#GENUINE REAL GODDAMN TEARS. FROM MY EYES

[muzzlemouths]

this thought popped into my head after reading chapter 3 aldjkfghd

GRIN WHEN I TELL YOU THIS MADE ME LAUGH UNTIL I CRIED

[darlingdaisyfarm]

cigarettes after sex

tags: mullet!stan pines, fem!reader, mentions of alcohol and smoking, nsfw, sexual themes, depression, ptsd, drunk sex, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, inspired by cigarettes after sex songs, so I recommend to listen some while reading that :)

Stan hasn't been himself since the portal swallowed Ford up.

His life is ruined, his mind is ruined, everything is ruined. Every single night, he’s hunched over the journals, Ford’s stupid, cryptic notes that Stan can’t figure out, can’t understand, but wants to. It's like trying to read in the dark. He knows there’s something in them, some answer, but it’s out of his reach and every time he thinks about his brother being gone, his chest tightens, that guilt slamming into him so hard he feels like he can’t breathe so he drowns in his own tears. 

Stanley knows he’s not the smart one, never was, and now it feels like he’s lost every chance to make things right. The lab is his prison. The cigarettes are his only escape, one after another until the ashtray overflows, the smell of smoke permanently clinging to everything in this place. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, the bags under them deep and dark and he doesn’t bother to clean himself up anymore. What’s the point? He’s all alone. Again.  

Tonight, something changes. He can’t sit in that goddamn lab for another second, can’t stare at those useless pages with his head spinning. So, he stumbles out into the cold and ends up at the bar down the street — the only place still open this late. 

When he walks in, he’s already halfway drunk and you spot him immediately from across the room. It’s not hard; the guy’s a walking disaster. His coat is rumpled, hair a tangled mess, and his eyes are empty, hollowed out like he’s already lost something far more important than money. You've seen a lot of people sink to the bottom, but this guy sank even lower than most.

Stan doesn’t notice you at first. He barely notices anything as he stumbles up to the bar, hands trembling as he grips the counter. His cigarette hangs loose between his fingers, half burnt and about to fall, but he’s too out of it to care. He leans heavily against the bar, head down like the weight of his own body is too much.

“Whiskey,” he grumbles. “whatever’s cheap.”

The bartender glances at him, sizing him up with a frown. Stan looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, hasn’t eaten much either. It’s written all over him, the sag of his shoulders, the unsteady sway when he tries to straighten up.

The bartender slides the glass toward Stan, but before he even picks it up, he’s already mumbling something under his breath, little grin pulling at his lips. “Don’t think I got the money for this, pal.”

He downs the drink in one go, barely wincing as the burn hits his throat and for a moment, you think he might get away with it. But the bartender’s patience is wearing thin. He scowls, leaning in with narrowed eyes, clearly not in the mood to deal with Stan’s shit tonight.

“I’m not running a charity here,” the bartender snaps. “you pay or you leave.”

Stan grins, and it’s the saddest, most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen. “What, no freebies? Guess I’ll have to put it on my tab.” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. 

The bartender looks about two seconds from throwing Stan out on his ass and for some reason, you find yourself moving before you even realise it. Sliding off your seat, you walk over. Stan doesn’t notice you until you’re standing right next to him, and even then, his gaze is unfocused, blurry as fuck. 

Before things get ugly, you step in, sliding a couple bills across the counter, “I’ll cover it.”

The bartender takes the money without a word, though you can feel the tension of the situation, he’s definitely bothered and not in the mood. Stan looks at you, bleary-eyed, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or just another hallucination. His mouth twists into that lopsided grin again, but there’s something softer about it this time, like he’s genuinely surprised someone bothered to step in.

He’s too drunk to notice the bartender’s scowl as you grab him by the arm, hauling him to his feet. He stumbles, almost dragging you down with him, but you manage to keep him upright, though just barely.

“Hey, thanks, sweetheart,” he slurs, blinking at you like he’s trying to clear the fog in his head. “didn’t know I’d be gettin’ free drinks tonight.”

