#this is one of those things I pretend exists

[verdancy-hime]

Women also treat other women like they are predators all the time? Most women have treated me like a cross between a contagious person with a disease that gives you brain damage and a dangerous predator my whole life.

This isn't about the gender of the person being treated that way.

It's just that women, of a certain type, are encouraged to pretend to be terrified of all kids of stuff no one hates and demand that everyone stop doing them to please them as the primary means of social control in our society.

They do it to men, they do it to women who aren't white, they do it to neurodiverse people or people who are the wrong flavor of white for their area like catholic whites in a highly protestant area in the usa get this even though they don't ever say that's why, or white people from another region like people who are too rural for them.

The whole thing relies on skinny pretty white cis rich women having no outlet for the simmering rage that they have repressed for years because of the constant low and mid level miseries that older women and men they are in romantic relationships with push onto them except to lash out at culturally approved outsider groups.

It's not power. It's abuse. Patriarchal men never shut up about accountability. They never stop laying all the problems of society at women's feet and don't give them any real tools to solve them but like

Today I got banned from the ymca because some skinny rich cis 20 year old white girl wanted to pretend to be terrified for her life over me. I am a fully clothed also white cis woman. Skinny rich white neurotypical cis women have gotten me fired from jobs before, gotten me into trouble for all kinds of stuff.

I'm actually down past year 3 of getting stalked and harassed and I'm still not as pumped up on self righteous fake fear as the average woman of this type. There should be another word for it. Not all privileged white women are like this but you learn to see who they are based on how they speak and dresss and make faces at you. It's not based on gender or race, in the sense that they only apply this treatment to any random person of color or gender, they just viciously attack literally anyone or anything that doesn't seem like it was approved by like? Three panels of experts and a focus group? You could call them like? Aunt Lydia. Fish speakers. Idk.

It's not the same even as someone who reacts to one specific trigger for a phobia or sensory issue or even like... someone who thinks something is annoying. These women specifically don't react emotionally but talk about how scared they are and how dangerous everything is. They may frame it as dangerous to property values or dangerous to children or dangerous to them or dangerous to you even. I'm not talking about true analysis or compassion or even like self or social examination either.

They're just like that. A type of woman who exists who is a predator.

One of the significant things about incels that no one talks about is that they are all doing the exact same thing as these women. The same faux concern for the fabric of society and the same claim that their privileged lives are actually horrible and they're getting persecuted whenever they don't get what they want. Not because someone is breaking a promise to them or something gets changed up. It's not autistic people getting upset that their routine broke or people simply being afraid of losing out on something they really want. If you talk to them long enough you realize they're just like sadistic and want to infect you with shame for normal harmless things. The incel men I've talked to talk about sex constantly but many don't even like or desire sex they just want to make women feel creeped out by it and ruin it for people having it- they also secretly think they are better than those people for not having sex.

I think that's what a lot of incels want that women have. They want it to be their job to cry fake tears and claim to be a victim while someone else suffers because they claimed to be hurt. That's why they complain about false rape accusations and paternity tests and stuff all the time. Not because they want their to stop being people who lose their shirt financially because of a divorce or a pregnancy where the parents don't want a relationship or for people not to go to jail for having sex because someone else lied about the sex maliciously- they just want men to make those decisions. Not in a "we have to have a double standard to counteract an existing double standard" or "this is a fake problem designed to distract people" kind of way. They want literally to be part of roving bands of men who like passive aggressively bully anyone who doesn't follow their rules into poverty, mental illness and soul death just like the women do.

I have met people like this who aren't from a privileged background but it's more common in people who have a lot of privilege, are not in any immediate danger of losing it, and are not victims of any sort of particular crime or hardship that most people would call super traumatizing that they mention.

It's not that no one is ever allowed to complain to other people or ask them to stop doing something that bothers them or whatever. But these people want to spend their whole life bullying other people into thinking they're evil. They don't do it because you're men. The men who talk most about this are unfortunately usually claiming stuff like that men are demonized because women talk to each other about how someone cheated in the past or something.

The worst thing people like this do is they make it impossible for anyone to get help because when you're in trouble, everyone thinks you're just making it up.

Still bothered by the US cultural idea that men can only be non-romantically intimate with one another in war-like or competitive circumstances.

[supercap2319]

Y/N followed the yokai bird with the tiny hat and the blue tiger down to the streets below. He was given a letter by Jinu—one of the Saja Boys, the demons posing as a boy band. Jinu wanted to meet Y/N in person after discovering the demonic patterns on his body, just like theirs. It was a trap, but Y/N had to go.

That's how he ended up on the rooftop, beheading a mannequin, only to be surrounded by all the Saja Boys. Great. What an idiot he was. He drew his tessen, and took a fighting stance as he prepared for the worst.

“Wow. I wasn't expecting a hug, but... I thought the mannequin was gonna be a fun icebreaker.” Jinu smiled. The rest of the guys laughed at Jinu's joke. Even Mystery cracked what would seem like a smile. “We just wanna talk.”

“Talk?”

“About your patterns? ”But first, I wanna talk about those pants.” Jinu pointed to Y/N's pajama pants. “Pokémon? Really? Gotta Catch em all?” Y/N threw his tessen at Jinu's head, the demon moved his head just in time before it fell harmlessly onto the roof.

“Wow. You have sucky aim.” Abby stated.

“What do you want?” Y/N asked.

“We came to tell you that we know what it's like. The patterns. To have them. To feel them.”

“Feel? You guys are demons. Demons don't feel anything.”

“Is that what you think?” Romance asked.

“That is what I know.” Y/N said. It's all he's ever been taught by Celine. That demons don't care about anyone or anything. They just existed to bring chaos and darkness into the world. Why would the Saja Boys be any different? They may look cute and adorable on the outside, but on the inside, they worked for Gwi-Ma.

“That's all demons do. Feel. Feel our shame, our misery. It's how Gwi-Ma controls us. Do you think we all chose this path?” Jinu gestures towards all of them. “No, we each had to do terrible things to survive. Abby was a prostitute to support his family. Baby was orphaned and abandoned on the streets.” Abby and Baby flinched at Jinu's words. They were no longer human, but the memories of their misfortune echoed in their heads like a radio station. “Romance was betrothed at age 13 to a cruel, much older nobleman to secure his family's finances, and Mystery was born blind in a mountain village. And I…” Jinu paused. “My family was extremely poor and miserable. I had a single possession to my name. An old bipa. So I busked the streets, but it didn't get me anywhere. I was desperate. We were starving. Then, I heard him. Gwi-Ma gave me what I asked for, but this was the price.” He flashed his patterns.

“And you think that makes me feel sorry for you? I don't. You guys are monsters.” Y/N said.

“We're the only ones who could ever understand you, Y/N.”

Y/N drew the tanto strapped to his side. “I am nothing like you guys.”

“Denial. I get it. I was once there too. We'll be here when you're done pretending. Until next time.” They turned to go.

“There won't be a next time!” Y/N dashed forward as he drew his weapon. The cold steel of his blade was just inches from Abby's hair before they all disappeared in a puff of smoke. Y/N was panting heavily as he walked to retrieve his tessen, a look of worry and confusion etched into his face.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒 ❜ 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You're the emotionally drained host of a party you never wanted, surrounded by people who wouldn’t notice if you vanished—unless it meant no one was refilling their drinks.

It’s noise and neon, forced laughter and cheap liquor. You’re on autopilot, just trying to make it through the night without unraveling.

Then she arrives. Solana. Quiet. Strange. Pretty in the way fire is—beautiful until it licks your skin. She speaks like she’s halfway through a story you’ve already forgotten you were in. 

You barely know her, yet you invited her.

And now she’s always at your side, tilting her head when you speak like she’s translating your words into something far more interesting. But among your so-called friends, she quickly learns one thing:

A well-placed "Pretty please..." could unlock far more than expected

Especially when drawn out jusst right.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: fem! Sol x gn! reader · toxic romance · femme fatale · psychological entrapment · fluff/smut · sensual horror · gothic erotica · breath play · body worship · obsession as love language · arousal through fear · (art from Waza aka @alyysahh on twitter/x) · inspo pretty please by dutch melrose

𝓌𝒸: 16k (sorry… this took me a WEEK to shorted, it was 50k)

♤ | [ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ] | enjoy dearest readers ! | ♤

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: So, long story short—I’ve been buried under med school prep and the kind of overworking program that drains the soul straight out of your body. I’ve basically been living on autopilot: work, sleep, repeat. Motivation? Never heard of her. 

This piece is what spilled out of me in the middle of that. A reflection of how I’ve been feeling lately—hollow, tense, emotionally coiled. I ended up changing the plot from [ 𝓋𝑒𝒾𝓁 𝒽𝓎𝓂𝓂 ] because, honestly, my mood demanded it. And what better way to cope than writing about a dangerous, obsessive woman? 

Fem! Solana is my therapy. 

Writing women like her just clicks for me. Apologies if the tone feels different—but maybe that’s the point.

Pretty please.

Two little words. Harmless, at first glance. But you know better.

A “Pretty please” is dangerous. It’s not just polite. Not just sweet. It’s a weapon with a sugar coating. A smile sharpened into a hook. People say it like a joke, a throwaway. But for you? 

Those words are sacred. A fucking cursed. They’re the reason you’ve done more things you didn’t want to do than you care to admit. Not because you’re spineless—maybe a little. But because “pretty please” hits different when you’ve been trained your whole life to fold at the sound of it.

You hear it, and your spine evaporates. Your resolve becomes soup. You nod before you even know what’s being asked. And that’s how you ended up here. Exhausted. Staring into your closet, as if it holds the answers to life. Because someone said pretty please, and now, apparently, you’re throwing a party.

Not even a good one. Just a lukewarm get-together full of people you barely like, in a house you don’t own, wearing clothes that have seen better semesters.

It was a good outfit.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the only thing left that didn’t smell like deadlines and despair. At this point, “clean” was the new “cute,” and you were barely pulling that off. You stopped dressing to impress around the third week of pretending everything was fine. Now you were just trying to look functional enough not to get pulled aside if the police come by to see what’s going on.

Still, you gave it effort. A little. Dug through the disaster zone of your closet like you were searching for purpose. Tried on three things. Took them all off. Stared into the mirror for five straight minutes, debating if your dark circles made you look edgy or just severely unwell.

Your final choice? Black. Obviously.

Something fitted enough to say “I exist,” but loose enough to say “but don’t talk to me.” A jacket, in case you needed to disappear into it later. Shoes you could run in, if necessary. Which, lately, felt like a smarter fashion decision than heels.

You weren’t aiming to be the hottest person in the room. Just not the most visibly broken. Though, to be fair, college had set the bar comically low. Most of your classmates looked like they were somewhere between sleep paralysis demons and Red Bull-sponsored cryptids.

So yeah. You were doing fine.

You grabbed your phone, pocketed your doubts, and headed downstairs for the party to start, that you were somehow hosting because—guess what?—someone asked nicely. ‘Pretty please’, they’d said. And just like always… You said yes. 

Truthfully? You didn’t even want to do this. 

The party. The people. The performance of being well-adjusted. You were tired—not ‘I need a nap’ type of tired, but the kind of tired that leaks into your bones and makes things like responding to texts or doing your dishes feel like side quests in a game you didn’t sign up for.

College had drained you.

Not in the quirky, Insta-story, "I'm-so-tired-lol" kind of way.

No. You were hollowed out.

Emotionally overdrafted. Mentally on fire, physically on autopilot.

Every week was just another panic cycle. Another professor assigns three chapters of reading, like your brain wasn’t already cooked. Another group project where you’d do all the work and everyone else would reap the grade. Another announcement in your inbox about some “career development opportunity” you couldn’t afford to care about.

And every time you opened your phone, there it was: Another classmate's “So blessed to be starting my dream job!” post on LinkedIn while you were standing in your kitchen in the dark, eating saltines over the sink, and wondering how long you could live like this before someone noticed you were slowly crumbling.

There was nothing beautiful about it.

No self-discovery. No life-changing epiphanies. Just a slow fade of your personality under a pile of Canvas notifications and cold coffee. And your social life? That happened to you. You didn’t build it—you just woke up in it one day. Accidental friends from class. People you let into your space because you were too tired to say no. 

People who saw you as convenient. You had let them in, thinking maybe—just maybe—they’d be the kind of people to keep you grounded. Make you feel seen. Help you believe there was still something human in you worth connecting to. 

Instead? They used you. You were the designated driver, the homework ghostwriter, the person they vented to but never listened to in return. They made jokes at your expense in group chats. Teased you too hard, too often, and never apologized. They called you “chill” because you never fought back.

But the truth was, you didn’t care enough to fight anymore.

You let it all slide—because what was the point? You’d stopped expecting people to treat you with care. You told yourself you were easygoing, low-maintenance. But really, you just... stopped asking for anything. Stopped expecting better. Stopped trying to be someone worth defending. You weren’t even sure if they liked you. But they kept showing up. And you kept letting them. 

Because it was easier than being alone.

Your house was clean. You lit a candle. Opened a window. Sprayed that knockoff body mist you bought freshman year because it reminded you of being seventeen and hopeful. It still mostly just smelled like effort.

The lights were low. The vibe? Discount euphoria. Fairy lights that blinked out every twenty minutes. Stove light humming in the corner like it was judging you. The snacks were good—you always made sure of that, because if they were going to trash your place, they could at least pretend to enjoy it. The drinks were poured. Loud music thumped through the cheap Bluetooth speaker, and people already started dirtying your apartment like they paid rent.

One guy stood with his shoes on the couch. Someone else was double-dipping in the salsa with the kind of audacity only cheap alcohol and male privilege could produce. Someone had taken over your kitchen counter, texting their ex like they were on a reality show.

A girl lay sprawled on your living room floor under a ring light, filming a “healing” TikTok while chewing sour gummies like she was discovering peace in artificial colors.

They laughed too loudly at jokes that weren’t funny.

They talked over you. Spilled drinks and said “oops” like that fixed it. Took selfies in your bathroom mirror without cleaning up the sink first.

You were background noise in your own home. 

That realization didn’t hurt as much as it should’ve. It just… settled. Like everything else. The music was too loud. The Bluetooth speaker kept skipping. Someone had spilled Fireball—again on your rug and laughed about it like it wasn’t going to stain. 

You didn’t say anything. You never did.

You were halfway through your second drink—a tequila and Sprite mix in a red Solo cup, mostly sugar. You didn’t like it, but you kept sipping anyway. The burn was something to focus on. You nodded along to a conversation you weren’t really part of.

Something about a professor getting fired for sleeping with a TA. Everyone thought it was hilarious. You laughed, too, right on cue. Not because you found it funny, but because that’s what you were supposed to do. 

That’s how you stay included.

You made eye contact just enough to seem present. Tilted your phone so it looked like you were texting someone interesting. You weren’t. You were staring at your screen time report. Again. Over six hours on social media today. Brain turned to paste. 

Again, you didn’t even like most of the people here. But loneliness makes you say yes to things you don’t want. And being surrounded by noise—any noise—was still better than being alone with your thoughts. At least with noise, you could pretend. 

Pretend you had a life. 

Pretend you weren’t slowly coming apart.

Still, you kept moving. Kept smiling. Kept pretending tonight was fun, even though it was just you bleeding out your last drop of social energy into a group of people who didn’t really know you. Didn’t want to. Not really.

And deep down, you wondered if anyone would ever see you—really see you—and not just what you were trying to perform. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe someone would notice the part of you that still wanted to feel alive. Even if it was buried deep, underneath the apathy and silence and all the days that felt the same.

Then it happened. You looked up.

Oh right… Solana Brugmansia.

You recalled her name at the back of your mind. Your eyes watch as 

Solana, leaning against the far wall like she’d grown there. Half-lit by the yellow wash of the fairy lights, half-swallowed by shadow. She wasn’t trying to blend in—she just wasn’t trying at all. Her posture said she didn’t care if she belonged here. Didn’t care if anyone looked. Didn’t care if they didn’t.

Which, of course, made you look.

