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my husband suddenly became love"sick"?! ft. phainon
got the collective ideas from my post! ty yall <333 basically regressor au bc he lowkey fumbled in the past lifetime (and you died) so he pulled the uno reverse card and highkey turned back the time (pt1)
part 1
part 2
part 3
WARNING/S: yandere, obsessive behavior, implied drugging at the end
The concept of Phainon who just... lets you do whatever you want with him has me in a death grip.
Jumping on him from unspecified heights randomly? He somehow has the strange seventh sense to catch you in time. Doesn't even make a sound of displeasure.
Biting his cheeks instead of whatever food he was holding to your mouth? "You're so cute," is what he says with a chuckle.
When you nibble, bite, knead, squeeze and squish him for no reason? He can't stop smiling. Maybe you bit too hard and his skin is bleeding a little? He finds it hot.
When you start poking him out of boredom, he'll poke you right back. Within a few seconds, it'll escalate into a tickle fight.
Clinging to his arm or hanging to him like a monkey to a branch? He carries you around like you weigh nothing.
When instead of sitting down beside him or getting into bed normally, you jump on him? All he does is giggle.
And when you start aggressively ruffling his hair while asking him out-of-context questions like, "When you de-shell a snail, is it naked or is it homeless?" he genuinely engages in the conversation.
But brace yourself though, for when you finally tire yourself out, it'll be his turn to do whatever he wants with you.
i love it when the celebrity is the one deep into a parasocial relationship, not the fan.
in this case, it's successful, young, and attractive streamer phainon, more commonly known by his online alias neikos496, whose streams always have an average of 100k+ concurrent viewers. nowadays his live chat needs to have slow mode turned on from the amount of people wanting to spam every second, and he's always getting sponsorship offers from gaming brands, down to the snacks he consumes on stream. he attends gaming events, makes an appearance at conventions, and once even joined an e-sports team for his favorite game. the latest talk that surrounds him is that he'll soon enter the modeling scene; not hard to imagine with a killer face and body.
however his beginnings were much, much humbler.
a country bumpkin who decided to stay in the city after graduating with a (supposed) useless degree. a young man who spent his last credits to buy a low-quality mic, together with his second-hand gaming pc and obs webcam, he took his chances at breaking through the intimidating world of streaming.
he begins with sandbox games, long chill streams late at night after he was done working his ass off at his daytime corporate job. there were no viewers, but he can't fault in that when the frontpage of the streaming site are all well-established bigshots. it's difficult to find something new when one is so used to the sense of familiarity that their favorite streamer carries.
phainon tries flash games next, making fun of all the silly, borderline fetish art of beloved animation characters, but all that brought him were bots that got his hopes up, only to be cruelly let down when his chat was filled with nothing but advertisement spam.
well... third time's a charm.
phainon tries horror games. he plays the faces of the genre like resident evil, silent hill, amnesia. etc. to the short, obscure indie horror that he only heard through word of mouth in online forums. paired with his usual schedule of late-night streaming and a newly purchased better-quality mic, he feels like it'll get him somewhere this time.
this proves to be true when he gains his first ever viewer in the middle of him shooting down monster enemies. the loud ping from his chat entirely breaks his focus on the game, head swiveling to face the corner of his monitor where he can view the chatbar.
he reads your username out loud before your message, " "what are you playing right now?" oh! i'm playing resident evil 2! the remake, to be specific."
he grins at his webcam, all coy when he asks, "wanna keep watching? i'll be worth your time, i swear!"
when a handsome man with big, puppy dog eyes asks that of you, it's nearly impossible to say no. so type in the chatbar once more,
"sure, why not :)"
to your surprise, this streamer you found out in the wilderness of your recommended page, jumps up from his chair and fistbumps the air in glee. the suddent action makes you laugh. it makes him laugh too, his cheeks are dusted with pink by the time he sits back down. he clears his throat and resumes the game as if nothing ever happened.
you'll definitely be here tomorrow.
the first couple of months in phainon's streaming career, his only viewer was you. it feels less of a livestream and more of a videochat on discord with your friend with how often he refers to you while playing a game. he's moved on from horror games; now he's trying random ones each day.
before beginning a new game, he'll ask without looking at the chatbar, "you ready?" and then promptly calls your username. when he gets jumpscared or chased, he'll look at the chatbar and asks for you to come help him. during puzzles, he'll give his best puppy look as he fully expects you to solve it for him.
