#POPCORN ARC LETS GO

[the-viewer-anon]

PSPSPSPSPSPS

POPPCORRN!!

NO NO WAIT YOU DONT UNDERSTAND-

outta my way loserrrrrrr

hey guys my names popcorn showvember this is my blog now!!! until the feds find me ofc lmaooo

[presumenothing]

@ lianhua novel anon: just fyi that i saw your ask and yes would love to talk on it when the braincells permit!! (+ probably also when i finish watching, we're on ep36 rn)

…though i did just have unfortunate and highly cursed but not inaccurate thought that at least some of the plot/coherency issue may be familiar from acd holmes to bbclock adaptation issues, i.e. the addition of Big Backstory Plot followed by the shoehorning of said plot into what were mostly standalone cases in the original writing with varying degrees of success

[protagonistscum]

"why do you ship them, they're terrible and toxic for each other!"

[solxamber]

Hi can I have Ignihyde for # 8, fluff or comedy. Thank you!

Anime Boot Camp || Idia Shroud ft. Ortho

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "This is non-negotiable" ; Genre: Fluff with Comedy ;

You should’ve known better. You really should have. But Idia had given you one of those rare, half-excited, half-nervous smiles, and you’d been putty in his hands.

“Sure, Idia,” you’d said with zero hesitation. “I’d love to watch the new season with you.”

A seemingly innocent offer. A simple act of camaraderie. And then, Idia had dropped the bomb.

“Great. We’ll start from season one. It’s non-negotiable.”

Season one?

“Wait—how many seasons are there?” you asked cautiously, trying to keep the panic out of your voice.

Idia adjusted his tablet, the glow highlighting his sinister grin. “Nineteen. Not including the movies, OVAs, or the bonus material. But don’t worry, the filler episodes are only about 35%.”

Your soul left your body.

“I—uh…” you stammered, searching for an escape. “Do we really need to watch everything? I thought we were just watching the new season?”

“You can’t watch season 20 without context!” Idia exclaimed, horrified. “You’d miss all the foreshadowing and character arcs! It’s essential to the viewing experience.”

You looked at him, and there it was: the genuine excitement in his eyes, the rare spark of passion that made him absolutely irresistible. Damn your stupid heart.

“Okay,” you sighed. “Let’s do it. Start from episode one.”

Idia’s face lit up, and if you weren’t already melting, his quiet “Y-you’re the best,” would’ve sealed the deal.

That’s how you found yourself on Idia’s couch, sandwiched between him and Ortho, with snacks piled precariously around you.

“This is the start of a life-changing journey,” Ortho said cheerfully, handing you a soda. “Big Brother has been waiting for someone to share this with forever!”

You glanced at Idia, who was trying to hide his blush behind his hoodie.

“You sure we’re not biting off more than we can chew here?” you asked weakly as the opening theme of season one blasted from the giant screen.

Idia waved you off. “Nah. If we watch at 1.5x speed, skip the ending songs, and only take five-minute breaks every eight episodes, we’ll finish in about four days.”

“Four days?”

“Non-negotiable,” he reminded you smugly, tossing popcorn into his mouth.

By day two, you’d developed Stockholm Syndrome for the characters.

“NO, KAZUTAKA, DON’T DO IT!” you yelled, clutching the blanket you’d stolen from Idia’s bed.

“It’s his tragic backstory arc,” Idia explained, completely unfazed by your emotional outburst. “He has to do it for the narrative payoff in season 14.”

You groaned. “This show is going to kill me.”

“It builds character,” Idia said, smirking.

Meanwhile, Ortho was a model of efficiency, pausing episodes precisely for snack breaks and bringing you hot towels like you were at an anime spa. You were starting to think Ortho might be the MVP of this whole operation.

“Ortho, you’re a saint,” you said as he handed you a cup of tea.

“I just want to support Big Brother’s happiness,” Ortho chirped, beaming.

Idia mumbled something unintelligible and pulled his hoodie tighter.

By day four, you were fully invested.

“THE PLOT TWIST! I KNEW IT!” you screamed, nearly knocking the bowl of chips off your lap.

“Pshh, called it back in episode 47,” Idia muttered, though the gleam in his eyes said he was enjoying this more than he’d admit.

“You did not!” you argued.

“I’ve seen this, like, three times, noob,” he retorted smugly.

Ortho, who had already created a mini shrine for your endurance, clapped in delight. “You’re catching up to Big Brother’s level of dedication!”

When the final credits rolled, you leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “We did it. I can’t believe we actually did it.”

“I can’t believe you survived,” Idia said, looking at you with a mix of awe and amusement.

“Maybe a family sometimes,” you said, stretching, “is just you, your crush, and his technomantic humanoid brother.”

Ortho tilted his head. “Does that mean you’re officially part of the family?”

You froze, glancing at Idia. His face was redder than a lava eel, and he was aggressively pretending to read something on his tablet.

“Well,” you said, smirking. “That depends on your brother.”

Idia groaned, burying his face in his hoodie. “You’re insufferable,” he mumbled.

And yet, when you shifted closer to nudge him playfully, he didn’t pull away.

Masterlist

[slattlicker]

literally so obsessed just thinking about reader streaming with schlatt , just the reader being so down bad and the chat disappointed in her taste, date or host set up or recording content and reader can’t lock in and is just giggly. Bonus points if schlatt returns the same energy or just mentions being into reader and reader full on cheers into her mic and bangs the table cause same. HE JUST LOOKS SO GOOD IM SICK OF IT. 😭🙏

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * a gamble for devotion ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: one mic, one camera, one man who won’t shut up—and a chat that’s watching you lose composure in real time. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: based on an ask that had me gigglinggggg...i luv a good streamer!au. shoutout to the girlies who fell for schlatt after seeing him on love or host. he knew what he was doing <3 and i'd like to just say here, that I am sorry if this is not fully accurate, i'm going based on my memory of the love or host streams, and that was a while ago.

warnings: streamer-style flirting, public humiliation via handsome man, light threats of chat bans, and someone absolutely folding live on mic.

enjoy! (≧∀≦)人(≧∀≦)♡

✧✧✧

“okay, chat—we’re gonna take a short intermission while our contestants get ready for the next round.”

you click the ‘brb’ screen and kill the voice channels, leaning back in your chair like your spine just gave up. there’s a water bottle in your hand, but you haven’t even unscrewed the cap. you just sit there, blinking.

“you good?” austin asks in your ear, voice dry and amused.

you groan.

“they’re all actually trying, austin. like… trying trying.”

“that’s the point.”

“no, the point was content. the point was funny flirt banter and bit farming. not—” you wave vaguely at your monitor, “—people saying they could see a future with me.”

he laughs.

“so what i’m hearing is…you’re flustered.”

“no, you’re hearing i didn’t expect them to be hot and earnest. it’s gross.”

austin hums. “so, who are your top picks so far?”

you pause. “i mean… miles is sweet. super funny. kinda dry. i like that.”

“yeah, he’s a fan favorite.”

“and then there’s remy. he said he’d fly me out to see a terrible movie and split popcorn in silence.”

“god, he’s good.”

“right? i felt that shit in my soul.”

austin’s quiet for a second.

“anyone else?”

you hesitate.

your mind flits to someone who isn’t even in the bracket. someone who could’ve been, if he ever answered his fucking texts. someone who said “dating shows are cringe” and “if you ever made me do one, i’d sabotage it on purpose.”

you shake your head.

“nope. that’s it.”

you glance at the clock. just a couple more rounds and this whole thing will be wrapped. maybe you’ll do a silly little post-show breakdown stream. a “where are they now?” style q&a.

and then you hear it.

discord ping.

you freeze.

your brain registers a name. a voice channel entry. one that was not supposed to happen.

“what’s up, sweetheart?”

your blood leaves your body.

the camera overlay hiccups. a new box opens. a familiar face slides into frame—lazy grin, headset slightly askew, hoodie zipped halfway, mutton chops fully operational.

schlatt.

live. in your show. on your stream.

you don’t move.

he leans forward, resting his chin on one hand like this is casual.

“didn’t think i’d miss your big love confession stream, did you?”

your soul exits through your mouth.

“i—what—no—how—”

austin is cackling. you can hear him wheezing off-mic.

“schlatt, what the fuck.”

“production let me in.” he shrugs. “or maybe i threatened someone. who’s to say?”

you slam your water bottle down.

“you are not a contestant!”

“well,” he says, adjusting his mic with the smuggest little tilt of his head, “you haven’t eliminated me yet.”

chat is frothing at the mouth.

chat:

“THE CHOPS HAVE ENTERED THE ARENA” “not him crashing her emotional arc” “we lost her. gg boys.” “he’s not even playing and WE ALREADY KNOW HE'S GOING TO WIN”

“schlatt—no. i—no. you don’t get to—”

“you look good tonight,” he says suddenly, cutting you off. “cute little headset. soft lighting. whole date night vibe goin’.”

“that’s because i’m on a date. with twitch.”

“lucky twitch.”

you let out an actual scream.

austin’s back in your ear, smug as hell. “should we add him to the bracket?”

“no.”

“too late,” he says, already typing. “production loves him.”

“AUSTIN, YOU ARE PRODUCTION!!”

schlatt grins wider. “told you.”

your heart is going feral. your hands are shaking.

and all you can think—over the roaring in your ears and the chaos in chat—is: he didn’t come here for content.

he came here to make things harder on you.

✧✧✧

“ladies and gentlemen,” austin announces, voice already smug, “we have a last-minute addition to the bracket.”

“this is so illegal,” you mutter.

“it’s called dynamic programming.”

“it’s called chaos.”

austin ignores you. “chat, please welcome our tenth contestant—he’s loud, he’s tall, he owns one pair of jeans—it’s schlatt.”

the camera cuts to him. he hasn’t moved. just blinks once, nods slightly, and goes:

“i chose love, y/n.”

you flinch.

“you’re—you’re supposed to wait to reveal that—” you stammer.

“oops.”

“you can’t just—”

“too late, sweetheart,” he says, smirking. “i already made my choice. and i think...it's the best one i'll ever make.”

your mic picks up the softest, tiniest whimper.

chat loses their mind at your reaction.

chat:

“HE SAID HE CHOSE LOVE???” “WHATTTT” “SHE’S GONNA EXPLODE” “i would honestly quit if i were a guy atp look at her”

✧✧✧

you try your best to regain control of the stream.

you’re down to your final four: miles, elijah, remy, and… unfortunately… schlatt.

miles goes first. he’s sweet. charming in a sort of awkward way. his hair’s fluffed up like he styled it for this. he leans forward with a crooked grin and says,

“if i had one day with you, i’d probably take you somewhere quiet. museum maybe? or that weird little bookstore you tweeted about once. and then we’d go for coffee, or ice cream, or whatever you were in the mood for. nothing huge—just time. just us.”

it’s so earnest it makes you blink.

“aw… that’s really cute,” you manage.

“thanks,” he says, glancing down. “i mean it.”

chat:

“MILES SUPREMACY” “NOT HIM KNOWING ABT HER FAV BOOKSTORE 😭” “BRO IS SWEATING FOR HER”

elijah goes next. still flustered from earlier interruptions by schlatt, but rallying himself.

“i’d fly you out,” he says again, with a little shrug. “rent a cabin or something. we’d cook together. or try to. probably burn everything. and then we’d watch horror movies and pretend not to be scared.”

you smile despite yourself.

“do i strike you as a horror movie girl?”

“nah,” he grins. “you’d talk over the movie explaining how they did everything behind the scenes. but i’d let you...hearing your voice is way better than watching any movie.”

chat melts.

“HE GETS HER 😭” “SHE’S GIGGLING AGAIN” “OKAY ELIJAH WAIT A MINUTE”

remy’s the wildcard. he doesn’t smile much. soft-spoken. he's kind of...intense.

“i think you’d hate a big gesture,” he says quietly. “you’d think it was fake. staged. so i’d keep it real. just show up at your door with something personalized—like your favorite gas station snacks. and i wouldn’t say anything. just hand it over. and stay there...be there with you.”

you go still.

it’s so specific. so simple. it feels like he peeled something back just enough to make you feel it.

“…damn,” you whisper.

“yeah...i got you, baby.”

chat is sobbing.

chat:

“THIS IS A NETFLIX DRAMA” “NOT HIM BEING THE QUIET KING” “i’m voting remy idc if schlatt’s hot”

and then it’s schlatt’s turn.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t sit up. doesn’t prep a speech.

he just looks at the camera, cocks his head a little, and says,

“i’d come over. probably unannounced. you’d act annoyed, but you’d let me in.”

you swallow.

“i’d sit on your couch. bring some dumb snack that i know you like...but you like a ton of them, so i'd just bring all of them. then i'd bring over some liquor you haven't tried, and you’d pretend to hate it, but you’d drink half of it anyway...we could share.”

your fingers curl around your pen.

“we wouldn’t talk about what we are. labels...nah. we’d just… exist. same room. same energy. tension, like how there is now. i’d take one look at you and know you had a shit day. and you’d say you’re fine. and i’d say i know you better than that.

“schlatt,” you murmur.

he shrugs.

“and when you finally lean your head on my shoulder and sigh like that,”—he mimics it perfectly—“i’d kiss you. real soft. like you’ve already been mine. i'll show you what forever feels like, y/n.”

you say nothing.

no one says anything.

even chat is silent for a beat. just hearts.

then—

chat:

“OH MY GOD.” “HE’S CHEATING. THAT’S CHEATING.” “REMYYYYY NOOOOO” “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘LIKE YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN MINE’???” “SOMEONE GRAB HER SHE’S FLOATING”

you stare at the camera.

“i hate you.”

“nah,” he smiles. “you hate how much you like me.”

and the worst part is—

he’s right.

✧✧✧

“okay,” you say, voice shaky, hand barely steady on your mouse, “it’s time.”

your overlay flashes. the final four line up in little rectangles beneath your cam. miles. elijah. remy. schlatt.

chat:

“SWEATING.” “OH GOD NOT LIKE THIS” “REMEMBER WHAT SCHLATT SAIDDDDDD” “WHO’S GETTING HOSTED I CAN’T WATCH”

austin clears his throat dramatically.

“all right, y/n—it’s your show. who are you eliminating first?”

you close your eyes for a second.

then:

.

.

.

“miles.”

his camera window dims.

“shit,” he says, laughing, rubbing the back of his neck. “fair.”

“you’re sweet,” you say honestly. “and thoughtful. and i think someone’s gonna love that bookstore date idea. but... it doesn’t feel like us.”

“yeah. i get that.” he smiles. “thanks for not clowning on me.”

chat:

“NOOOO MILES” “HE TOOK IT SO WELL” “A SOFT KING TILL THE END”

austin clicks something on the backend. your screen shifts.

“and now,” he says, grinning, “let’s reveal what miles picked.”

miles sits up a little straighter.

the card flips.

HOST.

you scream. immediately.

“WHAT—!”

“WHAT?!” he echoes. “i thought i had NO CHANCE—”

“YOU MENTIONED MY FAVORITE BOOKSTORE! YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD—”

“i panicked! it's one of the first things that come up when i looked up your username!”

austin is howling.

chat:

“MILES YOU SNAKE 💔” “HE PLAYED THE LONG CON” “HOWWWW I WAS ROOTING FOR THEM”

you collapse into your chair, laughing and a little horrified.

“okay. okay. three left.”

you look at their cams.

remy’s face is unreadable. elijah’s bouncing his knee. schlatt is… smirking. like he already knows the ending.

“my next elimination,” you say slowly, “is…”

.

.

.

“…elijah.”

his smile falters. just a little.

“damn,” he says. “knew that horror movie line was a gamble.”

“it was really good,” you say, sincere. “and i hope someone says it back to you and means it. because you’re great. really.”

“yeah. thanks.” he nods, and then gives you a little wink. “you’re kind of a menace, though.”

“i’m...aware.”

chat:

“HE’S SMILING THROUGH THE PAIN 😭” “ELIJAH WE LOVED YOU KING” “OKAY WHO VOTED HOST LET’S FIND OUT”

austin hits the reveal.

card flips.

LOVE.

you blink. “wait—”

“i wasn’t faking,” elijah says, shrugging. “maybe next time.”

your jaw drops. you look at austin, completely shocked.

“you’re telling me i just eliminated someone who actually wanted me???”

“yep.”

“and miles didn’t?!”

“yep.”

“this game sucks.”

chat:

“ELIJAH BABY NOOOO” “MILES WAS THE RED HERRING” “Y/N LITERALLY FUMBLED OUR KING” “AND NOW IT’S DOWN TO TWO”

you look between the remaining cams.

remy. schlatt.

your heart’s in your throat.