You weren’t trying to, not consciously. But your eyes found her like a magnet finds metal. Like you’d been scanning for something real without realizing it, and suddenly there she was—lowkey radioactive.

She was wearing this black dress that looked like it belonged to a witch who was too tired to curse anyone and too cool to explain why. It hung loose off her frame like it resented the idea of structure. Low-cut in a way that said don’t talk to me, but also stare at your own risk.

She wasn’t trying to stand out. She just was.

Combat boots—scuffed like she'd kicked her way through several regrettable situations and didn’t wipe them off afterward. The kind of shoes that looked like they had stories, and none of them ended in therapy.  Her hair was black with streaks of green so deep they looked like forest shadows under moonlight. Pulled into a messy half-up, half-down twist, like she got halfway through styling it and said “whatever”—but somehow, it worked.

And the bangs. Oh, God, the bangs.

Split into thirds, like they’d been placed there by an artist who smoked too much and felt too much. One thick strand sliced down the middle of her face like a sword. The other two framed her jaw just right—sharp, geometric, borderline menacing.

You didn’t know whether to compliment her or back away slowly. Which, of course, meant you were immediately obsessed by this eye view of hotness. 

And then her eyes.

That was it. That was the part that stopped you. Not in the poetic "lost in her gaze" way. No, more like: your brain threw up an error message because what the hell were you supposed to do with that?

Central heterochromia. Orange in the center. Blood-red on the edges. Like someone dropped fire into wine and trapped it in her skull. They weren’t soft eyes. They weren’t trying to connect. They were the kind of eyes that looked at you like a diagnosis. And she was sipping from her drink like it had a better personality than anyone here. 

Slowly, methodically. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she knew something no one else did, and she wasn’t in a rush to share. She didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even blink that much. Just locked eyes with you like she was trying to figure out how many screws were missing before you broke. She looked at you like a puzzle she’d already solved and didn’t feel like bragging about. Just tilted her head in that quiet, unnatural way that made your neck itch. 

And you remembered—You’d invited her.

It had been one of those long mornings. Not dramatic, just quietly miserable—the kind where your eyes felt sticky and your brain wouldn't boot up properly. You sat slumped in the hallway outside your lecture room, the kind of early that only students or criminals willingly experienced. A crumpled granola bar wrapper in one pocket, half-dead earbuds in the other. And that weird dampness in the air from campus AC being a little too aggressive.

You were tired, like always. Like life tired. Not even sleepy anymore. Just… consistently worn down in every direction. It had been like that for weeks now. Maybe months. You weren't keeping track.

And then Solana sat next to you. 

No warning. No greeting. Just simply sat next to you, like gravity had pulled her there. She didn't say anything—just took out a sketchpad, clicked her gel pen once, and started scribbling something in the margin of what might’ve once been notes. There were skulls. Flowers growing out of them. A hand, half-skeletal, holding a cigarette.

She didn't look at you, but she was close enough that you could feel the edges of her presence, like sitting next to a thunderstorm that hadn't broken yet.

You didn’t mean to talk. You really didn’t.

But the silence between lectures had that weird elastic quality—too quiet, too heavy—and you just cracked open. A slow unraveling. Nothing loud, nothing dramatic. Just a low, dry sort of honesty.

“I think I’ve turned into a complete doormat,” you said.andin great this, joking that assholes like them shouldn’t exist but quickly : 

Still no reaction. Which was, somehow, more comforting than someone gasping or pitying you. “Like... not just socially. Existentially. Full-on mat-on-the-floor energy. People wipe their feet, and I thank them for visiting.”

You laughed, but it was tired. Halfhearted.

“It’s gotten bad. My friends—if you can call them that—just ask for something and I do it. No questions. They say ‘pretty please’ in that fake little voice, and boom. I’m driving them to Target at 10 p.m. or proofreading their midterm or bailing them out of some mess. It’s pathetic. And I know it. But I don’t stop.”

You took a breath. Realized how much you’d just said out loud. 

Solana still didn’t look at you. She was adding thorns to a flower, methodically.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “That was a lot.”

She capped her pen. Finally turned her head. And she gave you this look. This flat, unimpressed, really? kind of expression that was somehow kinder than any fake sympathy would’ve been. “You ever think maybe you’re just tired of being alive and everyone else is just better at pretending not to be?”

You blinked. Your mouth opened, then shut.

“I mean, honestly,” she continued, deadpan. “Half this campus is full of assholes who shouldn't exist. Emotionally, ethically, sometimes legally.”

You laughed. A short, startled bark of a laugh.

It came out of you too quickly... such a loser.

She glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, lips twitching just a little. Not a smile. Just amusement in microdose form. “Not saying you shouldn't exist,” she added, dry as bone. “Just them. Mostly.”

You laughed again. Louder this time. Your hand covered your mouth like you weren’t used to the sound. Like it surprised you. And suddenly, the weight on your shoulders didn’t feel lighter—but it felt... shared, somehow. Like someone had reached over and taken one corner of it, just enough so you could sit upright again. She started drawing again. Like she hadn’t just said something that cracked open your brain in the best way.

“I’m, uh… having a thing this weekend,” you said after a beat, trying to sound casual, like you weren’t already regretting bringing it up. “Just a little get-together. My place. Nothing fancy.”

She didn’t look up. Kept sketching something that looked like a crown made of barbed wire—or maybe a sun having a breakdown.

“You should come.” Silence. You swallowed. 

“Pretty please?”

It came out embarrassingly soft. Practically a whisper. Pathetic, if you were being honest. Like you were trying to bribe a cat into liking you.

You watched her pen tap twice against the notebook.

“Yeah. Okay.”

 Your brain stalled. “Wait—seriously? You’re actually coming?” Your voice cracked somewhere in the middle, like it didn’t trust itself. That finally made her pause. She turned her head a fraction, side-eyeing you with a look that could’ve passed for mild interest or mild judgment—probably both.

“What?” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching into something crooked. “Didn’t expect a pretty girl to say yes?”

You opened your mouth to respond. Closed it again.

Then smiled—because, well… fair. 

You weren’t used to being heard when you talked. You were the filler friend—the one people remembered when they needed a favor or a ride or notes. You existed more in group chats than actual memory. You’d gotten good at laughing at the right moments, reacting on cue, making other people feel interesting. You didn't expect your voice to stick.

But she heard you. And more than that—she responded like your words mattered. Not dramatically. Not performatively. Just plainly. She didn’t turn it into a joke or a moment. She just... agreed. 

You were going to tell her your name, offer it like some weird olive branch, when she beat you to it. “I know. We have art gen ed together. Tuesday, 9 a.m. You sit in the back and sketch on your laptop instead of paying attention.”

You blinked. A little stunned.

“Damn, you really clocked me like that.”

“Not hard,” she replied. “I’m an art major. Observing is kind of the only thing I like about people.”

That made you laugh. For real. You rubbed the back of your neck, half-embarrassed, half-impressed. “Fair. I’m one of the Gen Ed clowns. I was hoping finger painting would be a break, but it’s kinda soul-crushing when there’s a grade involved, you know?”

Solana actually looked at you for that one. Really looked. Eyes that didn’t scan but locked on. Her stare wasn’t cold, just unapologetic. Like she’d never learned how to dilute it.

“Yeah,” she said. “Nothing ruins art like being told it matters.”

Rewrite and keep writing as you think about Solana, about to push yourself to go talk to her , , of course  didn’t   but didn’t   to   against  

You nodded and let out another laugh, thinking about Solana’s voice, her dry deadpan that somehow made everything feel less heavy. You bit back another smile, your eyes drifting to where she sat—shoulders hunched, pencil scratching, completely content in her own bubble.

She’d said yes. To your party.

You didn’t know how that was even possible. It felt surreal. Not because she was some campus legend or anything—no one really knew her, and those who did mostly just called her “that weird art girl”—but because she got it. She said things that made sense to you. Called out the nonsense in a way that didn’t feel like rebellion, just like... truth. Flat and honest. Undeniable.

For a few seconds, sitting next to her like that, just sharing space, it felt like you weren’t pretending to be fine. It was quiet. Real. And that was enough.

Then you looked away. You had to.

She didn’t blink fast enough, and it made your stomach twist, that same strange pressure again. Like she saw too much. Like she didn’t care that she did. And that’s when you heard it. “She’s kinda weird,” someone muttered behind you. Too loud to be innocent, too casual to be just an observation.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew that voice. One of your “friends.”

You glanced over your shoulder anyway and caught them looking at Solana, expression scrunched like they’d smelled something rotten.

“Never talks,” they said, snickering. “Dead eyes. It's like she’s not even alive half the time. Sucks to waste a face like that on someone so... off.”

You froze.

Shoulders tight. Throat closed. The kind of tension that locks your body in place before your brain can even catch up. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Words stacked up like traffic in your head, honking to get out. But you couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

You weren’t brave—not with people. 

Definitely not with your friends. So you just sat there. Silent. Like always.

Staring at the floor between your shoes, heart thudding unevenly, heat crawling up the back of your neck like guilt in steel-toed boots.

But Solana?

She didn’t even move. 

Didn’t blink. Didn’t glance their way. Just kept sketching, calm as hell, like she wasn’t being dissected two feet away. And then—without looking up, on her phone—she said:

“Hey, I’ve seen you before. You’re the guy who cheated on two quizzes and one girlfriend, right?”

A few seconds went by. Her fingers tapping on her phone was like punctuation.

“You probably shouldn’t talk about wasted potential.”

The room went still. No laughter. No snarky comebacks. Just silence. Awkward, beautiful silence. You choked on your drink trying not to laugh, but it still slipped out—sharp and real, too loud for the moment.

Your friend turned to you, face twisting into a confused scowl. Like they couldn’t tell if you were laughing with them or at them. But like spoiler: It wasn’t with.

He stood up halfway, posture shifting into that stiff, pissed-off stance guys do when their ego's been poked. You saw his jaw tense, shoulders square. The moment when things tilt toward stupid.

Solana didn’t move. She didn’t have to.

But you stood up. Quickly. Got between them before anything could get worse. “Alright—cool it,” you said, palms half-raised. “Not in my house, okay?”

Your voice cracked a little, but you meant it. You looked your friend in the eye, forcing something firmer into your tone. “Seriously. My parents aren’t home, and if anything gets broken, I’m the one catching hell for it.”

He scoffed. Rolled his eyes like he was too cool to be checked, then muttered something under his breath and stepped back.

You exhaled. Not victory. Not even close. But hey—no one was bleeding, and nothing was on fire yet, so technically? Crisis averted. You glanced over at Solana, waiting for a nod, a thumbs-up, maybe a quiet little “good job, soldier.” Something. Anything.

She didn’t even look at you.

Already back on her phone, scrolling like she wasn’t the epicenter of a near-implosion. Thumb dragging slowly, bored circles across her screen. 

However, that smirk? Still there. Small. Sharp.

You looked away before you could smile back too hard. 

Later that night, the party limped past its expiration date. The vibe was that specific flavor of “this shit should’ve ended an hour ago,” mixed with stale chips and unspoken regrets. Music was still going, but softer now—like the speaker was embarrassed to still be trying.

People were scattered like laundry. One guy was asleep on a beanbag chair he didn’t come in with. Someone was doing a bad British accent in the kitchen. Someone else had started a group therapy session in the hallway.

You sipped what was left of your drink, now mostly backwash and shame. Let the noise blur around you. You stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, lazily rinsing out a Solo cup that still smelled like fake cherry. It was the fourth one you’d picked up that felt like the inside of someone’s mouth. You weren’t drunk, but you weren’t exactly sober either. Just warm, simply buzzed and distant.

That’s when they showed up.

Two of your “friends.” Faces pink with liquor and the thrill of a new bad idea. You recognized the look. You hated the look. That giddy, conspiratorial grin that always meant someone was about to be the punchline to a joke they didn’t agree to.

“Hey,” one of them said, leaning in, beer breath already sour. “You know that emo girl you invited?”

You didn’t answer. 

“The art freak. Black dress. Serial killer eyes.”

Your jaw clenched, breath puffing out through your nose. You focused on the cup in your hand, watching the water swirl. “We were thinking…” they went on, lowering their voice like this was some kind of war strategy. “We should mess with her a little. You know. Harmless fun.”

“What kind of fun?” you asked, voice flat. You already knew you wouldn’t like the answer.

“Get her to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. Pick one of the guys to go in with her. Freak her out. She’s so stiff, it’ll be hilarious.” You stared at the cup in your hand. The clean one you’d just rinsed. Suddenly it didn’t feel clean anymore. “That’s not funny,” you said—too fast, too sharp.

They rolled their eyes. “Relax. It’s a game. Lighten up. If she doesn’t wanna do it, she won’t. God, don’t be dramatic.”

You shook your head slowly, not looking at them. “I’m not comfortable putting someone through that.” 

And then—they smiled. That specific smile. Tilted their heads in mock sympathy. Eyelashes fluttering. The same fake sweetness they always used when they wanted something out of you.

“Pretty pleeeease?”

You froze. That word. Those words. You’d heard it so many times, used as a joke, as a weapon, as currency. They knew you couldn’t resist it. You were the yes friend. The sure, whatever you need friend. The one who’d rather let things get weird than say no.

You stared at them. Your mouth was closed. Your shoulders still. For a moment, your silence must’ve looked like consideration. Like you were about to fold again.

But you didn’t. Not this time.

Because you thought of Solana. Of the way she smirked when she cut someone down without raising her voice. The way she said “okay” to your invite without flinching, even knowing she’d walk into a room full of people who already hated her for existing differently. The way she didn’t shrink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bother pretending she wanted to be liked.

You remembered her eyes—those strange, fire-ringed eyes that never softened, never apologized for seeing you exactly as you were.

And she’d said yes to you.

Not because she needed friends. Not because she cared what people thought. But because, somehow, she saw something in you—and didn’t mind what she found.

So no.

You didn’t nod. You didn’t laugh.

You didn’t offer some weak excuse to keep the peace. You just looked your friends in the eyes and didn’t blink. But, of course, silence doesn’t count unless it’s convenient. And your silence? It wasn’t what they wanted. Not a “yes,” but not loud enough to be a “no.” So they twisted it—grinned at each other like they’d won something, and walked off laughing like it was all fine.

“Just keep quiet, alright?” one of them muttered over their shoulder. “Don’t ruin the night.”

And just like that, it was out of your hands. You tried to keep track of everything—the volume, the people, the energy in the room—but things were starting to blur. The crowd wasn’t huge, barely eight people total: six of them clustered together, half-drunk and half-stirring the pot, plus you and Solana, orbiting just outside the center of the chaos.

You mentally checked the list again. Eight. 

The music had softened to background noise—just enough to keep the awkwardness out of the air, not enough to drown it. Someone dimmed the lights. A few people moved into the living room, sprawling into a crooked semicircle on the rug and couch.

One of the guys—Trevor, maybe, or Tyler, they all blurred together—was holding an empty wine bottle in his hand, spinning it slowly like it was a prop in some poorly directed play. And he was staring. Not at the group.

At her. At Solana.

“We should play something,” he said, loud enough to catch everyone's attention. “How about Seven Minutes in Heaven?” 

The sentence hit the room like a glass tipping off a table. You felt Solana move beside you. Felt the air thicken between you both. She didn’t move away—but she didn’t move closer either. Her shoulders stayed square. Her expression stayed unreadable. You made sure to stay close. Subtle, but unmistakable. A small step in front of her. Your arm brushed hers.

She leaned toward you just slightly and whispered, deadpan:

“Is this, like, a normal thing at your parties?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. Not really,” you said. “Not supposed to be, anyway.” She nodded once. No emotion. Just… noted. You could feel her body tense, just a fraction, like she was already preparing for a situation she’d rather not have to deal with—but would if she had to.

You scanned the room, trying to count again. One, two, three… Six. 

Wait.

Where were the two girls you were just talking to? You’d seen them in the kitchen earlier. One of them had been asking if your toilet worked. The other was playing DJ with the speaker. Now they were gone.

