warning in your voice. You didn’t have time to explain further.

Crowe seemed taken aback, his expression faltering. “Where...?”

You didn’t answer directly. You just felt this desperate need to be elsewhere, away from everything, toward Sol.

And then you were gone.

Crowe stood there, confused, staring after you as you ran. “What am I doing wrong...?” he murmured to himself, probably wondering why you were so distant.

You didn’t care about that, though. Sol was what mattered.

And there he was, rushing toward the restroom. Your heart skipped a beat—Oh no. You couldn’t follow him there. That restroom? It was infamous. You'd heard the rumors. It wasn’t the place to go if you wanted to avoid strange giggling. But the pull to be close to him was strong, almost overwhelming.

You had no choice but to head to your next class. You could still feel the electricity in the air as you walked, a tight knot in your chest. You took your usual seat and pulled out your journal, your fingers grazing the pages. But then—Stop. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t draw. You wanted to, but everything felt... alive in a different way.

You stepped into the classroom once again, your eyes scanning the room. There, at the back, was the tuft of black hair with striking green highlights—Solivan Brugmansia. It was him. But... was he always there? How had you missed him before? You’d never noticed his presence in the past. Was it always this obvious? Had you really been so blind to his existence?

The realization hit you like a wave. You couldn't believe you'd overlooked him all this time. Solivan... Sol... He was always there, sitting at the back, focused on his own world. You had never seen him, and yet now, it felt like you were noticing everything about him. How had you been so unaware?

Your heart raced. Thank gods you were here now. You could hardly keep your eyes off him. You moved to the seat directly in front of him, pulling the chair close and sitting down. Your gaze was fixed on him. There was a grace to the way he drew, a certain elegance in the movement of his hand. His pencil glided across the page effortlessly, each stroke precise, as if it was second nature. You couldn’t help but lean closer, your curiosity getting the better of you.

You had to know—what was he drawing? You craned your neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the paper.

you leaned over to get a closer look at his drawing, you suddenly caught Sol’s attention. His pencil froze mid-motion, and his wide, startled eyes snapped up to meet yours. His face turned an instant shade of red, and before you could even react, he quickly slammed the book shut with a soft thud. He glanced away, clearly flustered, his cheeks burning from the unexpected attention.

You couldn’t help but smile at his reaction, but you quickly tried to smooth over the awkwardness. “I’m sorry, it’s me from the library... I hope we can get along,” you said, your voice softer than usual, almost a little nervous. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted not sounding more casual about it.

He kept his gaze down, still blushing furiously, and didn’t say anything for a moment. He just turned away slightly, his fingers gripping his book tighter as if trying to hide behind it. You could almost feel the heat radiating from his face.

Not wanting to make it more awkward, you hurried back to your seat, but you could feel his eyes following you. As you settled in, you risked a glance at him, only to find that he was already staring at you. Both of you yelped in surprise, quickly turning your heads in the opposite direction, your faces burning in sync. The air between you was thick with unspoken tension, neither of you daring to meet the other’s gaze for more than a split second. You could feel the butterflies in your stomach and the heat of embarrassment prickling your skin.

This... was going to be interesting.

This is rushed im sorrry! Its a small fic so! dw ill update it!

[edwinspaynes]

Did I have a really bad night last night in no small part because of a s2 spoiler? Yes. Did I have a Payneland Meltdown? Sure.

But this morning I have gained clarity, and a couple of things have made me feel better about some of the spoilers. I'm going to share them with you in hopes that it will quell some anxiety.

George and Jayden seem extremely excited about the season 2 that they read. It appears super genuine in the new Gameodens, and even if you wanted to argue that it was For the Hype, George also seemed really pumped about them before the show was canceled. They don't seem like performative people regardless, but past behavior also indicates that, yes, the excitement is real.

Both Jayden and George expressed that Charles and Edwin are soulmates. They have read all of the available scripts, and they are still expressing that (very true) sentiment.

They also explicitly said that Edwin and Charles are basically married anyway and that "dating" would be a "step down" for them.

Re: the "fight" that triggered my Episode last night: there is genuinely no way that the boys would have fought for an entire season, let alone forever. It wouldn't make sense and would be antithetical to the entire point of the show. Not to mention George and Jayden having professed them soulmates! "Tense for a lot of it" could mean many things, including that things were tense for a lot of the fight (rather than the season) and got less tense as the fight progressed. "A lot of it" could also just mean 1-2 episodes since they don't really fight.

George and Jayden also explicitly said that disagreements could be healthy, so I'm going to believe that they meant they came out stronger on the other side.

Also, as a kind soul in my comments last night said, there's really nothing for them to fight over besides each other. It probably would have been out of love anyway.

Re: the Catwin sex. Disclaimer is that I don't mind this because I've always thought it would be an interesting plot point. BUT, as a hardcore Payneland shipper myself,I understand why people might not like it. Please remember that it's part of a story! It's the middle of a story, not the ending! Catwin is likely, as I hoped for, a step on the journey toward Edwin figuring out that he only wants these experiences with Charles. Every road leads back to them.

I actually think that Jayden and George might have said that all roads lead to them as well in one of the Gameodens, but I don't know where. Maybe I dreamed it.

We are getting tiny little snippets of 8 hours worth of television. We have maybe a collective 150-character Tweet and 1.5 minutes of out-of-context video spoilers. Catastrophizing doesn't make any logical sense. (I'm not talking down to anyone here, I promise. I'm repeating the mantra I told myself for like an hour last night.)

Season 2 was also not intended to be the last season! They wanted 6! This is Act 2 of 6. It's not even the middle of the story!

[youzicha]

Thinking about that that "slop accelerationism" post, and also Scott's AI art Turing test.

I also hope AI text- and image-generation will help shake us loose from cheap bad art. For example, the fact that you can now generate perfectly rendered anime girls at the click of button kindof suggests that there was never much content in those drawings. Though maybe we didn't really need AI for that insight? It feels very similar to that shift in fashion that rejected Bouguereau-style laboriously-rendered pretty girls in favor of more sketchy brush work.

But will we really be so lucky that only things that we already suspected was slop will prove valueless?

As usual with AI, Douglas Hofstadter already thought about this a long time ago, in an essay from 2001. Back in 1979 he had written

Will a computer program ever write beautiful music? Speculation: Yes, but not soon. Music is a language of emotions, and until programs have emotions as complex as ours, there is no way a program will write anything beautiful. There can be "forgeries"—shallow imitations of the syntax of earlier music—but despite what one might think at first, there is much more to musical expression than can be captured in syntactical rules. There will be no new kinds of beauty turned up for a long time by computer music-composing programs. Let me carry this thought a little further. To think—and I have heard this suggested—that we might soon be able to command a preprogrammed mass-produced mail-order twenty-dollar desk-model "music box" to bring forth from its sterile [sic!] circuitry pieces which Chopin or Bach might have written had they lived longer is a grotesque and shameful misestimation of the depth of the human spirit. A "program" which could produce music as they did would have to wander around the world on its own, fighting its way through the maze of life and feeling every moment of it. It would have to understand the joy and loneliness of a chilly night wind, the longing for a cherished hand, the inaccessibility of a distant town, the heartbreak and regeneration after a human death. It would have to have known resignation and world-weariness, grief and despair, determination and victory, piety and awe. In it would have had to commingle such opposites as hope and fear, anguish and jubilation, serenity and suspense. Part and parcel of it would have to be a sense of grace, humor, rhythm, a sense of the unexpected and of course an exquisite awareness of the magic of fresh creation. Therein, and therein only, lie the sources of meaning in music.

I think this is helpful in pinning down what we would have liked to be true. Because in 1995, somebody wrote a program that generates music by applying simple syntactic rules to combine patterns from existing pieces, and it sounded really good! (In fact, it passed a kind of AI art turing test.) Oops!

The worry, then, is that we just found out that the computer has as complex emotions as us, and they aren't complex at all. It would be like adversarial examples for humans: the noise-like pattern added to the panda doesn't "represent" a gibbon, it's an artifact of the particular weights and topology of the image recognizer, and the resulting classification doesn't "mean" anything. Similarly, Arnulf Rainer wrote that when he reworked Wine-Crucifix, "the quality and truth of the picture only grew as it became darker and darker"—doesn't this sound a bit like gradient descent? Did he stumble on a pattern that triggers our "truth" detector, even though the pattern is merely a shallow stimulus made of copies of religious iconography that we imprinted on as kids?