his viewers exceeded one (1) when phainon was one of the first ones to play an indie game that would soon blow up in popularity. he had found the game through the developer's social media account, added it to his steam wishlist, and played it on the day it came out.
the second time he streamed that indie game, he was awed at the whopping 2000 live concurrent viewers on his stream. he thanked everyone that was currently watching before his eyes zoned in at the chatbar, eyes sparkling as he called out your username, "are you still there? a-are you seeing this right now!?"
you laughed, pride blooming in your chest to see the once unknown streamer you've been watching for a while now take his first steps onto the grand stage of stardom. your fingers tingle in excitement as you type in,
"yes!! welcome everyone, phainon is an awesome streamer, i promise ^^"
another viewer typed, "phainon? is that neikos496's real name?"
oops. you forgot it's no longer just you and him in his livestreams anymore. before guilt could form in your guts, phainon laughs and waves his hand around.
"you're right about that, friend." he mentions your username. "they've been a long-time viewer of mine, you see. we're practically online friends now!"
he winks at his camera. "isn't that right?"
username.
there's a pattern to be found in how, as phainon's fame grows, so do his reliance on you. while before, his behavior of constantly paying attention to you was to be expected, seeing as you were his only viewer at that time, it tends to come off as odd now that his number of viewers is increasing day by day. he still retains old traditions by specifically calling out for your username and checking if you were ready before starting the game he was set on playing that day.
not to mention how he always singles out your chats, always making it a priority for him to read first amidst a sea of emote spammers and other people trying to grasp his attention. even the ones who paid for superchats are inherently stuck in second place the moment you send something to the chatbar.
sure. that's fine. loyalty and routine are good traits to have on a person, right? this just proves that despite his rising fame as a streamer, phainon is still the same man you met back then by staying to his roots. but it begins to slowly suffocate you with how much phainon demands from you, becoming bolder and bolder as his channel grows.
one time, you felt like lying back and observing him for the entirety of the stream, so you hadn't felt the need to type in anything to the chatbar. but an hour into his stream, he's still not playing any game.
after taking gulps from his water bottle, his blue eyes focus on his (newly acquired) second monitor, "chat, chat," he calls out, eyes skimming through the strings of text from different people pouring in. he says your username, "are they here yet? in the stream, i mean."
albeit confused, his viewers tell him no, having believed you weren't there yet with the lack of your usual chattiness. he visibly deflates into his gaming chair. "really? aw, well, we can wait for them before i start playing."
his chat bursts into confusion, spamming questions marks and many complaints to just begin the damn game already beginning to pop up. yet phainon remains undeterred, leaning back on his gaming chair with a slight frown on his face, fingers toying with his water bottle cap.
you straighten up, hurriedly typing in an effort to do damage control from the angry mob.
"heyyyy!! i've been here since the beginning TT TT start the game, neikos!"
akin to dangling a dog treat in front of a puppy, phainon excitedly leans in close to his screen and exclaims your username.
"you've been here all this time! why didn't you say anything? i was about to be sad, you know?" he pouts, bottom lip exaggeratedly jutting out. you nervously laugh, already imagining the curses thrown your way from his viewers.
"srry.... was quite drained from work today ^^;;;; so i didn't feel like typing much..."
then you hurriedly add, "but it's ok now!! let's get this party started .·´¯`(>▂<)´¯`·. "
phainon hesitates for a moment, seemingly wanting to say more. but then he blinks and returns his focus back to the game he was supposed to play.
in a quieter voice, he mutters, "next time, don't leave me waiting like that, okay? i was scared something happened to you..."
that's... (odd) fair. it must have shaken him quite a bit, being used to you so present and vocal in his streams.
so you go ahead and reassure him, "got it (●'◡'●)"
it's passed off as jokes at first; his fanbase online has an ongoing inside joke wherein phainon is dating you in private. it's not an unreasonable conclusion, and it'd make sense to an outsider just peering in from outside, but when phainon mentioned your username in a fanmeet event, the line between jokes and genuine belief is blurred. a shipping culture is born, and the flames are fanned further when a fan posts a screenshot of their profile being followed by phainon before it quickly gets unfollowed.
