#current thought spiral we keep repeating…..

[villainsidestep]

(hums loudly) much to think abt

[woollypoison]

Spiral

male reader x Giselle a/n: spoilers, but this story contains topics such as death and grief. Word count: 19k

You owe your life to Giselle. This is not an exaggeration. This is also not a metaphor. This is not even some poetic way she saved you—though it will end up that way too. No, this is fact.

-

There’s a loud, wet plop that reverberates from your attic bedroom, to the stairs below it, into the kitchen and finally stops near the front door as Giselle releases the head of your cock from her plump and peach colored lips, her cheeks hollowed out to make the noise reach every corner of the house it previously was never allowed to.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,“ Giselle giggles, her bright pink hair falling over one eye as she tilts and looks up at you with a gaze that claims this was somehow the most important task at hand and she just had an obligation to find out. It wasn't and she didn't.

If the promise you made was anything to go by, that honor would be bestowed upon studying for your midterms. And if it makes any difference, you did study at first, you really did. It started with you on your bed, reviewing your notes in between peeks at your girlfriend. Giselle at her desk—your desk, actually, but when she was here, it was hers, like everything you owned—lazily swiping a highlighter across her paper, making it very clear she had no interest at all in the economy of post-war Europe.

In your defense, you were still just on your bed. It was Giselle who was now lying between your legs, her hand softly clamping the base of your cock, resting her cheek against the inside of your thigh, looking up at you like you are the most interesting thing in the world.

You’re not.

You’re just some guy who told his parents he couldn’t come along on the Disneyland trip because he had to study. “You’re staring.” She interrupts your self-indulgent train of thought.

“I was just thinking about how I gave up Disneyland for this.”

She raises her eyebrows, feigned shock playing at her face before she stifles a grin you can’t help but catch. “Wow,” she lilts through a chuckle. Giselle has this way of making her eyes bigger than what you could possibly take in, and her mouth small and pouty which conjured a magnetic attraction that kept pulling you towards her in a way none of your physics books could explain whenever she was acting mock-offended. Mock-wounded, even.

A small gap between her lips allows hot breath to escape and hit you where it burns, and she has the audacity to let the grip she’s maintained on you soften, those eyes professing innocence and claiming she’s not currently casting a spell on you from which there is no escape.

“You gave up Disneyland for this?” she repeats, and her voice is all incredulous scandal and disbelief, making her out to be some second-rate plastic junk prize at a carnival and not the single greatest thing to ever happen to you.

You sigh, succumbing to her spell with an arm over your eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why I stayed. It was your idea in the first place.”

“Oh, I know why you stayed,” she purrs, the weight of her chin pressing into your thigh as she makes herself comfortable, her soft hand squeezing a little tighter and then not anymore, “but I still want to hear you say it.”

“Do you?”

Her grip tightens, your life in her hands.

Your breath catches.

She smiles.

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

Your head drops back against the aptly named headboard, your eyes open peering at the love of your life from a tiny gap beneath your arm. “Because you’re here, and we can be as loud as we want.”

She hums, pleased, pressing a kiss against the very tip of your dick. “Good answer.”

She’s keeping you upright, slow kisses trailing their way down your shaft before you break the spell and foolishly interrupt her. “I still don’t get why you’d even pretend to be shocked.”

“Because it’s Disneyland.” she says in between kisses, like that explains anything. It only raises more questions she’s already giving an answer too, slowing the pace of your pleasure, which you now realise was a stupid mistake. “It’s Mickey Mouse, overpriced churros, dry turkey legs, pirates and ghosts and superheroes and some dumb mountain that everyone pretends is a real landmark.”

With a raised brow, “Space Mountain?”

“Splash Mountain.”

You snort. Admittedly, you wanted to be moaning (as loud as you want, mind you) right now, but this was your own doing and you might as well make the most out of it. “They closed it.”

Giselle gasps, not a shred of feign in her shock, genuinely scandalized, and for a moment, you forget she still has a hand wrapped tightly around your cock.

…Almost.

Because now she’s sitting up, straddling your thighs, planting her hands on your chest like she’s rock climbing and you’re her anchor, staring down at you with nothing short of betrayal in her eyes.

“They fucking what?”

“Yeah, they closed it,” you repeat, trying very, very hard to not be distracted by the fact that she’s fully naked, fully on top of you, and somehow infinitely more interested in Disneyland’s performative politics than your dick.

“For what?” she demands out of you, her nails digging into your flesh as if you made the call.

You laugh, partly because you can’t believe that it was Splash Mountain that cockblocked you, and partly because you’re helpless to do anything else in front of her. “I’m not sure, I think it was something about racism—”

“Oh, so now they care—”

See, when she’s getting all huffy and puffy, there is something about her waist that suddenly becomes irresistibly grabbable. So you do, and you flip her back onto the bed, changing places and slotting your head between her thighs, effectively shutting her up.

Or at least, for a second.

But Giselle is nothing if not a menace, and she immediately recovers, her hands finding their rightful place in your hair, her thighs pressing into your shoulders as she whispers “Does this mean we’re making our own splash mountain?”

This deserves a groan. “That is literally the worst thing you’ve ever fucking said.”

But you’re still beneath her, staring at her face—a little upset you’re not fucking it but more than happy to let her fuck yours—and when her tongue slightly protrudes between her lips, licking the top first and then the bottom with her eyes fluttering as if they’re spelling the Morse code for “Fuck me,” you can’t help but indulge.

You plant exactly one soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, no more and no less. Her whole body twitches under the contact.

Giselle is beaming.

It’s not the previously worn grin, not the giggly, mischievous, I-just-did-something-chaotic smile. No, this one is worse. This one is far, far worse for you. It’s all teeth, all dimples, all radiant, glowing, pure lovesick joy. It's hard to find a word other than the given, irresistible.

You’ve barely done anything yet, but her eyes are already glassy, her breaths loud and rhythmic, and she’s looking at you with so much goddamn love that it feels like standing too close to the fucking sun. And you give her the same look back, because how could you not?

“I can’t believe you,” she sighs, dreamy, high off of nothing but you.

She’s all yours, bucking her hips into you, surrendering to your touch. You just tighten your grip on her waist, locking her down. “I haven’t even done anything yet?”

“Oh, you know what you’re doing,” she accuses, and she meant to sound annoyed, but her breath halts and hitches halfway through her emphasis on the ‘know’, betraying her, because the truth is that she doesn’t mind at all. The beautiful truth is that she’s hopeless about you, and she knows you know it.

You can’t help it— her grin is infectious, and suddenly you’re beaming too. It’s true what they say about becoming more like each other once you love someone. With that pure lovesick joy, you lean down, letting your tongue barely graze her slit as it finds its mark. You place it right under her clit, and give one brazen swipe upwards before you pull back, making her whine—actually, physically whine—and the sound goes straight to your head like the cheap liquor you are bound to steal from your parents cabinet.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” you speak softly, throwing her own words back at her, hot breath crashing into Giselle’s sensitivity causing her thighs to tense up against you.

She groans, she tugs on your hair—a punishment you know you deserve—and this time around, succeeds in addressing you as the most annoying person on planet Earth. “Oh my god, I hate you,” she grunts, pushing her hips up against your mouth like punctuation. 

“No, you don’t,” you say, without a shred of doubt, tightening your grip on her hips, keeping her exactly where you want her.

Before giving her another chance at a comeback, you dive back in, a lot less reserved this time, planting a slow kiss against her folds.

“No,” she agrees, her nails scraping against your scalp as they curl in your hair, tugging your closer. “I really, really don’t.”

Your tongue responded instinctively to her admission, flattening against her slick folds, slow strokes highlighting every sensitive treasure spot like it's your first time discovering her.

Giselle is intoxicating. A drug that dissolves on your tongue, a spell too sweet to break, a firework that you can’t tear your eyes away from. Her sweaty scent fogs up your head, her taste coating your tongue and lingering there, her hands clutching at you tighter in response to every filthy thing you do to her. Every sound, every twitch, every one of your senses—overwhelmed. She’s got you, and fuck, you’re letting her have you too.

You should be used to her by now. Built up some kind of immunity. But when you sink two fingers inside her dripping cunt, feel her slick against your knuckles, curling up against that perfect spot, and she moans your name—loud, like never before, unmuffled and unrestrained—it's the only sound that makes sense to you anymore.

You freeze.

It’s not hesitation—it’s pure awe.

Her voice is still dancing in your ears, unfiltered and full of affection, louder than either of you had ever allowed before. So used to stifling it with your hands or less savory appendages, but now basking in its unadulterated echoes. And fuck, it’s beautiful.

“Why’d you stop?” Giselle demands, as though you just committed a cardinal sin. You might as well have. Her fingers tangling into your hair, unrelenting, not yanking or guiding—staking her claim on you.

You blink, and you take it all in. Her cheeks, rosy from the blush. Her lips, peach colored and smeared from kissing your cock. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflect the only thing she wants—you. Everything about her is so fucking beautiful it makes you sick.

“I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate the sounds you’re making.” You murmur, and smirk at the edge of your lips, much to her annoyance.

Her breath halts. Her gaze drops, and then— a scoff. That signature scoff of hers, the one she throws out so nonchalantly when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected. She clearly is.

“Then you better start working that tongue again before I go mute,” she quips, but the rolling of her hips betrays her. It’s rhythmic, it’s needy, and it’s honest.

With a raised, cocky eyebrow. “Right, that’s why you’re still moving your hips like you’re begging for me to fuck my fingers deeper into you.”

Giselle doesn’t hesitate. She barely ever does. “I don’t beg.”

She’s a wonderful girlfriend, but a terrible liar.

“You do when I make you.”

And right when she’s about to throw something back—something sharp, something clever, something quintessentially Giselle—

Your tongue is on her again. Slow, hooking under her swollen clit, flicking up, before your lips seal around her.

It was that easy. The oncoming verbal onslaught? Gone. The battle of wits? Over.

She gasps—the sound ripping out of her like she wasn’t prepared for it. Her back arches off of the bed, forming a bridge to some goddamn nirvana.

She always has something to say. Something that dares you to keep up. But throughout it all, you love her voice the most when she has nothing at all—when the only thing she can say is your fucking name.

And so you drag it out of her, because fuck, you need to hear that again.

Your fingers fuck into her harder, curling just right, twisting, spreading, relentless. But your tongue? Slow. Cruel. Featherlight flicks. Teasing. Deliberate. The contradiction drives her insane. She chokes on a sound—somewhere between a moan and what she’d never admit is begging—and the way it breaks halfway through makes your cock ache.

“Don’t—” she heaves, pitch rising as she confuses how to beg with how to demand.

She swallows. Tries again.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

There’s no way you could. Not even when she starts babbling—half words, half nonsense, another half your name, and all desperate for release. Not even when her thighs are quaking, trembling into the side of your head. Not even when her hands have abandoned your hair in favor of gripping the bed sheets, pulling like she means to tear, when her whole body arches off the bed as if trying to ascend towards the pleasure as she chases it.

You feel it.

She’s so fucking close.

It’s in the way she trembles like her legs will give out and the way her thighs clamp tight around your head. Her whole body claiming you in a desperate display of want.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—” Her voice is all throaty, breathless desperation. "Don't stop. Don’t fucking stop—”

Your fingers drive into her harder, curling inside before pulling back out—”come on, baby, fall for me”—while your tongue twists around her clit, making her spiral out of control.

And she can’t help jerking her hips in response, riding against your face, mindless. She needs it, and she’ll have you give it to her.

“God, you—fuck, you love this, don’t you?” she gasps, desperate laughs, almost delirious, rolling her hips down faster and harder, grinding into your tongue. “Love me—love making me lose my fucking mind on your mouth—”

Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do.

“Look at you.” She’s throbbing at this point, panting rapidly, helpless, but somehow mustering a sharp-edged bite through her heavy-lidded stare. “So fucking desperate to make me cum. You like when I scream for you, huh?”

You groan into her flesh, your response vibrating against her clit, and her volume increases, if that was even possible.

“you—oh fuck—you’re so good—so fucking good— fuck, please—please—”

She’s begging now. Even she couldn’t deny it anymore.

“Say it,” you taunt, breaking away just long enough to look up at her and make her desperate, lips drenched in her. “Tell me how bad you need it, baby.”

“I—I can’t—”

You deliver a sharp, fast stroke with your tongue, lethal precision, just to make her sob.

“Say it.”

“Fuck, I need it—need you, need your tongue, your fucking fingers…I need to cum on your fucking face—”

You bring her over the edge. A heartbeat passes. And then she shatters.

A moan? No, a cry, pours out from deep inside her, high and sharp, louder than anyone has ever screamed on actual Splash Mountain. The walls shake with it. Her hands, aimless, uncontrollable, claw at anything they’re given. Your hair, her own skin, her bedsheets—your bedsheets actually, but we’ve been over this—while her body locks up tight, shakes, then crashes down in wave after wave after fucking wave of pleasure.

And through all of the filthy fucking obscenities she’s belting out—your name.

Fucking screamed.

It travels through you like new life, straight to your cock, straight to the part of your brain that wants to fuck it out of her again.

You don’t stop. You should, but you can’t. Keep attacking her, keep pushing her through it, keep drinking her in like she’s your life support.

She twitches, tries to close her legs—too sensitive, too overwhelmed—but you grip her thighs, keep them spread, keep going, keep her yours. Keep her here.

Until she lifts your head with trembling hands.

“Too much,” she exhales, exhausted, wrecked.

You look up at her, her face half hidden under the mounds of her tits, but clear as day. She’s ruined.

Flushed from chest to cheeks, skin sparkling with sweat against the sun dripping in from the window, lips parted, swollen from biting down. Panting. Her hair’s a beautiful mess, fanned on your pillow and tangled across it, pupils blown up with pleasure.

She looks like an angel.

Like she should have a halo, but you’re just too much of a sinner to see it.

But then—she opens her eyes, lazy, dark, and dangerous, and—

Yeah. No. No halo. She’s just as much a sinner as you.

She commands you with such a soft, saccharine sound, you’ve already agreed before hearing the demands. “You’re not allowed to ever do that to anyone else.”

“As long as I have you, that can be arranged,” you smile back.

She collapses. 

The bed creaks beneath her weight, and you can feel the way her whole body unwinds in your hands, still rooted firmly just above her hips. For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of her breathing, getting slower and deeper, full of delicious content.

Giselle pushes her elbows underneath her, pushing her upwards. She hums a slow, peachy sound, as she works through her failing legs. And then, just as lazily, just as hungry—

She pushes you onto your back.

It’s not forceful. It doesn’t have to be.

You let her.

You go willingly.

And the second you hit the bed, she’s hanging over you.

She tilts her head, watching you like she’s debating her next step. Her face inches closer to your cock, her lips purse and then—

She kisses your hip bone instead.

Your breath catches. Another kiss, this time lower, but not yet where you’d die for it.

You resist the urge to buck your hips into her face. Barely, but you manage.

“You know,” she muses so sultry, tracing circles against your thighs with her thumbs. “I think I love you the most when you let me take what I want.”

Crawling over you, straddling your hips, pressing her nude, still-trembling body flush against your own. And fuck, you feel it—your heat against her heat, wetness dripping against your stomach, every inch of her soaked and sensitive and ready to devour.

But she doesn’t sink down onto you. Not yet.

Because she’s got plans for you. You made her beg, and she always returns the favor.

She whispers in your ear. “You’re shaking baby,” and you were so confident you had it under control. “You want it that bad?”

Her lips collide against yours, tongue invading your mouth, like she was hungry for a taste. Hers is like peach, and yours is like her.

When she pulls back, her smirk is heavy-lidded, predatory, wicked. A mixture of spit and her cum connects you two, growing heavy, splitting and falling on your bodies.

“My turn.”

Her hand wraps around the base of your cock. Her grip is firm, teasing, all smug satisfaction.

“You can hold out until I get to taste you, right?” She purrs, her voice dripping with playfulness.

You exhale, your eyes meeting her in a determined gaze, dragging your fingers slowly over the curvature of her hips. “You tell me.”

She hums a questioning tune, unimpressed. She takes her time to get her hand moving, stroking deliberate, unbearably slow, luring you out.

Your breath catches for a frame, and—fuck—you know she caught it.

Her lips curl. Smugness oozing off of her. “Right, I thought so.”

She leans in closer, nibbling softly on your ear, moving down, pressing a slow kiss to your throat that lingers. Then another. Working her way down, her free hand following suit over your stomach, fingers splayed and nails grazing your skin like she’s got all the time in the world to make you squirm.

You know exactly where this is going.

And so does she.

“Giselle.” Your voice is low, buckling.

She smiles against your skin, her teeth grazing your flesh, contemplating a bite. “Yes?”

You narrow your eyes, but she just blinks up at you, a quick flutter of those enchanting eyes, all innocence, like she isn’t also stroking you with a lazy, practiced, perfectly tuned in to you rhythm. Like she isn’t sinking lower and lower into depravity—right where you want her—with every passing second.

She has this glint in her eye. You know it all too well by now, she wants to be teased back, to have you push her buttons. Wants you to get impatient enough to forget how much you love her just enough to handle her a little rougher.

And you do. You let your fingers slip into her vibrantly colored hair, slow, dragging through the strands before coming together with just the slightest bit of force at the roots.

She exhales. Or rather, she pretends it’s just her exhaling.

With a soft, tiny little shudder that you most definitely felt, coupled with a moan she couldn’t help but keep in, your lips curl. “Oh?”

Giselle stops. Her fingers, mind you, still against and around your cock, her face perfectly blank, like you didn’t just catch her falling for you.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widens. “I think you just—”

She glares, her grip tightening in retaliation.

And just to shut you up, she ducks her head, dragging her tongue slow and warm from base to shaft to head of your cock, marking her territory with a line from base to tip.

All of your breath and sound tumbles out of you.

Giselle hums, smugness regained, lips glazing against the tip of your cock as she murmurs, “That’s cute.”

She wanted a little rougher out of you anyways, and you’d indulge, fingers flexing in her hair. Then—slowly, deliberately—you strengthen your grip, not enough to really hurt, but enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet your hungry gaze.

She gasps, and then her breath catches. Big eyes, asking you what you’ll do next.

You lean in, voice dripping low and quiet. “You love being my good girl, don’t you?”

And the way she shivers? Fuck.

Her lips part, her thighs squeezing together tight, but she’s too stubborn to say it outright. She won’t let up yet. Instead, she presses closer, hanging her tongue out of her mouth as she presses it against the back of your cock, breath warm and teasing, spit drops dripping down to your balls, one by one.

Your jaw clenches, as does your fist, keeping her in place.

She’s dragging this out on purpose.

You give her a quick yank back, and then push her back against your cock, and you mutter, “You know what I want, baby. Give it to me.”

Her eyes flicker. Sparkle, even.

She swallows, licks her lips, wetting them, and finally speaks softly. Her tone insinuates she already knows what your answer will be.

“Make me.”

And fuck—who could resist pushing her forward? Her mouth enveloping the head of your cock, her tongue swirling around and lapping against you. Her hand pressing down firmly against the base of your cock, and vibrations of her soft moans jolting through your dick.

She seems extra hungry today, leaning into her gagging and groaning, reveling in your fierceness, and right as you were about to test her limits even further—

The sound of metal rapidly vibrating against wood. Your phone on your nightstand. You roll your eyes, but Giselle gives you this look that you’d learned to intuit meant “It could be important?” You don’t let up on Giselle’s throat breaking previously set records, but you take a peek anyways.

It’s your aunt. She’s probably just checking up on you, something not important—not as important as fucking Giselle’s face— so you resolve you’ll call her back.

You put your phone back on your nightstand, and you heard it ring, again. 

Weird.

-

You haven’t cried yet since the news.

Giselle has barely stopped.

It’s morning—you think, it might also be noon, it’s all a blur—but the light creeping into your room unwanted through the window feels wrong. It’s too bright. Too harsh. Like it should’ve dimmed out of respect.

Your phone still lies on your nightstand where you put it yesterday, face down. Turning it over would mean seeing the missed calls, seeing the texts piling up. You can’t touch it. Just keep staring at it like that might change what’s already happened. Like that might stop the jumbled mess of words your brain can still remember, in your aunt’s voice looping over and over in your head, buried in sorrow, barely making sense through the sobs. “A drunk driver—”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“All—All passed away.”

And a thought you know you shouldn’t have creeps its way in with the others.

“Stay home from the trip, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You resent her for it, if only for a split second. You can’t think like that. But if she didn’t say that, you might have prevented this somehow. Or not have to feel this pain, being with them. Another split second. 

No. 

Stop.

Where is Giselle anyways? You turn around, and her warmth is missing. She’s not lying next to you. You close your eyes. Try to suppress the thoughts. It doesn’t help.

There’s footsteps outside your door. Slow, hesitant. Followed by a knock, barely more than a tap.

“Are you awake?”

Giselle. Thank God.

You want to answer, but the lump in your throat stops you. She pushes the door open anyway. She’s a fucking mess. Bloodshot eyes with bags to accompany them, and her hair done in a messy bun, loosely pulled together. She’s wearing one of your hoodies—too big for her, sleeves dark from moisture. She looks over at you, your eyes meet, they linger for a moment, and then drop solemnly.

“I made you something to eat,” she says. It sounds hoarse and strained.

You don’t respond. You wish you could.

She’s hesitating before stepping in. Like it would mean stepping into your grief too, and she isn’t sure if you’ll let her.

But she wants to.

She approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, turning towards you and shuffling the plate your direction. Toast and eggs. It smells like food. The smell of food doesn’t smell like something you can shove down your throat right now.

“You should eat,” she tries.

You bit down on the inside of your cheeks. Stare at the plate like it’s an endless tunnel.

Her eyes can’t seem to find yours, seeking the solace of the window instead. She sniffs once, catches herself, and rubs the tip of her nose with the sleeve of your hoodie before exhaling and speaking. “Just a little, okay? Just—just a bite.”

You take the plate, not out of hunger. It’s just the least you owed her after resenting her for a split second. You break off a piece of the toast and chew. It doesn’t even taste like food, and it’s not her fault. You force yourself to swallow anyways.

She’s trying. For you.

And you hate it.

The plate in your hands is too heavy. You put it away on the nightstand, pulling your knees up to your chest and locking them in place with crossed arms. Your lips tremble against your arm, speaking into your skin. The sound is wrecked and exhausted. Fragile, like—fuck, like what? Like life? “You don’t have to be here.”

Her eyes snap to yours, wide and wet.

“Don’t,” she ekes out, her voice breaking on the first vowel. Her lips press together tightly, trembling as they seal away her words. They part slightly as she shakes her head.“Please don’t do that to me.” She sounds raw. Small. Scared of whatever you might reply with it, if you even say anything. Like she thinks she might not survive this conversation.

Maybe you won’t either.

You drag in a breath, but it’s hard. Like the air itself can feel that you don’t really want it there. Like two metal plates pushing together inside your throat, forcing everything out when it needs to go in. Your body fighting against what you’re trying to make it do, like you suddenly got rewired and need to relearn how to breathe, and it’s so fucking frustrating how even breathing requires thinking right now.

Your arms uncross, elbows against knees and hands rubbing into your face. Press the heel of your palm against your eyes until all you see is static, bursts of color mixed with black, a flickering distraction behind your lids. But it doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t shake it loose, doesn’t take away the building pressure you can feel behind your eyes.

Your family is dead.

And you’re still here.

You should say something

That you didn’t mean it. That you’re just—tired, or lost, or whatever the fuck this feeling is that’s twisting your stomach, making everything taste like nothing and the air feel impossible to muscle down. But the words don’t come, and Giselle is still looking at you like you just asked her to push a knife you held to your chest deeper to finish the job.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her hoodie—your hoodie, but who fucking cares at this point? You remember her saying she loved it, months ago, attributing it to how it smelled like you.

Now it probably just smells like salt.

“I wasn’t with them.”

Giselle stiffens.

The weight of what you just let out settles between you both. It’s thick, suffocating, harsh and pressing down on your ribs.

It’s impossible to look at her now.

There’s a breath. Not yours. It’s shaky, coming in three tiny bursts of being pulled into her lungs.

A small pause. Then: “No,” she whispers. “You weren’t.”

And it’s not comforting. You both know that. It's not meant to be.

Your family is dead.

You are alive.

Nothing can change that. Nothing can fix it. And maybe worst of all—you need someone to blame. Anybody to take it out on. It can’t even be that piece of shit drunk driver, he had the sense to take himself out with everyone else.

And you realise you owe your life to Giselle.

“If only you didn’t ask me to stay,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you figure out how to stop yourself, “I could have been with them.”

You’re not accusing her.

Not really.

But it still lands like one.

You don’t know how to take the words back, how to unmake the weight they carry, how to make it so you didn’t open your fucking mouth and let them spill out like venom.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. You should have been with them. If you’d just gone on the trip like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t have to feel this. You wouldn’t have to be here.

