#If you know than you know...and it was YIKES

[missust3l3vision]

Distraction

Description: George did well in uni that was until he started to crush on a classmate.

"Fuck." George said as he crumpled the test he was just handed back. The TA just shrugged as she continued on handing them out.

It was only one person's fault (his own) and yet he wanted to blame you. His eyes shot down the rows of seats and landed on you.

You were smiling wide looking down at your same paper. He kissed his teeth, the tsk sound getting the attention of the guy sitting next to him.

"Yikes mate, maybe you need a tutor?" Malcolm suggested. George groaning before nodding warily. "Here, I usually meet with this girl. She helps a lot." Malcolm slid over a number before grabbing his bag and walking out.

Holding the piece of paper in his hands he wondered if he really needed tutoring or if he just needed to switch classes.

He was used to pretty girls, they're everywhere and yet you stuck out. Like a gold star among silver ones. You attracted his eye no matter where you sat.

When she whispered he heard it, when she smiled he felt it, and when their eyes met a string of electricity shot through him.

Once back in his dorm he hesitantly texted the number, he hadn't expected a response any time soon and yet was met with a fast one.

G 💬 Hi! Malcolm from Eng 112 gave me your number, you tutor right?

Y 💬 Yes! When are you free? We can meet to discuss what you need help in then coordinate meetings from there?

George thought for a moment, opening his calendar app he was met with a packed schedule.

G 💬 Today is my only free day till Saturday? We can meet at the cafe near the econ building?

Y 💬 See you in 10

George reapplied deodorant and put on a nicer flannel before heading out the door. Walking out he felt nerves but kept his cool.

The bell jingles as he opened it. Seeing the cafe had several open tables he ordered a latte and sat down.

Pulling out his phone he let the tutor know he was there.Taking a sip of the coffee the bell on the door jingled again, getting his attention.

Walking in all her glory was the girl from class. She had her headphones in and had changed her sweater. Pulling out her phone she tapped something.

A small vibration made George's head snap down, the tutor had liked his message. Watching as she ordered, got her coffee and texted him asking where he sat.

Her looking around he gave her a wave, she sat at the table across from him. Pulling out several papers.

"Okay, what's your name?" She asks as she clicks her pen, him clearing his throat.

"George, and you are?" He asked praying to every God in the sky that his voice doesn't crack. "Malcolm told me nothing about you." He chuckled at the end trying to sound casual.

"Oh! I'm Y/n. What are your grades like in class right now?" She asked beginning to write things down. He couldn't quite get a look.

"I think my average is around 45?" He confessed. Her nodding

"What sort of things are you struggling with?"

As the conversation continued it stayed professional, the two coordinating to meet every Saturday at eleven.

They started off well, George had needed a lot more help than he had expected. It was a humbling experience.

As his grades his feelings for Y/n did too. She was gorgeous from afar but up close? She stole his breath every time.

You both have so much in common, making eschother laugh and talking for hours on end. By the end of the semester you were attached at the hip.

After the final exam, which you both aced, he had asked you out to dinner. A nice place only twenty minutes from campus.

The candles were tall, the smells euphoric, and the portions tiny. The exact place where George knew he had to do it.

Y/n wore a blue dress that was making his mind do somersaults. His own outfit a clear step up from his usual sweats.

"I'm so glad you invited me out, it feels amazing to be done with those exams." Y/n spoke, her smile glowing bright.

"I invited you out for another reason." He blurted out. Her eyes widening before she nodded, urging him to go on. "I wanted to ask you to go on a date. A romantic one."

She rose an eyebrow. Him assuming the worst he began to think of his speech to back peddle.

"I thought this was a romantic date?" He blinked. "I honestly thought we went on a lot. We flirt like everyday."

Georges mind was blank. Everything he wanted to say had went poof and he was left confused and embarrassed.

"What?" She went on to explain how she wasn't even a tutor, and that Malcolm was her friend who wanted to set her up. All the study dates were more than just study dates.

"So you like me?" He asked earnestly. "Would you be my girlfriend?"

"Of course George." Her hand reached across the table. Holding onto his "I would love to."

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath @straw--b3rry

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

TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), tension, kidnapping, helplessness, coercion, lecherous behavior, predatory behavior, angst, Negan is a Villan, SA (Implied, offscreen), panic attack.

Part 45

Dead Weight - Part 46

The gates of Alexandria swing open, and Daryl feels something in his chest ease for the first time in weeks. Home. Or as close to home as anywhere could be these days.

But the relief is short-lived when he looks at you walking beside him, your shoulders hunched inward, eyes darting around like you're expecting an attack from every shadow.

She ain't the same, he thinks, jaw clenching. Hell, she ain't been the same since that night she threw herself over me, beggin' for my life. The memory makes his stomach turn.

He should've protected you.

Should've been stronger, faster, better.

Instead, your paying the price for his failures.

Glen is the first to spot you both, his face lighting up with relief and joy. "Oh thank God, you're both okay!" He rushes forward, arms outstretched for his usual enthusiastic hug.

But you flinch so hard you nearly stumble backward, your hands coming up defensively. "No—don't—sorry, I just—" Your voice cracks, and you wrap your arms around yourself.

Glen stops dead, his hands falling to his sides, confusion and hurt flickering across his features. "Hey, It's just me ... I wasn't gonna ..."

Daryl's hands curl into fists. Glen's been one of your closest friends since the prison. You've never flinched away from Glen in your life. Never looked at him like he might hurt you.

What did that bastard do to her? The thought makes Daryl want to put his fist through the nearest wall. He'd only seen the way Negan looked at you in passing, or through Dwight's relutant updates.

Seeing you like this, seeing you afraid of touch from people who'd never hurt you...

Makes his whole chest ache.

"It's fine," you manage, but your voice is barely above a whisper. "I'm fine, I'm sorry"

You're not fine.

Anyone with eyes can see that.