He tries to stand up straighter, but the alcohol’s got a firm grip on him. His body sways dangerously so you reach out, grabbing his arm to keep him steady. He’s heavier than you expected, way too much, his body leaning against yours as you pull him away from the bar.

“Come on,” you mutter, dragging him toward the door. “let’s get you out of here before you piss off anyone else.”

Stan stumbles along beside you, his steps unsteady, barely able to keep himself upright. He’s mumbling something under his breath, words too slurred to make out, because he’s so fucking drunk, but you can tell it’s nothing good. Outside, the cold hits you both like a slap to the face. The winter air is brutal, biting through your clothes and cutting through the haze of alcohol that’s been clouding Stan’s head.

“Jesus, it’s freezing out here,” he mutters, blinking against the cold. His breath comes out in visible puffs, his flushed face suddenly looking even redder in the harsh chill. Then he looks at you. “So what, you my babysitter now?

This time you have to shove him back against the wall just to keep him upright. His back hits the cold brick with a dull thud, and he lets out a low, drunken laugh, his head tipping back to rest against the wall.

“Ohh, you gonna pin me here? gotta say, I’m not usually into this kinda thing, but for you, sweetheart, I might make an exception.” his body sags, leaning heavily into the wall as he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. “or are you just waiting for me to do something stupid?”

Your brows furrow at that, irritation flaring in your chest. “What are you talking about?”

He’s a mess, a complete disaster, but there’s something about him that makes it hard to walk away. Maybe it’s the way he’s still trying to crack jokes, even when he’s clearly drowning in his own misery. Maybe it’s the way his hands tremble, even though he’s trying to play it off like he doesn’t care.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes half-lidded as he stares up at the sky. Stan chuckles. “Well, I could just. . . y’know. Throw myself off a cliff. Put an end to all this crap. What’s one more dead Pines, huh?”

He’s not joking anymore. There’s something raw in his voice, he sounds way too hurt, too honest, too broken that makes your stomach twist. You don’t really know what to answer on that. You aren’t that good at supporting people, but supporting drunk guy? He’ll barely hear what you’ll tell him. 

You pull a cigarette from your pocket, lighting it up with quick movements, because cold air stinging your fingers. Stan watches you through half-lidded eyes, his breath visible in the frigid air.

“Hey,” he mutters. “mind if I bum one off ya?”

You hand him a cigarette without a word, and he takes it, his fingers still shaking from cold or. . . as he lights it. He leans back against the wall, the smoke curling around his face as he exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

Neither of you speak after that. There’s nothing to say. You don’t know how to start a talk either. Is it even needed?

Stan’s a complete mess, the kind you don't want to get too close to. But as you stand there, cigarette smoke curling between your fingers, you can’t tear your eyes off him. He’s slumped against the wall, looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders or maybe that’s just the whiskey. You wonder why the hell you bothered to drag him out here in the first place. He’s a disaster and his weird comments aren’t helping, they just disturb you.

You take another drag, feeling the bitter taste of nicotine hit your lungs, and for a moment, you think about just walking away. He’s not your problem. You’ve done your good deed for the night and the cold air is starting to bite at your skin. Just leave him here. He’ll figure it out, or. . . he won’t. Either way, it’s not your concern.

But just as you’re about to turn and go, Stan mumbles something under his nose. It’s faint, too quiet to catch.

“. . . should’ve never messed with the damn portal.”

You blink. Portal? The word echoes in your mind, that’s surprising, intriguing. What the hell is he talking about? You glance at him again, but his eyes are fluttering shut, his body slumping further against the wall.

“Hey,” you say, stepping closer. “what did you just say?”

Stan’s lips move, but no sound comes out, he’s completely out of it. Your eyes widen in shock as you say “hey, man” louder to get him back to his senses, but before you can react, his knees buckle and he collapses, dead weight against the cold ground.

“Holy shit!” you drop your cigarette, your hands immediately going to his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. His head lolls to the side, completely out cold

Of course. Of fucking course! He’s drunk off his ass, hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten anything substantial in days. You run a hand through your hair, staring down at him, your mind racing.

You’re not sure what the hell to do with this guy. You don’t even know him. But something in your gut twists, something telling you to stay, to not leave him lying here like this. 