from a supposed friendship in the eyes of his many viewers, it quickly becomes uncomfortable for you when other fans begin mentioning you in the chatbar, asking for confirmation during phainon's livestreams.
you turn a blind eye to the best that you can. a deranged fan dming you, claiming to have spotted you and phainon out on a date, is quickly blocked. all variations of your shipname with phainon are muted from your timeline, and the accounts related to it are blocked as well.
but even that's not enough. eventually, you decide that it's best to forget this streamer altogether; you stopped attending his livestreams, you moved accounts, you changed usernames, and you wished him the best of luck with his career. not that he needed any if the rumors of him being invited to gamescom held an ounce of truth.
not even a week later, you wake to a dm request on your new account from a burner,
"hello, i didn't mean for the entire situation to quickly turn sour. and i am so sorry for dragging you into this mess when i should've been at the forefront defending you from harassment and hate. i understand that you're not quite ready to reveal our relationship to the public just yet, and i fully respect your decision.
my only wish is for you to go back to watching my streams, just like old times? i really miss you, and i find myself having difficulty playing when you're not there to cheer me on. my personal cheerleader, in a way :) they don't have to know it's you, i know you changed your username, after all. we can keep it secret. i can ignore your messages (but just know i read them and keep them close to my heart), i'll pretend that i'm not paying attention to you, anything.
i just miss you so much. come back to me soon. please, (y/n)?
i love you.
yours,
phainon."
... that's not your username he's typing. it's your real name that you never revealed to anyone online - not to him.
and what does phainon mean by keeping it private? you're not even dating - not once have you even met up with him in real life.
this guy... this beloved, worshipped streamer, one that you used to look up to with so much admiration, is absolutely deranged.
He doesn't fucking sleep and it's driving you insane.
And it's not cute. No. It's 4 AM and he's still at his desk, screen glowing, and he hasn't eaten since— since when? Yesterday? The day before?
You want to throw his laptop out the fucking window.
You don't.
Because you know why he's doing this.
He's doing this for you.
The promotion. The overtime. The side projects he picks up like a stray dog dragging home scraps. The spreadsheet he updates every monthーsavings for vacation, savings for her birthday, savings for the ring, savings for the house, savings for her to never have to worry about anything ever— and you found it once, accidentally, when he forgot to close his laptop, and you cried in the bathroom for ten minutes because he's killing himself and it's your fault.
Not that he ever blame you. You know he's more likely to put a bullet in his own skull to say anything is ever your fault.
He'd just smile.
That exhausted, hollow smile and kiss your forehead and promise he'd come to bed soon and then stay up for three more hours.
Every night.
Every single fucking night.
But not tonight.
Tonight you've had enough.
He's been in there for sixteen hours.
He was in there when you left for work. He was in there when you came home. He was in there when you ate dinner alone, when you watched your show alone, when you went to bed alone, and now you're standing in the hallway in your sleep shirt with your arms crossed.
You push the door open.
He doesn't notice.
Of course he doesn't notice. He's got his noise canceling headphones on一the expensive ones you bought him for his birthday, the ones he said he didn't need but now wears like a second skull一and he's hunched over his laptop, shoulders up around his ears, left leg bouncing nervously.
There's a mug next to his elbow. Empty. There's another one on the floor. Also empty There's a protein bar wrapper unopened. He forgot to eat it. He forgot to eat.
He always forgets to eat.
You walk up behind him. He still doesn't notice. His screen is full of spreadsheets and emails and whatever the fuck he does at his job that he never complains about but is clearly eating him alive. His fingers are flying. His jaw is tight. There's a vein in his temple that's been pulsing for three weeks straight.
You put your hand on his shoulder.
He startles so hard he nearly knocks the laptop off the desk.
"Fuck一 baby—" He's ripping the headphones off, spinning in his chair, eyes wide and bloodshot and so, so guilty. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet, l just had to finish this one thing—"
"It's almost four in the morning."
"It's— what? No. No, it's like midnight, I just—" He checks his phone. His face falls. "...Oh."
He looks up at you with his red rimmed eyes.
"I'm sorry." he says again, quieter.
"Come to bed."
"I can't. I have toー"
"Bed."
"Just let me finish this report, it's due tomorrow and the formatting is fucked and my boss is being a dick about the projections—"
You close his laptop.
He makes a sound like a kicked puppy.