Carl appears next, relief written all over his young face. "You're back," he says simply, but there's so much emotion in those two words. He steps forward for a hug—the same kid who's been your constant since he was eight years old, who you've worried over and cared for through everything.

You try. Daryl can see you trying to be normal, to let Carl embrace you. But your whole body goes rigid when the teen's arms wrap around you, and you have to force yourself not to pull away immediately.

"Sorry," you mumble against Carl's shoulder, and Daryl can hear the self-hatred in your voice. "I'm sorry, Carl. I'm so sorry."

What the hell's she apologizin' for ?, Daryl asks himself and the rage in his chest burns hotter.

Carl pulls back, looking between you and Daryl with understanding beyond his years. "You don't have anything to apologize for."

Rick appears, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. Daryl can see him cataloging the changes—the way you stand closer to the fence than the center of the group, the way you keep your arms wrapped around yourself, the careful distance you maintain from everyone.

"We need to get you both inside," Rick says quietly. "And we need to talk. Negan's going to come back, and when he does, he can't know you're here."

At the mention of Negan's name, you go pale. Daryl notices the way your breathing quickens, how your hands start to shake slightly.

She's scared, he realizes. She's fuckin' terrified.

"We need to move tomorrow," Rick continues. "Go to the Kingdom, start building alliances. We can't do this alone."

"No." The word comes out sharper than you intended, and everyone turns to look at you. "I mean... What if he finds out? What if—"

"Hey." Daryl's voice is rough, but gentle. He wants to reach for you, wants to pull you close like he used. But he can see how you're holding yourself, can see that even his touch might be too much right now.

Carol recognizes the signs immediately - the way your breathing is getting shorter, how your hands are starting to shake, the glassy look creeping into your eyes.

She's seen this before, in herself, in others who've survived the unsurvivable. Without drawing attention to what she's doing, she moves closer to you.

"Hi," Carol says quietly, her voice cutting through the rising panic with practiced calm. "Look at me for a second." She positions herself in your line of sight, not crowding you but close enough that you can focus on her face instead of the spiraling thoughts. "We're going to figure this out together, okay? But right now, I need you to breathe with me."

She demonstrates, taking slow, deliberate breaths, and you find yourself automatically trying to match her rhythm. "That's it" she says softly, Her presence is steady, grounding, and somehow the panic begins to ebb just enough for you to think clearly again.

"You're safe right now," Carol continues, her voice never wavering from that calm, sure tone. "Right here, right now, you're safe. But he will come to visit, and both you and Daryl can't be here when that happens"

"What if he comes back while we're gone?" you continue, and Daryl can hear the panic curling around your voice. "What if he knows we escaped? What if he takes it out on everyone else?"

Rick's expression softens with understanding. "He won't know. We'll be careful."

But Daryl can see you're not convinced. You're thinking about consequences, about retaliation, about all the ways Negan could hurt the people you care about.

Just like you were thinking when you threw yourself over Daryl that night, begging for his life.

Always puttin' everyone else first, he thinks.

"I don't know," you whisper, and Daryl can see you retreating inward, building walls to protect yourself.

Thinks she's gonna cause retaliation, Daryl realizes with a sick feeling.

The worst part is, he doesn't know how to fix this. Doesn't know how to reach you when you're drowning in fear and self-blame. All he knows is that he failed to protect you and now you're paying the price.

Should've been me, he thinks for the hundredth time since the Sanctuary. Should've let me take the goddamn hit.

But it wasn't. And now he has to figure out how to help you heal from wounds he can't even see, while fighting his own demons about not being enough, not being worthy of the sacrifice you made for him.

Merle was right, the familiar voice whispers in his head. Look what hangin' around w'me got 'er.

Daryl pushes the voice away, but it leaves its mark. Just like it always does.

Later that evening, you find yourself in Judith's nursery, gently rocking her to sleep. The familiar routine is soothing, one of the few things that feels normal anymore. When Carol appears in the doorway, her face soft with understanding, you don't flinch.

Something about Carol, even with her righteousness, has always felt safe.

"How are you holding up?" she asks quietly, settling into the chair beside you.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, then catch yourself. "No, I'm not fine. I hate that I can't even hug Glen without falling apart. I hate that Carl thinks he did something wrong when he's never done anything but love me."

Carol reaches over and gently touches your hand. When you don't pull away, she keeps it there. "You've been through a lot. Your body is trying to protect you, even from people you love. It doesn't mean your choosing to do it."

"I feel broken," you whisper, looking down at Judith's peaceful face. "I feel like he's still there, still watching, still—" You cut yourself off, unable to finish.

"You know, when I was at the Kingdom, I met someone I think you'd like," Carol says, changing the subject with the gentle skill of someone who understands.

"The king there, Ezekiel. He's... different. Kind. Theatrical, but genuinely good. He has this way of making people feel safe."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"We're going to get through this," Carol says firmly. "You won't be alone."

The water runs scalding hot, but you barely feel it anymore. Your skin is raw and red from scrubbing, but you can't stop.

Can't get clean enough.

The soap burns the abraded skin on your arms, but still you scrub harder, trying to wash away the memory of his hands, his breath, his voice whispering things that made your skin crawl.

Get it off.

Get it off.

Get it off.

The dress you wore at the Sanctuary lies crumpled on the bedroom floor - that awful thing he made you wear, said it looked "real pretty" on you.

Your breathing becomes ragged as the panic rises. The small bathroom feels like it's closing in, the steam making it hard to breathe. You slide down the shower wall until you're sitting on the floor, hot water beating down on you as sobs wrack your body.

You want to scream, but your throat feels to tight.

You hear footsteps outside the bathroom door, then a gentle knock.

"Hey." Daryl's voice is soft, careful. "Y'alright?"

You try to answer, but only a choked sound comes out.

"I, uh... I put some clothes out on the bed for you. "Ones y'like."

The kindness in his voice breaks something loose in your chest, and you cry harder. He's trying so hard to take care of you, and you can't even function properly anymore.

