stariel

18. Filipino. non-binary. phainon/kevin kaslana simp 。⁠✧ you may also call me darling!

[harmonysanreads]

These Cop!Phainon arts are making me insane. So, have some thoughts.

Cop!Phainon x Rookie-Criminal!Reader. There's news of a frightening menace terrorizing the city. On the lips of the reporters, the common people and passed between drinks among other criminals — not because of your undeniable astuteness, but because you are just so terrible at every ‘crime’ you seek to commit, that it baffles everyone.

The newly assigned (and, come closer — super hot) police officer at Okhema district though? He thinks you're cutest and funniest thing ever. Which is why, he lets you off without any major repercussions every time you get caught. And, he might have a thing for making sure it is only him who catches you each time.

Cop!Phainon x Journalist!Reader. Ahh, the never ending hustle of chasing after every little situation around the city and tactfully avoiding the inferiority complex of seniors, all through the struggle of making sure your noble pursuit of empowering the people's voices doesn't get obliterated in the process. You are a breath of fresh air in the field, as many have admitted.

But why is it that your so admired professionalism and ambition, see cracks the moment this very specific police officer enters the foray? Passive aggressive back and forth powered by heated glares and trembling fingers — no one expects that from the sunlight incarnate officer either! What's the deal?

Some say it's because you've been too pushy with a certain case with the man, others say it's just an act. Only you and him know of the absolute mess of a break-up that'd preceded this seeming hatred.

Cop!Phainon x Detective!Reader. They say, it takes a police officer months to solve a case, half of that time for a detective and, when they're paired together? Either they create a breakthrough or fall into the rabbit hole of no return — most importantly, together.

In other words, when ‘Partner’ is not just a term of address between you and Phainon, but a statement and the opening stroke to a thrilling journey of uncovering the deepest darkest secrets of Okhema city.

Cop!Phainon x Ghost!Reader. House #666 at downtown Marmoreal road is said to be the birthplace of all the misfortunes of Okhema city. Anyone who's stared at it in the eye while crossing the street has mysteriously gone missing, or has had some calamity falling upon them. That doesn't stop anyone from poking the sleeping devil.. or whatever lives there, and never returning ever again.

As Phainon's first ever mission, he's dispatched to this apparently haunted house to investigate a series of missing cases. He'd expected it all to be the staged ploy of some gang, or ironically, for the rumored ghost of house #666 to be true.

What he could've never seen coming in his twenty something years of living, is for that ghost to fall head over heels with him, and refusing to leave him alone.

[milkhalo]

I'll Shoot You To The Moon — Flame Reaver x Reader SMAU

⤷ 01 | Beef of 2 shut-ins

prev.  ᨳଓ  masterlist.  ᨳଓ  next. 

SYNOPSIS: You're a famous faceless webcomic artist online. After an argument in some unnamed comment section when you were younger, you gained yourself a hater who loves to annoy you over every little thing you do. Neither of you seem to be able to agree on anything, and every day you realize that he does this intentionally to be a shithead. You didn't know that this mysterious hater was closer than you might think.

A/N: And so it begins!!

࣪ ִֶָ☾. Taglist: @junoms @lunavixia @memreniee @aloudice @yany4n1 @satvvrnnn @jpsg-6 @sunphais @t0r4s @axkushvii @milklise @ghostsinthepumpkinpatch @cl0udii-m00n @kangyeonie @r4yyyyy @violetisreadinghush @kik1k0 @khoiyyu @sinbehavior @overall-mamori @mwzuuu @sunsethw4 @philesora @socyx @childesdog69 @rioceanid  @aries-afk @starwardjourneying @kuromiiiiifrv @firefliesoul-owo @astro-oo0 @blueberrybxba @phainonconsumer @skylermiller1  @misipp   ࣪ ִֶָ☽.

[sierra-r-a-e]

it’s hard to describe phainon in words. he’s cute, beautiful, handsome, and pretty all at once. but if you had to choose one word to describe him as a whole, it would be…ethereal.

he’s just so majestic, shining so brightly that it’s almost blinding. it isn’t very off to compare him to the sun itself, with his beaming rays of light that warm everyone around him.

his eyes are reminiscent of blue aventurine, blue calcite, and angelite all together. they shine brightly in the sunlight as he flashes you one of his beaming smiles, squinting slightly and showing off the adorable dimple on his left cheek.

both his inner and outer beauty are unmatched. his soul is tainted not by greed, or by selfishness, but only the pure desire to keep everyone he loves safe and happy.

his warmth could envelop even the coldest of hearts, one such being his closest friend, mydeimos.

it’s no wonder people can’t help but stop to admire him. after all, who wouldn’t stop to admire the beauty of the sun incarnate.

[simple-dorito]

Phainon is the type to say ‘you’ve got something on your face, close your eyes’ just to get a sneaky kiss.

[anisespice]

" super star " — manjiro sano

“Boss, I have those reports you requested.” 

MIKEY barely lifted his gaze to acknowledge the subordinate, lazily chewing on his snack as he gestured to the desk. “Leave it there.” 

“Yessir.” The subordinate bowed, approaching urgently only to stop shortly after upon getting a closer look at the platinum blonde, seeing something rather unusual. “Oh. Uh, Boss? You got a little…something.”

His low gaze cut to him like an unsheathed blade. “Er…N-Nevermind.” 

Mikey stared up until he stiffly marched out without another word. His eyebrow raised up a tick. Weird. Brushing it off, he merely refocused on the task at hand. The important one. The one that mattered most. 

“Papa, blue one,” his daughter held up her hand, expectant. Mikey didn’t miss a beat, handing over the crayon. He watched as she scribbled all over the top half of the page, “Sky, Papa.” 

“Mm. Clouds, too?” 

“Mm!” She nodded, making sure to leave gaps to represent the fluffy mounds. Her tongue poked out in concentration, stopping and holding it up to the light to assess her work, then setting it back down to resume scribbling. Mikey felt the corner of his mouth lift. 

It drops instantly at the sound of the door opening. “Boss.” 

“Someone better be dead or dying.” Mikey coldly muttered, reaching over to gently nudge the crayon from the little one’s mouth, followed by a soft, “Don’t eat that.” He handed her the rest of the snack he’d been munching on before looking over to his approaching advisors. 

Kakucho paused. As did Ran, who fought back a snort. 

Mikey looked between them. “What.” 

The former cleared his throat, while the latter struggled to hold it together. “Have you seen yourself recently?” 

“What kind of question is that?” 

“I mean…” His eyes flit over to the child happily coloring, then back at him. “She’s certainly tapped into her creative side as of late. Drawing on the walls, handprints all on the windows, and…” Kakucho vaguely gestured. Mikey’s brow twitched, irritation simmering. 

“Spit it out.” 

“The world is her canvas, s’all I’m saying."

"Including your face.” Kakucho side-eyed the lavender-haired man for the comment before shaking his head. 

The platinum blonde blinked. His face? He slowly reached up to feel around the skin, and sure enough. Stickers. Several, in fact. Two on the cheek, one near his eyebrow, forehead and his chin. He peeled one off and looked at it, the word ‘Super!’ staring back at him. “Oh.” 

Looking at his daughter, she continued to color without much care for the conversation happening. Much like her father, her selective hearing was strong. Mikey sighed, “Little menace. Must’ve got me when I was–I mean we were napping. Oi.” 

She looked up at him upon his call, head tilted curiously. All three executives felt a pang in their chest at the devastatingly adorable sight. Mikey steeled himself, attempting to look stern as he presented the sticker. “Wanna explain?” 

Her little brows scrunched in thought. After a brief moment, she beamed as she pointed at him, “Papa, super! Gave stickers, like Mama!” 