“this is insane,” you mutter.

austin leans in like a game show host. “so. who’s it gonna be?”

you stare at the screen for a long, long moment.

and then:

“…remy.”

remy’s expression doesn’t change. not at first.

then he nods. slowly.

“figured.”

“i’m sorry,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re—god, you’re so genuine. and cool. and intense in a way that kind of scared me, but in a good way. but... my heart’s somewhere else.”

he gives a little shrug.

“then go after it.”

you’re about to thank him again—until austin hits the card reveal.

HOST.

you nearly fall out of your chair.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE.”

remy finally cracks a smile.

“was curious if i could make you pick me.”

“YOU WERE MY FAVORITE, REMY?! I CALLED YOU A NETFLIX DRAMA.”

“well, now you’re in the season finale of one.”

chat:

“HE HOSTED...all men do is eat hot chip AND LIEEE” “REMYYYYYYY NOOOOOOOO” “Y/N IS DOWN BAD AND BETRAYED” “IT’S ALL UP TO SCHLATT”

you turn to your last camera.

schlatt hasn’t moved.

he’s just watching you. still leaning back. still calm.

you take a breath.

“you said that you picked love right away.”

“i did.”

“you’re sure that wasn’t just you being cocky? and trying to trick me?”

“i’m always cocky...and it's up to you if you don't trust me."

you glare. “that’s not an answer.”

he sits forward. finally. eyes locked with yours.

“you want the real answer?”

you nod. look at your screen at the pixels that make up his face.

“yeah. i picked love. because i already knew how i felt about you.”

your stomach flips.

austin’s mouse hovers over the card.

“wanna see the official choice?” he asks.

you don’t even look away from schlatt.

“…i believe him.”

chat:

“SHE BELIEVES HIM” “NO CARD REVEAL??????” “SCHLATT LOVE ARC CONFIRMED” “I’M SOBBING”

you smile—small, helpless.

“i fucking hate love or host.”

schlatt grins.

“but you love me. and you'll love me either way.”

"let's get these lovebirds together one last time, before the final reveal!" austin announces with his best game-show host voice.

the overlays vanish.

chat is gone.

you blink and suddenly it’s just you.

him.

and a blank black backdrop with both your cams up top. no emojis. no alerts. just your names in little white text.

you: y/n him: jschlatt

you breathe. shakily. you can hear your own heartbeat through your headset.

“they kicked everyone else out,” he says.

his camera quality’s too good. he’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, rings glinting under LED glow. he looks obnoxiously smug.

“just us now.”

you try to laugh but it comes out half-sigh. “this is so weird.”

“yeah. private moment in front of, what, two million vod viewers?”

“shut up,” you groan.

“you picked me,” he says, all too casually. "knew you would. those other guys..."

he blows a low whistle, rolling his eyes.

“...they wanted a highlight reel. i wanted you.”

you go quiet. it lands heavier than you expect it to. no teasing. no chat or twitch notifications to buffer the silence. just him, looking straight at you, steady as hell.

“schlatt…”

“nah, lemme finish.”

he leans forward now—forearms resting on the desk, chain glinting under the soft LED lighting. his mic picks up the quiet scrape of it.

“look, i knew what this was. austin’s little, weird show. twitch content. supposed to be funny. dramatic. a little messy.”

he pauses. smirks, but it’s softer now.

“but the second i saw you on that screen, all dressed up and pretending like you didn’t already know who you wanted?” he shrugs. “i got serious.”

you’re still. swallowing past the ache in your throat.

“i didn’t come here to win, sweetheart. i came ‘cause it’s been driving me crazy—watching every other guy try and fail to figure you out. trying to flirt with someone i’ve been falling for since the first time i saw you stream, and realized it got recommended to me because you were using MY spotify playlist.”

you let out a shaky laugh. “it was not. we just happen to have very similar taste if you play our stream songs on shuffle.”

he laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“nah. you used it.”

you raise a brow. “prove it.”

“january 3rd, 2:13 a.m. your stream title was literally, ‘let's talk real vs fictional men—schlattcore edition.’”

your jaw drops.

“THAT WAS PRIVATE!”

“it was public. twitch dot tv slash your name. i was THERE.”

you fling your hands up, speechless. he’s still laughing, his smile tugging crooked and boyish now, all smug and warm.

“you’ve been stalking me, schlatt.”

“i’ve been listening.” he leans in, tone dropping low. “big difference.”

and god, the way he says it. smooth. serious. the kind of voice that slips past your headphones and settles under your skin.

you look away before your cheeks betray you again. he sees it anyway.

“you’re blushing,” he says, grinning.

“you’re annoying.”

“you like annoying.”

you huff. and then softer:

“i like you.”

he goes quiet.

for the first time in the call, he’s the one caught off guard. not a smirk in sight. his eyes soften like you just pulled the rug out from under him.

“…say it again for me?”

you bite your lip.

“…i like you.”

a beat.

“god,” he breathes, tipping back in his chair. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“...because you picked host?”

“yeah,” he says again, voice like gravel now.

you blink. “you’re joking."

his gaze drops. to the desk. the mic. anywhere but you. and it’s the first time he looks unsure. the cocky facade, the flirting, all of it—slipping at the seams.

“i just—i didn’t know if you’d actually pick me. i didn’t think you’d…say that. not to me.”

your chest tightens. “but you came on the show.”

“for content. that’s what i told myself. ‘crash it. flirt. make chat laugh.’”

he meets your eyes again.

“but then you started flirting with all these other guys, but you rejected them all for me, said you liked me. fuck, y/n...i'm so sorry.”

you open your mouth—right as the screen flashes.

BREAKOUT ROOM ENDED.

you’re back in the main stream layout.

the chat is already moving at the speed of light.

chat:

“WHAT WAS THAT???” “DID HE PICK HOST??? IS HE KIDDING???” “HE LOOKED GUILTY ASF HELP” “WHERE’S AUSTIN. AUSTIN DO SOMETHING”

austin’s voice crackles back in.

“well! that was certainly something…”

you’re frozen.

he’s still in the call. eyes locked on yours, but distant. withdrawn. unreadable now.

“…over two million people tuned in today,” austin continues. “making this one of the biggest ‘love or host’ finales we’ve ever hosted.”

you barely register it. the ringing in your ears is worse than stream audio delay. worse than your heartbeat.

austin’s grinning, voice smooth. teasing.

“but none of that matters… if love doesn’t win.”

he pauses.

then clicks.

the final card flips.

jschlatt chose...

.

.

.

.

.

LOVE.

the screen flashes red and gold.

the chat erupts.

chat:

“HE CHOSE LOVE HE CHOSE LOVE HE CHOSE LOVE” “IM SOBBINGGGGGGG” "fucking liarrrrr !!!!!!!!" “WHY DID HE PLAY WIT HER HEART THO 💔” “this was literally a movie wtf”

you don’t move. can’t. you just sit there, blinking at the screen, lips parted like the words are buffering behind your teeth.

then, faintly:

“you asshole.”

schlatt flinches—visibly—and then starts laughing. full-bodied, stupid, breathless laughing. he doubles over in his chair, chain clinking, the mic barely picking up the sound over your mic:

“YOU MADE ME THINK YOU PICKED HOST—ON LIVE??”

your voice is shaking. not from tears (yet), but from pure, overwhelmed, rage-laced joy.

“YOU—YOU GASLIT ME IN FRONT OF TWO MILLION PEOPLE—”

“i panicked!!” he howls, wiping his eye. “you said you liked me! i blacked out!”

chat is losing its mind, a sea of caps-lock.

chat:

“BRO LOVEBOMBED THEN GASLIT” “GIRL STAND UP 😭😭😭” “hello youtube” “WHAT IS THIS HBO???”

austin’s in the corner wheezing. you don’t even think he knows what to say. you don’t either. you’re too busy putting your face in your hands and screaming into your mic.

“i cannot believe you did that to me,” you whimper.

“you picked me,” schlatt says again, and you can hear it—how close he is to grinning like an idiot again. “you like me.”

you peek through your fingers.

“chat,” you say. “this is my villain origin story.”

chat:

“AS YOU SHOULD QUEEN” “nah that’s ur HUSBAND be so fr rn” “ I SHIP IT. I’M DELUSIONAL. I’M ALREADY DRAWING FANART.” "this shi is literally so fake and scripted tbh" "wait what happebned to elijah"

schlatt leans into his mic, trying to look calm.

“can i fly you out?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“no.”

he makes a noise—somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “what? why not?”

“you bullied me.”

“i love you.”

“YOU MADE ME CRY ON STREAM.”

“and i’ll kiss you ‘til you forget the entire chat spamming Ls.”

you raise an eyebrow. "no they aren't."

"well, now that i said that, they are."

“schlatt!”

he just grins wider, folding his arms like he didn’t just throw a molotov into your frontal cortex.

“come on, sweetheart. i got frequent flyer miles and emotional damage. let me treat you.”

you smack your desk. “OH MY GOD—”

“say yes and i’ll wear the suit. that one.”

"the..."

"yeah. the one all the actors you ranked S-tier were coincidentally wearing. i may have, pulled some strings...but i can't write it off my taxes unless we make content together..."

your mic peaks.

your voice cracks.

you yell directly into it: “CHAT I CAN’T DO THIS HE LOOKS TOO GOOD IN NAVY!”

chat:

"girl bffr we all wanna see yall matching" “NOT THE SUIT. ANYTHING BUT THE SUIT” “i’m so embarrassed for her rn and also same” "FOLD FOLD FOLD FOLD"

you slap your forehead. "i'm going to block you."

"no you're not."

"i'm going to mute you."

"then how are you gonna hear me whisper 'you look pretty even when you're mad'?"

your chair squeaks from how hard you roll back.

"NOPE. NOPE. MODS, BAN HIM. BAN HIM FROM MY LIFE."

“you picked me, sweetheart. i’m legally yours now. according to our sponsors at cash app.”

you groan. loud. dramatic. half-muffled by your sleeve.

“i hate you.”

“nah. you hate how much you like me.”

chat:

“SOMEONE GRAB HER SHE’S MELTING” “SHE’S SMILING. SHE’S SO GONE.” “I WANT A LOVE LIKE THIS BUT WITH LESS PUBLIC HUMILIATION”

you sit up, barely holding back a grin.

“…one stream. one collab. and that’s it.”

“sure,” he says. “we’ll call it that.”

you narrow your eyes. “what does that mean.”

he reaches off-screen.

brings something into frame.

first—a single boarding pass.

your city. your airport. departure: tomorrow.

you blink.

“schlatt.”

his voice is softer now. lower. like you’re the only one still in the room.

“you said no when i asked to fly you out. so i’m coming to you.”

chat:

“HELLO????” “ROMCOM TWITCH EDITION.” “omg well that airport is gonna be packed tomorrow”

“you’re serious,” you breathe.

“completely,” he says, and then—he reaches off-screen again.

and pulls out two more tickets.

international.

first class.

japan.

your name’s already on one of them.

your hand flies to your mouth.

“you told chat on your birthday stream you’ve never been,” he murmurs. “said it’s your dream trip. i’ve been. i know the spots. figured we could go together.”

you’re fully speechless.

chat:

“I’M CRYING INTO MY MONITOR” “PLS. HE BOUGHT HER A DREAM TRIP” “TAX WRITE-OFF MY ASS HE’S SO GONE FOR HER”

“this is a content trip and a date,” he adds, like it softens the blow. “if you agree to come, you have to hold the camera and kiss me once per vlog though.”

you choke. “schlatt.”

he grins.

“say yes.”

you’re laughing now, bright and breathless and so clearly doomed.

“…what do i even pack?”

he leans in. slow. smug. voice warm and low and loaded.

“not much.”

you blink. “what?”

he smirks. “i’ll help when i get there.”

a beat.

“…help you take it all off.”

you gasp.

chat:

“HE SAID WHAT HE SAIDDDD” “IM SWEATING IN MY GAMER CHAIR” “MA’AM YOU NEED TO TURN OFF THE STREAM RIGHT NOW” “NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN (me)”

your jaw drops. your whole soul leaves your body.

“schlatt!”

“what?” he shrugs, unbothered. “it’s a content trip.”

“you’re sick.”

“and you,” he says, eyes dark and soft and dangerous, “are gonna let me ruin you in three time zones.”

you SCREAM.

then slam your desk.

“MODS END STREAM. CHAT CLOSE YOUR EYES. I’M REPORTING HIM TO HR—”

“no takebacks, sugar lips,” he purrs.

click.

his cam goes dark.

you sit there in stunned silence, chat pinging in your ears.

then quietly:

“…i fucking hate love or host.”

you reach for the end stream button. offer a stupid smile to the camera, and wave to chat.

“...i gotta go buy a suitcase.”

stream ended.

chat:

"OMG OMGGGG" "heyyyy I just got here what's happening" "I WAS HERE I WAS HERE" "HI FROM JAPAN !!!" "cash app sponsor me pls"

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Synopsis: You work the circus — painted smile, broken jokes, the same old balloon dogs for kids who’ll forget you by sunset. Life drags in loops until she shows up: a runaway sleeping behind the generator, sharp-tongued and impossible to ignore.

Word Count: 8,129

Giselle X Male Reader

“…There we go!” you grin, sweat sticking to your clown makeup as you twist the final knot.

“Here’s your dog balloon, kiddo”

“Wow! Thank youuuu, clown guy!” the little girl squeals, eyes wide with joy.

“You’re very welcome! Enjoy the rest of the circus,” you say with a rehearsed cheer, waving her off before your smile fades the second she’s gone.

You sigh, lips still painted into a happy arc. Behind the makeup, you feel like static — loud, drained, hollow.

“Hey, Y/N. You’re on break,” someone mutters, a staff member passing by without so much as eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply flatly.

You walk the back path of the amusement park, dodging busted popcorn bags and loose bolts on the wooden planks. You buy a sandwich, sit alone in the backstage corner — half-lit, half-forgotten — where the scent of either elephant or lion shit clings to the air like punishment.

No one sits with you. No one ever does.

You take one bite.

“Hey, Y/N,” your boss says, head poking through the rusted door. “Break’s over. Get back to work.”

“What? I just sat down,” you protest, sandwich still cradled in your hands, barely touched.

“It’s either work or get out of here.”

You stare at him for a second, tired. Not angry. Just… done.

“Alright,” you say, voice low. You shove the sandwich into your bag and toss it into your locker.

Then under your breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear:

“This life’s getting fucking repetitive. I should’ve studied. Left this country already.”

You’re out front again.

The sun is blistering, your makeup is smudging, and for some cosmic reason, every kid only wants a dog balloon.

Another one walks up. Big eyes. Popsicle stain on his chin.

“Hey kid, wanna balloon that never dies?” you say with fake enthusiasm.

He squints at you. “Isn’t a balloon already dead?”

You blink.

“…But if you believe it’s alive, it will be,” you say, desperation creeping into your smile like a crack in glass.

“Eh. Nah. Weirdo,” the kid shrugs and turns away.

Something in your brain snaps. Just a little.

“Listen here, kid,” you call out, pointing your squeaky-gloved finger like a curse. “One day, you’re gonna realize life isn’t just games and snacks. One day, you’ll crawl for scraps just to survive. And guess what? Balloons don’t help.”

The kid stares.

You diThen he starts crying.

“Hey! Have some class!” the parents bark, rushing over. “You can’t speak to children like that!”

You don’t even blink.

“Fuck it, Fuck you.”

Gasps ripple. The mother covers the child’s ears.

You let the balloon float into the sky and walk off — slow, deliberate, like a man set on fire but too tired to run.

Not even an hour passes before your boss approaches, sunglasses still on, clipboard under his arm.

“Office. Now.”

You don’t argue. You expected this.

You follow him through the faded hallway — past the peeling posters and the rusted lockers — until you’re inside the cluttered manager’s office. He motions for you to sit.

“Look, Y/N…” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can’t keep defending you.”

You stay quiet. Your clown makeup’s half gone. Sweat and shame do the rest.

“Badmouthing a kid? Swearing in front of the crowd? You’re not just some random worker — you’re part of the face of this park. I want to keep you, I really do, but you’re ruining the image.”

Still, you say nothing.

He leans forward, voice softening, like he’s doing you a favor.

“My brother’s got a packing company in Valenzuela. Maybe you could—”

A staff member interrupts, knocking halfway through the door.

“Uh—sir? There’s… a girl. Sleeping next to the generator behind Tent Three.”

Your boss groans. Looks at you.

“You wanna keep your job, right?”

You nod. Silently. Clown makeup smudged, uniform wrinkled.

“Then go handle it. Please.”

You don’t say much. Just:

“Alright.”

And you leave the office — unaware that behind the generator, your whole world is about to shift.

The sun’s already starting to bleed out of the sky when you get there — past the edge of Tent Three, behind the stacked crates and electrical cables, where the grass turns to gravel and the only sound is the low hum of the generator.