You glanced down the hallway toward the bathroom. The door was shut. The light was on underneath. Great. You sighed. Probably just locked themselves in the bathroom again. Fucking up your hand towels and raiding the medicine cabinet for fun.

But that wasn’t the problem in front of you.

The real problem—the one sitting like a slow-growing tumor in the center of your living room—was the smirk forming on Tyler-or-Trevor’s face, and the way he kept glancing at Solana like she was the next dare in a game she never agreed to play.

The others were already settling into it. Like this was routine. Like the cruelty had been grandfathered in. One of the girls giggled nervously. Another guy pulled out a shot glass and started pouring cheap whiskey, mumbling something about "loosening people up first."

The empty wine bottle hit the floor with a clink, spinning lazy circles like it had nowhere better to be. A few people snickered. One of the girls muttered something about how high school this shit was. But no one left the circle.

Solana was still standing. Arms crossed, posture straight. Her eyes cut through the room sharper than they had any right to. She hadn’t taken a single drink, but somehow, she looked like the only one sober. Like she was watching ants crawl across a chessboard—bored, but curious about how many she could flick off before anyone noticed.

She stepped forward—not fast, just… final. Like a curtain falling. All casual limbs and dead-serious energy. “Fine,” she said, voice light. “But let’s make it interesting.”

“New rule,” Solana said. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. The room quieted—not out of respect, but that weird, collective hush people get when something feels off and they can’t quite name why.

She crouched beside the wine bottle, placing one finger on the rim like she was about to summon something instead of spin it.

“If the bottle lands on you, and someone else,” she said, voice light, almost amused, “the two of you don’t just make out in a closet or whatever outdated middle-school fantasy you thought this was.”

She looked up. Her smile disappeared.

“You leave the room. Together.”

That got a few raised eyebrows. Nervous shuffles. One guy chuckled, weakly. “What, like... you just walk out?”

Solana stood—slowly, deliberately. Her shadow stretched long behind her. “You leave,” she repeated. “And hide. Somewhere in the house. Upstairs. Downstairs. Hell, if you’re brave—outside.”

More silence. The kind that starts in people’s throats and slides behind their eyes. She took a breath. “Once the pair leaves, everyone else counts to sixty. Then the hunt begins.”

“The hunt?” someone echoed. A girl on the couch sat up straighter.

“Mm-hmm,” Solana said. “The rest of us split up and try to find the couple. No phones. No lights.”

“What if we don’t want to go?” another voice asked, quieter.

Solana’s smile came back—wider this time. Full of teeth.

“Then you separate from the group. Hide on your own. But you’ll have to hope someone finds you first, or else…” she trailed off, and let the implication dangle like a noose. “Or else what?” the same voice asked.

Solana tilted her head. “That’s the fun part,” she said, sweetly.

“You’ll find out.”

Someone muttered, “She’s nuts.”

Another whispered, “She’s not serious.”

She heard it all, before saying, “You’re all so boring,” Solana sighed. She tucked her hair behind her ear, the gesture so casual it made everything worse. “Where’s the fun in sitting around, pretending to be interesting, when you could be hunted?”

“Hunted?” someone scoffed. “You mean ‘found,’” another corrected.

Solana’s gaze snapped to them. “Sure,” she said flatly. “Found.”

You watched them all squirm—scanning the group, hoping someone else would go first. Hoping someone else would test the waters. You stood up with a sigh, “I’ll go,” you said. It came out louder than you expected.

The room turned. Eyes locked onto you. Even Solana looked surprised—just for a second. Like you’d broken script.

Then she smiled again. “Okay,” she said. “Spin it.”

“Okay,” she said. “Spin it.”

You reached for the bottle, but one of the guys—the loud one, the one who thought this was all still funny—lunged in first. “Hold up. It’s still a rule for our brave host here—” he said, grinning, already holding up a red Solo cup full of something dark and way too strong. “No half-assing. If the bottle lands on you? Straight shot. No chaser. No whining.” 

You hesitated. Your balance was already off. Your head was warm and heavy from the five drinks you nursed earlier. You needed to stay sharp. In control. The air already felt like it was bending around you, like the pressure had shifted.

“C’mon,” he added, nudging you. “Pretty please?”

That damn phrase again. Like a knife pressed right into your reflex. You opened your mouth to argue—then caught movement in the corner of your eye of Solana, who hadn’t moved. Just met your gaze. And nodded, being all supportive and quiet.

You sighed. Fuck. “Fine,” you muttered.

You took the shot. It hit your throat like fire in a metal pipe, burning all the way down before settling in your stomach like something you’d regret later. Your face twisted, involuntarily. It tasted like gasoline and rotten cherries. The room around you swayed slightly, or maybe that was just your head catching up with gravity.

You sat down slowly, crossing your legs like you were stepping into a ritual—because that’s what it was starting to feel like. Not a game. Not anymore. Something older, darker. Something that wanted blood but would settle for sweat, for now.

The wine bottle lay there in the center, still as death before you reached out and spun it. Harder than you meant to. The bottle whirled, too fast, too long. Its reflection caught the flickering string lights overhead and sent flashes dancing across everyone’s faces like a strobe—slices of grins, wide eyes, nerves disguised as smiles. The room held its breath.

Voices died into whispers. You could hear the distant hum of a car passing outside. Someone’s shoe tapped the floor in nervous rhythm.

Everyone leaned in. Closer. Closer. And then the bottle slowed. Wobbled. Stopped.

Pointing at Solana.

Of course. Of fucking course. Your heart dropped like a stone. Your face was blank, but your brain screamed something along the lines of great, just fucking great. You weren’t even mad at her. Not even at the bottle.

Just… this whole night. Everything. 

Solana met your eyes across the circle. Yet there was no smile this time. No smirk. Just waiting. For you. And then, right on cue, like demons conjured from a spell you didn’t know you’d cast—two of the guys appeared behind you.

Like shadows with alcohol breath and bad intentions. “Yo,” one of them whispered behind your ear, too close. “This is it, wow. You gotta take the lead. Really freak her out.”

You didn’t answer. “Seriously,” the other added, nudging your shoulder. “If you don’t do this, what’s even the point? C’mon, it’s just a joke. Don’t be weird.”

You really didn’t want to hurt her.

Solana was the only one here who hadn’t asked you to be less. Who didn’t make you feel like a tool with a smile attached? She saw you. Talked to you like you were already whole. And yeah, maybe she was weird—quiet, emo, unreadable—but she wasn’t cruel. 

Which made the idea of “pranking” her feel... grotesque. Still, the guys wouldn’t shut up. Leaning in like devils on your shoulder, voices slurred and sticky with beer and bullshit. 

“Hey, come on. She’s not normal. You see how she looks at people?”

“Creepy-crawler shit. Prima Donna vibes.”

“She’s probably hypnotizing you or some shit. You’ll wake up with your heart gone.”

“Doesn’t even sleep, man. Rackin’ mileage. Hoe behavior. She’ll bleed you dry.”

“Where’s your pride, bro?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because they weren’t wrong—but because they weren’t right either. Pride? That shit got left behind a long time ago. Maybe the moment you started saying yes just because it was easier than no. Maybe the night you drove everyone home stone-cold sober and paid for gas with your last twenty. 

So yeah. Maybe pride didn’t die. Maybe it just got tired of fighting for space in a body that always bent itself into a shape other people needed.

You stood up. Didn’t even register what they were saying anymore. Their voices blurred into that high-pitched static you get right before a nosebleed. All teeth and no meaning.

Their laughter grated like a broken fan—loud, useless, spinning in place. You left them mid-word. Walked across the room to Solana, through half-drunk limbs and sticky Solo cups and puddles of your own patience. 

The thing about Solana is she never moved like the rest of them. Everyone else fidgeted, leaned, and laughed too loudly. But she stood like a question no one wanted to ask. Like she knew exactly when this night would end—and who would still be breathing when it did.

You stopped in front of her. “Hey,” you said, barely.

Her eyes flicked up, quick and sharp. There was something wild in them—something half-surprised. Like she’d counted on you hesitating. Like she hadn’t expected you to come back to her so soon.

And when she saw your face—really saw it—her whole body changed. Relaxed. Just slightly. A slow exhale. The tension in her jaw unclenched like she’d been holding her breath since she walked through your front door.

“They’re assholes,” you muttered, your voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “You know that, right?”

She blinked once. “Obviously.”

You smiled, hollow and crooked. “Just wanted to make sure you knew it wasn’t about you. I’m not… playing that game.”

Solana tilted her head, and god—that look.

It wasn’t mean. Wasn’t playful. It was… clinical. Like she was watching a rat run the same maze for the hundredth time, jotting down the result with the same pen she used to cross out your name from the list of people she respected.

“Then why do you keep inviting them?” she asked, tone feather-light, almost bored.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Your tongue was dry. Your jaw felt unhinged. All you could do was stare at her—at the reflection of your own patterns thrown right back in your face. Why do you keep inviting them?

Why keep stocking the fridge, queuing the playlist, answering the group chat with “yeah sure, my place again”? Why let them stomp through your house with their beer breath and their fake laughs and their judgment—always judgment—like you’re just the backdrop to their chaos?

They never ask how you’re doing. Never say thank you. Never show up unless there’s something to take.

And you just keep letting them.

You swallow hard. Maybe it’s easier than being alone. Maybe it’s a habit now. Maybe there’s a part of you that still thinks you deserve it—for being too tired to fight back. For never knowing when to say no until it’s too late. Or maybe—deep down—you were waiting for someone else to finally say it.

Someone like her.

Someone like Solana, who doesn’t flinch. Who doesn’t apologize. Who never looks like she’s begging to be kept around. You turned to her. Heart rattling. Head cloudy. Your voice cracked like a match.

“Ready to separate from the group?”

Her eyes sharpened, lips twitching into a pleased little smirk. She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The crowd hadn’t even registered you moving yet. They were still yelling over the music, jostling for drinks, pretending the rules of the game didn’t scare them as much as they did.

One of the guys—of course—noticed Solana then. “Hey,” he slurred, waving a half-empty bottle at her, “you gotta take a shot too, princess. Rules are rules.”

Solana blinked at him. The silence that followed made your skin crawl. Her eyes flicked down to the bottle, then back to his face. She gave him a tight, mock-sympathetic smile—and then, without a word, reached for your wrist instead.

You flinched. Not because it hurt. 

Because her grip was so sure. So final. And she pulled you. Just like that. Away from them. Away from their stupid sneers and their hollow laughter. Away from the living room. Down the hallway, right toward the dark. 

You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. You didn’t want to see their faces. Didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of one last look—like they owned even that much of you. 

Behind you, you could still hear them yelling—something about counting, about someone finding the flashlight, about whether this was actually part of the game or just a bit Solana made up on the spot.

The hallway swallowed the noise behind you. It was darker here. Much Quieter. The walls seemed taller. Your footsteps sounded too loud against the old wood floor, creaking in all the funny ways. 

Solana didn’t say anything at first. She just walked. You followed, because of course you did. Something about her always felt like gravity dressed in black. She stopped near the stairwell, where the lights didn’t quite reach. Then she turned to you. Tilted her head. Smiled that unnerving, elegant little smile. The one that never reached her eyes. 

“Seven minutes,” Solana said softly, like she was announcing a séance.

You blinked. “What?”

Her eyes glinted. Mischievous. Sharp. Unreadable in that specific Solana-brand way that made your brain short-circuit. “Seven minutes. That’s the classic rule, right?”

You squinted at her. Classic rule of… what?

“Seven minutes of Heaven… right?” you said slowly, like maybe you were the one explaining it to her. 

She grinned. A little too wide. The hallway got colder. Or maybe that was just your soul trying to exit your body.

“You catch on fast.”

Your eyebrows practically launched into orbit. “Kinda hard not to. We literally just walked out of a room where people were trying to pressure you into playing that exact game.”

Solana took a step closer, and your brain made a weird buzzing sound.

She didn’t blink. “We’re going to make this round more fun.”

You folded your arms. “Wait. Hold on. Do you… actually know what the game is?”

She tilted her head like a confused cat. “Hide. Pair off. Someone tries to find you. Seven minutes.” A few secouds went by. “Why, did I miss a step?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Honestly, at this point, you couldn’t tell if she was gaslighting you or if she just lived in a completely different reality where “Seven Minutes of Heaven” was code for haunting the living shit out of your so called friends. Which, honestly, checked out.

“Solana,” you said slowly. “There’s two of us. And like, six of them.”

She leaned in. “Technically four,” she whispered.

You blinked again, harder. Like that would reboot your mental CPU.

She didn’t even pause. “The two girls in the bathroom? They’re not playing.”

“Oh,” you said. “Right.” You looked toward the back of the house, stomach twisting. “They’re probably still messing up my sink. I should—”

Solana grabbed your sleeve. Not aggressively. Just enough to stop time for a second. “They’re not our problem,” she said, voice sweet but steel-threaded. 

“You’re mine for the next seven minutes.”

Your brain flatlined. You swallowed. Hard. Your cheeks felt warm like they were being paid to do it. “And what exactly are we doing for these precious seven?”

She smiled again, and this time it was all teeth. “Pranks,” she said, like she was promising murder. “Just some harmless fun.”

You stared at her. “You’re telling me… you want to pull pranks?”

Dammit, you really did want to make out with her. Which was probably a terrible idea. Especially if she still didn’t know what the game meant.

Her voice dipped into a syrupy hush. “Don’t you want to have a little fun?”

You stared. Then let out a breathy laugh. “God, I must be losing it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are.”

You exhaled, hands on your hips, trying to shake off the chill under your skin. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was the fact that she looked at you like this was all a game and you were the only one who didn’t know the rules.

Still… the idea of messing with them? Those fake friends? Those parasites who chewed through your fridge and your boundaries like termites?

Yeah.

You grinned. “Alright,” you said. “Screw it. Why the hell not?”

Solana’s smirk deepened, satisfied. She stepped past you, moving down the hallway like she knew exactly where every creak was—and how to avoid it. You watched her disappear into the shadows. Her voice floated back like a lullaby dipped in blood.

“Hide, pumpkin~.”

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then you slipped into the dark coat closet behind you, heart pounding like it had something to be guilty for. Seven minutes. Just a prank.

Right? Right…

The closet was too warm. Too tight. Your knees pressed into your chest, breath shallow as you tried not to shift and give away your hiding spot. But it was quiet. Then it wasn’t.

You heard it—barely. The first thud.

A scream that started high and broke off too soon. Like someone realized too late that they were actually in danger. Then silence. A weird kind of silence. Dense. Like the house itself had inhaled. 

Your spine stiffened. Another sound. Something between a scuffle and a crash. A body hitting something hard. Wood? Tile? You couldn’t tell. But it echoed.

And then—again—that noise. That brutal, wet thump like someone slammed a watermelon against the floor. Muffled shouting. Then nothing. Just a soft dragging sound. Like someone being pulled.

Two. You counted two hits. Two people down.

Maybe pranks. Maybe not. You wanted to believe Solana was just fucking with them. That this was some grand, twisted scare tactic. A fakeout. However, your stomach said otherwise. Your pulse knew better. That scream? 

That was real. 

“Pumpkin?”

You flinched, and your heart dropped to your knees. You jerked back against the wall of the closet, eyes wide in the dark—mind racing with the possibilities: Was she bleeding? Was she behind the door? Was this part of the game? Part of the act?

“Shhh.” She moved fast. She slipped in like a shadow, one finger pressed to her lips. One hand clamped over your mouth before you could scream, the other guiding the closet door closed behind her without a sound. Only the soft click of wood against wood. You were shaking—just slightly—but she was steady. Her eyes glinted in the dark like headlights in fog.

“Footsteps,” she whispered. “They’re close.”

You could hear them now too—just beyond the hallway. Someone calling out a name you didn’t care to remember. It sounded far away and desperate and stupid. Like they still thought this was just a game.