You wouldn’t have to be.

And once more, for a split second, for a horrible, fleeting split second, you resent her for it.

Because she asked you to stay.

Because she made you stay.

Because if it weren’t for Giselle, you wouldn’t be in this fucking bed, in this fucking house full of memories, swallowing down a piece of fucking toast that tastes like nothing, thinking about how to fucking breathe, while your whole fucking family—

You found someone to blame. And you hate yourself for it.

The thought is barely even there before you shove it down, bury it so deep inside yourself it might as well have never existed, as though if you push hard enough, you can convince yourself you never thought it at all.

But it’s too late.

Giselle sees it. And she’s looking at you like you just drove a jagged knife into her ribs. And maybe you fucking did. And she’d even let you.

She’s having trouble swallowing it all down, her lips parting, and for a second, you think she’s going to say something—but she doesn’t.

Because she doesn’t see you as wrong. She sees you as right. If only she didn’t ask you.

“It’s my fault.”

You can’t help but physically, viscerally recoil from the words.

No.

That’s not true. That’s not what you think, this isn’t that. That’s not what you meant. That’s not—

“If I just hadn’t—” But it’s interrupted by a sharp inhale, like there’s not enough air in the room to speak the words. Her eyes squeeze shut, maybe so she can’t cry, or so she doesn’t need to look at you, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s squeezing down. “If I just didn’t say anything, maybe they wouldn’t have left when they did. Maybe they wouldn’t have been on that road, at that time, in that moment—”

Her breath hitches again. Her hands unclench briefly, only to grasp at her face, fingers pressing down into her skin around her eyes, shaking.

You feel like throwing up. 

Because you’re not the only one with a brain that won’t shut up. With thoughts that won’t stop forming, poisoning, curling inside your skull like parasites burrowing into every action you take, every thought you think.

And for the first time since waking up, you turn to look at her.

Really look at her.

She’s a wreck.

Her face is swollen, but her eyes have it worse. They’re puffy, red-rimmed and drained. Her nose is pink, not from the way she likes to do her makeup, but from rubbing it too much with her sleeves, turning it raw, and her lips have bite marks from where she’s been biting down when she wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.

Giselle never looks like this.

She always carries herself with this effortless sort of self-possession, even when she’s being an absolute menace. But right now?

Right now, she looks like she’s barely staying afloat herself.

“Giselle—”

“I took you away from them.”

Her voice cracks.

You whip your head up so fast your vision starts to swim, like gravity itself is pulling you to the same place you’re trying to hide that wretched thought of yours, and fuck, she’s crying again. And she can’t look at you. Won’t meet your eyes. “You resent me.”

You knew she saw it. You knew she fucking felt it, even in that fucking split second before you buried it, before you even had the time to feel ashamed of yourself, that hate yourself, not her.

But hearing her say it out loud is worse.

“You should hate me,” you mutter.

Her eyes open slightly, and her gaze lands somewhere near you. Not ready yet for landing on you. “What?”

You inhale, sharp and shaky, then exhale just as fast, voice low and wrecked.

“You saved my life.”

You think you meant them, but they feel so, so wrong, because nothing about this feels like being saved. Nothing about this feels like anything but a burning car wreckage and shattered glass from every window it broke and the goddamn sound of your aunt’s voice on repeat, over and over, like a twisted song stuck in your head, one which your brain is desperately trying to make you forget the lyrics to.

And Giselle, she just—

She breaks.

Not like the way she’s been breaking since yesterday, tiny fractures, cracks forming, desperate moments but still holding on.

This time, it’s worse.

She makes this sound—this horrible sound—choked, gasping, sobbing like she wasn’t expecting her body to give in, like she’s hurting worse than what she’d thought was possible, like there was still more grief to pull from her that she was sure she locked away, and collapsing into herself, fingernails digging into her skin and you’re not sure if it’s to hurt herself or hold herself close, like she just needs to hold or be held right now before she breaks.

“I wanted you to stay.”

The admission rips out her, raw and violent and sobbing and so full of guilt it makes your heart feel like it turned to ash.

“I wanted you to stay and I’m sorry and you—” Another sob cuts through it all, her sleeve wiping across her face like she could take the feelings with it as well, the noise of her tears and shattering voice being muffled. But you still hear it, still feel it, and hate it, the way it destroys her.

And then, softer.

“I don’t know how I’d survive if you were in that car as well.”

The confession is small. It’s shaky. It’s honest.

“I think about it every second,” she rambles on, there’s no stopping the confession. “If I just had shut my fucking mouth, you could’ve done something, or been there, or at least not have felt like this.”

Her knuckles whiten from straining them too hard, disgust seeping in her voice as she speaks next. “But I’m glad I didn’t. Do you understand what that says about me? It means I can’t even tell if I’m allowed to be grateful that you’re here, because if I am, does that mean I’m glad your family is dead?”

She’s furious with herself, nails tearing at her own skin as if she wants to rid herself of it all, head shaking furiously. “That just makes me a fucking monster.”

And fuck, it’s suddenly so much worse than the weight of her earlier words, worse than it’s my fault, worse than you resent me, worse than the feeling of your own guilt pressing down on your ribs, because Giselle is—

She’s glad you’re here.

She’s glad you lived.

And she hates herself for it.

And you want to tell her—you really fucking do, if only the words would come out—you want to tell her it’s okay.

Or, that it’s not okay, but that she is. That she shouldn’t have to feel like that, that she doesn’t deserve it, that she has no reason or need to carry, she doesn’t have to bear this kind of weight, she didn’t do anything wrong, that she couldn’t have done anything, it’s not her fault, that she’s allowed to be relieved that she still has you because fuck, you’re relieved you still have her too, and it’s fucking selfish and ugly and it makes your stomach churn but you just can’t afford to lose her too, you can’t, you can’t, you fucking can’t—

But you don’t have the energy.

You wish you did. You don’t.

And it just adds another layer of self-loathing.

Because Giselle is falling apart, and you can’t do anything about it.

So you just sit there, motionless, watching her break, breaking with her.

Her sobs keep coming, louder and wrecked by the minute in this quiet room, and they won’t stop, like she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like if you did leave, like she’s trying to fill the space around you with something less suffocating, but it’s still there, under everything, pressing it’s full weight on you.

It makes your whole body feel heavy.

Like it would take too much effort to move. So you don’t.

You just let her cry.

And eventually, eventually, her breath evens out—just slightly, still ragged, still trembling, still fucking unbearable to listen to, but at least she’s not gasping for it anymore.

She sniffles, rubs the sleeve of your hoodie over her face again, sniffs again.

“I’m sorry.”

Like something just punched your heart.

“No,” you rasp, air you didn’t have being forced out. “Don’t be.”

Her hands disappear into her sleeves, clutching the fabric around her hands, her shoulders curl inward like she wants to sink as deep as possible as she can into your hoodie. Her hoodie? She considers it your hoodie. Makes it more special.

She moves. It’s sudden, but careful.

It’s slow and it’s hesitant. Shifting closer over the bed, closing the distance between you two. It’s careful, like she’s testing if it’s okay with you with every inch. As if she’s half-convinced you’ll push her away. It’s silly. You don’t.

It’s all filled with uncertainty. As if the routines and rituals you’ve built up have all vanished. Hesitating before making her way under the covers. Her arms making first contact and her whole body curling up behind them, trying to make herself small enough to fit against you without you noticing, like she’s trying to just be with you even if you can’t take it right now. Because she needs it, and she hopes you do too. Like she’s still afraid she’s not allowed to belong here.

And her face presses against your chest, somewhere you think your heart should be, her arms wrapping around your body, her breath hot and finally some capacity of steady brushing against your skin.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

She just holds on.

And you let her. Your arms wrap around her.

Your eyes slip shut, and for a second, you just breathe her in.

But then you hear it.

A voice.

Not Giselle’s.

Not yours either.

His.

“You sure you won’t get too distracted if she stays over?”

Your whole body tenses.

Giselle stiffens slightly against you, feeling it.

Dad.

It’s a fucking disaster, and if you weren’t so desperate to hear his voice, you’d force this memory away in a heartbeat.

You were standing in the driveway as your parents were already packing everything for their trip. Your brother was already burning through his Switch battery on the backseat, letting the world move around him, and your mom was inside packing everything she was sure your dad was forgetting.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, champ,” he’d said, clapping his giant hand on your shoulder with that booming voice of his barely avoiding leaving a ringing sound in your ears. ”Just make sure to actually get some studying done. If you fail your tests, you’re not even getting an invitation for the next family trip.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Smirked at him, full of confidence. “When have you ever known me to fail?”

His laugh had been loud, warm.

“Don’t act all too confident, we all know Giselle takes care of you.”

And then he’d grinned.

“But for what it’s worth?”

A pause.

A squeeze of your shoulder.

“I feel better knowing you’ll have her.”

You inhale, but it’s the kind that preludes tears.

Giselle presses closer.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours—

Your eyes burn.

-

You can’t tell how long it’s been since Giselle crawled into your arms.

If you were asked, you might even say it’s been forever.

There’s only her, warm and small, slotted in your arms, curled up against you and unrelenting in her grip, like she’s afraid you might cease to be if she lets go. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you would. Maybe she’s the only thing keeping you here, really here, and not slipping into some void you fear you might never escape from.

So your arms tighten around her. It’s instinct more than anything. It’s just, her body is so familiar, should be so comfortably familiar—but this time is different.

You’ve pulled her close a thousand times before. Grabbed her by her waist when she got all huffy and puffy, pinned her against a well or closed door or anything she’d let you, tugged her onto your lap, mouth on her neck, her laugh energizing you and spurring you on. It’s always been a pull with her, a want, a need.

This time, it’s a quiet, desperate hold.

And just like her, you grip tighter, arms holding her as close as space allows, so that you can’t loosen your grip even a little, lest she slip through your arms just like everything else.

She begins to inhale, preparing for something, breaking the quiet trance you’ve been slumbering in. Her warm breath burns against your collarbone.

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Your eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

Her body twists, nudging into you, softer, her grip loosening but not letting any space form through it. “Don’t be. I thought—” The words start spilling out, her eyes pointed upwards searching solace in your face before she regathers herself and tries again. “I really thought you were going to push me away.”

Hearing her voice those concerns makes the pit of your stomach turn upside down. “I need you. I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she exhales, hesitation making the air come out in stutters. There’s not a lot of her signature confidence present, as if she’s scared that saying it out loud would jinx it. “But you—you barely even looked at me. And I—I Didn’t know. I didn’t know if you wanted me—wanted me here or if you just—” she shakes her against you feverishly. “I didn’t know.”

You can’t blame her. You haven’t been sure what you want yourself.

You did pull away. Told her she shouldn’t be here. What the fuck was that even about?

It wasn’t because you didn’t want her here. Not because you don’t need her.

It’s the fucking weight of all of this—the sheer, unbearable fucking weight of existing in a world without them—felt like it would be easier to carry alone. Or easier to escape if you were alone.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. You press your lips to the top of her head.

“I love you,” you murmur.

She doesn’t respond, pausing. She probably doesn’t know what you want from her, again.

“I know you know that. But I need you to hear it. So you know.” Your hand presses onto the small of her back, and she gives in. It’s not rough, not hard, not tight, but just enough that she knows you mean it. “I love you. You’re the only one I have left that I can say that too.I can’t bear the fucking thought of losing you too.”

Her shoulders tremble and she pushes her away from your chest, just enough to be able to look in your eyes. “You won’t.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her.

But you thought your parents were permanent, too. Or at least more permanent than this? Thought your little brother would be stealing your shit until you left the house, and then some. Thought there would always be another Christmas, another birthday, another vacation, another tomorrow.

Your fingers rest on the back of her head, pulling her closer back against her chest, against your heartbeat.

“I didn’t tell them I loved them.”

She stills, like a toy that ran out of batteries.

“My dad said it before they left. I didn’t say it back. Felt too embarrassed or something. I just shrugged it off and said I’ll see them later.”

Giselle doesn’t just move—she reaches for you.

Her hands don’t hesitate anymore. One finds your wrist, fingers curling around it gently, as if chaining the two of you together. The other wraps around you, presses against your back, firm, solid, unrelenting.

Her words are hoarse, muffled, being spoken directly into your chest. “They knew.”

You fall back into not responding. You want to believe they knew.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Because later didn’t happen, and later was taking for granted, but it was a fucking lie.

Because some drunk asshole that couldn’t even have the decency to just hit a tree and only punish himself for what he did stole ‘later’ from you.

And now? Your last words to your family weren’t love, weren’t warmth, weren’t anything that mattered.

Just a brush-off. Just something to replace the words you felt too cool to say.

Giselle shudders against, feels the twitch in your muscles as your thoughts go dark and darker. The warmth of her breath is arrhythmic, and you realize she’s crying for you.

Like she’s crawling underneath your shoulders, cracking, holding the weight with you, carrying it when you can’t. And it’s too much, even for her.

Her hands clutch desperately at you, twisting your shirt. “You have to know they knew,” she says, voice cracking every few words. “You have to know that.”

It’s still hard to respond, but she squeezes you tighter anyway. Like she’s forcing it into you.

For a moment, the room is nothing but shallow breaths and the same hum you hear every day of the world moving on outside these walls. It’s sickening.

Then, her voice, breaking the sounds:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It takes a second to process the question.

Absolutely not. Your arms flex just at the thought of it.

“Like—” She wipes her nose after another sniff, sucks in a trembling breath. “Right now. When you think of them. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Your mind stutters. Because how the fuck are you even supposed to pick one thing when a thousand are racing through the tunnels of your brain? How are you supposed to take an entire lifetime of support, annoyance, respect, frustration, love and compress it into a single moment?

Can you even answer that question?

“He laughed,” you mumble, voice rough like new tires.

Giselle listens. It’s all she does.

“When I asked if you could stay over while they were gone,” you continue, the words seemingly coming out on their own, eyes pointed upwards, the ceiling being the only thing you can stand to look at. “Said he knew I wasn’t actually gonna study. But he’d still feel better knowing you were taking care of me.”

The next sound Giselle let out surely was something new to her—soft, wet. It starts as a laugh from something unexpected, but not because something was funny, because it quickly gets overtaken by a sob.

It’s comforting. It might begin to feel like she really is taking on some of that weight. “He always did that—acted like he was onto me, like he had me all figured out. Said he was much the same when he was my age. Used to say he could read me like a book, cus he wrote the damn thing.” You swallow, not sure if it was even okay to say the next part out loud. “I used to think it was fucking annoying.”

She chuckles this time, and it’s not interrupted with a sob. That sound is a lot more comforting. It’s quiet, it’s breathy, and it’s pulling you back.

You’re shaking, but you wouldn’t have caught it if it wasn’t for Giselle holding onto you as though to hold you in place.

“I think you’re right,” you blow out the air through your nose. “They knew.”

Her fingers run over your back. “Yeah,” she whispers. “They did.”

This wasn’t enough to hold back the pain—not yet. But maybe someday it might become enough.

Giselle fits so perfectly into you, and you shift to allow her more room, for your faces to lay closer. She melts into it.

For the first time since waking up, the air doesn’t struggle to leave or enter your body. Your limbs don’t feel heavy with sorrow. Your brain doesn’t feel like drowning.

Floating.

Stagnant, but being held, and holding on.

Giselle’s body shifts, or twitches? You’re not sure. It feels like she’s about to move, is all. You don’t let her. Not yet.

“Just a little longer,” you murmur.

She shakes her head, forehead rubbing against your chest.

It’s absurd, makes you pull back, struggling to process. 

“No,” she says, firmer now. “Not just a little longer.”

She nudges her forehead into your chest, the way she’s done a thousand times before when you’ve said something that got on her nerves. “I’m not leaving. You don’t get to lose me. Ever.”

She snuggles into you, and she stays.

-

You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep long enough for the sun to hide, Giselle still close. Like she promised.

“Are you up?”

Your eyes peel open slowly. “Mhm.”

“We should go eat.” She says sleepily as her muscles push awake.

You don’t answer this one.

Giselle exhales through her nose, and it’s not the first time she’s said it today. Knowing her, it won’t be the last if you don’t agree. She shifts her weight onto her elbow, tilts her head up at you with pleading brows, and looks at you properly. like she’s measuring whether or not you can handle whatever she’s about to say.

She doesn’t waver though.  “We should go downstairs.”

Downstairs. You haven’t left your room yet, since. It’s fucking terrifying, as if stepping outside would only solidify what you already know. Like if stepping outside will make everything collapse. Like you’ll have to face the fact that nothing is waiting for you outside of it except a house full of ghosts.

Giselle must see the way your expression changes. She always has this sharp read on you. Her voice softens. “I know.” She exhales a heavy breath. “But we still have to go.”

We.

Not you.

We.

She stands before you can think of a way to ask her not to. Walks to the door before you can tell her no. Turns the knob and pulls it open, just enough for the familiar orange light to creep its unwelcome way inside. She pauses, waiting.

You really don’t want to go.

But she’s waiting.

And this—this is Giselle. She doesn’t ask for much. It’s for you.

So you move.

The door groans on it hinges like it’s screaming at you that you’re making a mistake. Stupid fucking door.

The hallways are colder than you remember. Colder than it has any right to be. Or maybe you’ve just gotten used to the heat of Giselle pressed against you. Or maybe it’s both.

She’s right behind you. Of course she is. Close enough that you feel her presence like a torch protecting you from the biting winds of winter. You take a step forward, then another, down the stairs that feel too long, too steeped in memory.

The house doesn’t smell like home.

Your feet hit the ground floor, and for a second, you hesitate.

Giselle doesn’t.

She’s right behind you, her fingertips ghosting your back, barely touching, barely there, letting you know she’s there. She’s here, and she’s not trying to push. And that’s enough. So you can keep moving.

The kitchen is dark.

You hesitate before flicking the switch. If you just keep the lights off, you might evade some of the memories. You flick it nonetheless, and the light is too sharp. Too bright. You glance at the fridge, at the magnets holding up old notes and things you can’t bear to take a second look at.

So you don’t.

Giselle steps around you, reaching for a glass. The sound of the cabinet opening, the slight clink of the glass on the counter, the rapid rush of water from the tap—It’s too loud.

“You should drink something,” she says, gentle, full of care, but firm, like she won’t take no for an answer.

You nod once, just to show you’re listening. She watches as you take the glass, lift it to your lips and drink. She nods back, approving, a soft curl in her lips for making progress.

She searches the fridge, the light beaming from inside, before her voice rebounds out from it. “Is there anything you want to eat?”

The answer is nothing, so you tell her exactly that.

She obviously doesn’t accept that. “Come on, just—something easy.”

Your shoulders slump before you answer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t care.”

“I know.” She continues rummaging. “But we have to eat something, right? We can’t just…not.”

So do you, you want to say. Giselle wouldn’t let you turn this around on her though. She never does.

She pulls out something. A leftover container of soup from the fridge—something your mom must have made. Something that feels too good to eat right now. But it won’t stay fresh forever. So might as well still enjoy it while you can. Giselle throws you a half smile upon seeing your reaction to the soup, dumps it into a pot, turning on the stove and heating it up for the both of you.

The smell of it is more than food. It smells like home. Or it used to? It’s all too confusing.

Giselle turns around and leans against the counter, her arms supporting her against it. Waiting for the soup to be ready, before snapping you both back to reality. “The wake is in three days.”

You give her a puzzled look, like you can’t understand how she knows that. You knew it had to happen at some point, but—

“Your aunt came by earlier this morning, when you were still sleeping. She told me to tell you. It’ll take place here.” she explains further, not letting you stew in it.

You haven’t thought about it yet. Not about the wake itself, Not about what it implies. How you’re supposed to stand there all day while people pile on, saying things that won’t matter and offer condolences you don’t want, and then—what?

Bury them?

That’s too much.

Giselle is quiet. She lets the silence go unpunished, the only sound present being the faint bubbling of the soup. And then she moves, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet, keeping her hands busy, keeping herself busy.

And you eat. And you swallow. And you try not to think about how this is the last time you’ll ever taste this soup again.

-

The house is full.

Not full of ghosts, or stale air or a silence you just can’t seem to break through no matter how hard you try. No. 

This is different.

It’s wrong, worse.

There’s too many people, all clad in black, superseding silence with their low murmurs and occasional pitiful glances at you when they think you’re not looking. There’s too many of them. Faces you recognize, but can’t quite place, it’s all too hazy. People that knew your family, come to console themselves by letting you know they feel bad for you. None of them can imagine what you’re feeling anyways. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And thank fuck, so is Giselle.

She’s hovering around you. Always close. Not yet touching, not yet saying anything. Just—watching. Monitoring. Worried.

You can’t blame her, she should be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Fuck. If the first time already makes you feel like you want to run, you might as well give up now.

It’s your father’s coworker. You recognize him now. You met him at a barbecue your dad hosted last year, the one where he burned some burgers but kept insisting they were fine, eating them himself. Your mom called him an overgrown child, and your brother almost vomited when he tried eating on himself.

That was only a year ago.

And now—

Now a remnant of that time is standing in front of you, alive and breathing and saying the same meaningless sentence you’re bound to hear a hundred times today.

His hand lands on your shoulder. Grasps it. Too firm. Too much.

He keeps talking, something about ever needing something, but you wouldn’t rely on your dad’s coworker for anything anyway.

And Giselle?

She moves.

Not a lot, mind you. Just a little. Shifting her weight towards you, the slightest brush of her sleeve against your arm, like she’s testing something. 

You nod at him. That’s all you can do.

You take a breather. Regain your composure.

Another.

“They were such wonderful people.”

One of your mom’s friends this time. She looks different. Maybe she just looks older. Maybe she’s been crying. Maybe you should care.

Her hands reach for yours, and you almost—almost—pull away.

You really don’t want them touching you like you’re some beacon of grief.

None of them should be touching you.

But you let her fingers wrap around yours, let her squeeze, let her eyes soften like she can even come close to understanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

Your jaw locks. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, feel the skin break, the sharp sting of it preventing the cracks showing on the outside.

And Giselle moves again.

Another shift, another breath that sounds like it might be the start of a sentence, but—nothing. Just some warmth.

She’s hesitating.

She must be doubting if she should step in or not.

You haven’t been exactly clear on whether or not you want her to.

Because you don’t know.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

How fucked up is that? Way to rub it in.

You don’t even look up for this one.

Just nod. Another nod. That same fucking nod. Like you’re a puppet on string, but broken and only capable of doing one thing.

You don’t even know who just spoke to you and shook your hand. Some neighbor, maybe. Someone who used to wave at your mom in passing. Who smiled at you and your little brother at the grocery store. Someone who only knew your family in the way people know nice things in passing.

Not like you.

Giselle shifts again.

This time, you feel it more than you hear it, grazing the back of her hand against you, momentarily letting her index finger rub against the back of your hand. Like she just wants you to know that she’s there.

Another voice. Another fucking voice.

“They’re in a better place now.”

You exhale so hard it shakes.

You want to ask them where.

Where, exactly, is this better place you keep hearing about? Because they were supposed to be in Disneyland, and now they’re in a fucking coffin.

Your nails dig into your palms, but you just fucking nod again.

And Giselle notices.

You know she does.

Her head tilts slightly, like she’s asking what she needs to do, reading you like she always does, like she’s looking for something she can fix.

She won’t find it.

Another one.

“If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

You hesitate to answer.

Because what you want to say—what you wish you could say—is give them back.

But instead, you say what you don’t mean:

“Thank you.”

It tastes like poison in your mouth.

You wonder if you’d be able to choke and get away from this shit if you said it again.

Giselle’s finger’s twitch, but you pull away instinctively.

“Time heals all wounds.”

Does it? You can’t help but wonder.

Does it really?

Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Your little brother is dead.

What part of that is supposed to heal? 

What part of that is supposed to be supplanted by scar tissue, become something these people don’t pry open? How long do you need to wait before this doesn’t feel like some twisted prank you keep hoping someone is going to reveal the joke to? You want to scream at them how you don’t even want it to heal. How it’ll feel like forgetting them.

“Stay strong.”

Oh, fuck off.

What the hell does that even mean? Stay strong? For what? So they don’t have to see what this is really doing to you? So you can keep nodding, keep shaking hands, keep standing in a room that is shrinking every second?

What if you don’t want to be strong?

What if—

Your breath comes in too fast.

Too shallow.

Like your lungs have forfeited the whole inhale-exhale thing and decided to just go, like a car with no brakes.

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Oh.

Oh, really?

You bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you taste copper.

This one almost gets you.

Almost.

Because there’s nothing more insulting than some asshole trying to dictate how you’re supposed to grieve.

Your hands are shaking.

And Giselle moves.

She doesn’t wait for another nail to hit your coffin.

She just—

Her fingers curl tight around your wrist.

And she pulls.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not a question.

It’s not Can we go?

It’s We’re going.