And there she is.

Curled up on the ground. Hoodie pulled over her head. Face hidden. A duffel bag under her arm like a makeshift pillow. She doesn’t flinch when you approach. Doesn’t even pretend she isn’t trespassing.

You clear your throat.

“Ma’am. You can’t stay here.”

No response. Just a long pause — then a low voice muffled by her sleeve:

“Do I look like I care?”

Not exactly what you expected.

“This is private property. If security finds you, they’ll call someone.”

She lifts her head slowly — and that’s the first time you see her face. Dirt-smudged cheek. Faint bruising under one eye. She’s young. But not helpless.

“Then why didn’t you call them?”

Her eyes narrow, like she’s testing you. Measuring.

“I’m not security. I’m a clown.”

She huffs, a half-scoff, half-laugh.

“Figures.”

You gesture to the generator.

“It’s not safe back here. You could get electrocuted. Or crushed if a crate tips.”

“So leave me alone before one of those things happens. Win-win.”

Her tone — bitter but exhausted — sounds familiar.

“What’s your name?”

She looks away.

“Giselle.”

It sounds made up. But you don’t push.

“Alright, Giselle. You can’t sleep here. You’ll get kicked out. Hard.”

”…So what now? You gonna throw me out yourself, clown boy?”

You glance over your shoulder. No one’s watching.

“Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got ten minutes before someone comes looking. And you look like you haven’t eaten in longer than that.”

She studies you for a second — like she doesn’t know if you’re a threat or a joke.

Then finally, she stands. Slinging the bag over her shoulder.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

And you both walk off — not knowing that ten minutes is going to stretch into something far more complicated

You lead her to the far edge of the crew lot — behind the costume trailer, where no one looks unless they’re sneaking a cigarette or hiding from their shift. The wind smells like burnt oil, sawdust, and melted sugar.

She drops onto an overturned crate like she’s sat here before in some past life.

You sit across from her, back against the trailer wall. You reach into your coat pocket, pull out a bent cigarette, and light it with a practiced flick. The smoke curls around your clown makeup, half-smudged from the heat.

She watches you for a second.

You pull out your half-eaten sandwich — still wrapped in greasy paper, squashed and a little warm — and hand it to her without looking.

She hesitates.

“You sure?”

“Wasn’t gonna finish it anyway.”

She takes it. Peels back the wrapper like it might bite her. Then she eats — slow at first, then like she hasn’t in days.

You take a drag. The smoke sits in your lungs like a secret you’ve forgotten how to share.

“You always eat alone back here?”

“Better than with people I hate.”

She nods. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

“Same.”

For a while, there’s only the sound of the generator humming. The faint clatter of metal. Distant laughter from a ride still spinning even though nobody’s really enjoying it anymore.

“You’re not gonna ask why I’m here?”

You ash your cigarette onto the gravel beside your boot.

“You’re here. That’s enough for now.”

She glances at you again — brief, unreadable — then goes back to eating.

You take one last drag, flick the cigarette away, and let your head rest back against the metal trailer wall.

The sky is fading to purple now, and the circus lights are starting to buzz back on. But back here, in the shadows, it feels like you’ve both slipped out of time.

And for the first time today, no one’s pretending to smile

She finishes the last bite in silence. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Doesn’t thank you — not directly. Just stands up, pulling her hoodie over her head again.

You don’t stop her. You don’t ask where she’s going.

She slings the duffel bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for the food..”

You nod once. Like that’s all there is.

She walks off without looking back. Disappears behind the rows of trailers, swallowed up by the low light and laughter and the plastic shimmer of the midway.

You stay for a minute longer. Then push yourself up. Brush dust off your pants. And head back inside.

The office light’s still on.

Your boss doesn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“Handled?”

“Yeah.”

“She gone?”

“I got rid of her. Do I have my job back?”

He scribbles something, nods absently.

“Don’t make me regret it, Y/N.”

You don’t answer. Just walk out.

But all the way back to your locker, you keep thinking about how she didn’t look back.

And how that shouldn’t bother you.

But it does

You walk home in silence.

The city buzzes in the distance — neon signs flickering above convenience stores, taxi’s sputtering past, dogs barking at ghosts. The lights of the circus fade behind you, replaced by the pale yellow of broken street lamps.

You didn’t even notice someone on the street as you walked up — a child tugging at his father’s sleeve, pointing.

“Why’s the clown sad, Dad?”

The father didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

But the question sticks to you like humidity.

And you sit there, in silence, thinking:

You don’t know how to answer it either.

You reach your apartment — fourth floor, no elevator. Paint peeling from the walls like it’s trying to escape too.

Taped to your door is a note in permanent marker, your landlord’s familiar handwriting:

“RENT’S DUE. LAST CHANCE.”

You crumple it in your hand without reading it twice.

Inside, it’s worse. Dim, cramped, hot. No aircon. The fan ticks like a dying clock.

You check the fridge: a half-drunk bottle of water. One apple.

That’s it.

You don’t bother changing. Don’t wash up. You’re still in your costume. Clown makeup smudged, drying around your jaw, flaking in the corners of your eyes. You sit down at the edge of your mattress on the floor, staring at the wall.

You sit there, unmoving. The silence in the apartment isn’t peaceful — it’s loud, like it’s trying to fill in for the life that used to be here.

The fan ticks.

The fridge hums.

Nothing else breathes.

You take the apple from the counter. It’s soft. Almost bruised. You don’t eat it. Just roll it between your hands, staring at it like it might give you a reason to still be doing this.

And then — for no real reason — it comes back.

A memory.

Your family’s old kitchen. Warm lights. The smell of garlic and fried egg.

Your mother laughing at her own jokes, trying to teach your dad how to dance between the sink and stove.

Your little sister stealing the last piece of longganisa when no one’s looking.

You, sitting at the table — full, happy, whole.

“Y/N, do your clown impression!”

You puff your cheeks, fall dramatically onto the floor.

They laugh. Your mom claps.

You’re not wearing makeup then. But you’re smiling.

You blink.

The apple’s still in your hand.

The room is dark again.

No laughter. No food. Just peeling walls and silence.

You set the apple back on the table and lie down without a blanket. Still in costume. Still in makeup.

Somewhere outside, fireworks go off — cheap ones from the night carnival.

You don’t look.

You just close your eyes, wondering if maybe you were happiest back when you were pretending for fun — not survival.

The next morning, you wake up sore.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Don’t remember dreaming, either.

Just the fan spinning above you like a lazy planet, and the dried streaks of makeup still stuck to your face.

You wash up, barely. Throw your costume back on. Ride the jeep back to the edge of the lot where the tents rise like tired monsters. You clock in without a word. No one greets you. You don’t expect them to.

By noon, you’re back at the front of the crowd — red nose on, oversized shoes squeaking against the wooden platform, hands twisting balloon dogs for children who all ask for the same damn thing.

“Wow! How did you make that disappear, mister clown?”

“Magic,” you say, palming the coin that’s obviously hidden under your sleeve.

The kid squints.

“I saw that.”

“Then you’re very smart,” you reply with your painted-on grin. “Now go tell your parents before they forget you exist.”

You spin another balloon, hand it off, and wave goodbye like you care. You don’t.

Same tricks. Same forced laughter. Same sun stabbing you in the eyes.

By the time your break rolls around, you’re back in your usual spot — the dusty patch behind the costume trailer, half in shadow, half in boredom. You light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the dry air like a ghost you forgot to bury.

You unwrap a sandwich that tastes like regret. Again.

Somewhere nearby, two crew members are arguing loud enough for the whole lot to hear.

“You think I didn’t know? You were sleeping with him while we were still together!”

“We were on a break!”

“That was yesterday!”

You watch them out of the corner of your eye, completely uninterested.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Flick your ash to the ground.

“Couldn’t be me,” you mutter.

And then you see her.

Just barely — from across the lot.

Sitting under the bleachers, hood up again. Same duffel bag beside her.

Like she never left.

She’s there.

You spot her under the bleachers, hoodie pulled low, head down, like she’s trying not to be noticed — or maybe just doesn’t care if she is. Same duffel bag. Same chipped nail polish on her fingers.

Like she never left.

You stare for half a second.

Then look away.

You’ve got enough shit on your plate. You’re behind on rent. You’ve got clown shoes that don’t even fit right. You’ve got three more hours of balloon dogs and fake magic and a boss that treats you like a cracked prop.

You finish your cigarette. Toss the butt into the gravel. Wipe the grease off your fingers and push yourself up.

Back to work.

The tent groans in the heat. Kids scream in delight over rigged games and melting snow cones. Someone nearly trips over a loose extension cord and blames you for it. A mom yells because her kid didn’t get a blue balloon. You apologize with a voice you don’t recognize anymore.

It’s late afternoon when you see her again.

You’re dragging a box of balloons back toward storage when a flash of motion catches your eye near the food tent. Quick hands. Hoodie. Duffel bag.

Giselle.

She moves like she’s done it before — snatching a half-eaten corndog, a wrapped sandwich off the edge of a table, stuffing them into her bag before anyone notices. Almost.

“HEY!” one of the vendors yells. “She stole from the cart! Someone stop her!”

Your boss turns to you, snapping his fingers.

“Y/N. Go. Now.”

You drop the box. Start walking. Not fast. Not loud.

You find her behind the ticket booth, crouched down, unwrapping a sandwich like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn’t look scared when she sees you. Just annoyed.

You stop a few feet away. Hands in your pockets.

“You know,” you say, voice flat, “you can ask me if you want food. But oh well.”

She shrugs. Takes a bite.

“Didn’t feel like asking.”

“Didn’t feel like chasing.”

She glances at you, chewing. You turn around and walk off before anyone else sees you together.

Back at the food tent, your boss looks at you expectantly.

“Well?”

You shrug.

“Didn’t catch her.”

He groans, mutters something about useless staff, and waves you off.

You go back to stacking balloons.

And from the corner of your eye, far across the lot, you see Giselle again — sitting on the curb, eating your boss’s sandwich like she owns the place.

You smirk once. Just barely.

Then go back to work.

The day starts wrong.

It’s in the heat. The way the sky presses down like a lid. The way the sun isn’t just hot — it’s angry. You’re sweating through your clown suit before the gates even open. Makeup already smudging near your eyes. The zipper on your left boot’s broken again. You tape it shut with a piece of duct tape someone left in the locker room.

By noon, you’re running on half a bottle of water and a hangover of exhaustion. The balloon lines don’t end — kids screaming for the same damn dog. One grabs your nose and nearly rips it off. You don’t react. You just hand him his balloon and mumble, “Enjoy the show.”

Then it happens.

Screaming — high, sharp, real.

You turn just as a crew member sprints across the lot, red-faced and wild-eyed.

“Where’s the lion!?”

Another staffer yells, “He’s gone! Cage’s empty!”

You blink. Balloon half-twisted in your hands.

You look past the crowd toward the animal pens.

Chaos.

The lion’s trainer is yelling into his walkie, voice cracking. A supervisor’s waving his arms like that’s going to make a 400-pound animal reappear. There’s shouting in at least three different languages. One of the acrobats climbs on top of a shipping crate just to get a better look.

Someone screams again. You watch a woman lift her toddler off the ground and run.

“EVERYONE STAY CALM!” your boss says into the PA, voice stretched thin. “It’s under control. Just a small mistake. Show will resume shortly.”

Small mistake.

Right.

You’re told to keep performing.

Like nothing happened.

So you go back to the front tent, balloon in hand, fake smile in place. Parents keep one eye on their kids, the other on the exits. The air is too still. Too sharp. Even the music sounds scared.

You bend a balloon into a limp-looking poodle.

A child looks up at you, nervous.

“Is the lion gonna eat me?”

You crouch down. “Only if you skip brushing your teeth. Lions hate bad breath.”

The mom doesn’t laugh.

You stand again. Keep twisting shapes. Keep juggling. Keep pretending.

Then you hear it.

Yelling — again. Different this time.

You glance left and see two women — one in heels, one in flip-flops — arguing in front of the snack booth. Loud. Vicious.

“You were eyeing my husband, you cheap bitch!”

“Your husband gave me his number, you psycho!”

Kids start crying. Popcorn flies. A soda can is thrown and hits the ground near your feet, fizzing violently. One of the vendors tries to separate them and gets shoved. A crowd forms. You hear your name being called through a walkie, but you don’t answer.

A security guard finally steps in, grabs one of the women by the elbow. She screams bloody murder. Someone shouts, “LET HER GO!” Another swing. A slap. And then it’s full chaos.

You back away. Slowly. Balloon poodle dangling in your hand like it just saw a murder.

The fight fizzles out only after three more staff arrive. One woman leaves with a bloody nose and no cotton candy. The other leaves screaming, dragging her kid by the arm. A clown — one of the newer ones, the smiley guy — tries to make a joke to lighten the mood.

No one laughs.

You stumble backstage during your break, hands trembling slightly.

You’re thinking about the lion. About the fight. About how this place is slowly turning into a warzone wrapped in neon lights. You don’t even want food — you just want to sit.

You open your locker.

And stop.

Empty.

Not just “oh someone borrowed my charger” empty — but gutted.

Your last clean shirt? Gone.

The leftover sandwich from yesterday? Gone.

But worst of all — the photo.

That worn, soft-edged picture you tucked behind the metal panel, hidden behind a note that used to smell like home. Your sister with her dorky smile. Your mom with her apron still on. You, maybe thirteen, trying to do a goofy face before dinner.

Gone.

You check again.

Check under the bench. Behind the door. On the floor.

Nothing.

Your hands start shaking. Not out of panic — but something deeper. Heavier.

You slam the locker shut.

Hard.

It echoes off the walls. A few crew members look up. One of them opens his mouth like he might ask what’s wrong.

He doesn’t.

No one does.

You walk outside. The sky’s a pale yellow-gray now. Storm clouds forming at the edge of the horizon. Still too hot to feel like real rain.

You light a cigarette. Lean against the metal side of the trailer, exhaling slow. Trying not to break down. Not in public. Not in makeup.

You keep thinking about the photo.

How you never made a copy.

How your sister used to say, “Keep that with you so you don’t forget who you are.”

And now?

You’re sitting in your usual spot behind the costume trailer. Your second cigarette burns low between your fingers. The clown makeup is half melted from sweat and time. You’ve stopped caring about cleaning it off. You don’t even bother hiding how wrecked you look anymore.

Your back aches. Your stomach growls. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.

You’re so far gone in your own head that you don’t hear her approach.

You only notice when a shadow drops near your foot — and a hand slides something across the ground toward you.

A photograph.

Your photograph.

You stare at it for a second. You don’t move.

Then Giselle crouches in front of you, like it’s nothing. Like she’s done this before.

She takes a bite of something — a candy bar, maybe — and looks at the picture while chewing.

“You have a cute sister.”

Your eyes flick up to her.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend to be friendly. She just says it.

You grab the photo back. Not fast. Not grateful. Just… instinct.

You slide it into your chest pocket. No words.

She watches you. You don’t look at her directly.

“I also stole your sandwich.”

You shrug.

“Figures.”

“Tasted like cardboard.”

“Then we’re even.”

She leans back against the trailer wall beside you. She’s close enough to hear your breath, far enough that she could vanish again at any moment.

There’s a silence between you now — not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just… there. Like two people watching the same fire burn from different windows.

You take a drag of your cigarette. She finishes the candy bar and wipes her hand on her jeans.

“You gonna tell your boss I broke in?”

You flick ash to the gravel.

“No point. He’d just ask why I had a sandwich in there instead of clocking out on time.”

She huffs a little, like it might’ve been a laugh.

Another pause.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

You exhale. “Takes one to know one.”

She picks at the thread on her sleeve.

You sit in silence again. No eye contact. No trust. But no distance now, either.

You didn’t ask for her to return the photo.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness.

And maybe that’s the closest either of you gets to something real.

It’s after hours.

Most of the crew’s gone home, or passed out behind trailers. The rides are off, tents zipped. Even the generator sounds quieter — like the whole circus is holding its breath.

You’re walking past the animal tents, cigarette lit, mind on nothing, when you see her.

Giselle.

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of a crate, hunched slightly, flicking something small through the bars of the lion’s cage.

Bread.

Old scraps. Like she found them in the trash behind the churro cart.

She tosses another piece in, slow and casual, like she’s feeding a pet that isn’t there.

You stop a few feet away. Say nothing.

She doesn’t look at you. Just asks:

“Where’s the lion?”

You take a drag. Exhale through your nose.

“Oh. Thing is…”

“They did catch it.”

“But I guess even a ton of tranquilizer’s overkill.”

She stops mid-throw.

The air is dead still. No wind. Just the metallic stink of cages and dirt.