Solana’s hand slowly slipped away from your mouth, her fingers dragging lightly along your chin in a way that made your breath hitch. The other stayed pressed firmly against your chest, her palm warm through the fabric of your shirt, her fingers spread wide like she was counting every frantic beat of your heart. 

And maybe she was—maybe she wanted to feel it race for her.

Her voice was a whisper, so close to your ear that her lips nearly brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “I don’t want them to know I’m behind the pranks yet.”

You just stared at her, brain scrambling to keep up. What? That was her big concern right now? “But—won’t they figure it out anyway?” you muttered back, your own voice barely audible, half-dazed by the way her body was still pressed flush against yours in the cramped darkness of the closet.

Solana let out a quiet sigh, her breath hot against your neck. 

“Seven minutes until they find us.”

And then—before you could even process—she kissed you.

Not some hesitant, testing brush of lips. No, this was hunger. Her mouth crashed into yours like she’d been waiting too long, like she couldn’t hold back another second. The second her lips met yours, the world outside this stupid closet vanished. 

There was only Solana—the heat of her body against you, the way her fingers twisted into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your pulse spike. The scent of her skin, something sweet and sharp and her, flooded your senses, drowning out everything else.

You didn’t think. You just reacted. 

Your hands found her waist, gripping tight like you could pull her even closer, like there was still too much space between you. One of your knees slid between her thighs, not forcing, just there, and the way she gasped—soft, shaky—sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

And God, you were gone. Every rational thought burned away under the slow, searing drag of her lips, the way she kissed you like she was trying to memorize the taste of you. Like she didn’t care who might hear, who might find you. Like nothing else mattered but this.

And right now? 

You couldn’t bring yourself to care either. 

Your brain short-circuited the second her lips met yours again, and suddenly, nothing else mattered. All you could picture was Solana—just Solana—wearing nothing but that glossy cherry shine on her lips and the expensive-ass perfume she spritzed on every damn morning. 

That scent that clung to her skin, settling into the hollow of her collarbones, sweet and sharp and stupidly intimate. The kind of detail you weren’t supposed to notice, but you did. 

Hell yeah, you did. And now? 

Now you were dying to see the rest.

And then she kissed you like she knew. Like she’d plucked the thought right out of your head and decided to reward you for it. Slow. Warm. Confident. The kind of kiss that wasn’t just a kiss—it was a statement. A tease. A challenge. Maybe even a promise.

And God, you were so screwed.

Every movement of her lips, every flick of her tongue against yours felt deliberate, like she’d mapped this out in her head a hundred times before. Like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to ruin you. And when she let out that soft, satisfied hum against your mouth? Fuck. It sent a jolt straight down your spine, lighting you up from the inside out.

This wasn’t the Solana you thought you knew.

No, this version of her was something else entirely—hypnotic, intoxicating, merciless. Her body arched into yours, every shift of her hips, every breathy sigh pulling you deeper under her spell. And for one suspended, breathless moment, you forgot everything—where you were, who might be looking for you, why you were even hiding in this damn closet. There was only her. 

The heat of her skin. The slick glide of her lips. The way she kissed you like she was claiming you.

And then—before you could even catch your breath—your hands were on her hips, spinning her back against the closet wall with a thud that knocked the air right out of her. Her eyes flashed in the dim light, wide with surprise but dark with something far more dangerous.

"You’ve been holding out on me," you muttered against her mouth, fingers already slipping under the hem of her dress, tracing the bare curve of her waist before sliding higher—

And then your brain froze.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

She wasn’t wearing—

"Something stopping you, pumpkin?" she murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

Your face burned. You were so caught off guard, so lost for words, all you could do was stare. "You’re not—" you started, then stopped, swallowing hard.

Solana just smirked, slow and knowing. "Thought something like this might happen," she admitted, fingers toying with the collar of your shirt. 

"Especially since I was hoping it’d be you who found out."

A few seconds went by. Then—

"Glad the bottle landed on me and not anybody else," she added, gaze dropping to your lips again. "Saw it as a risk, though—your so-called friends trying to take you away from me."

And damn if that didn’t hit you like a punch to the gut. 

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a game anymore.

Your brain was still playing catch-up, still reeling from the way Solana had just kissed you like that—like she owned you—when she did something even more insane. 

With a wicked little smirk, she hooked her fingers into the neckline of her dress and tugged it down, revealing smooth, bare skin and the perfect swell of her breasts, pressed together just for you. No bra. Of course she wasn’t wearing one. Of course she’d been this close to you the whole time, all that soft, warm skin just hidden under fabric.

“Anyway, I’m all yours for the next… five minutes," she murmured, voice dripping with mischief, like she was handing you a gift. Like you weren’t about to lose your damn mind.

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your hands were on her before she could even finish speaking, palms cupping the full weight of her, thumbs brushing over her nipples just to hear her breath hitch. She was so warm, so soft, and the way she arched into your touch like she’d been waiting for it—fuck. 

You couldn’t resist. You ducked your head and caught one tight peak between your lips, biting down just enough to make her gasp, then soothing it with your tongue.

Solana melted against you, nails digging into your shoulders hard enough to leave marks, her back curving as she let out this breathy, broken little moan. "Fuck—" Her head tipped back, throat bared like an offering, and you took it, kissing and nipping your way down the delicate skin, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark before laving your tongue over the sting.

You buried your face between her tits just to feel her, just to drown in the scent of her—salt and perfume and something so fucking Solana—before dragging your teeth over her other nipple, teasing it until she was squirming against you, hips rolling in slow, desperate circles like she couldn’t help it.

"God, you—ah—you talk a big game for someone who clearly knows exactly what they're doing," you teased, voice rough, biting down again just to hear that sweet, sharp gasp.

Solana laughed—this shaky, breathless sound that went straight to your stomach—and her fingers tightened in your hair, yanking just enough to make your pulse jump. 

"You can’t tie me down," she breathed, all challenge and defiance, her eyes dark and gleaming with something dangerous, "but you could definitely tie me up."

And there it was. That voice. 

That fucking ego. 

All honey and venom, all confidence and chaos.

God, she was ridiculous.

And so fucking hot it should’ve been illegal. And terrifying in the best way. And way too good at this game—at winding you up, at making you want even when you knew better. 

But right now? You didn’t care about better.

You were gone. Completely, recklessly lost in her. The countdown in your head—five minutes left, maybe four, maybe three—meant nothing. 

Time could evaporate for all you cared. All that mattered was the way Solana trembled under your hands, the way her breath hitched every time your fingers worked deeper into her, slick and sinful. You didn’t let her keep track, didn’t let her think, just dragged those pretty little moans out of her like you were starving for them.

“P-pumpkin, please…” Her voice was a broken whisper, her lips wet from your fingers before you slid them down, teasing her entrance before pushing in, deep. 

The way her cunt clenched around you—tight, so fucking tight—nearly made you groan out loud. But you swallowed the sound, swallowing her instead, your mouth crashing back onto hers in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and mine, mine, mine.

Your heart was pounding so hard you swore it was trying to break out of your ribs, some wild, untamed thing that knew—knew—you were in way over your head with her. 

A woman like Solana? She was trouble, like your frineds said, even if it didn’t sound like they was telling the truth. The kind that ruined men, left them hollowed out and begging for more. And yet, here you were, fingers buried inside her, thumb circling her nipple just to hear her whimper, to feel her arch into your touch like she’d die without it.

"Oh, please," you scoffed against her lips, voice rough with want. "Like you weren’t begging for it."

Her moan was your reward, muffled by your kiss, her body writhing against you in the most delicious way. The way she melted, like she’d been waiting for this forever, like she was made for your hands, your mouth—fuck, it sent a rush of pure, possessive heat through you. 

You could’ve been seconds from getting caught, and still, you wouldn’t have stopped. Not when she felt this good. Not when she was clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping her standing.

Let them come. Let them find you.

“Holy shit.” The voice cut through.

Okay—maybe not that fucking quick.

The air in the closet turned to ice the second you heard that voice. You froze, still pressed against Solana’s lips, but the heat between you evaporated in an instant. Her body went rigid under your hands, muscles tensing like a coiled spring. Whatever moment you’d been lost in shattered like glass—no slow fade, just a brutal snap back to reality.

Your first instinct? To move—to shield Solana, to block her from view, because of fucking course this was happening. But before you could even react, she was already twisting away, yanking at her clothes like she could erase the last few seconds. 

Not out of shame, no—Solana didn’t do shame. But the way her jaw clenched, the way her fingers tightened in the fabric of her shirt? That was pure, unfiltered rage.

Then came the laughter.

You both turned toward the sliver of light cutting through the closet door. And there he was. Him. Trevor—or Tyler, or whatever the hell his name was—honestly, did it even matter? 

Standing there like he’d just won the lottery, his stupid, punchable grin lit up by the glare of his girlfriend’s phone screen. Because of course she was recording. Of course she was holding it up like this was some kind of pay-per-view event, like your humiliation was content for her fucking Snapchat story.

You blinked, still processing, still half-dazed from Solana’s mouth on yours. But Solana? She didn’t miss a beat.

Trevor—Tyler—whatever—barked out another laugh, elbowing his girl like he’d just cracked the funniest joke in history. "Time’s up! Caught in the freak trap, huh?" His voice was all greasy amusement, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. 

"Man, I knew you had a thing for strays."

Solana shifted. Just slightly. But it was enough. Her arm slid in front of you, not gentle, not hesitant—possessive. Like she’d just remembered that you were hers, and she wasn’t in the mood to let some idiot with a god complex run his mouth. Her eyes—those sharp, wildfire eyes—locked onto him with a look that could’ve melted steel.

But you?

You just sighed.

Because honestly? You were tired. You’d already hit your limit on giving a single fuck tonight, and this clown wasn’t worth the energy it’d take to hate him. The adrenaline was draining fast, leaving you bone-deep exhausted, and all you could think was—

“Alright, alright,” you muttered, voice gravelly with exhaustion and leftover want. “We got caught. Clap it up. Party's over. Let’s move on.”

Trevor scoffed. “Whatever, man. Can’t believe you let the emo chick knockoff crawl into your lap.”

“She didn’t crawl,” you said flatly, brushing past him. “She walked. You just weren’t watching.”

Solana didn’t even blink. She followed you out. You made it a few steps before Trevor called out again. “Yo, we’re gonna start the next round,” he said. “If we can find the others.”

You paused. …The others? Right. Right. Solana’s little pranks. Her bloodless disappearances. You felt her still beside you. That faint press of her hand against your lower back—subtle but grounding.

You shrugged, casual. “They’re probably off hooking up somewhere,” you said, your voice easy, too easy. “Pretty sure those two were eyeing each other all night. You know how this game works.”

Trevor raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I said.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because everyone else bought it.

They nodded. Mumbled. Turned around and started heading back toward the living room like sheep marching straight into their own punchline.

You and Solana were the last to leave the hallway.

Solana didn’t move right away. She just stood beside you, still as fog. Then she smiled. Then she smiled. Not the big kind. Not one of those fake-party grins that says, “I’m cool, I’m fun, I’m not planning anything.” No, hers was smaller. Tilted. Unbothered. The kind of smile someone wears when they already know how the night ends.

Her fingers slid down until they laced with yours. Again Cold. And her eyes? Still locked on the two people walking ahead of her—Trevor and the blurry mess of blonde extensions and crop tops that was his girlfriend. She didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe for a second, like she was calculating something behind those wildfire eyes.

You tried to follow her gaze, but by the time you looked, nothing looked off. Nothing looked different. So why did it feel like the temperature dropped by five degrees? You cleared your throat, rubbing at your neck with your free hand. “You alright?”

She just smiled again and gave your hand the lightest squeeze. “Never better.”

Trevor and his girlfriend had started to reassemble in the living room—drunk limbs folding into a wobbly circle. You were steps away from sitting when Trevor turned his head like he’d just remembered you existed. 

“Hey,” he called out. “Grab me and Alice a drink, would you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“I’m comfy,” he said, shrugging like that was a valid excuse. “Plus, you owe me for cockblocking my view of you two from earlier.”

You almost said no. Actually, you almost said "get it yourself, pervert" with an added bonus of maybe throwing your shoe at his face. But then—he tilted his head. Put on that same syrupy tone that used to work on you back when you still had hope in people.

“Pretty please?”

There it was. That stupid magic phrase again.

The one that always made you do things against your better judgment. The one that always made you hate yourself a little. Your jaw clenched.

You looked at Solana. She didn’t say anything—but her eyebrows arched like she was curious how spineless you’d be this time. 

So of course, you nodded.

And behind you, Solana hadn’t moved an inch. You swallowed, throat dry, nodded once like it hurt, and turned slightly. “Fine,” you told her, not asking—just deciding. “Come on, Kitchen. I need you with me,” you added, turning toward Solana. “You’re helping me carry.”

And without a word, she followed.

You didn’t look back.

As you led Solana out of the hallway and into the kitchen, you kept your eyes forward, your jaw tight, your hands still shaking just slightly. You stood in the kitchen for a full ten seconds just breathing, like maybe if you inhaled hard enough, you'd absorb a plan through osmosis. You were trying to reboot your brain, but the only thing loading was static and regret.

Meanwhile, Solana hopped up onto the counter like the night wasn’t melting into a live crime scene. Like there weren’t corpses, accusations, or suspiciously long smears of something red in the hallway. She swung one leg, slow and lazy.: 

She opened her mouth to say something—huh?

Because you, in your infinite genius, threw back another shot with the kind of grimace reserved for people trying to swallow bad decisions. You coughed—loudly, like your organs were protesting—and slammed the glass down with theatrical defeat. Then, dazed and done, you wandered over to her. 

Paused. Consider your life choices.

And, without a single word of warning or apology, dropped face-first into her lap like she was a beanbag chair and you were done playing the human game. Solana went full statue for a second. But then—slowly, cautiously—she exhaled. Relaxed.

Let her hands fall to her sides.

Suddenly, your head pops right up, shocking Solana. You started pacing, “I swear to God,” you muttered, already grabbing for the plastic cups. “I can’t stand them. Like, one more pretty please and I’m throwing someone out the damn window.”

Solana arms folded, quiet. Watching you. You slammed two Solo cups down, lined them up like you were about to perform a ritual. Which, honestly? You were. The ritual of coping. You grabbed the nearest half-dead bottle of vodka, started pouring into both cups like you were on autopilot.

“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” you went on, voice rising with each word. “Letting them push me around like I’m some college concierge. 'Host the party, clean the mess, grab the drinks, be the joke.' Like, for what? Friendship? Clout? Goddamn emotional scraps? I'm grown. I’ve got papers due and scholarships to protect, and I’m still playing fucking  servant because I’m too polite to say no.”

You added a chaser to the mix—probably something fruity? Solana still hadn’t said anything. Just that calm stare, her head tilted, the barest hint of a smile playing at her lips.

You threw back one of the drinks in a single shot, winced dramatically, and kept going. “I’m a heavyweight, by the way,” you said, pacing again. “Just in case you’re wondering. Alcohol doesn’t even hit me like that. What does hit me is this existential garbage fire I call a social life.”

“I can tell,” she finally said, amused.

You stopped pacing, turned on her with a wild, drained grin. “Don’t enable me. I’m ranting.”

She shrugged, reached out for her cup. “I’m a good listener.”

You scoffed. “You’re terrifying, is what you are.”

Then, right on cue, she offered: “If you want a solution, I could always slip something into one of their drinks.”

You choked on your sip, coughing like your lungs had given up. “Holy shit, Solana!”

She smiled. Didn’t blink. “Just a joke.”

“That’s a felony,” you said, pointing a finger at her nose like an exhausted kindergarten teacher. “That would be on my record, and my ass is not built for jail.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Even if they deserve it?”

You paused. That… gave you pause. You stared down at the counter, letting her words ring in your skull for a beat too long. They had been awful. Not just tonight. For a while. Months, even. Digs about your clothes, your grades, your "attitude.” Comments slipped in like knives. Always laughing when they thought you weren’t listening. Calling you sensitive when you pushed back.

You opened your mouth to say something when it hit you. “Wait,” you said, slowly. “How… how do you know that? That they make fun of me?”