One attempt to recover is to say Chopin really did write music based on the experience of fighting through the maze of life, and it's just that philistine consumers can't tell the difference between the real and the counterfeit. But this is not very helpful, it means that we were fooling ourselves, and the meaning that we imagined never existed.

More promising, maybe the program is a "plagiarism machine", which just copies the hard-won grief, despair, world-weariness &c that Chopin recorded? On its own it's not impressive that a program can output an image indistinguishable from Gauguin's, I can write such a program in a single line:

print("https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gauguin,Paul-Still_Life_with_Profile_of_Laval-_Google_Art_Project.jpg")

I think this is the conclusion that Hofstadter leans towards: the value of Chopin and the other composers was to discover the "template" that can then be instantiated to make many beautiful music pieces. Kind of ironically, this seems to push us back to some very turn-of-the-20th-century notion of avant-garde art. Each particular painting that (say) Monet executed is of low value, and the actual valuable thing is the novel art style...

That view isn't falsified yet, but it feels precarious. You could have said that AlphaGo was merely a plagiarism machine that selected good moves from historical human games, except then AlphaGo Zero proved that the humans were superfluous after all. Surely a couple of years from now somebody might train an image model on a set of photographs and movies excluding paintings, and it might reinvent impressionism from first principles, and then where will we be? Better start prepare a fallback-philosophy now.

[majesty0h]

#TONGUETIED

gojo x fushiguro x f!reader

Part two of Sharing is Caring

*sum. Your boyfriend Toji is finally making your dreams of a 3way come true with a blast from his past. God, why are his eyes so blue??

*wc. 4.4k

*warnings. Fem! Reader, boyfriend Toji, bull! Gojo, blowjob, fingering, mild hatefuck, degradation, doublé penetration, praise, choking, unprotected, past lover, creampie, implied gay sex, biting, threeway.

[ Toji is green text and Gojo is blue ]

“Fuck, Old Man. She’s got a mouth like a porn star.”

“Yeah. Consider this a thank you for taking care of Megumi all these years.”

“Hah. I mean, I killed you. Shouldn’t I be thanking you?”

Toji and Gojo seem far more relaxed than you expected. Having a casual conversation and witty banter like they’re enjoying a coffee date. Wait, did Gojo say he killed Toji? What the hell?

“Mmph,” you’re snapped back to reality when the sorcerer’s cock pushes a little deeper, triggering your gag reflex. The saltiness of precum coats your tongue, tears prick at your eyes. Your hands grip into his slender hips, forearms braced on the sofa, and you will yourself to not choke. He’s a bit thinner than Toji, but has the length to make up for it.

Satoru’s still on the couch, lanky legs spread comically wide, head tipped back to the ceiling. One hand fists your hair, pulling your closer until your nose is pressed firmly into his well-trimmed pubes. The carpet matches the drapes, funnily enough.

Toji had long since ripped off your underwear as you knelt before Gojo, hiking up your dress just enough to reveal how much you were enjoying this. “Damn, ma. You ain’t been this wet for me in ages. I’m almost jealous,” he pouts as he reaches between your warm folds, ghosting two fingers across. You whimper and instinctively roll your hips back to increase the contact, but Gojo lets out an ‘aht, aht’ and his palm pushes deeper on your neck, ensuring you stay put.

“You really are a lady-killer, y’know that Gojo? Look at this,” Toji grins as he holds up his hand and wiggles the slippery digits. It’s so embarrassing and hot at the same time…how they talk about you like you’re not there, like you’re an object. You can hear the sounds of greedy slurping noises as Toji licks his fingers clean, which elicits a pout from Satoru.

“Wowwwww, you can’t even share? What kind of shitty friend are you? Lemme get some.”

There’s silence for a moment. You feel Toji stiffen behind you. Did Gojo overstep by asking to taste you? Was your fantasy dead in the water before it properly began? You’re still sucking cock like the good slut you are, eyes watery and looking up at Satoru, too nervous to peer back at your boyfriend in fear. This was bad. So fucking bad.

You grunt as the weight on your back increases exponentially; Toji is leaning over you, hands braced on either side of yours. “Then come get it, brat,” is all he utters before roughly smashing his lips against Satoru’s.

Your eyes grow comically large as you watch in disbelief, shock, and unbridled arousal as /your/ boyfriend kisses another man. It’s not that you assumed he was straight, well, you did. That conversation had never truly come up; it didn’t need to. So this…this was intense.

Satoru doesn’t even hesitate to meet Toji’s advances and he opens his mouth against Toji’s scarred lips. Their tongues dance, hungry. You stop sucking for a moment, too entranced by this entire display. Satoru’s cock drips pre-cum even harder as him and Toji explore each other’s oral cavities, and fuck, your boyfriend’s manhood is twitching against your thighs. You had to be dreaming.

“Ah,” Gojo whispers when they finally pull apart, a line of saliva connecting them, before dripping into your hair. “She does taste good.”

“You too,” Toji murmurs, growing more erect by the second. “I forgot. It’s been so long.”

You can’t take it anymore. With a loud pop you free your mouth and clear your throat, trying to gain their attention, to break up this…reunion? “Uh….what are you guys…talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it,” they reply in unison.

You want to press the issue. You need to know. When? Why? How long–

“You ready to take this to the bedroom, Princess?” Toji interrupts your inner monologue as he stands up, clearly done with the foreplay. You know that sound in his voice. He’s going to brutalize you, more so than usual. And the way Gojo chuckles in response, dark and heady, you know he will do the same. You shudder from an equal mix of lust and fear.

“...yeah. S-sure,” you reply softly as you slowly right yourself, knees sore from being pressed into the carpet for so long. You feel like a little lamb, thrown into a cage with two voracious lions. Ready to be devoured. After they’re done toying with you, that is.

Your footsteps echo softly down the hall, followed by heavier, eager thuds. You swallow hard as you push the bedroom door open, only to gasp and cover your mouth in surprise. Your normally messy living quarters (thanks Toji) were spotless. Fragrant candles lined almost every surface, and rose petals were scattered across the floor and silk sheets. In the two years you’ve been with Toji, he barely remembered your birthday, much less perform a romantic gesture like this.

“You see! I told you she’d like it,” Gojo cheesed before cupping your ass firmly, pushing you closer to the bed.

Toji rolled his eyes. “Yeah whatever. Take all the credit. Sorry I don’t need props to make a memorable lay.”

They continue to bicker mildly as you sit at the foot of the bed, watching them undress. You’d seen Toji’s naked form a million times, but this time felt different. His muscles seemed to ripple a little bit more, his cock stands prouder, thicker, his emerald eyes glazed over with a mysterious emotion you couldn’t name. You finally tear your gaze off his form and scan over Gojo’s bare form. His baggy black clothes were misleading. The stringbean was in fact jacked, with a chiseled six-pack, perfect V line. What really took your breath away was when he set his glasses onto the nightstand and winked at you; fuck they were so blue. It was almost ethereal, otherworldly. Enchanting. Your boyfriend notices you’re captivated and scoffs, easily pushing you back into the comforter. You scoot up closer to the headboard to make room for the two large men who are clambering in to join you. The bed creaks from the strain.

Toji and Satoru work in tandem to peel your dress off your nervous frame; the 6 Eyes whistles as he rubs your pink buds, causing you to moan slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he hums before capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucks, pinching the other between graceful fingers.

Toji nods in approval as your fingers tangle into snow white hair, at the little noises of pleasure. He shifts your legs apart, thumb pressing against your glistening nub, working it in time with your breathy gasps. “You just lay there and let us do the work. Just relax baby. Just relax,” Toji coaxes as he buries two fingers deep. Twisting them to find your sweet spot. It’s not long before you start panting his name. He leans up to bite and suck on your collarbone, his hair tickling your neck, his fingers becoming more aggressive, more persistent.

“Mm—fuck Daddy….it feels so good don’t stop please please—“ you beg hiccuping, your mind swimming, barely able to focus on his motions, because at the same time, Satoru has penetrated your cunt with his own two digits. Four fingers total. You feel so full. You’re sandwiched between the duo who assault your senses in perfect synchronicity, taking turns to shove their tongues down your throat and tell you what a dirty little whore you are. It’s delicious.

