smth smth ace trappola thinking there's a difference between cute and cool but tbh they're synonymous he's just making up shit on his own... based off the new fox ace card
— ace trappola x reader
"Cute?"
Ace says it like it's the strangest thing he heard the entire day. He would be a bit more appreciative of the comment—granted, he does have a preference of looking cooler than cute but he'll take what he can get from you—if it weren't for the fact that he felt like a fish out of water.
His wardrobe usually consists of any casual outfit he can throw together accompanied by a pair of nice branded sneakers he saved up for. The most fancy thing in his closet is probably the school's ceremonial robes. So putting him in traditional clothing for a place he doesn't belong to made him feel stiff; it was heavy, too. There are too many layers, he notes.
He doesn't feel as confident but your bold proclamation made him feel a bit better. "I look so awkward. Can't see why you would think it's cute—I want to look cool, not cute."
What Ace doesn't understand is that there's a very thin line between cool and cute, it often blurs and the difference becomes insignificant. "You look cool too. It's basically the same thing."
"Nuh-uh." Ace shook his head. "Cute is when you find something endearing, y'know?"
"And cool is...?"
"When something makes your heart race!" He shot a wide grin. "I don't think I'm satisfied with just looking cute to you."
You could almost smack him in the face for his shamelessness. Though the flush in your cheeks would probably give him enough satisfaction to tank it with a smile on his face.
hi lovelies! this (might) be a long time coming, but i would love to give any followers who are interested in commissioning me, the chance to receive a personalised fic :)
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it's when ur likeeeeee in denial but also not so u just go man what the hell is wrong with me am i making sense im running on 2 hours of sleep
— ace, deuce, vil x reader
ACE
"Pfft! What are you talking about? Nah, there's absolutely no way."
He tries his best to keep his cool when the thought of you started becoming a little bit more than platonic but the more he tried to ignore his thoughts the louder they became so now he's stuck in this weird place where he's in slight acceptance that he kinda likes you but would rather get collared for an entire week than admit it out loud.
He does a good job in keeping himself together, though. His actions don't necessarily scream "I like you" but if you squint, you could hear it whenever he inches a few steps closer. If his actions or words strike you as odd, Ace is insanely quick to brush it off with a laugh and a quip.
It's not obvious... until he lets his guard down. Deuce had his guesses about Ace's dilemma but convinced himself otherwise but the seniors? Trey and Cater? They'd be the first to call him out on his behaviour and enjoy watching him try to worm his way out of their joint interrogation.
Now he has to live with the fact that other people are aware of his feelings. Though Ace tells himself that's fine—as long as it's not you. He'd rather tell you himself after he gets over this period of denial mixed with lovesickness.
DEUCE
"Y-You're lying! There's no way that's what happened..."
Deuce is quick to acknowledge his feelings but his denial is more rooted in the concept of you liking him back. Reciprocation is good, sure, but he's too caught up in the idea that he's not yet ready—that he's not the best version of himself yet.
Ace thinks he's an idiot for thinking that way after seeing Deuce pine after you handed him the results of last week's test and forgot to check his score that's marked in bold red. So he does what he can to push Deuce to thinking outside the box for once by teasing him.
"Ooh, I just saw a certain someone staring at you while you weren't looking" is what he'd say before Deuce shuts him down, insisting that it was nothing of the sort. Although his stomach was already housing an entire zoo because he can't help but think—do they really like me?
He needs a bit more time to warm up to the idea but once he does, Deuce becomes a tiny bit more forward. Nothing too bold or dramatic, maybe holding your gaze for a few more seconds should count...?
VIL
"No. Absolutely not. No way."
The realization hits him hard. It's easy to imagine Vil as someone who would accept it with grace but in reality, simply acknowledging his feelings made him want to go to bed without doing his skincare routine. That's how people knew that it was bad. Vil never intentionally misses his nightly regime!
This denial stems from the fact that Vil didn't really see you that way before. It's something similar to suddenly realizing one day that your classmate you didn't pay much attention to is actually your type... Except in Vil's case, he did pay some attention to you and now he's having uninvited thoughts.
Epel thinks it's funny. Rook tries to encourage him. It takes a bit of time but Vil does become more accustomed to his feelings (after a LOT of personal reflection as well). When that happens, denial is no longer a word present in his dictionary.
"What's so unusual about me having feelings for you?" He would ask, like he didn't have a meltdown over it just a few weeks ago. It's part of his nature to accept everything that comes to him with grace and this is no different—he just needed some extra time to enter the acceptance stage before gladly declaring his feelings.
smth smth getting an eyelash out of ur eye... kinda short and incomplete but u get the idea
ace trappola x reader
Ace wasn't the type of guy that got too worked up over things. Although he does have the tendency to be a bit melodramatic when it comes to small things, he was rational enough to understand that these things aren't a big cause of concern.
This, however, was more than a little problem.
The sight of Deuce leaning forward—towards you, faces awfully close—with his hands resting on your cheeks. He didn't waste another second before storming over and pulled him back with a force he didn't know he had.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!?" He exclaimed. Rattled, he spared no time before rushing to your side and wrapped his arm around your shoulders protectively. Deuce only looked at him in absolute confusion, his eyes wide at Ace's questions.