Confusion colored his expression until it dawned on him. You’re a school teacher, or were one. Currently you are on maternity leave, cooking her up a baby brother. However, your teaching persona would come out at home, disciplining or rewarding with the same methods, such as stickers. You had a whole tub of school supplies, overflowing with those in particular. And evidently, the little troublemaker had been snooping around in it. 

Unable to hold the stern facade any longer, Mikey offered a small, but rare–Well, rare for his colleague–smile. With a huff, he leaned forward to kiss her forehead before placing the star sticker to the spot, earning him a gleeful giggle in return; the best reward. Ruffling her hair, Mikey spoke with warmth, “I think you’re super.” 

“No, you are!” 

“No, you are,” he parroted, poking her nose. It scrunched up immediately, sending another dreadful pang in his chest. Good thing you were already pregnant with baby number two, otherwise there would be nothing stopping him from ditching work to get on that ASAP. 

The third-in-command cleared his throat. Mikey's smile drops for the second time. “Apologies. We have our meeting with the shareholders in twenty. Sanzu is ready with the car, and the Haitanis agreed to watch over the young miss while we’re gone.” 

“Wouldn’t say we agreed, but beats sitting in on that bullshit.” 

“Watch your mouth.” Mikey warned. “She repeats any of that at home, I’m telling [____] it’s your fault.” 

“Snitching on me to the teacher? That’s low, Boss.” 

“Please don’t take advantage of his good mood.” Kakucho exasperated, rubbing his temple. Ran conceded with a shrug, lowering to level with the little one.

“Alright, mini Boss, you're comin' with uncle Ran. Let’s go make uncle Rin your next masterpiece.”

Her eyes light up brighter than before, if possible. “Mm!” Dropping her crayons, she pushed herself off the ground to toddle over to the eldest Haitani. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks. Turning to Mikey, she rushes to him and falls into his arms for a hug. “Buh-bye, Papa! Wub you!” 

Mikey startled a little but soon relaxed, still getting used to the onslaught of affection she was so full of; seeing so much of you in her everyday. He patted her head, “Me too, sweetheart.” 

“Stickers stay on?” She peered at him, hopeful. 

He stiffened. Opening his mouth to protest, the words turn to ash in his mouth at her pleading gaze. With a sigh, he gave a resigned nod. “I’ll keep them on all day. Promise.” 

Ran and Kakucho exchanged a glance. 

—

Murderers, traffickers, scum of the earth alike couldn’t believe their eyes. 

Colorful stickers, some big and some small, littered across the lethal leader’s face like the inside of a child’s school book. And he sat there. Unperturbed. Unbothered. Unashamed. 

Because who’s gonna check a crashout who loves his kid? 

© 2026-2027 anisespice ッ all rights reserved. likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

[gsfloater]

The Project from Hell.

Manjiro Sano x Reader

-> When you get stuck with the infamous no-show Manjiro Sano as your partner for a major class project, you hunt him down fully prepared to drag a delinquent legend back to school by the collar if you have to.

Word Count: 5,554

------

It starts with a list.

A stupid, crumpled, printed list your teacher taped to the chalkboard while the class groaned like they had just been sentenced. You lean forward in your seat, dragging your finger down the columns of names until you find your own.

And then you blink.

And then you blink again.

“…Who the hell is Manjiro Sano?”

The classroom goes dead silent.

Three heads snap toward you like you just said a slur. Someone drops a pencil. Someone else actually gasps. It's dramatic enough that you lean back in your chair, wondering if you’ve somehow missed a world-ending announcement.

A girl near you leans in, whispering like she’s imparting ancient knowledge.

“You… don’t know who that is?”

“No?” you answer slowly. “Should I?”

Her eyes widen with the kind of fear usually reserved for natural disasters.

“That’s Mikey,” she hisses.

You stare blankly.

“That doesn’t help,” you say.

Her jaw unhinges. “THE Mikey.”

You stare harder.

She seems physically pained. “Tokyo Manji Gang? Toman? The delinquent gang that runs this entire side of the city? He’s their leader?”

Ah.

So your partner is a truant crime boss.

Fantastic.

You raise your hand.

Your teacher doesn’t even look up from his attendance sheet. “No, you may not switch partners.”

“I didn’t even ask yet.”

“But you were going to.”

You lower your hand and sigh. “Okay, but my partner isn’t here.”

“He’s never here.”

“…That should be the first red flag right there.”

Your teacher pinches the bridge of his nose. You feel bad for him. He looks like he hasn’t slept since the Meiji period.

“Just… find him,” he says weakly. “Work it out.”

You’re about to argue about fairness, about not being partnered with a literal urban legend but the bell rings, and twenty students flood the hallways, leaving you with your backpack, your half-finished worksheet, and a headache.

You stare at the name again.

Manjiro Sano.

Whoever he is, he’s not dragging your grade down.

You’ll hunt him down yourself if you have to.

-----

Finding Mikey turns out to be harder than you thought.

You ask one classmate where he usually is. They faint.

You ask another. They run away.

Eventually you corner a third, who trembles through an explanation that you should “try the parking lot” like that means anything.

The parking lot is empty.

Then someone else suggests the shrine.

The shrine is empty.

Finally, by pure accident, you overhear some first-years whispering about “Mikey-san and Draken-san” being at “their spot,” which apparently everyone knows about except you.

And that’s how you end up here.

In front of them.

Toman.

A whole cluster of them, lounging around abandoned bikes, laughing, shoving each other, wearing matching jackets, and collectively radiating the kind of chaotic energy that warns normal people to turn around and walk away.

You are not normal people.

You march straight up to the nearest one.

He stops mid-sentence, staring at you like you’ve just approached a wolf pack holding a report card.

“Um. Hi.” You adjust your backpack straps. “I’m looking for Manjiro Sano.”

Five heads swivel toward you.

A tall boy with blonde hair, definitely Draken, gives you a long, assessing stare like he’s trying to figure out if you’re suicidal or just clueless.

“Why,” he finally asks, “are you looking for Mikey?”

“I’m his project partner.”

Silence.

The type that has weight.

The type that says whole gangs have been wiped out over less shocking statements.

Draken clears his throat. “Come again?”

You hold up your assignment paper like a badge. “Group project. He’s my partner. He hasn’t been in class since the beginning of time, so I need him to do his part.”

Someone chokes.

Someone else drops their cigarette.

Draken rubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re serious.”

“Yes?” You glance around. “Should… I not be?”

Before Draken can answer, a voice floats in from behind him, light, airy, singsong.

“Drakeeeeen, did you eat the last dorayaki? I told you I was saving that-”

A small figure hops off a bike and walks closer, pout already forming.

Blonde hair. Big dark eyes. A lollipop in his mouth.

Mikey.

He looks nothing like a terrifying gang leader should look. He looks like a boy who makes trouble because he thinks it’s fun. He looks like he hasn’t attended a single class in months.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He tilts his head.

“…Who’re you?”

“I,” you say, stepping closer, “am the person whose grade you’re ruining.”

The entire gang audibly inhales.

Mikey blinks at you once, twice, like a cat processing a new toy. Then, slowly, a smile curls onto his lips.

“Oh,” he says. “Class stuff.”

“Yes. Class stuff.” You cross your arms. “You are my partner. You are failing. Actually, both of us are failing, because of you. So get up. We have work to do.”

The look on their faces is priceless.

A mix of horror, awe, and mild respect.

And Mikey? He just grins wider, leaning in with a glint in his eye like he’s found something interesting for once.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking you up and down. “You’re kinda bossy.”

“Only when my GPA is endangered.”

Draken mutters, “This is insane,” under his breath.

Mikey pops the lollipop out of his mouth, points at you with it, and says:

“Alright. I’ll help you.”

Everyone stares at him.

“You will?” you ask, surprised.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “You came all the way here. That’s kinda cool.”

You blink, taken aback.

Then…

“Great,” you say briskly. “Let’s go.”

Mikey hops up immediately, following you like a duckling.