Two hard cocks nuzzle against your body, insistent, heads leaving slimy trails on your warm skin. You feel drunk. Wanting to prove how eager their slut is, your shaky hands reach for their manhoods and stroke. The sound of them cursing through gritted teeth was music to your ears, and they rut into your hands. Toji’s grunts are low and gruff, like sandpaper. But Satoru’s are softer, more delicate. Your mind wanders to how their earlier dynamic was. It seems clear that Toji was the one on top, and your already swelling clit twinges in delight, imaging Toji’s balls slapping against Satoru’s ass, those strong arms keeping him pinned, making sure he took every thrust, not stopping until his tight hole was dripping with seed.

“Ahn, fuck…oh my god…fuck…I’m gonna cum, I really want to cum please make me cum!” Your daydreaming is too much, and you stop stroking your lovers, wanting to solely focus on your impending orgasm.

“Cum for us then, Sweetheart.”

“God I can’t wait to feel how tight this pussy is on my cock.”

That’s all the encouragement you need, and soon your shrill cry fills the air as Satoru slips his fingers out and frantically play with your throbbing bud. You grip the sheets for dear life as you climax with Toji still punishing your G-Spot in a way that makes you taste static, that has your vision dotted with bright streaks of light. Even as you’re crying out and writhing they don’t stop; if anything it just spurs them on. You feel delirious. Your walls grip onto Toji’s fingers like a vice as a foreign sensation fills you. It’s intense, it’s hot, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

You fucking squirt.

It’s like a flood gushing out of your abused hole, slicking the sheets, your thighs, and your lovers. You’ve never even done that before! You want to die. This is so embarrassing.

The men don’t share your sentiments whatsoever. Satoru has a shit eating grin plastered over his face, and Toji is smirking like he hit the biggest jackpot of his life. You feel so empty when they withdraw their fingers and comment to each other about how this was the hottest thing they’ve ever experienced.

“Wow it’s just like in the porn. I’m literally Johnny Sins.”

“Pft. You fuckin’ wish.”

“Hey don’t be mad I’m just good at everything that I do. It kinda comes with the title. Did you really not think it applies here?”

“Not sayin’ that. I just remember how you laid there and yelled like Riley Reid when I bent you over that pool table in Kyushu.”

“Nuh-uh. You were begging me all night because you couldn’t get over that trick I did with my—“

“Guys,” you interrupt their fond recollections, feeling a bit left out and far too untouched. “I want it, please. Please give to me. Both of you I want…I wanna feel your both inside me at once. Please,” your voice wavers as you sit up slowly, grimacing at the large wet spot underneath you. The boys look down at you, and their cocks which had softened slightly during their heated debate spring back to attention.

“I thought you’d never ask, Princess.”

“Let’s get ready to rumble! Wait. Who gets which hole?”

Satoru’s question has you all pause. Nobody had considered that up until now. You look to your boyfriend for guidance and he responds that “it’s your rodeo, doll. We’re just ridin’ in it.”

That makes you feel a little bit better. Because deep down, you’d already made up your mind. You weren’t the biggest fan of anal, especially with anyone besides Toji. An actual sex god, he knew how to make it feel good, make the pleasure override the pain, never getting carried away past what you can handle. Satoru was nice, but you didn’t want him to lose control and have you limping at your 7am meeting tomorrow. But you had a feeling that would happen regardless.

“I want uh….Gojo in my pussy. And you in my ass, Daddy,” you proclaim, and you can practically feel the sorcerer’s ego puff up.

Thankfully, Toji doesn’t seem upset, too horny to focus on the schematics. As long as he was buried in any tight hole, he would chalk it up as a win. “Dope. You guys can start. I gotta go find the special lube. I think it’s in the bathroom?” He said as he slid off the bed and disappeared.

It only dawns on you that you’re alone with Satoru when he lays flat, one hand gripping his shaft, the other wiping his brow. Those magical blue eyes beam up at you, he looks like an angel with a 9 inch cock. “Hey. You okay with riding? I wanna see your tits bouncing. Are they natural? They’re perfect.”

Self conscious, you look down at your chest, not sure what was so special about it. “Uh, yeah. Natural. The left is bigger than the other honestly. And I’ve always been insecure about it. Like that not that much bigger,” you ramble, flustered. “But just enough that—“

“Hey,” he interrupts gently, squeezing your thigh. “Can you ride it for me, babes?”

The second time he says it, you nod obediently. Toji’s still throwing shit around in the closet. You’re on your own.

You straddle him, watching that pretty cock lay flush against his stomach, uncut and leaking. “Okay,” you whisper, rising up on your haunches, murmuring when the tips ghosts against your moist folds.

“There we go. Take your time,” he coaxed, hands rubbing small circles on your hips. “I’m way more fun to ride than the Old Man. He’s so lazy.”

You can’t help but blush, but figure this is the best time to get answers. “You…rode him?”

He nods, and a soft groan tumbles from those pink lips when you sink yourself down past the head teasingly. “Mmhm. Bunch of times. Awhile ago. Long time ago. Its complicated. But we had our fun.”

You want to press “how” it was complicated, and decide to further the interrogation by shifting deeper an inch, two at most. You both hiss at the pressure, the slick resistance. God he looks so cute underneath you. “Were…were your two dating?” you ask, before lust gets the better of you and you drop fully, bottoming out on Satoru and shivering at how your swollen clit rubs against his pelvis. “I didn’t even…fuck, I didn’t even know he liked guys.”

Satoru doesn’t take long to take control. Fingertips will leave bruises on your ass come tomorrow. You’re in his domain now. “Nah. Not dating. Just fun. He’s not the type to settle down. That’s why I was shocked to hear he has a wifey. But with pussy this good,” he snaps his hips upward, and you yelp his name, hands on his chest for support. “I can see why he’s playing househusband.”

“Hey!” Toji calls, sounding irritated. “Don’t make her cum without me, asshole!”

“I won’t,” Gojo replies , but he’s not making a great attempt at holding back. He sets a slow, but powerful rhythm, not once taking his eyes off you. “Fuck. Take this dick, baby. You’re so beautiful. Like it’s insane. Like a model,” he professes, obviously pussy-drunk. But the way he says it, it makes you feel so warm, so special.

“T-thank you, Satoru…ahn…~” you reply as you lean forward and rest your forearms next to his shoulders, rolling against his thrusts, your breath hot and whining against his neck. Your chests are sticky as they rub together, and he wraps his arm around your waist. You feel small, full. “Yes, yes please. Pleas fuck me, please fuck me, Sir. Please!” You cry as he bites your neck, claiming you as his cockslut.

This seems to fill him with increased vigor, and soon the room is filled with the sound of wet skin slapping on wet skin, the creaking headboard, and your strangled mewls. You’re so wrapped up in the moment you barely notice when Toji manifests behind you. It’s only when he spanks you, hard, that both you and Satoru pause, hearts thrumming rapidly.

“It was stuck under the radiator,” Fushiguro says of the lube as he slathers it on his cock,and carelessly slips a slimy finger into your puckered heat. Probing it, relaxing it, working it over. You wince and pout in response, but the way Toji growls back in response makes you fall silent.

Satoru seems to enjoy the tension as Toji withdraws his finger just as quickly as he entered it, opting to smear his tip between your cheeks, flickering against the hole. He usually takes far more time to prep you, but this is a special night and he didn’t have time to fuck around. “Don’t break her, dude. We’re just getting started,” he says to your defense, but there’s evil glinting in those ocean eyes. “What, you worried I’ll fuck her better?”

Shit.

“Toji, he’s just kidding. I don—fuck! Oh fuck Daddy what the hell!” You exclaim when your boyfriend shoves himself deep, and even with the numbing lube it’s too much to accommodate at once. You can feel their cocks rubbing against each other through that thin wall of skin. And it’s obvious they feel it too, how they say your name like a curse in unison. God it’s so much. Even when Toji would fuck your pussy when you had a fox butt plug in…it wasn’t even comparable. “Be, be careful! It’s so much—ohmygodohmygod. I don’t know if I can do this,“ you’re practically sobbing. Not from pain, but just the overwhelming sensation of it all. The stretching you feel…will you rip? Is that possible? You’re starting to panic and regret this whole thing, blubbering.

The boys do their best to soothe you. They don’t move. They just tell you how pretty you look when you’re stuffed, that you’re doing so good. Toji says you have to make him proud, and Gojo says you do make him proud.