"Take y'time," he says quietly. "M'here if you need anythin'."

When you finally turn off the water, your skin is pruned and raw. You dry off mechanically, avoiding looking at yourself in the mirror.

On the bed, Daryl has laid out your most comfortable clothes - soft cotton pants and one of your favorite t-shirts. But when you pick up the shirt, something feels wrong. It's too light or too thin, too something.

Without really thinking about it, you set it aside and go to the dresser you share with Daryl. Your hands find one of his flannels - the yellow one that's gone soft with age and washing, he doesnt wear it much anymore. When you put it on, wrapping the oversized fabric around yourself, you finally feel like you can breathe again.

It smells like him - like home.

Daryl notices the t-shirt still on the bed when he comes to check on you. He sees you curled up in his flannel instead, looking lost, and something in his chest tightens.

There's a flicker of something that might be hope.

He picks up the discarded dress from the floor, holding it away from himself like it might contaminate him too. The fabric feels wrong in his hand - tainted with memories of what happened to you while wearing it. Carol watches from the couch as he carries it downstairs without a word.

He doesn't ask permission.

Doesn't need to.

This thing needs to be destroyed.

Carol follows, helping him build up the fire. They watch in silence as the fabric catches, curls, and turns to ash.

The flames seem to purge something from the air, and Carol catches Daryl's eye.

"When's the last time you slept?" Carol settles beside him, studying his profile.

Daryl shrugs. "Don't matter."

"It matters."

They sit in silence for a while before Daryl finally speaks, his voice rough with emotion. "I failed her, Carol. I was supposed to protect her, and I failed."

"Daryl—"

"Nah, listen." He turns to face her, and Carol can see the pain etched in every line of his face.

"She threw herself over me that night. Begged for my life. Offered to be one of his ..." he can't finish the sentence, it makes him feel sick. "If he left m'alone... And what did I do? Nothin'. I let him take her."

"You were outnumbered and outgunned. There was nothing you could have done."

"There's always somethin'." His hands clench into fists. "She can't even stand to be touched now. Can't hug the people she loves without breakin' apart. That's my fault."

Carol's voice is gentle but firm. "It's Negan's fault. Not yours."

"I love her," Daryl says suddenly, the words torn from somewhere deep inside. "I love her, Carol. Been too scared to tell her, too scared I ain't good enough for someone like her."

"And now?"

"Now m'more scared. What if she can't stand my touch neither? What if every time she looks at me, she remembers that prick ? What if lovin' me gets her hurt again ?"

Carol is quiet for a long moment. "You know what I see when I look at her with you?"

Daryl shakes his head.

"I see someone who feels safest when you're near. Even now, even hurt like she is, she gravitates toward you. She trusts you in a way she doesn't trust anyone else."

"Then why won't she let me help her?"

"Because she's scared too. Scared of being vulnerable, scared of being a burden, scared of being hurt again. But that doesn't mean she doesn't need you. It just means she needs you to be patient."

Daryl nods, but Carol can see the doubt still eating at him.

"She made her choice that night," Carol continues. "She chose to protect you because you matter to her. Don't water that down by believing you're not worth it."

"What if I can't fix this? What if I can't—"

"Then you'll be there while she heals herself. Love isn't about fixing someone, Daryl. It's about standing beside them while they find their own way back."

That night, your danp hair curls over the edges of your pillow in your shared room, you watch Daryl lean agasint the doorway. He's keeping as much distance as possible, clearly trying not to crowd you.

"Daryl?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

He looks up immediately. "Yeah?"

"Stay? Please?"

"Course," he says simply, settling back against the pillows.

You stay on your side close enough to feel his presence, but not close enough to touch.

He doesn't reach for you, doesn't try to hold you like he used to, but knowing he's there makes the darkness feel less overwhelming.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For not making me feel broken."

"Y'ain't broken," he says into the darkness.

For a while, you both lie there in the quiet darkness, the space between you achingly empty. You can hear Daryl's breathing gradually slow and deepen as sleep takes him, and eventually, lulled by the familiar sound, you drift off too.

Hours pass.

In sleep, Daryl's body relaxes completely for the first time in weeks. The hypervigilance that kept his muscles coiled tight during waking hours finally releases its grip.

Old habits and deeper instincts take over - the same ones that used to draw him to you every night, when you both to seek comfort in each other's warmth like gravity.

His body shifts unconsciously, turning toward you like a compass finding true north. In the depths of sleep, muscle memory guides him as his arm slides across the small space between you, coming to rest across your waist in a gesture as natural as breathing.

For a few peaceful moments, you both sleep the way you used to - close, connected, safe in each other's presence.

But peace doesn't last long, you wake up disoriented, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. There's weight across your body, an arm pinning you down, and the world tilts sideways as terror floods your system.

Your skin feels like it's crawling, every nerve ending screaming danger.

The darkness presses in from all sides, and for a terrifying, all-consuming moment you're back in that room with Negan - his voice a predatory whisper in your ear, his hands claiming territory on your skin that wasn't his to take.

"No, no, don't!"

The words tear from your throat raw and desperate. You scramble away so violently you nearly fall off the bed, your body moving on pure instinct, pressing yourself against the headboard with wild, unfocused eyes.

Your chest heaves as you hyperventilate, the room spinning around you.

Daryl jerks awake, immediately pulling his arm back like he's been burned.

"Hey, hey, S'me. It's just me." His voice is soft, but there's panic underneath - panic for you, not at you.

But you can't hear him over the roar of blood in your ears, over the phantom sensations still crawling across your skin.

The room is dark, full of shifting shadows that could hide anything, anyone. Your vision tunnels to a singular point, and all you can feel is trapped.

"Don't touch me, please don't touch me," you gasp, the words coming out in broken sobs, but even as you say it, some distant part of you knows this isn't right.

You know that voice, know those hands wouldn't hurt you.

Daryl's heart shatters watching you cower from him, but he forces himself to move slowly, deliberately.