She blinked. And you just stared. “I never told you that. We’ve only been texting memes. Like… shit-tier SpongeBob edits and cursed Garfield for two weeks.”

She didn’t look nervous. Just tilted her head again. That blank, eerie calm was settling over her like dust. “I notice things,” she said softly.

Your stomach curled a bit. Not fear—just that unsettling hum. The kind of feeling you get when you realize your phone’s been listening to you, or when you turn on a faucet and blood comes out instead of water. Just subtle. Wrong.

She opened her mouth to say more—

And that’s when you, in all your exhausted, emotionally crispy brilliance, threw back the other drink. Grimaced hard. Slapped the cup down like it had insulted your mother. And then—wordlessly—stumbled toward her.

Without thinking, without processing, without hesitation, you flopped face-first into her lap once more like she was your designated support pillow. She froze at first, stiffened, then melted. Her fingers brushed through your hair slowly, and you mumbled into her thighs: 

“I need new friends.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I can see that.”

You didn’t move. You were just... done. Done with being nice. Done with keeping peace. Done with pretending that being used didn’t hurt.

But as she kept petting your hair, humming something soft and off-key under her breath, something flickered at the edge of your thoughts again.

How did she know?

You peeked up at her.

Her cheeks were red. Her eyes bright. Her gaze locked on your face like she was memorizing it for later.

It wasn’t long before you and Solana returned to the living room.

You handed Trevor his drink without saying a word, resisting every urge in your body to spill it on his lap. He barely acknowledged you, just passed the second cup to his girlfriend—Alice, right. That was her name. Alice—god you really needed to start remembering people’s names.

Only four of you sat in the circle now.

Since Solana had been the last one picked, it was her turn to spin. 

You sat down beside her, half-alert, heart still beating a little too fast, adrenaline refusing to let you sink into your usual apathy. You clocked the way Trevor’s gaze kept drifting to her, lingering a bit too long, like he was sizing her up. Weird considering his girlfriend was sitting right beside him, sipping her drink.

The bottle spun. You watched it whirl like your last remaining brain cell on a bender—glass catching the light, wobbling like it had something dramatic to say. Then it slowed… slower… aaand… click—landed right on Alice.

Oh. Thank fuck. Not that it helped your blood pressure any, because Trevor—genius that he is—grinned. And Alice? She giggled. Like actually giggled. Like they were the evil prom king and queen in a movie no one asked to be in.

You instinctively reached for Solana’s hand—like a reflex, like you needed to ground yourself before your eyes rolled out of your head. “You don’t have to,” you muttered, already exhausted from this circus.

She just looked at you. Calm. Cool. Serene in a terrifying way. Then smiled. “I’ll be fine.” 

Ugh. Can’t argue with her when she makes that face. So you let her go. Watched her and Alice wander off like it wasn’t completely suspicious that Solana agreed so easily. Like this wasn’t the exact setup in every horror movie where someone ends up missing teeth and a spine. You should’ve stopped her—but instead you just stood there like a background character with zero authority over your own night.

Then, like clockwork, Trevor elbowed you in the ribs, grinning way too wide. “Yo, that’s a spicy combo, huh?” he snorted, clearly proud of himself for having the IQ of a spoon.

You stared at him. Blank. Emotionally bankrupt. Then forced the kind of smile that should’ve been followed by a customer service survey.

“I’m gonna go pee before I die,” you mumbled, already turning.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked, like you were trying to hold your ribs in place. You weren’t cold. Just… buzzing. Like your chest was sunburned from the inside out. Maybe from the drinks. Or the game. Or whatever the hell you were pretending this night still was.

Truth be told, you weren’t just using the bathroom—you were checking. Because Solana said not to worry. And of coursethat made you worry. Those girls had been gone for way too long. And honestly? You just didn’t trust people to not throw up in your sink and ruin your toothbrush.

You reached the bathroom door. It was cracked open.  You pushed it the rest of the way. And stopped breathing. The air hit you first. Not just the smell, but the feel of it. Like spoiled meat left too long in summer heat. Your stomach turned. 

And then you saw them.

The two girls. The ones you barely knew. Crumpled on the floor like discarded mannequins. Legs tangled together like they’d both dropped at the same time. One of them hung halfway out of the tub, head twisted at an angle that wasn’t even close to natural. The other slumped against the sink, back arched, arm bent underneath her like she’d tried to catch herself—and failed.

Their eyes were open. Their mouths, too. And that’s when you noticed the foam. Simply thick and white. Bubbled like dish soap. Leaking out of one’s lips in slow, gross pulses. Crusted on the other’s cheek like she’d tried to wipe it—but never finished. Everything in you froze. Your mind was shouting do something, but your body?

You backed up so fast you nearly slipped.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled. Your throat felt like it was full of gravel. Your heart? Beating like it was trying to climb out through your ribs. 

You staggered into the hallway, arms wrapped around your body, mind spinning in a slow, drunk cartwheel when—“Yo?” Trevor’s voice snapped around the corner like a whip. “What’s going on? You good?” You didn’t even answer. You couldn’t. He must’ve seen your face because his footsteps picked up. Then he looked into the bathroom.

And immediately gagged.

“Oh my GOD—they’re fucking DEAD!”

You winced at how loud he got, like he wanted the whole damn house to hear. “I—I didn’t—Trevor, I had nothing to do with this!” you barked, voice ragged, head splitting. “I just found them like this, I swear to god—”

But he didn’t even hear you. Didn’t want to.

“Nah,” he snapped, backing away like the corpses were contagious. “Nah, nah, this is her. This is Solana. It’s gotta be her! I’ve said it all night, man. She’s been weird as hell. Nobody even knows who the fuck she is!” He kept going. Kept talking like you weren’t even human anymore.

“She’s not even on social media, bro! No Insta, no Snap, nothing. Like—what the hell is that? She’s probably one of those freaks who burns their fingerprints off and makes necklaces out of teeth.”

“Trevor—shut up—”

“No, screw you! You let her in! You brought her here! And what, now everyone’s fucking dropping dead and you’re over here playing parther?!”

“I said shut up—”

“You always do this!” he exploded, voice raw and cracked. “You bounce from friend group to friend group acting like the victim when you’re the one who leaves first. When shit gets real, you just dip and attach yourself to the next person who gives you attention.”

His voice dropped lower. Meaner. More precise.

“You’re a parasite. And now your pretty emo bitch is probably carving up the rest of the group and you’re too burn out-drunk to see it.”

You didn’t even think.

His hand hit your chest—a full shove—and something in you snapped. Not like a twig, not like a cliché. Like a steel wire behind your ribs finally giving out under pressure. You didn’t feel rage so much as a white-hot clarity. A rush of motion.

Next thing you knew, your body was lunging forward on pure instinct, fists swinging before your brain could even form a sentence. You slammed into him hard, shoulder to gut, driving him backward into the wall. The whole hallway echoed with the sound—a deep, bone-thudding crack—followed by a picture frame clattering to the floor and exploding into a spiderweb of glass.

He swung back, wild and clumsy. His knuckles connected with your jaw—sharp, direct, enough to jolt your vision. But it didn’t matter. It barely registered. Pain, at that moment, felt like an afterthought. You couldn’t even feel your body properly. It was like your soul had climbed into the driver’s seat and floored the gas pedal.

You weren’t angry. Not exactly. You were exhausted.

Exhausted from the years of holding everyone’s mess. Being the mediator. The safe one. The one who drove drunk friends home at 2AM, who cleaned up puke and lies and broken bottles. The one who paid for drinks they didn’t drink. The one who forgave too easily. The one who said yes too much because the "no" always got choked in your throat.

All the fake laughs. The guilt-tripping. The constant “Come on, man, pretty please?” followed by another mess you had to fix. You weren’t their friend. You were their human mop.

You shoved Trevor again, fist grabbing his shirt. Slammed him back against the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind him. Your breathing was ragged. You could hear your pulse pounding in your ears like war drums. 

You didn’t recognize your own voice when you said—

“Say pretty please now, you piece of shit.”

That’s when Solana’s arms wrapped around you from behind, trying to pull you back, her grip firm but careful—like she wasn’t sure what version of you she was holding. You were still breathing heavy, adrenaline snapping through your limbs like wires. She opened her mouth to say something—

And that’s when Trevor lost it.

“Where’s Tyler?!” he barked, voice cracking like a whip down the hall. His lip was split, blood trailing toward his chin, but his panic was louder than the pain now. “Where the fuck is he?! Where is he, huh?!”

Solana didn’t answer. She didn’t even blink. She just placed one steady hand on your shoulder again, eyes trained on Trevor like she was waiting for the inevitable. Her silence only made it worse.

Trevor’s gaze darted to her like a spotlight, zeroed in. His body tensed, posture rigid, twitching like he was coming undone at the seams.

“You bitch,” he spat, eyes wide and wild. “You’ve been fucking weird all night. Nobody even knows you. You just… appeared, and now everyone’s gone? First Tyler, then Julie?” He looked around like expecting them to suddenly walk in and laugh it all off. “What did you do?!”

You tried to speak—tried to de-escalate—but Trevor was already unraveling.

“And where the fuck is Alice?!” he roared suddenly, head snapping toward Solana again. “She went off with you, and now she’s not back! What did you do to my girlfriend?!”

The hallway seemed to tilt, time slowing as he lunged forward, grabbing Solana by the collar with both hands, shaking her like she was made of plastic. His face was a mask of spit and rage, words slurring together in a frenzy of accusation.

“You fucking witch!” he screamed, fingers tightening. “I fucking knew it! You did this! You fucking DID THIS!” Trevor’s voice cracked, “Call the cops,” he wheezed. “Come on—help me! You saw what she did, you know! We’ve gotta stop her—please—”

But then you saw it.

Her hand.

It was trembling, but still purposeful—reaching. Not for help. Not really. No, not the kind of help Trevor wanted you to believe she needed. This wasn’t desperation. It was direction. A choice being offered.

"Help me," she whispered, and it hit like velvet dragged over broken glass—soft, but cut so deep you didn’t feel it until the sting flooded in after. Her voice was hoarse from the scuffle, lips parted just enough to drag the words out like a secret meant only for you.

Oh my. Whatever should you do?

You froze. Everything inside you stuttered—mind, body, breath. Except your heart. That bastard didn’t stop. It thundered in your chest, loud and erratic, like it was trying to punch its way out. You swore it was echoing off the drywall, shaking the floorboards, knocking pictures crooked with each beat. The hallway shrank around you, pulling tight like a closing throat. The air turned syrup-thick, tinged with sweat and fear and something sweeter—something like want.

Trevor’s hand was still locked around her upper arm, knuckles white, but she wasn’t wilting. She was fighting back now, her nails carving angry crescents into his skin. Not enough to stop him—but enough to stain him. 

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think straight. You watched them like it was some theater of the grotesque, caught between hallucination and dream logic. A scene spiraling into madness, yet perfectly choreographed. And then she turned.

Solana looked at you—really looked. Not pleading. Not panicked. Just... burning.

Her eyes found yours with unnerving precision, locking in like she already knew the outcome. Like she knew you. Her pupils blown wide, her cheeks smeared with blood like makeup melting in a heatwave. Her chest rose and fell like waves crashing slow against a beach at night—wild, but steady. Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

"Pretty please, pumpkin."

There it was.

Those two stupid, loaded words. That nickname—playful, cutting, intimate. Like she’d carved it out of your ribs and stitched it back inside you as a leash. And it worked. God, it always worked. Your stomach flipped like you’d swallowed a knife. You hated that it made your knees soft. Hated that the sound of her voice crawled down your spine like warm hands and cold steel at the same time.

You should’ve walked away. Called the cops. Done something normal. Good. Right.

But then again, when had you ever been any of those things?

Trevor’s eyes widened as you stepped forward, your body calm but your mind in static. “No,” he said quickly—too quickly, panic hitching in his throat. “No, don’t be fucking stupid—she’s got you wrapped around her psychotic little—”

Your fist cracked into his jaw before he could finish the sentence.

The sound was awful. A sharp, animal crunch that echoed through the hallway. He stumbled back with a choked sound, arms flailing, and hit the floor hard. His head bounced once against the hardwood. Blood spilled from his mouth like it had been waiting for an excuse.

And you stood there. Lip split. Hand burning. Dirt under your nails. Breathing hard.

Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t.

Trevor writhed on the floor, one eye already swelling shut. His voice came through broken teeth, blood bubbling at the edges: “You’re both sick. You—she—this was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You killed them. You’re together in this. You’re fucking freaks!”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Because he was right.

And somehow, that made it easier.

Solana appeared beside you like smoke, like she’d always been there, just waiting for the final break in the dam. Her presence curled around you. Familiar. Dangerous. Her fingers found yours, not with tenderness, but intent. They didn’t ask. They claimed. Her grip was iron disguised in warmth, and your hand fit into hers like it had been carved to obey.

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.

Trevor kept screaming from the floor, rage shifting into despair, the kind that drags your voice hoarse because you already know you’ve lost. “You don’t know her! You don’t know what she’s capable of! You think this is love?! She’s poison! She’ll destroy you!”

And maybe he was right again.

But that didn’t stop you. Nothing would.

Because poison only hurts when you resist it. When you fight it. And you’d stopped fighting the second she said pretty please.

Solana turned, her voice a whisper soaked in sugar and rot. “Come, pumpkin,” she said, as casually as someone calling you in from the porch. “Cops are coming.” She tugged you down the hallway as sirens began to wail in the distance, growing louder by the second.

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. 

They zipped the bodies up in plastic. Five of them. Each with a number taped to the bag like they were just inventory now. You sat there watching—numb, detached—your breath fogging against the cool morning air, the corners of your borrowed blanket fluttering with every breeze. The world had stopped moving hours ago. Or maybe it was still turning, just without you.

You saw the bag marked #3. You swore that was Alice. It had to be. All you remembered her laugh, fake and fluttery, echoing down the hall before she followed Solana into that room.

And then… nothing.

Trevor’s voice cracked through the walls of the police cruiser like a dying animal. You didn’t need to see him to know he was broken. You could hear it. The way his voice rose and fell, fighting itself, chasing after some version of reality where this hadn’t happened. “She did this! That bitch—she killed her! Alice is fucking dead, man! You don’t get it! She killed her! And the others too! It was her, it was her, it was—”

But they weren’t listening anymore.

They were listening to Solana.

And Solana?

She was still sitting beside you, perfectly wrapped in a matching blanket like this was the aftermath of a camping trip. Her face was calm. Her hands folded. Her cheeks flushed just enough to read as “shocked.” But not too shocked. Just enough. She gave her statements to the officers in soft, measured words that sounded rehearsed—but only if you knew her well enough to catch it.

They believed her. Of course they did.

She cried a little. Called Trevor “unhinged.” Said he turned violent, showing the marks around her neck with light purple and red bruise. Said she tried to save Alice, but he dragged her away. Said she barely got out herself.

And you… you said nothing.

Because the story she told fit. Because Trevor’s rage  and attack made sense as a motive. Because you were too tired to fix what had already been broken.

You didn’t know how Alice died. Not really. But you overheard enough to paint a picture—found in the closet, passed out with no pluse, saying it was from alochol posion. And Solana had been the last to see her. The last to hold her face and say, “It’ll be fun.”

You could still hear it. 

That voice. That tone. Soft. Playful.

It wormed into your head like a lullaby sharpened into something cruel—something that left you feeling dizzy and weightless and wrong. You weren’t sure if it was the memory or her presence beside you that made your skin feel too tight.

You pulled the blanket closer, like fabric could shield you from the echo of her words. Like cotton and warmth could undo whatever rewiring had just happened inside your skull. Your hands trembled beneath the fold, but you kept your face blank. Numb. The trick was not to let it show.

Not fear. Not guilt. Not the fact that, deep down, part of you wasn’t even sure if you wanted to forget.

Then a cop passed by, voice low, clipboard in hand. “That’s enough for tonight,” he murmured. “They’re in shock. Leave ’em be.”