She glances at you — only briefly — then looks back into the empty space behind the bars.

You keep talking, tone flat.

“I think it was sick anyway. They didn’t say it, but I heard one of the trainers arguing. Something about infection. Weight loss.”

Another drag.

“After they got it back, they put it down. Said it was too dangerous. Too unpredictable.”

Giselle leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Tosses the last bit of bread in — soft and quiet.

It lands without sound.

“All that strength. Still ended up in a hole.”

You nod.

“That’s life, huh?”

She doesn’t respond.

You both stare into the cage. Empty. Rusting. The straw bedding already trampled and cold. The chain they used to use still lying in the corner, snapped at the middle.

“I used to hate that lion,” you say.

“I’d walk past and it’d lunge at the bars. Just for fun. Scared the hell out of me the first week.”

Giselle tilts her head slightly.

“And now?”

You look at the cage like you might see yourself in it.

“Now I miss it.”

Silence again. Heavier now. Not grief. Not nostalgia.

Something worse.

Recognition.

You flick your cigarette into the dirt. Watch the ember die.

“Don’t suppose you’ll cry for it.”

“Not the crying type,” she mutters.

Then:

“But maybe it was just tired.”

You both sit there a while longer.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

Feeding ghosts.

The lion cage is behind you now.

The sky’s turning purple-blue, streaked with smog and stars you can’t name. The circus is sleeping — or pretending to. Only the humming generator and a distant squeaky wheel from the ferris ride still moving in the wind.

You’re sitting on a metal crate near the back fence, smoking the last of your cigarettes, legs stretched out in front of you.

She’s there again.

No hoodie this time. Just a T-shirt faded from too many washes and jeans with a hole in one knee. She’s sitting on the grass, arms wrapped around her legs like she doesn’t trust the ground.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then she says it — softly, like she’s asking the air.

“Why do you stay?”

You blow smoke out slowly.

Let the silence roll out before answering.

“Because I’m scared I’ll leave and find out this was the best it ever gets.”

She hums like that answer doesn’t surprise her.

“That’s honest,” she says.

“Sad. But honest.”

She leans back, hands pressing into the grass behind her. Looks up at the sky like she’s expecting it to fall.

“Do you know where I’m from?”

You glance at her.

“You gonna tell me?”

“You gonna care?”

You take another drag.

“I might.”

She smiles — but it’s faint. Not coy. Not dramatic. Just… tired.

“Tokyo. But not the rich part. The part that looks like someone forgot to bulldoze it. My mom’s half-Filipino, moved there to marry a man who wasn’t worth her name. I grew up in a shoebox apartment with roaches and broken heaters. Left at seventeen.”

She shrugs.

“Didn’t want to become my mom. Didn’t know what else to become either.”

You nod. Quiet.

“She ever try to stop you?”

Giselle laughs. Bitter. Dry.

“She cried. But not for me. For the neighbors. ‘What will they think?’”

You grunt. “Sounds about right.”

She turns to look at you. This time, really look.

“What about you?”

You exhale through your nose.

Flick ash to the dirt.

“There’s no big story. I just… stopped trying one day. Didn’t leave. Didn’t stay. Just ended up here. The circus was hiring. I was broke. Now I wear clown shoes for minimum wage and get yelled at for not smiling enough.”

She tilts her head.

“And your family?”

You pause.

Then:

“Split. Quietly. One day I woke up and the apartment was just me and my mom. Then it was just me. Then it was just the noise.”

The silence stretches again.

She hugs her knees. Picks at the grass. You light another cigarette, but don’t offer her one. You don’t think she smokes.

Then she says:

“You know what scares me?”

You glance sideways.

She’s not looking at you. Just the fence. Just the dark.

“Not dying,” she says.

“Getting forgotten. Like I didn’t even dent the place I left.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You know that fear.

You live with it every day.

The generator hums louder for a moment. The wind rustles some loose tarp. In the far distance, a firework goes off — leftover from someone else’s celebration.

Neither of you flinch.

You just sit there in the dark, two people no one’s looking for, sharing silence like it’s the only thing you still own.

You don’t expect her to still be there in the morning.

Most runaways run again. But when you round the corner of the back lot, past the rows of trash bins and the half-lit ticket booth…

There she is.

Sitting on a tilted bench, one leg tucked under her, unwrapping something from a crumpled brown paper bag like she’s done this a hundred times.

“You’re late.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know I was expected.”

She tosses something at you — low and underhanded.

A lukewarm bun wrapped in foil.

You catch it one-handed.

“What’s this?”

“Char siu bao. Vendor left his cart unattended. I took it as a sign from the universe.”

You peel the foil back. It smells better than anything you’ve had in a week.

“What’d the universe leave you?”

She bites into her bun, speaking with her mouth full.

“Pineapple bread. A little squished. Still good.”

You sit down beside her. Not close. Not far. Just there. The same way people sit next to each other on long bus rides — knowing the world doesn’t end in fireworks, just shared silence.

You eat. She eats.

A comfortable nothing stretches between you.

Then:

“You’ve got something on your face.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No, the other side.”

You wipe again.

She sighs, reaches over, and smudges your cheek with her thumb.

A slow, brief touch. Warm fingers. Dry skin.

You don’t flinch.

She doesn’t make a big deal of it.

She leans back.

“You ever wipe off that clown paint properly, or just let the tears do it?”

“I let the rain decide.”

She snorts. You swear it’s almost a laugh.

Later, as you walk side by side toward the big tent — her hoodie pulled low, your costume half-zipped — she speaks again.

“So… what’s today’s gig?”

“Balloon dogs. Face paint. Probably get screamed at by a mom who thinks glitter’s the devil.”

“Fun.”

“What about you? What’s your job today?”

She shrugs.

“Thinking about reorganizing the inside of my duffel bag. Maybe stealing a soda.”

You nod like that’s a serious task.

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

She bumps your elbow with hers.

Just once.

No words.

You both keep walking.

The crowd’s already forming when you tug the zipper of your clown suit up to your neck and smear the last streak of white across your cheek. You’ve been running this same set for months — balloon tricks, sleight of hand, fake flowers from your sleeve. It’s muscle memory now. Even your fake laugh is worn smooth from overuse.

You pull the curtain back slightly to peek at the audience.

Kids buzzing. Parents annoyed. Heat. Noise. Another routine day.

You don’t notice her at first.

But she’s there.

Giselle. Half-tucked behind a pillar of prop crates. Hoodie down. Arms folded. Hair messy. She’s not hiding — not really — just not supposed to be there.

And yet… she stays.

You don’t let your eyes linger.

You step out onto the stage.

Cue the music. Cue the fake cheer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Ever seen a dog made of air?”

You twist a balloon into something sort of dog-shaped. A kid laughs. One throws popcorn. You catch it mid-air and stuff it in your pocket.

You move through the set.

The card trick. The flower sleeve bit. The clumsy juggling you mess up on purpose because kids love when you look stupid.

The crowd laughs more than usual.

You don’t realize until halfway through that you’re smiling for real.

Out of the corner of your eye, behind the curtain edge — Giselle watching. Chin resting on her knee. Not mocking. Not bored.

Watching.

And for once, you don’t feel like a joke in paint.

You feel like someone.

After the show, you slip behind the curtain, peeling your gloves off, sweat sticking to your back.

She’s gone.

You think maybe you imagined her — until you find a half-eaten peach on one of the prop boxes.

Wrapped in a napkin with a note scrawled on it in blue ink:

“Not bad, clownboy.”

“Still wouldn’t pay for it tho.”

You smile.

You don’t even try to hide it.

It’s late again.

The tent’s quiet now, just the muffled thrum of a generator and some bored laughter from across the lot. You’re sitting on a crate, clown paint smeared and half-wiped, working your way through a can of expired pineapple juice you found in the vending machine trash bin.

Then she shows up again.

No announcement. Just presence. Like smoke.

She walks over, dragging her duffel bag behind her, drops it unceremoniously at your feet.

Then she stands up straight — clears her throat like she’s about to make a grand announcement — and holds up a bent balloon she clearly fished from the ground.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, voice flat but dramatic, “watch closely as I pull… absolutely nothing… out of my empty sleeve.”

She wiggles her arm with forced grace.

Nothing comes out.

You blink.

“What the hell was that.”

She smirks. “Art.”

Then she bows — badly. Almost falls. Straightens up again.

“Wait. Hold on—this part’s important.”

She reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a crumpled napkin.

Unfolds it dramatically.

Inside? A half-melted lollipop and a broken pencil.

She holds them out like treasure.

“Taa-daa.”

You can’t help it.

You laugh.

Not a scoff. Not a snort. A real, short laugh that sounds strange coming out of your own mouth.

She grins like she’s won something.

“See? I could totally be a clown. I’ve got tragic energy and poor life decisions. I’m halfway there.”

“You’re missing the permanent damage.”

“Give me time.”

You shake your head. “That was the worst magic act I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, but it worked.”

“How?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You laughed, didn’t you?”

You go quiet for a second. Look at her. Really look.

No one’s made you laugh like that in… you don’t know how long.

“Yeah,” you say, soft.

“I guess I did.”

The rain hits fast.

You’re mid-shift, dragging tired feet across the gravel near the back trailers, when the sky just gives up. No warning drizzle. No slow build. Just a full, open-throated downpour that drenches everything in seconds.

You run for cover — one of the old canvas tents, unused now, storage for busted props and costumes nobody fixes anymore. You duck inside, breathing hard, water dripping off your sleeves.

She’s already there.

Giselle.

Soaked. Hoodie clinging to her shoulders. Hair stuck to her forehead. Breathing quiet, but sharp.

You stare at her. She stares back. For once, neither of you says anything stupid.

Then she nods toward your face.

“Your makeup’s melting.”

You glance down — white paint dripping in milky streaks across your jaw and neck, smearing into the collar of your suit.

“Good,” you mutter.

“Saves me the trouble.”

You sit. She stays standing, pacing a little. Hands stuffed in her pockets.

The rain roars against the tent roof. Thunder somewhere distant.

The silence between you builds. Not comfortable, not unbearable — just charged.

Then she says it.

“You’re not fine.”

You don’t answer.

She says it again.

Softer. Sharper.

“You’re not fine, Y/N.”

You grit your teeth.

“Neither are you.”

She steps closer. Water pools around her boots.

“So? You gonna keep pretending, or what?”

You stand up.

You don’t even know why. Maybe the sound of her voice. Maybe the fact that you’ve had no one talk to you like this in years. Maybe it’s the way the rain feels like it’s pressing the whole tent down on your back.

You’re standing inches from her now.

Clown paint running down your face. Rain dripping from your chin.

She looks up at you.

Eyes hard. Tired. A little afraid, but not of you — of herself, maybe.

And you—

You kiss her.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not sweet.

It’s a collision.

Teeth and breath and soaked cotton. It’s angry. It’s reckless. It’s everything you’ve both been holding in finally slamming into something that won’t look away.

She kisses you back just as hard.

Grabbing your jacket. Pushing you against the crate behind you. Mouth hot and sharp and alive.

You pull her closer. She doesn’t resist. Her fingers dig into your shirt. Yours tangle in the wet fabric of her hoodie.

And for a few messy, breathless seconds — there’s no circus. No clown. No runaway. No boss. No lion.

Just you.

And her.

And a thousand things neither of you knows how to say.

You break first. Breathing hard. Foreheads nearly touching.

She laughs — not because it’s funny, but because it’s so damn much.

“What the hell was that?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know.”

You both stand there. Dripping. Shaking. Alive.

The rain keeps falling.

And for once, you don’t want to run.

The sun’s out like nothing happened.

Tents are dry. Kids are screaming again. Someone’s playing a broken calliope tune near the front gates.

But you?

You’re somewhere between blank and wrecked.

You sit at the usual bench during break — same spot, same half-warm sandwich, same view of cracked pavement.

And across from you, sitting like nothing happened, is Giselle.

Hood up. Legs crossed. Picking the sesame seeds off a stolen bun.

She hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You both know.

You both feel it.

The memory of last night hangs between you like fog that hasn’t burned off yet. The kiss, the heat, the breathlessness — the way she held your shirt like she didn’t want to let go.

You clear your throat.

She doesn’t look up.

You try to speak.

“About—”

“Don’t.” Her voice is quiet.

Not cruel. Just… scared.

You stop.

Go back to chewing your sandwich.

She pulls her legs up on the bench, arms around her knees.

“I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”

You nod.

“It’s not weird.”

Even though it is.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We won’t.”

And that’s that.

Nothing fixed. Nothing broken — just filed away.

But the world doesn’t leave things buried.

It’s around 4PM when it happens.

You’re restocking the balloon cart when you hear your name shouted from the main tent.

“Y/N. OFFICE. NOW.”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t even ask why. You just walk.

The second you step into the back trailer, the door slams behind you. Your boss is already pacing, red in the face, holding a clipboard that doesn’t even matter.

He throws it on the table.

“A runaway?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

“You’ve been helping a runaway?”

You freeze.

Say nothing.

He steps closer.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? That she could just hang around backstage every day and I wouldn’t notice?”

Still, you stay silent.

“You know what that is, Y/N?”

“It’s a liability. It’s trespassing. It’s a fucking lawsuit if she gets hurt.”

You open your mouth — only barely.

“She’s not hurting anyone.”

He laughs. Bitter.

“She’s not on payroll. She’s not on insurance. She doesn’t belong here.”

And then, a beat later:

“You don’t, either.”

That hits harder.

Silence.

Then:

“So this is how it’s gonna be,” he says.

“You get her out of here. Gone. Or you both are.”

You walk out of the trailer.

The circus sounds loud again.

You spot her in the distance — sitting on the steps near the lion cage, peeling an orange. Looking peaceful. Like she hasn’t just been made your impossible choice.

You light a cigarette with shaking hands.

And for the first time since you met her…

You don’t know what to do.

You find her by the lion cage again.

But this time, she’s standing.

Backpack already on. Hoodie zipped. Eyes sharp — too sharp.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says before you even speak.

You freeze.

“You heard him.”

She nods. Doesn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that hides shaking hands.

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger. Not yet. Just panic disguised as frustration.

“So what, you’re just gonna leave?”

She shrugs.

“Not like I was supposed to be here anyway.”

You step closer.

“That’s it?”

“After all this — after the food, the bun, the lion, the fucking kiss—you’re just walking off like none of it mattered?”

That hits her.

She looks away, jaw tightening.

“What did you expect me to do?” she snaps.

“Stay? Watch you lose your job over me?”

“Maybe I would’ve if you’d asked.”

She blinks.

“So I’m supposed to let you throw your whole life away just because we had one bad kiss in the rain?”

That stings.

“Bad?” you echo, voice cracking.

She doesn’t answer. Just folds her arms and looks like she regrets saying it.

You take a step back, hands in your hair.

“You think this is easy for me?”

“You think I’ve got something worth protecting? This job? This costume? I sleep in a roach box and eat half a sandwich a day, Giselle!”

She flinches — not from volume, but from truth.

“Then why stay?” she fires back.

“Why do you stay in a place that kills you every goddamn day?”

And there it is.

The heat breaks in your chest.

“Because the only thing that’s felt real in months—

—is you.”

Silence.

Her arms drop.

Your breathing is loud now. Both of you look at each other like strangers wearing familiar skin.

Then she says:

“I didn’t mean the kiss was bad.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

She steps forward — just a little. Barely enough to close the space.

“I just didn’t think it was allowed to feel like that.”

“Neither did I.”

She steps forward.

Grabs your shirt.

And kisses you like she’s trying to find her own heartbeat in your mouth

It’s still dark when you leave.

No fanfare. No final bow. Just you — duffel bag half-zipped, still wearing your faded clown shoes because screw it, let them remember who you were.

You walk past the animal tents, the rusting rides, the balloon cart where you used to kill time twisting air into fake joy.

You don’t look back.

But before you go — you stop by the trailer.

The boss’s office. That cheap little room where they yelled, where they threatened, where they said she was the problem.

You slip the envelope under the door, but not before taping a used balloon animal to the front. A sad-looking dog. One leg deflated.

Inside is the letter.

Handwritten. No edits. Just rage.

“To the boss,

Hope you’re happy, dumbass.

You got what you wanted. The freak’s gone. No more liability. No more runaway hiding in your tents. No more clown screwing up your illusion of a family-friendly fun-land.

But let’s not pretend you ever gave a shit.

You pretend this place is magic? It’s rotting. Just like your morals.

By the way, tell the gymnast I said hi. Or maybe tell your wife first. Up to you. I’m sure she’d love to know how many “late night rehearsals” you’ve been supervising.

Keep smiling for the cameras.

— Y/N”

You step outside.

No parade. No applause. Just the sun rising over rust-colored tents and your shadow getting longer behind you.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know you’re not coming back.