***

He’s strange, sure. But why does that word “portal” keep sticking in your head?

Days pass, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. That night, his ramblings, the look in his eyes before he passed out. You shouldn’t care. He’s just some guy, a random drunk you stumbled across. But you’ve always been a curious person. You keep thinking about how broken he looked, how utterly wrecked he seemed and you wonder what could’ve driven him to that point.

You’re out in town again, aimlessly wandering the streets of Gravity Falls, and without even realizing it, you find yourself back at the bar where you met him. It’s the same cold winter night, what makes your body shake from chill no matter how many layers you’ve got on.

You stand outside with a cigarette, your breath mixing with the smoke. Your mind’s still on him, on that weird stranger. You can’t help but wonder if he’s alright. Probably not? Guys like that don’t bounce back easy. 

You take another drag, exhaling slowly, your thoughts swirling. You think about how he stumbled around, barely able to stay on his feet, and for some reason you smile. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s such a loser. But there was something strangely. . . cute about it all. God, why are you even thinking about him

Suddenly, the door to the bar swings open, and a familiar figure stumbles out into the cold. You blink, and sure enough, it’s him. That drunk weird guy. Same red jacket, same disheveled look, but this time he doesn’t seem quite as far gone. Still drunk, but not teetering on the edge like last time.

The bouncer gives him a shove, muttering something about not coming back without cash and Stan nearly trips over his own feet before catching himself. He stands there for a moment, muttering insults and then his eyes land on you. His gaze lingers, squinting through the haze of alcohol, and recognition slowly dawns on his face. He straightens up, well, as much as a guy like him can, and adjusts his jacket, trying to look somewhat presentable.

“Well, well, if it ain’t my guardian angel,” he says with a grin.

You raise an eyebrow, flicking the ash from your cigarette. “didn’t know angels had to drag drunks out of bars.”

Stan laughs, but it’s more of a low chuckle. “do I know you? I feel—“ he hiccups. “fuck, feel like I should know your name. . .”

“I never told you, dummy.”

Stan stares at you for a moment, processing that, and then he smiles wider. “Ah, right. Guess I can’t forget what I never knew.” he winks, but it’s sloppy, and you can’t help but smile back.

He takes a step toward you, leaning against the wall beside you. “Y’know, I gotta thank ya for payin’ for me back there. ‘Specially since that whiskey was crap. Worst I’ve had in years.”

You snort, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, and that’s why you drank all of it, right? real convincing, man.”

He chuckles again, running a hand through his brown hair. “What can I say? Gotta give every drink a fair shot. Even the bad ones.”

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. The guy’s a mess, sure, but there’s something oddly charming about his complete lack of shame. He’s so human. Flawed and ridiculous, but human. And funny.

For a while, neither of you say much, just standing there under the night sky, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you walk slowly down the street. The cold bites at your skin, but it feels less harsh with him beside you, talking about nothing in particular. He rambles about the bar, about the bartender, about how he’s been kicked out of worse places, but there’s an ease to it, like he’s just talking to fill the silence.

And for some reason, you don’t mind it. His company is strangely nice. Despite everything.

As you walk, you glance over at him, still trying to figure out what it is about this guy that’s gotten under your skin. He’s weird, yeah. Definitely not what you’d call put-together. 

He catches your gaze and smirks, a little lopsided but softer this time. “What, you like what you see?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not even close.”

***

Over time, you start to see Stanford Stan more regularly. It's never planned, never some formal arrangement. He’s just there, outside that same dive bar, smoking under the dim streetlight or wandering down the streets with his red jacket pulled tight against the cold. And every time, you find yourself walking beside him, talking about nothing and everything.

It’s not like you’re close, not really. He doesn’t open up, never gives you much more than surface-level comments or dumb jokes to deflect anything too personal. You only know what he lets slip, and even that feels like more than you should. He insists his name is Stanford, though something about it always sounds. . . off. 

Stanley thinks he’s idiot. It’s a role he’s playing, a mask he’s not ready to take off, won’t take for for the next thirty years.