"W-What...?"
That clueless answer only fueled his anger. Though before he could lunge forward and question him even more intensely, he felt a pair of hands cling to his sleeve—your hands.
"Wait, this is a misunderstanding!"
Your plea stopped him.
"Ha? He clearly tried kissing you—!"
"He was helping me take out a stray eyelash!"
...
...
...
A part of Ace felt embarrassed for that display over a misunderstanding. But more importantly, he was relieved. He let out an exasperated sigh before apologizing to Deuce. "My bad, I thought you were getting a little bit too cozy there."
"—and you! Deuce may be our friend but you can't let anyone just hold your face like that, got it?" He pointed his thumb towards himself, declaring, "if you need someone to get that close, you can only ask me!"
"What a selfish request!"
"I'm your boyfriend, damn it. I don't like seeing other people get that close to you!"
Hi guys!! Sumatra is in a MAJOR disaster and needs funding because our SHITTY GOVERNMENT cut a big funding for natural disaster fund for it's STUPID FREE 'NUTRICIOUS' MEAL program for our kids! The least I could do now is to share awareness about this and raise a funding! Right now I could only accept 10 slots!
All donation will be donated here!
SelfAware!Sunday x GN!Reader, ooc everyone tbh like be prepared, SUPER petty Sunday
A/N: au where everyone survives amphoreus and joins the express bc 3.7 isnt real to me heh. Also this is probably the last of this au. most likely. I think !! a bit shorter and all, i sorta cooked this up while preparing for exams lmao
Sunday exchanges some awkward looks with you as Miss Stelle explains everything that’s happened—your arrival, the entire Saga of Amphoreus, why he couldn’t teleport anymore...
(Mentally, he scowls at that. One single good part of being so beloved and then promptly abandoned to rot with the rest—the ability to see Robin from afar whenever he felt particularly bad—and that, too, was gone now. Lovely. Not to mention, it seemed all your other “acquired” characters were now also completely scattered, thrown across the entire cosmos to where they were meant to be all along. Just as he was starting to get used to Miss Topaz and Mr. Aventurine’s constant bickering, too...)
The following week or so is hard. Well, harder than everything else has been, none of which were easy either.
Getting used to becoming a Trailblazer was already a rough concept for someone who had grown up on one planet, in one house, with one single sibling to keep him company whenever Gopher Wood allowed her to. Then, he was promoted (...or was it a demotion?) to living with six strangers on a train, spending his days unsure of his future, sleeping on the couch; and now, he has to live with... eighteen? Did he count that right?
Eighteen people on one train. It’s getting a bit too crowded, clearly. Perhaps the time had come to kick someone out?
Still, his biggest woe isn’t that, but the fact that you, too, live with them now.
When Stelle explained that you, the one who had so lovingly brought him back from the pits of despair he had fallen into by comforting him, loving him, then promptly made a slave of him, were here, with him—he felt like screaming for a while, if not much worse. What else was he meant to do?
Worse yet... Lord Phainon’s been proven right. You still love him. From dawn to the deepest hours of the night, the man has been attached to your hip like an excited puppy begging for your attention—and you happily gave it to him. So it isn’t your tastes that were the issue Sunday concludes; you have always been perfectly capable of caring for someone longer than a few mere weeks. You just... didn’t do it for Sunday.
What, was being told his whole life and all the ideologies he had been taught since childhood were lies not pathtic enough for you? Did you not pity him enough? Did he not deserve it? Your pity, affection, love—surely you can’t be so cruel, can you?
His eyes flit away from his book and to the sight of you lounging on the couch across from him, hands nervously fidgeting with your fingers. Miss Stelle lays against your right, mindlessly playing games on her phone, a content smile on her face; whereas Lord Phainon sits just a few inches to your left (though Sunday feels sure he would be across your lap if it were appropriate), the same revolting soft smile playing on his lips as he watches you wait for Lady Castorice to make her move on the chessboard.
'In an attempt to bond with Lady Cerydra', Lady Castorice had come to you asking if you knew chess, which led to this scene happening in front of Sunday—utterly irritating him to the core.
He knows chess, much better than you do clearly. It’s not a reach to assume Lady Castorice simply wants more friends and is trying to get to know you as well, but still... That doesn’t change the one fact he holds true: no one on this train is in need of your services. Assuming you even have any.
It’s a bit mean to be so prejudiced against you—fully average-looking, utterly normal you—he knows. But at the same time, if all you’ve done so far is love, use, and discard, he has the right to feel protective of.. Well, everything.
He looks at you again, looking all peaceful and normal and content (save for the uneasy smile he has yet to see you without) as if you weren’t responsible for a dozen heartbreaks in the most formidable men and women in the galaxy. Cruel. That’s who you are.
“...Wait, Cassie—you can’t move the rook that way.” You say with an amused grin as she makes another mistake; suspicion creeps into Sunday’s heart that she may be making all these mistakes just to play longer. Lovely. So despite being unaware of who exactly you were, Lady Castorice had fallen into your spider web too?