Every instinct screams at him to reach for you, to pull you close and promise you're safe, but he knows that's the last thing you need right now.

"Look at me," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just... feel."

He moves like he's telegraphing every motion. His hands hover in the space between you, not quite touching, waiting. When you don't pull away, he very gently, very carefully, takes your trembling hands in his.

He guides your fingers to his head with movements so tentative they're almost reverent, like he's afraid you'll shatter at any moment.

"S'me," he whispers, and there's something broken in his voice. "Its jus' me."

Your fingers tangle in the long strands, and slowly, slowly, recognition begins to dawn through the fog of panic.

This isn't Negan. This is Daryl- the hair you've run your fingers through countless times, soft, familiar and safe.

Next, he brings your hands to his face, letting you map the familiar territory. The stubble that's rougher in some places than others, the scar on his chin from a childhood accident, the way his skin crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles.

"Daryl?" Your voice is small, uncertain, like a child waking from a nightmare.

"Yeah." The relief in his voice is palpable.

The panic gradually recedes like a tide pulling back, leaving you shaky and exhausted in its wake.

When your breathing finally evens out, when the wild look fades from your eyes, only then does Daryl move.

He takes your hands - the same hands that were just clawing at the air in terror - and brings them to his lips.

He turns his head slightly, angling so his lips find the soft flesh at the base of your thumb first, soft and lingering, like he's trying to kiss away all the memories of fear.

The kiss is feather-light, barely there, but you feel it like a brand of safety against your skin. His breath is warm as he murmurs against your palm, "Y'safe."

His thumb traces over your knuckles with the barest whisper of pressure, back and forth in a soothing rhythm.

"Ain't nobody gonna hurt you while I'm here," he drawls, his voice thick with emotion. "Never again."

When he moves to your other hand, he takes even more care, if that's possible. His lips brush against the center of your palm this time, lingering there as if he's trying to pour all his love and protection into that single point of contact.

"M'here" he whispers against your skin. "Y'know me. Y'know I'd walk into a herd 'fore I let anyone lay a finger on you."

His own hands are steady despite the tremor you can hear in his voice, and he brings your joined hands up so your palms rest against his cheeks.

"Ain't gonna let anythin' hurt ya"

"I'm sorry," you whisper, shame flooding through you.

"Nothin' to be sorry for." His voice is firm, final.

The moonlight filters through the small window, casting gentle shadows across the sloped ceiling above your shared bed. "Jus' you and me," he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the quiet of the attic room.

His hands cover yours, guiding your fingers through the longer strands at his temples with infinite patience. "Y'here?" he whispers.

Your fingers follow his guidance, threading through the soft hair that curls slightly at the ends. The texture grounds you, reminds you of countless nights curled against him.

"Y'with me ?," he breathes, his eyes closing as your touch becomes more sure.

You nod slowly, sinking back into the comfort of reality, like a plush blanket.

The attic creaks softly around you, the old house settling into the night. Here, in this small space that's become yours and Daryl's sanctuary, the world narrows to just this - his hair between your fingers, his quiet voice anchoring you to the present.

"Ain't nowhere else m'gonna be," he tells you so quietly its almost swallowed by the darkness, his forehead almost touching yours. "Just right here, wit' you."

Your fingers find the longer pieces at the back, and you run one strand between your fingers, focusing on the texture, the realness of it. In the darkness, with your hands in his hair and his quiet presence beside you, you finally feel safe enough to close your eyes again.

[nizhspo]

lover, you should've come over.

chapter two: really he has no one

m.list | next

pairing: toji zen'in x f!reader

synopsis: you were a nurse with a steady hand and a soft heart. he was a killer who kept coming back with blood on his shirt and your name in his mouth.

the overnight shift drags.

it’s a double, twelve hours gone, five more to go. the sun’s already up by the time you’re making your last few rounds, clipboard in hand, crocs squeaking, eyes half-closed. your carebear scrubs are wrinkled. your nurse ID is flipped backward. you’ve had half a granola bar and four cups of coffee since midnight. your spine cracks when you stretch at the nurses’ station.

you sigh. check the list.

conservative party figure. the name rings a bell, and you think you remember him from the news, something about taxes and tradition and saying women shouldn’t swear. you grit your teeth. adjust your smile.

you knock politely and step inside.

he’s propped up in the bed, IV running, reading the paper like he owns the building. you greet him, check his vitals, jot a note on your chart.

then you hear it.

“still doing charity work, huh?”

you yelp, a full-body flinch, clipboard nearly flying from your hands, and whirl around.

the source of the voice is leaning against the far wall, half-shadowed by the curtain, black suit crisp, earpiece in.

same scar on his lip. same eyes. same man who bled out in your bathtub and swallowed a curse like it was nothing.

he smirks, hands lifting in mock surrender. “yikes. didn’t mean to startle you, sweetheart.”

his voice is low and teasing, but still, you blink. stare. your brain short-circuits for a second before your mouth catches up.

“you—” you glance at the man in the bed, still reading, oblivious. then back at him. “what are you doing here?”

your mind starts to spiral.

maybe you’re a liability. maybe he came to make sure you stay quiet. maybe he’s here to finish what you never realized had started.

you gulp, throat dry. your fingers tighten around the clipboard like it’ll save you.

he watches your face twist through every worst-case scenario, the panic just barely restrained behind your eyes, and finally, he exhales through his nose, voice low and even.

“relax,” he says. “i’m just doing my job.”

you blink at him, still trying to steady your breath. “this is your job?”

he lifts one shoulder. “well, i did tell you i was good at it.”

you glance at the earpiece, the suit, then back at the man in the bed, still thumbing through the paper, completely unaware.

“…so you’re his bodyguard?” you don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it comes out small. disoriented.