You almost laughed.

Shock didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Hey,” Solana whispered beside you. It was barely a sound. Just enough to snap you out of the fog. Your neck turned slowly, like your body wasn’t sure it wanted to look. She was still next to you, wrapped in her blanket like it was a second skin. Still beautiful in that terrifying, hypnotic way. Hair a little messy. Lips a little chapped. Eyes—those eyes—still glowing low like embers refusing to go out.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Did you…” you started, voice thin and cracked, “did you really kill them?”

You didn’t say their names. You couldn’t. Saying names made them people again. Made them real. Made it all harder to file away in the back of your skull where the unspeakable things were supposed to go.

Solana didn’t answer. Not at first. She tilted her head up toward the bruised sky above, like she was waiting for stars to give her permission. Or confession.

Then, with a small sigh—like the question itself had bored her—she climbed into your lap. No hesitation. Like it was where she’d always belonged. Her body folded over yours. Legs straddling. Arms hanging off your shoulders like a noose made of silk. And her hands cupped your jaw, warm and steady and far too gentle for someone who may or may not have snapped spines like twigs just hours ago.

Your eyes met.

Red-orange, glowing faintly in the morning gloom.

You didn’t want to look. But you couldn’t stop.

Then she smiled. Not big. Not evil. Just... soft. Soft in the way poison goes down easy when it tastes like honey. “Does it matter?” she asked, teasing and sincere. 

You stared at her, blank. Wrecked. And somewhere behind your ribs, something quietly caved in.

“They were never really your friends,” she added, brushing your hair back with a thumb. “You were always the afterthought. The joke. The one who brought snacks and rides and still got laughed at behind closed doors.”

You wanted to deny it. But you didn’t.

Instead, you let her rest her forehead against yours. Let her rock slightly in your lap like this was something tender. Intimate. Real. Her breath on your face was sweet. Familiar. And rotten at the core.

“Pretty please, pumpkin,” she whispered.

It landed in your ear like a drug hitting the bloodstream. Warm at first. Then numb. Then everything.

You stared ahead, eyes unfocused. The wreckage looked surreal through the haze — emergency lights painting red over red, crime scene tape flapping like warning flags in a place too late to be warned. Five body bags, zipped tight. Too tight, like sealing shame inside plastic.

You didn’t move.

Trevor was somewhere inside. You’d heard him screaming. Then sobbing. Then screaming again. His voice cracked like glass as he begged someone—anyone—to believe him.

They wouldn’t. They never did.

Not when the “weird girl” became the “victim.” 

Not when the “nice host” gave his statement in a trembling voice, said he saw Trevor snap. That Trevor dragged Alice. That Trevor flipped, lost it, couldn’t take rejection. You'd said it with a shiver in your breath and well-timed tears in your eyes. And the cops ate it up like candy.

Solana giggled—low, sugar-slow—her chin tucked into your shoulder like nothing around you was real. Like this wasn’t blood and sirens and zipped-up bodies on stretchers. Like it was just the two of you on some strange date night, one that ended in ruined lives and a town-sized lie.

Her fingers toyed with the edge of your sleeve, light and thoughtless, like she was brushing lint off your soul.

“See?” she whispered, her nose barely grazing the side of your neck. “Told you I’d make life more interesting.”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Because she was right. This—all of this—was yours now.

The lie. The mess. The thrill.

The sickening sense that your pulse wasn’t just from adrenaline anymore, but from something… deeper. A bond. A curse.

“Pumpkin,” she said again, soft as a bruise. “You okay?”

You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Something inside you was trying to crawl back out through your throat. Because this wasn’t the same Solana you met that day before lecture.

That girl—if she ever existed—was long gone.

Your brain, finally starting to come back online, did what it always did: retraced. Replayed. Remembered. The messages. The memes. 

The way she always knew what to say to hook you. How she always replied just when you needed it, like a sixth sense for your weakest moments. Like she’d been circling your life, studying the cracks, waiting.

You thought you invited her in. Thought you chose her. But no one else remembered her at the first party. No one even said her name. 

Not until it was too late.

It hit you then, quietly, horribly:

She. Chose. You. She. Wants. You.

The truth oozed into your skull like black mold through drywall. Rotting, slow. Unstoppable. Trevor would take the fall. That part was done. The cops had their narrative. You had your trauma. Everyone would grieve, heal, forget. Except you. Because the story wasn’t about what she did. 

It was about what you let happen.

You were hers now. Not in the swoon-and-hold-hands way. Not even in the obsessive, tragic Romeo way. You were hers in the “if-you-ever-leave-me-I’ll-make-sure-you-join-them” way.

And still.

She tilted your chin toward her, slow and deliberate, her fingers too warm. Like they were lit from inside. Her eyes, those impossible red-orange embers, blinked once—soft, full of something that wasn’t love, but wore love’s skin. 

She kissed your forehead like she was blessing you. Or branding you. “Pretty please… don’t be mad at me.” Her voice was a ribbon—soft, sweet, and wrapped tight around your throat.

Your body knew better. Every muscle was knotted in quiet revolt, your stomach twisting like it wanted to crawl out of you. Your pulse pounded warnings through your veins like war drums. Your heart—God, your heart—screamed in the kind of way hearts scream when they still have something left to lose.

But your mouth?

Your mouth betrayed all of it. “…I’m not.”

And that was it. Not a scream. Not a reckoning. Not even the bare dignity of silence. Just surrender—casual and complete. The kind that doesn’t come with a bang, but a hush. Like giving up your name in a dream. Like stepping into the water and letting it close over your head, because fighting would make it worse.

Because this wasn’t love.

Not the kind that saves you.

It was ruin. It was obsession dressed up as intimacy, a car crash with good lighting. It was everything you weren’t supposed to want—and wanted anyway. Not despite the danger. 

Because of it. Because it was hers.

And if she asked again—sweet, soft, the way only she could—you’d drink the venom twice. Hell, you’d bite down on broken glass, swallow every jagged piece, and thank her for the sting.

You’d sit with her amid the ruins of your fractured self, convinced it was worth the burn. Because some people shatter you so completely, it feels like being truly seen.

And you?

You were done pretending you didn’t want to break.

So when she smiled—relieved, radiant, quietly unhinged—you matched her, blade for blade.

Because she whispered pretty please. And you were already hers.

[echo-exco]

❝DOCTOR, I FEEL LIKE NO ONE WANTS ME, AND I HATE THE WAY I’M PERCEIVED.❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

“I always forget you’re here, Y/N. You’re so quiet, sometimes it’s like you’re a ghost. You should hang out with us more!”

Stephanie was walking down the hallway with a bag of popcorn in her hand, looking for someone to join her impromptu bad movie marathon. But Damian had locked himself in to train (and honestly, she didn’t want to risk being the target of his weapons), Tim wasn’t answering, Barbara was busy with Bruce, Cass had gone out... and Dick, of course, already had plans. Typical.

That’s when she saw you in person for the first time.

There, sitting on the edge of the couch, legs together, hands resting on your knees like you were waiting for someone to give you permission to move.

Y/N.

Stephanie wasn’t the first to find out. Not the last either. But she was the only one who pretended not to care.

When Bruce said you were coming, his daughter, with that distant tone he used when talking about things that were too human, Stephanie hadn’t known what to think. She just hoped you weren’t going to be another Damian case.

“Another sister.” Stephanie said to Tim with a smile. “The collection just keeps growing, huh?”

It was a joke. No one laughed. Not even her.

The truth was, she didn’t know how to feel. And that annoyed her. Deep down, Stephanie doubted Bruce adopted children out of love, at least not at first. All those Robins and Batgirls who, in some way, only reflected parts of Bruce’s past and the personal identity struggles of each one. Bruce picked them up like unfinished projects. And Stephanie definitely felt like one that had never truly been completed. She didn’t have the Wayne name. She didn’t have the status. She hadn’t even had a permanent bed in the mansion until recently.

But at least she knew where she fit and who she could call family.

What about you?

From her point of view, you were always just... too quiet.

Stephanie paused for a moment, watching you.

You looked up. Your eyes held no shine, but also no obvious sadness. Just a kind of silence that seemed permanent, like you didn’t truly belong anywhere.

Stephanie just assumed it was because of your complicated family background. Nothing to worry too much about. She smiled automatically. “Oh, didn’t see you there. You’re so quiet, sometimes it’s like you’re a ghost.” She laughed lightly, not thinking too hard about the words.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just looked back at the floor.

That made her a bit uncomfortable.

Stephanie ran a hand through her hair and added in that cheery tone she used with all the quiet kids at the shelter when helping Bruce or dealing with a similar case, “You should hang out with us more, you know? Do something fun. You could join the next game night! I think Tim has a console in his room no one touches.”

“...”

Stephanie shifted, more uncomfortable now. She chewed on some popcorn.

What was she even supposed to say to you? You weren’t like the others. You didn’t argue, you didn’t laugh with sarcasm, you didn’t ask for things, you didn’t try to stab her.

You were just there. And maybe Stephanie wasn’t as good at reading people as Cassandra, or as ridiculously smart as Tim or Barbara, or the best hand-to-hand fighter like Damian, but even someone like her could tell something was off with you.

She just didn’t know what exactly. Or maybe she was just overthinking something that wasn’t worth it.

Part of Stephanie felt bad for your situation, of course she did. But another part, deeper, more childish maybe, couldn’t help but think... she didn’t know what to do with you. Being alone with you made her feel something strange.

“Well...” She said with a soft, forced smile, “if you need anything, I’m in the living room. With popcorn. Bad movie guaranteed.”

Stephanie left quickly. She wasn’t in any rush... but staying there, in that silence, with someone as... absent as you were, gave her a small knot in her chest she didn’t know how to untangle.

Because Stephanie didn’t think too much about her place in the family.

It didn’t suit her. It wasn’t her style.

It was easier to move through them with a canned smile and a joke at the tip of her tongue than to stop and wonder if she actually had roots here. If someone, in some corner of the house, said her name when she wasn’t around. If they included her out of habit or affection.

She had learned not to make the distinction.

When Bruce called her for patrol, she didn’t ask why he didn’t do it more often. When Alfred treated her with the same courtesy as always, she didn’t ask whether that was affection or routine. When the others surrounded her, she let herself go with the flow. When they left her out of missions at the beginning, she told herself it was about logistics, not worth.

She got it. It wasn’t a mistake. She just wasn’t essential.

And then one day, you just showed up out of nowhere.

You, with that way of being in a room without really being there. Of watching others without asking for anything. Of moving like you didn’t weigh anything at all.

At first, Stephanie didn’t know what to make of you. You weren’t annoying. You didn’t take up space. You didn’t cause trouble.

But there was something about you… something uncomfortable. Something that said nothing and yet said everything.

She watched you a couple of times crossing the hallways. Always light. Always with your shoulders tight, like you were carrying something that couldn’t be put down. Your eyes didn’t seek anyone. They didn’t flee either. They just… lingered, if that makes any kind of sense.

Watching. Registering. Enduring.

Stephanie thought you weren’t like other girls. Not in a special or tragic way. None of that.

You were something else. Something hard to categorize.

That threw her off.

She tried to do what she knew best: offer a movie, a silly joke, some surface-level conversation. But you didn’t take the bait.

Because you didn’t fit into the usual categories of “sad girl,” “weird girl,” or “shy girl”… and honestly, she didn’t even know how to approach you.

Then again, has anything in this family ever been easy or normal?

But since Stephanie simply didn’t know how to reach you, she wasn’t going to try too hard. It’s not like you specifically needed her company, right? You could survive without a bit of her attention.

Did she greet you in passing? Sure. But she didn’t ask beyond that.

She saw you, but she didn’t know how to carry the weight of seeing you.

You didn’t make noise. You didn’t cry. You didn’t talk about what hurt.

That made her feel guilty. Because she knew something was wrong with you, something was bothering you.

But that wasn’t significant enough for Stephanie to want to stay.

So she left you behind. With a brief smile and empty promises about seeing you later, a “you should hang out more,” said more out of routine than genuine intent.

Not to mention the uncomfortable thought that maybe… you were more like her than she wanted to admit.

Because maybe you didn’t ask if they were including you out of affection or pity either.

You pretended not to notice anything too.

You also wished your father could be an actual father, not some powerless figure to his own daughter.

And that, more than anything else, made Stephanie look away.

Richard always liked to believe he was doing his best.

He was the oldest. The first. The one who had gone through everything before everyone else. The one who understood the invisible rules of that house.

He knew when Bruce had nothing more to give.

He knew when Alfred needed someone else to say something funny.

He knew how to put out a fire without raising his voice.

And for a long time, he believed that was enough to be the glue of the family.

It wasn’t just about smiling. It was about being consistent. About being there. About filling the space with something that didn’t weigh too much.

When the others arrived, Damian, Cass, Steph, even Duke, Richard adapted to each and every one of them.

He spread the affection. The jokes. The support. He had long arms for everyone.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Then you came along.

You were different.

Not because of your past. not because of your behavior. Because of the way you looked, because of the kind of silence you left in the rooms.

Richard first saw you in the kitchen, waiting for Alfred to offer you something. You didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. You were just there, like someone had pressed pause on you.

You didn’t seem scared. Not exactly sad either.

But there was a tension in your shoulders. Like you were always on alert, even when nothing was happening.

Richard treated you like he did the others. He smiled at you, cracked a light joke. Gave you a soft pat on the head.

When you nodded with a faint grimace that almost resembled a smile, he thought in that moment: “She’s okay. She’s adjusting.”

He didn’t think much more of it.

Richard had always carried the weight in his life, most of the time. He carried Bruce’s gaze, the silent expectations from Alfred, the unspoken comparisons that he felt on his shoulders every time he opened his mouth. Being the first meant there was no trail before him, everything he did was a model for others, but also a warning. That weighed on him. Not in a tragic or melodramatic way.

It was just... a strange constant in his life. Like a light that never turned off.

He learned to be there for everyone. To be dependable. To know when to step in and when to back off. With Tim he was patient. With Damian, firm. With Cass, it was enough to just look and nod, never overwhelm her, but never underestimate her either. Stephanie, Duke, even Jason in his worst moods… Richard was there. He wasn’t perfect, but he was the one who knew how to move through the family, as if each person spoke a different language and he spoke them all fluently. Being the older brother wasn’t just a role, it was a way of being for Richard. A responsibility he’d taken on without anyone ever asking.

That’s why, when you arrived, Richard thought he could handle it.

He didn’t say it out loud, of course, but in his mind it was automatic: “It’s fine. I’ve got this too.”

And your case wasn’t something he saw as a burden or an obligation either. He thought it with the same instinctive warmth he felt whenever someone new entered the orbit of his family. You were small, quiet, you didn’t make a mess, didn’t argue. You didn’t demand attention, didn’t appear in conversations with urgency. Bruce didn’t say much about you, but it was enough to watch how you walked through the mansion, almost without touching the ground, to know you were carrying something. Something you didn’t want to show. And that was okay. Richard respected everyone’s pace.

The first time you spoke to him was in the dining room. A short exchange, almost nothing. But your eyes stayed with him. There was something restrained in them, like you were always on the verge of saying something, and at the same time completely resigned to never saying it. That caught his attention. He thought it was sweet. He thought it was adorable that you looked for his opinion above the others’. He thought you were manageable.

So, with his best smile, he told you: “Hey, one of these days, you and I are hanging out. You owe me a chess match or a walk, whatever you want.”

And you nodded, as if you already knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Richard didn’t notice at the time. Not that time, or the second, or the third. He kept promising moments that never came. Not because he wanted to lie, absolutely not! He genuinely believed he would make good on those promises eventually. It was just that something always came up. A patrol. A mission. Someone who needed his help more urgently.

You, so quiet, so calm, so seemingly content... you were easy to postpone. Easy to put on hold.

You understand why he left you behind, right? You won’t blame him for all that, will you?