You barely register the floor beneath your feet, barely register the voices still talking, still offering words you want them to keep for themselves, barely register the nod your aunt gives you as if to say “go, I got this,” and who has been running this farce as Giselle drags you through the hall and up the stairs like she’s rescuing you from a burning building.

And maybe she is. It feels like you were burning already, anyways.

She flies up the stairs, you in tow, frantic steps barely avoiding tumbling down, like she’s racing against the clock and when the countdown hits zero, you’ll explode. Her hand is solid around you, gripping your wrist, offering no escape.

You don’t even bother fighting it, how could you? You can barely control the airflow from and to your lungs, it’s much easier to just go along, much easier than listening to yet another person you haven’t seen since who knows when hammering in the reality of it all.

You can still hear them though.

You can still fucking hear them.

Claw at your ears, but you can still hear them, even as Giselle throws open your bedroom door and pulls you inside, you can still feel their words pressing down on you and—she slams the door shut behind you. The sound explodes, it breaks all thought, it locks you up in the four walls of your room, it shuts everything up.

But it’s only for a second. Because there is now a silence that is threatening to become the norm looming over you.

She locks the door. No more intruders allowed. Nobody gets to invade your head anymore.

Your muscles aren’t responding anymore. Locked in place, cut off from your brain by some invisible scissor.

Held hostage inside your own crumbling body. Standing there, on the precipice of destruction, something brewing in the core of your body that you can’t even begin to know how to stop.

And Giselle—Giselle is watching you, looking for the same answer you’re searching for. Her own chest struggling to keep up with everything. With herself, with you, how to prevent what’s happening to you.

And she moves.

You can’t stop it. Her hands find you, clutching at your chest, palms connecting with your shoulders, pushing, struggling, forcing you back, down onto the bed, second guessing herself every inch but still going forward like she’s being driven by nothing but instinct.

She’s still struggling to breathe. Your muscles are barely listening to you again. You’re both unsure of what’s happening. You’ve been pushed down onto the bed, just barely supporting your upper body on your elbows to meet Giselle.

She straddles your lap like she used to do all the time. Hands no longer pushing but bundling up the fabric of your dress shirt at the shoulders, the fabric of her own black dress hitching up around her thighs.

And you peek at what’s underneath.

It’s reflexive. And you can’t believe yourself.

In this situation?

“Giselle—”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s in the process of breaking. It’s desperate. It’s a plea to forgive her that she doesn’t have the perfect answer. It’s fucking honest, accentuated by the swelling of her tears in the corners of her eyes, but held back enough to refuse falling.

It feels like it took away a small part of the blockade in your throat preventing you from breathing. 

Carved a little tunnel in there that allowed you to do what you know your body should be able to, even at diminished efficiency.

She crashes into you.

Her full body leaning against you, being supported by you, your lips attaching to each other for the first time in what feels like years. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It’s desperate, she’s desperate, messy. It’s fucking shattering. Teeth clumsily tapping, your breath mixing, her hands nearly tearing the fabric near your shoulders, yours clutching at your bedsheets—or were they hers now? Doesn’t matter, clutching as though bracing for impact.

Your mouths disconnect, and Giselle drops her head, hiding. Her whole body shifts in your lap, hips pressing closer with each desperate roll—and fuck, it’s like you’re being resuscitated, air forcefully fed into your lungs you didn’t know you desperately needed.

Your hands leave the bed as you straighten your back, grounding yourself in the skin of her hips, tightening, letting her know you’re there.

And her head shoots up, your eyes interlocking as she gasps when you realize—

She’s shaking.

Not much. Just a little. So small, you’re surprised you picked it up. Just barely enough to feel it. But you felt it. Only you know her well enough to pick up on it.

And that’s the final breath of air you needed pushed into your lungs.

Because she’s not just doing this for you.

She needs this, too.

Giselle needs you.

This is the same Giselle who owns everything you own, who teases you, taunts you, makes you flip the script on her because she’s just so desperate for your attention.

This is the same Giselle who you’ve touched before, held hands with before, kissed before, fell asleep with while watching a movie before, fucked before.

Her heat is undeniable, burning against you and you can feel it—fucking flooding your mind with thoughts of every time you plunged your cock deep inside her. She’s grinding against you, her eyes searching for clues on your face to tell her if it feels good. But she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t restrain herself, she wants you, doesn’t ask if this is okay. She has no choice. Because it has to be.

Because if she can’t even do this, if her putting her whole body on the line doesn’t let her reach you—then what?

You wince, your body reacting to her. “Giselle, I—”

“This is all I could think to do.” It cuts you off. She responds too fast, like she’s afraid to hear what you would say, too fast, just to keep some kind of control over the situation. “You looked so in pain, like you were about to do something you’d regret, I just—” The words tumbled out, even faster, stumbling over themselves, her eyes darting from left to right, searching for something, anything. And then she looks at you. 

Right at you. 

Deep inhale. Shaky exhale. Her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes close. “I need you to be here.”

“I am—” You begin to claim, but before you even have the chance to convince yourself, let alone her, she interjects again.

“I love you.” Her hands loosen their grip on your shirt, only to grip even tighter onto the flesh of your shoulders. “I know you think you know. But I need you to hear it. Really hear it. I need to know that you know. That I love you.”

And you’re at the precipice. All you need to do to just feel a bit of comfort is respond to her. Just tell her that you know, or that you love her too, and maybe cry in her arms, and you’ll feel just a little bit better, it should be that easy. 

But you’re silent. Just, rotting.

As if taking this final step is too much. It’s easier to just rot. If you let her in any more, it will just hurt even more when she’s taken away from you.

Her grip falters. The strength in her fingers fades, barely lingering on your shoulders before her hands slip down entirely. She exhales sharply, her face dropping for a second, and you hear it—fabric shifting, the quiet rustle of her sleeve dragging against her cheek. Wiping away tears? You don’t look. You don’t want to know.

Her head snaps back up.

She’s glowering.

Not the desperate, pleading look you were expecting. Not soft, not sad. Her whole body is trembling.

“You fucking suck right now.”

Right, you suck right now. Wait. What?

It makes you blink. Your head jolts back, and two more blinks follow it.

Your eyebrows pull together, and she sees it—the first real fucking sign of life from you since this whole thing began.

“You know,” You begin, a scoff interrupting you. “Pointing out that I suck doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

Her response is quick, instinctive, decisive as to not let you cypher these emotions away again.

She leans in, foreheads mere atoms apart.

“It’s supposed to make you mad.”

Her head pulls back again, but in the blink of an eye smashes it back against your forehead, a clumsy headbutt, the surprise more shocking than the pain but it—

“I fucking love you!”

And you finally got mad. Like the pain had pierced through any fog your head had built up inside, and you could finally see color again. As if your brain was set to the wrong TV settings, showing every channel in monochrome, but a good smack to the side fixed it and you could finally drink in the vibrancy on display. So you could look at Giselle. Really, look at her. Her bright pink hair, the color slightly faded from washing it with her shitty shampoo—your shampoo actually, hers was specifically made to not let the color of her hair dye fade. Her kiss-swollen lips, peach-colored with little dents in them from where she bit down too hard. Her eyes colored like afternoon sunlight shining through a glass of whiskey you were sure to have stolen from your parents cabinet, looking at you with such frustration that you almost expected her to headbutt you again.

And how fucking dare she.

“That fucking hurt.”

Giselle’s palm presses against her forehead, rotating and rubbing against it with her eyes squeezed tight, a grunt escaping her as she replies. “Yeah? Well, it hurt me too, you idiot.” 

She removes her hand and checks for blood, staring you down and tilting her head, assessing you. “Should’ve hit you harder.”

“Excuse me?”

She leans in, her hot breath pushing into you. “If that’s what it took to get you out of your own fucking head, I should’ve put my whole back into it.”

Your hands fly up, grabbing onto her hips, holding her down against you, body reacting before your mind can catch up, as if she has to pay for what she did. As if she owes you some kind of apology for not letting you sit under your own self-imposed ceiling of sorrow. As if you just fucking need her.

And Giselle pushes back. 

Teeth catching your lower lip, stinging, sharp and sweet, filled with promise. She pulls as far as you’re willing to give, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make you want her lips, enough to make your pulse beat in your neck when she finally lets go—

She doesn’t even give you a chance to recover.

Because the second she releases you, her lips claim yours.

Messy, hot, urgent, familiar, undoubtedly Giselle.

“There you are,” she breathes into your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” is all the verbal response you give her, your hands grasping at the fabric of her dress with an intense fervor you were sure to have lost, pushing, pulling, twisting, anything to make it be less on her. 

“Jesus,” she recoils, but she takes no steps to stop you. Instead, she pushes back, her own hands having a similar battle with the front of your shirt, desperately fumbling with the buttons.

And you don’t even realize the force you're putting out until you hear the sharp sound of fabric tearing.

Her dress.

You fucking ripped it.

Her eyes go wide, her hands stop fumbling with your buttons, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh,” she breathes out.

Your grip tightens. You feel bad about it, or at least you know you should, but right now, you’re barely holding back from ripping the full fucking thing off her.

“You will be buying me a new one.” She glares at you, hands curled into the torn fabric at her side. She watches you wince, but there’s no sympathy in her face. It’s more like she’s processing—realizing at the exact same time you are just how much this is turning her on. “So don’t stop now,” she tells you, “tear me apart.”

The sound it makes is thrilling. The fabric gives, but not without putting up a fight, resisting enough that when it finally gives way, it’s a violent thing. The rip reverberates in the room, splitting apart from her side. The dress ceases to be a dress—just a mess of torn fabric clinging uselessly to her skin before sliding down, slipping away.

And Giselle fucking melts into you, reduced to nothing but matching black underwear, forearms pressing up into your chest, her hips sliding, rolling down, coating your bulge with her wet through her panties like she’s desperate to let you ruin her. She is as much a mess as you are, failing at letting you control the pace, just as desperate to feel all of you. 

It’s exhilarating. You might have to start investing in cheap, flimsy dresses for Giselle, just so you have an excuse to rip them off of her again. Because the effect it’s having on you, let alone her, is something you’d let ruin you financially.

“All that whining about your dress,” you taunt, that hint of bite returning to your voice, “but you’re dripping onto my pants like you want me to rip those off too.”

“I can’t help it’s fucking hot,” she mumbles.

Her head tilts, looking up at you, fast and desperate, like she needs to get her mouth on you before you even know what she’s doing. Her hands, still shaking with adrenaline, grip onto your shirt and keep you close, using it as leverage as she pulls herself up and crashes her lips against the curve of your neck.

You flinch, your muscles tensing up against her assault, and she feels it, her arms refusing to give even an inch, doubling down. Lips parting, tongue taking first contact just to tease before retreating, sucking hard on your skin, like she’s educating you on what the punishment is and will be for torn dresses. The pressure is immediate, bruising, and you lean into it, her breath hot against your skin as she works at you. 

Pain melts into pleasure, sharp stings of heat spurring you, your hands finding refuge on her supple ass, kneading and grasping, in turn spurring her on even more.

She moans against you—soft, drawn out, almost involuntary, like she wasn’t expecting this to turn her on so much. It’s impossible to ignore, vibrating into your skin, traveling directly up your spinal cord and sucker punching all of your neurons simultaneously with the sheer fucking audacity of her.

She pulls back slightly, just to admire her work, panting breaths exhaling against the wet, oversensitive mark of her territory left behind. Her tongue grazes the spot again, teasing, curving upwards against the fresh bruise she just made, before a single hum delivers the haymaker—smug, pleased and starving for more.

“You are so fucking impatient,” you stammer out pushing her away from your neck, hands firmly on her shoulders to keep her where she’s forced to look at you.

And she looks like she’s going to break any minute, her eyes big and pleading, already a prelude to her next attack. “What, you’re not going to make me say please, are you?”

Fucking hell.

You allow yourself one incredulous chuckle before advancing, one hand curving around her back, pinching the hook and eye clasp of her bra together before releasing it, causing it to drop into her lap still tangled around her arms, where your other hand already reached cupping her where she’s wet, palm pressing against the skin above her cunt, fingers hovering over her sensitives.

She gasps, submitting to your touch, putting up no fight at all. And she stops. And so do you. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflecting the only thing she needs—you, again. Her heat begging you to envelop your cock. And her fucking tits—bare, soft, perfect. Her nipples are stiff, whether from cool air or sheer anticipation—you’d bet on the latter— begging to be touched, sucked, bitten, made yours. She arches her back ever so slightly, like she’s offering them to you without the indignity of pleading. Because she knows she would if you asked. It’s better to just give in already. 

She is a fucking vision, the kind you could only experience at moments that blur the line between reality and fiction. The kind that demands you act before it vanishes. 

So fucking beautiful it still makes you sick.

“You’re looking at me like you just realized you’re about to fuck me,” she says, her voice shaking but a smirk letting her keep some semblance of control.

“Only if you say please.”

 She doesn’t hesitate. She pouts. Her eyes pull you in.

“Please fuck me?” she pleads, incriminating herself in your little trap willingly.

She’s brazen, enthusiastic and about to be rewarded for it. Breaking eye-contact from this point onwards would be considered taboo, as your fingers slide the last barrier between you and her velvety heat to the side for access, letting the rest of her panties unmoved, hugging and squeezing her hips. 

At the same time, she tugs the remaining straps of her bra down her arms, letting the fabric fall away entirely, leaving her completely exposed above you. Giselle was never embarrassed, never even a little bit shy. No, even now, even like this, she keeps that fucking fire burning on alcohol in her eyes, daring you to take what’s yours.

You slip into her soaked heat, and—fuck—she’s already so wet. So fucking ready for you. No teasing, no hesitation, just yours for the taking.

Giselle gasps, her whole body stretching and flexing as two fingers push inside her, stretching her open for you, pressing into the cunt she’s been grinding against you with no shame. Fuck giving her time to adjust. You curl your fingers, rolling them into her, against the spot that makes her shake, makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Oh—”

It’s the oboe playing the A note before the symphony she’s about to perform. But you don’t give her time for the tuning of all the other instruments.

She sways forward, her body being pulled into yours without her permission, a slave to her instincts. Her hands fly to the buttons of your shirt, but the poor girl is shaking too much to do anything useful. “Fucking—” She struggles, losing coordination, head swaying and eyes squinting to focus to no avail. “Get this—fucking thing—off—”

There’s a pop and a dink. A button flies off, bouncing against the floor. She doesn’t flinch, neither do you. Another one soon follows.

“Jesus, you’re ruining my shirt,” you taunt, but you don’t stop her. If anything, this color of desperation looks nice on her.

“You ruined my—fuck—my dress first,” she protests. “If you’ve got—”

She’s not wrong, but you’re not about to let her be right. You flick your thumb over her clit, slow and precise, just the way she loves it, just to feel her pulse against you.

She opens her mouth to retry what she was snapping back despite your little trick, but—

You had another up your sleeve.

Your other hand asserts itself on her tits, fingers spreading their domain over the soft flesh of her breast before closing in, pinching at her nipple, tugging just enough to get her to forget. Just enough to see her reaction.

Her back arches into your touch, lips parting wider with disbelief, breath coming in bursts that sting. Her face is a masterpiece of desperation, eyebrows pooling at the center, eyes wide and pleading, her whole body craving what you’re giving.

And still, she continues fighting it.

“Just you—oh my god—” she manages, but you’re sure it would have been more coherent if she wasn’t  bucking her hips into you trying to fuck herself faster on your fingers.

“You can either finish that sentence,” you interject, thumb circling her clit slowly, “or you can come. But you’ve gotta pick one.”

She’s gasping, faltering, having vocabulary erased from her lexicon with each thrust and curl, head falling back but she’s still got this defiant look in her eyes. Like she’s about to hit you with a comeback so good you’ll only find an appropriate response three days later when stepping out of the shower.

But you don’t let her.

“Come on,” you whisper, tone softer now, coaxing her, a stark contrast to the ruthless way your fingers are working her. “Be a good girl for me.”

It’s her favorite thing, and the ace up your sleeve. She snaps without resistance.

Her body locks up, a sharp rendition of your name sings from her lips to your ears, her walls pulsing around your two digits as her orgasm ramps up. She clings to you like someone cast out at sea clings to a lifebuoy, nails ripping what remains of your shirt, mouth open, gasping, unwilling to do anything but surrender, take everything you’re pushing into her.

You don’t stop until she’s a trembling mess, until you’re sure you’ve felt every little muscle spasm, until the aftershocks are making her twitch against you, until she’s nothing but a gasping, pink chaos in your arms.

It’s only then you slow your movements, retreating to her hips, letting her breathe, letting her catch herself where your hands failed.

But she’d be a fool if she thought this was anything but the warm-up.

“Think you’re ready to get your insides stirred now?”

She barely lifts her head, eyes heavy-and-half-lidded, still dazed. Giselle always needs recovery time, and you’ve usually been graceful enough to grant it, but she has that smirk, that little bit of fight, that spark in her eyes left in her.

“I couldn’t possibly say no to you.”

Your grip tightens on her hips. “That’s my good girl,” you hiss.

Her hands fumble at your belt, too clumsy and too shaky to get proper progress like she usually would. Her fingers aren’t the focused and precise instruments they usually are, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. She yanks at the buckle again, flexing her fingers as though that might help.

And you’re just watching. Leaning back. Enjoying the fucking spectacle of her trying and failing to get your cock out. Your fingers tangle into her messy hair, pulling just enough to make her tilt her face up.

Low. Taunting. “Do you need some help?”

Her eyebrows twitch in annoyance, her glare hazy but defiant. “Shut up. I know how to get my boyfriend’s dick out.”

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah? Cause you kind of suck right now.”

Her nostrils flare, and she rips the zipper down with enough force to nearly break the damn thing as well. Your slacks and boxers are shoved down, disposed of in one rough motion.

And then she freezes. Her hands glued to your thighs for support. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen.

“...Okay, what the fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

She tilts her head, fingers wrapping around your cock, testing the weight, the firth, her thumb dragging over the tip before her grip tightens.

“No, like. Actually. Is it bigger than usual?”

A scoff, she can’t be fucking real. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” She strokes down your shaft, slow, like she’s gathering data, measuring it to what she remembers.

“Maybe it’s the angle.”

She clicks her tongue like that’s not quite it, tilting her head, still studying you like you’re some kind of science experiment. “Or maybe it’s a rage-induced growth spurt.”

“That is not a thing.”

“Seems like a thing,” she muses.

“It’s not a thing,” you keep asserting.

She circles the head of your dick with her thumb, wiping precum all over it, watching you twitch under her hand. “You seem pretty sure.” “Because I—Jesus, Giselle,” she interrupts you, a quick slide down your shaft sending a jolt up your spine, “because I am sure.”

“Well, I’m gonna pretend it is possible,” she hums, shifting her hips forwards, bucking against you, preparing the base of your cock against her soaking wet cunt, drowning it in her slick with every slow, deliberate and precise roll of her hips.

You feel every bit of it. How ready she is. How warm, how soft, how desperate, how shaky.

You can’t help but tighten your grip on her hips, fingers digging in hard, no intent of ever letting go.

And she’s such a slut for it, the feeling of riding against your dick while your digits dig into her makes her moan, high and breathy, but still contained only to this room.

You can’t let that go unpunished. “You’re still shaking.”

She huffs, daring you to shift your hands to her waist, but she’s gripping your shoulders. “And you’re still talking.”

Her nails make their way down, scratching your chest as she rolls her hips again, slow but insistent, pressing herself against your every inch, teasing, tormenting you both—

“So I guess I need to do a better job,” she puffs, face tilting downwards a little so she can look up at you with a pout. “Let’s see if you can still do the same when these tits you love so much are bouncing in your face.”

She smirks, satisfied, shifting forward, lining herself up above you, her cunt dripping against the tip of your cock, ready—

And then she pushes down.

She sinks on to you, rough and deep, deeper, deeper, until she’s seated in your lap, flush up against you, stuffed fucking full with rage-induced growth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You pulse inside her, feel the way her walls tighten, adjusting, flexing, gripping you like she never wants to let go. The sensation mixes with the way her eyes flutter, unfocused, her hands scratching and digging into your chest, harder and harder like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s processing every inch of you.

She swallows. Tenses her thighs. And she starts moving.

First, it's slow. Rolling. Experimenting what she can handle. She lifts herself up, just a little, and you feel her tremble before she sinks back down. Her and your moans weave into each other.

She does it again. A slow, shaky rhythm, taking you as deep as she fucking can.

And you resist the urge to grip her hips and hold her up, pounding into her until she cries your name to the heavens. For now. Because she’s trembling. Still weak.

She knows it too, but as long as you don’t intervene, she won’t be stopped. She leans in, a soft half-moan half-breath escapes her, her eyes obsessed with you.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me put on a show for you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, low, throaty, just the way it gets her going.

She smirks, her hands flying into her hair as she lets it cascade over her back, giving you a perfect view of her neckline. “You always get like this when I’m on top. Can’t even pretend to play it cool when my tits are bouncing, can you?”

She’s not wrong. Her tits have a hypnotic quality to them.

Her body moves, slow and deliberate, dragging you back and forth inside her like she’s trying to make clear what you’ve got to lose if you try to play it nonchalantly.

“Just admit it, you’re weak—fuck—weak for my pu—”

She chokes on the last word, her confidence faltering mid sentence as she tries to lift herself, her legs twitching, shaking, muscles threatening to give out. She barely gets halfway up before her thighs tremble violently, still wrecked from her previous orgasm, forcing her to slam back down onto you, her whole body tensing up. It’s quick, and high-pitched. A surprised whimper escapes her throat involuntarily.

You pull back, a face that could only mean to ask her if she wants to find an excuse for that.

She glares up at you, face flushed red instead of its usual shades of pink, panting. “I—” she starts, but her voice shakes.

You help her along, like the loving boyfriend you are. “Having some trouble?” You’re clearly enjoying this, watching her fight against her own body.

And that only pisses her off. Her glare sharpens. “Shut up—” But her legs twitch again, this time not even managing halfway, forcing another stuttered moan out of her.

She’s struggling with the limitations of her own body, huffing in frustration, but not giving up. Her hands grasp your shoulders, and she tries to lift herself up again. In vain. She barely makes it off of you, more of a grinding act, before collapsing onto you with a sharp gasp, staying impaled on your thick cock.

She whimpers another fuck, as her walls clench and flex, forcing her body to do what she wants.

It’s adorable, a sight to revel in. Struggling, mustering all the power she still has left after having most of it fingered out of her. Your hands reaching for her thighs, sweat-slicked, feeling the little movements of muscle on your palm as she forces herself to rise. They tremble violently under her weight before giving out entirely, making her sink back down with a mewl.

Giselle’s cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, equal parts arousal and humiliation. She bites her lip, warring with herself, considering her possible actions, before finally breaking.

“Fine! Will you please fucking help me already?” she yelps, neediness exemplified.

“There we go,” you crow, immensely satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

Your grip tightens around her hips, your whole body surging forward as you take control, flipping her in one swift, fluid motion, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp as her back hits the mattress and you cage her beneath you.

Her legs are still wrapped around your waist, but you push them up, folding them into her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows exactly what she just asked for.

“This is what you wanted?” you challenge, hovering over her quivering body. “Needed me to manhandle you? To hold you down and use you?”

Giselle squirms in your grip, her pupils blow wide with lust and anticipation. “Fuck yes, I need your cock to stretch me open,” she whines, straining to grind her hips against yours.

She’s being so fucking messy right, and if she gets any louder, you are both running the risk of turning this catharsis into the most humiliating moment of your life. In a desperate attempt to shut her up, you lean down, capturing her lips in a needy kiss, tongue twisting into hers, swallowing all her moans directly into your throat. When you finally pull back, you hold still for a moment, giving her an intense stare matched by her expectant gaze.

“I love you,” you tell her, raw honesty shattering the moment. Her eyes blink in shock, clearly expecting something a lot more depraved to have come out of your mouth. “I fucking love you so much, Giselle. But if you don’t control your volume, you’re going to ruin this.”

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows shoot up, the kind of look that says “excuse me?” but her body betrays her, leaning in instead of pulling back. “Fine,” she whispers fiercely, “I love you too.”

“Now stop being a sap and fuck me like you want to break me,” she purrs, swirling and bucking her hips into your throbbing girth invitingly. “I want you to have to carry me tomorrow. I want to be limping when you’re done.”

Lust overtakes your brain, painting your vision in the color pink that you can’t help but indulge in. You line yourself up anything but carefully, slamming in, hard, brutal, like you want to break her, burying your entire length in her tight and sloppy heat. Giselle throws her head back with force, walls clamping down on you, and you can see your name spelled on her lips, ready to be cried out. She somehow bites it back, only letting a strained moan escape her.

“Yes” and “fuck” and “oh my god” are chanted deliriously at a volume you’ve both painstakingly mastered to never get caught in the past as you set a punishing pace, pumping in and out of her cunt.