“not all the time, but something like that,” he says, tone light. “keeps me busy.”

then, with a crooked smirk, “election season pays better than getting shot. plus, no one bleeds on me unless i tell ’em to.”

you don’t respond. just return to your chart, pretending your hands aren’t trembling again. pretending last month’s mistake isn’t standing two feet away in a pressed suit with blood still etched behind his voice.

your mind won’t stop spinning.

if he were just a bodyguard, that would explain… some of it. the suit. the earpiece. the way he blends into the wall like he’s meant to disappear.

but bodyguards don’t kill old women in shitty apartments with half-broken AC units and rusted-out stairwells that stink of piss and mildew. bodyguards don’t bleed out in your tub with a curse eating into their shoulder.

and the politician, the one lying in the bed, smug and oblivious—he doesn’t have any cursed energy. not even a flicker. and you’re not a master at sensing it, not like real jujutsu sorcerers are. but you’ve worked in the cursed wing long enough, healed enough half-dead teenagers with blood dripping from their ears and residual energy buzzing off their skin like static. you’d know if this man had even an ounce of it. he doesn’t.

and that guy?

he said this wasn’t his only job. he said “election season,” like this was just one gig in a long, bloody list.

so what does he actually do? who pays him? who trusts him?

you swallow. the clipboard shakes just a little in your grip.

“cute scrubs,” he says, voice startling you out of your thoughts and pitched just loud enough to make your heart stutter.

“fuck off,” you mutter without looking up.

he laughs, and you hate the way something sounding so easy—so carefree, could come from a killer.

like there’s nothing weighing on him. like blood doesn’t cling to his hands, even when they’re clean. like he could walk into your life, ruin the quiet you’d built, and grin while doing it.

…

two months pass.

long enough for his face to blur. long enough for you to almost convince yourself it never happened, that maybe it was the exhaustion, the overtime, the stains you couldn’t wash out of your scrubs. maybe your brain made him up.

a curse-induced hallucination.

a man you imagined to explain the fear you couldn’t name.

because no one ever said his name. no one came knocking. no one ever found a body in 3C.

just a closed case, and silence.

and tonight you’re back in the cursed wing.

not your favorite place, but they needed extra hands and you’re one of the few who can actually see what’s wrong with these patients.

one of them, a sorcerer, has been on your list for a few days now. young. maybe early twenties. mean, paranoid, and half-lucid at best.

you remember when they wheeled him in: screaming, kicking, trying to curse the staff through blood and spit. said someone was coming for him. begged for a binding seal, then passed out cold.

he never got specific. just kept repeating one name:

“toji.”

you never said anything, just charted the vitals and moved on. figured it was delirium. a hallucination. a ghost.

you still check on him during your rounds. he never wakes up fully. his vitals stay low. the cursed energy in his room is heavy, like something breathing just under the floorboards.

but tonight, everything feels colder.

not just the usual kind of cold. not the sterile chill that clings to metal railings and vinyl floors, not the cursed air that sours the vents and hums through the wing like static.

this is different. this one creeps.

it slides down your back like breath on damp skin. it slinks beneath your scrubs, coils beneath your collarbone. it makes your fingers stiff. your throat dry. it feels like something is watching, but not with eyes. like something is waiting.

you shudder once, shake it off.

you finish your notes. stretch your spine until it pops. sit back down at the desk, tell yourself you’re imagining things. because you always get like this when the hallway’s too quiet and the cursed unit lights flicker.

you open a game on your phone. block puzzle. something mindless. something to keep your fingers busy and your mind blank.

eventually, the chill fades, and fifteen minutes pass. maybe twenty.

then it comes back.

worse this time. stronger.

you feel it rising from the floor, snaking around your ankles, dragging its fingers up your calves and into your spine. it makes the hairs on your arms lift. it sets your teeth on edge.

you glance over your shoulder. nothing.

go back to your screen.

then check again. nothing.

but the air won’t settle. your stomach twists. your ears ring. and just as you look down one last time, trying to convince yourself you’re losing it, a voice sounds behind you, low, smooth, amused:

“seriously? block puzzle? thought you had taste.”

you flinch hard enough to knock your knee into the desk. you spin around, and there he is.

leaning against the wall like he’s been there all night, arms crossed over a plain black shirt, sweatpants low on his hips, scar still visible on his mouth. his hair’s tied back. his eyes are steady.

he looks normal. almost too normal.

“what the fuck—” you start, heart hammering. “what are you doing here?”

“business,” he says, like that should explain everything.

he leans against the nurses’ station, arms crossed, head tilted. his shirt’s tight, sleeves pushed to his forearms, and he looks almost normal in this light. except for the stillness. the way his presence makes the hallway feel three degrees colder.

you stare. “…you’re bodyguarding someone again?”

he shrugs, slow and careless. “not exactly.”

the overhead light flickers once. your skin prickles. you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stare too long at the curve of his shoulder. trying not to think about the last time you saw him.

“night shift treating you right?” he asks, chin tipping toward your wrinkled strawberry shortcake scrubs, lips twitching faintly at the edges. “you look thrilled.”

you blink. your throat’s dry. your mind’s running. “…you shouldn’t be here.”

he lifts both brows, as if in mock surprise. “probably not.” his eyes drag over you, deliberate, but not leering, and his voice lowers. “but you’re here. so i figured.”

you frown, rolling back in your chair half an inch. “figured what?”

he doesn’t answer.

just watches you. eyes hooded, expression unreadable. there’s something weighty behind it, something that doesn’t match his casual posture, the tilt of his head, the low sound of his breathing.

the silence stretches too long. you hear the EKG down the hall beep in double time. not yours, but close enough to make you jump.

you glance that way. then back at him. “do you… need something?”

he blinks, slow. then lets out a soft exhale, not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff.