One night, after you’ve met up for what feels like the hundredth time, you finally ask him why he’s always drunk when you see him. It’s been bugging you for a while, how every time you meet, he reeks of whiskey and stale cigarettes, eyes glassy, speech slurred, sometimes flirting with you or winking dumbly at you. You’ve tried to ignore it, but tonight the question just slips out.

Stan pauses, cigarette halfway to his lips. You think he’s not going to answer, but then he takes a drag, exhaling slowly before speaking. “Helps me think,” he mutters. “keeps the noise out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Noise?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the wall, his eyes scanning the street. “Yeah. The crap up here. Some people got quiet minds, y’know? Not me. Gotta slow it down.”

It’s vague, cryptic. You don’t push for more. You’ve learned by now that pressing Stan doesn’t get you anywhere. He only shares what he wants, and even then, it’s always layered in something else, sarcasm, a joke, some offhand comment that makes it hard to tell what’s real and what’s just him deflecting.

Nevertheless, there is something in the way he says it that does not leave you indifferent. The way he looks when he mentions his thoughts, as if there's something more hiding under the surface that booze and cigarettes can't hide. You wonder what’s rattling around in his brain, what kind of shit he’s trying so hard to drown out.

Time passes, and your strange friendship, or whatever it is, continues. Nothing changes. You meet up, you talk, you walk through the streets of Gravity Falls, smoking and trading stories. Stan makes jokes, you laugh, and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself growing more comfortable around him.

But he never lets you in, not really. You can only guess at what’s going on in his life, at what’s driving him to the bottom of a bottle every time you see him. It’s frustrating in a way, how closed off he is, how he seems determined to keep everything buried. There’s a part of him that’s afraid to let you see the real him, afraid to show just how broken he really is.

You start to ask him more personal questions, though he always dodges them with some half-assed joke. Like the time you asked him about his hair. His mullet, to be specific. It’s a mess, now unruly and overgrown, and you can’t help but wonder why the hell he refuses to cut it. 

“Why don’t you change a haircut?” you ask teasingly. “you look like you haven’t touched it in years.”

Stan just grins, flicking his cigarette into the street. “Ah, what can I say? Chicks dig the mullet.”

What you don’t know is that Stan’s too scared to look at himself in the mirror.

The way he avoids mirrors, the way his eyes flicker away if he catches his own reflection for even a second. It’s not about the hair, it’s about something deeper. Every time he sees his reflection, it’s not his face he sees, it’s Ford’s. If he cuts his hair, changes anything, he’s worried he’ll lose himself completely, that he’ll become the brother he’s spent his whole life running from. It’s not something he’d ever tell you, though. That’s way too deep for the guy who lives behind a wall of bad jokes and alcohol.

Stan never talks about his past. You’ve asked, but he always deflects with a joke or changes the subject. The most you’ve gotten out of him is when something goes wrong, he drops something, or his stupid car won’t start, or even when he just stumbles over his own feet. He’ll shake his head, muttering to himself, “Screw-up. Always been a screw-up.” It’s weird, like it’s the only thing he knows how to be.

It bothers you. You don’t get it. Yeah, he’s a mess, but this weird obsession with calling himself a screw-up, like it’s some kind of mantra, doesn’t make sense to you. You don’t know where it’s coming from, but every time he says it, you see a flash of something bitter in his eyes, like he’s heard those words so many times they’ve become part of him.

What you don’t realize is that those words are burned into him. His father used to call him a screw-up, over and over until it became his identity. And then there was Ford, his golden child of a brother, the smart one, the successful one. Stan’s always felt like the lesser of the two, never quite measuring up, always stuck in his brother’s shadow. He’s spent his whole life trying to live down to that title, like it’s all he’s worth. Stan was a kid, who heard those words over and over until they stuck, until he couldn’t see himself as anything else.

You can’t fix what’s already broken. But that doesn’t stop you from trying. Something about Stan makes you want to help, even though you know you can’t. He’s too far gone, too buried in his own mess. Still, you keep coming back. Maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of some sense of hope.