You pound and pound, grunting with exertion, eyes transfixed by the irresistible sight of her voluptuous tits bouncing wildly just past her thighs with each thrust. And she notices, because Giselle knows you. And knows you love watching her tits bounce. So she does the only reasonable thing, which is to arch her back and offer herself to you as much as her strength still allows.

“I know you like watching my tits while you rail me,” she taunts, kneading them together for your viewing pleasure. Giselle loves putting on a show. “Love seeing them shake from how hard you’re pounding me? Hmm, I bet you wanna cover them in cum already, mark them as yours.”

“Fuck, keep talking,” you strain out, angling your hips to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her see stars. 

Giselle’s eyes roll back in bliss as you pound into her g-spot, absolutely no mercy, no remorse, just brutal fucking with relentless precision. Filthy praise spills from her lips between muted cries of ecstasy. 

She looks at you for a second, hazy eyes starting to roll back as she obediently continues. “Next time, I want you to bend me over that desk and take me from behind while I struggle to stand. Spank my ass until it’s raw and pull my hair while you fuck me stupid. Leave me shaking so bad I forget my own.”

Your rhythm stutters, a guttural groan and risk of drool tearing from you at the deliciously dirty image she construed. Giselle, consistent as she is, notices immediately and grins impishly, emboldened.

“Or maybe you’d rather I ride you in front of the mirror, let you watch my ass bounce on your dick? Let you play with my tits and see how perfect we look together?”

She finds some strength again, meeting your rhythm on a one fourth beat, rolling her hips in sync with your thrusts. “I love how sexy you make me feel. Love when you look at me like you want to devour me, love being your perfect little fucktoy.”

“Keep going,” you growl through your teeth like a desperate animal, picking up the pace, getting lost in her fervor, fucking into her harder, deeper. “Tell me everything.”

“I didn’t forget that I owe you a blowjob, but how about you fuck my face and we call it even?” Giselle continues, shameless and needy not strong enough words to describe her. “Want to choke on your big cock, let you use my throat and paint my face with runny mascara and cum.”

You’re pounding into her with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the room, thank fuck for your thick door. Her words inflame your lust to never before seen heights, dipping your head to latch onto one rosy nipple, sucking the sensitive bud atop her heights into your mouth.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she drools out, punctuation getting forgotten as she grows incoherent with pleasure. “That feels so fucking good. They’re so fucking sensitive for you, please bite them, leave your marks all over me. Shit, I could cum just from you playing with my tits…”

And what are you, if not a loving boyfriend, obliging her filthy request, nipping and suckling at her flesh, determined to cover her mounds in hickeys and teeth marks. Cover her in you.  Never relenting your pace, drilling into her squelching pussy like a man possessed by a pink haired goddess. Some kind of Aphrodite.

Her cunt is practically gushing everytime you move your cock, soaking your thighs with her arousal.

“Close, I’m so fucking close,” she slurs, but not in the way that would get a themepark to close a faux landmark. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—please, I fucking need it—cum for me too, paint my fucking cervix white, breed me, fuck, knock me up, shit shit shit, I’m gonna—”

Her filthy pleas are your undoing, destructive, a siren’s call drowning you from head to hilt. The sound that escapes from you is feral as you slam into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as is physically possible and then some. Your core tightens, your hands push her thighs flat against her body in way that will leave her sore in more ways than one, as the worst idea you’ve had yet doesn’t take time to consider itself, just throbbing straight through your cock, pulsing and erupting inside her, thick spurts of cum painting her insides filling her up.

Something about being too caught up in the moment.

Giselle is soon to follow, orgasm crashing over her, this one harder than before, triggered by the new sensation of your scalding seed flooding her clenching cunt. Her eyes roll back once more, the start of your name up to the first vowel breaking through her throat, shockwaves of pleasure tearing through her quivering body.

You recognize the danger, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, half falling into her before catching you back up with your other hand, muffling her debauched cries, Giselle being too far gone to stay quiet on her own. Her lips are wet against your palm, breath heating you up as she bucks and writhes beneath you, impaled on you making her overflow, being equally guilty with how she milks for you every last drop you have.

The world shrinks and vision narrows to just you and Giselle, overcome and lost to feeling. Feeling her, feeling yourself, feeling… alive. Your hips piston in short, sharp thrusts on instinct, working your release as deep into her trembling body as possible, driven by some naturalistic part of yourself you’ve newly reacquired, a need to claim her and fill her to the brim with your essence.

And she takes it all with desperate enthusiasm, greedily and eagerly accepting everything you give her like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You haven’t, not even once.

Her life-giving eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks flushed the same pink as her favorite brand of peach colored lipstick, features slack with untainted pleasure. She looks utterly defiled, fucked silly, like the very picture of a perfect girlfriend and her wanton debauchery.

Your cum is leaking out around your shaft, dripping down between you, staining her bedsheets—still yours, but if she’s dripping on them, it’s her problem. Knowing her, she will make an argument it’s your fault because it’s your cum. 

She’s never looked more beautiful, like an angel meant to absorb all your sins.

The aftershocks of her second crash ebb away, leaving you both panting, your hand sliding off of her mouth. Exhaustion hits all at once, causing a collapse on top of her and only bracing for a fraction of the impact on your forearms so as not to crush her. Pillowy tits caught most of the impact anyways, welcoming you gladly, trembling limbs following up and clinging to your sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but soothingly contented. “You’re carrying me tomorrow. No fucking choice. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

You chuckle, actually chuckle, or maybe it’s better described as a snicker turning into a chuckle, reintroducing Giselle to a sound she thought she lost. She immediately surges up to capture your lips, tasting the sweetness of the laughter on your mouth with sloppy abandon, all tongue and spit and residual passion. She’s grinning dopily up at you as you break apart, and it does something to you. 

She sighs, twitching beneath you. “Tch. After everything I let you do to me, all the places I said you could have made a mess of…” Her smug smirk makes an entrance as she tilts her chin down. “You just had to fill me up instead. Nice and dangerous.” Your pulse is still hammering, the implications of what you just did barely catching up to you before she derails it completely. She tilts her head, mock contemplation, but her smile is pure smug, a deadly taunt, hammering away at you. “And here I thought you wanted to see how pretty I’d look, tits covered in cum, dripping down my stomach.” Your jaw clenches, but she’s not done yet. “Or maybe,” she continues, “you wanted me on my knees, tongue out, looking up at you while I begged for it. Feel how messy I’d get swallowing everything that drips out.” She exhales, all faux-disappointment, licking her lips like she’s tasting the mere thought of you. “I get it though.” She grins, utterly fucking depraved. “It felt fucking amazing. I would have picked this too.”

“You’re insane.”

And so are you. For her. Staying like that for a moment, longer than a mere moment, just existing in the intimacy. Eventually, you pull out of her, a wet squelch announcing your physical separation.

The mixture of your combined fluids immediately starts to drip out of Giselle’s thoroughly fucked pussy as you pull out, a lewd concoction of her arousal and your thick cum. She whimpers, one eye closed, at the loss of your cock stretching her open, the sensation of your release seeping from her folds making her shiver.

There’s a sparkle of mischief in your eye, the glint indicative of the kind of challenges you and Giselle always throw at each other, and she characteristically notices, but just observes. You swipe two fingers through the mess between her thighs, coating them liberally in a layer of your shared passion.

She follows your digits through hooded lids, chest still heaving, a smirk turning into a surprised moan as you raise your slick fingers to her lips, painting them with you and her before pushing inside. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss as she eagerly accepts the offering, tongue swirling around the digits, lapping up every drop of your combined taste.

“Mmm, we taste so good together, you know?” she purrs sultrily once you withdraw your fingers with a signature Giselle pop. She opens her mouth, presenting the elixir on her tongue. “Want a taste?” You hadn’t considered it before, but half of what was in there was hers, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you dive in, kissing her haphazardly, tongue pressing against hers and swirling into a helix, tasting how good you two really come together. You pull back, and she swallows your cocktail down, proudly presenting an empty mouth.

“You do know a quick swipe isn’t enough to keep me from getting knocked up though, right stud?” She punctuates her words by clenching her walls, more of your release dripping out to pool on the sheets. “I can still feel so much of your cum inside me. We’re definitely getting plan B tomorrow, and you’re paying.”

Your cock twitches between your legs, as though being called to action. “If you keep spewing filth, I’m going to get hard again.”

“Promises, promises,” Giselle singsongs, grinning at you. She looks thoroughly well-fucked, hair a wild and pink tangle, skin covered in sweat you wouldn’t mind getting a taste of, your marks littering her breasts, throat and rearranged insides.

This is satisfaction. 

You collapse next to her on the bed, one arm slipping under her and the other over her, gathering her up into you. She comes willingly, a little joyous squeal escaping, tangling your legs together, uncaring of the sticky mess. Exertion turns into exhaustion as you listen to your racing heartbeats gradually slow and even out.

This was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of things for once, but as the high fades, reality sets back in. It feels different, something unspoken that settles over the both of you, settling into the spaces in the room where grief and love have spent the last few days battling for dominance.

Your forehead rests against hers at its most comfortable, close enough you can hear every breath as it keeps her here. Her fingers brush over your back softly, fingertips gliding idly, starkly in contrast with the frantic clawings she left earlier.

Silence falls between you, but it isn’t the kind you want to chase away. It’s the one that says it all. Not oppressive or suffocating anymore. Just… full.

You shift slightly, not because you want to leave her, something simple, the feeling of your arm starting to fall asleep, and Giselle groans. “You are not allowed to move yet.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she mutters. “Stay.”

It’s a simple request you never had any intention to ignore. But it’s the way she says it—soft, drowsy, fragile—that turns it into an impossible request to ignore.

Your face buries into the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses against her flesh, the scent of sex and sweat wrapping around you.

“I love you,” she whispers, and it's so damn near silent that you’re not sure if she said it for you to hear or for herself.

You close your eyes, settle into her and answer back anyways. “I know.”

She exhales, a snicker preluding her. “You’re supposed to say it back, asshole.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, tugging at your lips, but there’s not a trace of teasing in your voice when you respond to her a little too quickly. “I love you too.”

Her body relaxes, and yours follows suit. More silence follows, More warmth. More of just simply being.

Then, Giselle huffs and puffs, your hands automatically on her waist. “You know we’re stuck here until everybody has left, right?”

You grunt, but you don’t even bother to lift your head. “What?”

“My dress is currently in several pieces on the floor,” she remarks, no question about who the accusatory tone was meant for. “And while I am thrilled by the feral caveman display of strength, it does leave me exactly with zero options for leaving this room.”

You snort, shifting just enough to glance at the shredded fabric scattered across the floor like some ruined jigsaw puzzle. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Her gasp is clearly exaggerated, and the weak shove she gives your shoulder is a dead giveaway. “Excuse me? You did this!”

“Mm,” you hum, unconcerned with her accusation. Truth be told, you’d take any excuse to be stuck here with her forever. Still, a comeback felt deserved. “I clearly remember you telling me to ‘tear you apart’”

“That’s unfair, that was in the heat of the moment!”

“Almost everything we just did was in the heat of the moment.”

She opens her mouth faster than she can think of a clever comeback, and you can see the gears spinning in her head but not coming up with anything useful. Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes glare at you in betrayal. “I hate you.”

A familiar song and dance. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” she agrees, her shoulders dropping and releasing tension, as she nudges closer to you. “I really, really don’t.”

And you don’t feel like you’re spiraling anymore. Like the world is collapsing around you and you’d just let it. Like a husk of a man, just keeping the body alive while the mind is drifting further and further away into oblivion.

You feel… at home with her.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing against the side of your face, undoubtedly noticing the weirdly optimistic crestfallen expression you carried. “What?” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens in its familiar constriction, but you manage to speak anyway. “My dad said something before they left.”

Giselle’s fingers still against your skin, as if bracing for impact. “Yeah?”

You swallow, inhaling like it might make this easier, but nothing can. “He said he felt better knowing I’ll have you.”

The words hang between you. Giselle stares, blinks once, and lips part slightly at their center, but nothing comes out. Not even air. Clueless on what to say to something like that, something that raw.

You sigh, resigned, but with a tinge of optimism that some might confuse for naivety in your tone. “Guess he knew what he was talking about.”

The muscles in her face loosen, and she responds with her body first. Not hesitant, not afraid, a sense of certainty and clarity guiding her.

Her fingers find familiar footing in your hair, another hand palming your jaw, warming it up and comforting you. She’s taking you in—and yesterday it would have been because she’s worried, but today it’s because she isn’t. Like she knows you, down to your very bones, exactly who you are and she’s waiting for you to realize it too.

“Right,” she breathes with ease. “You still have me.”

The words are like a magic spell, settling somewhere into the ache in your ribs, into the spaces grief left raw and you tried to dispose of, a stitch pulling on the raw flesh of an open wound, preparing it to heal.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think there’s anything you can say to that.

You hang loose in her touch. She lets you. Lets you take your time. Because she knows.

You’re not okay.

Not yet.

But Giselle makes it feel like maybe that’s okay too.

That maybe it’s enough for now to know that you’re still here with her, that she’s saved your life twice now. And tomorrow you can take her up on all the filthy promises she’s made, but if you need to just be in her arms today, that’s fine too.

Because you still have her.

[luludeluluramblings]

dream team back. we’re currently yapping central again (per usual)

both of us are straight up in a tim drake brainrot spiral too!!! he’s a delightful little weirdo. a strange little gentleman if you will.

tim is such a funny little guy!!! he also makes a solid yandere. you can’t outsmart him. you can’t escape someone who can find everything about you. On the upside, I feel like he’d be happy to spoil his darling. also he’d be like, really considerate in weird ways??? I mean like you don’t get privacy (or you get the illusion of it maybe but not actual privacy.)

like yeah you’re always being watched in some way, but the man has committed every single one of your favorites and least favorites to memories. He knows what clothing you like, what specific features you look for in everything, and if he doesn’t, by god, will he learn. He knows your favorite song, and he knows the nickname you went by in elementary school.

Do you think he pretends to be normal and basically sets things up to send reader to be like a little love story?? You meet by chance, and he fell first. He fell a LONG time ago, so now it’s his mission to make you fall too. And Tim Drake ALWAYS finishes a mission. (Even as a baby daddy candidate). He makes himself the best option, even if he’s not the father.

Yandere!TimDrake x PastFriend!Reader x Aiden Cobblepot

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Sooooo, I'm finally and slowly going through my ask box and you two may have sparked an idea just for Tim. I might have to do a Part Two for this. (I'm falling into the WIP trap. Help!) But, I love the thought of the Bat Family have competition when it comes to their darling. Gives them a challenge. Plus, I really wanted to use Aiden Cobblepot for this. I've been wanting to sneak him into something.

A/N: We have neglected!Sib!Reader, but what about a Neglected!Friend!Reader? Fun idea. Tim already knowing everything about you only to find you’ve changed and wants to study you all over again. Only this time he’s keeping you! (I’m very fond of Tim. I think he’s difficult to write for me, but I enjoy the little stalker so much.)

Warnings: Yandere Themes, Romantic themes, Tim can be read as kinda platonic, GN!Reader

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You and Tim were once good friends. Well, he was your best friend. To him you were just a good one. High school buddies that would hang out all the time. At school only. And sometimes the rare gala you saw him at. It was rare you ever actually went to The Manor. You never asked to go. But, you had hoped to be invite.

Just like you had hoped that he might reciprocate that pesky crush you had on him back then. You had felt like it was so painfully obvious. Though it wasn't as painful when you finally figured out he was Red Robin and you waited and waited for him to tell you his secret identity. And, then you would tell him you already figured it out and you would look so cool.

Only, he never did. You both grew distant. You had put so much carful effort into keeping that distance from growing. Inviting him to hang out more. Asking him out for casual coffee. He always said the same thing.

"Oh, damn. I could really go for that right now. But, I'm just sorta busy. Next time though. For sure."

Over and over. He sounded like a broken character. Repeating the same phrase. One that you would hang around after the game was over to reminisce about all the fun adventures you both once had. However this was life not a game. You couldn't just restart and rerun the same adventures.

It made you ache when you finally moved on. When you finally pulled away. Because, Tim didn't even notice you were gone. His life to change. He didn't have to restart anything. You had lost your best friend and he didn't even care. It stung. It stung more than you realizing he'd never reciprocate your feelings.

But, like all things, time moves on and so do you. Leaving the past behind and starting a new game. One that you start to flourish in. Making new friends. Meeting new people. Building closer bonds and more healthy friendships. It had been interesting to realize how dependent you had been on Tim once upon a time. And, embarrassing. You can't help looking back on it with a wince. You almost want to reach out and apologize. But, that would be weird and you both live completely separate lives now. You hardly ever see him at galas now. Mostly because you don't go anymore.

Things, do change. You never expected your new partner would draw Tim's attention back to you. And, in such a terrible way.

You had a rough idea of what you were getting into when Aiden Cobblepot had asked you out to dinner. You figured he was only interested in you for your money or your half-decent looks or your family name and position. You had heard all the rumors about him, but still you went. Mostly, because you knew how dangerous he and his family were. And, you were… presently surprised.

He was a bit of an entitled asshole. But, he wasn't scared of getting dirty. You watched him lead you through the puddles of rain water and Gotham grim in the posh restaurant. He held more concern for you're clothing getting dirty than his, which were more expensive than yours. He paid for the date without flinching at the price. Encouraged you to try his own food from his plate. Talked about fond memories of the things he and his sister got up to as children while asking you about your own childhood.

Admittedly, you were easily seduced because after that the two of you became an item. You didn't even realize how official you were until he introduced you to his sister, Addison, and she was actually nice to you. Extremely nice. She did, however, threaten to kill you if you betrayed Aiden in any way, which was honestly fair enough.

Aiden and you were a bit on the opposite side of things, taste wise and morally wise. But, you both made it work. He continued his life of crime, but made no mention of it around you to keep you legally clean. You shared most of your life with him, letting him have a slight glimmer into normalcy. He liked to take you on fancy dates and show you a good time. You were happy to pull him inside just to spend personal time with each other. Of course, you both made compromises. Aiden had a taste for luxury, and you didn't mind indulging in it. Especially after you beat his ass multiple times in Mario cart. It was only fair you let him take you to a gala some point.

Little did you know that that was how Tim would come clawing and digging his way back into your life.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

For Tim seeing you again was like finding an old precious treasure. His life had gotten so difficult and complicate lately that just a reminded of all those old times was nice.

However, seeing you on the arms of the Penguin's son was a brutal wake up call. What were you doing? Had you hit your head? Was he blackmailing you? Drugging you? Everyone in Gotham could recognize the name Cobblepot and how dangerous they are. And, he remembers how smart you were so you couldn't have willing chose to be there. It's not logical.

For your safety, he reintroduces himself to you. Long time, no see. We should hang out some time and catch up. Only he means it. He can't let this happen. He can't let you fall in with a man like that. You're his friend. He'll win you over for your own sake. Ruin Cobblepot while he's at it because how dare he use you.

Even if you changed. Even if you don't smell the same. If your hair is different. If you dress different. Even if your very laugh had changed pitch, he knows you. And, if anything, he can just re-learn you all over again. It won't take long. He's done it all before. This time he'll savor though. This time he won't let you go as he pulls you back in. You were a good friend, this time he'll make you more.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I’m starting to type up Part Three of Pregant!Reader, but I ended up coming up with another start to it with more drama that would be strictly for the BatBoys. The messed up drama in it sounds fun and challenging, but I won’t do it until I finish what I started with the blurbs I have planned included.

A/N: Smalltown!Meta!Reader Part Nine is going to take a while. I have big plans for it, but Pregnant!Reader is kinda outshining it.

A/N: I will post about the LoungeSinger!Reader and another idea I came up with that y’all might like that I’ll add to the concept list.

A/N: There’s a Tony Part Two coming, but it’s only halfway typed and still not that yandere-y. Need to fix that.

A/N: My asks box is full, so I’m gonna try to empty it, but I host Thanksgiving in my family and I’m also a Christmas nut, so I’m gonna be busy. (I have four Christmas trees in my house currently… But I’m not as bad as my in-laws! They had their trees up BEFORE Halloween.)

[postm0rt3m]

happy thanksgiving everyone!

just a lil fluff thanksgiving bf!simon post bcz i just sobbed my heart out over the most absolutely devastatingly beautiful angst story i’ve ever read (through statics, give it a read!) and if i keep thinking about it i’m going to actually spiral

not proofread so :P

(i said this then made myself cry again writing this bffr. this also ended up way longer than i meant for it to so lol!)

“simon?”

“…baby?”

“simon theodore! are you even listening to-“

simon suddenly snaps back out of his thoughts at the stern tone in your voice, letting out a small grunt as if saying “yes i was” but in reality.. he wasn’t. he was too far gone in his absolutely harrowing thoughts, because today is the day.

the day he’s having thanksgiving dinner with your family. i repeat, simon “ghost” riley is currently on his way to eat turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie with his girlfriend’s family. sound the alarms!

don’t get me wrong, he’s met some of your family before. your parents, your siblings. but.. your entire family is going to be here. moms side, dads side, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins. oh god.

this man has been through war and back. literally. yet, he feels as anxious as he did the first day he joined the army, just thinking about the events that are about to go down. he’s literally trembling. terrified to lift his hands from the death grip he has on the steering wheel because he knows you’ll get that same teasing sympathetic look on your face as you always do.

he finally clears his throat, breaking his deadpan stare out the windshield to glance over at you for a moment, which brings him a little comfort. just the sight of you, really, could relax every tense muscle in his body.

“yeah, yeah, ‘m listenin’. said sumn about.. ham..?”

you look over when you feel his gaze on his, that same smile he was just trying to prevent spreading across your face. holding back a laugh from the random mention of ham, you place your left hand on his meaty thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

“…no. are you okay? i promise they’re gonna love you, si. seriously.”

you know, of course, about your boyfriend’s past. his alcoholic of a father, the absence of his mother, the way he buried himself with work and an early grave in an attempt to forget it all. every time you think about it, your heart squeezes. because his pain is your pain, and it hurts you so deeply its as if it happened to you. plus, your man doesn’t deserve all that weight on his shoulders!

so, you’re kind. loving. forgiving. you never hold his mistakes over his head, knowing it happened so many times in his childhood. you’ve been together not even a year, yet, you know. you know he’s the one that you’ll marry, the one who’s children you’ll have running around your big white suburban house. and he knows it too. which is why he agreed to this!

he gives another grunt after he mulls over your question, because, really, is he okay? he’s not sure himself, at this point.

“i.. ‘m fine. lets just get this over with.”

—

once you actually arrive, you’re.. not sure if simon is still breathing in his seat. neither is he. his hands are still placed firmly on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals, even though he already turned the car off. five minutes ago.

“baby. take a deep breath in,”

you begin, your smile falling as you realize he’s actually terrified. this is probably the first thanksgiving dinner he’s ever been to. and with his future family? he just wants the world to open up and swallow him whole already.

but, he obliges, taking a sharp inhale in, holding it, then letting it out when you say. it actually does relax his muscles a little, but not his nerves. no, they’re so far gone he thinks they won’t be relaxed for the next five years.

“then out. you’re okay. everything will be okay. i promise, they’ll love you. worst case scenario, we leave and get chinese.”

he looks over at you, his gaze still as intense as ever, but you can see the utter fear and nerves swirling around behind his brown eyes. you let out a small sigh, leaning over the center console to place a soft kiss on his stubbly cheek.

“lets go in. we can come back out if its too much, okay?”

he nods, swallowing so hard he thinks he might’ve swallowed his own tongue. his grip on the steering wheel finally releases as he exits the car, the crisp november air instantly hitting his face and the white t-shirt & blue jeans that took him two hours to pick out.

he rounds the front of the black pickup truck, opening your door and taking your hand as you slide down out of the passenger seat.

as you two walk up to the front door of your mother and father’s home, his grip on your hand tightens more and more with each step. you place another reassuring peck on his arm, which loosens it just a little. just a little.

you make it to the front door, and oh my god simon thinks he’s going to pass out. he’s trying to keep it together, but staring through the foggy glass of the door, seeing the bustling of your family inside, he thinks he might hurl.

“oh — you must be the famous simon we hear so much about! her mom never shuts up about you!”

one of your aunts opens the door, a beaming smile spread across her face as she sees you, then cranes her neck up to look at your brute of a boyfriend. you can see the shock on her face for a split second, although she doesn’t dwell on it. but simon does.

why did she look at me like that? do i have something on my face? bloody hell, i’m gonna throw up everywhere and she’s gonna leave me and-

you cut simon out of his thoughts with a reassuring squeeze to his hand, glancing from him to your aunt. she reaches her hand out, and simon hesitantly meets it, giving it a gentle yet firm shake.

“we’re glad to be here! simon is excited to meet everyone, right, love?”