And somewhere — maybe across town, maybe still asleep in her stolen hoodie — Giselle will wake up and realize you’re gone.

The night swallows you.

The circus lights are long behind you now. Your boots crunch against gravel, and the bag slung over your shoulder feels heavier with every step — not from weight, but from everything you’ve left behind.

Clown shoes inside. Crumpled uniform. An old photo. Sandwich wrappers.

Your face paint’s still on — smeared by tears and rain and time. You didn’t bother to wipe it off. Maybe you wanted the city to see what the world did to you. Or maybe you didn’t want to forget just yet.

You turn down a side street.

Dim alley lights. The distant echo of a train.

And then you hear it — soft laughter. And coughing. And hunger.

You follow the sound.

A patch of concrete tucked behind a dumpster, half-covered by cardboard and tattered blankets. Five or six kids, maybe younger than ten. Some barefoot. One holding a plastic bottle of rainwater like it’s champagne.

They’re sitting in a circle, playing with broken bottle caps like they’re coins. The smallest one’s wearing a plastic bag as a cape.

You freeze.

They see you.

Clown makeup. Wild hair. A bag slung over your shoulder like a hobo magician.

They stare.

No screams. No fear. Just tired, cautious curiosity.

One of them stands — maybe the oldest — and says:

“Are you a real clown?”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But instead…

You set your bag down. Pull out one of the last good balloons you’ve got.

Twist. Twist. Fold. Squeak.

“You like giraffes?” you say.

The little girl in the back gasps.

You hand it to her with a flourish. She smiles so wide her missing teeth show.

Then you do another.

And another.

No music. No lights.

Just the soft snap of balloon rubber and the sound of real laughter.

You pretend to pull a coin from one kid’s ear. Let another tug endless ribbons from your sleeve. You trip on your own feet and let yourself fall, just hard enough to make them burst out laughing.

For a moment, you are the circus.

But not the broken one that chewed you up.

This is a better stage.

And this time… you mean every joke.

Later, as the kids huddle back under their shared blanket, you sit on the curb. Makeup streaked. Fingers sore. Breath fogging in the air.

One of the boys turns to you and says:

“You don’t smile like other clowns.”

You nod.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not like other clowns.”

He frowns.

“Why’s the clown sad?”

You look up at the sky.

Think of Giselle.

Think of everything you lost. Everything you gave. Everything you still have left.

“Because sometimes…” you say quietly,

“…the world laughs too hard, and forgets who it’s laughing at.”

The kids don’t get it.

They don’t have to.

They’ll remember the clown who showed up when no one else did.

A long road. City lights blur into soft halos. You walked alone, bag over your shoulder, clown makeup streaked like warpaint. No one claps. No one watches.

Just steps.

And silence.

And a future that hasn’t arrived yet.

“Some people… they enter your life like accidents. Broken glass on a sidewalk you weren’t supposed to be walking. Sharp. Sudden. Messy. And somehow, unforgettable.”

“Giselle was that.”

“The girl sleeping behind the generator. The thief with crumbs on her hoodie. The echo in my chest I thought I buried years ago.”

“She didn’t ask for my help. She didn’t want to be saved. She just wanted to be seen. And I saw her.”

“In a world where I was nothing but a painted smile… she looked at me like I was still someone worth knowing.”

You kept walking. Past a flickering streetlamp. Past a neon motel sign. Past a child holding a balloon shaped like a dog.

“I never got to say goodbye. But if you’re hearing this — know I didn’t leave because I stopped caring.”

“I left because I couldn’t lose you and myself at the same time.”

“But one day… when I’ve figured out how to stand tall without the paint… I’ll find you again.”

“I promise.”

“In whatever tent. Whatever city. Whatever version of you is still left after the world tries to beat it out of you…”

“I’ll be there.”

“And maybe that time, we won’t have to run.

“We’ll laugh, not the fake ones we put up, but the real ones we can’t

[viviansturns]

just for the summer ☾. - part 2

cw: this series will contain kissing, p in v sex, a shit ton of fluff and angst.

series masterlist

The next day, Chris had texted you to be ready outside your aunts house at 7—that you were doing something fun today.

The carnival came alive with flickering neon, the smell of popcorn and fried dough hanging thick in the humid night air. Strings of lights blinked on and off, casting shadows over the crowds weaving between the rides and games. The old boardwalk seemed to have been reborn, if only for a night.

You tugged the strap of your tank top higher, feeling the breeze tease your skin while the distant clang of the ring toss and laughter buzzed around you. Chris walked beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours, like it was just by accident but somehow never really was.

“You look really nice,” he said, flashing a grin that made your stomach flip. “Like a mermaid.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you just trying to be smooth after last night?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said, then snagged a handful of tickets from his pocket. “Ready to lose?”

“Please.” You crossed your arms. “I’m going to destroy you.”

He laughed, the sound low and easy. “We’ll see about that.”

You drifted toward the ring toss first, where the prizes dangled like colorful trophies — giant stuffed bears, flamingos, even a few ridiculous, glittery crowns. Chris handed you three rings, eyes sparkling with challenge.

“Alright, baby. Show me what you got.”

You leaned in, eyeing the bottles, calculating your throw. The first ring clinked against a bottle and rolled off. The second one hovered on the edge before falling flat. The third—you barely let it go before it slid perfectly over the neck of a bottle.

“Ha! Take that!” you teased, grinning.

Chris clapped mockingly. “Beginner’s luck.”

He stepped up and threw his rings like he’d done this a hundred times before. The first two missed, but the third hooked perfectly. His grin turned mischievous.

“Okay. Tie game.”

You tossed your prize ticket at the attendant—a small, fuzzy pink flamingo. Chris tossed his ticket and got a bright yellow bear.

“Looks like we’re even,” he said, holding his prize up like a trophy.

You jostled your flamingo under your arm. “Lucky.”

“Not luck. Skill.” He nudged you playfully, his eyes darkening just a little. “Next game—ball toss.”

You followed him to the baseball toss, where wooden ducks floated in a small pool. Knock enough off, and you got to pick from bigger prizes. Chris grabbed two balls and handed you one.

“You throwing first?”

“Are you kidding? I’m about to crush you.”

The first ball you threw skidded off the side, but the second knocked a duck clean off. Chris threw his ball with surprising focus, and one duck flipped off with a satisfying splash.

“Look at us,” he said, laughing. “Experts.”

You grinned, stepping closer. “Best two out of three?”

“Deal.”

The third throw was a showdown, your ball arcing beautifully before knocking two ducks off in one throw.

Chris’s eyes widened. “What the—”

He threw his ball and missed completely.

You let out a victorious laugh.

He shook his head but smiled warmly. “Alright, you win. You want the prize?”

You eyed the stall filled with everything from plush toys to flashy sunglasses and oversized candy. You hesitated, then reached for a soft stuffed owl with big, soulful eyes.

“Good choice,” Chris said, watching you. “But I think I can do better.”

He handed his ticket to the attendant and chose a giant, ridiculous stuffed octopus with tentacles that flopped comically.

“Wow. That’s… impressive.”

He shrugged, his grin cocky. “For you.”

You laughed, tucking the owl under your arm. The playful teasing between you felt light, but underneath, you could feel the steady pull of something more.

The night stretched on with you two hopping from ride to ride—roller coasters that made you scream, Ferris wheels where you sat close in the slow climb, the city of lights spread below like a glittering ocean.

At the dart game, Chris went all in, his confidence evident. One by one, his darts landed with precision, and with a triumphant grin, he won a small stuffed shark.

He handed it to you. “For my catch of the day.”

You nudged him with your shoulder, pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased.

Near the food stalls, he bought you cotton candy, sticking a pink tuft into your mouth with a mischievous smile that made your heart beat faster than the carnival’s wild rides.

“You taste like summer,” he said, voice low.

You pretended to gag, as he reached out, wiping sticky sugar off your chin. “Ugh. Cheesy much?”

He chuckled, but his eyes were serious for a second. “Only for you.”

Later, when you both found yourselves sitting on the edge of the boardwalk, feet dangling over the water, the world felt suspended between the flashing lights and the quiet lap of waves below.

Chris pulled his stuffed octopus close, squeezing it once before offering it to you.

“Here,” he said softly. “For when the summer ends.”

You looked at the goofy octopus, then back at him. “You really do try hard.”

He smiled shyly, running a hand through his hair. “Only when it’s worth it.”

You glanced out at the water, heart racing. The heat of the night wasn’t just from the carnival—it was from the way he made you feel, like the world outside this sleepy town could wait.

“You know,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “I might actually start liking this place.”

Chris turned to you, eyes shining in the carnival glow. “See? Told you.”

___________

Chris drove you back to your house. The car is off, but neither of you move.

The porch light spills a soft glow through the windshield, catching on Chris’s profile — the cut of his jaw, the twitch of his fingers against the steering wheel. He hasn’t looked at you since pulling up in front of your house, like he’s scared he’ll say something if he does.

Or worse, do something.

You’re not much better. Your legs are crossed, hands in your lap, stomach tight from the heat that’s been simmering between you since the fair. Every time he smiled at you, every time his hand brushed yours — it built, higher and higher, until now you feel full of it. Unsteady with it.

He finally speaks, voice rough and a little too low.

“You’re really pretty.”

That makes your heart lurch. You turn your head toward him, and he's already looking. His eyes are darker now, hooded, like he’s been holding something back all night.

You don’t look away.

“You’re handsome,” you say, smiling.

His breath catches. And you see it — the way his jaw clenches, how his fingers curl tighter on the wheel.

You lean in.

Slowly, deliberately, over the console. He doesn’t move — doesn’t even blink — like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you don’t. You slide your hand across his thigh for balance, and before he can think, your mouth is on his.

Soft, at first.

A test.

His lips are warm, still parted like he was about to speak — but instead he exhales sharply against your mouth and grabs your waist, pulling you in like it’s instinct.

That’s when it shifts. It goes from soft to messy. From sweet to desperate.

You kiss him harder, mouth open, teeth scraping just slightly, and he groans — low and strained — like he’s been dying to touch you. Your fingers twist into his hoodie, pulling, needing him closer, and he lets you tug him wherever you want.

His hands slide under your shirt, hot against your lower back. You straddle him, crawling over the console without thinking, knees awkward, bodies too tangled to care. He kisses like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing in the world worth holding onto.

You gasp when he bites your bottom lip, and he chases the sound, mouth trailing down your neck, tongue brushing skin so lightly it sends sparks down your spine. He sucks on a specific part of your nick, and you can’t help the noises that escape you.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been going at it like this — time doesn’t exist in the heat of his breath, the press of his body, the way his hand is gripping your thigh and rubbing your lower back like he doesn’t want to let go.

Then—

The porch light flickers.

A door creaks open.

You freeze, breath caught, chest heaving against his. Chris stills too, hands still all over you, like he’s trying not to laugh.

You both look through the fogged windshield.

Your aunt is standing on the porch.

Phone in her hand. Eyebrow raised. No expression at all — which is somehow way worse.

She lingers. Just for a second. Then, with no rush at all, turns and goes back inside.

The door clicks shut.

You groan and slump forward onto Chris’s chest, your fingers bunching the fabric of his hoodie. He’s laughing now — quiet and breathless, one hand smoothing over your back.

“She definitely saw,” he says, voice still wrecked.

“I want to die.”

“You started it.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him.

“Yeah, and?”

He grins. That stupid crooked smile that makes your stomach flip. “And I liked it.”

You kiss him again. Just once, firm and unapologetic. Then slide back to your seat, fixing your jacket and hair with shaky hands.

“Goodnight, Chris.”

“Goodnight, y/n.”

You don’t look back as you get out of the car.

You don’t need to. You can feel him watching you the whole way to the door.

___________

Your phone buzzes mid-morning. You’d already gotten out of bed and were shoveling breakfast into your mouth before you had to help your aunt with gardening. She hadn’t made any comments about last night, but she gave a look or two.

Chris: “Picking you up after your shift. Don’t make plans, it's time for a game night.”

A second later:

Chris: “And don’t try to say no. I already told my dog you’re coming.”

You grin, thumbs already typing back.

You: “What if I’m busy?”

Chris: “Then I’ll just sit outside your house and wait until you’re not.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. The shift you're working isn’t over until 9, and you’re already thinking about seeing him after. It’s not a date, technically. I mean. It is, who are you kidding?

___________

You step out of work, your backpack slung over one shoulder and your hair slightly windblown from how fast you were moving at the end of your shift. You’re still wearing your work shirt, the one you always complain about, but Chris is leaning against the hood of his car like you’re arriving in slow motion.

He straightens when he sees you, flicking his phone screen off and giving you a soft, crooked smile. His hoodie’s oversized, sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, and his hair looks like he ran a hand through it ten too many times waiting for you.

“Hey,” you say, already walking toward him.

“Hey.” He opens the passenger door for you. “You look tired.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to say that?”

“Sorry,” he says grinning, obviously not sorry.

You slide into his car, and he shuts the door behind you. The drive to his place is filled with low music and the occasional glance from him that you pretend not to notice.

His room is already set up when you get there. Blankets are tossed across the floor in a casual mess, pillows stacked against the base of his bed. The lights are dim—soft yellow, warm—and the TV screen glows with the game’s main menu. There’s an open bag of chips, half a can of soda, and two water bottles on the floor.

“Shower first?” he asks, tugging his hoodie off and tossing it onto the desk chair.

You hesitate, still standing awkwardly with your bag over your shoulder.

He nods toward his dresser. “Got clean stuff in there. Take whatever.”

You do. His clothes smell like laundry and faint cologne and something familiar that makes your stomach flutter. The bathroom’s warm, a little foggy from his earlier shower, and you take your time scrubbing off the day, letting the steam calm your nerves.

When you come back in one of his t-shirts and a pair of borrowed sweats, he’s already on the floor, back against the side of the bed, legs stretched out. He looks up and just… stares for a second.

“You good?” you ask.

He nods. “You just look really—never mind. C’mere.”

You sit beside him, hip to hip, and he hands you a controller with a wink. “Mario Kart. You’re going down”

___________

It’s been three games, one cheating accusation, two snack breaks, and zero personal space boundaries. Turns out you were in fact going down.

You're leaning into him now—your shoulder snug against his, his thigh pressed firmly to yours. At some point, you stole one of his pillows to rest in your lap, and his hand keeps brushing your arm when he reaches for his drink like he isn’t doing it on purpose.

“I’m gonna win this one,” you mumble, trying to focus on the screen. But your head’s tilted toward him, your knee bouncing slightly against his.

Chris glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“No you’re not.”

He doesn’t look away, even when the countdown starts. Even when the race begins.

You end up losing miserably. But you barely notice—because his hand finds your leg halfway through the match and just… stays there.

Not high. Not low. Just enough.

______________

You lose again.

Chris throws his hands up in victory, grinning like he just won the Olympics. “That’s three out of four. I think it’s fair to say I’m better.”

“You got lucky.”

“I got skilled,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “And humble.”

You grab a chip from the bag and toss it at his face. He dodges dramatically, catching it midair before tossing it in his mouth. “Incredible reflexes. It’s almost like I was made to win.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You love it.”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, and he sees it—of course he sees it. He’s been watching you all night like the world starts and ends with the way your mouth curves when you’re trying not to smile.

The screen idles behind you both, the faint blue glow casting shadows across his jaw. The room feels smaller now. Warmer. Like the space between you has finally caught fire.

“You’re in a good mood,” he says, your voice quieter now.

You shrug. “I had a good night.”

You look at him, really look at him. His messy hair. The flush on his cheeks from the heat. The way he keeps running his thumb over the side of your knee, soft like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

And you can feel it again—that pull.

The exact feeling you had in the car the other night.

Your mouth is dry. You swallow.

“You’re cute when you win,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

Chris freezes. His eyes flick up to yours, a little surprised, a little wild.

“Oh?” he says, voice low.

You nod slowly. “But you’re even cuter when you lose.���

He laughs, soft and wrecked, and you lean in before he can come back with something smug. Not fast. Not hard. Just... close.

His breath hitches as you shift toward him, hand sliding up his chest, pressing against his sternum gently. He doesn’t move—he just looks at you like he’s waiting for permission to fall apart.

And then you kiss him.

You feel him melt into it instantly.

There’s no hesitation this time. No pause, no slow burn. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it all night, like that game controller you just dropped was the only thing keeping him from doing this sooner.

Your legs tangle. His hand cups your face. Yours tug his shirt like you’re trying to get closer—like you physically can’t be close enough.

You end up in his lap again. Somehow it always happens that way with him—like gravity just pulls you there. Like your body knows where to go before you tell it to.