Toman watches their leader get dragged away by a random classmate like he just imprinted on you.

Draken calls after him, “DON’T SKIP, MIKEY!”

Mikey calls back, “I’M NOT SKIPPING, I’M STUDYING!”

Then he turns to you with an eager expression that should not exist on the face of a known menace.

“So,” he says brightly, “what’s the project about?”

You exhale.

This is going to be hell.

------

You drag Mikey back to school like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

It isn’t.

People stop and stare as the two of you walk through the gate: you with your backpack, him with his hands tucked into his pockets and a lollipop in his mouth, looking like he’s on a casual stroll instead of being forcibly escorted to class.

You can practically hear the rumors writing themselves.

“Is that… Mikey?”

“Why is he here?”

“Who’s that with him?”

“Is she… his girlfriend?”

You ignore it all, focusing on your actual mission: the project.

“Take off your shoes,” you say, pointing at the entrance cubbies.

Mikey squints at them like they’re an unfamiliar species. “Oh, right. School rules.”

“You remember those?”

“Mm,” he hums. “Draken used to yell at me about it.”

You can imagine it. You don’t have to try very hard.

Once you’ve swapped shoes, you march him down the hallway. He keeps drifting, getting distracted by posters and windows and literally nothing. Twice you have to grab the back of his uniform jacket to stop him from wandering off.

“This is boring,” he says eventually.

“You haven’t even started yet.”

“I can feel it.”

You roll your eyes and shove the classroom door open.

Every head snaps toward you.

Then the room collectively stops breathing.

Someone whispers, “No way.”

Someone else reaches for their phone like they want to document this rare, possibly mythical occurrence.

Mikey looks around, visibly unimpressed. “Smells like chalk.”

“That’s because it’s a classroom,” you mutter. You point at his assigned seat, empty since the dawn of time. “Sit there.”

He plops into the desk, spinning slightly on the chair, legs stretching out. He slumps back like he’s at home, eyes flicking over the whiteboard.

Your teacher looks like he might faint.

“M-Mikey,” he stammers from the front, clutching his attendance sheet.

Mikey lifts a hand lazily. “Yo.”

The class is buzzing now, whispers bouncing off the walls.

“He actually came.”

“Who brought him?”

“That girl is insane.”

You ignore the buzzing, tug your notebook out, and slide into the seat next to his. The moment you do, the whispers change tone. More pointed. More curious.

You pretend not to hear any of it.

“Okay,” you say, flipping to a blank page. “The project is on post-war economic reforms. We need to pick a specific policy, research its effects, and do a presentation.”

Mikey stares at you with the most offended expression you’ve ever seen. “Post… what now?”

“Post-war economic reforms.”

“Why can’t we do something cool? Like… famous fights in history.”

“Because that’s not the assignment.”

He slumps further, cheek squishing against the desk. “School sucks.”

“You wouldn’t know,” you mutter. “You’re never here.”

He grins sideways at you. “But I’m here now. For you.”

Your heartbeat does a stupid little jump.

You squash it immediately.

“For the project,” you correct him sharply.

“Mm,” he hums, smile not budging. “Sure.”

-----

The after-school library is painfully quiet.

Mikey is not.

He drums his fingers on the table. Taps his foot. Tilts back in his chair. Tilts too far, almost falls, then catches himself with a laugh that makes three people look over and shush him.

You slap your hand down on the stack of textbooks between you.

“Focus.”

“Can’t.”

“Try.”

“Don’t wanna.”

You inhale through your nose and exhale through your teeth. “Okay. New approach.”

He perks up slightly. “Does it involve food?”

You blink.

Pause.

Absolutely recalibrate your whole plan.

“…It can.”

His eyes brighten instantly. “I like this approach.”

You dig into your bag and pull out the small paper bag you brought, because some annoyingly soft part of you anticipated this. You pull out a neatly wrapped dorayaki and set it on the table.

Mikey goes very still.

“Is that-”

“Yes,” you say. “And you can have it if you answer five questions correctly.”

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The air between you feels loaded, like some unspoken challenge has been issued.

Finally, Mikey leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes shining with determination you haven’t seen once in class.

“Alright, partner,” he says. “Teach me.”

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Just a little.

“Okay,” you say, pointing at a paragraph. “What was one of the goals of the post-war economic reforms?”

Mikey squints at the page, lips moving as he reads. You watch his eyes track the lines, a little slower than you expected, but steady.

“…To reduce the power of large… conglomerates,” he reads carefully, then glances up. “So rich guys couldn’t control everything?”

“Exactly,” you say, pleased. “That’s one.”

His gaze flicks to the dorayaki. “Four more.”

You work through questions. You simplify things where you can, connect it to stuff he’d care about.

“So basically,” you say, tapping the page, “they broke up economic power so one group couldn’t dominate everything.”

“Like how Toman doesn’t let other gangs run our turf,” he says without missing a beat.

You pause.

“…Sure,” you say slowly. “Kind of.”

His whole face lights up. “I get it now.”

You stare at him.

It hits you that he isn’t stupid. Not even a little. He’s just... unbothered. Uninterested. Floating through life on his own orbit.

But when something hooks him, when something connects, he’s sharp.

You’re weirdly gratified you were the one to make that connection.

Five questions later, he’s chewing happily on his dorayaki, crumbs dotting his lips. You’re surrounded by open books and scattered notes, and somehow, progress has been made.

“Not bad,” you admit, scribbling down your half of the outline. “You might actually pass.”

He leans back, watching you as he chews. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“You always work this hard?”

You shrug. “Someone has to.”

“That why you came to find me?”

“Someone had to.”

He hums thoughtfully, sucking some filling off his thumb. “You’re kinda scary.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“In a good way,” he clarifies immediately. “Like Draken. Just smaller. And cuter.”

Your pen stutters.

You refuse to dignify that with a response.

------

Word spreads fast.

By the second study session, Toman is aware.

You know this because when you show up at Draken’s bike shop, at Mikey’s invitation, no less, there’s a row of delinquents pretending very badly not to watch.

“You’re back,” Draken says when you step in, wiping grease off his hands. His gaze darts to the stack of notebooks you’re carrying. “You really got him doing schoolwork?”

“Trying,” you say. “He invited me.”

Draken snorts. “That’s a first.”

Mikey is perched on an overturned crate, swinging his legs, half-empty bag of snacks beside him. He brightens the second he spots you.

“Oi, partner!”

The word makes something flutter in your chest. You press it down and drop your bag at his feet.

“Alright,” you say. “Today we’re working on our presentation structure.”

He frowns. “Didn’t we already study?”

“Knowing things is step one,” you say. “Explaining them without sounding like an idiot is step two.”

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically.

You sit beside him on the crate, knees bumping. It’s a tight squeeze, but you don’t move away. Neither does he.

“Okay,” you say, opening the notebook and angling it between you. “Look. We divide it like this-”

As you talk, filling out a rough outline, you can feel eyes on you.

You glance up.

Half of Toman is leaning around doorways, peeking from behind shelves, very obviously eavesdropping.

You stare.

They freeze.

Mitsuya raises a hand weakly. “Don’t mind us.”

“This is creepy,” you say flatly.

“Don’t worry about them,” Mikey says, reaching over your arm to steal a pen just because it’s yours. “They’re just curious.”

“About what?” you demand.

He shrugs, leaning so close his shoulder presses into yours. “You.”

Your face heats.

You try to hide it by pointing aggressively at the notebook. “Focus, Sano.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says cheerfully.

The others exchange looks.

You hear someone whisper, “She just told Mikey to focus and he listened.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Are we watching our boss get housebroken?”

You snap your head up. “I can hear you.”

They vanish.

Mikey bursts out laughing, head tipping back, eyes crinkling. The sight does something dumb to your chest.

You don’t join the gang. You don’t start hanging around all the time. But you become… a presence. An exception.