He never stopped to think how much time had passed since those empty promises. Every time he saw you, he told himself he should talk to you, that he should invite you this time, that today would be the day. But then Damian showed up angry, or Cass needed to train, or Bruce asked him to cover a sector, and you were still there, in the same place, with that same neutral expression. Richard, who was so good at reading others’ emotions, got used to not reading you. Because your behavior didn’t make him feel like there was anything to worry about.

And if there’s nothing concerning about you, then there’s no reason to worry. Right?

Sometimes he justified it to himself, thinking that maybe you preferred being alone. That you didn’t need all the noise, all the interaction. That it was enough for you not to be rejected. In that, without meaning to, he reduced you. He put you in a box, like you were a different kind of creature. Not fragile, but distant. Not sad, just reserved. He never asked himself if your stillness wasn’t comfort, but resignation.

The truth is, he did love you. From the very first moment. Like a little sister who had shown up unannounced, without explanation, but who still deserved her space. He truly believed that.

But that same certainty became the perfect excuse not to show up. As if love felt but not practiced was enough to fill the space between you.

Now, sometimes, when he walks through the hallways and sees you sitting on the couch, hands folded in your lap, eyes lost in something no one else can see, he feels a sharp pinch in his chest.

He thinks. “I should say something.”

Then he thinks. “I’ll do it later. I just need to finish this first.”

But it never finishes. There’s always something before you. Not out of malice. Just because he thought you could wait. That you were fine.

That’s what hurts the most.

That he never meant to hurt you.

But he did anyway.

Jason hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks. Not because of nightmares, those had lost their grip on him years ago, but because of what was left when there were no dreams at all. An unsettling silence that seemed to mock him, as if the city, for the first time, refused to scream.

Crime Alley had always been a ruthless hell. People screamed just enough, bled constantly, survived on instinct. But lately, something felt off. The streets were still dirty, the air still heavy, the alleys still reeked of desperation… but something had changed.

Too much silence.

Jason noticed it when the familiar faces stopped showing up. That old man who always collected cans. The dreadlocked kid who sold stolen watches. The woman who shouted insults at streetlights. Two boys from one corner. An older woman. Then three more. Then a little girl whose name he actually knew. That’s when it became a pattern. A growing horror.

As if someone was emptying the streets little by little, plucking the invisible people one by one. One by one, they started to vanish.

No sound. No scene. Just… absences.

At first, he thought it was arrests or turf wars. Then maybe someone was sweeping zones they didn’t belong to. But the disappearances increased.

Five.

Eight.

Twelve.

Not even bodies turned up. There was nothing left behind. No sign of the victims. As if the city had swallowed them whole without leaving a trace.

Jason couldn’t do anything.

Bruce was busy. Nothing new there. But this time it wasn’t just his usual emotional detachment mixed with that uncomfortable stagnation that weighed down the house.

This time, it was something else. Apparently, a new villain, nameless, faceless, with no records. Just vague reports, broken cameras, blocked sensors, awkward silences. Jason knew it wasn’t coincidence.

None of it was. The whole situation was too clean to be random. The disappearances were too precise. No one in Gotham operated like that, not without leaving some kind of trace.

Whoever this person was, Jason could tell Bruce was chasing them harder than usual.

Jason didn’t know the name of this faceless figure. Only that they had swallowed all of the Bat’s attention.

Meanwhile, out there, people were vanishing.

People Jason knew.

People he had protected.

People who had trusted him.

Sometimes he came back to the manor with blood still on his knuckles. Alfred said nothing, just offered him water and a silence even heavier than his own. Bruce didn’t look at him. Damian avoided him. Dick got lost in another conversation.

And you… You were there.

Sitting in the corner of the couch. Sometimes reading. Sometimes drawing. Sometimes just existing, as if your very presence didn’t need to justify itself. You didn’t speak, you didn’t interrupt, you didn’t demand.

To Jason, it was a damn trap.

He didn’t know you.

Barely remembered your voice. Maybe he’d heard it two or three times, in passing, almost unintentionally. He’d seen you once in the hallway, clutching a notebook. Another time in the kitchen, taking milk from the fridge and leaving everything as neatly as you’d found it.

You were too still.

Too careful.

Too quiet.

Because you were, as far as everyone knew, a normal girl. A girl with a murky past, a last name Bruce didn’t say aloud, and a way of walking like you were afraid to step too hard.

Jason could handle weapons, wounds, blood, screams, fire.

But not you.

Because you didn’t know who he really was, not truly. You hadn’t seen what he became when his emotions slipped. You hadn’t heard his voice when it rose. You didn’t know how close he always was to snapping, to lashing out at whoever happened to be nearby.

Jason didn’t want to be the reason you stopped feeling safe.

Sometimes he told himself it was out of respect. That he didn’t want to invade your space. That there was already enough chaos in the house without adding his presence to the mix.

But he knew that wasn’t entirely true.

The truth was, he was afraid.

Afraid to speak to you and have you see something in him you weren’t meant to see. Afraid to break something fragile without meaning to. Afraid to promise you safety when he couldn’t even protect the people already depending on him.

So he avoided you.

He only went into the kitchen when the lights were off. Took the back staircase to the second floor. If he saw you in the living room, he turned around. If he crossed paths with you in the hallway, he gave you a nod, a near-smile… and kept walking.

Avoiding any kind of contact, conversation, or opening.

There were nights when he stood in front of your bedroom door without knocking. Just hoping to hear nothing from inside, because silence meant you were safe. And when he didn’t hear a thing, he told himself everything was okay.

Jason knows that’s a lie.

But it worked.

One night, while watching the alleys from a rooftop, alleys that now felt like unmarked graves, he thought of you again.

Not with tenderness, with contrast.

You, sitting in your corner, unaware of how many bodies were missing.

You, untouched by the fear he breathed every single day. You, the only person in that house he hadn’t dragged through the mud.

And that’s when he understood: That’s why he avoided you.

Because as long as he didn’t get close, you could stay that way.

A possible beginning.

Jason Todd had broken a lot of things in his life. He’d ruined too much with his own decisions, choices that still gnawed at him.

First himself. Then others. But he hadn’t hurt you.

Yet.

In a city that tainted everything, in his own way, it was the only thing that felt like protecting you.

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[seewetter]

In the aftermath of "2014 Tumblr" collapsing, a consensus about etiquette is as hard to come by as a consensus about societal circumstances. True, there never really was a good consensus on this topic and it's nice that the new culture allows for a greater range of opinions on various topics, but now it's much harder to get a read on other people that use the platform.

We get spirited defenses of not being too harsh toward men from users who will advocate the polar opposite toward straight people. And ever since the discussions about respectability politics died down (at least on my dashboard), people just *do whatever*.

OP addressing "the queer community", seemingly certain that a monolithic queer community exists and will undergo a social reckoning to not be "awful to straight people". Not only does the actual queer community consist of many people who have never heard of each other and barely share a worldview, but OP also does something that's really unhelpful: vagueblogging.

If you vagueblog about stuff like this, nobody has any idea what behaviour (in your opinion) has crossed the line. Nobody can comment if this is a common occurrence or not. No one will stop what their doing because "being awful" is a word whose definition people like stretching and genuinely awful people rarely care to change. And no one knows if you are stretching it or not OP if you force us to guess about what you are talking about.

Both moniquill and hellyeahheroes are right to be concerned about rising governmental attempts to eradicate queerness, and if yoursminehourss (the OP) vagueblogs like this, there is no recognizable critique of actual events that happened.

I remember the Down with Cis bus and all the other pretend self-victimization that happened over the years. I also know that kindness matters and I remember the crackerhell/Riley dilemma. Nobody can understand what they are being asked to do though if the demand is as vague as "stop being awful". Stop being awful can mean bisexuals being attacked for bringing their partners to Pride (that sucks) but "stop being awful" can also be equivalent to stories like the down with cis bus, where the victimization is fabricated and exaggerated.

To riff off the ideas OP may be trying to express, I do think that comfort in resentment is a bad thing. Getting comfortable with a community that has cultivated an atmosphere of hostility, in my opinion has tangible downsides.

That said, sometimes people can't help but bear grudges, sometimes the grudges are inevitable and supporting the community means supporting the haters, sometimes its healthy to not try and push away those feelings or the people who express them. It's a tightrope that you walk and you sell your soul if all you want is kindness in queer spaces, especially, as my eloquent prevs have noted, during an attempted extermination by the government.

okay people are still online but im gonna say this anyway. the queer community has gotten way too comfortable being awful to straight people and it needs to change and im not kidding

[ghostboyravenight]

this whole "trans men have male privilege" thing really rubs me wrong because essentially what people are saying is that trans men are escaping womanhood and misogyny to gain the privilege of being a man, which is literally a terf talking point. terfs have been accusing trans men of "trying to escape misogyny" for forever now. and if it really worked, if you could just identify your way out of misogyny and into male privilege, then wouldnt more women be doing that? if it actually worked then wouldnt everyone be doing it? like??

idk man like i still look vaguely woman shaped and people pick up on that. i am not read as male, im read as a weird female. where is the male privilege in that? what does being clocked as a freak do for me?

God literally, I wish people would start realising how much TERF rhetoric they’re repeating, but I’m not even sure they care anymore. There’s a reason hoards of women didn’t just dress up as men to get male privilege throughout history, and it’s because it’s literally not that simple! Why is everyone acting like women can just wear male clothing and cut their hair and they instantly pass as cis men?

Like… think about all of the historical trans men for just a second. Do people really believe it was that easy for them? That they didn’t have to cut off family and friends, risk being outed every second of their lives, risk imprisonment and institutionalisation, etc.? The risks were not worth it for those who were actually cis women, because like we keep saying, once a trans man is outed as being trans, society just treats us as broken women who need to be fixed for our own good. Misogyny doesn’t disappear, it gets worse, and it’s misogyny that’s perpetuated by both cis men and cis women.

Being treated as a trans man before the twentieth century would have been even worse than being treated as a cis woman, so yeah… women were not just doing this willy nilly to gain privileges that they barely received in the first place. I feel like people just look at James Barry and think he unquestionably succeeded in gaining male privilege, but there’s a reason that he was so adamant that no one performed an autopsy on his body. He obviously knew the risk, and he knew how fucking dangerous it would have been if anyone found out he was trans.

Like, it really pisses me off, because TERFs latch onto these historical figures to prove that trans men are just women “pretending” to be men, and you’d think it would be basic transfeminism to view this as transphobic, but people are just turning around and doing the exact same thing to trans men now. Trans men and mascs are not gaining male privilege, they have never gained male privilege, and people encouraging this idea that systemically switching into higher society is possible for trans men to achieve are working on a foundation of survivorship bias. James Barry survived. He had a decent life as far as we can tell (although there’s speculation about his earlier years). But what about the trans men who died imprisoned? The trans men who have been murdered? The trans men who were forced into the most despicable mental institutions by their families simply for cross-dressing? They weren’t rewarded for their maculinity, they were punished for deviating from their perceived role in society.

If you believe that trans men have male privilege, then you are upholding and justifying the TERF belief that trans men do not exist, and have only ever been women trying to escape womanhood. That is contributing to our erasure and to the continued limitation of our rights.

Like, I’m sorry for rambling, but I’m fucking tired of these stupid ass posts insinuating that trans men have male privilege because they’ve maybe come across like two trans guys who fit the exact bill of white, passing, post-everything who are granted conditional privilege in situations where they have to remain closeted in order to be treated with basic human dignity.

Meanwhile, in reality, trans men have fucking died. And anyone who looks at a group of people who have been systemically abused and killed (particularly the non-white members of said group) throughout the entirety of history and claims that they have privilege in society are woefully ignorant at best and violently transphobic at worst.

[pipeupcomic]

we've probably said this before and i cant remember it (wow, shocker, i know, the DID system doesn't remember whether they've done something. /silly) but the QnA has just proven even further to us that this comic is the greatest representation of DID we've ever seen, especially as a teenaged DID system who has no idea what's going on with themselves. every alter the Warren has is building on that feeling of a traumatized 16 year old, forced to pretend at every angle that Everything's Fine And I Am Normal, I Swear - but every alter also having a different definition of what "normal" even is, because of why they exist. (which, i love that they also clearly have reasons for why they're there) i just need to talk through each one of them so badly

like, niko as the embodiment of percy's need to REBEL is probably the most obvious instance of the traumatized teen thing so far. percy couldn't deal with the urges to smoke and do drugs and bully that he was feeling as he became a teenager, so niko holds those. what with it being stated constantly that niko spawned "only a few years ago," and them saying that it isn't their fault because percy was already thinking about doing those things - ooooof niko is a really good character.

we have our own theories about the origins of piper and harper (quinn seems fairly self-explanatory, a lot of first splits are protector types) but even though their origins are not as clear, you can still tell somethings Off with them too. harper's manipulative and distant tendencies spell out a history of distrust, and piper seems like an obvious fawn response, especially directed at the parents.

god i hope this is somewhat coherent, i guess this is just a love letter? - they're all so nuanced and deep in the way their own fragmentation affects them, even as alters they're still these amazing people within people. (shoot niko doesn't even have a favorite food. which by the way, is also FANTASTIC to show that they're newer and don't really focus on anything else other than their designated holder behaviors when they're up top - i think a few of us actually screamed inside when we read that. /pos)

i'm so excited to learn more about all of them, saltnpepperbunny is absolutely amazing with adding subtext and hiding little pieces of information about characters in their writing. (hello children of the light fandom.) so many of us see ourselves staring back in these characters. so, all that to say, wonderful job and thank you!!

Thank you so much! ;;;;;;;w;;;;;;;; You are coherent yes, dw! It's always an honor to get messages like these haha. It makes me super happy when readers pick up on what we're trying to do with the Warren. These kinds of asks are really encouraging, so bless!

[inkpotsprite]

I think it's very unfair for Tim Drake fans or anti Stephanie people to be so rude to you.

It's expected and I feel like encouraged to critique characters and especially a lot of Tim's early writing is deeply rooted in problematic undertones. Much like a lot of Stephanie Brown's writing.

Different spectrums of the same issue, however.

✨Misogny✨

I actually enjoy reading critiques of any character. I also feel like a lot of the time it gives a perspective of the reader. Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Stephanie Brown, but that's only because my main focus isn't her.

She's a interesting character, and the writers have done her a big disservice.

I'm really sorry people have been so shitty.

I also really love your writing especially the story you just did with with Duke.

Your really amazing, and your work is a huge part of this fandom. I am really honored to read anything you decide to grace us with. 🖤💙💚❤️🧡💛🦇✨

Anon, you have no idea how nice it is to read something like this after the past few days. This message is so sweet, thank you so much! 💜🥰💜

You've made a lot of great points as well. Critiquing is half the fun of fandom, you can analyse, point out and muse over flaws alongsode attributes in characters and stories.

And yes, a lot of Tim's early writing has been rooted in problematic themes, partially due to the time it was written in and partially due to the biases of the people writing him. And sadly, those elements are very much a part of his story and character. His training arc was built on "defeating" Shiva, his Red Robin arc spawned a lot of fandom racism towards Damian and Ra's and most of his hetero romance arcs (especially his relationship with Steph) involved a lot of misogyny. To gracefully step over those landmines when writing a fic is one thing, but when discussing the actual comics and source material, it really can't be ignored.

And the same goes for Steph. I, for one, would love to pretend War Games never existed (particularly that gross torture scene) and in my fics I usually do just that. But I can't pretend that it never happened in the comics. Nor can I pretend that she had a good run as Robin (she had some good comics during it, I just mean overall due to Bruce's and the writers treatment her Robin arc was cut off at the knees essentially)

And you're completely right, misogyny is a major theme in both Tim and Steph's stories and affects them in majorly different ways.

Thanks again for being such a sweetheart 💜 I'm so glad you liked my latest work! And I'm looking forward to posting more for you soon(ish) 💜🥰💜🥰💜

[meetmeinanotherworld]

I typed out a super long rant trying to get my thoughts organized and it's in my drafts but I realized I was saying so much more than I needed to and it was such a mess so I'm trying again.

The main point of my long winded ramble was that shifting is literally just a matter of object permanence. Is that a good hook? Let me explain.