"Hey—"
"No. You're done."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
He looks down at his hands. They are, in fact, shaking. He shoves them under his thighs like that'll hide it.
"I'm fine," he repeats, stubborn, stupid, infuriating.
God, he's such a liar.
He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months. He's running on coffee and cortisol and some deeply pathological need to provide, to protect, to make sure you never want for anything even if it means grinding himself into dust. He does all the cooking. All the cleaning. All the grocery shopping, the bill paying. the appointment scheduling, the car maintenance. He won't let you touch the dishes. He physically removes your hands from the laundry basket. You tried to vacuum once and he looked so genuinely distressed you thought he might cry.
"l just want you to have a good life," he said once, when you confronted him about it. "I want to give you everything. The nice things. The expensive things. You deserve— you deserve so much, and I can't— I have to—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed up. You held him for an hour.
That was six months ago. He's gotten worse since then.
Now he's sitting in his office chair at four in the morning, vibrating with exhaustion and the desperate, delusional belief that if he just works hard enough, he'll finally be worthy of you.
As if he isn't already. As if he hasn't been since the day you met him.
You take his face in your hands.
He freezes.
His eyes go wide and wet and immediately. instantly. all the fight drains out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. His breathing hitches and then slows, and he's looking up at you like you're the sun and he's been living in a cave for a thousand years.
"There you are," you murmur.
He makes a soundーa tiny, broken thing, half sigh, half whimper一and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth.
"Baby," he whispers, and his voice cracks on it.
"I've got you. Come on. We're going to bed."
"But the report—"
"Fuck the report."
He blinks. You never say things this... aggressive.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay."
You take his hand and pull him to his feet. He stumbles. He actually stumbles. Your strong, capable, hyper competent boyfriend can't even stand up straight because he's so depleted. You have to hold him. And when you do, his forehead drops to your shoulder and he just... stays there. Breathing. Just breathing.
"I'm so tired," he whispers, so quiet you almost miss it.
It's the first honest thing he's said all week.
"I know, love."
"l just— I want to give you— want you to have一the necklace, the blue one, I saw you looking at it, and I've been saving, I've almost got enough, l just need to finish this project and then I can—"
"You think I want a necklace?"
"..."
"You think I want anything more than I want you alive?"
He doesn't answer. But his hand clenches in your shirt.
Fuck.
He always have to make you emotional.
"Alright, we're going to bed."
He follows you.
Of course he follows you.
In the bedroom, you sit him down on the edge of the bed. He's still in his work clothes—button down wrinkled, top two buttons undone, tie somewhere lost in the office. He looks up at you with those huge, exhausted eyes, and you can see him trying to figure out what you want, what he should be doing right now to make you happy.
You peel his shirt off. He hold out his arms to help, even now, still trying to make it easier for you. His pants come next, then his boxers.
Such a beautiful man.
Your boyfriend is such a beauty.
So lucky he's going to be your husband.
"Do you trust me?" you ask.
His brow furrows. "Of course I trust you. I trust you more than— more than anything, more than—"
"Then lie down."
He lies down.
"On your stomach."
He rolls over. Hesitates for half a secondー just confusion一and then settles onto his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, hands fisted loosely in the sheets.
You run your hand down his spine.
He start shaking. Full body. Like he's been electrocuted. A tiny, punched out sound escapes his throat, and his back arches into your touch before he can stop it.
"When's the last time you slept?" you ask.
"..Tuesday?"
"It's Friday."
"...Oh."
"Mmhm."
You keep stroking his back, slowy, tracing the knots in his shoulders, the tension that's been there for god knows how long. He's so tight it's like touching hot rock. He's been barely holding himself together and his body is screaming.
You lean down and kiss the back of his neck.
He sobs.
"Shh," you murmur against his skin. "I've got you. Let me take care of you. Just this once. Let me."
"I don't— I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have t一"
"You do everything for me. Let me do this for you."
He's crying now. Quietly, shamefully, face pressed into the pillow so you won't see. His shoulders are shaking and he's trying so hard to be quiet, to not be a burden, to not make this about him—
Fuck, he's such a mess.
Such a beautiful mess.
He's lying there naked and trembling and so vulnerable it gives you butterflies.
"Good boy." you whisper.
He whimpers. Actually whimpers. Like a fucking dog.
You reach for the drawer in the nightstand. The one he never opens because he's too busy taking care of you to even think about sex.