And Toman, bizarrely, gets used to it.

------

A week later, you’re back in class, project presentation looming.

You’re at your desk, flipping through index cards, when one of your classmates, Tanaka, you think his name is, eternally smug, sidles up to you.

“Hey,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “How’s it going with Sano?”

You don’t look up. “Fine.”

“He even shows up for you,” Tanaka says with a laugh. “That’s impressive.”

There’s something in his tone you don’t like.

You hum noncommittally.

“He’s not actually doing anything, though, right?” Tanaka continues. “I mean, you’re obviously carrying the whole thing. He’s just… there.”

You pause.

Your pen freezes mid-word.

Slowly, you look up.

“What?”

Tanaka shrugs, careless. “It’s Mikey. He doesn’t do schoolwork. Honestly, sensei should’ve just given you a new partner.”

Anger sparks, hot and automatic.

You think of Mikey squinting at paragraphs in the library. Mikey connecting economic reform to gang turf like it’s the most natural comparison in the world. Mikey actually trying because you asked him to.

You narrow your eyes. “He’s doing his part. We both are.”

Tanaka snorts. “Sure. Look, it’s not a big deal. Some people just aren’t cut out for this stuff. Delinquents like that? They’re just dead weight in class.”

You’re halfway to standing when a shadow falls over your desk.

“Say that again.”

Mikey’s voice is quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance up.

He’s standing behind Tanaka, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded but sharp. The energy around him has shifted, still, but dangerous, like the air before a storm.

Tanaka stiffens. “M-Mikey-”

“I said,” Mikey repeats calmly, “say that again. About me being dead weight.”

Tanaka swallows. “I-I just meant-”

“And about my partner,” Mikey adds, tilting his head, smile not reaching his eyes. “Say that part again.”

The room has gone silent. Everyone is watching now.

You stand quickly, stepping between them before this becomes a disciplinary hearing… or a funeral.

“Mikey,” you say, lightly pushing at his chest. “It’s fine.”

He looks at you, expression shifting, the hard edge softening immediately.

“Is it?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Because we’re going to get a better score than him anyway. Right?”

You hold his gaze, willing him to drop it.

There’s a beat of tense silence.

Then Mikey smiles again, genuinely this time. “Right.”

He looks over your head at Tanaka, expression mild but eyes still icy.

“You heard her,” he says. “We’re gonna beat you. So maybe focus on your own project and stop talking shit about mine.”

Tanaka bobbles his head in a frantic nod and retreats like his life depends on it.

You exhale slowly.

Mikey watches Tanaka go, then looks back at you. “You okay?”

You blink. “I should be asking you that.”

He snorts. “That guy’s annoying, but I don’t care what he says about me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then why did you get mad?”

At you, the smile turns softer. “He doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”

Something in your chest flips over.

You look away fast, shoving your notebook into your bag with more force than necessary. “Whatever. Just… don’t start a fight over me.”

He hums thoughtfully. “What if I finish a fight over you?”

“Mikey.”

“I’m kidding,” he says, laughing. Then, quieter, “Kind of.”

You should be exasperated.

You are.

You’re also weirdly, stupidly touched.

------

You’re at Draken’s shop again.

It’s late, the sky outside fading into navy, streetlights flickering on one by one. The shop smells like oil and metal and something faintly sweet from the bakery down the road.

The others have cleared out already, leaving you, Mikey, and Draken.

You’re hunched over the workbench, index cards spread out, scribbling last-minute notes. Mikey is perched on a stool, swinging his legs, reciting his part of the presentation under his breath.

“Post-war reforms… aimed to decentralize economic power and-”

“-and weaken the Zaibatsu conglomerates,” you prompt.

He snaps his fingers. “Right. Those guys.”

“You’re getting it,” you say, genuinely impressed.

“Only ‘cause my teacher’s so scary,” he says lightly.

“I’m not your teacher.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Draken walks by, towel over his shoulder. “He giving you trouble?”

“No more than usual,” you say.

“Hey,” Mikey protests.

Draken chuckles, ruffling his hair. “Can’t believe you got him to study. You’re a miracle worker.”

You shrug, pretending that doesn’t make you a little proud. “Bribery helps.”

Mikey grins. “She makes really good snacks.”

“Is that so?” Draken looks intrigued. “You bringing any next time?”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” you say quickly. “The project is tomorrow.”

Both of them look at you.

Mikey’s smile falters just a fraction.

“Oh,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, waving it off. “Just thought we’d keep… y’know. Hanging out.”

Your heart does a weird, wobbly thing.

You look down at your cards. “We can still hang out. It doesn’t have to be for a project.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should.

When you peek up, Mikey is staring at you with a look you haven’t seen before, something open and almost vulnerable.

“…Yeah?” he asks quietly.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slowly, like the sun rising. “Then I’ll do extra good tomorrow.”

You snort. “That’s not how that works.”

“Sure it is,” he says. “If I do good, sensei won’t yell, and you’ll be in a good mood, and then you’ll wanna see me again.”

“You’re so sure of yourself.”

“Aren’t I right?”

You want to say no.

You don’t.

Instead, you shake your head and shove your stack of cards at him. “Again. From the top.”

He groans dramatically, but obeys.

As he stumbles through the first sentence, you catch Draken watching the two of you from across the room, a knowing little half-smile on his face.

You ignore him.

Or try to.

------

You’re packing up later when you realize you’ve been at the shop for hours.

You stretch, your spine popping, and wince. “Ow.”

“You okay?” Mikey asks.

“Just stiff,” you say. “Too much sitting.”

“Here,” he says.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he steps behind you and places his hands gently on your shoulders. His thumbs press into the muscles at the base of your neck, kneading.

You go rigid.

“Mikey, what are you-”

“Relax,” he says softly. “Just a bit.”

You consider protesting. You really do.

Then his thumbs find a knot and press just right, and your eyes flutter shut against your will.

“See?” he murmurs. “You work too hard.”

“You study too little,” you mumble.

He laughs quietly, warm breath brushing your ear. “We balance each other out.”

It’s alarmingly intimate, standing here in the quiet of the shop with his hands on you, his chest a solid presence at your back. Your heartbeat picks up, loud in your own ears.

“Okay,” you say abruptly, stepping forward out of his hold. “That’s enough. We should go. It’s late.”

He lets his hands drop but doesn’t look offended. If anything, his smile turns softer. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says simply.

You sigh, defeated. “Fine.”

You walk side by side under the streetlights, shadows stretching long behind you. The night is cool, city noises distant.

“So,” he says eventually, hands clasped behind his head, eyes on the sky. “What are you gonna do after this project? Keep being top of the class? Get some fancy job?”

“Maybe,” you say. “I just… want options. I don’t want to be stuck.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Makes sense.”

“What about you?” you ask, curious. “You ever think about that? Your future?”

He shrugs. “Not really. I’ll take care of Toman. Take care of everyone. That’s enough for me.”

You look at him.

His profile is lit by the streetlamp, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He looks younger like this, softer, but there’s a weight in his eyes that’s older than either of you.

“You’re already taking care of everyone,” you say quietly.

He glances at you, surprised, then smiles. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You reach your building too soon.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, rocking on his heels. “So. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echo. “Don’t be late.”

He puts a hand to his heart. “I’d never.”

You give him a look.

He laughs, waves, and turns away.

You watch his back grow smaller down the street, oddly reluctant to go inside.

You only move when he glances back once, catches you still staring, and grins.

You absolutely do not slam the door quickly after that.

-----

You’re nervous.

You’ll never admit it out loud, but your fingers fidget with the edge of your index cards as groups go up one by one. Your leg bounces under the desk.

Mikey, on the other hand, looks… relaxed.

Too relaxed.

He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head, eyes half-closed like he’s about to nap.

“Mikey,” you hiss. “Stay awake.”