“yeah. can’t wait.”

you two make your way through the lively house, and simon can’t help but think about how.. domestic it all is.

your siblings and cousins all running around, playing together and weaving in and out of the various rooms. your mom, aunts, and grandmothers gathered in the kitchen, preparing the food and gossiping about their respective partners. your dad, uncles and grandpas laughing heartily over beers and nachos as they watch the ongoing baseball game on the tv.

its something simon has never had the pleasure of experiencing in real life, and something he never thought he’d get to experience.. ever. the reality hits him, so much harder than he’d thought.

that.. this is his life. this is his family. not those people who abandoned him all those years ago. you’re his family. and the thought warms his chest in a way not even you could.

the day flies by, so much faster than simon thought it would. he got to meet everyone, speak with everyone. he even had a beer with your dad. although this may be completely new to him, it instantly felt familiar. felt right. the stability and domesticity he’s craved for so long, and he’s finally got it.

he was nervous the whole time, of course. he still is. but having you there made it all melt all way after a few hours. he stayed by your side the entire time, not wanting to leave you alone, but also not wanting to be alone himself. your reassuring squeezes, your loving pecks to his cheek or arm, they kept him grounded. and he will never be able to re-pay you for such a feat.

when it comes time to eat, everyone is crowded around the living room with heaping plates in hands. your cousins are sprawled on the floor, uncles and aunts sitting in random camping chairs they brought knowing there wouldn’t be enough space for everyone.

simon can’t wait to eat. the fragrant turkey and gravy sitting in his lap, he thinks he will simply die if he doesn’t dig in.

but, one of your aunts mentioned saying grace. something simon doesn’t think he’s done a single time in his life.

everyones heads bow, hands connecting around the room, simon holding yours in his left and your sibling’s in his right as you all squeeze together on the couch.

your mother begins her prayer, giving her thanks for the people, the food, and the house they’re so lucky to be blessed with. simon finds it a little silly as a firm non-believer of any type of religion, but it also squeezes at his heart, because they truly are blessed. he’s blessed.

then, she mentions him.

“and thank you, for bringing such a handsome man into my daughter’s life. we hope for a long, healthy life for the two of them, and hope he doesn’t mind his new crazy family.”

his new crazy family.

you peek your eyes open with the widest grin, glancing over to see if simon is as flushed as you think he is.

but he’s not.

he’s crying.

you can feel his hand slightly trembling, his eyes still clamped shut as the tears roll down his face and his lip pouts out just the slightest. your smile instantly falls, your hand still connected with his as you raise them to wipe at his tears.

you try to be discreet, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to as you dry his eyes with your sleeve. you can feel your heart doing flips, the fact that he’s so touched that he’s crying making you want to cry yourself.

after they say amen, everyone instantly digs into their plates. except the two of you.

you can’t take your eyes off of simon, and he can’t take his reddened eyes off of you. here, in this moment, you both realize something.

everything you two’ve been through. the lows, the sleepless nights. the highs, nights out on the town until ungodly hours. has lead to this. this connection, this moment.

and, god, neither of you could ask for more. he truly can’t wait to put a ring on your finger.

after a few moments of silent conversation you give him a small smile, and the two of you tune back into the world, digging into your plates and enjoying the presence of your family and each other.

this is his family now. and just like he couldn’t ask for more from you, he couldn’t ask anymore from them. he loves them just as much as he does you.

a few hours later, everyone begins leaving and heading home. thanksgiving is officially over for your household.

you can barely drag simon away from the kitchen, who is stacking a plate the size of his own head with the various dishes strewn across the counter. your mother was absolutely delighted at the fact that he kept going back, for seconds, thirds, then fourths. and now he’s taking the remaining leftovers.

you two make it back out to the truck, him helping you in before the both of you settle in and fasten your seatbelts.

but he doesn’t yet start it. he looks over at you, a content sigh escaping his lips and a smile so warm across his face you think you could melt.

“i love you.”

he simply says, the usual monotone stance in his voice replaced with something else. something warm and sweet, like the soft piece of pumpkin pie in the plate in your lap, neatly covered by a layer of tin foil.

“i love you too, simon. i told you they’d love you.”

you respond, the smile on your own face giddy and almost sickly sweet as you think about everything that just happened, and everything that will happen.

its a little hard for simon to make sense of all these new emotions and flooding feelings as you two make the long drive back home. but one thing he does know, he’s thankful.

thankful for you, thankful for the 5 inch tall plate of food in the backseat, and thankful for your family.

for his family.

[yoonjae20]

Ric(hard) Fenton; Part 4

Read on ao3.

Masterpost. Previous. Next.

How had any of them missed this? How had Bruce missed this? Bruce had drowned in guilt when Jason died but this? This is worse — more than surpassing what he felt back then. He knows with certainty that his nightmares will now feature another way too-young — black haired, blue eyed boy.  

“And the worst part is that you don’t even remember. Nobody does. Nobody but me,” the boy continues, tucking at his hair with one hand. “So in the end, it might as well not have happened.”

He lets go of the hem of his shirt, covering most of the scars but Bruce's gaze keeps lingering on the edges of them — the raised skin a stark contrast to the boy’s paleness. 

“And well that’s just like it isn’t it — good old, forgotten Danny,” Danny chuckles, voice bitter. “Operative O was right — what do my parents need me for, now that Ric is here? I’ll always be too awkward, too dumb, too nervous — too me.”

Tears stream down the boy’s face as he wraps his arms around himself. 

“Couldn’t even die right.”

The boy rubs at his face, but the tears don’t stop coming.

“Fuck.” Danny lets out a broken laugh as he looks down at the floor. “This is not how I imagined this to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

Danny gaze snaps back to Bruce and Bruce peels off his cowl, face more open than he normally allows himself. They boy’s eyes blow wide. 

“There is nothing more I can offer you than my sincerest apology,” Bruce meets the boy’s gaze unflinching. “We failed you. I can’t change that. But what I can change is how we’ll move forward from this.”

Danny’s eyebrows knit together and Bruce practically can feel the disbelief running from him in waves.

“I just admitted to essentially wiping part of your memories and still you believe me?” Danny questions. “If it had been that easy, why didn’t you do it the first time? Why-” He chokes up and sinks to his knees as he clutches his shirt. “Why did I have to nearly die again for it to happen?”

“Can you show me?” Bruce asks softly after giving the boy a few moments. “What happened?”

Danny’s face twitches and it’s only when he speaks that Bruce realizes it’s out of fear.

“For what?”

“So I never repeat it ever again,” Bruce says as he crouches down, featherlight touch on the boy’s right arm.

Danny glances at the skin contact and breathes in shakily. Then he nods. 

And then the memories start pouring in — how the GIW had contacted the Justice League to warn them about a new rogue and they never saw the red flags. Danny’s frightened face as they hunted them down. Their cruel words calling him a villain and blaming him for things he never did. How he had gone unnaturally still, like a puppet whose strings were cut, as they delivered him for detainment to the GIW, his eyes losing their light. How he had looked like a prisoner on death row — grim acceptance on his deathly pale face.  

Bruce gasps as his mind struggles to connect the memories with the current reality. Nausea overcomes him as he remembers how they thought that because Danny stopped struggling once they captured him, it signaled that he subconsciously knew he was at fault. The fake sweet words Operative O feeded them when they asked what they would do with the boy (rehabilitation — Bruce wants to punch himself) and neither of them had looked into it further — distracted by another emergency coming up. 

They threw Danny to the wolves and let him get tortured — for what? Because they never thought they could be deceived? Hell the government used to label metas as dangerous and unstable— they should have known it was fishy that a previously hidden government branch approached them. Should have never trusted a single word out of their filthy mouths. 

No wonder that the boy doesn’t trust Bruce — doesn’t trust the Justice League. 

“B? What’s going on? What did you see?” Tim’s voice tears Bruce out of his down spiral. 

Bruce pulls out the comm from his ear as other voices chime in, stumbling over themselves in their outrage at hearing the boy’s claims. He looks at Danny with a determined face.

“How can I help?”

Bruce has to support Danny as he staggers through the streets to his family home. He explains the situation as they go, as well as his theory as to why Dick is out cold (they had to leave him in the safety of the warehouse — Bruce doesn’t want to risk the GIW finding out that Danny has help if he uses the Batplane that openly and with what the boy told him about they wanting to head to Gotham after they are finished with Amity Park, it would pull attention to them even more in case some of them escape), although he truthfully admits that he has no idea where Jason went. 

They boy stiffens as they are about to cross the street to the Fenton house, Bruce eyeing the machine on top. He quickly pulls them back into the alleyway, Bruce following his lead. A moment later they hear voices and steps coming from the direction they were headed. Bruce can feel Danny’s normally too slow pulse (and hadn’t that been a revelation when Bruce first noticed) quicken into a normal pace from where he still has a hand around the boy’s shoulder as they float closer. 

“We searched the building, the other two aren’t there. It must have acted alone,” someone reports and pauses, listening to the response.

“Of course, I’ll set up shifts,” the man dutifully replies and then his tone suddenly changes, annoyed, “He wants us to search every inch of the city.”

A different voice chimes in, “Again? What are we? Goons? And let me guess we won’t be paid for the overtime either?”

The first man scoffs, “Not even that, 100 %, he’ll take the credit for capturing it too, although we were the ones finding it during patrol.” 

“Typical.”

Their voices dissipate and Bruce almost doesn’t catch Danny as he staggers, horrified expression on his face.

“They got him,” he states. “They got Jason.”

“Are you sure?”

Danny shakily exhales.

“I- I can feel his ectoplasm around here,” he explains. “They must have monitored the house and caught him by surprise.”

Bruce frowns.

“Is it safe to approach the house then?”

“I’ll make us invisible.” 

Before Bruce can disapprove, they already turn invisible. Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Of course Dick would imprint on the boy with the most self-sacrificial streak next to himself to exist. He keeps his mouth shut, although he wants to scold the boy for over-exhausting himself even more — still aware of the distance between the two — he would only make it worse.  

The boy steps are surprisingly quiet as they sneak into the house, the boy not pausing even once as they step through the ransacked house into the kitchen and down the basement. It’s only then that he lets the invisibility slip as he lets go of Bruce and steps over the chaos straight to a cabinet. Bruce glances over the lab, ignoring the swirling green portal although he desperately wants to investigate it, instead stepping up to the computer. There’s a file opened to an invention called the “Ecto-Dejecto”. Danny had been right about Jason being here. 

He turns back, only to witness Danny ramming the syringe right into his own arm without flinching as he administers the serum, the green liquid slowly draining. He disregards the first syringe, blood trickling down his arm and is about to do the same with the second one before Bruce stops him.

The boy looks up to him with an obvious question and Bruce takes the serum from Danny’s hands and administers it for him, both of them quiet as he pushes down the thumb rest. As Bruce removes the syringe, there’s only a little drop of blood which he softly wipes away with his thumb

“Thank you,” Danny says quietly and Bruce just grunts. He looks around the lab, eyes trailing to what looks like weapons. 

“Do you need anything else?”

Danny shakes his head. 

“No real point using those against humans,” he says when he sees where Bruce's gaze is lingering. “Would only give them more munitions.”

“They hurt you?”

It’s not really a question. Danny still answers it as if it is one, wryly, “Yeah, who do you think was the guinea pig?”

Danny must see the disapprovement on his face because he coughs awkwardly. 

“What are we working with?”

Bruce lists out his equipment and Danny nods before he informs Bruce of his own powers.

“Invisibility — as you might have noticed — intangibility, flight, ectoplasts, ice…” The list keeps on growing and Bruce blinks at the information. That’s a lot more than he displayed when… when they met for the first time. Normally his mind would swim trying to plan contingencies, but he already hurt the boy enough — there’s no need to conspire more against him. 

So at the end, he just nods, cataloging the powers before they leave — once again invisible. The sun is coming up by the time they reach the GIW’s current base of operations. 

“We’ll have to be careful,” Danny whispers. “I can’t use too much ectoplasm, they have sensors here. One ability will be the max or else it will pick up that it isn’t just the ambient ectoplasm fluctuating.”

Bruce grunts as they watch the guards rotate, each with a blaster in hand. 

“They’ll probably be holding most of the people in the second basement, the third basement is for Ghost containment.”

Bruce hates that the boy knows this information.

“The first basement?” he asks, nevertheless.

“More office spaces,” Danny reports. “The fourth basement is for experiments.”

Bruce closes his eyes, trying to calm himself down. 

“Do we have an estimate of the number of guards and agents?”

Bruce can hear the wince in Danny’s voice.

“Only that there are a lot,” he admits and Bruce hums. 

They’ll have to use a hit and run tactic then if they don’t wanna fail. He slowly starts to regret not taking any back up with him, but on the other hand this got more complicated than he intended and he wouldn’t want any one of his kids to partake in something so dangerous. (He had told Tim and Oracle that he will be offline for a while before muting the comms.) He barely has accepted the fact that he needs to take Danny with him. 

He understands why Dick is so fond of the boy and loathes himself for making Dick believe that he can’t share this with their family. No doubt Danny had told Dick what happened with the Justice League. No wonder he had been strange when he returned, constantly analyzing them. 

They strike when the guards are leaving for patrol around the perimeter. Danny drops their invisibility and sticks a hand through the door and opens it from the inside. They slip inside just as the guards circle back. 

Bruce uses batarangs to disable cameras as they come across them and lets Danny lead him through the maze of corridors. Soon they come across a locked door. There’s no door handle or an obvious lock other than a scanner of sorts next to the door. 

“Shit,” Danny curses. “They changed the keypads to be ghost proof. Short-circuiting will probably sound an alarm. We’ll need a card from one of the scientists, the guards don’t have one on them.”

Clever, Bruce can’t help but think, limiting the access. They must have thought of the possibility of someone trying to infiltrate them. 

Suddenly the door opens and it’s only Bruce quick reflexes as he knocks out the scientist saving them getting discovered. They head down the basement and drag the body in one of the open rooms, closing the door. Danny slips them back into invisibility as they hear voices, scientists walking past them and discussing something. The lights flicker and Danny immediately drops the invisibility once they are past them.

“That’s bad,” he says, glancing at the lights as they slowly stabilize again. “They are too sensitive to my ectoplasm. We’ll get found at-”

Sounds of a commotion interrupt Danny. There are a handful of angry screams and Danny bolts before Bruce can stop him, turning the corner. Bruce follows with a curse on his lips, only to almost run into the boy as he suddenly freezes in his path.

There are several unconscious scientists on the floor and he watches as an auburn-haired woman in a hazmat suit karate chops another, the man instantly fainting. 

“Mom?” Danny calls out, disbelieving and the woman’s head snaps to them. One of the scientists next to her slumps, revealing a tall man — also in a hazmat suit, who can be no other than Danny’s father as well as who seems to be Danny’s sister. “Dad? Jazz?”

There’s sounds of footsteps behind them and then a sudden heavy thud, and both Danny and Bruce twirl around. Dick is standing above one of the scientists, with his escrima sticks in his hands, grin bloodthirsty. 

“RIC?”

[brisquad-unit-4402]

vanvan bans a man

i had so much fun with that title. you know what else is fun? the jealous vanta kick i’m on atm. i’ve got another possessive vanta fic in the works and really fighting the urge to post jealous krisis (polykrisis even⁉️)

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, hurt/comfort, a bit of angst, protective vanta, reader has a shitty ex-boyfriend, jealousy, vanta calls you "mine" and other subtle possessive dialogue, unspecified what your ex has done in the past, the boys are fightinggggggg

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Unfortunately, a vibrating phone is what wakes you up today. Which is really quite a bummer; you’re used to waking up on your own time in Vanta’s arms, or when he’s the first to rise and you can feel the mattress shift as he gets up.

The phone vibrates again, and you’re inclined to shut your eyes tight and let the text go unanswered, at least until you wake up proper. At the third buzz your mind connects the dots. It’s a call.

Your closed eyes sting as you rub them, then grab the phone with the other hand. The taste of sleepy breath cracks along your tongue as you mumble, “Hello?”

On the other end, you can hear shuffling and slinking, some ambient picture that you don’t have the sense to imagine right now. “Oh, you picked up.”

Your blood runs cold.

Oh, you recognize that voice. You recognize it damn well, no matter how hard you wished you wouldn’t hear it again. You told your ex in no uncertain terms to never contact you again last time you saw his face. He was lucky you couldn’t muster up the courage to curse him out as you broke it off.

Yet here you are, laying in bed at a weak hour. The screen, even in dark mode, singes your sights as you read the current time: 1:19 AM on a weekend night.

“Hey, Reader,” your ex continues, as if he didn’t know his voice was knives under your skin, needling you until something cracked open. “How’s it going?”

“Why are you calling me?” You ask faintly.

“I wanted to see how you were doing,” he says.

You blink, the sleep in your eyes making way for shock. As it subsided, you could feel it growing into a nasty pool of anxiety in your throat. The sheets around you crinkle and shuffle as you repeat, “Why?”

“I dunno, sometimes I just wonder what you’re up to,” your ex drawls. He speaks like a long smoke, cigarette ash dusting his way-too-carefree tongue. “But if you really want to know, I got something to tell you.”

No, no, no. You know where this is going. A thousand rejections rumble up, but your lips are shut, stapled in place by your nerves. The world around you keeps moving while you’re frozen.

“I guess I should continue?” He chuckles for a moment. Smarmy. Incorrigible. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, more than usual. That means there’s something there, right? And I’m not ready to let go of it yet.”

You hear your name but this feels like a trap.

“We should try again,” you ex suggests. You can hear the smile in his voice, the way one corner of his lip curls before the other and the confident eyes. That was charming—until you got used to seeing the damn smirk whenever you apologized for something he should’ve owned up to himself. He’s a master at getting what he wants while casting you off to the side.

You hear your name being called again as you get lost in your haze. “Reader,” Vanta murmurs. He turns to you, looping his sleepy hands around your waist. “Who’re you calling? Tell them I said hello.”

The other line shuffles for a moment. “You’re still with him?”

“Are they talking about me?” Vanta yawns. “Hello.”

Great. Now you’re stuck between two men that care for you: the one that broke your heart time and time again, and a tired tyrant spooning you as he wakes up. At least Vanta’s gentle grasp is grounding you while you can feel your thoughts spiral.

The ex hesitates. “I didn’t think he’d last long,” he says aloud.

“Hey,” Vanta sets his chin on your shoulder. He pouts, ready to whine, but then he glances at the phone screen and the contact name. “Wait, is that…?”

“So you must be the boyfriend.”

“Yeah, this is he. Give me the phone, Reader.”

Passing it off feels like a burden.

Vanta rolls onto his back, but keeps an arm by your waist. You place your hand on his, hoping that the veins and knuckles soothe you as you rub them.

Ex-Boyfriend starts. “Well, I don’t—“

“What the hell is your problem calling at ass o’clock in the morning to harass Reader,” Current Boyfriend snaps. A switch flipped. Usually when he's groggy, his low voice is soothing, but now the rumble of interrupted rest makes his voice growl, dangerous and menacing. "Should I even ask why you thought this was a good idea? The fuck did you think was going to happen? If Reader said you're done, then you're done. You're cooked. Golden brown, deep-fried, burnt to a crisp, cooked. You’re done."

"I don't need your permission to talk to Reader."

"L-O-L? Yes, you do?" Vanta says, so baffled his jaw drops. "If you're going to hit on my partner, I have a right to tell you to eat shit. Not to mention how weird you were in the past, and how weird you are now. Like, if you really cared for Reader you'd delete this number and go on with your life instead of calling like a creep at one in the morning!"

"Fuck off, it was important."

"You fuck off! What's important is that you leave Reader the hell alone.” Vanta practically spits as he hisses at the man on the line, even though his volume is barely below his usual speaking voice. Underneath your grasp, his hand tightens around your waist. The seam of your shirt curls as he pulls you close. “You try that shit again and I’ll tear you apart. Reader’s mine, not yours. Got it?”

He doesn’t even wait for the ex to respond before continuing. “Glad to hear it. Goodnight.” Vanta hangs up without a second thought. You watch the phone’s light illuminate his face as the screen returns to normal, casting a pale glow around his nose and his furrowed brows. “Bitch,” he adds, still frowning at the screen.

Purple eyes glance at you. At the contact, he sighs, placing your phone down so he can wrap both of his arms around you properly. He rests his hand along the back of your neck, thumbing along the soft skin and setting his forehead along yours, eyes now downcast.

“Sorry,” he says, far gentler than when he was on the phone. “I wish you didn’t have to hear any of that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s just the way that he was talking about you, and your history with him was pissing me off. I just couldn’t hold back. I’m—“

“Thank you,” you choke out.

“—Really sorry,” Vanta says at the same time. “Wait, huh?”

But you don’t even respond. Instead you bury yourself into your partner’s chest, trying to control your breathing. You’re overwhelmed with anxiousness but at least Vanta’s shirt smells like him.

His palm goes from your neck down to your back, rubbing circles as you try to calm yourself. Vanta mumbles. It’s muffled through his shirt and arms around you, but you’d assume it’s consoling. His throat hums and vibrates along your temple in soothing rhythms as he speaks.

Now that the emotional overload is dwindling, your grip tightens around him like you’re holding a stress ball. You murmur. “I really didn’t want to talk to him.”

Vanta’s heart breaks at that admission. You feel him readjust his position and hear the telltale pulse of a kiss at the top of your head. “You don’t have to,” he says. “He’s not worth it.

“Makes me sick thinking that some people are so entitled that they can just hurt you and act like nothing happened,” Vanta continues. “You deserve to be treated like royalty, and you deserve better than him. Screw him.”

Your boyfriend pats your back as you recompose yourself. You bitterly cast a glance at the phone, still resting face-down from the call earlier. “I’m sorry you had to take care of it.”

“Don’t feel bad. That’s the bare minimum.” He kisses you again on your forehead. “You just rest, it’s late for you.”

“It’s late for you, too, Vanta.”

“I’ll manage.” He grins. “Gotta protect my baby somehow.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Wait for your love.

content warnings (for the whole series): mentions of drugs and alcohol, age gap, gaslighting, billy being TOXICCCCC, mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, mental health issues,

↳ currently playing ;

Is It Over Now? - 1977

0:56 ——•———————— 3:24

↺       <<          ll          >>    ⋮≡

Y/N: “I really tried so hard to convince Billy that he needed to get clean.” 

“I don’t know what I thought would happen. Maybe I wanted to believe that if I begged hard enough, cried long enough, Billy would finally get it. That he’d see that he was hurting himself, that he was destroying everything. He was destroying the band. He was destroying me.

“But Billy doesn’t work like that. He’s all or nothing, and I was starting to realize I was the ‘nothing.’”

Billy: “We were staring to fight even more. It was nonstop.” 

“Back then, I blamed her. For everything. Now I know that I was a fucking asshole.” 

Y/N: “The fighting…it was bad. I hated fighting with him.” 

“I hated that every time he’d bring up the fact that I was ‘replaceable”, that I was just another pretty face and he could easily find someone like me.” 

“And I know that I bring that up a lot. But when someone tells you that you’re replaceable, that sticks with you. Always. You never forget that because now you constantly think that you are never enough for anything.”

“And you would think that since I finally stood up to him at the party that I would’ve just broken up with him already.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I stayed with him like a fucking idiot.” 

“And a lot of people think that I broke up with him first.” 

“He was the one that decided that we needed a break and that we should just be ‘casual’.” 

   🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

Another fight. You don’t even know how it began, but you didn’t care. 

You stood near the window, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared out at the city lights, your voice sharp and trembling. “I can’t keep doing this, Billy. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when you’re...like this.”

Billy sat slouched on the couch, his head thrown back in frustration. He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Like what, Y/N? Go on, say it. Like the screw-up, right? The addict? The guy you think you’re so much better than?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you snapped, turning to face him. “But you need help, Billy! You’re spiraling, and I can’t just stand here and watch you—”

“Watch me what?” he cut her off, his tone mocking. “Destroy myself? Ruin your perfect little image of me that you have in your head?” He stood abruptly, towering over you. “You think you’re so mature, don’t you? Like you know everything. You’re what, twenty? Twenty-one? You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

Your jaw clenched, you could feel tears form in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m a child. I’ve put up with more than anyone else would.”

Billy scoffed, stepping closer, his voice low and cutting. “Oh, please. You should be grateful I even put up with you. Do you know how many girls would kill to be where you are? To be with me?”

You flinched, his words hitting like a slap. “Grateful?” you echoed, her voice breaking. “Grateful for what? For being constantly told I’m replaceable? That I’m just another pretty face? You don’t even respect me, Billy!”

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Maybe we should take a break,” he said suddenly, his voice laced with cold finality.

Your heart stopped. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, avoiding your eyes. “This...whatever this is, it’s not working. Maybe we should cool it. Be casual.”

“Casual?” she repeated, the word tasting bitter in your mouth. “You want to take a break? After everything?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Maybe we’d be better off that way.”