A shame, truly.
“Oh, apologies!” she quickly moves the piece back. “I... haven’t slept too well last night. Seems it’s not affecting me well.”
You tilt your head at her apologetic smile before a mischievous grin forms on your lips. “...Oh, I get it. Busy... writing, maybe?”
“Ah...”
You chuckle, finding her reaction and the red seeping into her cheeks rather endearing, “Aww, you don’t need to be embarrassed!”
I could write too, Sunday pouts mentally as he quickly looks back at his book with furrowed brows, scanning the words he doesn’t really bother to comprehend.
If you wanted a writing buddy, he was right there! Before Lady Castorice, too, he would like to remind you! Before any of these new people you'd arrived on the Planet of! What if you had landed on Penacony when he was still in charge, he can't help but wonder? Sure, he wasn't his best, but perhaps that's when you liked him; at his absolute worst.
But nooooo, you just had to personally step into the Express and mingle with all these new heroes to make him suffer. And he couldn’t even say anything, aside from a few passive-aggressive jabs that were definitely low blows, but what else was there to do? Confront you?
...About what? Ena hadn’t helped him because he wasn’t worthy. So what did he do? Swallow his pride and move on. You wouldn’t care for him the same way you cared for others? Fine. He’d swallow his pride and move on.
Sunday is a man above such pettiness, after all. He’s able to move on. Unlike some clingier, weak willed people...
Lord Phainon shamelessly plops himself across your lap, then. You freeze for a moment, still unused to his antics despite all this time of the man being physically and emotionally attached to you; yet, with a smile of utter adoration, you ruffle his hair.
He and Sunday are very similar, aren’t they? Light-colored hair, clothing styles—not to mention, Sunday has seen Lord Phainon’s eyes turn yellow too. Sure, Sunday’s admittedly much scrawnier and quite less smiley, but regardless... Even in your victims, you have a type, it seems.
A while passes in silence.
Lady Castorice eventually leaves upon winning the game by some miracle (or perhaps because you’re genuinely a horrible player), while Stelle gets off the couch to take a nap in her room—the one currently shared with many others due to the Express being so overpacked.
That leaves Sunday to watch you chat with Phainon over coffee.
“I didn’t expect you to be so...” Phainon trails off, another silly smile spreading on his face as he looks you up and down.
You, however, take offense to that, putting your mug down with a pout. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Cute.”
That shuts you up.
Sunday barely holds back an eyeroll. How... corny. It’s like he’s watching children attempt to flirt.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect you to be so clingy,” you say with a scoff—either amused or irritated, he can’t tell. Probably amused. You derive joy from watching others get attached to you and suffer when you stop reciprocating, after all. Why on Penacony would you be irritated?
Lord Phainon merely sighs, though, grinning even wider as he teases you, “I think I gained the right to be a bit clingy when you left us for so long, hm?”
Not a single ounce of elegance or decorum in either of you. Revolting.
(As if Phainon knows the depth of your negligence at all, Sunday finds himself thinking.)
“I told you, I didn’t know!” you groan, like you’re tired of people mentioning how you had a tendency to love them enough to make them want to live again right before letting them fall into the deepest pits of despair imaginable.
(“Oh but you didn’t knowwww~ wah wah!” Well it didn’t seem so when you were talking about how stupid and silly and adorable he seemed at approximately 3 A.M. every night for weeks. So you know how to flatter him but don’t know how it will feel to leave him? Please.)
“Still, have a heart!” your name, then, spills from Phainon’s lips with such ease that Sunday finds himself gripping his book even harder, irritated by the easy bond you two formed in such a short time.
Poor, naive Phainon, Sunday thinks as he forces his eyes back onto the page for the nth time that evening—so quick to trust, even after being betrayed so harshly. That won't end well for that man.
“Phai, come on,” you chuckle, sipping from your forgotten mug, “you know I wouldn’t do that if I knew you were waiting for my return like an abandoned puppy... Come to think of it... if you were so devastated—”
“Pfft—I mean—I wouldn’t go so far as to call that devastation, actu—”
“What about the Teyvatians, I wonder...?”
Oh where does Sunday even begin.
‘Phai,’ you call him, as if you’ve been lifelong friends with the man. And not only that—you go ahead and worry about these Teyvatians of yours rather than the very people around you whom you’re actively neglecting!
Not Sunday himself, of course. It’s not like he wants a shred of whatever you would, or could offer him anymore.
Cruel. Cruel. Cruel.
He clears his throat, finally sick of your little chat.
“Could you two move this to a private room, perhaps? Some of us have more productive ways to spend their time.”
The words are cold, swift, and harsh—enough to make Phainon turn to him with a smile much stiffer than his usual easy grins.
“This is a common lobby, is it not? If anyone’s in the wrong place, that might be you, Sunday.”
Oh? Your affection-starved little pet, barking at Sunday? The newcomer, barking at Sunday? That just won’t do.
He equips his own hospitable, stiff smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—a mask he’s grown quite used to wearing since his youth in Penacony.