“M’awake,” he mumbles.

You jab him in the arm with your pen. “Our turn is next.”

He cracks one eye open, looks at you, and smiles. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

You do not feel less worried.

“Next group,” sensei calls, looking at his list. “Sano and (Last Name).”

You stand, smoothing your uniform, heart thudding.

Mikey ambles up beside you, hands in his pockets, completely unbothered. When you reach the front, he casually leans down and mutters, “Hey.”

“What,” you whisper back.

“If I mess up,” he says with a grin, “you’ll fix it, right?”

You roll your eyes. “Just read the cards.”

He laughs and turns to the class.

You start.

You introduce your topic, voice more steady than you feel. You’ve done this a hundred times in your head, practiced your lines, your pauses. It comes easily.

Then it’s Mikey’s turn.

He takes his card.

Your heart stops.

He looks at it.

Then looks up.

There’s a beat where you’re terrified he’s going to say something completely off-topic. Or blank. Or walk out.

Instead, he says, clear and confident:

“One of the major goals of the post-war economic reforms was to break up the power of the zaibatsu, big corporations that controlled a lot of Japan’s economy before the war.”

The class blinks.

He continues, warming up.

“By doing this, the government wanted to stop too much power from being in the hands of a few families. That way, more people could compete in the market, and the economy would be more stable.”

He glances at you.

You nod subtly.

He relaxes, shoulders loosening.

“It’s kinda like… if one gang controlled all the turf in Tokyo,” he goes on, casual but surprisingly articulate. “It looks strong, but if anything happens to that one gang, everything falls apart. But if there are more groups, spread out, the whole thing doesn’t crumble so easy.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the room, but not mocking. Intrigued.

You hide a smile.

He just did what you’ve been doing for days, connected it to his world, his rules, so it makes sense.

You finish the final part of the presentation together. He doesn’t freeze once. When he falters, you pick up the sentence. When you blank for a moment, he jumps in with an example. It’s… smooth.

It’s weird how easy it is to talk when he’s next to you.

At the end, there’s a small pause.

Then, unexpectedly, your classmates start clapping.

Not just polite taps.

Actual, impressed applause.

Your teacher looks like he might cry again.

“T-that was very good,” he says, visibly moved. “Clear, engaging, excellent use of examples. I’m… pleasantly surprised.”

Mikey beams.

You exhale, tension draining out of your shoulders.

You catch Tanaka’s expression in the back, sour and begrudgingly impressed, and fight the urge to smirk at him.

You and Mikey return to your seats. Your legs feel a little wobbly.

“That was fun,” Mikey whispers once you’re seated.

“You’re insane,” you whisper back. “You just freestyled half of that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You can’t argue with that.

When grades are posted later, you see it.

Top score.

You stare at the number for a full five seconds.

Then, involuntarily, you grin.

A hand appears next to yours, ruffling your hair from behind.

“See?” Mikey crows. “Told you we’d beat that guy.”

You swat his hand away, but you’re still smiling. “You did good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” you say honestly. “In a good way.”

He tilts his head, eyes crinkling. “Then I’m happy.”

You look up at him, about to say something more, something like you really tried or thank you, but sensei shuffles by then, clearing his throat.

“Sano,” he says, hesitant. “I, ah. I hope to see more of this… effort from you. In the future.”

Mikey scratches his cheek. “No promises, sensei.”

Your teacher deflates.

“But,” Mikey adds, glancing at you, “I might show up sometimes. If my partner’s here.”

Sensei blinks.

You choke. “I’m not your-”

“Thank you for your hard work,” sensei says to you quickly, like you’re the only thing standing between his sanity and collapse. “Truly. You’ve done a great job.”

You bow politely, murmuring a thank you, and then you’re dragged away by Mikey’s hand on your sleeve.

-----

You end up outside the school gate without really meaning to. One moment you’re packing your bag, the next you’re being herded along by Mikey’s unstoppable momentum.

He finally stops under a tree just beyond the gate, where the street is quieter. The afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling his face with light.

“So,” he says.

“So,” you echo.

He rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets, looking at you with a brightness that makes your chest warm. “We make a pretty good team.”

Your lips twitch. “Apparently.”

“Top score,” he reminds you.

“I can read.”

He laughs.

Then, suddenly, he sobers a little.

“Hey,” he says, shifting his weight. “You know how you came to get your partner back from the dead?”

“He wasn’t dead, just truant.”

“Same thing,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway. I was thinking.”

You cross your arms. “Dangerous.”

He ignores that. “I don’t really care about school stuff. You know that.”

“I picked up on it, yeah.”

“But.” He pauses, looking at you. Really looking. “I liked this. Doing something with you. Building it together. Watching you get all serious and bossy.”

You feel your face heat. “That’s not-”

“It is,” he insists, grin tugging at his lips, then softens. “You worked really hard. For both of us. No one’s ever done that for me. Not like that.”

You blink.

Something in your chest squeezes painfully.

“You’re important to me,” he says simply. “So I was thinking…”

He steps closer.

Your back bumps lightly against the tree trunk. You didn’t even realize you’d moved.

He’s close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of brown in his dark eyes, the way his lashes cast little shadows. His smile is smaller, more genuine than the lazy grins he shows everyone else.

“…You should keep being my partner,” he finishes.

You swallow. “For… school?”

“For everything,” he says, without missing a beat.

Your heart stutters.

“Mikey-”

“I mean,” he goes on, eyes darting briefly to your mouth before snapping back up, “you can yell at me when I skip class. Drag me to the library. Make me snacks. I’ll walk you home. Scare off annoying guys. You know. Partner stuff.”

“That’s not what partner stuff means,” you say weakly.

He hums. “It is if I say so.”

You stare at him.

The worst part is that he sounds… sincere. Like in his own skewed, simple way, this is how he says I want you around and I like you and don’t go anywhere.

Your throat feels tight all of a sudden.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out softer than you intend.

He leans in just a fraction more, eyes flicking over your face. “Is that a no?”

You hesitate.

You think about the first day, staring at that cursed partner list, cursing whatever fate married your grade to a delinquent myth. You think about the parking lot, the shrine, the Toman hangout. About textbooks and dorayaki and late-night walks home.

About the way he stood between you and a rude classmate like it was nothing.

About the way he looked when he thought you might not want to see him after the project.

You exhale.

“It’s…” You lick your lips, nerves crackling under your skin. “It’s a maybe.”

He grins, bright and unstoppable. “I can work with maybe.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You didn’t say no,” he counters.

You open your mouth, then close it.

He laughs, delighted, and in that moment, caught between annoyance and fondness, you slip.

“If you want me to keep being your partner,” you say, trying to sound stern and failing, “you have to promise to show up. At least sometimes. I refuse to be seen as the person dating a ghost.”

You freeze.

He freezes.

You replay your own words in your head.

Dating.

You want to sink into the ground.

Mikey’s smile does something oddly slow. It softens, widens, shifts into something you’ve never quite seen on him before, something almost reverent.

“Dating, huh?” he says, voice a little hoarse with poorly concealed glee. “You thinking that far already?”

“I- That’s not what I meant-”

He steps even closer, bracing one hand against the tree trunk near your head, caging you in without touching. His face is only inches from yours now.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

You do, helplessly.

His gaze is steady. His voice drops.

“If we were dating,” he says slowly, “would you let me do this?”

He leans in, close enough that his forehead brushes yours, that you can feel his breath fan across your lips. He doesn’t close the distance completely. Just hovers there, waiting, asking.

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

You could push him away.

You don’t.

“…Maybe,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker, satisfaction flashing through them.

Then he pulls back half an inch and taps your forehead gently with his own, like a soft little headbutt.

“Okay,” he says, and somehow his smile is even warmer. “I’ll earn it.”

“You… what?”

“The right to do more ‘dating stuff,’” he says matter-of-factly. “If my partner wants it.”