His tongue brushes yours and it’s hot and messy and perfect, his hands everywhere and nowhere, gripping your thighs, your hips, your waist. He groans into your mouth when you grind down just a little too hard and the sound is everything—needy and real and full of want.

You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, your chest heaving against his.

“I thought this was game night,” you whisper.

Chris grins, lips still hovering over yours. “It is.”

You kiss him again.

You start to move your hips, slow at first, just enough to feel the friction—how hard he is underneath you, how wet you are already from nothing but kissing and wanting. Your body reacts before you can stop it: back arching, breath catching, lips parting against his as you gasp.

Chris groans low, like he’s physically restraining himself. “You can’t do that and expect me to stay chill.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

You pull it off, dropping it somewhere behind you, not caring. His eyes rake over you—like he’s memorizing everything, like it’s the first and last time all at once. You reach behind to unclasp your bra, letting it fall between you. His hands are on you instantly, sliding up your sides, cupping your breasts with a reverence that makes your stomach clench.

He leans in, mouth hot on your neck, then lower—his tongue tracing a slow circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You gasp, fingers threading into his hair, hips grinding harder now, more desperate, more needy.

“Chris—”

“Yeah, baby?”

You whimper as his hand slips under your pants, fingers brushing over the damp fabric of your underwear. He groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.”

You roll your hips again, biting your lip. “Wonder why.”

And then he’s slipping a hand into your underwear—no hesitation, no teasing. His fingers slide through your folds, gathering wetness, rubbing circles over your clit just right. You moan into his mouth, your forehead pressed to his, your body trembling as he works you up faster than you thought possible.

“Can I—” he starts, but you cut him off by kissing him, hard, rocking against his hand with messy desperation.

He pulls his hand from between your thighs just long enough to push your panties to the side, the fabric digging into your leg as he exposes you completely. You’re panting against his mouth, every nerve lit up, dizzy from how fast he’s unraveling you.

Then his fingers slip back in—this time deeper.

You gasp, clenching around him instinctively as he curls his fingers inside you, slow and deliberate. He watches your face the whole time, his eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding back.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he mutters, kissing you again, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Fucking soaked and on my lap—shit.”

You whimper, grinding into his hand, your fingers gripping his shoulders like you’re holding on for dear life. “Chris—please.”

He groans at the sound of your voice all wrecked like that, and then he’s pulling his fingers out and grabbing a condom from the drawer without even breaking eye contact. His movements are fast, practiced, hands shaking slightly as he shoves his sweats down just enough to free himself.

You can’t help it—your eyes drop. He’s thick and flushed and already dripping, and your mouth waters for a second before you remember how empty you feel.

He rolls the condom on in one breathless motion.

“You sure?” he asks, voice raw.

You answer by sinking down inch by inch, the stretch making your breath catch in your throat, a dull ache blooming into something molten the deeper he gets. Your hands are on his shoulders, digging in, grounding yourself as your body fights to take all of him.

Chris swears under his breath, voice wrecked. “Holy shit.”

His head falls back against the headboard, jaw tight, knuckles white on your hips. You can feel every twitch of restraint in his body — how badly he wants to move, to take over and fuck up into you — but he doesn’t. He lets you lead. Lets you feel it.

You gasp when your hips finally meet his, the sensation overwhelming. You’re stretched full, stuffed so deep it makes your stomach tense, and for a second, neither of you move — you just sit there, pulsing around him, both of you trembling with the effort it takes to not fall apart too soon.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his, and he cups your waist like he’s grounding himself too.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice low and almost reverent.

You nod, biting your lip. “So good. So—full.”

He groans like that word wrecks him, like it unravels whatever thin thread of control he had left. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts as he kisses you — slow and deep, tongue teasing, lips pulling you under until the heat starts to rise again.

You start to move.

Not up and down. Not yet.

Just rocking your hips slowly, grinding against him, letting him press against every sensitive spot inside you. The friction is blinding. The way he fills you, the way your clit brushes against his pelvis with every shift — it’s all so much.

Chris grips your hips tighter, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, breathless. “Maybe I want to.”

You feel him grin against your skin, and then he bucks up — just once, deep and hard — and your whole body jerks.

“Chris—” you gasp, eyes fluttering.

“Yeah?” His voice is pure sin. “Right there?”

You whimper, nodding, and he does it again — this time holding you tighter, moving in time with your hips. Every thrust pushes the breath out of your lungs, pleasure winding tighter and tighter like a fuse about to snap.

You find a rhythm — your hips rolling, his thrusts hitting deep, his hands guiding you, his mouth everywhere. Kissing your throat, your jaw, biting gently at your collarbone, sucking bruises into your skin like he wants people to see. Like he wants them to know he’s the one making you feel like this.

You arch into him, desperate for more, one hand sliding into his hair to keep him close. His other hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, perfect circles that make you cry out.

You’re spiraling now. Moaning into his mouth, hips stuttering, thighs shaking.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispers, breath hot against your lips.

You nod, can’t even speak, your whole body locking up as the pressure snaps.

You come hard, clenching around him, nails raking down his back, mouth falling open in a wordless moan. Your vision whites out, and you’re vaguely aware of him groaning your name, thrusting up once, twice, then stilling deep inside you as he finishes with a strangled sound, hands gripping you so tight it almost hurts.

For a long moment, all you can hear is breathing. His, yours, tangled and uneven.

You collapse against his chest, boneless and trembling, heart pounding like you just ran a marathon. Chris runs his hand up and down your spine, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your temple, your hairline.

“…Holy shit,” he mutters.

You hum, lips barely forming a smile against his throat. “Told you game night would be late.”

He laughs, voice hoarse. “I think that counted as level one.”

You kiss him again, slow and sleepy. And you don’t move. You stay there, still full of him, heart beating in sync with his, until the rest of the world filters back in through the haze.

___________

Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the tangled sheets and your bare skin. You’re curled against Chris, his arm draped loosely around your waist, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns on your side. The quiet hum of the morning feels like a warm blanket, wrapping around both of you after the storm of last night.

You blink up at the ceiling, heart still fluttering from the way he held you, the way you melted into him without hesitation. His breath is steady against your neck, a quiet rhythm that makes you want to stay right here forever.

He shifts slightly, eyes cracking open and finding yours instantly. That crooked smile—half sleepy, half full of something unspoken—spreads across his face.

“Morning,” he says softly, voice rough from sleep but still deep and warm.

You grin, pressing a light kiss to his jaw. “Morning.”

He tightens his hold, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your fingers find the curls at the nape of his neck, tracing gently, memorizing the feel of him.

“Last night was…” he trails off, voice low and unsure, like he’s searching for the right words.

You raise your eyebrows, teasing. “Was it really that good, or are you just trying to keep me around?”

Chris chuckles, a sound that makes your chest warm. “Both.”

You laugh, the sound light and easy in the quiet room. The air is thick with all the things you didn’t say last night but feel in every glance, every touch.

He leans down, brushing his lips over yours slowly, savoring the softness of the moment. No rush, no urgency—just the two of you wrapped up in a quiet kind of forever.

You rest your forehead against his, breath mingling, hearts syncing in the early light. Whatever happens next, you know this moment is yours.

my cuties fr

[r-memberme]

dinner plans | k.m

⎯⎯Klaus pulled out an apron with a flourish, handing you one with a playful bow. “Here, my dear, wear this. It’s your ticket to gastronomic greatness.”

warnings: fluff

It began as a quiet evening that promised culinary adventure and lots of laughs. Klaus and you had curled up on the couch with Ratatouille playing softly in the background—its charming Parisian magic mingling with the sound of gentle jazz. Between bites of popcorn and witty banter, you both decided that tonight was the night you’d try to recreate the legendary dish from the film.

“Imagine it,” Klaus said, his eyes alight with mischief as he tossed a popcorn kernel into his mouth. “We, the immortal connoisseurs, crafting a masterpiece worthy of a Michelin star.”

You laughed. “Oh, please. Last time you ‘cooked,’ you nearly set the kitchen on fire. Let’s just try not to burn anything down this time, shall we?”

With a shared, conspiratorial grin, you both set off to the kitchen—a realm of ancient pots, mismatched utensils, and ingredients that promised either a culinary delight or utter disaster. The counter was soon strewn with vegetables, spices, and a cookbook that looked as though it had survived the Renaissance.

Klaus pulled out an apron with a flourish, handing you one with a playful bow. “Here, my dear, wear this. It’s your ticket to gastronomic greatness.”

You snorted as you tied the string, replying, “Greatness? I’m more worried about not ending up with a kitchen full of smoke and a ruined dinner.”

The cooking began with all the confidence of a couple on a mission. You chopped vegetables—carrots, onions, tomatoes—while Klaus handled the spices, sprinkling them with far too much flourish for a recipe that clearly called for subtlety. At one point, Klaus dramatically declared, “This calls for rosemary, thyme, and… a dash of superiority!” before shaking a pinch of herbs into the pot as if that would make up for his over-enthusiasm.

“Dash of superiority?” you teased, rolling your eyes. “I’d rather have a dash of common sense.”

Laughter filled the kitchen as the two of you bantered back and forth. But as the minutes passed, the scene descended into delicious chaos. The vegetables, meant to be finely diced, ended up in chunks that resembled a farmer’s market gone awry, and the pot on the stove bubbled with an intensity that was both promising and alarming.

Klaus leaned in over the pot, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “Do you think the ratatouille will forgive us if we’ve ruined it beyond recognition?” he asked with a dramatic sigh.

“Probably not,” you replied, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon that seemed determined to splatter sauce all over the backsplash. “But then, what is art if not a little messy?”

At one point, as you both turned to check the seasoning, a rogue splatter of tomato sauce arced through the air, landing squarely on Klaus’s already immaculate shirt. He stared down at the bright red blotch for a moment before breaking into a slow, exasperated grin. “You’ve done it now,” he said, mock-accusing. “You’ve defiled my sacred attire.”

“Maybe you should consider that a badge of honor,” you quipped, unable to contain your laughter. “After all, if you’re going to be a legend, you must bear the scars.”

The final act came when you both decided to plate the dish. With great ceremony, Klaus lifted the covered dish from the stove. With a flourish, he swept the lid away, only for a waft of steam—and a stray vegetable chunk—to escape, landing on your nose. You burst out laughing, the absurdity of the moment overwhelming any pretense of culinary triumph.

“Ah, perfection!” Klaus declared with mock solemnity, bending to wipe the sauce off your cheek. “We have created a masterpiece that defies all conventional taste—and all conventional decency!”

Between fits of laughter and playful jabs, you both sampled the final creation. It was, admittedly, a far cry from the elegant dish portrayed in the film. Instead, it was a chaotic blend of flavors—some surprisingly delightful, others decidedly odd—but every bit infused with the spirit of your misadventure.

“You know,” you said between giggles, “I think I’d rather have a disaster like this with you than a perfect meal with someone else.”

Klaus’s eyes softened, the playful glint mingling with genuine warmth. “A disaster with you is the only recipe I’d ever want.”

In that moment, amid the scattered vegetables and splattered sauce, the world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth of shared laughter, the sweet mess of a kitchen experiment gone awry, and the unspoken promise that no matter what, you’d always find joy—even in chaos—with him by your side.

And as the night drew on, the memory of that wild, imperfect dinner became a cherished chapter—a reminder that sometimes, the best masterpieces are born from a little mess and a lot of love.

just something from my drafts that I wrote in February🤍 enjoy!

taglist:

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[defuse-myheart]

GAME NIGHT RIVALRY-DREW STARKEY

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 Drew gets too competitive during a board game with Y/N.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was a rare night off for Drew and Y/N, and instead of going out or watching TV, Y/N had a brilliant idea: game night.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Y/N said, setting a stack of board games on the coffee table.

Drew raised an eyebrow, slouching on the couch. “Fun for who? You know how competitive I get.”

“Exactly,” she teased. “You’ve been bragging all week about how you never lose. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Drew smirked, sitting up straighter. “Oh, it’s on. Don’t get mad when I destroy you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. She loved how animated Drew got when they played games, it was one of his more endearing quirks, even if it sometimes spiraled out of control.

They started with a simple trivia game, which quickly turned chaotic. Drew’s competitive streak surfaced almost immediately.

“What’s the capital of Australia?” Y/N asked, reading from a card.

Drew rubbed his chin, confident. “Sydney. Final answer.”

Y/N’s eyes lit up mischievously. “Wrong! It’s Canberra.”

Drew’s jaw dropped. “Canberra? Are you kidding me? That’s a trick question!”

Y/N laughed, marking her point on the scoreboard. “It’s not a trick question. It’s basic geography.”

“Whatever,” Drew grumbled, leaning forward to grab a handful of popcorn. “Next question. I’m warming up.”

But as the game wore on, Y/N continued to rack up points, her grin widening with each victory.

“You’re cheating,” Drew accused, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m not cheating! I’m just smarter than you,” Y/N shot back, sticking out her tongue.

Frustrated with his trivia loss, Drew suggested switching to a strategy-based game, one that required careful planning and quick thinking.

“You’re going down,” he declared, setting up the board for a game of Catan.

Y/N laughed, not intimidated in the slightest. “Bring it, Starkey.”

The game started off friendly enough, with both of them trading resources and building settlements. But as the turns went on, Drew’s focus intensified. He eyed the board like a general planning his next move, his lips pressed into a determined line.

“You’re not going to win,” he said, placing a road strategically across the board.

“Drew, it’s just a game,” Y/N replied, though she was secretly enjoying his intensity.

“It’s not just a game. It’s about honor,” he said dramatically, pointing at her with his game piece.

The turning point came when Y/N blocked Drew from building the longest road, a critical move that sent him into a mock frenzy.

“Why would you do that?” Drew asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and betrayal.

“Because it’s the smart thing to do,” Y/N said smugly, placing her piece with a flourish.

“You’re targeting me!” he accused, leaning back with his arms crossed.

“You’re the one who said it’s about honor,” Y/N shot back, laughing at his exaggerated reaction.

As the game neared its end, Drew’s competitive spirit reached new heights. He muttered calculations under his breath, plotted elaborate strategies, and even tried to bribe Y/N with snacks to trade him resources.

“Do you want this chocolate bar? I’ll give you all my sheep,” he said, holding up a candy bar.

“Nice try,” Y/N replied, not falling for it.

When Y/N ultimately won the game by a single point, Drew threw his hands in the air dramatically.

“I’ve been robbed!” he declared.

“You lost fair and square,” Y/N said, barely able to contain her laughter.

Refusing to end the night on a loss, Drew insisted on one more game: Uno. “This is my redemption arc,” he declared, shuffling the cards with the precision of a Vegas dealer.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You know Uno ends friendships, right?”

“Good thing we’re not friends,” Drew teased, giving her a playful wink. “We’re competitors.”

The game quickly turned savage. Drew played a string of Draw Four cards, grinning like a villain as Y/N’s hand ballooned with cards.

“Are you serious right now?” Y/N asked, glaring at him.

“Sorry, babe. It’s just strategy,” Drew said, though his smirk suggested otherwise.

But Y/N got her revenge, unleashing a barrage of skips and reverses that left Drew speechless.

“You’re a monster,” he said, dramatically slumping in his chair.

“Monster or winner?” Y/N quipped, slapping down her final card. “Uno!”

By the end of the night, the coffee table was littered with game pieces, empty popcorn bowls, and discarded cards. Drew and Y/N lay sprawled on the couch, exhausted from their marathon game night.

“Okay,” Drew admitted, throwing an arm over his face. “You’re better at games than I thought.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, snuggling into his side. “You’re not so bad yourself, even if you do turn into a sore loser.”

“I’m not a sore loser,” Drew said indignantly.

“You yelled ‘betrayal’ when I played a Draw Four.”

“Because it was betrayal!”

They both burst out laughing, their earlier competitiveness forgotten.

“You know,” Drew said after a moment, his voice softer, “even though you completely destroyed me tonight, I had fun.”

Y/N smiled, kissing his cheek. “Me too. But next time, let’s just play something cooperative. For the sake of our relationship.”

“Deal,” Drew said, pulling her closer.

And with that, they called a truce until the next game night.

𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 @nicholaschavezslut69

[tyttamarzh]

Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter.

This will probably be very long, so if you want to read it, go grab some popcorn and get comfortable.

I have to talk about this because it's eating me up inside. I think I shouldn't give so much importance to comments coming from sewers like Twitter and much less Tiktok, but it makes me so sick (and I'm such a masochist that I even spend time looking for the shit they say to make me angrier and debate them xD).

I am very happy that it was finally made official, with papers certified by the federation, that Tallulah is the daughter of Philza and Missa, I think that was not entirely necessary for them, because they had assumed it for a long time (let's assume that Tallulah needed the pappers to end her W arc), although I suppose that more than anything it was done for those people who still cannot accept it or who deny the paternity of Phil and Missa (With Missa, although it bothers me, I can even understand it, he He hasn't been as present and many people don't know him, but god, it would be a crime to deny Tallulah's paternity to Phil, the man who has kept her alive and given everything for her throughout her life).