For a moment, the room was silent. You felt your chest tighten, your breath was shallow. You wanted to scream, to throw something, to make him see what he was doing.

Instead, you turned away and spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what you want, Billy...fine.”

Billy hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else, but instead, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “I’ll see you around,” he muttered before walking out.

The door slammed shut, and you stood frozen, the sound echoing in her ears. You sank onto the couch, tears finally spilling over as the reality of his words hit you.

Casual. A break.

It felt like your entire world was crashing down. 

   🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

Y/N: “When we first “broke up”, we were on and off for about a two months. It was funny actually. Billy could go out and hook up with all the girls he wanted, but if I even got within 6 feet of another guy at like a bar or a party, he’d be right by my side immediately. Acting all tough and protective.” 

Karen: “He acted more like her boyfriend when they were casual more than when they were an actually item. Or actually- I don’t think they ever put a label on their whole situation to begin with. Billy just, expected her to act like a loving supportive girlfriend I guess.” 

“Anyways back to what I was saying, he acted so much more like her boyfriend now. Like I’m talking flowers, gifts, songs dedicated to her at gigs, spontaneous dates, everything. And if this was Y/N from when they first started going out, she would’ve loved it. But the Y/N that was going though it, the one that he broke, she wasn’t having any of it.” 

Y/N: “It was exhausting. Like I couldn’t read his fucking mind. When we were together-together we fought and he would be reminding me that I was replaceable. But when we were casual and I decided to talk to another guy, suddenly, I was his girl again.” 

“I don’t know what was up with him. But maybe he realized that all this time that he told me that I was replaceable, he never realized that he was just as replaceable.”

   🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

The party was in full swing, the air thick with laughter, music, and the faint smell of alcohol. You lean against the counter in the kitchen, sipping a drink as you chatted with a guy, James, a bassist from a smaller band. His jokes had you laughing, his easy demeanor a welcome distraction from a certain someone.

Across the room, Billy was perched on the arm of a couch, a beer in hand, his eyes locked on you. He barely registered Graham’s attempt to pull him into a conversation, too focused on the way you tilted your head back when you laughed, or the way James leaned in a little closer each time you spoke.

Karen appeared beside him, arms crossed. “You’re staring.”

Billy didn’t bother denying it. “What the hell does she think she’s doing?”

Karen smirked. “She’s talking to someone. Which, by the way, she’s allowed to do. You’re the one who wanted things ‘casual,’ remember?”

Billy scowled. “Yeah, well, I didn’t mean like this.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Karen muttered, rolling her eyes as Billy set down his beer and got to his feet. “Here we go again…” Karen mumbles to Graham as she point to Billy.

You only noticed him when he reached you, your smile fading. “Billy,” you said, your voice laced with warning.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Billy said, sliding an arm around your waist like it belonged there. He glanced at you, offering a tight smile. “Who’s this?”

“James,” you said, your voice sharp. “We were just talking.”

“Talking,” Billy echoed, nodding like he was considering the word. “Right. Looked like more than that from over there.”

You pulled away from his grip. “Billy, stop it.”

Billy turned to you, his expression softening in a way that felt like a performance. “Stop what, babydoll? Just saying hi to your friend.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” you hissed.

“Am I?” Billy said, raising an eyebrow. Then, without warning, he cupped your face and kissed you, his lips firm against yours.

You stared at him, stunned, before your shock melted into fury. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you said as James made an awkward exit.

“Relax,” Billy said, shrugging. “Just making sure everything’s clear.”

“It’s not clear, Billy!” you snapped. “We’re not—”

Before you could even finish, he kissed you again, this time softer but still with that same maddening sense of control. When he pulled back, his lips brushed against yours as he murmured, “You talk too much, you know that?”

Your breath hitched, but your glare didn’t waver. “You’re an ass.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning now. “But you like me anyway.”

He leaned in a third time, this kiss slower, deeper, like he had something to prove. By the time he pulled back, your fists were clenched at your sides, you just wanted him to go away.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Billy said, his voice low and coaxing. His hand slid to your waist again, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your dress.

You stepped back, glaring at him. “Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his grin widening as he moved closer. “You don’t really want to be down here talking to him, do you? Let’s get out of here.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said as your voice rose. “You think you can just— just act like this?”

Billy groaned, “Stop overreacting.” 

“No! I’m tired of this Billy! You hook up with girls all the time! But the minute I get close to another guy suddenly you act like you’re my boyfriend! Make up your fucking mind!”

Billy stands there, not saying a word. 

“That’s what I thought.”

You turn your back to him. “If you can’t makeup your mind Billy, we’re done. No more casual shit. We’re done for good.” 

   🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

Y/N: “I was getting sick and tired of everything. I was getting to my breaking point.” 

“I wanted out. So badly. I wanted out.” 

“I didn’t go home with the band that night. I just decided to go back to my apartment alone.” 

She goes quiet

“That night was probably one of the most terrifying nights of my life.”

Warren: “After y/n left, Billy went on a fucking spiral. We all tried to get him to stop. But he just— he wouldn’t.” 

Eddie: “We took our eyes off of him for a minute. We had left him on a couch and we were all getting ready to leave.” 

“But when we looked at the couch, he was gone, and Graham couldn’t find his car keys.” 

Graham: “We all bolted outside, the van was gone, Billy was gone, We put two and two together pretty quickly. Billy had the fucking car, and God knows where he was going.” 

Karen: “I called y/n, I thought maybe she would’ve heard from him. But she hadn’t. Til she did.”

   🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

The phone rang, sharp and jarring in the suffocating silence of your apartment. You stared at it, dread already curling in your chest. It was late, too late for anyone to be calling unless it was bad news. Slowly, you lifted the receiver, your hand trembling.

“Hello?”

“Don’t hang up.” Billy’s voice was slurred, each word dragging, his tone uneven and teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

Your heart plummeted. “Billy?” you whispered, already knowing the answer. “Are you drunk?”

He laughed bitterly, the sound crackling through the line like static. “What do you think?”

“Where are you?” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, panic rising like a tide.

“Driving.”

 “You’re what?”

“Relax,” he drawled, the casualness in his voice making your stomach churn. “I’m fine. Better than fine.”

“You’re not fine!” you shouted, gripping the phone so tightly the cord twisted in your hand. “Pull over. Billy, for the love of God, pull over!”

“Why?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery. “You don’t care anymore, remember? You said you were done with me. So why do you care what I do?”

“Because I don’t want you to kill yourself, you idiot!” Your voice cracked, tears already spilling over.

There was silence on the other end, save for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rush of passing cars. You clutched the phone like it was the only thing tethering you to him, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

“Maybe that’s what I should do,” he muttered, the words barely audible but hitting you like a punch to the gut. “You’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” you choked out, panic clawing at your throat. “Billy, please. Just pull over. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you. We can talk—”

“Talk?” He cut you off with a harsh laugh, but there was something broken beneath it, something that made your chest ache. “You don’t want to talk. You want to fix me. Newsflash, sweetheart—I’m beyond fixing.”

“Stop it!” you screamed, your voice shaking with desperation. “Stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!”

“Good,” he spat. “Maybe you should be scared. Maybe then you’ll understand how it feels. How you make me feel.”

Your knees buckled, and you slid down the wall, the phone cord stretching taut as you sank to the floor. “Billy, I’m begging you,” you whispered, tears streaming down your face. “Just stop. Pull over. Please.”

For a moment, you thought he might listen. The line went quiet, save for the sound of his breathing. But then he spoke, his voice low and cold.

“You made your choice, Y/N. You’re done with me, right? Fine. Let’s see how you feel when I’m really gone.”

The line went dead.

“Billy? Billy!” You screamed into the receiver, the sound echoing in the emptiness of your apartment. But there was nothing—just the hollow, unrelenting silence.

You fumbled with the rotary dial, your fingers trembling so violently it took you several tries to get Karen’s number. When she finally picked up, her voice was a lifeline.

“Karen,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “Billy’s driving- He’s drunk- He called me, but I don’t know where he is.”

Karen swore under her breath, her voice tight with fear. “We’re looking for him. He took the van. Just try to calm down Y/N. We’ll find him.”

The line went dead again, and you were left alone with your thoughts, each one darker than the last. You pressed your hands to your face, rocking back and forth as sobs wracked your body.

  🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

Y/N: “I waited by the phone for about 30 minutes, but it felt like hours. I just… I sat there, frozen. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, what do you do when someone you love is so determined to self-destruct?”

Eddie: “We found the van on the side of the road eventually. It was pulled over halfway into a ditch, and Billy was just sitting there, slumped over the steering wheel like he didn’t care if the whole world fell apart around him.”

Karen: “When we got to him, he wouldn’t even look at us. Just kept asking for her. For Y/N. Over and over, like we weren’t even there.”

Y/N: “Karen called me and told me they’d found him, but she said he was asking for me. I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t—because I knew if I saw him like that, I’d break. But at the same time, I couldn’t just leave him.”

Billy: “I don’t remember much from that night. Just that I felt like everything was slipping away. The band, Y/N… all of it. And I didn’t know how to stop it. So, yeah, I got in the van, and I drove. Stupid, right?”

Y/N: “When I got there, he looked at me like I was his lifeline. Like I was the only thing keeping him afloat. And part of me wanted to be that for him, but another part of me… I was angry. I was so, so angry.”

Billy: “She looked at me like I was the biggest disappointment in the world. And, hell, maybe I was. But I couldn’t lose her. Not her. So I said whatever I thought would make her stay.”

Y/N: “He kept saying he’d change. That he’d fix everything. But how many times can you hear the same promise before you realize it’s empty?”

Karen: “That night should’ve been a wake-up call for all of us. For him. But it wasn’t. Not really.”

Y/N: “I realized I really couldn’t save him. No matter how much I wanted to.”

“But that didn’t stop me from taking him back.” 

“We started the whole cycle again. Except…this time— when I was done, I really was done. 

  🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

You and the band were rehearsing for a gig. Your gig. It had been a year since your 1st album came out and the label thought it would be the perfect time to announce your very first tour. 

It had been about a month since the van incident, and you would think that you and Billy would be good, better than before. But you weren’t. 

You were worse. And you didn’t know how much you could take anymore. 

You thought that after everything, he would stop. The drugs, drinking, cheating, everything.

But he didn’t. You were back to square one. 

And you were the idiot that took him back. 

You had been acting off all day, during rehearsals you were in a daze, your mind wandering to all the things that had gone wrong lately. Every note you sang felt hollow, every lyric a cruel reminder of how much your life had spiraled.

Karen kept shooting you concerned glances. Warren tried cracking a joke to lighten the mood, but you barely registered it. Even Billy had noticed.

"Y/N, you good?" he asked during a break, leaning in close like he cared. But his tone carried a sharp edge—like he was annoyed more than worried.

"I'm fine," you said quickly, brushing him off.

But you weren’t, and as show time came closer, that urge. That horrible urge came back. 

The bottle was right there. Right on your vanity. 

Sure you had only been clean for about 3 months, but you needed it. 

"Y/N, you’re on in ten!" a stagehand called through the door, snapping you out of your haze.

Your hand recoiled like the bottle had burned you, and you stood up too quickly, the room tilting slightly. You gripped the edge of the vanity to steady yourself, inhaling sharply. But you couldn’t resist. Before you knew it, you were drinking straight from the bottle. 

The first song started okay. Your voice was steady, and you kept your eyes on the crowd, pretending you couldn’t feel the way your legs shook beneath you.

But by the second song, your mind began to race.

Billy was standing off to the side of the stage, leaning against an amp with his arms crossed. His gaze was locked on you, intense and unreadable.

It was suffocating.

Your vision started to blur, and the world seemed to spin. Your hands gripped the mic stand so tightly your knuckles turned white.

You missed a lyric.

The band hesitated, just for a beat, but they kept playing. You tried to jump back in, but your voice wavered, cracking mid-note.

The crowd noticed.

A ripple of confusion moved through the audience.

And then it happened. The panic hit you like a wave, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Your chest tightened, your hands went numb, and the lights felt blindingly bright.

You stepped back, shaking your head as the band kept playing, unsure what to do.

"I—" you managed to say, your voice barely audible, before you turned and bolted off the stage.

  🎶 .·:*¨🎶💋🎶¨*:·. 🎶

Karen: "We didn’t know what was happening. She just... ran. One minute she was there, and the next, she was gone."

Billy: “I ran to her greenroom, but her stuff was gone. Everything except the heart shaped guitar pick necklace that I had given her as a gift.” 

Warren: "We didn’t hear from her for days. No calls, no messages. Nothing. It was like she disappeared."

Eddie: “We all decided that we were gonna go by her place after a week with no contact. But when we got there, it was empty. Completely.” 

Graham: “We went back to our place to try to call her again, and someone did finally pick up the phone. But it wasn’t her, it was Teddy.” 

Karen: “He told us that he knew where she was and to not worry.”

“But Billy demanded to know where she was.” 

Billy: “He wouldn’t tell us. He wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“She was just gone.” 

Y/N: Quiet at first

“I always thought I was like Billy at first. I thought we were the same. Then I thuought that I could fix him."

"But I realized I didn’t want to be like him anymore. I didn't want to be the one responsible for fixing him. I didn’t want to be chasing my next high all the time. I didn’t want to be waiting for him at the end of everyday. I didn’t want to fall asleep crying anymore. I didn’t want to feel this pain anymore.”

“I wanted better for myself.” 

“So I decided to leave L.A.”  

A/N: DRAMMAMAMAMAMMMAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

ok this OFFICIALLY marks the end of 1977. and now begins readers YEAR LONG disappearance.

i really hope u guys enjoyed this one, i LOVED putting this together and like it is my favorite part i've written so far.

(REQUESTS R OPEN IF U GUYS WANNA CHAT ABT THIS PART TOO!!)

[mimzywhimsy]

I'd love to hear your thought's on Max's recent promo, if you wanna share

I think that the story Max Caster is trying to tell has two major themes, both of which have connections to his actual life.

The first and most obvious is: When do you quit your life's dream, if you keep failing at it?

He says it in the most recent promo itself. He's the only one that believes in himself at this point. On one hand, it seems incredibly delusional. He's losing every week. Badly. As the camera guy himself points out, he hasn't won since the last presidency- when he was still part of The Acclaimed.

On the other hand...isn't Working Hard and Never Giving Up one of THE traits of being a babyface in American wrestling? I think that's one of the reasons people have started actually chanting for him. The camera guy says they never chase down losers like this but how can they not, when Max is one of the most interesting things on the show right now?

This isn't the first time he's "failed" at wrestling, either. The newest album released on his bandcamp are tracks he wrote 2017-2019, during what I guess we could call his first Flop Era. He'd had a string of bad luck at the time. A serious knee and jaw injury from slipping in the ring, and getting dumped by his gf, led him to spiral into a truly dark mental space.

And what seemed to help lift him out of his severe depression actually WAS his egotism! He is very self aware about the fact that his narcissism is a coping mechanism lol. (He raps about it in his Quarantine Demo album).

Which is why this line:

I got dropped on my head, it hurts. I lost again, it hurts. Every day I wake up HURT, and I tell myself that I'm the best.

is so poignant to me. Convincing himself that he's the best is the only thing that keeps him going in life.

But! I think there is a second, more hidden meaning to this video! Something I have privately coined "The public hellishness of Max Caster's existence."

Within the first minute of the promo video, directly after taking what is possibly his most embarrassing loss yet, Max Caster:

-Is chased down by the cameraman

-Therefore cannot avoid leaning over to throw up while on camera

-Is then catcalled by several female security guards and called out to by a well meaning fan, despite clearly being in distress

I don't think that last part was scripted, but BOY does it tie into the complaints he's made about being objectified in his more recent music. Like, admittedly, when I first heard those complaints I kinda rolled my eyes because oh, the super sexual super hot guy is getting objectified now? You don't say! But having seen what must be a fraction of the weekly bullshit he has to put up with, I get it now! It fucking sucks to be reduced to that when going through it!

And speaking of going through it- imagine if YOUR repeated, embarrassing failures at achieving your dreams were broadcast worldwide for people to laugh at. I don't think that the cameraman talking to him as a cameraman, or Max reaching to pull the boom mic into the frame, were a coincidence. I think they are deliberately calling attention to the camera, the artifice of television, which Max is trying to escape from.

And if you think that's a reach, this is the album cover for Streaming on Max, which was released at the very start of his current storyline.

tl;dr Max is drawing from his experiences with failure and the inherent dehumanization that comes from being on TV. Literal cinema!

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

Yes Asoiaf horror concepts part two!! The way GRRM writes horror is so fascinating and interesting to me. What happened with Aerea, the magical experiments going on in Essos/Asshai, blood magic, the entire continent of Sothoryos, what happened to the Sun Chaser when it tried sailing west, the Boltons..yeah I could go on. I’ve always loved imagining the Targaryens as having a lot of gothic and even vampiric themes, and this ties well in with horror too. The concept of Valyria in it’s prime has always intrigued me as well, an incredibly advanced ancient empire full of magic, sorceries and dark arts? Sign me up.

With what you said about Dany encountering her ancestors on Dragonstone, I like to imagine her being so magical and powerful that she literally goes beyond the limits of time and space, her magic rippling through history and making contact with her ancestors. Them having dragon dreams and visions about her years before her time, the places where she currently is in in present time at Dragonstone becoming a pathway between past and present, her ancestors being able to catch fleeting glimpses of her walking down the same hallway as them or across the room from where they are, despite them having been alive years and years apart. And vice versa, her seeing and hearing her ancestors clearly too, like when she saw Rhaegar in HOTUD. Sometimes they can see her, sometimes they can not. Maybe some glass candles could help amplify this. Not really horror, though. But on the topic of Dragonstone, I could definitely imagine it being Haunted by those who have died there such as Rhaena’s friends. They can be seen from afar, wandering the misty shores early in the mornings, leaving behind bloody footprints in their wake.

I love the idea of ghosts representing people’s regrets or those they have wronged coming back to haunt them. There is so much to be done there with what we have in canon. Helaena driven to insanity by the ghost of Jaehaerys, looking exactly as he did, after the incident. How he’s always there, always behind her, speaking though he possesses no mouth to do so with, asking her why. He is her guilt personified and she can never escape him. Aemond being tormented by the ghosts of the Strongs that he put to the sword, the environment of Harrenhal and Alys presence only amplifying this. Jaehaerys being haunted by the ghost of Daenerys after her passing, always thinking that he sees her from the corner of his eye, but she’s never there whenever he turns his head. How he thinks he hears her calling for him, but there is no one there when he looks up. How he cannot help but regret how he took her for granted, not appreciating her enough when she was still there. How it wasn’t enough to keep him from repeating the same mistake. Alicent in her last years being continuously tormented by the ghosts of those she knew; her children, grandchildren, Otto. And that of those she wronged; Rhaenyra most of all, Rhaenyra’s children, Viserys, even Aemma, Laenor. She keeps seeing blood on her hands that nobody else can see, blood that won’t wash away no matter how hard she tries. Keep seeing herself dressed in green even though she is not, tearing her clothes to tatters as she keeps spiraling.

As for the Boltons, they’re a perfect representation of horror in Asoiaf. Their residence being called the Dreadfort is fitting for sure. I’ve always thought them to be inspired by vampires. Especially since the Starks have their wolf theme going on, and therefore it would be the classic Werewolf versus Vampire conflict seen in media. Since they kept the skinning tradition, why not go a step further have them consume their victims? The winters are harsh after all, and who are they to deny some extra meat for supper? Residents and visitors would definitely have visions of the walls bleeding and hear echoes of distant screams always ringing in their ears. Ramsay himself is something that’s stepped out of a nightmare…

With how superstitious the smallfolk are, I can definitely see them being terrified of the Red Keep, Harrenhall and other such places, many of them not even daring to venture near them after hearing such tales, especially if they were to be true. For example; Naerys, ghostly and pale, dressed in a white shroud and weeping blood. Forever wandering the halls and looking for her lost children. Her lost brother. Lost mother. Lost freedom. Life. Wandering and weeping. The smallfolk and servants swear that she only appears before something bad is going to happen and something important is going to get lost/taken. Most often they are right.

The North, being strongly connected to magic, must have things going on. The Starks seeing faraway figures wandering the misty plains, never being able to catch up to them somehow despite riding quickly. Cryptids living in the forests and on the old ancient grounds there. Sort of reminiscent of the folklore of the Appalachian Mountains. In contrast I also think Dorne has the potential to have some interesting stuff. And the Greyjoys definitely do too, sea/pirate related horror stuff has always been a favorite of mine.

Omgggg I love the idea of Dany stretching across the timeline!! I don't know if you've seen Haunting of Hill House, but I could totally see it as something like the Bent Neck Lady, except without the dying lmao. I'd love to see maybe how she is the one in all the Prince that was Promised visions, as well as her family seeing her in waking moments.

The glass candles as a concept are so fascinating to me. Like we know what they do, but we also have yet to see them in action, so there's still this air of mystery around them. We also don't know if they'll function differently for a Targaryen/Valyrian vs anyone else. Like do they still work properly?

Canon aside, there's so much potential for them to be used in a horror context! Like calling across time. The user witnessing events a past user has seen. Or someone becoming trapped in a constant loop within them, only being able to communicate with the outside when they're lit.

I'm a big fan of the whole ghosts as guilt thing, and it fits so well in ASOIAF! Like we already see a bit of that in Jaime, but I think it'd fit super well with other characters. Maybe Cersei being haunted by Joffrey after the Purple Wedding as her sanity deteriorates.

The Boltons are definitely a house I've associated with cannibalism a lot lmao. You're so right about the long winters, but I could totally see it being applied as a torture method. The Boltons are known for being exceptionally cruel to their prisoners and we know they're not above starving them. Once the prisoners reach a certain point, do the rally care what or who this meat came from?

I think the Boltons' seeming hereditary psychopathic tendencies could also be traced to that cannibalistic tradion. No one's ever the same after consuming human flesh, and maybe if you eat enough, your whole family changes with you.

Vampirism definitely fits really well with them, and I think it fits especially well with Theon's storyline. Like the violation of his body, his loss of autonomy and identity, a new and almost unrecognizable face, and a bond to his sire. It's all so reminiscent of a vampire story. Plus Theon at this point of the books is left unable to function the way "normal" humans do. The only one who could truly relate to him is the only other person to endure something similar to him: Jeyne Poole.

The Red Keep has a lot of potential for a good haunting. It was kind of hinted at, I think, in one of Arya's chapters in AGOT, the one where she finds the dragon skulls. Even if that was just her getting freaked out by the skeletons, what if the dragons remained in some way? Trapped underneath the Keep and the ruins of the Dragonpit. They roar and cry out still when KL or the Keep is under attack, still trying to escape or defend themselves.

The Targaryens were very connected to their dragons, so, if the dragons linger, so would they. In that vein, maybe when a new rider claims an old dragon, they can feel the dragon's past riders. Sometimes they feel like someone else is trying to guide their dragon.

Maybe Aerea tried to communicate with the past riders and followed Balerion's original one to Valyria then was guided home by another. Maybe as Aemond struggled with the chains binding him to Vhagar, he felt Laena and Baelon keeping him in place as Daemon's sword plunged toward him.

In Dorne, maybe they still feel the magic the Rhoynar used to have. Like in the rivers you could hear the cries of those who didn't survive the journey. Or maybe even spirits who wander the shores, looking for lost loved ones. The seas become more treacherous than usual when invaders attempt to sail across them. Maybe part of the reason Meraxes was felled was because the skies became strangely misty when she flew above Dorne.

The Greyjoys have always felt very Lovecraftian to me, though that's mostly because of Euron lmao. However, I think that could still be applied to the house as a whole. When I say Lovecraftian, I'm pretty much only thinking of Cthulhu.

The Drowned God definitely shares some characteristics with Cthulhu, however, so does the Storm God. Perhaps the two are more connected than the Iron Islanders realize. Euron may have discovered something on his travels that led to his apocalyptic desires. Maybe their God wishes to rise again and destroy the world as we know it, and Euron serves him.

The worship of the Drowned God is also pretty dependent on human sacrifice, some even believing mass drowning strengthens him. Obviously he's not just straight Cthulhu, maybe the Drowned God will preserve his servants and lead them to rape, pillage, and drown all the world.

In a different, much less overtly evil direction, maybe the Iron Islanders, particularly the Greyjoys are simply bound to the sea. Their souls remain in the depths, sometimes helping and sometimes interfering with those who sail on their waters. The Greyjoys could become krakens upon their deaths, forever kept in the sea they love. They're still holding onto old grudges, attacking the ships of their enemies in their new forms.

However, as the Iron Islands departed from the Old Way and their religion, the spirits and krakens weakened. Greyjoy krakens hibernating far from the surface, fading with old spirits as their hold on the sea weakens.

I really love doing this, so if you, anon, or anyone else has any other ASOIAF horror ideas, hmu!