I used to get so caught up in the idea of "pretending" to be in your desired reality. And I hated it. I couldn't try to convince myself I was there right then because I was still seeing my cr. And along with that, I was scared of negatively impacting my mental health with being delusional. But here's the thing. I'm not pretending. I AM in my dr right now. And I'm also in my cr. I'm in infinite different realities right at this very moment. I'm just aware of this one right now (I know this is what we've all heard before, but I'm getting to my point I swear).

In this reality, I work, I have responsibilities, I spend time with friends etc. But in my dr, I also do all of that. And in that reality, that's what I'm aware of. I'm not aware of what's happening in this reality or any other ones. I'm just concerned with living my life there, just as I am here. But just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't happening. Just because you aren't currently aware of your dr self, it doesn't mean you just cease to exist. It's all just object permanence. Just because you can't see what your neighbors are doing, doesn't mean they aren't doing anything. Just because you can't see what's happening at the bottom of the ocean, doesn't mean nothing's happening. Just because you can't see what's happening ten billion lightyears away, doesn't mean nothing's happening. Just because you're seeing your cr, doesn't mean you aren't in your dr right this very second.

It's easy to get caught up in your own little bubble of awareness and focusing on what YOU see and experience. But that doesn't change anyone else's experiences. When you stop hanging out with your friend, do you think they just magically stop existing? Even though you don't know what they're doing at that moment or what their thoughts are or what they're feeling? Think of shifting as more like going to see your friend. You don't know what's happening at your house anymore, but you do know what's happening with your friend. And your house is still existing too, even without you in it.

Anyways, tldr, just because we're aware of this reality right now, doesn't mean we aren't in our drs right at this very second. It's object permanence, baby. Be smarter than a baby who thinks their mother vanished into thin air because she hid behind a blanket. I used to hate those posts saying "ignore the 3D" because I didn't get it. How do you ignore literally everything happening around you? But I get it now. You don't have to "ignore" it per se. You just have to pull back that metaphorical blanket and see your metaphorical mother is right there (aka your dr). You're just letting yourself become aware of what is literally right there for you to have right now. Acknowledge that you exist there just as you exist here.

[theshadowrealmitself]

My own lil hc for the replicators is that they can only hold a certain amount of recipes but you can have a separate device to download recipes on that you can plug into the replicator and it’ll work on all of them (like a usb thing)

Which is great if you have a ton of allergies, or you know that whichever replicator you’re gonna be around aren’t gonna have too many recipes for your species, or even just if you like having certain comfort recipes (like you know at some point you’re gonna crave salmon), or like a common dish in every replicator always has unsalted butter but you prefer salted butter or something like that, etc etc etc

But everyone always forgets they can do that, they’re like “aw man :( guess I just have to deal with what’s already pre-coded into the replicator :((“

[vaguely-concerned]

just had the thought 'in the end the most important thing varric taught rook was how to make a home for, with, and in other people' and then I had to go lie down on the floor and clutch at my head in unceasing agony for a few hours, as you may well imagine. hawke and the kirkwall crew........ in the end you kind of saved the world a bit in the most characteristically indirect and chaotic of ways. not by anything in particular that you did or achieved or accomplished (lmao imagine!), but just by -- having existed, and by the love that was always there, despite it all, in all its imperfections, even when no one was saved by it in the end. you're not here right now and you're not quite haunting the narrative but I hear your voices bickering and arguing and laughing from the other room. (and so, I think, does varric. all the time.)

'did you think you mattered, hawke? did you think anything you ever did mattered?' yeah actually, varric says with da2 and keeps saying through the series. you were here. and I loved you. and as it turns out that mattered more than almost anything in the world, no matter how long it lasted or how fucked up it was at the time or what else happens, because varric manages to pass that feeling, that intangible... home, that echo of you all as you were together, that love, hopefully the best parts of it, on to someone else for them to bring with them on their journey, with their family. and maybe the world will be kinder this time. you never know. merrill's line of 'Everything affects everything. We were born, a bunch of things happened, and now we're in a mess with our friends.' varric's greatest fear of becoming his parents. even through the wreck and the ruin of the world, ghosts upon ghosts upon ghosts of love -- malcolm hawke, who we never even see, but his life touched hawke's and hawke's touched varric's and varric's touched rook's and rook is passing it on to the family they're creating. the unbroken legacy of love shines through in ways that are stronger and stranger than any magic. help

[ascnsionismx]

Mathias could never and would never pretend that he knew what he was doing. He put on a brave face and faced everything life was throwing at him for the sake of others, but it didn't mean he had it all covered. He tried his best and he told himself that his best would be enough. If he just kept trying then it would work out in the end.

Yes, not letting love change him was an option. Mathias could easily throw it all away and prevent any pain from happening. It was something he was told early on. Gods loved, but not like humans did. They didn't feel connections to the mortal lives they touched. Those lives were just a blink of time in the existence of the divine. Mathias just couldn't see himself doing that. He was human first (maybe) and he would love the way he was taught.

Mathias could never have both worlds. He could never prevent the death of those he loved. Even if he sacrificed the rest of the world for it, one day Death would come for them. He was afraid of the loneliness that would follow. Would he have to walk the earth for eternity all alone? Would he find their presence in shadows and memories as time stretched on and on? Would he know of their future lineages, would he tell them of their ancestors? Of his love for them.

He listened to Suresh, wondering how two beings who had been showered in a god's power could have this much pain in them. "Sometimes I feel envious of you. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been better if I didn't feel human at all. I've cause my people a lot of pain because I'm trying so hard to be human. They don't deserve that".

He removed his hand, but could still feel the spark of energy and magic between the both of them. Desire and Life went hand in hand. Without life, desire couldn't be had. And without desire, no one would want to live. And perhaps this was why Mathias felt close to Suresh. They fed each other in different ways. "Let them love me? I think they'd be happy to hear you telling me that. Maybe I will...Maybe I'll give them that until I can't".

Suresh didn’t pull his hand away. Didn’t flinch from the weight of what Mathias had offered; fear laid bare, truth trembling on the edge of surrender. He let the silence between them breathe, let it fill with the scent of rain against old stone and something warmer, older... beneath the skin. His eyes dropped to where Mathias’s hand rested atop his own. Such a simple gesture. But it carried the whole world in it. And it pierced him deeper than any accusation ever had. “You are trying,” Suresh murmured at last. “Even when it’s destroying you in ways no one else can see.” He looked to the rot still visible, "And the ways they can."

It wasn’t praise. It wasn’t comfort. It was truth. Plain and painful. He exhaled, long and slow, the breath stirring something in the air between them. A shimmer. A shift. Not glamor. Not threat. Just Presence. “I’ve watched more people vanish from my life than I can count,” Suresh said, gaze steady. “Some by my hand. Some by time. Some by fate. And I have learned that no godhood, no spell, no empire of power will keep love from dying… if you stop letting it change you.”

He leaned back, just slightly. But his eyes never left Mathias. “If you want to hold onto who you are… don’t run from the fear. Let it burn through you. Let it speak. And then do the human thing anyway.” His smile barely surfaced. And then Mathias’s fingers curled more securely over his. Suresh felt it. That ache. Not lust. Not want. But longing. To save. To protect. To offer himself in place of someone else. And oh… Desire knew that shape well.

The god inside him stirred, not hungrily, but with reverence. Recognition. Beneath Mathias’s skin, Suresh felt the echo of a child clutching his twin, the echo of a man whispering just let me be the one to burn. And Suresh, the old serpent, did not recoil. He let it pass between them just a little. A breath of magic. A thread of warmth. A fragment of Desire’s mercy, not enough to overwhelm, just enough to hold. “You love like a god already,” he said quietly. “But you suffer like a man.” The glamour did not shimmer. His eyes did not glow. And still, the moment felt holy. Suresh’s thumb brushed the edge of Mathias’s wrist, feeling the pulse beneath it, still alive for now, fragile, burning. “I envy you that,” he said, and the words rang clean, almost mournful. “The ache of memory. The grief that carves you into shape. The fragility that makes every choice mean something.”

He paused. Then, lower, “I’ve never had to try, Mathias. Not the way you do. I was born to hunger. To want. To take.” He gestured vaguely, an emptiness in the motion. “Desire is not a choice. It consumes. And I… I was shaped to survive it.” His voice gentled further, a rare break in his armor. “But you choose to love. Even when it hurts. Even when it costs you. That is the most human thing I’ve ever seen.” And in the stillness, where only that small, warm point of contact tethered them together, he offered the softest truth he had left: “You don’t have to wait for that ‘one day.’ The ones who see you now, the real you, they already know you’re trying. Let them love you while they still can.” Because Suresh knew, better than most, that someday, they wouldn’t be able to. And someday, Mathias might not let them. And Suresh, ancient thing that he was, would remember. For as long as it took. Until someone else could. Or until there was no one left to.

[busterbby]

— they accidentally brush hands.

fluff. gn!reader. ichiro, jiro, saburo, ghost!ichiro, ghost!jiro, ghost!saburo.

Note : somethin’ (somewhat) short and sweet! Absolutely not my idea as I saw it while reading some hcs and thought, ‘hey, this is so cute.’ So voila lol. It’s my first time (properly) writing for the ghost versions!! Obvi they didn’t introduce ghost jiro or sabu yet, and ghost ichi barely had any screen time lmao, but I tried my best to portray them with what I think they’d be like in my mind! So they’re ofc ooc, but regardless, I hope you guys enjoy!!

Ichiro is a sweetheart. He flusters at the slightest touch, though he tries to act unfazed, as if he didn’t even notice; it’s only an accident, of course — nothing much else to it. But, for the slightest of moments, you can see his ‘cool’ and ‘calm’ demeanor waver. The slight pink on his cheeks, the mirage of his gaze, even the flutter of his heart.

Reliable and dependable big bro, oh so strong and who you’ve never seen falter — a pure mess at one touch. somehow, it’s cute. His knuckles are brash and rough, yet now they’re oh so delicate and fragile, as if he’d broken the bones in there once more.

He tries to clear his throat and move on — again, an accident; he’s only walking you home after hanging out after all, as friends. He’s a gentleman after all! But you notice how he seems to avoid your gaze the entire rest of the way.

(Oh. Ichiro can’t stop thinking about holding your hand now ; his fingers seem to ache for yours, his heart too. Ichiro sighs embarrassingly as he tosses the shoujo he was reading off to the side. He’s nothing short of a touch starved mess)

Jiro is quick to blush, cute. He, mindlessly, lets out a very puppish yelp (before burning an even brighter pink at how utterly embarrassing that noise was, coming out of his mouth) and is quick to cover himself with the brim of his cap. He can’t help but groan meek; that simple brush makes him weak.

There’s a chill that crawls up his spine and up to the very nerves of his fingertips — throughout his entire nervous system, in fact, an electric shock. And his heart gets all rewired too. It seems to beat to a different tune now.

He’s innocent when it comes to these sorta things; he has a big heart after all and falls hard. He likes you! a lot. So such little things affect him greatly. His knuckles seem to tingle and burn from where you’ve brushed — though, of course, it’s only in his mind. But it damn sure bothers him, Jiro groans.

He thinks about it the whole rest of the day. And his heart skips a damn beat each and every time.

Saburo is quick to pull his hand back. instinctively, that is. Even if his brows contort and lips frown, like he’s confused, grossed out? But make no mistake! He’s actually in shambles on the inside from that simple brush (oh God, he’s a fool). He’s a pure and utter mess, more so than both his brothers. His heart is actually nothing but a pile of mush now.

And even if he looks away from you the entire rest of the way he walks you home from school, even if he avoids you, it’s impossible not to the notice just how bright he burns. Steam may as well be coming out of his head. And his hand, annoyingly, burns hot too. like he just stupidly put it on a stove top.

No, no. There’s no possible way he likes you that much, Saburo groans. It should’ve just been a simply crush, nothing more nothing less. But.. getting this worked up over a simple, accidental brush of the hands? He’s the fool, through and through.

Ghost!Ichiro is surprised — he can’t hide it on his face. He’s usually so suave, so confident and charming; such accidental brushes should mean nothing to him. He’s the one that usually ends up stealing your heart in such little ways, and yet..

He’s not used to such tender touch or the skip of his heart. He’s not used to feeling so weak, in his chest and his knees. And hm, ghost Ichi wonders, why his hand burns warmer than his other.

But, he quite likes this. He likes you, and he likes the way you make him feel so strange and alive on the inside; is this what is meant by a bond? to protect the most precious to you? Ghost Ichi can’t help but grin.

Mira is a wonderous place after all.

(Next time, he probably has the audacity to actually hold your hand and fluster you instead)

Ghost!Jiro likes it. He won’t short — he wants to hold your hand. Ghost Jiro would love nothing more than to be yours. And when your knuckles ‘accidentally’ brush his, ghost Jiro can’t help but grin; I mean, you brushed your hand against his because you want to hold it, don’t you? It all makes sense in his mind.

He takes the initiative and would hold your hand right then and there; simple brushes won’t do, no no. His fingers take yours, and ghost Jiro intertwines your hand with his, giving them a squeeze and holding them tight. just like what a real couple would do. See? They interlock perfectly too, he can’t help but grin, perhaps a bit too confident and full.

He’s impulsive and quick, much more so, and ghost Jiro will let you know exactly how he feels. He may be code, but his heart is entirely real.

Ghost!Saburo is much too cute, much too shy. It’s easy to see just how much that small touch had such a big impact on him; you’d think he’s shaking a bit, at how overwhelmed his system seems to get. but it’s not written into his code! how to act when your heart starts pounding and you accidentally touch hands with your crush.

He holds his hand close to chest, right where his beating heart lay, and ghost Saburo blushes so bright that his circuits may overheat. But, truthfully, he’s happy — almost giddy. Ghost Sabu wonders if he’s even allowed to like you in this way; he knows he’s shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself from getting too happy at that accidental touch. He can’t help but fall a little harder for you.

And, he hopes you’re fine with him imagining all sorts of scenarios in his mind after this. like, what it’d be to hold your hand and walk down the streets of mira ikebukuro, or to perhaps share an ice cream. Ghost Sabu knows he’s not the best guy around, but he really wants to be that sort of guy for you..

[bidonica]

wait can you elaborate on "#not to be european on main but it's one of asoiaf's most tellingly american features to me" because I've never really considered this before

Well, if you look at the time frame of Westeros post Targaryen conquest that's roughly the same distance between the foundation of the USA and when GRRM started writing asoiaf, so there might be a (conscious or subconscious I can't tell, but it wouldn't suprise me if it was intentional) correlation with placing "the birth of this country as we know it" at that specific point in time. Which ties back to that feeling of "the beginning of history" while acknowledging that there has been a history before, but it's a lot more nebulous and badly documented and it involves ethnicities that are considered "native" vs more recent migrations (First Men vs Andals).

And it's something you don't really get to perceive from a European perspective because sometimes you might be living in a country that, in its current form as a nation state, is actually younger than the US (like Italy or Germany), but that state and its identity exists in continuity with what was there before, going back to several centuries. There are cultural and material callbacks to that history in your everyday life, be it the language you speak or still using very ancient buildings that sometimes even maintained their original purpose. I don't want to sound blasé but from that vantage point "300 years ago" is "a long time ago, but not that long". This is not a value judgment, and of course the key reason is colonialism -- I just think there are some contextual elements that might lead to a different perception of history. It's all relative in the end

[liamstorm]

been trying to research to see if there's any medical papers or studies or even personal experiences that talked about similarities between autism & antisocial personality disorder (specifically on the empathy) and all i get are people saying shit like "there's no similarities between aspd and asd because autistic people are Innocent Angels who want to do good but may be too dumb to do it well and people with aspd are completely evil psychopaths who want to ruin your life"

[remnantofstars]

I've been reading and watching more British shows/books lately and I think you guys will be noticing this in my writing. Besides the fancy words that are once again back in my vocabulary, there's also more Britishness!! Objectively funny concidering it was supposed to have more Britishness from the start. And well. Tom being Tom.