I'm glad that, although I have seen negative comments, the majority have been positive (even if it hurts them, it doesn't matter, it's official, screw them). Mainly, the negative comments have been from defenders of W and their arguments are so poor and weak that they are easily refuted. It is obvious that these people do not know Tallulah and have never met her, many do not even know how things turned out and say nonsense like that the current Llulah is an imposter, that it is not fair that they "rewrote" history and erased W (which It is false, Llulah's words make it clear that history was never changed, she simply moved on and that person remained in the past).

I refuted all those arguments on Twitter but screw Twitter, I hate the fucking character limit. So I'm going to expand (I have a lot of poison to get out of my skin). I have some points:

1- "That's not Tallulah" Of course it is her, those who witnessed her life and her growth during the year that passed, can realize that this was her natural evolution. She is the same girl who grew up overcoming her limitations, who suffered, who felt alone, who had abandonment problems, who everyone saw as a poor abandoned girl and who found comfort next to someone who has always loved her like a father and a brother who gave everything for her.

2- "They erased all her lore" No. Tallulah's lore is the one she built with Philza and Chayanne over the course of the year they lived together. Her relationship with W and her longing for him was only part of her story (although people made a lot of emphasis on that), but it was not the only thing that defined her, it never was and only people who never got to met her think that. They see her like an extension of that other person, as the only thing that kept him on the server, but did not see her as an individual character and definitely did not watch Phil's Vods and they never really knew her lore.

3-"How do they explain this in the lore?" Simple, there was someone in her life, someone who was her first father, but who spent very little time with her, who left a long time ago and who is currently no longer part of her life. She learned to let go of the past and focused in the family she has in the present, the family that loves her, that watched her grow up, that makes her happy and gives her security to believe in herself and that is the Death Family, Chayanne, Philza and Missa. Time passes, not all people stay, treasure those who are by your side and let go of what never brought you anything but pain.

4- "They should have created another egg and replaced her" Why replaceher? It has no sense or reason. She is a character who built her own story with her family, a story that never really involved that other person other than with one or another sporadic mention, why eliminate a character that evolved by itself? Little by little she separated herself from what she was at the beginning and that bond that she had with that first father was practically non-existent. What would be the point of eliminating it or replace her with another new character?

5- "No matter what other parents and appearance give her, she will always belong to W because she still carries the name he gave her" No. She never belonged to him. She lived with that man for 2 days and apart from leaving him the promise of a reunion, she did not contribute anything else to her life. She formed her own path, her passion for music was not because of him, it was something she already had before, her love for nature, for animals, everything was built in the days she lived with Philza (even with uncle Bad). She suffered for her first father but she moved on, she matured, she discovered her link with death and her powers as a medium, she acquired her own personality and little by little she built the Tallulah she is now.

She never belonged to anyone but herself and she always fought to prove that, but people insisted on dumping trauma on her and reminding her that she was an abandoned child waiting for someone who at a certain point was nothing more than an idealized dream, because There was never a real relationship between them, they never lived together long enough. She little by little made her decisions and chose the people she wanted to be her parents (and it's not that she had few options, Quackity, Bad and even F wanted to adopt her at the time and asked them to, but she was not a girl who was looking for parents). She could choose and she chose Philza, the person who had always been there for her and later she chose Missa, someone who despite not knowing her very well gave her his love unconditionally and gave her security when she needed it. Then she was able to feel the warmth of being part of a complete family.

6- "They should change her name because W gave her that name! That impostor is not Tallulah!" Why? Her name is not anyone's intellectual property, at the time it was given to her, it belonged to her for better or worse and yes, in some way it will always be a tie to her past, but a past she has already left behind and managed to overcome by creating new memories and dreams.

To a certain extent I understand those who became attached to her because she reminded them of that other person, but if they couldn't see her as her own character, it means that they never cared enough to make the effort to get to know her.

It would shock us all if a character we liked suddenly changed drastically and left behind what like us in the first place. But if they had really watched her, they would have realized that the change was not sudden, it was gradual.

She found in Phil a protective and understanding father who always put her and her brother before anything else, who suffered with her her pain and outbursts of frustration due to the depression caused by the absence of her first father. She found in Missa a cute and loving father who always showers her with love and helps her to have confidence in herself. She doesn't lack anything with them. She has closed a cycle of pain in her life and now she can heal.

She chose the look that makes her feel finally free to be herself, whatever the external reasons that led to that, she finally has a future ahead of her unbound by the past and prefers to be more like the people she considers her family now. If you can't see what all of this really meant to Tallulah and her evolution, it's because you never cared to see even 20% of her story. Well, since the middle of last year she began her journey to break away from a name and be herself, fighting to be seen for who she was.

If those people decide to continue supporting someone despite his shit, that is their right, but the server and the admin were also within their right to decide to kick him out and want to distance themselves from a person they consider unpleasant.

7-There were comments of another type, mainly from people who are really very lost with the lore, people who consider her the daughter of Quackity, even confusing her with Tilín (saying that Q didn't know if she was the daughter of W or Luzu and that she should get a DNA test), when we all know that from the beginning she was W's daughter as a single father and that the only reason Quackity could have become Tallulah's father was if to marry W, but that never happened, W didn't come back and Quackity was never able to develop that relationship with Llulah, she considered him a possible father because she knew W loved him, but Q always being kidnapped or something, they never really related much. There are people who, even with a certificate, continue to insist that Tallulah should have been given to Quackity to raise with Luzu (she had a tender interaction with Luzu and people were already asking him to adopt her, saying that she was alone and had no parents, I seriously hate them!) I shouldn't take seriously people who obviously haven't seen Philza even once and I know that many of those people are hispanic and are limited by the language barrier but if they don't have the slightest idea They shouldn't give their opinion… Tallulah is not an object to be passed from hand to hand, she chose and in order to do so she had to go through a very long and painful arc.

8- I firmly believe that it is a great win to now have a certificate that endorses who the people she considers her parents are, but I insist, it was not necessary, because that has been known for a long time and I am sure that if it was created it was to close the mouth mouth to all those people who are not capable of accepting that.

Tallulah is the daughter of Philza and Missa (and no one else), she is part of the Death Family, that is her story, it is not a whim, a whim is continuing to link her to something she is no longer a part of or wanting to make her a part of a lore that never happened or wanting to give her other parents different from the ones she grew up with (Quackity already had Tilín, Richas and now Pepito, I don't think she needs more children and Tallulah doesn't need any more shitty drama in her life).

Tallulah is a beautiful being, both with her old look and with the new and as Missa says "She deserves only the beautiful things in the world"

Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! Tallulah is Phil and Missa's daughter!!! And I can shout it a thousand times because it's true and she always was, but now it's certified by the government and no amount of complaining or tantrums can change that fact.

Sorry for my bad english. See you!! jajaja ando re agresiva, pero es que nadie se mete con mi familia xD

[spookyfbi]

I want to just focus on all the good Gentlebeard stuff and for the most part I am, but there’s just this small kernel of popcorn in my brain that’s really bugging the shit out of me and I’ve gotta get it out.

Look, I’m not an Izzy fan, nor am I a hater. I enjoyed him as a deadpan antagonist who couldn’t understand why Ed was so into *that* guy in season 1 and I enjoyed him as a reluctant Gentlebeard shipper who had his own arc of finding community in season 2, but ultimately I’m here for Ed and Stede, so if they tell me that Izzy’s only there to serve Ed’s character growth, I can go with that. But Izzy’s death… didn’t really do that…?

If they’d established all along that Ed’s trauma came exclusively from being Blackbeard with Izzy, then Izzy dying being what symbolically frees Ed from Blackbeard and allows him to be Just Ed would make sense.

But they very much did not do that. They told us in both The Art of Fuckery and The Innkeeper that Ed’s trauma comes from him thinking he’s unlovable and not a good person because he killed his abusive father. This has precisely nothing whatsoever to do with Izzy, so Izzy dying does absolutely nothing to free Ed from the darkness, and I’m just so, so confused about why it’s being framed that way.

And like… as an aside… Ed didn’t need to be free of the darkness. He needed to learn that he was still lovable and loved even with the darkness. So like… letting go of the darkness so that he can be free to be loved by Stede is… kinda antithetical to the conflict they established for Ed’s arc.

Izzy fans have outlined at great length why Izzy’s death doesn’t make sense for Izzy’s arc, and I don’t disagree. But Izzy’s death doesn’t really make sense for Ed’s arc either. At best, it’s just a thing that happened. A thing that really didn’t need to.

[merwgue]

Rhysand: The King of Gaslighting and Why FeySand is the Worst Thing to Happen to the Universe

Alright, let’s settle in, grab some popcorn, and talk about the most overrated, gaslit relationship in all of Prythian: FeySand. That’s right, I said it. This whole “star-crossed, night-and-day, perfect-bonded-mates” charade is a masterclass in manipulation. Rhysand, with his smug smile and "feminist" persona, is one of the most toxic characters, and Feyre? Poor Feyre is out here living her best gaslit life, completely delusional and convinced that she’s found her one true love. Honey, no. Let’s break it down.

Feyre, Honey, You Loved Tamlin—Not Rhysand

Let’s start at the beginning. In ACOTAR, Feyre is literally crawling on her knees for Tamlin. She’s breaking herself—body, mind, and soul—to save the beast of the Spring Court. She goes through hell for him: riddle-solving, bone-breaking, soul-shattering hell. And all this, might I add, while Rhysand is busy drugging her, dressing her up like a Vegas showgirl, and parading her in front of Amarantha for his own benefit. So, can someone please explain to me how, by ACOFAS, Feyre suddenly claims she’s been in love with Rhysand since Under the Mountain?

I’m sorry, but what? Is this girl experiencing memory loss? The last time I checked, Feyre was dying for Tamlin. Not Rhys. Not the guy who was playing games and making her dance in skimpy outfits. So when she comes out with this "I’ve loved Rhysand all along" nonsense, I can’t help but scream, "GIRL, WHAT?" There’s some serious revisionist history going on here, and I’m not buying it. Rhysand gaslit her into forgetting her entire arc in the first book. Who does that? Oh, right—a toxic narcissist who needs to be the center of attention.

Rhysand swooped in during Feyre’s post-traumatic breakdown and took advantage of her emotional vulnerability. He didn’t let her heal, he didn’t give her space to process anything. Instead, he inserted himself into her life, spinning this grand tale of "we’re mates, babe, it was destiny all along." Uh, no, it wasn’t. Destiny doesn’t gaslight you into forgetting your entire past relationship.

Who Really Killed Amarantha? (Hint: Not Rhysand)

Oh, and don’t even get me started on this insane claim that Feyre and Rhysand together killed Amarantha. Like, excuse me? Did we all just forget that Tamlin is the one who literally stabbed her? It wasn’t Rhys, standing in the corner looking broody with his shadowy vibes, and it wasn’t Feyre, who was busy dying at the time.

But somehow, in Rhysand’s rewritten narrative, they both killed Amarantha together, hand in hand, like some Bonnie and Clyde fantasy. This is not their victory. This is Tamlin’s victory—yes, the same Tamlin Feyre is suddenly pretending never existed. Rhysand has fully convinced her that he was the hero of the story. What kind of manipulative mind games are we playing here?

If Rhysand were a real person, he’d be out here taking credit for the moon landing and convincing you that he invented electricity. The man loves to gaslight, and Feyre is drinking that Kool-Aid like there’s no tomorrow.

Rhysand: "Feminist" in the Streets, Manipulator in the Sheets

Let’s talk about Rhysand’s whole "I’m a feminist" shtick, shall we? I love a man who respects women as much as the next person, but Rhysand is no feminist icon. This is a dude who spent months controlling Feyre’s every move, drugging her for his own gain, and parading her around like a trophy while making sure she knew he held all the power.

"Oh, but he was saving her!" Was he, though? Or was he just manipulating her into believing he was the only one who could save her? There’s a fine line between protecting someone and making them completely dependent on you, and Rhysand is walking that line with all the grace of a snake in stilettos.

And the real kicker? Rhysand convinces Feyre that everything Tamlin did was wrong, but when he does the exact same thing, it’s suddenly romantic and protective. Tamlin locking Feyre up? Abusive. Rhysand stalking her, tracking her every move, and controlling her entire existence? Oh, that’s love, babe. Gotta keep her safe, you know?

The Mate Bond: Love or Just More Gaslighting?

Now let’s get to the mate bond. Oh, the glorious mate bond that’s supposed to be this undeniable force of nature. But if you actually look closely, it’s just another tool Rhysand uses to control Feyre. He literally withholds the information about the bond for months, letting her spiral into depression and chaos, before revealing it in this dramatic, theatrical way. Because of course, Rhysand has to control the narrative. He couldn’t possibly tell her about the bond when she was still making her own choices—nope, he had to wait until she was at her weakest, so he could swoop in and be the savior.

And then, when Feyre finally accepts the bond, it’s like she’s completely forgotten that she’s been manipulated the whole time. "Oh, Rhysand didn’t tell me about this life-altering bond that ties us together forever? No big deal, I love him now." I’m sorry, what? If that’s not a red flag the size of Prythian, I don’t know what is.

FeySand: The Worst Love Story Ever Told

So here we are, with this allegedly epic love story between Feyre and Rhysand, built on a foundation of gaslighting, manipulation, and rewritten history. Feyre, once a strong, independent woman who sacrificed herself for her loved ones, has been reduced to a puppet in Rhysand’s game. She’s forgotten her love for Tamlin, rewritten her trauma Under the Mountain, and swallowed Rhysand’s lies whole.

And yet, we’re supposed to root for this couple? I think not. FeySand is the most toxic relationship in the series, and yet somehow, everyone’s convinced it’s #goals. In reality, Feyre has been gaslit into oblivion, Rhysand is a master manipulator masquerading as a hero, and the entire plotline feels like it’s just one big exercise in seeing how far Rhys can push Feyre before she loses all sense of self.

Conclusion: Feyre, Please Wake Up

If I could sit Feyre down for a heart-to-heart, I’d tell her this: Girl, you’re living in a delusion. You loved Tamlin, you fought for Tamlin, and Rhysand gaslit you into believing otherwise. He’s rewritten your memories, twisted your experiences, and convinced you that this toxic relationship is some grand love story. It’s not. It’s manipulation at its finest.

So please, Feyre, for the love of all things sacred, take a step back, look at the facts, and realize that Rhysand has been gaslighting you since day one. You deserve better than this puppet-master of a High Lord.

[ladylucksrogue]

For your 300 followers celebration kiss drabbles...I have already asked for so much, but the prompts are so inviting and you write for so many delightful ships 😌☺️...Feel free to pick and choose and skip!

Codywan: “It’s been a long day. Come here.” And “You kissed me through the helmet. That doesn’t count.” 🥰

 “If I beat you, I get a kiss.” - I remember you giving Hardcase a girlfriend during the clone x oc week. Could they get a little drabble for this prompt, please? Whatever he thinks he can beat her in I leave up to you 🤣.

 "You always taste like caf." - This feels so much like Fox, so foxiyo, please? During the war, I think. 

Kissing someone while they talk about something they are passionate about - This prompt is so Tech/Phee coded that I just have to ask for it! Any setting, but no plan 99 in sight, please!

Rexsoka:  “Why do you always kiss me when I’m trying to be mad at you?” And "Kissing in the rain" 💙🧡

Bacara and Sariyah: "Discovering a sensitive spot kiss" and "Hungry kiss"

These are all so amazing 💕💕 thank you so much for all the wonderful prompts and ideas.

First up: Codywan: “It’s been a long day. Come here.”

Pairing: Codywan

Rating: G

Content warning: None

Set in my Unexpected-verse, Cody and Obi-Wan have been together for a long time at this point.

I've written something similar before, holo nights with Uncle Cody. I love the idea of Cody doting on his nieces and nephews.

Also excited, new kid OC here...

Tagging @tealmist55 I think you might appreciate the first Fives appearance in my fix-it 😊

Also available on A03

The lights in the living room were dimmed low, and at last, the apartment was quiet.

Mira was curled up with Veya on one end of the couch, one of them snoring faintly into the other’s shoulder. T’varin had half-rolled off his cushion and sprawled onto the rug, boneless. And in the middle of it all, nestled in a cocoon of blankets with just a tumble of dark curls sticking out, was Chiara.

She’d crashed hard after the third movie.

They’d all had their favorites, of course Veya had insisted on animation, T’varin wanted something with starfighters, Mira had argued for a classic. 