He hears the click of the lube cap and his breath catches.
"Baby—?"
"Shh. You're going to let me do this. You're going to let me take the stress out of you. And then you're going to sleep. Understand?"
"...Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes— yes, I understand— please—"
Please. There it is. The word he never says because he's too busy being the provider, the protector, the one who never needs anything.
You slick your fingers and then your strap一the one you bought specifically for this, for him, because you knew this day was coming, knew he'd eventually run himself into the ground and need someone to pull him back out.
Or maybe you just wanted to fuck him. But that's not important right now.
He's so tight. Damn, he's so tight.
Your first finger slides in and he gasps, back arching, hands fisting in the sheets.
"Breathe," you remind him.
He breathes. Shaky. Wet. Still crying a little.
"You're doing so well."
Another whimper.
You work him open slowly一so slowly. Because he deserves it, deserves gentleness, deserves to be handled like something precious instead of a machine that just runs and runs and runs.
He's making sounds you've never heard from him before. Little broken moans. Desperate, needy sounds. His hips are twitching, pushing back against your fingers, and he's babbling into the pillow.
"please—"
"I love you ughh—"
"Ahh fuck don't stop—"
By the time you're three fingers deep, he's a mess. Tears and pre cum and a flush that goes all the way down his chest. He's stopped trying to be quiet. He's just making noise—open mouthed, broken, gorgeous noise.
"Ready?" you ask.
"Uh-huh?"
He looks confused. So out of it already.
How cute :)
You position yourself behind him. Press in.
He keens.
A high, desperate sound that goes straight to your own core (of course you're wet, but tonight is just about him)一and his whole body goes taut for one second before it melts. All the tension, all the stress, all the months of holding himself together—it all dissolves as you push deeper.
"Oh— oh fuck— baby—"
You start to move. Slow at first. Letting him feel every inch of it, letting him adjust, letting him remember what it feels like to be taken care of instead of taking care of.
His hands are white knuckled in the sheets. His face is pressed into the pillow, mouth open, tears and drool soaking the fabric. He's moaning your name over and over like a prayer.
Y/n. Y/n. Y/n.
So hot.
"You're so good." you tell him, picking up the pace. "You're so good to me. You work so hard. You take such good care of me. Now let me take care of you."
He sobs again. Nodding frantically into the pillow. His hips are pushing back to meet your thrusts now, desperate and uncontrollably, and he's so hard it's leaking onto the sheets but he hasn't even touched himself, hasn't even tried. He's just letting you use him, letting you fuck the stress right out of his body.
"Let go. I've got you."
He comes with a cry of your name. Ropes of it, hot and thick, painting the sheets under him. His whole body clenches around you一around the strap, around this moment, around the feeling of finally, finally letting someone else hold the weight.
You fuck him through it. Gentle. Lovingly. Until the last tremor runs through him and he goes completely limp.
And thenー finallyー he passes out.
Just like that. Face down on the bed, tears still wet on his cheeks, body finally relaxed for the first time in months. He's breathing deep and even, the way he hasn't breathed in weeks, and his pulse is slow and calm under your fingers when you check his wrist.
You clean him up. He doesn't stir. You wipe the tears from his face, the cum from his stomach, the lube from his thighs. You change the sheets around him—carefully, so carefully一and pull the blanket up to his chin.
He murmurs something in his sleep. Your name, maybe. Or l love you. Or both.
You kiss his forehead.
"Sleep well, honey."
He sleeps like a baby.
When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through the windows and the bed is empty and he panics.
What the fuck??
Where are you???
Fuck, he didn't made you breakfast—
He's on his feet before his brain catches up一stumbling, sore in a way that makes him pause for half a second...
Oh, right, last night, oh god—
And then he's moving again, grabbing the first thing he finds (your robe, pink, too small, he doesn't care) and following the smell.
Bacon.
Eggs.
Pancakes.
And you, standing at the stove in your pajamas, flipping pancakes like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He stops in the doorway.
"...Baby?"
You turn around. Smile. The smile that he loves more than anything in his miserable life.
"Morning, sleepyhead. Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready."
"But I— you— I always—"
"Yeah. I know. Today it's me. Sit."
He sits at the kitchen table and watch you cook.
He's confused. He's wearing your robe. He's sore. He doesn't know what the fuck is going on.