After a few moments of reassurance, you calm down enough and steady your breathing. It does feel amazing once you get past the initial burn, replaced by twitching, glorious pleasure. “That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” Toji praises, layering kisses against your cheek and neck.”You ready now? We can take it easy.”

The boys await further instructions, and in this moment, you feel like a goddess. These two muscular, dangerous men are going to worship you and defile you. Has there ever been a girl so lucky?

“I want…” you start, cautiously gyrating against Gojo before you press back against your boyfriend. “I want you to fuck me…like you used to fuck each other.”

And like that, with that simple utterance, you would be completely violated.

Toji is the first to fuck you into submission, wrapping your hair around his fist and yanking it roughly, exposing the quivering column of your throat. The things he says to you are downright filthy as his cock pulls almost fully out of your gaping ass, just to slam back in without remorse. The things you respond with are equally revolting.

Satoru catches on quick, pounding you with the same tempo and delirious intensity as Toji. You’re absolutely wanton now with your vocals, a cross between breathless gasps and guttural howls. Your holes tingle, and your body reacts surprisingly well to the onslaught. The rougher they are, the more soaked you become, the more your body relaxes to accommodate. The harder they go, the more you want.

“Fuck! Yes! Fuck me, daddies. Please don’t stop. This is so fucking good I wanna cum again. I wanna squirt again. Fuuuuck,” you manage to squeak out, feeling squished between the two large men, who are using you as a condom between their own unresolved sexual desires.

“Fuckin’, nngh—! Fucking do it then!” Gojo commands as he licks away your tears, before wrapping his hands around your neck and squeezing, hard.

Even Toji doesn’t choke you that hard.

It’s terrifying and exciting.

Your head spins, and you see fireworks. Partly from cumming unfathomably hard, but also from the last of oxygen to your brain. You would scream hysterically as you gush over his balls and get those snow white pubes drenched, if you could breathe.

This doesn’t go unnoticed by Toji.

“Yo, take it easy, brat. If you hurt her I swear to god..” he barks, and Gojo loosens his vice just enough for you to blink and take a hungry gasp of air, still feeling like you’re you’re floating on a cloud, spinning on the world’s fastest carousel.

“Sorry, I ju—“

“Shut the fuck up, Satoru,” your boyfriend interrupts, and you watch as a hand shoots out in slow motion and chokes Gojo. For a moment you swear you can hear a tendon pop.

“Daddy, fuck—“

It’s not you saying it.

They still continue to use you as the perfect fleshlight, but in a weird way it’s like you’re an observer more than participator. It’s like porn, real life porn. Even better than that dumb VR.

“God that’s hot,” you exclaim, as you watch Satoru’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his body still snapping into yours like it’s in autopilot.

“Toji, stop…stop it—-“ he croaks out, but your boyfriend snickers, doubling the pressure he’s exerting on both of you. “You gotta stop.”

“Why?” You can practically feel Toji sneering behind you. “I thought you loved it like this, brat. Don’t switch up now.”

Gojo reaches up past you, palms pressed into Toji’s chest. He’s almost…whining. “I do. But if you don’t stop I can’t …I’m gonna—-“

His words falter as he almost loses consciousness, and for a moment you’re worried. If Toji wound up killing him, that would be really fucking hard to explain to the police. Fuck, what if your job found out?

“You’re gonna what, brat?”

“Toji,” you start, nuzzling Gojo’s cheek, your pleasure overridden by concern. You glance back at your feral boyfriend and shudder at the crazed, sex-intoxicating expression he’s wearing. “You’re going to—“ you freeze, as what Satoru was trying to tell you dawns on you, and you feel it. You FEEL it. Warm, thick ropes of cum fill your throbbing cunt, flooding up to your bruised cervix, gushing out with each of his slowing, weak thrusts. Oh God. He just came in your pussy? Yeah, you’re not in birth control and Toji creampies you frequently , but only on “safe” days. Is today a safe day? You’re too out of it to remember.

“Huh? What the…” Toji feels the milky white substance smear against his bouncing shaft. “Hey. Hey, wake up,” he demands as he stops choking Satoru and slaps his face gently. “Did you cum? Did you just cum in my fucking girl?”

You freeze and bite your lip, the vibe suddenly changed. Satoru finally snaps back to reality, grunting as his softening cock deposits the last few drops of seed into you, glancing at you before peering up at Toji sheepishly. “Uh. I’m sorry. I tried to tell you. My bad,” he swallows hard, and holds onto you like a naughty child seeks safety from their mother when they’ve upset the father.

You wince as Toji bears down past you, his lips meeting your jaw before pressing against Satoru’s softly, tenderly. “I forgot how pretty you are when you shoot your load.” He snakes his hand down between your bodies and rubs your slick and pulsating clit, circling it in time with his rapidly quickening thrusts. “Now princess, I need you to beg me to fill you up. You both had your fun. Now it’s Daddy’s turn.”

You don’t deny him. By the time Toji’s glistening hips snap one final time and he empties his balls inside your pounded-numb asshole, your voice is hoarse, having cum one final time from his fingers.

The room feels unbearably warm, the air thick with the mingling scents of skin and exhaustion. Your body is a trembling, overstated heap, sprawled between them in a tangle of limbs. Toji’s hand rests possessively on your hip, his palm rough but steady, while Gojo’s arm drapes lazily across your stomach, his fingertips brushing your ribs in a way that makes you shiver despite the heat.

No one speaks. The silence is filled only with heavy breathing and the occasional shaky curse. Your muscles ache, your skin buzzes, and your mind flits on the edge of unconsciousness. You feel the weight of their bodies pressed against yours, grounding you even as sleep pulls you under.

“She’s a mess,” Toji mutters somewhere above the fog of your thoughts, his voice a low sigh that vibrates through the bed.

“You’re not exactly clean yourself,” Gojo replies, his tone smug but tired.

There’s a pause, then Toji chuckles darkly. “After we clean her up…Shower?”

“With you?” Gojo sounds amused, the grin in his voice unmistakable. “Fine, but don’t get any ideas.”

You want to respond, maybe make a snide comment or laugh, but your body refuses to cooperate. Their voices fade as you slip fully into the darkness of sleep.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the sunlight streaming through the curtains. The second is that you’re alone. Panic hits you in a sudden rush, your brain scrambling to calculate how much time has passed. Work. You’re going to be late. You groan, dragging yourself upright, but your anxiety stutters when you spot the outfit laid neatly on the chair by the bed.

Next to it sits a cup of your favorite coffee, still warm, and a doughnut in its wrapper, and a Plan B. A folded note catches your eye. You pick it up, your lips curving into a sleepy smile as you read the words written in two distinct handwritings:

“Good luck with the merger! :D “

Shaking your head, you get dressed quickly, the earlier panic replaced by a soft warmth in your chest. When you step into the living room, you pause at the sight of them; they’re are sprawled together on the couch, limbs tangled, Toji holding Gojo the way he usually holds you.

You snort quietly, grabbing a blanket and draping it over them. Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads, Toji murmuring something incoherent in his sleep while Gojo shifts but doesn’t wake.

As you slip out the door, you realize you don’t know if Gojo will still be there when you get home, or if your life with Toji has changed forever. But something feels different. Different, and strangely right.

[saltnsugarbear]

Lip with “Fuck, wait — shit. Mm— fuck. Wh-where did you learn to do that?” “Well, the noises you make are a pretty good indication of how you like it.” “…God you sound so fucking cocky right now and it’s turning me on even more.” 

so like on the low i ate this up

word count: 1.0k

content warnings: KAREN SLANDER IM SO SORRY (I don't like her but I hate slut shaming more) they don't enthusiastically consent but they're both into it I'm sorry 😔, so ig dubcon, oral (m!receiving) (don't ask for this ever again), Lip is kind of mean (the voices olive got to me on that one)

side note: don't expect any bj fics again cause I hate the idea of giving men head SORRY also I like triggered my own life apocalypse (got sick at work, power went out, etc)

come celebrate!

One of Lip's favorite things about you is your competitive nature. Not that he'd ever say that out loud, but it's one of the things that endeared him to you.

It made him like pushing your buttons even more.

So complaining while you actually work on your group project is the perfect way to annoy you today. However you've stopped paying him any mind, about three minutes into his griping. So he tries a new approach.

Bringing up his most recent conquests. So obviously that means he feels the need to mention Karen.