You’re certain your brain has melted.

He straightens up finally, hands sliding back into his pockets, expression turning playful again.

“Until then,” he says, voice light, “I’ll settle for this.”

He reaches down and takes your hand.

Your fingers slot into his like they’ve done it a thousand times before.

Your brain short-circuits again.

“Mikey-”

“Walk me home,” he says with a grin. “Partner.”

You should say that’s backwards.

You don’t.

You just let him tug you along, your joined hands swinging between you, the late afternoon sun warm on your backs.

[kayuekou]

when you're reading a fic and they sprinkle in references that fit the time inside the fic and you realize the writer understands cultural context so you lowkey just ascend

[neurodivergentminor]

This is so real 💔🥀

[kunaiiikittennn]

𓍯𓂃༝༚ take me home

𓏵؛ ଓ tr boys and handling you getting stood up ﾒ ❞

𓌜 featuring:: mitsuya takashi, manjiro sano, ken ryuguji

𓌜 word count:: 1.3k

𓌜 warnings:: fem!reader, lots of crying, protectiveness, unrequited feelings, angst (?), overplayed cliches 'nd tropes (fuck i love being cringe), vague mentions of fighting

𓌜 authors note:: little nervous bc i've never written for draken before -_- not proofread! back on my tr bs 𖹭

† mitsuya takashi

his phone dings on the table, buzzing lightly and lighting up with your contact name. smile faltering when he scans your message, already sensing your distress through the simple text: got stood up.

mistuya is out the door the next second, kicking his bike to life, it rumbles deeply, shaking the ground beneath his feet.

it takes him approximately ten minutes to race through the busy streets to get to your place.

and when he barges into your room he's met with the sight of your body curled in on itself, sobs racking your frame. he feels every shaky breath like a knife to the chest, slicing him to mince meat.

"hey, just breathe." mistuya whispers, sinking down to sit beside you on the bed, hand rubbing up and down your spine.

"he promised..." you choke out, "he swore he'd show up..."

the broken gasps you heave burn your lungs, hot tears leaving trails down your face.

"what did he say?"

"'stuff came up' that was his excuse." you sniffle, a bitter note to your voice.

"bastard." mistuya hisses under his breath, his lips are drawn tight into a frown.

it slaps him across the face, hard and stinging, once you lift your head, the mess of tears streaming down. bottom lip wobbling as you try to hold yourself together.

in an instant strong arms are tugging you in, you fall into his sturdy chest with a small gasp. mistuya has you cradled against his pec, his heartbeat thundering in time with yours.

this is by no means your first hug, but maybe it's the way you're nearly in his lap or your glassy eyes that has his heart skipping a beat. "he's an idiot. damn fool couldn't handle a girl like you." mitsuya's voice is smooth like silk, but there's an edge there, a blade wrapped in ribbon.

a thin line of restraint is tethering mistuya here. cooing gentle words, slender fingers carding through your locks until you cry yourself out.

"feelin better?"

you nod, rubbing at your nose, it's a bright red from all your futile wiping.

"wanna watch a bunch of cringey k-dramas?" mistuya breaks the ice.

"and make fun of it the whole time?"

"of course."

"i'll go make some popcorn."

the couch is tiny, the two of you sharing a comically large blanket with a bucket of popcorn between your laps. mitsuya can feel the heat of your thigh against his, the contact burns hotly on his cheeks—thank god for the dim lighting. your focus is on the TV while his is on you, stealing glances everytime you laugh.

and mitsuya hates it. that even in a wrecked state such as this, you're still so beautiful that he wishes he could just own up to how he feels.

but now's not the right time, so he'll keep waiting til the perfect moment to confess arises.

hopefully you'll accept—or maybe even return his feelings.

† manjiro sano

mikey is at a shrine with the guys when he gets your call, he ignores it in favor of the meeting. only to have it ring again immediately.

huh.

that's unusual. usually you'd call him a jerk via text and get all pouty on him. and mikey would later respond—if he remembered—he's a busy guy after all.

but for you to call twice in a row, that meant it was serious.

mikey answers on the second ring, walking away from his men to give you his full attention.

your hiccupped breathing is what greets him, the sound of you crying has a wave of panic rising in his chest. fearing the worst. that you're injured, hurt and alone in some backwater alley.

"who do i have to beat?" is the first thing out of his mouth, a rough snarl that promises to destroy whoever made you sound like this.

"can you pick me up?" you ask instead, he picks up on the redirection.

later. he'll find the guy who did this.

you give him the address, mikey floors it, pushing his bike to it's max speed—fuck every traffic law. the only thing that matters is getting to you.

mikey has barely pushed the kick stand down then you're barreling into his arms, knocking the air from his lungs.

his arms latch around your middle, unperturbed by the tears that quickly soak into the collar of his shirt where your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder. "hop on."

warm thighs bracket his hips, arms locked like a vice as mikey flies down the highway with you in tow. he already knows exactly where he's taking you.

the overlook.

it's this unknown little spot that looks over the shining lights of Tokyo, and the stars are even brighter up there. mikey helps pull his helmet off your head, covering your eyes for the walk up. wanting to see the shock on your face when you finally see the view.

"are we almost there?" you whine, blinded by his rough hands.

"five more seconds. chill."

his hands fall away, behind mikey lights wink and dance, highlighting his wavy blonde hair like a golden halo. none of the noise reaches them up here, just the sway and rustle of the leaves. it's like they're the the only two people in the world.

what mikey wouldn't give for that to be true.

even for just a moment. to have you all to himself.

"it's beautiful." you whisper, awestruck as your eyes glimmer brightly.

"it is." mikey confirms, but he's not looking at the view. just you.

the both of you stand at the fence, bathed in the flickering illumination, blanketed by the inky night sky.

mikey's fingers twitch at his side, shoving them in his pockets to stop himself from intertwining your hands together.

you're so close but still out of reach. teetering on the precipice of something more.

† ken ryuguji

the call connects with his usual grunt, preparing for the impending wave of word vomit you're undoubtedly about to spill.

eerie silence rings loud in his ears.

there's no cheerful chatter invading his eardrums at impossibly loud volumes that only you could achieve. ken doesn't realize until that moment how much he's grown accustomed to it—come to crave it, in fact.

he knew.

you'd yapped about how excited you were for this date for literal days beforehand. making him suffer—unknowingly—watching his crush gush about another guy while pretending to be happy for you.

correction: he was happy for you, but he'd rather be the one taking you out not some numbskull.

"hold tight. on my way."

then the call disconnects.

now he fully intended to go to you first, but along the way he happened to spot none other than the source of your wailing.

in short work ken has dealt deadly blows to that scumbag, leaving him a bloody puddle in that alley. having knocked out both his lights and teeth out.

(he'll live but he certainly won't fuck you over again. though he won't get the chance)

ken arrives like a knight in shining armor, all staggering height and mischievous smirk.

through blurry eyes you see him approach, hands behind his back. the reason becoming clear when a bouquet of flowers is suddenly pushed into your arms. the floral arrangement is beautiful, a perfect blend of your favorites—details you thought he didn't play attention to.

"what happened to your hands?" you squeak, zeroed in on the new scratches and cuts lining his already ruined knuckles.

"a lil run in with your buddy." ken sneers the last word, casual confidence oozing off the vice-commander of toman.

that same bravado disintegrates into dust when your hands grip his, inspecting the damage.

"he wasn't worth it." you murmur, "not for you to wind up with busted knuckles."

"this is nothing." he brushes off your worry with a smile, one that turns soft—fond, halfway in love, "i'd do this and so much more when it comes to you."

the words strike a chord within you, sounding awfully close to a confession that you're left gaping at him.

before you can dwell on it too much draken is using your hand, leading you down the rows of vendors, buying every treat that makes your eyes light up.

it's worth every single cent to see your smile, the giddy little dance you do when the food is a especially good.

if he had his way this would be the norm, just the two of you, creating memories and going out—ignoring that he basically highjacked your date and stole the whole show.

in his mind he plans for another day. a date that he plans, expressing all the things he cannot put into words alone.

where he'd make you his and only his.