***

Another night, another round of drinks. The two of you sit at the bar, glasses clinking against the wood, the air is filled with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Stan’s already a few drinks in, and you’re not far behind. You laugh at something he says, probably another dumb joke, but you’re not really paying attention. Your mind is clouded, your body is hot from drinking, and before you know it, your gaze slides over his lips.

It’s stupid. You’re both drunk, and this is Stanford, the guy who can barely keep his life together, let alone maintain a relationship. But the way he looks right now, disheveled and messy, his lips curling into that cocky grin, makes your heart race.

His lips. Your lips. Apocalypse.

The kiss happens fast, messy, without warning. One minute you’re sitting there, and the next, his lips are on yours, rough and dry. It’s not graceful, not soft. It’s desperate, like he’s been holding something back for too long, and now it’s all spilling out at once.

The kiss deepens, but you don’t care. His mouth moves against yours, hungry, needy, like he’s searching for something, like that’s what he needed all those years. Human touch and someone else's warmth.

You’re both drunk, of course. Maybe that’s the only way it could’ve happened. 

Stan tastes like smoke and cheap liquor, the bitterness lingering on your tongue as his hands slide up your back, pulling you in. You can feel the heat of his body, the way his chest presses against yours.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is a mistake, stupid drunk accident. But then he kisses you harder, his hand tangling in your hair and all thoughts of logic fly out the window. This isn’t about fixing him. You don’t care about anything except the fact that Stanford, the complete disaster of a man you’ve somehow gotten tangled up with, is kissing you like the world’s about to end.

His hands are rough, clumsy as they cup your face, and it’s all heat and desperation, like neither of you know what the hell you’re doing, but you don’t want to stop.

You’re not sure how it happened so quickly, one second, you were sitting at the bar, laughing, your lips crashing into his, and now you’re pressed against the cold wall of the bathroom. The neon lights of the bar barely make their way out from under the door, flooding the room with a dim glow as Stan presses you against the sink.

Stan kisses like an animal, like he’s trying to lose himself in the moment, drown out everything that’s weighing on him. Like he’s searching for some kind of escape. The alcohol has dulled his brain, but not enough to make him forget. He needs something more, something real to pull him out of the relentless spiral of thoughts, of portals, journals and the constant gnawing guilt.

Stan needs to lose himself in something, anything else. And tonight, that something is you.

His big hands are on you, one sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair, tugging you even closer as he deepens the kiss. He groans into your mouth and you feel how his hard cock presses through his jeans as he pushes you against the sink in the bar's bathroom. You feel like you’re burning from the inside out, every nerve igniting under his touch, his mouth trailing down your jaw, leaving a scorching path along your skin.

You barely notice when the door creaks open, someone stepping into the small, dimly lit room.

“Bathroom’s occupied, unless you wanna watch, but that’ll cost you.” Stan snaps, irritated as he glares at the stranger. The man stutters away quickly and the door slams shut with a loud bang. 

Before you can say something, he’s kissing you again, hard, desperate, rough, demanding. 

You moan into his mouth, tangling your finger in his brown hair, tugging him closer, and the word slips out between your breaths. “Stanford. . .”

Stan freezes and that name seems to knock all the alcohol out of his blood. It feels like something heavy and wrong between you, Stan's gaze is blank, like he's not here at all. It’s his brother’s name, the one he’s stolen, the one he’s buried himself under. You look at him and see something in his eyes. Regret. Guilt. That endless pain that’s been eating at him for as long as he can remember. You don't know what's going on, but you want to solve this damn mystery so badly. What's wrong with this man?

But then it’s all gone, replaced by that cocky grin.

“Stan’s fine, sweetheart. Trust me.”

His hands fumble with your pants, yanking them down roughly, desperately, his fingers massaging and rubbing you through your underwear. You’re already soaking, practically trembling from his touch, and he groans when he feels it, his fingers sliding through your wetness.

“Shit, you’re so wet for me,” he growls. “fuckin’ perfect, baby.”

You moan, head tilting back, the sensation overwhelming as he slides two fingers inside you, rough and fast. He’s not gentle, not tonight, there’s no time for that, no point for that too. He’s desperate and it shows in the way his thick fingers pump into you, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit in the most delicious way.