“Lord Phainon,” Sunday emphasizes the title, as a sign of respect and more importantly; distance, “you seem to have gotten used to life on the Express exceptionally well, for someone who’s been out of his little bubble for such a short time.”
It’s a low blow, he knows. But, honestly, anything to get you two and your mushy gathering away from him.
(He could just get up and leave, yes, but he’s... oddly reluctant. Much like how he’s been reluctant to look away from you, to leave the room you lounge in. Perhaps it’s a desperate attempt at dominance, but he finds it necessary to be around you—to make sure you can’t swallow the guilt he is sure you have deep down. No, no, you don’t get to just make new friends and live like he’s never been yours in the first place; you will remember him, and what you’ve done to him back when he was already at his lowest.)
(“Sunny, we really really gotta get you that therapist,” he hears Stelle mumble in the back of his mind, but he promptly chooses to ignore it.)
Lord Phainon, however, doesn’t falter, ready to fire back a jab at him, to take this pointless discussion much further than it should go—when you put your mug down with a clink.
“OOOOkayyy...” You stand, “We were just leaving anyway! I’m all out of coffee and all...”
Your awkward laugh fills the air, clearly a pathetic excuse to just get the two of them to shut up.
But, to Sunday’s surprise, your obedient little puppy tugs you back down by the arm and stands himself.
“You don’t need to bother,” Lord Phainon says softly. “I’ll get you a drink. Then we can continue our chat. Here.”
The emphasis on the last word feels so petty that Sunday barely holds back a laugh. What an immature man...
As Phainon leaves, though, Sunday realizes he’s left to sit... With... You.
One-on-one. Alone.
For all the time he’s been around you, this is the first moment he’s been left alone with you. No Stelle. No Phainon. Just... you. And him.
He quickly realizes that this is rather uncomfortable.
Is he supposed to say something? No, no, why should he! He doesn’t need to clear the air with you; he doesn’t care if you’re still fidgeting with your fingers, or if you look particularly intensely into his eyes with a squinted gaze, or if you tilt your head cutely, or—
“...Your book’s upside down, by the way.”
what
“...Excuse me?”
“Your book, Sunday—Mr. Sunday?”
“Just Sunday will do fine.”
“Right. You’ve been holding it upside down. The whole evening.”
He looks down, brows furrowed in disbelief—and you’re... Right. Much to his dismay, he’s been... outsmarted..?
Has he truly been so focused on your activities that he didn’t realize such a grave mistake? How embarrassing... Utterly unbecoming..!
“...Quite audacious of you to imply I could not read upside down,” is, sadly, what leaves his lips as a poor defense.
You squint at his poor lie, clearly biting back a smile, and nod, mercifully choosing to ignore the obvious. “Of course. Sorry. My bad.”
An awkward silence fills the air again, and painfully, Sunday wonders what could possibly be taking your pet so long. Then you could get back to bickering and stop looking at him, stop perceiving him, stop making him hope to find something sweet in your gaze...
“You don’t like me very much, yeah?” you finally ask, words cutting thought the tension like a knife.
Of course not, Sunday wants to say. What is there to like in a backstabber?
“I suppose that’s not... incorrect,” he says mildly as he closes the book in defeat and puts it down. You want a confrontation? He can confront you. He won’t bow down to your pathetic charms like others have. Sunday, as he often needs to remind himself nowadays, is a stronger man than that.
“Is this about me being a very inconsistent player again?” you scoff with an exhausted smile that only irritates him more—because how dare you find it amusing to have hurt so many? How cruel does one need to be to make light of so many broken hearts behind them?
“Not quite,” he lies instead. “It’s not personal. I simply don’t enjoy people who are quick to abandon so-called loved ones, that’s all.”
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
“Oh my God, you’re just salty!” You throw your hands up, clearly shocked by his reasoning—or what you think his reasoning is. Because it isn’t. He’s not just "salty."
He clears his throat quickly, to regain composure, though he feels his wings twitch in irritation for a moment, “That would be a great understatement, My Liege.”
The title—the one Stelle jokingly bestowed upon you—feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable in his mouth, too cold, too sharp, too serious. You, however, just raise your hand and mime a talking motion. Like a child. “Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it. But like... come on, you know I had no clue.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have invested so much into—” me “—some of us. I’m afraid it ends up giving the wrong impression. Even leading them on.”
You raise a brow.
His face burns. Was that... Too obvious, perhaps?
“Sunday—” you stand, a fact that makes him flinch in defense, and walk up to him. “Actually, scratch that—Sunny, look, I’m sorry if you got all depressed because I didn’t know you existed...”
Much to his horror, you plop down next to him, an arm thrown over the couch, almost, almost touching his shoulder—
“...But if it makes you feel better... I’m, also, away from home and family, currently unsure of anything in my future, including whether I have one at all, and I have to relearn how to take my first steps into life. We’re pretty much on the same ground; how about we actually, like, try to support each other?”
He glances at your hand—so close, too close!—then at your eyes... His own wide and horrified as he meets your gentle expression.