Cody leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching them all and stretching his back. The monthly holo night had become tradition, a chaotic, sugar-fueled sleepover for his nieces and nephew. He and Obi-Wan hosted every month, giving the kids a break from routine and giving their parents a night off. This time had been Chiara’s first. Everyone had been a little on edge about it. She was the youngest here, and her father had been…anxious.

So much so that Cody had contemplated giving Rex’s former ARC a formal order to go home and take a sedative.  Even so, Fives, once he was certain that Cody had ALL emergency contact numbers, had only left at all because his five-year-old daughter had put her hands on her hips and told him she’d be fine . And she had been. Despite being half the size of the others, her running commentary had kept them all laughing, and she’d somehow managed to eat her weight in popcorn and fizzy drinks.

Cody rinsed the last dish and set it carefully on the drying rack. His back ached, not in the way it used to perhaps, but in the way it did when he stood too long, that came after wrangling four kids. Still, it was a good kind of ache. It came with a clean kitchen and a quiet home and full bellies under his roof.

Footsteps padded up behind him, light and familiar.  Obi-Wan had been the one to get the last of the blankets tucked, the lights dimmed, the volume down. He moved quietly beside him now, looking a little tired, his hair a little touseled.

“It’s been a long day,” Obi-Wan said fondly. “Come here.”

Cody turned, towel still in hand. He let Obi-Wan pull him in without hesitation. His arms slid around Obi-Wan’s waist as he pressed his face to the crook of his neck and exhaled, shoulders finally loosening.

“Kitchen’s clean,” he mumbled.

“Mmm. I never doubted you.” Obi-Wan’s hands smoothed up his back, then paused briefly between his shoulder blades. “Is your back bothering you?”

Cody shrugged. “A little.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need more than that. He began to rub gently pressing in just enough to ease the tension.

Cody sighed, practically melting against him.

“You were humming,” Obi-Wan said quietly.

Cody blinked. “Was I?”

“Yo u only do it when you’re happy.”

Cody laughed, a little embarassed, but it didn't last long as Obi-Wan leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft and slow and warm, the two of them just savoring the quiet affection.

Cody glanced back toward the living room.   “Think she’ll be okay?” he asked after a beat.

“Chiara?” Obi-Wan followed the glance. “She had the time of her life.” He smiled, genuine. “Mira made sure of it.”

That was true. Despite the five-year age difference, Mira had taken her older cousin responsibilities seriously from the moment Chiara walked through the door, braiding Chiara’s hair, guiding her through the unwritten rules of a holo evening, keeping her in blankets and snacks and making sure she felt included.

Cody smiled. “She’s a good kid.”

“They all are.”

“They’ll be up at dawn,” Obi-Wan said with a yawn, “demanding pancakes like a nest of hungry varactyls.”

“Of course they will.” Cody snorted.  “Hopefully with less teeth.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes crinkled in a way that promised no such luck and he gave Cody’s wrist a gentle tug.

“Come to bed,” he said.

Cody didn’t resist.

[boylied]

Animorphs Book Club- The Alien

Sorry I’m a bit late for this one. It’s been a crazy week (I was on five planes within the span of four days) and I haven’t even been online for most of it. But we finally get an Ax book. I remember being so intrigued by him and never having any Ax books of my own. I finally found them at a library. It was not enough time to figure him out. Let’s try again now that I my brain is finished forming.

I love that aliens across media are always stunned at how much water Earth has. In a universe where sentient life has popped up all over, a water planet is still remarkable?

I have mentioned before that I was a parentified eldest child. As such, I really don’t vibe too much with Ax’s viewpoint around Elfangor. But I think this small scene between the brothers is so cute. I can’t help but think about when the Ellimist plucked Elfangor from Earth and, when trying to convince him to return to the war, the Ellimist used Ax’s existence as fodder. Elfangor returned, in part, to be with Ax and protect him. And we were robbed of getting to see the brothers together.

I love the diary entries.

“I would have liked to have Tobias’s DNA, but that was not possible,” Cute.

I love the whole trope of a bunch of kids trying to show an alien their human society, only for it to go horribly wrong. But this is the only example I can think of where we get to see it from the alien’s POV. I love the dramatic irony. But also, Ax is losing his mind over movie theater popcorn and candy. I just know a bowl of gumbo would kill him.

“Rachel is a true warrior,” I know that’s right

Chekhov’s rattle snake.

First instance of Ax calling Tobias his Bestie. I know he thinks being besties would mean having no secrets, but he does not really that All middle school friendships involve secrets and drama.

Jake’s fury at the fact that Ax withheld information for him specifically to manipulate him into destroying the kandrona. Fast forward to endgame when Jake keeps Rachel’s solo mission secret specifically to prevent the others from putting a stop to it. Presently, Jake says “you don’t know a thing about [humans].” So I ask, does Jake eventually lose his humanity? Or is Jake the one who doesn’t humans?

KA Applegate does Who’s On First?

It’s funny thinking about what things Ax describes for us versus what things he assumes we know. He takes the time to explain that the Andalite sky has anywhere from two to four moons. But he never bothers to lay out how he eats (until -for character arc reasons- he is forced to explain to the animorphs later). He mentions that books seem more advanced than computers to the Andantes, but thinks that the program he found in Marco’s house is a children’s game.

Part of what’s fun with these books is figuring out what’s going on when the narrator isn’t around. What’s fascinating here is that we know that Ax is keeping secrets, and the Animorphs now know that he’s actively keeping secrets, not just being mysterious. And now we see Tobias come talk to Ax alone. And then Marco. And then Cassie. And it’s like, they’re really getting together aside and being like, Who is the best one for the job? Who’s gonna get him to open up?”

The Hork Bajir have a bio clock that sets them warring every 62 years? I did not remember this little fact. But I was always interested in the world building aspect of the series (Work-Bajir chronicles was my Favorite book). And now I’m thinking this was definitely a design by the Arn to keep control over the population and distract them in case they ever got brave.

“Cassie has talent. Morphing does not happen to be my talent.” Ax is so funny because he is clearly a good fighter. But he has admitted that he didn’t pay attention during school. He doesn’t remember much about xenobiology, or the more advanced sciences (by Andalite standards), never cared for art, isn’t that good at morph control. He only cared about fighting and being like Elfangor. And because we’re human readers, we click more with the Animorphs and think of Ax as this advanced, alien being who is more advanced than humans, but in reality, they got saddled with the Andalite version of the middle school jock. Omg- Ax is Jake this explains so much.

The communications between Ax and his home planet is just *chef’s kiss*. We get to see him relieved and emotional to just see another Andalite. We get to see him go back to normal operations, giving his report and finding comfort in the familiar. We get to see him admit the uncomfortable, and vehemently defend both Elfangor’s actions and the humans as a whole. Ax being bullied and pressured by an older, well respected Andalite into lying and taking the blame (apparently this call will NOT be recorded for training and quality purposes). And we see the very beginning of Ax getting radicalized. 

Also, I get that it’s devastating to lose your eldest son. But you hear from your long lost son, who you didn’t know for certain was alive. He tells you his brother died, and your immediate response is “well you better go get his killer, kid.” Stone cold Pops. I get that it’s tradition, but it’s giving shot gun wedding vibes.

Also love seeing more insight into Yeerk society. They’re parasitic slugs, but they’re capable of love and relationships. Is this their own capabilities? Or a byproduct of their hosts? I seem to remember that their reproductive cycle includes self destruction to create the next generation? So I doubt their biology would evolve to include romantic love or familial feelings. So my hunch is that Yeerks can develop friendships and share bonds with each other, but they only grow to develop romance and family after taking hosts that have that biological urge (Visser 1 being the most prominent).

Once again, Cassie’s the goat. This whole deal with Seerow’s Kindness gets me itchy. My memory is fuzzy but it’s taken what- roughly 70-80 years for the Andalites to go from kind space explorers to traumatized, walled off space cops. When I was younger I thought this was such a good story for children. You start off kind, someone betrays you, and you close yourself off to prevent it from happening again while beefing with your ex. It ruins your next relationship (the Hork-Bajir). And then someone else comes along and finally teaches you how to love again. That love and healing is more powerful than fear and secrets. But now that I’m older, I realize that most adults haven’t grasped this concept either.

I wonder how many would have lived if they had just mercy killed Alloran.

But of course we end with a PSA on unity across species and the pursuit of freedom. Lovely.

Also shout out to @emeraldmew for the comparison “Apparently more than you, you CLOD.”

[spaceprincessem]

robstar week day 6 - other titan's pov @robxstar

shhhhh shhhh let's pretend im not a week late okay? okay <3 set some point before the trigon arc (after the episode birthmark)

under a dome while we wait for it [we feel all of it]

“So, end of the world, huh?”

Beast Boy lays his paintbrush down on the ground, rolling his shoulders to rid the stiffness that’s creeped up along his spine the past few hours.

It’s late.

It’s late and he hasn’t slept more than three or four hours for a week straight because in addition to their normal crime fighting duties they’ve been prepping for the whole Trigon doom and gloom. Not that he minds putting in a little extra effort if it means saving Raven and, well, the world, but he’s tired and a little delusional, so he thinks he can be cut some slack.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you did less talking and more painting.”

The seriousness in Cyborg’s tone is cut by the faint smirk on his lips as he goes back to welding a wall. 

“I’m giving it all she’s got, boss.” Beast Boy jokes, but he can’t stop his voice from cracking slightly. Cyborg raises an eyebrow and Beast Boy deflates, “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Starfire hums as she glides over to them, setting her paintbrush next to his, “it has been a long day.”

One of their tougher ones too. All Beast Boy — and everyone else on the team for that matter — wanted to do was crawl into bed after their final battle. While Raven was able to go off to the room for the night the rest of the Titans set to work on their secret safe room for when the time came.

“She’s right,” Cyborg sighs as he sets aside his tools, “even my robotic pieces ache from everything that happened today.”

“Perhaps a small break.” Starfire smiles as she lowers herself to the ground.

Beat Boy and Cyborg follow suit, dimming the lights to something a bit more pleasant on their tired eyes. Beast Boy watches in quiet fascination as Starfire runs her hands through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face.

“Midnight snack anyone?” Cyborg asks as he pulls popcorn out of a secret compartment from one of the walls. “Raven gets hungry too,” he adds when he catches his friend’s curious expressions. 

Despite the circumstance Beast Boy enjoys the small snatches of down time he gets with his team. It’s a rare sight to see them dressed in hoodies and sweatpants, items stolen from each other's closets used for comfort, so very different from their hero uniforms. He doesn’t miss the dark circles under their eyes, their muscles constantly coiled tight like battle is right around the corner.

“So,” Cyborg mimics as he looks up at them, “end of the world, huh?”

“Rude considering Starfire’s never seen the Grand Canyon.” Beast Boy says as he elbows her gently.

“Yes,” Starfire agrees with a small giggle, “when we survive this ordeal that is the first place we will go.”

“Only if we do it the old fashion way and road trip it,” Cyborg grins as he leans back on his hands, “and no, BB, you do not get to pick the snacks.”

Beast Boy frowns instantly, making Starfire laugh harder.

“Planning a vacation without me?” Robin suddenly appears in the doorway with a carrier full of four fresh coffees.

“Robin,” Beast Boy says in mock offense as he dramatically places his hand on his chest, “you would deny our very own space princess the chance to see one of many natural wonders of the earth?”

Robin’s face softens, as it always does when Starfire is involved, and steps inside to join them on the floor.

“Never.” He replies as he takes his seat next to Starfire, close enough so that their shoulders brush. 

“Beast Boy, Raven, and I have watched several nature documentaries involving the Grand Canyon,” Starfire says, “I simply must see it in person.”

“Any other places we should add to that list?” Robin asks in amusement to the group.

“I do have a selection of restaurants on my must eat lists,” Cyborg adds as he tosses a kernel of popcorn in the air, catching it gracefully, “even found some highly recommended vegetarian places for BB.”

“Aww, you do care!”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to plan a trip out of the city after…” Robin trails off, eyes casting around the nearly finished room.

He doesn’t need to say it. 

They all know what’s coming and while the Titans will fight until their very last breath, death has never felt so inevitable before. There’s been so many times, so many fights, where they’ve won by the skin of their teeth, but Trigon’s coming feels a lot like staring down the barrel with no moves left. 

Beast Boy doesn’t want to lose any of them. These are his friends — his family — he’s never loved anyone more than the four people he’s come to call his own. He sees the same look on all of their faces; the fear of losing each other and the determination to keep each other safe.

“You know,” Beast Boy says as he presses his thumb into the floor, watching the light shift and move beneath his touch, “I’ve been thinking about the first time we all met.”

The tension from the room bleeds as he’s met with easy smiles. He doesn’t miss the way Robin’s cheeks turn the faintest brush of pink as he turns his gaze towards Starfire.

“You mean when Star single-handedly wrecked half the city and Robin’s solo career lasted for approximately ten minutes upon arrival.” Cyborg jokes, grinning as he looks at the two named Titans.

“Almost feels a little like serendipity.” Robin hums.

“Or destiny.” Beast Boy murmurs.

He’s met with raised eyebrows and curious, disbelieving looks — at least on Robin and Cyborg’s part. And he gets it. They’re actively trying to reshape a prophecy that was written long before they existed, but Beast Boy doesn’t mean it in a doomed sense. In fact, he thinks it’s the one of the few things that has given him hope on the longer, darker nights.

“What I mean is,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, “what if Raven consciously or not brought us all together because we — the Titans, this team  — is the only thing that can beat Trigon.”

“Beast Boy,” Robin shakes his head, “that’s…” he stops, trailing off as he takes a moment to think about what Beast Boy said.

“Funny how out of all the places in the galaxy Starfire could have gone she landed on Earth,” Beast Boy explains, “in Jump freakin’ City.”

Starfire tilts her head to the side, fiery hair tumbling down her shoulder, lips tugging up in a thoughtful smile.

“Robin chooses to go solo at the same time I leave the Doom Patrol,” Beast Boy continues, laying a hand against his chest. “Cyborg drops out of high school after his accident and we all just happen to be in the city square on the same night.”

“You know,” Cyborg says as he takes a sip of his drink, “that makes me think we could actually win this thing.”

“There is always hope.” Starfire says softly. “And it started with the night we met,” she lays her hand down on top of Robin's, her smile bright as she looks at the three of them, “maybe Beast Boy is right.”

“Then we’ll make sure not to let Raven down.” Robin adds, his hand casually wrapping around Starfire’s fingers to squeeze them gently.

“Does that mean we should start planning our Grand Canyon vacation?” Cyborg asks with a grin, Beast Boy quickly matching it as they look at their leader.

Robin takes a moment to look at Starfire before he huffs out a laugh, answering, “I don’t see why not, but maybe we should get this room finished first.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” Beast Boy mock salutes.

They all climb to their feet and set back to work. Together, with his friends, the night doesn’t seem so long.

[horriblengrossstories]

What if Derek like accidentally impregnated mutt like not even trying and what if mutt had a irregular period schedule (totally not projecting my own irregular schedule) so they didn’t even notice at first like I mean I’d assume mutt would throw up from stress without being pregnant so morning sickness no questions there so what would Derek do if mutt was pregnant and it was like a month or two in and they just found out because she’s starting to show

This has been asked before and long story short? He’d make her get an abortion because he knows Bram would kill her if she gave birth to a kid.

🧪 The discovery:Matt corners her and says it outright. “You look pregnant.”

Derek: “You’re kidding.”

Mutt: “I didn’t know!"

Derek:“ You think I want to bury you because you got stupid with your uterus!?” ( ah yes cause she got her self pregnant-_-)

Again: no babies with Derek. You will get an abortion even if you wanna keep it. Sorry.

No debate. No soft “what if.” No AU where he comes around and holds a tiny bootie with misty eyes. Nope not here at least.

Derek is not:

a sad dad,

a redemption arc,

a babygirl dad™ who melts at the sight of a coo.

He is:

unstable,

traumatized,

ruthless,

And somehow smart enough to know that a baby is a death sentence, especially in his family.

You can cry. You can beg. You can say “but I’d keep it safe, I swear.”

And Derek would say:

“No, you wouldn’t. Because you can’t even keep yourself safe, and you think I’m letting you raise a target?”

“Do you wanna give Bram a fucking reason?”

“Do you wanna be a corpse with a kid that gets raised by my sister on coke and a man who eats beetles for fun!?”

He’ll drag you to the doctor himself. You’ll be in the passenger seat, crying, and he’ll light a cigarette and say,

“You wanna hate me? Fine. But you’ll be alive to do it.”

If u want a cute AU with dad Derek go ahead, I’ll probs be in the back watching with popcorn. But it’s not the cake I’m going to make here.

Derek is not a dad, he is barely a functional human man who hunts people for sport. The only thing he wants to raise is hell.

-Birdie 🐦