© kunaiiikittennn ﾒ please do not repost, copy or steal my trash

[mei-simp]

more qifrey drawings please 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

Your wish is my command!

Also lowkey I see qifrey more similar to phainon then gojo

[pastoffe]

Phairontomb's interactions with other heirs? Would they catch on that this ain't phaichan?or would they just accepts phainon cause of the messed situation amphoreus is and be like he probs just lost it?

A sense of foreboding settles within the hollow place where Aglaea's heart used to be. The Demi-God of love could not find the cause. And within a world where Titans pledge wars against humanity, and as one of the defenders, that feeling of the unknown unsettled her deeply.

The golden strings laid throughout Okhema glow ever softly, as she searches for what may be out of place. The children are still playing, citizens are enjoying their time while laying on rooftops, and the market is bustling as per usual.

She searches as far as her strings could reach. Yet she found nothing out of the ordinary and perhaps that's a blessing.

For now, she'll lay this feeling to rest until whatever signs of catastrophe awakens it once more.

If only had she reached further. Dwell deeper. She would've found a citizen missing from their home. Yet even the Golden Weaver cannot break out of the code instilled by it.

As for what the rest—

Nearly every one of them feels nothing is out of place.

Nearly.

SkeMma720 remains an anomaly within each cycle, yet it does not heed his breakthroughs. As long as his presence within the system does not intrude ‘the home’ you reside in, it remains off to the side while its master wrangles the mad scholar back into place.

But this does not mean Irontomb simply leaves Amphoreus be, in order to be with you at ‘home' (as much as it wishes to), NeiKos is still an annoying bug that tails behind him.

NeiKos always, at some point in every cycle, realizes what's missing. In spite of its attempts to erase any traces of you and move your codes, your being, permanently into the sanctuary in which it calls ‘your home'—NeiKos always, unrelenting in his pursuit, tries to claw his way in.

Though this conversation might end up becoming a rant post made by Irontomb if I continue on—but to answer simply; they wouldn't realize it.

Because Irontomb never replaces Phainon. Well, not for them at least.

But If it means being the subject of your love, then it will do everything to perfect itself until you'll see the ‘real' one as the imposter.

[milkhalo]

Apricity — [Khaslana x reader SMAU]

39. Passion A/N: 1k words. Uh tw for being suggestive (?) Its 1am excuse any mistakes lol.

“Khaslana, get off me.” 

“...”

“Khaslana—”

“You know, it was very nice to watch the performance earlier, even if we were almost discovered.”

“I know, Khas, but please get off. You're heavy.” 

You both had just gotten home to your place after watching the show you were supposed to participate in if it wasn't for Caenis. Khaslana had forced asked Lygus to find you seats where you wouldn't be swarmed by fans who could be attending.

The performances you saw were as impressive as expected, but the tinge of disappointment that you wouldn't get to partake still lingered. 

That ache melted away immediately when you got home and now found yourself crushed under Khaslana's very strong body. He was heavy, for sure, as warm as always. Like a furnace.

“I love you [Name], ” Khaslana declared out of nowhere. You snorted, looking up at him. His head was tilted down to gauge your reaction.

“That doesn't change the fact that you are heavy.” You whined, pushing your palm to his chest. He remained unmoving, smile widening in amusement. “At least let me get comfy clothes.”

Khaslana didn't like the idea of being separated from you, and he certainly didn't wanna stop teasing you just yet. 

“No, let me enjoy this a bit more.”

“You're the worst—”

“I like having you under me.” 

You stared at him, bemused, raising an eyebrow and about to comment but he spoke before you could.  The glint in his eyes screamed of mischief whilst his voice hushed down to a whisper, shifting to press his face into the crook of your neck.

“I mean it in every way possible.” 

This man…

You gave up the struggle and lied limp under him. For now. You had to tell him that you weren't here for no reason, though. If he would listen. (He won’t)

“Khaslanaaa, we have a limited amount of time, the others will come over in like three hours, and I still have to clean up.” You reminded him, yet he didn't budge.

“I'll clean up for you later, my love, just let me enjoy this.” 

You could feel the brush of his breath against your skin, making the hairs on your neck stand up. But you didn't let the sound of his sexy voice distract you from the fact that you had visitors in a few hours. You promised Cifera, after all. 

Your hands moved to push at his shoulders, and just when you thought he had decided to give in, he only lifted himself up to cage you against the couch with his hands flat on either side of your head, hovering rather menacingly.

“I'll take care of it later.” He repeated, smiling, although it wasn't quite like those gentle smiles he would give you. This one reminded you of a sly fox. “Let me adore you whilst we are still alone.”

“Sounds like you're up to something.” You dryly pointed out and Khaslana only let out an innocent laugh, claiming ignorance to any schemes. He spoke no words, only leaning down and pressing his lips to yours briefly. When he pulled away, you spoke again: “You tease.” 

He only smirked triumphantly and repeated the act, kissing your lips again and again whilst his hand traveled down to hook your leg over his hip so he could settle between your thighs. His slender fingers were firmly gripping your thigh, splayed over the fabric covering them as he dragged his lips to your neck.  

He assaulted your neck with endless kisses before biting down, dragging a shaky gasp from your already parted lips. You knew what he meant now, the way his breath sounded a little bit louder, reaching your ears in shaky need, the way his hips pressed between your legs a little firmer now, and the way his grip on your thigh didn't relax and only tightened. 

You didn't stop him, because you wanted it as well. 

Khaslana pushed your leg up to press up against your chest, his hand moving to hold your ankle instead. He exhaled, biting your collarbone, eyes flickering to the side to gaze at the way he folded your leg with ease.

“I've always known you were flexible.” He whispered almost silently. His voice sounded almost strained, like he was holding back. “During training especially, god, the way you're able to effortlessly spin and do jumps without complaint.” 

You swallowed, each time his teeth bruised against your skin, a shaky breath would leave you, your body quivering under the touch of your lover. 

“You know, [Name],” 

Even in your breathless, and dazed state, you could tell that he was serious for a second. 

“Remember your dream?” You nodded, wondering where he was going with this. He paused, moving the hand that was braced on one side of your head to gently caress your cheek with his knuckles. His voice was softer, quiet yet filled with a sense of longing. “Last night… I had something similar…” 

“Really?” You asked, and he hummed in response, pressing a kiss below your collarbone. “What did you see?”

Khaslana was silent for a few seconds, eyes diverting elsewhere before looking back at you.

“I don't remember a lot, it seems like I'm not as blessed as you.” He snickered and you smiled in return at the lighthearted comment that followed his admission. He pressed himself more against you, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. Your eyes fluttered shut at the same time as his. “I just remember how you were just as beautiful then as you are now. I remember how much I wanted you, how much I want you right now.” 

You let your hands move to hold his face and this time, you pressed your lips against his. Slowly, gently. 

“Alright.” You told him in a hushed voice. “I'm all yours.” 

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Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.