“St-Stan—“ you moan, looking down at his fingers thrusting into you.

“Please, don’t say it, don’t say that name,”meanwhile, Stan thinks, hoping your drunken mind has figured it out.

“—fuck me,” your last words make him breathe a sigh of relief. Good girl. And then he’s yanking your panties down as he have you bent over the sink, your palms pressing into the cold porcelain and you barely have time to register the sound of his belt hitting the floor before you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he lines himself up. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, right now. And you’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”

You moan, nodding, pressing back against him, desperate for the stretch, to feel him inside you because your brain can't think of anything else but getting fucked hard in the bathroom of a bar. “Please, Stan— please, use me!”

And he obeys, slamming into you, burying himself deep in one rough, brutal thrust that actually hurts, but your drunk state doesn’t care much. You gasp, his cock fills you so completely you can barely breathe, you cry out, your body arching, but Stan's hand is holding you back, pressing on your back to keep you in place and he groans. It’s overwhelming you, a mix of pain and pleasure and you can’t stop moans that escapes your lips as he starts to move, his cock sliding in and out of you with rough thrusts.

“Huh, oh jesus fuck, baby, yer tight,” Stan grits out between ragged breaths, his voice hoarse. He pulls back only to slam into you again, harder this time, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal rhythm that has you gasping. 

“Staaann—!” you whimper his real name again, your fingers gripping the edge of the sink for dear life, his cock so deep it’s like he’s claiming every part of you. “Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck!”

“my fucking god, baby,” he groans, his dick hitting that spot deep inside you that has your body trembling. His fingers find your clit, rubbing in quick circles as he fucks you harder. “you feel so fuckin’ good, doll, so tight around my cock.”

Of course, there's a mirror hanging over the sink, and Stan glances up, wanting to see your fucked-out expression, how gorgeous your face looks when he's pounding into you like this. But, almost spitefully, his eyes land on himself instead. He wants to look away, he should look away, but something makes him stop. For the first time in years, the reflection staring back at him is someone else. Not his twin. Not his nerdy brother. No, not Stanford. Ford would never end up like this. Never get so fucking dirty.

Stan sees himself for what he is. What he's become. Hair disheveled, drunk, filthy, fucking in a bar bathroom. Ford would never be like this. Stan, you piece of shit, you're a disgrace to your brother's name, Stanley thinks.

But then your moans reach his ears, pulling him back, reminding him where he is. Thank God the bar music is loud enough to cover you. He blinks, realizing he's let the pace slip, and his hands tighten on your hips, his grip hard enough to bruise, grounding himself.

You’re a mess of moans and gasps, your body shaking, your warm walls tightening around him as the pleasure builds. “Stan— fuck, I’m gonna—”

Stan leans into you as much as the position allows, one hand tangling in your hair, tugging hard enough to make the roots sting, though in your drunken haze, you barely even feel it.

“Do it,” he growls, his breath hot against your neck. “Cum for me. I wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

And you do, the orgasm rips through you, your body convulsing as you cry out, your walls squeezing around him what makes Stan groan, his fingers digging into your hips, thrusting harder, faster, chasing his own release. You can feel him throbbing inside you and then he’s pulling out, his hand wrapping around his cock as he strokes himself, his cum spilling hot and thick onto your skin.

***

The days began to stretch into weeks. Time wasn’t something you paid attention to anymore, not since that night. You could still feel him sometimes, his rough hands ghosting over your skin, the taste of whiskey and cigarettes lingering long after he’d left, his groans, the way he said your name. It hadn’t been anything gentle or romantic that night, just bodies lost in drunken hunger. And after that, you hadn’t seen much of him since, not like before.

You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that night had ruined something between you. Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he’d felt nothing, and you’d been stupid to think it could’ve been anything more. The way his lips had pressed against yours, hungry, desperate, hadn’t felt like love. He was drunk, did he even know who he was kissing? Your anxiety was growing, your thoughts were fighting one another. It wasn’t love. It had been something else entirely, it was raw and messy. You knew it wasn’t love, just a night. It wasn’t tender or slow; there were no whispered promises of endless love, marriage, kids, whatever “all happy” people have. Just a desperate fuck, not some grand confession of feelings. Whatever had been between you before — it felt like it was ruined, as if that thing in the bathroom had burned everything else to ash.