“...Not the same at all.” He scoffs, scooting a tiny bit further away in hopes of gaining back his composure, “You have the support and love of all around you. No enemies in the entire cosmos... No reputation dirtied by your past mistakes.”
You roll your eyes.
(You are unnervingly good at irritating him, he realizes.)
“Oh please, there’s a good chance everyone’s as pissed off at me as you are! Really, we both have the Express Crew, and, well—”
Your gaze slowly drifts down to his hand on the couch, a few inches away from where your thighs rest, still uncomfortably close to your person. Slowly, though, you lower your own hand and—
Place it over his.
He feels like he might choke. From the... fear? Disgust? Excitement? Whatever it is bubbling in his stomach is hard to identify, even with his gained expertise at controlling his feelings.
“—Each other,” you finish. “I mean, uh, if you’ll have me.”
Your voice softens by the end, sweet in the same way it used to be back when you...
Ah.
He sees it, then, as he meets your eyes.
The revolting affection that has so many in a chokehold, as sweet and dizzying as Harmony’s call. Was it Xipe who brought you here, he wonders, to punish him for his crimes against the Path?
Regardless, you feel a need to ruin the moment by speaking again: “I mean, I guess I also have Phainon, but like, you guys could get along suuuper well if you stop the catfights. Honestly, his support to me is like Mr. Yang to you, actually!”
(Oh, Ena... Sunday internally flinches and realizes, with dawning exhaustion, you are dumb.)
Sunday snaps his hand—and head—away from you, eyes frantically searching the Express car to land on something that might ground him. When he can't find it though, he resorts to covering his eyes with his trembling wings instead, “...My Liege, no offense, but I believe you greatly misunderstand Lord Phainon’s intentions toward you.”
“Haha. Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
He really shouldn't have to explain. Were you that blind all this time? If you're genuinely this naive, perhaps Sunday's bitterness has been misplaced after all, he fears.
Mercifully, though—or perhaps not—Phainon bursts back into the room with a mug of coffee and a large smile... Which quickly dies down when he sees you two sitting rather closely, much closer than how he left you, Sunday still blushing from the intensity of the conversation, one eye peeking below the small wings...
How must that look to Lord Phainon, Sunday has to wonder.
(He has to admit—he feels a bit smug. How does that feel, Deliverer?)
(Sunday ia aware he found Lord Phainon a bit naive, despite thinking of him quite similiar to himself, but this... Odd bitterness he feels against the man, is... New. He thinks.)
Phainon, after a few seconds of blankly staring at the scene unfolding in front of him, unceremoniously drops the mug, letting it shatter on the floor, and marches toward you two...
SelfAware! Phainon x GN reader, the LEAST bit amount of angst, Phainon is down bad asf...
A/N: I get a bit too hung up on sahsrau logistics but that might be obvious
Phainon moves on with his life as usual.
He deals with the duties that come with bearing the world, spars with Mydei, sometimes sneaks out of Amphoreus to lament that his friends are missing out on the beautiful sights the universe has to offer, gets swept into whatever Stelle has decided to get into that day...
He doesn’t mind the hollow ache beneath his ribs that keeps him awake at night, wondering why everything he believes in and loves keeps leaving him. It's not that it doesn't hurt, of course, he's just learning to live with the wound that gets bigger everyday
Regardless.
He faces an issue.
"We’re stuck."
Stelle looks at him with a worried expression, her telestale clutched close to her chest.
"…What do you mean we’re stuck?"
"I mean…" She walks up to the Space Anchor floating in the corner of the room—the one he truly believed was just some strange decoration his whole life.
But when Stelle lays her hand on it… nothing happens.
He waits a few more seconds, eyes squinted. Still nothing. Huh.
Phainon, in disbelief, walks to her side and puts his own hand on the obsidian-like rock and—oh.
Why can’t he…?
Stelle turns to him, brows furrowed in worry, eyes wide in absolute horror, grabs him tightly by the shoulders and screams: "WE ARE STUCK!"
She shakes him back and forth hard enough that he’s too disoriented to comprehend what’s happening for a moment—until it hits him.
He’s stuck again.
And the thought isn’t too unbearable, not really. Leaving the planet never meant he was free anyway; even if he could leave and hang out with the rest of his universe, he was a prisoner through and through; whether he could step out or not. The thought, now that he's spent so long being used to it, wouldn't be baffling, or even infuriating anymore, normally.
Normally.
First you stopp visiting altogether because some other stupid dragon game took up your time—then, by some force beyond him, you took away your blessings not just from him, but from Stelle? The Trailblazer? Your beloved??? How more cruel could you get, he can't help but wonder.
"Does—" He gently holds Stelle’s wrists, moving her hands off his shoulders so he can think properly. "Does Dan Heng know?"
She shakes her head vigorously, "He’s already worried sick about whatever March is going through with us mostly being away, and now we ACTUALLY can’t go back and visit her. How am I even supposed to…?"
Phainon staggers at her ramblings. Stelle has always been calm and collected, never the one for dramatic reactions—so the sight of her hands in her hair and her face twisted in agony is completely unfamiliar to the Deliverer. A sight surprising enough that he feels grounded enough to calm down the newly brewing storm inside his own brain.