And the fact that instead of being tutored, she gave Lip head instead. The story makes you roll your eyes, shaking your head when he comments that it's probably the best blowjob he's ever gotten.

"It could not have been that good.." You scoff, trying to focus on finishing the sentence you're writing. "Actually, I take that back. Given how big of a slut she is, she's probably had plenty of practice."

"Oh fuck you-" Lip starts.

"Am I wrong?" You challenge him quickly, glaring up from your page.

"You're just pissed off you're not getting any." He sneers. You roll your eyes, you're not having this conversation with him.

Lip takes your silence as agreement, snickering lightly. "No wonder you're so uptight, you're not getting laid."

You have to bite your tongue to keep from retorting. He's fucking insufferable.

"Everything makes so much more sense now. Because I kept asking myself, y'know, why you're such a bitch. But it makes sense now, you're not getting away so you need to take your frustrations out another way."

"You're such a fucking asshole, Gallagher. You don't know shit about who I'm fucking." You snap at him, putting your pen down none too gently.

"Right, like anyone would be able to fuck you. Probably too fucking tight up there, can't even get a finger in you." Lip's look is gloating, like he's won some verbal sparring match.

You don't know why you're moving. Pushing out of your chair and tugging Lip's back. Lip sputters at the abruptness of your yanking, arms flying out for balance. Once there's enough space for you, you quickly step in between his legs before dropping down to your knees.

You're a little surprised at the small tent in Lip's slacks already, scoffing after you piece it together. "You get off on the sound of your own voice?"

"What? No. What are you-" You cut Lip's questioning off quickly, pushing yourself up to rest on your toes so you can easily rest your arm on his thigh as you press your palm against his half hard dick. Lip's words are muddled as you bully him through the fabric, fighting himself for some composure.

With one last squeeze, you bring both of your hands to his hips, pulling him forward until he's sitting at the very edge. You don't miss how he inhales sharply at your rough handling.

Once he's positioned better, you sit flat on your feet before looking up at him through your lashes and leaning forward, licking at his erection through his slacks. Lip groans as you continue to mouth at his cock, head falling back as you suck softly around the fabric.

Once you're satisfied with the wet patch you've made in his pants, you bring your hands to unbutton and unzip them before tugging them down slightly. Lip helps you out by lifting his hips up, letting drag them down past his knees. Your saliva bled through his pants, dampening his boxers where you had been teasing him.

Taking your time, you go back to mouthing at his erection. You can hear him shifting above you, glancing up to see him bring his hands around. Lip's hands are pushy as they hold the back of your head.

"Uh-uh.." You pull away from his bulge, catching his wrists before leaning forward and tucking them behind his back. "Those stay there."

"Fuck..." Lip mutters.

"Lift." You tap his hips as you curl your fingers under the waistband of his boxers. Lip is a quick listener, lifting his hips up so you can tug his boxers down to his pants. He breathes out heavily when his cock springs free, hitting his stomach.

You're quick to take him in your mouth, sliding your tongue along the underneath of his length. There's a sense of pride as Lip struggles to form any words, the only things leaving his mouth a mix of whines and groans.

"Fuck, wait- shit-" Lip grunts as you sink back down to the base, glancing up at him with your nose brushing against his happy trail. "Mm- fuck. Wh-where did you learn to do that?"

You hum around his length, feeling how he twitches in your mouth before pulling all the way off.

"Well, the noises you're making are a pretty good indication of how you like it." You grin up at him, bringing your hand to wrap around the base of his cock.

"...God you sound so fucking cocky right now and it's turning me on even more." Lip's eyes are lidded as he looks down at you, watching as you slowly jerk him off. You roll your eyes at him, leaning back towards his cock.

"I liked you better when you could barely speak," you tell him before leaning forward and wrapping your lips around the head of him.

"Fuu- ughh.." Lip grunts as you suckle at his head. His hips buck up into your mouth, pushing himself farther in. You hum sharply, taking your hands away from his base and pushing back against his hips. Lip breathes heavily as you keep his hips in place, flicking your tongue over the slit before pressing gently at the underside of his head.

"Wait-" Lip chokes out, hips bucking up again. "Shit, shit- fuck-"

Lip's release is thick on your tongue and you're quick to open your mouth, letting him watch as his cum coats your tongue. Doing such makes Lip swear, another rope covering your tongue. You pull away from him, sticking your tongue out for him to see all of his release before making a show of swallowing it.

"Still think she gave you the best blowjob of your life?"

[puppybimbo]

I have a theory about why hypnokink girls like bimbo stuff a lot, and it relates to machine learning research, so buckle up. There is this idea in work with ML models known as a concept space, or phase space. What this is, is just a very very highly dimensioned matrix, re. linear algebra, that contains pre provided values called weights & biases.

(I know, a Bambi who's a math enthusiast, scary stuff, right)

And in this phase space, each dimension is correlated to a concept that the model has learned. So in a way, the information kind of "lives in" the shape of the highly dimensioned space, and the different relations between concepts in the space.

Okay, so, fancy words to say thoughts live inside fancy lines instead of pink boxes, right.

There's this other concept. In linear algebra.

Called eigenvectors.

Suffice to say that an eigenvector is a direction in that n-dimensioned space that preserves it's meaning when the space is transformed.

Meaning it should be a strong concept between any hypothetical phase space models of human consciousness between individuals. As we gain our definition as individuals from the differences in geometry between our models, so to speak.

So, an eigenvector is a strong thought, so what.

Bambi Sleep.

Bimbo Doll.

Bambi Freeze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now you might be asking yourself what the triggers are for, but those aren't there to trigger you Bambi. You see, the highlighted tokens all share a similar meta-concept.

Now, this meta-concept is a very special one Bimbo Barbiedoll.

It's the null meta-concept.

Because feelings like Blank -ness, Openness, and Mindlessness are all closely aligned with the meta-concept of the empty set; A set defined by a lack of being.

A bimbo defines herself by her lack of being anything concretely. An identity derived at least partially from non-identity.

Ironic.

See the null meta-concept sits on or very close to an eigenvector, meaning it scales disproportionately well between brains compared to other concepts.

But that's too many words for your silly brain, isn't it?

What it means is you should keep listening to bimbo hypno.

Because bimbos hypnotize faster than other subjects.

Bambi Obeys Better Than Other Subjects.

[vidavalor]

Aww, thank you for reading & for the kind words, @blackthorn-roses 💕 I hear you on The Final 15. The part that actually breaks me in a good way about the end of S2 isn't even that Aziraphale got into the elevator. It's the way their song in The Bentley and Crowley staying outside the car showed them both still fighting for their relationship.

It circles back to what we learn about what they're both working on back in season's first episode with the argument over Gabriel. Their interactions there show that these two (who already have the healthiness that is The Apology Dance) are continuing to work on getting better at arguments, which is the most married thing possible. They each have something they're working on with it that we can see in the argument.

Aziraphale says stuff he doesn't mean that he regrets when he's angry so he is trying to curb that. Crowley runs away in anger and is trying to get better at managing that. In reality, both of them are stuck in a difficult situation because it's hard to recover from trauma when you're still threatened with it but they're both actively trying and the dialogue suggests they've agreed to both work at these things and help one another with it. Crowley has that oh, so this is how you wanna do it, then? moment when Aziraphale is about to snap that is very much honey, you're about to do the thing, giving Aziraphale a moment to take a breath and use more productive words. Crowley winds up having to do The Apology Dance because he's the one who doesn't hold up his end and left during the argument but they both know that it's pretty understandable, given his PTSD and the situation triggering it. They approach each other's challenges with empathy and humor in The Apology Dance afterwards. This is all healthy and it's shown to be what they can do when they can communicate openly and privately, which is what is taken from them in The Final 15.

In The Final 15, they can't speak openly and, even then, they normally would have been able to manage that better than they did here but a series of unfortunate events pile up and cause them to misunderstand one another. It takes a whole bunch of things happening for that to even happen in the first place. Even if it seems like it's over, it's really not, because they refuse to stop fighting for each other. They both didn't do well in their disagreement in The Final 15 and did the things they have been trying not to but then they both turn around and try to show the other that they know that and make it as right as they can, right in the moment. Aziraphale has the car help him with the song to tell Crowley he loves him. Crowley went out the door but he stayed by the car, trying to live up to his promise to not leave. Through the last scenes, they're still trying with one another.