“nah,” he murmurs. “just wanted to see if you were still kicking.”

you scowl. “you showed up just for that?”

he tilts his head. “didn’t say just for that.” then, a pause, eyes catching yours again. “you scared of me or something?”

your breath catches, just for a second. you hate that he notices.

his lips twitch. not quite a smile, more like a knowing pull at the corner of his mouth, half amusement, half something darker. the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“relax,” he says, voice softer than you expect. almost teasing. “you’re not the kind of person i’m after.”

you blink, brows furrowing.

he tips his head slightly, like he’s gauging your reaction. like he’s making sure you heard him. “if i wanted to hurt you,” he says, low, steady, “you’d already be on the floor.”

a beat passes.

“but you’re not,” he adds, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners, “so that means we’re good. right?”

you don’t answer that either. you stay where you are, jaw tight. your clipboard’s gone, and you don’t remember setting it down, only the chill still working its way beneath your scrubs.

“you think sneaking around a hospital in the middle of the night is funny?” you ask, voice quieter than before.

he lifts a brow, head tilting just a bit, like he’s trying to decide how serious you are.

“depends,” he says. “you laughing?”

your glare could cut steel.

he grins, slow, wolfish, but not unkind. his eyes flicker toward the ID badge clipped to your pocket, the crease in your scrubs, the way your fists have curled just slightly at your sides. “you always this uptight at work?”

“i’m always uptight around killers.”

that gets him a little.

for a second, his mouth twitches, just barely—something bitter flashing sharp across his face. not a wince. not a flinch. just a crack. brief and telling. but then it’s gone. buried. smoothed over with that same unreadable calm, like he slipped the expression back into his pocket.

“alright,” he mutters, almost too soft to hear.

he finally steps back from the wall, stretching a little, like the conversation’s worn him out. his movements are easy, like he wasn’t just pressed into shadow watching your pulse spike.

he heads toward the door. keys jingle in his hand, keys you didn’t see before. a matte-black carabiner hooked to a loop on his waistband. you blink, thrown. you hadn’t even pegged him as the kind of man who drove, let alone someone who’d carry a carabiner and slip through a hospital unseen.

you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t see where he came from. you didn’t even know he was there until he wanted you to.

and just before he pushes the door open, one hand braced to leave, he glances back over his shoulder. just enough for you to catch the gleam of his eyes beneath the fluorescent lights.

“by the way,” he says, voice casual, offhand, like he’s mentioning the weather. “you should check on room 214.”

then he’s gone.

the door swings closed behind him, and you stare at it, heart stammering. then your stomach drops.

you run.

the hallway blurs.

your badge clips hard against your hip with every step, a sharp smack that keeps tempo with the thud of your heart. the lights overhead feel too bright now, too sterile, buzzing like hornets. the floor rolls beneath you. your breath comes thin.

your fingers slip on the door handle, but you force it open, and inside, the room is quiet. too quiet.

the sorcerer is still. flatlined.

the monitor above his bed pulses a steady, unwavering zero. no alarms. no blinking lights. no calls for help. just silence.

you don’t reach for his wrist. don’t check the lines. don’t try compressions. you just… stand there. frozen.

because you know he’s gone. and not by accident, either.

no code called. no footsteps fleeing. no sign of struggle. no witnesses. just an empty hallway and a name that had once ripped itself from the boy’s throat in panic:

toji.

that’s who he’d meant. you’re sure of it now. because he was here, and now someone else isn’t.

[delightfulparadisesheep]

EDIT: yikes guys how did I already get 100+ votes?? the pnf revival is bigger than I thought

EDIT 2: over 250??

[hamliet]

Do you ever find it difficult to be a fan of a show or movie or any form of media that’s considered flawed, I love both Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss, while both shows have their quirks there’s so much nuanced to them and it can be pretty frustrating seeing thumbnails on YouTube videos spreading so much misinformation and negativity, the same goes for the Last Jedi and The Acolyte.

Yeah haha. I'm going to echo what my friend @aspoonofsugar said here. It's good to have a friend to salt with whenever you see bad takes, and also writing my own metas helps me process my thoughts, to work out why I disagree with a take.

Believe it or not, also, there are plenty of people who make valid critiques and/or who don't even like stuff I love for valid reasons! We can come to different conclusions, and also have different tastes. But admittedly, a lot of the stuff you're talking about for the Hellaverse, TLJ, The Acolyte, and RWBY? It's... not that. It's "you should feel bad for liking this," and intellectual dishonesty paired with a bunch of microaggressions and a disdain for academia that, like the Emperor with new clothes, pretends said disdain is actually brilliant analysis.

Also, there are definitely patterns between which media gets punted by dudebros on YouTube. Namely, the stories appear to almost always be female centric and often have a queer component as well. That's not a coincidence. Sadly for the world, people think punching each other harder but with math (10% increase! 100%!) is more compelling storytelling than characters reflecting on who they love and what makes them who they are.

Frankly though, punching can work as a character development tool but I do think that a lot of the criticism isn't in good faith and refuses to examine stories that follow less traditional tried-and-true mass appeal structures with the same level of critique and evaluate them at the same level of value. They start from the assumption that it's beneath, and work to dismantle it from there. And truly no story is perfect, so there's always going to be something to grab hold of.

But the main thing is that there's no good faith in that approach. There's nothing wrong with disliking something and trying to pick it apart to discern why. Again, a lot of my critical metas start from that perspective. The problem is that if you go into it knowing you won't like it, you already have a conclusion, and thereby you're not examining it to discern why. You're examining it to justify your own self and taste, not even bothering to consider what the narrative is trying to accomplish and why it fails or succeeds from other perspectives.

It's funny, I've also started examining why I didn't like some aspects of a story and in the end rethought my perspective and realized it did work for the narrative, even if it wasn't my taste. But if there is nothing wrong with the narrative, or if you start splitting hairs to get to a problem and ignore the same glaring problem in something you like, then you might have to examine why your taste tells you that queer media is always shallow or why female characters irritate you, and no one wants to face that about themselves. Especially not people who genuinely believe and want to be allies. I don't think a lot of these people are badly intentioned. I just think they aren't willing to self-examine in a lot of ways. Like, I have a grudge against that YouTuber who made the dastardly RWBY video, for example, for this reason.