You set a plate in front of him. Pancakes. Bacon. Eggs over easy, just the way he likes them. A glass of orange juice. A cup of coffee—JUST ONE— fixed exactly the way he takes it.
He just... stares at it.
"lt's not going to eat itself."
"I—" His voice breaks. He tries again. "You made me breakfast."
"I did."
"But I always make you breakfast."
"I know."
"I'm supposed to— you shouldn't have to—"
You immediately rush to him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. Soft. Sweet. Syrup from your lips sticking to his.
"l love you," you say against his mouth. "l love you and you're running yourself into an early grave and I'm not going to let that happen. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to eat this breakfast. Then you're going to take a shower. Then you're going to tell me what's been going on at work. And then we're going to figure out a schedule that doesn't involve you dying of sleep deprivation. Okay?"
"But the chores—"
"We'll split them."
"The bills—"
"We'll look at them together."
"l just want to give you everything," he whispers, and his eyes are wet again, and god, he's so tired of crying but he can't seem to stop. "You deserve the world. And I can't— I can't give you anything if I stop一"
You kiss him again. Harder this time.
"You are the world, you idiot. You're my world. And I need you alive in it. So eat your pancakes."
He laughs. It's wet and snotty and a little hysterical.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He picks up his fork. Looks at the pancakes—perfectly golden, just the way he taught you一and his heart just skip a beat. "But I'm doing the dishes."
"Fine."
"And tomorrow I'm making you breakfast."
"Obviously."
"And tonight..." He pauses. Cheeks flushing pink. "Tonight can we... can we do that again? The... the thing. With the..."
You raise an eyebrow. Smile.
"You want me to peg you?"
He buries his face in his hands, "Oh my god."
"Is that a yes?"
"...Yes."
"Then sure. But only if you promise to sleep at least six hours every night this week."
"l promise."
"And eat lunch."
"l promise."
"And let me do the vacuuming sometimes."
"...I'll think about it."
You laugh and ruffle his hair and he leans into your touch like a starving man offered bread.
He's still a mess. But he's eating. He's sleeping. He's sitting at the table in your too small pink robe with syrup on his chin and a soreness in his body that's painful in a good way.
And when you sit down across from him with your own plate and your own coffee and your own smile, he looks at you like you're a miracle.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For..." All of it. For not leaving him even when he's disgusting. "Everything."
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how it feels when you're reading a fic and a character you love is mischaracterized so horrendously to the point where it's not even them but everyone in the comments love it
imagine, all the dates you've been going on suddenly cutting you off muttering a small and terrified "sorry uhh i...had something come up" or texting you 'sorry. can't come' or straight up shrieking and sprinting away at the sight of you on the road or in a bar, leaving you with your hand in mid–wave, standing awkwardly
lately you've been feeling like you're being followed. you'd turn around and find nothing. you feel like someone's looking at you through the window of your house, even seeing a shadow forming...but its just the tree and the breeze...
another time when you're on a date, and this douchebag doesn't wanna leave you alone and starts getting all handsy so you have to pry him off and dash towards your home while he whistles from behind for you
and the next day you wake up to a ring on your doorbell and a note stuck on the pavement...
'i don't agree with that annoying guy's ways. ps took care of him'
now obviously a rational part of you was scared thinking who was this man? why does he know this? but honestly you were more relieved over the fact that that guy is not gonna disturb you
an idea strikes you that if he was the guy who's been stalking you without any action, why not put him to work? so you start leaving grocery list on the doorstep on a sticky note before leaving for work and then coming back to a bag full of even medicines you were out of on the kitchen counter
he is this close to becoming your maid. he brings you groceries, midnight snacks, meds, household supplies, sometimes even slipping some money inside the bag. but honestly you can't really complain couse you feel like you're becoming rich now that the 'mystery man' has been helping you...but it can't be that guy whom you've been seeing frequently these days right?
— dottore , NEUVILLETTE , FLINS , varka , NOYYYY , valeriy , CHILDEEEEE , LOHENNN YES , blade (both), ASHVEIL , phainon , toji , gojo , sukuna (i think he'll be the scary) lucifer , mammon (bro's broke how he do dat) , BARBATOS , JADE , FLOYD
note:: obviously pls don't go stalking people you like just talk to them and take a no like a champ. i don't condone this behaviour its satire.