Those aren't the actions of people who got Ineffably Divorced. They're ones of people who love each other like crazy and don't want to lose one another. A series of outside events caused a lot of confusion and misunderstanding but they'll realize what's happened and sort it out. It's a sad ending for sure because they're both miserable at the end of it but there's more hope there than I think it gets credit for sometimes.

Just on the back of your last post about how Aziraphale and Crowley have been a couple for (literal) ages, of which you have me thoroughly convinced, there's one thing I've never been able to figure out.

In 1941, when Crowley saves the books, what are we seeing from Aziraphale? By this point he knows damned 😉 well that Crowley adores him, so I very much doubt the 'this is when Aziraphale realised his love was returned' theory. Is it to do with their holy water fight?

Apologies if you've covered this already but I've read through your master post and most of your previous posts and couldn't find anything. I keep musing on it and thinking 'oh Vidavalor will know but I shouldn't bother them'!

Ground Control to Mr. Tom! 😊 Hi there. 💕 You are correct that I haven't done a post about this, which feels very much like my all-over-the-place blog, because this is one of the most-discussed scenes in the show. 😂 You are absolutely not a bother! Do not speak such silliness. I'm going to explain my take on that scene with some help from The Archangel Fucking Gabriel. Therefore, there is hot chocolate, should you want a mug.😊

This is also going to be my contribution to the Azirafeast celebrations so I wish any of you reading this many scrumptious returns!

Below the cut is the one in which someone who thinks Crowley and Aziraphale have been lovers since ancient Rome offers an opinion on what's going on with Aziraphale and the books in 1941... by way of a look at what we might be able to learn about this moment from its sister moment in Gabriel & Beez's flashback.

Be them real people or fictional ones, angels-- especially our two, main ones on Good Omens-- are not accustomed to feeling seen.

This is largely because they believe they exist to sacrifice themselves for the protection and betterment of others... that this is literally what they were made by God to do... or at least what they've been told God wants them to do... and, as we know, they've got plenty of questions over all of that.

They can often feel guilty about their consumption of resources-- or their curiosity about doing so in different ways-- when they've been told that those resources and the experiences that come with them are not for them, even if all evidence seems to suggest that might not really be the case.

They are told they are supposed to live small lives of sacrifice and are, as a result, full of conflicts about their hungers, their needs, their desires... about their love, and the want of a free life of their own.

They exhibit perfectionist behaviors, are full of self-criticism, and are excessively self-sacrificing.

Intellectually, they know they are a person with wants and needs like everyone else but they've been taught that they are supposed to be above all of that and breaking free of that abuse comes with negative self-thoughts, anxiety, depression, and a whole slew of other fun struggles.

That attempted thought control and oppression of people that is responsible for these angels' inner torment, though? As The Supreme Archangel aptly puts it while having a total breakdown shown by chasing his metaphorical self (The Fly) around the bookshop and trying to kill it with a Bible...

...it never works.

It might, unfortunately, get some people but it never, ultimately, works in society as a whole for very long because people want to live. People are made to live. They will seek out coffee over death and rebel against any society that seeks to oppress them in whatever way that they can. Eventually, angels who want to break free will find different ways of letting themselves be individuals on their own terms, even as they are still full of conflict about it, as we've seen Aziraphale and Gabriel do throughout the story.

They'll express themselves in different ways but with the same sense of desperation to have something of their own as a way of admitting that they are a person, too.

Maybe, one night, an angel will, say, allow himself to indulge his hungers by eating an entire ox... maybe in front of the demon he'd like to consume with just as much enthusiasm. Maybe those hungers become ones that, despite his inner conflicts that lead to periodic episodes of depression and fasting, this angel will allow himself to otherwise regularly satiate, and in which he finds enjoyment, nourishment, connection and peace, that he would not have otherwise found.

Maybe, on another night, a different angel will let himself slip away from Heaven and return having consumed resources for himself, in the form of a tailor-made suit that serves as proof to himself that he isn't just a symbol but an individual person in his own right. Maybe it gives him a connection to his body that also leads to him jogging and exploring more of the world. Maybe he allows himself the freedom of owning what he can of his own body and own appearance because control over these things have otherwise been taken from him in the process of denying his personhood and making him more of a symbol to be venerated.

While these are good examples of these two angels finding different but similar, healthy paths to recognizing themselves as people, it's one thing to recognize yourself but another thing for someone else to recognize you.

Angels are wonderful at taking care of everyone else but they sometimes have a blind spot when it comes to their own needs and safety. They are so busy taking care of everyone else that they are prone to making mistakes with their own care.

Such as this angel below being so pleased with an opportunity to contribute to the war effort that he missed that he'd accidentally let himself be recruited by the wrong side...

...and needing his partner to identify some Nazis and redirect some bombs to keep him from being discorporated...

...and such as this other angel below being pleased with his ability to show care towards his new partner...

...but also, as we can see by the expression in his reaction to Beez's suggestion above, so unused to being cared for that, even if he was intellectually aware of it, the aspect of partnership involving mutual care was so foreign to him that it threw him for a bit of a loop.

Sometimes, an angel will be going through a period of struggle when it comes to their interactions with the world. It's often times not even just the feeling that they should just be advisors more than active participants and that the world is not for them. They are, in these moments, just imposter syndrome run amok, and that robs them of pursuing that which makes them feel happy and fulfilled.

Loving an angel in this mode requires gentle, genuine, affirming care:

The imposter syndrome modes can strike at any time for angels but tend to do so especially when they've very recently tried to engage with the world in a big way and saw it backfire.

Like when they spend a lot of time trying to sort out their place in the world and regularly go back and forth between being so influential that they personally own and have developed an entire city neighborhood but also then have days when they don't want to open their own bookshop to the world.

Like when they are supposed to be an angel and nothing else but, if they could choose a vocation, they'd be doing card tricks and pulling rabbits out of hats at birthday parties for all of eternity, and they feel so massively guilty about it that they tell themselves that the magic shop is not a place for them.

But maybe never more than like when there is a war on... an absolutely massive, global war... the first atomic war, the war that could bring about Armageddon, for all the angel knows... and everyone in the human world is trying to do their bit as best they can and, one day, a young woman claiming to be British intelligence knocks on the door and says that they need the angel-- this particular angel and only him... this angel who sometimes feels like he doesn't always know how best to help but wants nothing more than to be good and do good and help others.

The Allied Forces needs Mr. Fell for an intelligence mission to help thwart the Nazis and work towards stopping the war. And what do they need from this angel, in particular?

They need his books.

Aziraphale collects books of all kinds but he has two major personal collections that are highlighted in the story. One is humorous and self-aware-- a collection of misprinted Bibles. Those are living proof of the fallacy of language and gospel-- of the bullshit of people. They are comforting to him in their existence, as they reinforce his sense that following what others say is the word of God is not really a better path than following his own moral compass. The Allied Forces don't need these books, though.

They need the other ones that Aziraphale has been collecting forever:

His books of prophecy.

This angel collects written works by humans that profess to be prophetic. He has original works of Nostradamus and Mother Shipton and many others. He has preserved them throughout centuries, keeping them safe in his care, even if the works are, largely, complete and utter balderdash. He has kept these books, nutty as they are, safe from damage and in existence, for years, just in the event that maybe these humans, in some way, really did have answers as to the future of the world in which the angel lives, too.

The one that he knows has been slated to be destroyed around 6,000 years from its inception-- a date that was approaching closer with each breath in 1941.

Was it really going to happen? Was there a way to stop it? Aziraphale has been trying to see if maybe the humans have found a way, studying their prophetic works for centuries upon centuries, anxiously looking for clues on how to stop Armageddon and save the world he loves...

...and also therefore be able, as a result, to stay on Earth with the person he loves and not be separated from him for eternity.

It's these books of this angel-- these beloved, material possessions; these perfect examples of everything that he's been told that he's not supposed to have-- that Captain Rose Montgomery of British Intelligence says that he can provide to entrap some Nazis and help save the world for his fellow humans and his partner.

An angel's biggest blind spot is always wanting to help and never feeling like they're doing enough. They're vulnerable to trusting the wrong people for the right reasons. Their desperation to do good and be good in the face of feeling like they're not a good person at all can cause them to have the best of intentions but be open to manipulation by those with the worst of ones.

Sometimes, it's a human Nazi. Sometimes, it's a supernatural one...

...same difference. Both dangerous. Both examples of an area where an angel might not survive if they don't let in a trusted person who can give to them the same love and care they give to everyone else.