At the same time, not all people are well-intentioned either. Like that #yikes RWBY snark subreddit that likes to repost my metas and take them apart when they have never published a literary analysis paper in their life and think TikTok is close reading. Yes, I'm being snarky and kinda petty here. There are valid critiques of my metas. Very valid. But not on that subreddit, which exists to bully and boast about anti-intellectualism. And those kinds of outrage bad faith rants generate clicks.

[nessasbabydoll]

why do you think the triplets are horrible people? (sorry i’m just curious bc you mentioned it)

well first is the constant misogynistic comments like calling women like calling women bitches, talking about literally stabbing women for no reason?? weird.

also the absolute silence while ruckus is going down in LA right now. i don’t care if you think they don’t need to speak about this, it’s some serious shit happening and they aren’t using their platform to spread awareness whatsoever.

next—podcast clips. idk if y’all remember but in one of the podcasts they were talking about and literally judging their teacher (female teacher btw) for being upset about trump’s election in 2016?? and don’t even try with the “they were 13!!” bitch i knew 1000x better when i was 13. 😭😭

then the clips from the podcast talking about weddings.. yikes. again don’t start with how they’ve “never been in love” they are grown men. GROWN MEN. who should know better. like genuinely there’s no excuse.

finally just the posting.. like they clearly do not care about their career or fans at all lmao. can’t even post a 20 minute video every week.. that’s all they do. wow!! being an influencer— so difficult!! 🥺🥺

yeah if u want more check the ‘sturniolotripletsnark’ page on reddit and also i’ll be more than happy to attach links to tiktok if you want compilations and stuff of them being weird.

[rainrot4me]

Hi!! I just wanted to tell you that I'm getting back into the creepypasta/slenderverse fandom again after a long while away, and all your writings have made me so happy! I love how you characterize everyone, and your posts really brought back the spark of joy I felt when I first found the fandom. In summary, I think you're magical with your words, and I appreciate you so much!!!

- 🌟🔮🐀

You’re genuinely too sweet are you kidding!!!!! Thank you!! Overall, I try to make my writing as open and accessible to everyone who enjoys/used to enjoy Creepypasta because, honestly, this is a dwindling fandom. It’s hard to find people who know Creepypasta and love their stories more than just the funny memes or creepy YouTube videos we all watched as kids, so I try to make my page a place for old and new lovers to come and re-live that wonderfully awful time of the internet when you could watch cats playing the piano and someone getting beheaded in the same YouTube playlist (yikes). My biggest hope is for everyone to enjoy themselves unashamedly!!! I hope I’m doing you all right by that! Thank you again!!!!!!

[sadistichaunted]

Robin and Batman: Jason Todd live reactions/analysis from ur local Jaybin expert

*spoilers ahead- I'm going to keep it vague and more about characterization, but you've been warned

Page 1) no fucking wayyy. I am 3 sentences in and already cringing what the fuck. I promise I'm not trying to come into this already hating it but that opening line has such a fundamental misunderstanding of who Jaybin was

The art style is cute I'll admit but just. Woah dude. What the FUCK is this attempted "you hurt me... So now I hurt you 😈😈😈" bullshit ??

Page 4) I'm getting REALLY tired of the whole "Jason runs off on his own, he's reckless!" Narrative because it's *so* antithetical to his actual actions as Robin. Yes, he went after the joker alone, yes, he's made decisions that were self-destructive at best, but they were ALWAYS in order to help someone else (to save his mom, or to draw fire away from someone else like in Gotham county line*, or to sacrifice himself to give batman time to do what needs to be done in the cult), not just to go after a criminal ??

Page 7) pfft okay. That's my baby

There is also an underlying anger in this Jason that I. Really am not liking. It seems like it's trying to show that he's dangerous bc he's doing this JUST to hurt others which... Is not the case

Page 10) There it is again!! Jason being uniquely angry + spiteful for no reason ??

Page 11) hey what the fuck. Hey. What the fuck. Why are they showing Jason throwing a fucking temper tantrum?? He was *never* like this as Robin- the worst he got was snapping when beating up a rapist, literally EVERYTHING Jason does tends to be at the very least intentional, thought out and calculated (look at him as Red Hood for example, as well as the Garzonas arc. Those aren't temper tantrums, he has a deep-seated cold *rage* that isn't fixed with outbursts like that)

Page 12) YOU HYPOCRITE ???

Page 13) THIS is Jaybin. He was genuinely interested in being Robin, even if it was initially more for security than for the sake of helping others, and was harsh on himself when he needed to do better (not nearly as harsh as Dick was, but still) (honestly I feel like citing the Garzonas arc for this works, specifically the issue where his dad goes after batman after his death. Maybe also the first few issues he's introduced as well, but I can't pinpoint a specific event)

Although, Jason never really thinks that he's done something wrong very often. He does things very intentionally, and because of that he kind of has a sort of grace for his past mistakes that Dick doesn't. Because he knows he made the decision *intentionally,* he doesn't really see them as mistakes as someone usually might, more just steps in the wrong direction bc he was working with inaccurate or misleading information

Page 14) I wouldn't quite say this is Jaybin- it's definitely leaning in a better direction, but it's still not really accurate to his views on Bruce and Alfred at the time. He might've gotten a little snappy about respect, but it was made VERY clear that Jason was his son when Bruce first took him in- although, if this is meant to be set early on in Jason's career as Robin, it could be intended to be growing pains when he was first settling in. The issue with that is that JASON WAS NEVER ANGRY WHEN HE WAS FIRST ROBIN. His "angry" moments were all near the end of his run, so that makes no sense!