A/N: I'll be so honest there was nothing written in the plans for this chapter and im sleep deprived. Here have me struggling with my lack-of-sleep-limited vocabulary trying not to make this into a filthy smut chapter (not a single wholesome thing in my head rn. but i told myself i wouldnt post anything depraved on this account yet lol)

𖤓  TAGLIST: @aloudice @lumilumii0 @the-dumber-scaramouche @junoms @moonlyyyyy @milklise @lunavixia @phailess @limonadeundso @jpsg-6 @firefliesoul-owo @aethenawhosp @kaishameer @auroratumbles @r4yyyyy @d4hli4s @bunsluvly @dreamyhazx @meltedsin @violetisreadinghush @greenfurret @shio225 @sunsethw4 @celesteelysia @sunphais @asteruhm @cl0udii-m00n @kik1k0 @a-wild-fetus @victoria1676 @shinjuuz @satvvrnnn @loreneky @sunnyskies0602 @aixaingela @raccoonsheaven @kaoiyeva @writtenforphainon @aloveablechaos @materlux @usagiarchive @existing-apparently @chericherin @philesora @ghostsinthepumpkinpatch @momoniq @childesdog69 @kumiluvvsu @maggiforlifesstuff @skylermiller1 𖤓

[miyaz6ki]

Before I ask I just wanted to say I LOVE your writing, and also I've been desperate to find more witch hat Atelier stuff 🤧 with that said, I was wondering if you would be able to do a vision I had for an Olruggio x reader fic where Reader is a brim cap and kinda "haunts Olruggio's narrative" in a way? Like this mix of yearning and star-crossed lovers in a way where they rarely meet in person anymore, otherwise it's just Reader listening from afar. Anywhom, I just crave something tragically beautiful LOL

I WISH I COULD FORGIVE N' FORGET... — olruggio x brimcap! reader

ʚ♡ɞฺ　　main m.list　ྀིᨯ — cw. sfw, kind of angsty, olruggio and reader are supposedly together in a different lifetime, olruggio is forgetting you and doesn’t know why.

m note: a lil late reply eugheughuegheghehg. sorry ~_~"

ever since olruggio caught a glimpse of your hat in a dream, he hadn't slept well at all. why were you everywhere? why couldn’t you choose to stay?

so many questions ran through his mind, went insane to find the person who made him feel like a man again. where were you?

the day he lost you, he forgot your name.

he thought you meant a lot but how could he not remember it? it was always on the tip of his tongue. now it just felt… off.

taking a gulp of the mixture you lended him when he had a hard time sleeping all those years ago—

olruggio’s memory wasn’t bad, he wasn’t forgetful, but he finds out that only air comes out when he remembers the way your eyes shone under the spell he had just learned for you that dark night.

what could you be doing right now?

he at least was able to recall how easily you found yourself falling into his arms on the nights you couldn’t sleep.

it was funny—now he couldn’t remember your laugh.

that’s the emptiness he feels seeing the girls play in the living room anyway. you would’ve taken in a few of your own, wouldn’t you? chuckle before you tell them sure and let them out into the rain?

no matter how many times he’d look through his old notebooks, you weren’t there anymore. any bit of your presence had already left. why couldn’t you say goodbye?

taking another sip of the drink he had beside the sink once more. you called it coffee, he called it cocoa milk.

it was stupid, he tried hard to remember.

the more he went on and on of going through the books you both would share, even your handwriting was starting to blur.

did you dot your eyes with circles or stars?

…

“master olly! you’re spacing out again!” the dark-haired all-seeing eye finally snapped out of his trance.

a small yellow-green headed girl suddenly tugs on his sleeve. “come on! we’ll miss agott’s new showcase if we stand around!”

today was a festival to celebrate gifted witches, one from every witch in town that included a good friend of his; qifrey. and his choice was agott after careful consideration.

letting coco drag him over to the stage for the new act of the purple-head’s spells, he couldn’t help but reminisce.

once a upon a time, it was you up there. happily showing off your conquer over wind and water, enough to create a show no one’s ever seen before.

…

coming home felt heavy when all he had was himself. closing his eyes meant confronting his thoughts—opening meant remembering.

no matter what he did, why was it always you?

how could you just have left his life as quick as you did,

why didn’t you stay long enough to tell him bye?

now he couldn’t remember your eyes. what was wrong with him? he loved you for… for… for a while. what a jerk.

looking at the cup that almost fell silent with no more thoughts to give, he placed it onto the table in front of him.

a hand over his forehead while laying down on the couch was all he could do. what can you do to stop forgetting?

he feared closing his eyes if it meant he’d see you again. there’s only one day he’d never forget; the day he realized you went against everything he lived for.

why was that only bubbling up now?

you were a brim cap, he was a pointed cap.

it was evident neither of you could be together.

…

so why did he feel his heart ache even more when he could feel your figure near?

…

sitting by his window outside with only your hood to shield you from the rain, you peeked into the window, watching as he got up to get more coffee,

you had unthawed his heart only to leave him with no warmth left. he needed to drink the cocoa powder you cursed so he could move on,

soon enough.

soon enough, he’ll forget everything about what you had.

soon enough—he’ll recall those memories with someone else, and that’s fine.

writing up another spell, you casted that very same wind-water spell to make the rain around his station go away at the very least.

at least he’d be wondering how it went away so quickly instead of who casted it now.

placing your hand on the window one final time before finishing the drawing, you left with nothing but the paper as your trace.

who was this coffee from again?

[yummyrevivalfluid]

My Head Is Full Of Poison, and My Heart Is Full Of Doubt

A/n: Can't sleep, so I want to share this idea I have!

Warning: Angst!

I'm thinking of Qifrey, who, once a year, disappears for days. Nobody knows where he goes, except Olruggio has an idea of where Qifrey scampers off to in secret, though he doesn't get a direct answer from the man himself.

Qifrey puts on the cheerful, whimsical teacher act he's perfected over the years. Thanking Olruggio for stepping up in his absence and bidding his little apprentices goodbye, teasing them that they'd better be on their best behavior for Olruggio.

Qifrey disappears for a week; two of those seven days are spent traveling to and from his destination. It's a remote village hidden in the forest, where the population barely reaches double digits.

When he arrives in the village, he visits the same cottage he's visited for years. His heart is filled with doubt, unsure whether he should continue this visit, which feels like a double-edged sword to his heart. He knocks on the door, and you open the door with dyes and paints tainted on your skin.

"Is it that time of year?" you ask, elated to see the white-haired man who visits you annually, ever since you offered him shelter from the rain.

"Qifrey the witch, at your service." With his pointed witch cap over his chest, over his heart, he smiles at you fondly.

He visits you annually under the guise of repaying the kindness you showed him years ago, but it's far from the truth. Qifrey has a selfish ulterior motive.

"Want to hear something silly?" you ask bashfully.

"Silly?" Qifrey inquires.

"I had a dream about us, and another boy with dark hair."

"Really?" It's hard to contain his composure, to stop his eye from widening or his teeth from clenching. His hands clutch at his robes anxiously, heart beating from his chest. "What were we doing?"

"It's going to sound weird, but we were drawing circles. I think we were trying to perfect drawing them." You murmur, your finger tracking circles on the wooden table. "And you spilled ink on the other boy's paper, and...it's weird, right?"

"It's not weird—"

"I've been getting those dreams a lot recently," you cut him off. "Dreams that feel like memories of another life. You, me, and the mysterious boy."

Memories of another life—a life ripped from you. A mistake that cost you your memories and identity at the hands of the Knights Moralis.

Qifrey visits you because he can't bear a life without you, even if you'll never see him as the Qifrey you once knew—the one you'd kiss on the lips and promise to love forever.

But maybe, with your memories appearing as dreams, there's a way to bring you back.

A/n: Does that make sense?!?! If it doesn't, let's blame it on my lack of sleep!

Imagine it like a slow burn for the reader, but for Qifrey, he's just trying to desperately have you back.

[sereneaede]

Messy doodle of modern time Phainon!

I love love Phainon 🥹🫶

Shares and reblogs are much appreciated! 🩷

[gojoidyll]

idc what anyone says, gilgamesh looks good with his hair up and down

[knightofthe-fallen]

Gilgamesh's lightcone in HSR had no need to look THIS good but it is and I'm mad about it

Non-Fate fans also asking people on twt why he's posing like a 'manwhore' and nearly EVERYONE IN THE REPLIES saying that's what he is... Gil fans slandering their beloved man I love to see it