The fallout from making a mistake can be devastating to an angel.

They feel embarrassed and snappish-- the anger and frustration related to the miscalculated situation triggering (and masking) the anxiety and depression to which angels are hardly strangers.

They can retreat into self-doubt. Moments of bravery when it comes to trying again are sometimes just as quickly diluted by their compounding insecurity and the fear that they are just jiggery-pokery and do not belong in the world.

This is when they need their demons the most.

Demons? They are fallen angels.

They know all this about angels because they're not much different themselves.

They have had the experience of having to redefine themselves in the face of being told by their societies that they were no longer angels and, in some ways, that has freed the more introspective demons to have enough perspective to offer counsel to willing angels as to how to manage those conflicts.

These demons, like Crowley and Beez, are uniquely well-suited to loving angels because they have also been through these same conflicts-- and still struggle with many of them.

These demons have experienced violence and violation as a result their angelic conflicts. They are drawn towards the inherent goodness of their angels, who approach them with kindness, respect, and a sense of equality to which the demons are not accustomed but which helps to build trust.

Just as these demons seek to protect these angels from harm that might befall them in the future, the angels we're discussing are both mindful of their partners' pasts and take care to help them feel safe. They are emphatic about their partners' comfort, reinforce their expectations of a partnership involving free choice and equality, and continually make clear that they consider-- and will always consider-- explicit, enthusiastic consent essential.

Their demons' knowledge of the darker aspects of the world also make them uniquely aware of the risks to their angels and they seek to protect them from experiencing the same pain they have felt from trusting the wrong faces. They do everything they can to keep their angels from falling-- literally, as in from Heaven, or more figuratively, as into despair.

They give them music and food and companionship... they open up the world for the angels and help them live life with the other people in the pub, literally and metaphorically. They explore the human world with them and make them feel less alone, letting the angels do the same for them.

Loving an angel is first seeing that angel there and acknowledging their humanity. It's affirming their imperfection as being just part of personhood and holding up that personhood as being worthy of love. It is reflecting back to the angels the same empathy, openness, and lack of judgement as what the angels give to them.

It's seeing that the angel who wrestles with living up to the expectations of the statues in his honor and the titles for which he never asked is, really, an imperfect, good-hearted, kind person beneath his snarky, sharp-edged exterior. It's seeing the depression that clouds his eyes and the fine edges he's walking in Heaven and knowing what comes next more than maybe can see in the moment and protecting him, as best as someone can, from the fallout of those actions.

Beez knows what it is to fall. They see Gabriel already in a downward motion in every way there is and knows that it comes with risk of losing himself, the way that they once did themselves. They dump out the matchsticks because the good kind of fire is already lit between them and the fire of Hell is not for their angel. They gift him a fly-- that which is made from their body. They are Gabriel's container. He is safe by putting all of himself, literally and figuratively, into Beez.

While this is a big moment in the Ineffable Bureaucracy parallel and one that also parallels the holy water, Gabriel's response to it is a mirror to Aziraphale's response to Crowley saving the books in 1941. What can Gabriel maybe tell us about what Aziraphale was feeling then, through what is similar and what is different about these two moments?

For starters, Gabriel and Beez knew how they felt about one another before The Fly. They already had shared that through "Everyday". The Fly is not an "oh" moment for Gabriel, in the sense that it wasn't a sudden revelation of either Beez's love or of his own. If anything, he and Beez never really had an "oh" moment in that sense of one because elements of how they both felt were always just understood and present in their interactions.

This is honestly true of a lot of relationships. A lot of "oh" moments are not so much becoming aware of having feelings for someone but are just being hit with a new aspect of love that both/all parties is/are already aware is in existence, even if it hasn't always yet been fully spoken.

In S1, we see that Gabriel and Beez only let their guard down around one another. They have always been as close to friends as they could be in their positions. They already care about one another when we first see them together and then, in S2, Gabriel is completely unsurprised at Beez's flirting with him moments into the first date-- and Beez had no hesitation in doing so, suggesting that they likely have before.

Their attraction to one another is presented as an existing given between them from the very start of their flashback sequence. There's no "oh" over The Fly or anything else because they just know. They start to give words and actions to it as they fall deeper in love throughout the scenes but there's never any doubt that they both have been long-aware of what exists between them.

If anything, Ineffable Bureaucracy is probably the real, millennia-long pining relationship in Good Omens, as while they had all these very good foundations for a romantic relationship, they didn't really begin to pursue one until between S1 and S2.

Gabriel's response to The Fly parallels Aziraphale's response to Crowley saving the books in 1941, even if the contrasting part of the parallel is that both are responses to gestures made by these demons for their angels in very different stages of these relationships.

For Gabriel, The Fly is an "oh" moment-- but not one that is about a new revelation related to love existing. It's about what is, for him, a heartbreakingly new experience:

It's not that Gabriel doesn't already know how he and Beez both feel about one another because already he does by this point. Gabriel isn't having a realization of the existence of his love or of Beez's love when Beez gives him The Fly; he's having a realization that this is what it feels like to be loved.

And what is feeling loved, to an angel?

It's being and feeling truly seen.

It's someone noticing them and coming along to care for them while they're out there, trying to save the world when they're sometimes not sure they can even save themselves. It's someone seeing that in them and not seeing anything worth berating them about the way that they berate themselves but, instead, seeing a person worthy of their love and protection.

Loving an angel is giving them the same kindness and care that they give to the world but that they often deny themselves.

For Gabriel, that night in The Resurrectionist was the first time that anyone had ever done something like that for him. It wasn't an "oh" of I'm in love because he already knew that and that Beez felt the same way. It was an "oh", though, of falling deeper in love. It was an "oh" of feeling love.

Beez had already done kind things for him before they gave him The Fly but The Fly and its matchbox are the first ever physical things Gabriel has been given by someone. He has never had any possessions besides his clothes before. He's never been given a gift.

He and Beez go to bars and pubs on their dates; they're surrounded by humans with songs and birthdays and Christmases and going on dates and living a life that involves tangible, physical things that Gabriel is supposed to be above but to which he is drawn.

On the first two dates we see, he and Beez meet up in places but they do not order anything. They do consume the music together and, by the night at The Resurrectionist, they take another step towards engaging more in the human world that they've largely been absorbing and observing together to date. They do so through allowing themselves to be a part of the space, too-- Gabriel miracling the song on the jukebox for Beez-- but also through material objects.

They start ordering stuff. Gabriel is happy to bring Beez something-- buying them beer and a bag of chips/packet of crisps, even if they're undecided on actually consuming them. He makes it clear that he doesn't have any expectations that Beez actually eat or drink anything if they don't want to but the idea is that they have moved to a place where they can see what the humans see in bringing one another things as they move through the world together.

Gabriel has gone from a being who barely knows why he's meeting Beez in this bar to being excited to see them again and happy to buy them a drink and their preferred snack to stare at. Beez is having a ball getting the food-judgy-if-also-food-curious Gabriel to buy them what they've clearly told him he had best call a packet of crisps if he plans on seeing them again. 😂 They have begun to let themselves claim resources for each other and themselves and to start to get less intense about consumption, which are features of recognizing the humanity in one another and themselves.

Gabriel's "oh" moment when he is given The Fly is that this is the first time he knows what it's like to experience the world as a person who has a person who cares about them and has brought them something.

What he means when he says "no one's ever given me anything before" is really "no one's ever thought about me before."

He means no one has ever seen him there-- until Beez did.

The gift of The Fly reminds Gabriel of that and shows him getting used to the new feeling of not being invisible and alone. He falls deeper in love with Beez and sees them more fully in return as well as a result of their gift and that, it could be argued, is what love is.

Love, if it's good, is a lot of "oh" moments-- because you don't fall in love once. You fall over and over again, deeper each time.

The difference between this moment with Gabriel and Beez versus the paralleling one between Crowley and Aziraphale is that, by 1941, our angel, Aziraphale, has known years upon years upon years of being seen by his demon.

(Amusingly, considering the theme of love as recognition, The Serpent is also literally, ya know, um, rather watchful at times. 😂)

Aziraphale is no stranger to Crowley being kind to him or rescuing him from the times he might have blundered, like we all do at times, in trying to do good.

Crowley saving the books in 1941 is absolutely not the first time that he's ever done something as Beez-and-The-Fly-level romantic as this for Aziraphale. In many ways, that's likely the point.