He's not sure if it's working well, though.
He should calm down for her sake.
He tries, he really does. But.
What does this even mean? He's been waiting for you to come back—not to just… leave altogether?! Is that what happened? Did you get that sick of them all that you'd much rather leave them without any support at all?
He can only imagine how horrible Stelle must feel; truly cut off from the Express for once, cut off from the guidance you always blessed her with…
Selfishly though, he feels this is even harsher on him.
A previous iteration of him walking around trying to kill his friends, being stuck in an endless loop, being lines of code interacting with people of flesh and bone (another sentiment Stelle would always awkwardly laugh at, though he supposes this one's quite understandable considering their entire universe is apparently... Well.)—the horrors have changed shape many times, and he’s grown used to them. Not immune, not at all, but familiar. Yet, somehow, life finds more ways to torture him everytime, to almost give him what he needs, only to rip it away as painfully as possible.
If he weren’t so painfully understanding that you had a life of your own, he might have begun to resent you.
(…Does he?)
He places a hand on Stelle’s shoulder, leaning down the way she did when comforting him.
"This—"
He breathes in. After avoiding your name for so long, even referring to you indirectly hurts in a way he can't exactly put into words.
"—This is because of them, right?"
Stelle huffs, shoulders slumping. "Probably? But… I can’t access their accounts or anything. This has never happened before—not since I joined the Express. So I just. I dunnoooo…"
With something close to a whine, she sinks to the floor, back to the navy-colored wall, head in hands like she's truly devastated.
(She probably is. Phainon gets it.)
Phainon feels lost for a moment upon seeing his hero utterly hopeless—so he does what he always does. He follows his Partner and sits beside her on the ground.
"…Do you think something happened to them?" he asks. The question escapes his lips before he can hold it back, a growing restlessness in his heart where warmth used to be upon the thought of you.
Stelle freezes.
He agrees. He hopes not.
The most suffocating part of the problem, Phainon realizes, is that he has very few people to talk to about it. Close to none, really.
Stelle always insisted they never mention the whole "game" ordeal—or even the subject of you—unless the person was to be “pulled.” She made an exception for him because she realized he not only sensed something watching him, but he would inevitably join the group anyway.
(To this day, he's unsure how he sensed your gaze before he should've been able to. As stupid as that sounds now, he feels like he was always meant to find you.)
In your efforts to "max him out" however, Stelle said he was the only one from his planet to be granted a right to be aware of... Everything going on. Something about funds and your poor decision making skills (He must've frowned too hard at the insult aimed at you, that Stelle ended up calling it a "miscalculation" instead).
So now that you left—even thinking the word makes him want to punch a wall or two—it’s just him, Stelle, and Dan Heng in their misery. He has to shut up and endure a lot of things, now that he thinks about it. He's growing to be a better actor than his teacher after all, huh?
Life will move on eventually. With or without your help, Amphoreus will welcome its dawn.
(He would much prefer you to be there to see him reach that goal—but he’ll do it without you if he has to.)
Then Stelle comes to him in the middle of a sparring match, one he asked for just to feel back in his element, Dan Heng’s wrist painfully clutched in her hand. Though the latter seems more worried than in pain, much like Stelle's own freaked out expression.
"Buddy…!" she calls from the street below, with the most painful excuse of a grin he’s ever seen on anyone, let alone this normally stoic, raccoon-like woman. "We have… an issue!"
Phainon exchanges a look with Mydei, then jumps down the roof without a word—he hears his sparring partner call him a "Coward HKS" as he approaches the Trailblazer, probably in an attempt to lighten whatever morbid news the poor world-bearer was about to receive.
Stelle, however, refuses to explain anything, just telling him, “You gotta see this,” and drags both men with impossible strength back to her and Dan Heng’s shared quarters. Frankly, with all that power, Phainon should be asking his Partner her workout routine, if only to make her feel a bit lighter...
But, on one of the beds, he sees someone.
Someone sleeping soundly. Dressed strangely—even stranger than the two Trailblazers.
He doesn’t know why, but they look familiar. Even though he’s never seen their face before or attire.
Stelle turns to him, gets right up in his face—chest to chest—and... Stares.
...
...
"…Partner, what—?"
"COME ON!"
She throws her arms into the air in frustration, running back to the sleeping figure, and gesturing down to them as if that makes anything clearer, "Of all people, I thought YOU would—!"
Dan Heng sighs, hand to forehead. "Stelle, there’s no way we can confirm that."
"It’s them!" she insists.
Phainon feels like he has been punched.
Them?
"What?" The word escapes before any thought could, and suddenly he’s stepping closer to the sleeping stranger.
This... Absolutely average person is the one he’s all but worshipped for months.
Those hands that comforted him, those lips ranted to him for hours on hours, those eyes—
He wants to see your eyes.
He can't even tell why. To confirm it’s you? To feel that affection again? Or, a part of him whispers, to confirm that you truly don’t care for him anymore?