[11queensupreme11]

HAVE YOU SEEN THE LATEST CHAPTER OF SAKAMOTO DAYS 💀

oh boy i need to rant about this manga 😭😭😭

putting it under the cut cuz i know so far one of my followers watches the anime and idk if they read the manga too or are caught up

i feel like this manga is spiraling downwards so fast for many different reasons and if you're active on the sakadays twitter, discord, and reddit, you might be familiar with these reasons!

first off, takazuki

i thought it was sooooo slay of uzuki to slice takamura in half and inherit a "takamura" personality, but man did my opinion change hella fast. i really liked that uzuki had no control of takamura! it made him a wild card and it made him a danger to both the slurries AND the good guys. but then we started getting more and more takazuki and less of the REAL uzuki. i thought for sure there was gonna be some chapters about the slurries being concerned for uzuki cuz their brother isn't their brother anymore, or maybe even some in-depth mini arc about uzuki trying to regain control and come out stronger than ever.......

but no, uzuki is just entirely reliant on the takamura personality now. every time there's a fight, it's not UZUKI fighting, but takazuki now. i was so excited in the previous chapter when he pulled out his sword whip cuz i was like "omg yes! it's the real uzuki fighting!" but nope, he switched to the katana and uzuki was shoved back and it's takazuki again

i get that he's supposed to be something like chrollo; cool, mentally ill fr, has an ability that lets him copy other ppl's abilities.... but with chrollo, he made those abilities HIS OWN. and with uzuki, he's not in control of those abilities, they're in control of him. i get it with the whole inaccurate DID thing where he switches between personalities, but i was really hoping uzuki would at least try to fight back against the takamura personality and gain skills from it, because right now, he's supposed to be the main antagonist, but it's takamura doing all the work for him 💀

secondly.... the villains.

the slurries are supposed to be the main antagonists here and they've been reduced to... team rocket 😭😭😭

no seriously, they never win. the only win they had was with kumanomi who rocked hyo's shit and killed him. she was so cool and that scene cemented her as a villain to be wary about, but now she's the punching bag of the entire manga. she keeps getting hit and one-shotted over and over again and it completely demeaned her previous win against hyo. also, it made hyo's death lose it's impact cuz at the rate this is going, his killer's about to be bald with how many times ppl keep cutting her damn hair 💀

the slurries are just soooooo unthreatening. they got aura and cool panels for sure, but whenever they show up, i know whatever plans they get are going to be foiled, one of their members is probs gonna die, and others are gonna lose whatever fight they're in.

they are literally like the team rocket of sakadays 😭 they show up, have some cool panels or two, get the plans foiled, and lose terribly. it's rinse and repeat all over again. these are supposed to be our main villains but there is NOTHING threatening about them anymore.

gaku's been mia, but before that, he's lost every major battle he's been in.

haruma is dead (rip bro 😞)

tenkyu showed up and got his ass whooped by shin (tho i'm actually fine with that since that was a shin training arc) but now he's also mia and probably still stuck in prison

kumanomi was the only one prior to uzuki who killed an order member and now she's reduced to a punching bag and laughing stock

uzuki is their leader and the main villain, but he's currently being carried by an OP geriatric who does all the fighting for him

gozu just appeared, but i already know that he's gonna lose his fight because the slurries ALWAYS lose. it's hard to take them seriously at all

thirdly... there are no stakes 💀

"oh but queen! all of japan was literally in the hunger games thanks to uzuki! over 300,000 civilians have already died!"

okay but nobody gives a shit about them 💀 i'm sorry but who gives a shit about these random ass civilians that we don't know of. we don't know their stories, we've never been introduced to them. the only civilians that we know about and heavily care about are aoi and hana and they were revealed to be perfectly fine after ONE chapter

(actually aoi is fine, we don't know about hana yet, but judging how calm everyone else is, she's probably ok too)

not only that, but the whole "plunge japan in a hunger games muahaha" plan was foiled in like.... 3 fucking chapters 💀 so much for that. it didn't last long at all lmao. again, another example of how the slurries + new order are basically the team rocket of sakadays. their evil plans get foiled so easily and so quickly

and fourthly... the good guys have it too good

every fight is predictable because we know that not only are they going to win whatever fight they're in, but they're gonna come out of it unscathed with maybe like a few bruises and cuts

have you noticed that in most of shin's fights lately, there's always a panel of him going "oh no! i can't move anymore!" in the middle of a fight and then he's fighting perfectly fine in the next panel 💀 or him going on about how he's overtaxing his brain with his ESP but then he's up and running and perfectly fine 💀

even in this latest fight with shin vs uzuki. while i'm not upset about atari showing up and saving him with the whole "quantum tunnel" thing (her power is luck and all, so it fits perfectly), the fact that the fight is even HAPPENING in the first place has me baffled cuz like....... what is the point of this???? why have shin fight THE MAIN FUCKING VILLAIN right now? we all know he's gonna escape or win anyway, but that'd just make uzuki/the slurries+new order look even more lame.

the manga is just becoming very predictable right now, but i'm especially disappointed with the main villains. they're just sooooo painfully lame (and by they, i mean the slurries mostly). they're the team rocket of the verse, impossible to take seriously.

[sannirio]

safe and sound [pt 2.]

part. 1 part. 3

wc: 1456

dom san x amab sub reader

18+ MINORS DNI 「im serious」

cw - non!idol au, werewolf san, size kink, mention of death, mention of anxiety and anxiety attacks.

A/N it's here! sorry it took so long to put out. part 3 will come asap lol

a soft light woke you up, the warmth of the light was accompanied by the warmth of san’s body and the steady rising and falling of his chest. his arms were still wrapped around you, one hand was on your hair the other around your waist. lowering your head back down onto his chest you took a breath in. he smelled so good, sweet, floral, his body was like a massive pillow, it was so soft, even his muscles were comforting. while you were distracted by his body you heard a yawn and felt his hand, the one on your head, move softly brushing your hair. 

“mmmmmh, good morning sweetheart” he mumbled, planting a kiss on your forehead. “how did you sleep?” “i slept really good” you whispered in response. with how fast and hard you fell asleep, good was an understatement, perfect was more accurate. he smiled looking down at you, squeezing your waist slightly. “shall we eat hun?” san asked. you nodded your head yes, you were so hungry. 

you sat down by the fire pit, which had been re lit. san was busy in the corner where he had been the day prior, making food. the current situation was so weird, stuck in a cave, completely lost, with a man, no werewolf, a handsome one, but a werewolf? 

you couldn’t help but wonder what someone else would’ve done in your situation. run? maybe. but san was too kind. the thought of your friends slipped back into your mind again. right now? san must have noticed how you were feeling because he was by your side within a second. “are you ok? what’s wrong” worry plastering his voice. “nothing.” it wasn’t nothing, obviously. tears started to well up in the corners of your eyes until they spilled over, running down your soft face. it hurt a lot, not knowing what your friends were thinking, not knowing where they were. everything you felt the night prior came surging back into your consciousness. you could feel your heart racing, getting to a point where it made you dizzy. an anxiety attack. perfect. san pulled you into his lap, wiping your tears away “what’s wrong?” he asked.  he started rubbing your back trying to calm the shaking. although speaking was hard, you were able to get out a few words. “i miss my friends” the sentence stung, unfortunately adding to the spiral you were heading down. 

those words hit san like a truck. obviously he knew you’d miss them, you had no idea where you were or where your friends were. he wasn’t planning on keeping you here for long to begin with, but hearing you so upset tore him apart. “is there anything i can do baby?” trying to be as soft as possible not wanting you to hear his sudden wave of sadness. all you could do was nod. san kept on rubbing your back, moving his hand in predictable circles, trying to get your mind onto the rhythm of his movement instead of focusing on the things you were thinking about right now. the two of you could talk about that later. “look at me” he whispered, you did, tears still streaming down your face. “breath with me” 

san took a breath in, keeping his eyes locked with yours. you followed along, taking a shallow shakey breath. “good job” he said “again” you both took a deep breath, this time yours was a bit more calm than the last. “good job” san repeated. the back rubs were definitely helping. a few more breaths later and the continuous circular motion of his hands, most of the anxious feeling was gone. your heart still hurt but you could breath more or less. 

“do you want to talk about your friends” san asked, he tried to be as careful as possible, he didn’t want you to feel any worse than you do. “yeah,” the shakiness hadn’t completely left your body. “what’s wrong, what about your friends is making you upset?” “i miss them, i don’t know if they think i’m dead, they could be so worried. i just want to see them.” san felt his heart sink. he wanted you to be 100% well so you could leave, but seeing how upset you are was to much. “i’m sorry honey, you need to feel 100%, i don’t want you to get hurt again.” you knew that already, obviously you couldn’t just waltz your way back, you didn’t have the strength for that. “i know” you spoke very softly, the anxiety you had just felt honestly wore you out. “you need to eat” san said putting you back down on the floor and proceeding to standing up. “i think you’ll feel better after and we can talk about your friends while you eat.” 

after you had eaten, and spent time talking about your friends, the two of you were sitting at the edge of the cave. you hadn't realized how high up you two were. the entrance of the cave was basically just at the edge of a cliff. “its so pretty” you thought. the trees below were beautiful, moss was scatered around the edge of the cliff. “why did you go camping again?” san asked. you looked at him and smiled. “well, the three of us don’t go out much because of university so we decided to go camping, we like autumn a lot and it was the only week we could all go.” san was looking at you with just as much interest as he had during lunch. he smiled “that sounds so sweet. i wish i could go out camping with friends.” san then turned to look out the cave entrance and sighed. “you should come with us next time!” excitement evident on your face. he looked back at you smiling sadly. that look was upsetting, he looked tired somehow. as if he read your mind he finally spoke again. “i would love to but i can’t.” that was confusing, why couldn’t he? he's still somewhat human right? “when i turn, it’s hard to control myself.” san looked even more sad than before. “what does that mean.” you were now looking at him, “well im an animal when i turn, like a regular wolf, i'm dangerous.” 

you thought for a second. “but you didn't hurt me when you found me.” the proceeding silence was tense. the only thing that was audible was the sound of running water, possibly from a waterfall, off in the distance. minutes passed, san didn’t say anything at all. you felt awkward, had you said something wrong? rude? offensive? “i'm… i'm sorry” you stuttered “i didn’t mean to..” san cut you off, turning to you quickly. “no, it’s ok.” he spoke softly his face mere inches from yours. you could feel his breath brush your face. you could tell you were getting red. this was totally the wrong time but you couldn’t help but look down at his lips. “you’re different” san whispered, matching your dropping gaze. “how?” “you’re the first person that i’ve been able to control myself against. i didn’t hurt you.” somehow that sentence made your already aching heart flutter. san put his hand on your face slowly moving it from your cheek to your chin, lifting your face up to meet his gaze. his lips snatched away from your view. not fair! you felt sans thumb graze your lips. the sensation of his soft finger made you shiver. “you’re so beautiful” san whispered. the phrase was like music. “i want to protect you, keep you safe. i’ve never been able to keep my instincts from taking over, but for you, your presence keeps me human.” 

you could melt at that very moment. you felt drunk, his words were intoxicating. before you could react or respond san kissed you, his lips connecting with yours, it was like a pillow. you breathed in sharply before reciprocating his kiss, you wanted to be his. just this kiss was enough to make you pass out. san pulled you onto his lap continuing to kiss you. he broke away for just a second. “if you want me to stop please tell me and i will.” you nodded, showing you understood. the safety net was reassuring but you wanted him, all of him. your lips connected with his once again. san stood up still kissing you. he wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto your butt to keep you from falling down. something about this swift motion reminded you just how large he was compared to you, he could easily overpower you, and do what he wanted to you, something about that was right though, that's exactly what you wanted to happen. 

sannirio©

[offbrandkyoya]

60 scara the widower

previous | masterlist | next

Scaramouche is very lonely. He’s never felt so empty before. He misses you so much, like he’ll ever admit that. Practices were okay. It made him want to gauge his eyes out but anything for his fans.

Scaramouche turns off the music and sits on the floor while taking a sip of water. He’s sweating like crazy and he feels his head spiral. The boys trained separately for 3 hours and the rest is practicing together. Currently, Scaramouche is separated from the others. He kind of missed the loud noises.

He closes his water bottle before staring at the ceiling. He wanted to call you, see how you were doing but his phone got taken away. He wouldn’t get it back till the end of the day which was at night. He didn’t like the idea calling you at night since he cares about your health. Kind of hypocritical since he didn’t care much about his own.

Scaramouche pulls his knees up and rests his chin. “I miss yn…” He mumbled. He’s all alone so he didn’t care about speaking out loud. It’s just him and his thoughts. “Why did I sign up for this if it meant id be away from them?” He sighs before standing up. “I hope they’re okay.” He knows that people at your campus don’t like you at all and he can’t help but worry. You have Thoma and now…

“Fuck.” He says, remembering he’s keeping a secret from you. Scaramouche runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t like the idea of not telling you about Albedo and Kaeya. Obviously, it was none of your business to know their relationship but he fears something will happen to your friendship. You get along well with Albedo that he can’t help but think, if Kaeya spills the truth, Albedo would no longer want to be associated with you.

Not only him but Thoma as well. The blonde has some kind of relationship with Diluc and that can also ruin everything. Scaramouche just wants to make sure that you don’t only have him or 5WIRL. He growls, “I’m not their mom.” His face softens, “Still, I love-“ The door opens and enters his manager.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I interrupting?” He hated her guts. Getting special treatment is kind of annoying. Yet, he doesn’t want to cause any problems so he acts oblivious. “No, I was just relaxing.” “I see but don’t relax too much.” Scaramouche nods and his manager closes the door, walking closer to him. “Listen, Scaramouche.” She rubs her hands.

“About that concert where you…had a reaction…” Scaramouche raises a brow but says nothing. “I need you to be focused. It’s not that I’m angry at you. I’m just concerned. You need to learn how to control your emotions. We don’t want you to look bad in front of everyone.” Scaramouche felt his insides boil. How was he supposed to know his mom was gonna show up that night? He hasn’t seen that woman in years.

“Okay.” Was all he said and she smiles. “Good. Gosh, you’re a much better listener than the rest. Out of all of them you have the most potential considering-“ She paused. “Considering?” He repeats. Her smile falters but continues, “Nothing. You’re just better. So much better that, you can be the new leader.” His eyes widen and she laughs. “Just a suggestion.” “What about Venti?”

Suddenly, she frowns. “He’ll leave. He’s been here long enough and Zhongli isn’t easy to beat. I guess his time has run out. He’s pretty much a nuisance and does nothing but mistakes. Honestly, he should’ve given up long ago.” Scaramouche doesn’t say anything and she smiles again. “Well enough of that. Continue doing what you’re doing.”

She walks to the door but turns back around. “Oh right, I’ve been meaning to tell you; take off that ring. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.” Then she left. Scaramouche brings his hand up to look at the ring. “Like hell I’m taking this off.”

Scaramouche felt sour after hearing all that. Him? The new leader? He scoffs at the thought. “As if.” He’s pretty unstable, mentally and emotionally, so he wouldn’t be right for the job. Plus, Ventis a good leader. He’s confused on his relationship with Zhongli so he can’t really say much on that. Scaramouche heads to the boombox and turns the music back on to continue practicing.

- I watched Barbie

- I also started watching legend of korra after avoiding it for so long

- I love mako

- 🩷

🏷️ @sakiimeo @coquettemaiden @rmiyuki @kur44pika @theblueblub @jxxji0309 @dreamsofminnie @ohmyfinggod @redactedhimbo @kunisbeloved @akagism2 @sketcheeee @thefandomcrow @beriiov @thenightsflower @yukiipc @scaraapologist @scarletttcroww @samyayaya @crucnhice @monaypo1 @feiherp @myaaones @warcelia @hangecanweholdhands @yuminako @valiryyz @screechingxiaolover @tiddieshakeshownu @ilovechuuyaa @d4y-dr3am3r @dazaisfavgf @swivy123 @ganyusbrideee @sagegreenthinks @the-left-glove @wonderland-fan @kylexzz @kaoyamamegami @whycantscarabereal @rvoulte @eunchaeluvr @lxkeeeee @silvermah @baby-bread-in @yelleloww @magica-ren @itzblazekun @im-inlovewithy0u @featuredtofu @ynverse @anastaxiah

[intothedraft]

Chapter 7: The author REALLY has a crush on Jezirah

Layane had settled down in a hammock, and was wearing some of Jez’s clothes, which were too small and were extremely tight around her stomach. Layane had always thought she was maybe a little bit big, but not exactly fat, but these clothes made her think so. Jez was currently wearing a very baggy dress but Layane could almost tell how tiny she really was.

My favourite thing about this is that presumably Jez's clothes are of the 'one size fits all' variety from draft 1, i.e. the extra arm holes disappeared when Layane put them on. But they also stay the same size, because I really wanted Layane to be thinking about the exact shape of Jez's body.

Layane asks Jez why she's so thin.

“Well, I don’t eat much and I live up a tree, that’s exercise whenever I get home, and anyway, I have to be, I wouldn’t let myself get too fat in a million years.”

I blame the general atmosphere of the early aughts for this.

“Actually I’ve never thought of it really,” said Jez. “Maybe it was the potion…”

I'd probably ask what 'the potion' is if I was Layane, but apparently Layane is very tired and goes to sleep instead. Even though she was just asleep for... sixteen hours, the narration confirms. But Jez mentions that the boat releases some kind of knock-out gas when you're travelling down that massive staircase, presumably so you don't go insane seeing the same marble designs repeating over and over for hours. Maybe Layane is tired because of its lingering effects?

Anyway.

Enough of that. Enough of the author's blatant crush on Jezirah. It no longer matters, because it's time for an important introduction. Say hello to the second half of the author's OTP from before she knew what an OTP was:

If you haven't seen the post I made about this, I decided to introduce Roen, a male love interest for Layane, after realising that my books had shockingly few male characters.

(In the most recent drafts, Roen is a girl.)

It was very dark in the room, it was glowing a dim red from the side, but the engravings on the floor were hardly noticeable in the dim lights. It was a huge room, with columns around it, and a spiral staircase leading up to a podium in the middle. The ceiling was so high, it couldn’t be seen. A man… well, not really a man, a teenager, was sweeping the floor with a broom. He was clearly Gevirian, he had four arms, a tail, and huge wings coming from his shoulder blades, like an angel. They were speaking Gevirian.

I really don't know how to introduce the fact a character is a teenager. Layane was a child, but not really a child. Roen is a man, well not really a man.

“I don’t see why this place get’s so dirty,” he said. “It’s not like hardly anyone comes here.” Another Gevirian at the other side of the room looked at him. “Roan, in this place is preserved the spirits of our captured enemies from the Last Battle. If one tries to escape dust will shake from the ceiling. We are over a hundred miles below Hiville.” The teenager, Roan, laughed.

Oh, okay. Roan. I changed the spelling at some point, but I guess he's still Roan in this.

Ignoring the fact that Roan's dialogue makes no sense, why on earth does someone have to clean the temple holding the Book of the Dying Screams? I mean, I understand that following the lore change, no one would want to open it (as your enemies would be the ones commanding the ghostly army, not you) but it still feels like a pretty major security risk to let in a cleaner once every so often, rather than knocking down the entrance, or literally doing anything else.

The other Gevirian, who is Roan's father, feels that Roan isn't taking this seriously. They are doing an important job, keeping the temple clean. Roan's father approaches the book and considers the last war, which was seven hundred years ago, which means I can't as easily pretend the Gevirians go to war with the Dying Screams once every four years like the Olympics in this draft.

“It’s never been touched, for all those years, seven hundred. It’s because they’re growing hungry, kept in there,” said his father. “Well, come down and give me a hand,” said Roan. “As a matter of fact you can give me four, come down and help.”

Stealing that second bit of dialogue for the next time I write this.

He looked up. His father had vanished. “Dad?” called Roan. He walked up to the podium. The book almost like it had before. But it had fingerprints on it. Fingerprints in blood. There was a scream from inside the book. Roan ran down the stairs to the side of the room. He could now see the engravings on the floor. They were glowing red, just like one of the walls. He ran up to the side of the room, ran his fingers over the wall until he felt a symbol. A button. He pushed it in, and vanished.

I mean... if your job is to keep the temple holding the evil death book clean and tidy, surely this doesn't come as a surprise?

I do like that the book is occasionally eating people, though. It makes it much more relevant than the last draft, where Layane and Clemant were told about it for seemingly no reason.

He reappeared in a split second, in Hiville, in a hall. He ran up to the doors, pushed them open, and stared wildly around. He was near the jungle. The Lady of Plants could help. Jezirah.

Could she really? Are you sure?

Maybe he hasn't met her before.

[pedrostylez]

How The Crow Flies - pt. 4

Javier Peña x fem!reader x Frankie Morales crossover

Word count: 3.7k

Chapter Summary: Frankie brings you back to his motel

Chapter Warnings and Disclaimers: 18+ only. I am not responsible for what you read on the internet. You have been warned! Locations and descriptions of places may be inaccurate in comparison to each story (Narcos and Triple Frontier). Timelines are obviously different between the two stories, so we are going to meet in the middle and say we are in the early 2000s. These are not necessarily canon characters in regard to how they act, how they treat people, and their current relationships. DUBCON, alcohol, drinking, mentions of SA, illudes to discomfort with actions, SMUT!!!! shower sex, unprotected p in v (idc that it is not realistic okay wrap your willies) dirty talk, Frankie is....wowza, derogatory use of whore

A/N: It's been a minute but here it is! Merry Christmas to those that celebrate, and hope you enjoy :)

Taglist: @thevoiceinyourheadx @suzdin @survivingandenduring @bariskaplans @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @paleidiot @darkheartgatita @missladym1981

As you arrive back at the home that Yovanna had set you up in for the week, you begin to panic.

Your hands begin to shake as the door shuts behind you, being able to breathe for the first time that day. How everything had already gone so sideways from what you thought, from what you anticipated, was setting you in a spiral. 

You find yourself at the kitchen sink, emptying the contents of your stomach and shutting your eyes in pain. Tears are welling up in your eyes at what you did that day, how you endured and convinced yourself everything was fine. 

How this…man...was waiting for you just beyond the door. 

You had this irksome thought in the back of your mind, telling you to just call Peña. It didn’t matter that the phone lines were probably bugged, you could convince yourself that you needed him if your stomach kept betraying you like it was. 

 Peña would get you out of here. He would tell you that you should have called him sooner. He would say this wasn’t worth it. 

But his nagging part of your brain kept repeating to yourself. 

You could do this.

You can do this. 

You will do this. 

You want to do this. 

You scoff out loud, wiping at your eyes before running the water and doing your best to clean the sink before walking toward the bathroom. You could do this; it had only been a day, and while things had not gone how you expected, there was clearly more going on. More than what Peña thought.  

The curiosity of how Santiago and this man in the jungle keeps you occupied as you raise the temperature of the water to practically boiling, scrubbing profusely at yourself. Your skin felt raw, but you continued to circle soap down the drain as you pondered. 

There were three men in that car that Santiago got into, and the driver was who stopped you. Covered in that much dirt tells you that he had been there a while, and likely had all of his friends close by. 

You can’t move past how his eyes traced over you; in a greedy way, but also assessing. He was curious about what your motive was long before he figured you out. And how quickly he figured it out…makes you question if you are actually any good at your job. 

You won’t be telling Peña about that. 

The water began to run cold, turning it off and stepping out to look in the mirror. Your grandmother’s voice rings through your ears as you examine the red splotches on your skin from over scrubbing. A long day of things you didn’t want to do could be washed away easily with a strong enough sponge. 

Your trembling hand reaches for the front door, settling your nerves and putting up the mask as you push it open into the humid air. The sun blinds you briefly, squinting your eyes to look for the car that was supposed to be waiting for you. 

I would love to see you again. I know my men wouldn’t mind either.

You swallow around nothing, angrily stepping toward the truck that is parked across the street. You know you need to appear happy, appear willing, but it's difficult when what information you thought you would be getting at the end of this week is not even close to what you need. 

You remind yourself of everything you’ve observed and discovered so far. There are ten security guards on one side of the compound at all times. They rotate every four hours to prevent tiredness. The only shift that wants your entertainment (at the moment) resides on the backside of the compound every late afternoon. 

That man that wanted to see you again is lurking outside at the same time, watching the back door. 

The feeling in your stomach clenches as the man in the driver's seat gives you a small wave, the smile you give back forced. You slide into the passenger seat with a quiet “hello”, watching his hand rest on your exposed thigh. 

The flowing red dress, muted by sun exposure but giving you an air of innocence all the same, slides out of his way as his hand climbs higher, settling on your chilled skin.

 In the back of your mind you wondered briefly if you should break his fingers and ruin this whole thing to shove it in Peña’s face, or if you should wait it out. Maybe, he would forgive you. 