15-16) "he's deeply troubled" this was a sentiment that existed with him as Robin, but it was generally reserved more for "he was poor" rather than this. Alfred being shitty about Jason is def in character, but not nearly to this extreme. Id be harsher on this if it wasn't Alfred saying it- he's historically not really loved Jason, so the reaction isn't totally out of left field

17-22) yikes. Yikes. Something about this really does not sit right with me- I know it's meant to show that Jason's having nightmares about his parents, + some foreshadowing of him as Red Hood/the joker killing him, but the way that his mother doesn't even have her face shown is. Not sitting well with me. It's boiling her down to just a needle, not a person that Jason had to take care of.

27) LMAO okay. I liked this page "he's inebriated" "he's *hammered*"

31-32) I do actually like this- Jason getting triggered once he realizes what Cuckoo is doing and having to pause and reevaluate

37) head in hands. Points at the sign. Jason Todd was not aimlessly vengeful or particularly violent, especially in outbursts like this. "I am a weapon" okay fuck off

Last few pages) I actually like the initial shock of thinking that Jason killed Cuckoo- it shows that Bruce was already thinking the worst of him.

I can def see a world where this run ends up exploring Jason's relationship with murder, especially underneath Wraith + being guided to point his anger in a "constructive" way, but they've had to butcher Jason's morals + values in order to fit him into an anger-issues poor teenager w/ a junkie parent stereotype.

Overall this was dogshit Jesus Christ

[fastfists]

Honestly, as someone who owns a lot of the Archie comics (one day I'll go through them and sort them proper), anytime Pender wrote for any character was yikes. The ladies especially.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Age Verification Process for US Players

Dear Travelers，

We are required by law to age verify US player accounts. The age verification process will be rolled out to all US players by May 20th while login (if already have one) or account registration.

Please ensure to provide your age information by July 18th, 2025. Failure to verify will result in:

- Account suspension

- In-game friends and chat records will be deleted

- No further notifications post-suspension due to inaccessible account information as required by law

If the verification is not completed by July 20th, 2026, the personal information of your HoYoverse account will be deleted permanently.

[misspermitted]

I’m on board with the “Adar was/is Celeborn” theory purely because I want this crack exchange -

Adar/Celeborn: You cheated on me with Sauron!

Galadriel: Well you also cheated on me with Sauron so the scales are balanced

Adar/Celeborn: What?? In what-

Galadriel: You left me, your wife, for 1000 years, to have a family and children with him

Adar/Celeborn: Okay, well, you fell in love with him. Which means you weren’t even in love with me in the first place. Which is worse

Galadriel: YOU LITERALLY HAD HIS CHILDREN

Adar/Celeborn: You married me for all eternity wiTHOUT EVEN BEING IN LOVE WITH ME

High King Gil-Galad, to Elrond: Still think he’s fake and they’re not married?

Elrond: Oh no, I take it back, they’re definit- oh my god Galadriel do not challenge him to a duel there is nothing wrong with your womb gods above

[soupsontheside]

Category is Hange vibing with creachers again

[madtomedgar]

I think it would be just and proportionate and funny for a Mexican director and producer to make a campy movie musical about social issues in France, include no French people in the production at all, write the movie in Spanish and then have someone translate it into French, and then cast like. Someone from Belgium or the French speaking part of Switzerland and someone from Senegal for Authenticity, and film the entire thing in Mexico except for the 50 establishing shots of the Eiffel Tower.

[ingravinoveritas]

wtf is that all she has to say about her boyfriend michael fans praised him more than. so is this her saying the show phenomenal or her boyfriend cos honestly this chick don't make sense what ur thoughts on this post

Hi there! And oh, wow. I've had a little time to process this now that I'm home, and I think the biggest thing that comes to mind is how this Insta story feels so...obligatory, and the bare minimum. As you said, it's not clear whether Anna is talking about the production itself or Michael's performance, and there is hardly any energy or enthusiasm to the post, especially not compared to the multiple posts AL made about Photobombing Michael J. Fox at the BAFTAs.

It becomes even more noticeable when you look at it next to the Insta story that Georgia posted:

Georgia and David didn't even attend the show tonight, and yet they hyped Michael up in a way Anna did not. You can feel the warmth and silliness and love in how they're rooting for him and cheering him on--David, in his manic Scottish way, and Georgia in her more sarcastic/dry English way--and how they seem genuinely excited for Michael. Yet I got absolutely none of that from AL's post.

All of the above is augmented by the choice of pictures in the post, with David and Georgia's photo centering Michael, literally and figuratively. He is the focus of the picture and of their attention, and the message there seems to be that Michael is what David and Georgia are most excited about. In contrast, the picture AL used is of a nearly empty dimly lit stage with a hospital bed on it, and I do not think that is by accident.

As I have said previously, my reaction is never to any one post in isolation, but to the continuation of a pattern of posts/comments from Anna over the course of several years. The same thing happened when production photos were released of Michael as Prince Andrew a few months ago, and when he played Chris Tarrant in Quiz in 2021:

AL hated the wig then, and my feeling is that she hates the wig Michael is wearing now, as well as the pyjamas that are his costume for a significant portion of the play and how he looks in them. I think that she does not care at all about the play itself or its significance to Michael, and has no desire to hype him up because his appearance in Nye is not what she considers "attractive." In addition, a fan posted stage door pictures on Twitter, including one with AL, and it seems to very much echo the lack of enthusiasm in her Insta story.

So yes, I think AL's post seems very generic (at best). It makes her come across as disinterested and somehow "removed" from both Michael and the show itself, again in contrast to David and Georgia's picture that conveys the exact opposite.

Those are my thoughts, at any rate, and I could be completely off the mark, but as always I'd be glad to hear from my followers about what you think. Thanks for writing in! x

[thats-how-i-like-it]

hi, here's a little vijinx - another love (tom odell) edit (feat. caitvi)

[bisexualalistairtheirin]

Genuinely, shit like this is why blame can't be solely put on EA's doorstep for how the game turned out

I've already seen people defend this as "he misspoke" and this is just not true. I was scared they would do this to Davrin as soon as I saw Assan and the hype about what a cute little critter he was... well, apparently he was given more care and thoughtful consideration than his caretaker.