While The Fly was the first time of what will be many that Gabriel experienced what it was to feel loved by feeling seen, Crowley saving Aziraphale's books is a gesture that could not have happened at all without Crowley's long-held, intimate knowledge of Aziraphale as a person.

What makes Crowley saving Aziraphale's books so romantic isn't even just that he knows how important the books are to Aziraphale but that he knows Aziraphale so well that he could predict that the books would need rescuing.

Crowley knew that his angel would only focus on getting the two of them out of the church alive and unharmed and absolutely was going to forget about those beloved books of his while trying to protect them both and then be completely and utterly crushed when he did.

In this way, it's a contrasting parallel to Gabriel and Beez because, while that was the first time Gabriel had ever felt seen, 1941 is time number six trillion and five that Crowley had made Aziraphale feel seen like this and he's now so well-practiced at it that it's old hat at this point.

There is no judgement from Crowley about what happened with the Nazis in any of this. Aziraphale is horrible to himself over things like mistakes like he made in this church and being forgetful about these books but Crowley sees no such need for any of that. He protects Aziraphale from the fallout but in such a way that says he admires Aziraphale for trying to take the actions that he did. He sees Aziraphale as brave and his actions quietly affirm, much in the way that Beez does for Gabriel, that just because they are an angel who is used to doing for others doesn't mean they're not also a person who needs someone to do for them, too, and that Crowley is happy to be that person.

Aziraphale is reminded by Crowley knowing him well enough to anticipate that the books will need to be saved and taking care of that for him that they are a team. That Aziraphale doesn't have to worry about managing everything on his own because he and Crowley help each other manage life. They know each other well and have been together so long that they just know how to take care of one another.

It's not an "oh" of a realization of I'm in love for the first time. It is, as Michael Sheen says, a moment of falling in love. It's an "oh" of having been in love for a very long time and that love still finding new ways to surprise in its ability to keep causing Aziraphale to happily fall deeper and deeper...

This isn't realizing love and it's not the first time that Crowley has done something sweet and romantic like this for him-- it's the power of it being the nine billionth time Crowley has. It's the feeling of "oh" for Aziraphale that is a reminder that he is safe in the knowledge that Crowley knows him, through and through, and when confronted with the most real Aziraphale there is... the one that can be prone to making mistakes out of insecurities and self-doubt... the one that struggles sometimes with self-worth and brutal perfectionism... Crowley knows, sees him there, and is still madly in love with him.

Crowley never sees Aziraphale as weak or lesser for feeling any of it. He loves those sides of Aziraphale because he loves all of Aziraphale. He won't let Aziraphale be embarrassed because he likes and admires him as he is. He's gentle and kind and understanding about Aziraphale's insecurities, treating Aziraphale with the same care that Aziraphale shows him.

Crowley, better than anyone else ever has or will, sees Aziraphale for who Aziraphale truly is.

He loves that angel and his love helps Aziraphale to quiet some of his self-doubts and be a little kinder to himself-- much in the same way that Aziraphale's love does for Crowley. Crowley loving him makes Aziraphale feel like maybe there's a chance that he might be worth loving.

Loving an angel is making them feel seen and Aziraphale, holding those books Crowley rescued for him?

He felt very loved indeed.

The "oh" moment of 1941 is one moment where we see that Aziraphale has just been reminded of just how much Crowley truly sees him there-- and of just how much Crowley loves him. What we are watching, imho, is not the first realization of love but just one of a million different moments throughout history of Aziraphale continuing to fall deeper and deeper in love with Crowley.

[ventela1]

Post-game Mouthwashing scene/dialogue idea. Partial fix-it.

Major spoilers and canon-typical triggers ahead.

Scene: Curly has entered a comatose state postgame. He is alone in his mindscape (red, similar to Jimmy’s, the opposite of the dead pixel scene’s lighting) until he sees someone else.

Curly: Anya?

Anya: Hi, Captain.

Curly: Anya, fuck- I’m so sorry, I couldn’t tell you, I’m so fucking sorry.

(Anya gets closer and sits beside him)

Anya: Captain, you look better.

(Curly looks down at himself. He’s largely like before the crash, but his limbs keep disappearing and glitching into his newer appearance.)

Curly: Maybe. I don’t know how I see myself anymore.

But, god. Anya. There’s nothing I can do to fix this, is there?

Anya: No. Jimmy thought he fixed everything, but. … You’re dying, Captain. The cryopod is damaged. All he did was delay the consequences. Again.

Curly: (Already kind of assumed he was dead) That’s why we’re able to speak, huh.

Anya: … We have a lot of time for it, if you want to.

Curly: Daisuke and Swansea?

Anya: They have other people to check on. I heard they’re going to a really nice place.

Curly: You aren’t going to-

Anya: Not yet.

Curly: What do you mean, a lot of time? Anya, my body.. I don’t think I can-

Anya: I think if I sit here with you, it will keep you from moving on.

Curly: … Of *course* you found a way to work a miracle.

Anya: No. This isn’t a miracle. This is buying time, in case someone can find you. Your body’s numbed, so there’s no pain in trying anymore.

(A pause.)

Curly: Jimmy’s not even here, is he?

Anya: Why don’t we talk about anything but him.

Curly: … Maybe you talk. And this time I’ll really listen.

But I have to ask something first.

Anya… Why?

Anya: Well, you stayed with me. … Sorry, again.

Curly: No, *I’m* sorry. I mean, why help me?

Anya: I’m your fucking nurse, Curly.

[a-darling-thing]

Things I would have liked to see more of in Lucanis' storyline:

A little more time exploring his family dynamics and childhood being trained up in the Crows.

More exploration around how he and Spite were brought together. There are hints on it if you read all the notes in the ossuary, but I wanted more. There's so much fanfic fuel here!!

More chances for Rook to interact with Spite. Like I feel that once you get to the end romance scene Spite, Lucanis and Rook are all on the same page, but it felt a bit like it just happened, and I would have liked to have seen more of Spite and Rook getting to know one another also. I mean Lucanis/Spite is a package deal, so...

Sort of tying point one and two together, I would have loved a scene where Lucanis talks to Rook in more detail about what was done to him at the ossuary, and to have Spite come and go in the middle of that conversation to give his input. We are often shown how much Spite wants to be allowed to talk to Rook but Lucanis rarely allows it. I felt like there were things Spite wanted Rook to know. Also, A LOT was implied re: the torture, both physical and psychological that was used to fuse Lucanis/Spite, but I would have liked to have had it be more explicit, because I feel it wasn't implied strongly enough. I'm intrigued by the concept of triggering and maintaining, in your subject, the emotion tied to the demon you are trying to fuse with them.

I also kind of feel that if they had been a little more clear on the levels of trauma Lucanis had experienced in that year in the ossuary, and had gone a little more deeply into his childhood family background (we are told his childhood training with his grandmother was quite intense and included corporal punishment), it would have also made his emotional distance from Rook in the beginning make more sense. I still can't tell if that was purposeful (like this dude has been through a crap load of trauma and hasn't dealt with all that did to him, and how that is tied to the manifestation of Spite and how it is tied to him and so allowing himself to connect/let go in intimate relationships is hard) or just sloppy writing. But then I feel that way about a lot of the writing in the game, in general, so...

Also, I get that given how much time they allotted to companion storylines, there likely would never have been the time to really do all this justice, but I would have liked a little more, at least. I felt like a lot of things happened that just sort of left me wondering why and what more was behind it, you know. And I took Lucanis along as a companion on almost every quest, so I got to hear a lot of his dialogue.

[vampirefangs]

i know "i saw the tv glow" is very metaphorical but also if you are/have been mentally ill/delusional enough in just the right ways it can be relatable in a literal sense too

[vaguely-concerned]

are. are you telling me that if the romanced mage warden dies and alistair is king, he deadass stares greagoir down over her dead body and grants the circle of ferelden its autonomy after ordering it rebuilt somewhere safer. first you have to deliberately leave him behind so he won't die for you and then he does that for you once you're gone, even when you're broken up??? absolute and literal king behaviour of the highest order????? the actions speak louder than words of it all??????? I think I hauve covid

[marty--party]

O for … OUTFITS

✨ walk walk fashion baby ✨

[rockethorse]

The basegame wedding dress has a pregnancy morph??

[puppyeared]

AND I MET THE CHANGE GOD TOO. OKAY. COOL OKAY