The man, dirty in the jungle, flashes through your memory again, and for a brief moment your stomach settles. At least someone was out there watching over you, even if he didn’t have the best intentions either. 

Frankie knows his plan is not all that sound, but he doesn’t know any other way to go about it. 

Your red dress just two days later has his jaw slack, laying next to a bush that definitely has ants in it. He can’t see you from the window today, but he can hear your laugh through the walls of the main house. 

How you were already past just the security house and into the main home, has him floored. There is no way that you were that impressive…right?

When it goes quiet, his thoughts stop, ears straining to listen for any indication of you. 

“What are we seeing, Fish?” Pope whispers over his ear piece. 

Frankie waits a few seconds, reaching up to his lapel and sighing. “Nothing. Can’t hear anything either with you yapping in my ear.”

Silent for a bit longer, and then-

“Don’t sass me just because I’m interrupting you commiting her to your spank bank memory.” Pope snides through the ear piece. Frankie swears he can hear Benny laughing off in the distance somewhere, but all he can do is shake his head. 

“You did see that dress on her today, right? She’s playing innocent.” Will chimes. 

“I wouldn’t say she’s innocent-” Frankie pulls out his ear piece before Benny can finish his sentence, annoyed with himself for getting worked up. 

Suddenly the door flies open, your wobbling ankles stepping down the two steps and leaning against the railing before looking around. 

He watches you shake, head turning to look down and stepping out of the house and on to the trail. You’re pulling down the hem of your skirt as far as it will go, straining against itself. His eyes trail down your legs, interest peaking in how you stumble, holding yourself up with a hand against the fence post again. 

You lift your head, searching beyond the trees before turning yourself to the door you just appeared out of. Frankie shifts from his spot behind the bush, eyes never leaving your figure. He feels crawling up his arm and brushes it away, hoping that it isn’t a fire ant. 

You take steps forward along the trail, eyes searching through the darkness as he whistles lowly. He pulls the earpiece back to his face, securing it in place to find the men have gone quiet. You don’t freeze, only tilting your head in his general direction before continuing on and Frankie smiles. 

“I know you’re there.” You say lowly, stepping farther away from him so that once he is on his feet he has to side step, parallel with the path to keep up with you. 

“What are you looking for in there, hm?” He laughs. You turn your head another time before stepping off the gravel and in his general direction, bumping into him with a quiet huff. 

“What are you looking for out here?” You snark back, shoving your shoulder against him as your eyes adjust to the darkness the jungle provides. “What is Santiago up to?”

Frankie bites the inside of his cheek, looking over you briefly. Your hair has been made a mess, the corner of your mouth donned with a fresh cut. Your eyes are searching over his shirt, clocking the lapel microphone. 

He chooses to ignore it, eyes flashing to yours. “I’m looking for you, of course.”

When you cross your arms and pop your hip out, giving him a look of disgust, something in him wants to laugh. Not a whore, most certainly; you’re too defiant to be like the ones he has come across while here. “I’m trying to make some money. Yovanna said they have a lot of it, seems like an easy pay day.”

“I’m trying to make some money too.” He shrugs, playfully reaching forward with a finger and pulling down the front of your dress. It’s tight here, unable to move but he smiles all the same when you bat his hand away. 

“I only accept payment, asshole.” Another huff, a healthy step taken away from him towards the sun the path provides.

Frankie reaches out, fingers wrapping around your forearm to pull you back. “How much does it cost to get you on your knees for me?” He says quietly, eyes flicking over your face again as he pulls you closer. 

You pause, flipping your hair and shaking your head. “More than you have.”

He releases your arm, watches as you stay put. “What? You don’t take information as payment?”

Your expression remains  neutral as you watch him. Frankie smiles again, reaching for the belt of his pants; he’s been given a yes as far as he can tell. “What kind of information?”

Frankie laughs, shaking his head. “You get on your knees for me and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

You shift your weight between your feet, swallowing roughly. He watches as you glance around, suddenly nervous. “Not here.”

Frankie is surprised, eyebrows raising before he smirks. It’s the first time he glances around, suddenly wondering if his friends were watching. 

A giddy feeling in his chest squirms, eyes locking back on yours. “You know the motel a couple miles from here?” 

You nod. When you look down to your shoes and kick a rock, he reaches back for you. His hand rests at your shoulder, fingers subconsciously rubbing at the back of your neck.  “Two hours. Meet me at the front desk.”

You don’t agree, only swallow and take a step away from him. 

He looks to the part of your chest that is exposed, smiling at the raised skin and shiver you try to hide. Maybe you were a whore after all. 

“Hey.” He reaches for you again, holding you in place by your wrist. You don’t pull away, and he wants to tell himself it’s because you want him to touch you. “It’s Frankie.”

You try to smother a gasp, finally yanking your wrist out of his grip and turning toward the pathway again. 

You’re three steps behind him, his back facing you as he knows that you won’t do anything to him. He’s broad, shoulders visible through the shirt that sticks to him from the humidity. A sweat stain rests at his lower back, darker than the rest of the fabric as the door swings open and he steps inside. 

Meeting him at the front desk of the motel that you hoped he was referring to made you feel exposed. You had changed, having the security guard drive you back to Yovanna’s crash house for you to wash away the day. You had put on a more comfortable dress, longer but just a flowing, fluttering sleeves brushing your shoulders. 

Frankie had looked for you immediately, taking only a couple steps into the lobby of this motel before tilting his head for you to follow. No words exchanged as he climbed the stairs to the third level, pulling out a key from his back pocket. 

He turns to hold the door for you, motioning with his head of what he wants from you. This is the easy part. 

When the door shuts behind you, the pressure in the air shifts to something looser, something calm. “You want a drink? Or are you on the job?” Frankie teases, smirking when you try your best to not give him any reaction. 

“What have you got?” You question, stepping further into the motel room and scanning the bedside tables. Nothing of note besides a box of tissues that is limply standing under a yellowing lamp. You reach forward to adjust the box, noticing the redness from how hard you had been scrubbing at your arm and retreat. 

“Whiskey or beer?” Frankie mumbles, leaning down to the mini fridge and pulling out both. 

You shrug, accepting the first thing he blindly hands you and reading the label. He assumes beer for you, and as you open the top he unscrews the cap of the whiskey and watches you. He brings the drink up to his lips, taking a swig before offering you some. 

You switch after taking your own sip of beer, giggling after a swish of the whiskey burns the back of your throat. “Both, I guess.”

He watches, a small smile appearing after you tap the glass of the bottle with your index finger. “Sometimes both is good after a long day.”

You nod, taking another swig before offering it back to him. You’re nervous, and you’re trying to shake the feeling. There’s a pause in the conversation, your eyes flicking over him before realizing he is doing the same to you. 

How Frankie looks at you, how his eyes rake over you like he knows; he knows that you’re not local, he knows you have ulterior motives, he knows you aren’t who you say you are. He knows that you’re attracted to him. 

You like that he doesn’t dwell on each individual bruise and cut, that he doesn’t bring attention to it. He just knows how to move around you to settle you, to get what he wants and give you something in return. 

Even if it is purely transactional for him, you can’t help but enjoy it. 

“Are you going to tell me why you hide in the jungle everyday?” You squeak out, clearing your throat before taking another sip of the drink in your hand. 

Frankie smirks, shrugging. “I suppose it’s the same reason you go into that house, isn’t it?” He pauses, and you know he’s trying to catch a slip up. When you don’t respond, he does. “For the money.” 

You ponder this, setting the beer on the table in front of you. “Who’s paying you?”

Frankie splutters, coughing as he attempts to swallow the whiskey that was in his mouth. He clears his throat, shaking his head. “That’s not your concern.”

“You said you would tell me.” You argue, a nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you to slow down, that this is dangerous to be this pushy. 

“I said I would tell you what I was doing out there.” He corrects, standing up and setting the bottle down. He pulls his shirt over his head, shocking you into silence. “And I did-for the money. I didn’t even force you to give me a blowjob to give you the information.”

You feel your stomach churn again, nervousness spreading through you. His eyes rake over you, fingers traveling down his stomach to the button at his pants and snapping them open. 

“Let’s shower.” He announces, setting your drink to the side and yanking on your arm roughly, pulling you towards the open door to the dimly lit bathroom. 

Your heart races, standing with your hands wringing behind your back as the door clicks shut. Alcohol buzzes through your system, eyes flicking up to the mirror to watch as he strips his pants from his legs. 

“Off.” He says harshly, leaning into the shower stall and starting the water. He turns back to you, hand reaching to the back of your dress where the zipper is. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, moving your hands from their position behind you to hold on to the sink. 

Frankie’s finger slides the zipper down, skimming his callouses over your bare shoulders and chuckling as you shiver uncontrollably. 

You ignore him, turning and stepping around him into the shower and getting your hair wet for a moment before moving to the empty space to make room for him. 

He crowds you as he steps in, eyes tracing over your body; assessing, controlled. Unconsciously you cover your chest with your arms, and he doesn’t stop you, only leans his head back into the stream of water.

He turns fully around, giving you a moment of faux privacy to look down to his ass. Your eyes widen as you realize what you are doing, unsure if you should actually be doing more. If you’re a whore, shouldn’t you be more eager? More willing to reach out and touch him. 

He turns back around, your eyes snapping up to his face before trailing back down when you see his eyes are still closed under the stream. He’s half hard, already wider than you were expecting with dark hair trailing up to his belly button. 

Over the tip of his nose water drips down onto his chest and swirls through his hair there. You swallow roughly, glancing up to his face again to see that he is now watching you. “Like what you see?” He asks calmly.

In spite of his voice being so calm, his breathing looks heavy, pupils blown wide as he reaches a soapy finger toward you. He trails from your shoulder, down your front to one breast, circling your nipple lightly. He flicks his eyes up momentarily, gauging your reaction before back down to look at you. 

You inhale, unable to hear yourself over the sound of the water, over the sound of the exhaust fan barely operating above you. The air is thick with the humidity of the shower, his touch burning hot in comparison. 

“Yes.” You admit, feeling yourself flush in embarrassment.

He licks his lip absentmindedly, pushing you back against the wall of the shower with one hand. “Let me feel.”

His fingers reach between your legs with no warning, gliding from clit to center and pushing the pad of his index in briefly. He sighs happily when he feels your own wetness, sticky and warm. “Knew you wanted me.”

You attempt to scoff, feeling this need to push back against him. This isn’t supposed to be happening; you wet before he even touches you, him coaxing you into a position that ultimately, you both want to be in. 

He pulls his hand away, wrapping a hand around your hip and twisting you around, his cock resting heavy on one cheek of your ass. 

He squeezes your hip, trailing his hand up to a breast before tilting your head to look at him over your shoulder. His smile sends a chill down your spine, and you close your eyes to block it out. “You can admit it, baby. You wanted me, yeah?”

“No.” You say quietly, peeking your eyes open again to see his head is tilting to get a better look at your face. A satisfied smirk is on his face, water beating down against his shoulders and splashing on to your lower back. 

You moan lightly at the feeling of his fingers twisting your nipple around, his other hand spreading your cheeks apart. “Doesn’t matter, I paid for my time with you.”

It’s the last thing he says before he pushes himself forward, his cock hugged by your walls for only a brief moment before he pulls back again. He sets a fast pace, not bothering to take his time. 

He grunts in your ear, forgetting his fingers and what he was doing before to focus on the task at hand. You prop yourself up, hands sliding on the wall in front of you as you bite your lip to keep yourself together. You don’t want to let him know that you enjoy this; you can’t-

“Quit that.” He breathes heavily, hand reaching up the front of your neck to pull your lip from your teeth. “Tell me it feels good. I want to hear you.”

You try to control your voice again, but fail miserably as his hand slides back down and squeezes lightly around your neck. You moan, his pace picking up as his lower stomach slaps harshly against your ass. “Fuck-i-it does. It feels good.”

“I know baby.” He groans, leaning back away from you to watch himself disappear into your center. “How are you this tight for me? This pussy feels too fucking good for you to be a whore.”

You know he’s trying to catch you in your lie. You can’t think straight with his cock deep inside you, with his hand around your throat, but you know he’s trying to get you to slip up. 

Thankfully you don’t have to respond, feeling a tingling sensation travel down your neck and to the base of your spin. You reach down, circling your clit with wet fingers and breathe against the wall.

Without a warning to Frankie you come, moaning out his name over and over. You feel yourself squeeze rhythmically around him, his own thrusts pausing to feel it. He moans happily as your orgasm subsides, his pace picking back up at a speed he hadn’t been at before. 

He pulls out, holding you still with one hand at your hip and the other pumping himself to completion. He groans out, his warm spend on your ass and lower back. “Fuck.” He bites, loosening his grip and taking a step back from you and further into the water. 

You hold yourself up and stand, looking at him as he reaches for the soap and lathers it in his hands. He’s watching you, eyes heavy and blown out in lust still as his hands reach out to wash at where he finished on you. 

It’s silent for a moment, warm water now spraying your side and his as he moves you around and washes himself and then you. “Do they let you come?” He asks quietly, voice gravely and deep. 

You blink, thinking to yourself. It’s not a matter of whether or not they let you. “I can’t.” 

He hums, taking the information and filing it away somewhere in his brain. You want to comment further, not wanting his ego to be boosted to high. But you stop yourself, letting him finish what he is doing, letting him turn off the water and help you dry off. 

Nothing more is said between you as you redress yourself, slick your hair back into a hair tie, and grab your purse. You’re out the door before he has a chance to say anything else, already knowing that he’s made his payment to you.

[mindyco]

ARC 2: 04

Review

"Alright, enough of that," Raph grumbled, his tone as gruff as ever.

Y/N glanced away, her cheeks burning as Leo pulled back, clearing his throat awkwardly. The atmosphere shifted as Donnie stepped in.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Once she finished drinking, Y/N leaned back into the couch, her voice still scratchy but more audible now. "Not really..."

Donnie adjusted his glasses, glancing at Leo. "You're the one who found her. You should be the one to explain."

Leo's jaw tightened, his expression unreadable for a moment before he sighed and met her eyes. "I found you at the bottom of the stairs outside your apartment," he said quietly. "You were unconscious."

"You've been out for over a day."

Her eyes widened, and she gasped, sitting up straighter despite the immediate protest of her aching muscles. "A whole day?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising with panic. "I—How—"

Donnie quickly chimed in, his tone calm but insistent. "Your body was in a rebound sleep. It's how the body copes with extreme exhaustion and stress. Essentially, it was forcing you to recover the rest you've been depriving it of."

"But... I can't just rest," she murmured, shaking her head. "I need to work. I need to pay rent. And the bakery—I still have boxes to move, papers to sign—"

Her voice grew frantic as her fingers started counting off each task, her healthy hand trembling. Her face grew more distressed with every word, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to keep up with the storm of responsibilities.

“Y/N.” Leo’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, steady but firm. He didn’t move closer but leaned slightly forward, his calm gaze locking onto hers. “Stop. Take a breath.”

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her wide eyes searching his face for some kind of reassurance.

"We've been talking," Leo began, glancing briefly at his brothers for support. "And we think... it might be better if you stayed with us. At least until you've had time to recover and get back on your feet."

"Stay here?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. Her gaze darted between the brothers, her confusion evident.

Mikey piped up, his voice softer than usual. "You’re not just gonna magically heal if you keep pushing yourself, dudette. You need a break. Like, a real one."

Donnie adjusted his glasses, "From a logical standpoint, it’s clear your current circumstances aren’t sustainable. If you continue at this pace, your health will only deteriorate further. That’s not just bad for you—it’s counterproductive to everything you’re trying to accomplish."

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came out.

"But, I can't." she whispered finally, shaking her head.

"If I quit my job to rest, I'll miss rent. If I miss rent, my apartment will be gone. And everything I own is still in my apartment and the bakery—I haven't even moved everything yet. How am I supposed to—"

Her words tumbled out in a rush, her mind racing far ahead of her exhausted body. The weight of her situation pressed down on her, suffocating and relentless. 

Leo straightened, his tone unwavering. "Then, we’ll help you figure it out."

Donnie added, “If selling your items is the issue, I can help. I’m pretty good with logistics and online marketplaces. We could organize everything and make sure you get your money's worth. That way, the money will be there for when you’re ready to go back.”

Mikey immediately perked up, a grin spreading across his face. “And I’m, like, super strong! I can carry all those boxes from your bakery and apartment, no problem!”

Raph snorted, leaning casually against the wall. “Yeah, sure, with those arms? Let me handle it.”

Mikey placed his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest. “Bro, these guns are certified weapons of mass destruction!” He flexed dramatically, causing Raph to groan.

“Yeah, weapons of mass embarrassment,” Raph muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

“Ridiculous,” she said softly, her voice tinged with a faint warmth. She shook her head lightly, unable to stop the small smile that crept across her face.

Her gaze lowered to her lap, the lingering smile fading as she thought about what they were offering. When she lifted her eyes again, they met Leo’s. His steady, earnest gaze held hers, the sincerity in his expression so unshakable it made all of her thoughts fly out the window.

The quiet confidence he exuded told her, without words, that they had things under control. She almost felt foolish for doubting, for overthinking, because the way he looked at her made it impossible to believe otherwise. 

She couldn’t find the words to argue.

Hesitating, her voice barely audible, she asked, “Why...?”

Why go through so much effort for someone you've only known for a day?

The question cut through the moment, making all the brothers pause. Mikey, who had been about to retort to Raph, froze mid-motion, his grin faltering slightly as he turned to look at her.

After a beat, Mikey broke the silence with a soft, almost incredulous laugh. “Why not? We’re friends, right?”

The simple response took her by surprise. She blinked, her thoughts flashing back to her earlier words—to the moment when Donnie had asked her who they were, and she had, almost instinctively, called them her friends. 

Could it really be that simple?

She didn’t know how to react. The room fell into an almost sacred stillness as her gaze drifted back to her lap. Her vision blurred, and before she realized it, tears began to drip onto the blanket she clutched. She sniffled quietly, her hand moving to wipe her face, but the tears kept coming.

The moment the first tear slipped, the turtles froze as if someone had hit a giant pause button on the scene. Y/N quickly lowered her head into her lap, trying to hide the tears that streaked her face. 

Hiccup..

"I’m s-sorry," Y/N suddenly blurted out, her voice barely audible through her hiccups. She didn’t lift her head, her words muffled as she tried to explain. "I-I don’t know why I’m c-crying… I just—" Another hiccup interrupted her, and she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders trembling under the weight of her emotions.

The silence in the room grew thick. 

Mikey, for once, didn’t have a quick comment or joke; instead, his eyes widened, and he looked to his brothers for help, mouthing, "What do we do?!"

Donnie fidgeted, his hands nervously adjusting the edge of his wrist-mounted tech. His gaze darted from Y/N to Leo, then to Mikey, as though searching for a manual on "How to Comfort a Crying Woman."

Even Raph, who normally carried himself with an unshakable presence, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding eye contact.

Leo, sitting closest to her, looked especially conflicted. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, an almost imperceptible hesitation as if debating whether to pat her shoulder or leave her space. 

His lips pressed into a firm line, his gaze locked on her trembling frame. But ultimately, his hand faltered, retreating back to his side. He shifted in place, his usual composure giving way to an awkward stiffness.

"Ah, geez," Raph shifted uncomfortably and pushed off the wall. "...If ya' don't let us help, you're jus' bein' stubborn. So... uh... stop cryin' already. You're makin' us look bad."

His comment, as blunt as it was, made her laugh through her tears. It was shaky and weak, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Her shoulders sagging as she let out a long, trembling sigh.

Finally, she whispered, “Okay..” Her voice was barely audible, but the weight of her exhaustion and relief carried through. She looked up at the brothers, her tear-streaked face full of gratitude. 

“...Thank you...”

୨ TINY THEATRE ୧

Leo: *wants to pat the hot crying woman*

Leo: *clenches fist* No... I musn't...

Us: (ﾉꐦ ⊙曲ఠ)ﾉ彡┻━┻

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

୨ Any constructive criticism? Please comment below! ˘ᗜ˘ ৎ

[o-sunny-day]

Oh boy this is about to be a double whammy…

Ive got an amv idea! Im probably not gonna start it for a bit though cause im *cough* busy

but also! Ive got an UNDERTALE ANALYSIS!!! so thought id share now…

“Merry Christmas, Please Dont Call” by Bleachers has been getting quite popular on tiktok, and OHH its soooooo good…

Listening to it on repeat though… It got me thinking… and appreciating sans’ character…. a LOT MORE??

Like yeah I already did really like/appreciate him, but this song is giving a LOTT more words to those feelings- AND YEAH.

This is gonna be a wonderful spiral of AMV visualizing + Undertale character/theme analysis… SO ENJOY! IF YOU WANT!

Heres a visual for the lyrics I have most in mind!

We start off strong, in an ending where you’ve gone and killed Papyrus and/or an inexcusable amount of Monsters-

The subject of this song is about Frisk/You as the player. Its even more fun this way cause Sans in game calls you “kid”…

and its even BETTER with this spesific line from the Empress Undyne Ending (w Papyrus dead) in mind AUGH

You Left Me On The Line Kid, Holding All Your Baggage.

Sans believes that “the anomaly” is doing all of this for SOME reason, subconsciously or not. Maybe they’re just missing something in their life, and thinking this will all fill their void??

But…In an ending where you’ve killed way too many people/Papyrus, I imagine Sans cant exactly justify whatever reason he believes the anomaly has anymore.

So, the wording “left me on the line with all your baggage” is him basically saying “you took out all your personal problems on people that were not in any way involved, and ruined my entire life. what the hell, man?”

Then the rest of that verse carries that same vibe/meaning.

Oh Golden Boy, You Shined A Light On Your Home. And At Your Best, You Were Magic, I Was Sold.

This part then takes place in the Pacifist route. At your BEST. When Sans has the most hope that the anomaly has found what it’s looking for.

Ofc, Sans doesnt REMEMBER anything you did, but the proof of time jumping seems to leave him with the same impression. (Also he’s pretty confident you’re responsible just cause of your expressions n all that) He even says so himself in the geno route that ORIGINALLY, before the routes you decide to go on/the humans appearance, hes always believed/wanted to believe whatever/whoever was causing this just wanted to be happy.

So in this ending, he’s hopeful that you’ve found whatever you’re looking for! he was sold…

But Don’t Tell ‘Em What You Told Me, Don’t Even Tell ‘Em That You Know Me. Id Rather Hurt Forever.

This line then switches to a potential Roommate Toriel Neutral Ending

“Don’t tell em you told/know me” referring to how he wants to keep what happened with Papyrus secret from Toriel,

“Id rather hurt forever” being an add/on to that: him preferring suffering in silence over Toriel feeling responsible for what happened.

THEN! LAST VERSE! This one is just tying everything up we’ve already discussed in a nice bow, but we still gotta digest it in chunks-

But You Should Know, That I Died Slow. Running Through The Halls Of Your Haunted Home.

BACK TO THE GENO ROUTE! Sans is dying/dead-

“running through halls of your haunted home” is kinda perfect for Chara though since…this home WAS theirs, and it is currently very haunted- with them and Asriel dying there- n all that….

And The Toughest Part Is That We Both Know What Happened To You. Why You’re Out On Your Own.

At this point of Sans laying down in The Judgment Hall, accepting death, he’s also accepting defeat. You both know why you’re doing this. That “Why” being….nothing. There was no reason, you just COULD. Thats why you’re “On your own” (in this game ofc this is not a personal attack-)

Merry Christmas, Please Dont Call.

AUUGH. The whole gang is celebrating Christmas in the Pacifist Route, but transitioning to a leaderless ending where only Sans remains, on the phone and saying his farewells to the thing that destroyed his world.

aaaand, see thats why i’m antsy about making this…I wanna get it out as a Christmas post ☹️

BUT YEAH! I really like considering this whole thing from Sans’ lense, cause honestly I DON’T believe he’s that nihilistic! Yeahh its a super horrible and soul crushing situation- and it is hard to “give it your all” when you have iron clad evidence that everything you’ve ever done/will do will just repeat and go on and on, not having true consequences, therefore, not matter.

But… if him not giving a shit were the case, why would he do ANYTHING he does??

He still shows up for the people he cares about/care for him, thats the main thing. He does things that matter to HIM, things that make him happy. He enjoys his life to the fullest. If the day is repeating, why not make that day the best day of your life??

And ive already went over how he sees you. I dont think he…likes?? you persay?? at least definitely NOT in endings where you clearly are killing people to see what will happen- but he has FAITH, hope, even. That you’ll do the right thing…..Eventually.

side note: I also know Sans and Papyrus are absolutely contradictions of each other for interesting dynamic/slapstick reasons- but they’re also REALLY SIMILAR??? Flowey is a reflection of the player… and Papyrus has faith in HIM! Idk, i also just think the connections between a lot of characters are really interesting!