Wait, no, he’s not even sure if that’s really you yet! He’s being stupid.
But the way Stelle looks at them with such concentration and adoration… Who else could it be but you?
Of course it's her that feels some connection to you. Of course it's her that gets you. Your beloved, your closest—no wonder. He shouldn't feel petty. But...
Dan Heng speaks from across the room, arms crossed. "How would that even work? You said it yourself—we’re lines of code to them."
A second passes in utter silence.
"I never said I had all the details!” Stelle groans. “But I just know it. Not to mention, who else would take a nap in the wreckage of our car?"
"And if it’s just some random.. Odd person?"
"Then we would let them go—but they’re NOT!"
"Stelle—you’re desperate."
"But I’m RIGHT!"
"…Why don’t we wake them up?" Phainon offers.
Both Trailblazers snap their heads toward him.
Neither disagrees. But neither exactly agrees either.
"Well, if this IS the one controlling our lives, that’s risky," Dan Heng ponders out loud. "We don’t know what they’re capable of."
Stelle and Phainon look down at your sleeping form—currently drooling on the pillow.
Phainon fights down a stupid, giddy giggle at the ridiculous sight. So much for an otherworldly eldritch being...
"They wouldn’t hurt us," Stelle says with certainty.
Yes, Phainon can't help but thinkbitterly. Of course they’d never hurt YOU. Sure, you don't have a reason to hurt any of them, really, but... What if you just had a dislike for him? What then? Honestly, even if you didn't hurt him yourself, he might just pick up Dawnmaker and punish his own self if you have some sort of vendetta against him for whatever reason.
Still.
"I’m with her," he says aloud, trying not to sound too eager.
Dan Heng’s shoulders slump—two against one—and he sighs in something akin to defeat.
"How do we even explain this to Lady Aglaea? Assuming this is actually them."
Phainon pauses at that. Right. She doesn’t know.
"We..." Don't have to explain it, he wants to say, but doing things behind Aglaea's back is a concept so strange to him that the words don't leave his mouth. Even the thought leaves such a horrible aftertaste.
Stelle, however, has nothing but determination in her gaze as she stands straight and turns to face Dan Heng, "...We'll explain it to her, it's fine! She already knows about the universe outside, how worse is it if the universe outside is ALSO just like Amphoreus and if we're all never truly free anyway so who cares?"
"That’s… not quite how I’d phrase it," Dan Heng begins—and then his eyes widen.
"Where did they go?"
Phainon turns back—your body is gone.
Gone. Again. Left.
Before the horror has time to settle, though, Stelle collapses to her knees.
"WHY DO THEY KEEP LEAVING ME?!"
(Tell me about it, is Phainon's first inctinct, but he keeps it in.)
The most stable and frankly sane of the three looks around for a moment, green eyes scanning the room, since you clearly can't have left, right?
While his two companions remain stuck in the crushing agony of being left behind again, Dan Heng rushes to the balcony, looks down, and...
You're... Hanging off the railing...? As if you're about to let go and jump? As if that's not the sixth floor?
"…Okay this was—uh—a miscalculation!" you squeak.
Phainon is next to Dan Heng in seconds upon the familiar voice he hasn't heard in so long, his panic overriding the agony or the shock; he leans down and grabs your arms, pulling you back over the railing until you slump to the floor, panting with a face that made it very clear that you were a hair away from meeting the Hand of Thanatos.
"Okay—" a wheeze, "—that wasn’t—like—the best idea…"
You look up at the three heroes—something similiar to recognition flashes in your eyes before turning into... Fear.
It stings, he has to admit.
"…Listen, I— I don’t know where I am, what sort of freaky cult this is, or why you guys are dressed like characters, but—" you fold your hands together and bow your head, "Just let me go! Take everything if you have to! I have games to play and movies to watch and I REALLY really really really don’t want to die! I know I keep saying U do but I'm a LIAR please just let me leaveeee!"
Three pairs of eyes stare at you.
Silence.
Phainon, unsure of what else to do, bursts into laughter.
Titans, this is ridiculous.
He slowly sinks down, the laughter just refusing to die off, and meets your eye level—while you remain frozen, begging for your life on the floor, after nearly falling off a balcony.
The first time he gets to properly look into the eyes of the one he adores so much, is after they tried to jump off a balcony, and begged him to let them go because they thought he was a kidnapper.
Stelle nods proudly.
"…That’s the one. I’m sure now."
Dan Heng stares at her, incredulous.
"What do you mean NOW?"
The four of you sit around the small table in the room as Stelle explains what's going on, as much as she understands it. Not the part of your arrival, of course; just that she knows you, so do many others, and she just happened to come across your unconscious body in the wreckage of the Express car they used to land here. Then, she says, she felt that it was you. Not that it makes much logical sense, of course.
Phainon doesn't question it much. Frankly, he doesn't care a lot about the "how" of it all right now.
"So… you guys are… like… actual, real people?" you ask, squinting.
Stelle and Phainon nod enthusiastically. Dan Heng hums in confirmation.
You stare blankly.
"…Oh God, I’m dead, aren’t I?"
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Phainon mumbles—into your lap.
Somewhere between the panic and euphoria of meeting you, getting to see you, and just existing in the same plane as you; normal boundaries slipped his mind. It seemed like a normal reaction a few seconds ago. Now though...
Right. He's sat on the floor, clinging to your waist, face buried into your thighs.
Still, he nuzzles further into your legs, admittedly desperate for some sort of affirmation that you don't hate him... Even if he does feel a bit petty.
You stare down at him. "Sir—"
"Phainon."
(Sure, abandon him, then go ahead and forget his name. Whatever. He's fine. He's fine.)
"Right. Can you—uh—move? A bit?"
Every instinct begs him to hold onto you.
But the rational part of his brain, the one aware of the importance of personal space, forces him to scoot away.
"…Sorry."
You raise a hand as if to say something, but pause the moment he looks up. Whether that hesitation is guilt, annoyance, confusion, or a mix of all that and more—he really can’t tell.
He feels a bit satisfied, euphoric even, with how you're finally willing to look at him, to see him. On the other hand, he feels a bit offended by the confusion and fear that settles into your eyes whenever you look at him. You leave him, you cause him to feel like such a mess, and YOU feel afraid of him?
Does that mean you just enjoy hurting him?
Dan Heng mercifully interrupts.
"The point is: we don’t know how to get you home. Or how you got here in the first place."
Something in you goes still.
"…Right. Cool. So. Just to recap. My games have actual people in them. You hear me while I’m playing. And… not everyone knows?"
"M-hm." Stelle answers, oddly cheerful for someone who just had to tell someone else that they switched universes and seemingly had no way of going back to their own reality. Or even just leave the doomed planet they currently resided in!
"…Okay," you say. Staring at the table.
Phainon, to save some face and because it's awkward to speak from you down there, gets up and pulls the chair next to you, "You don’t need to worry," he says with a reassuring smile. "We’ll handle everything. Okhema is a beautiful place—you’ll love it here! We just need to explain to the Heirs and they’ll welcome you with open arms as well, I can guarantee you!"
"God, I hope that includes Castorice," you mutter with a grim smile.
"I mean—not literally open—"
"I know, sir— I mean, Phainon. Lord Phainon. Whatever. That was a joke."
You finally turn to him with a raised brow and an amused smile, finding his intentions... Endearing.
There he sees it, finally. Some crumbs of that overwhelming affection you always held for him.
He has to restrain himself from scooping you up into a hug. Actually, should he? You've deserved it, right? This has to be quite overwhelming. Would you like a hug?
He nearly folds. Nearly grabs you. Nearly presses his forehead against yours.
He mentally slaps himself before he violates your personal space again.
"Well! Since that’s settled for now!" Stelle grins, (even though nothing's really settled right now) stands, and circles around the table—
—and tackles you into a hug.
Phainon hears Dan Heng sigh—and silently agrees. If he knows not to just grab you, why doesn’t Stelle—
Then, to his horror and envy, you wrap your arms around Stelle and laugh breathlessly.
Phainon doesn’t know whether to feel jealous, bitter, or both.
"…We were worried sick, by the way." Stelle mumbles into your hair. "When you left."
You hesitate.
"…Left as in recently? Or, like… in general?"
Stelle groans at your acknowledgement of your general negligence, though it turns into a chuckle, “...I'm just glad we got you. Instead of them. However it might have happened!"
"Can we not mention the… other guys?" Phainon asks with a pout and a voice that sounds dangerously close to a whine.
It must've been pathetic enough that you turn your head to him, and for a second, he sees something akin to recognition in your eyes as Stelle leaves your arms.
"Wait—so, you guys are actually affected when I don’t log in?"
"Well, no?" Stelle tilts her head, hands on waist, "I mean we can't teleport right now, but I think that's only because you're... Like... Actually here. But we-"
"I miss you," Phainon blurts out.
You stare at him.
"Huh?"
"I mean-" he stammers, unsure of how to make that sound less desperate, "We... Do know, when you aren't around, so... It's... Nicer, when you're here."
He wants to dig a hole and crawl in. Just as much as he just wants to sink down to his knees and bury his face into your lap again.
"Oh. I—sorry?" you offer awkwardly. "I didn’t know. I was just playing whatever I felt like. It’s… not you guys. It’s me. I swear."
For someone he adored like a devotee, you are so terribly human.
It’s... Funny. Endearing. Almost healing, I'm a way.
He always put you on the same level as something like the Aeons from his Partner's tales, some sort of eldritch being he couldn't ever hope to see face to face, yet had the privelege of being loved by.
Now, though, seeing you sit there, Stelle squishing your cheeks while you look half-horrified, half-happy, he can't feel quite as bitter against you.
Sure, the urge to hold your shoulders and beg you until you promised to never ever look at that cute blonde person or that bard, or to just put you in his house and never let you out is, admittedly, still there. But...
"Stelle stop playing with their face."
"Look at them though! Can you believe you were scared of this?"
"I wasn't scared, I was cautious-"
"Ugh, I wish we could leave. Can you imagine Sunny's face?"
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