Stanford had disappeared, leaving you with silence and your own thoughts, and you believed that he regretted it. Maybe it was just too much for him. 

However, Stanley, he couldn’t shake the feeling of your lips on his, the way they were so warm, because no one had ever kissed him with that kind of passion before. He wasn’t used to that, to being touched like that. His entire life, he believed nobody really liked him. Not like this. Hell, even his own family had given up on him at some point. Except for his mom, she’d always tried to love him, even when he couldn’t love himself. 

He tried to ignore the way his chest ached when he thought about you, tried to drown it out with more cigarettes, more drinks, he tried, but failed because nothing worked. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. Stan was getting attached to you, he knew it, even when he didn’t want to admit it. Even without alcohol, without the nicotine to calm his nerves, he knew he wanted you and your presence. It wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper, something that scared the fuck out of him because he wasn’t used to it. And maybe that’s why he’d been avoiding you. Because how the hell was he supposed to deal with feelings he didn’t even know how to name? Stan always felt that people didn’t love him, they tolerated him.

With you, for the first time in a long time, Stan had felt like he mattered. Like he was seen.

It scared him a lot.

***

Spring came early that year, and with it, the world outside the window seemed to come to life. Gravity Falls blossomed with colors you hadn't noticed before — the world is painted in bright greens and soft pastel tones, flowers made their way through the ground, as if the whole town was shaking off the cold and waking up. And that's when you saw him again.

You weren’t expecting to run into Stanford like this, not here, not in daylight, when spring is blooming around you. He was standing at the edge of the road, hands shoved into his pockets, a slight frown on his face like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be here. But then his eyes met yours and he didn’t look away this time.

There was no alcohol, no bar lights casting shadows on his face. Just sober Stan, the man who had kissed you with so much need that it had nearly broken you.

“Hey,” he called out and you immediately responded with excited “hi!” you smiled, he stood there, waiting for you to come closer. When you did, there was a long pause, neither of you quite sure what to say. His eyes flicked down nervously and you noticed it then, the subtle change, not too noticeable. Had he fixed his mullet a bit? It wasn’t much, but it was. . . cleaner. Neater, like he’d put in just a little more effort. Like maybe he had been planning on running into you.

“Uh, you wanna grab some coffee or somethin’?” Stan asked, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to play it cool, but the way he shifted on his feet betrayed him. He was nervous. Actually nervous. You hadn’t seen that in him before. “I figured we could, ya know, talk. Maybe. If that’s somethin’ you wanna do, of course.”

You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

That’s how two of you ended in a small café nearby, the conversation light at first, both of you avoiding that specific term about. . . Doesn’t matter. 

It was much easier to talk about the weather, or the weirdness of Gravity Falls, or how spring had made the town feel alive again. But every now and then, your eyes would meet and you exchanged awkward laughs and smiles.

“So, uh. . . I gotta ask,” Stan started. “did ya notice somethin’ different?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think for a moment before grinning. “Your hair? you mean you actually put effort into it?”

He smiled back at you. “Yeah, well, figured I’d try to clean up a bit. Y’know, look a little less like a bum.”

You laughed, feeling warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a small thing, but it felt significant to you. Like he’d actually cared enough to try for you, impress you maybe. And that meant more than you could say.

***

Nights bled into days and days slipped back into nights. Time seemed to blur together, the moon swapped places with the sun over and over. And here you were, tangled in the sheets of Stan’s bed, staring at the ceiling, while the moonlight filtered through the triangle-shaped window, the soft glow of it lays over your face, feels like the world outside was holding its breath just for you.

Things between you and Stan had shifted in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t quick or loud. At end, Stan let you get closer, but piece by piece, he was afraid you might notice if he let you too far in all at once.

The first time Stanley let you hug him, really hug him, was late in night. You weren’t sure how it had happened, it wasn’t planned, you reached for him first. You didn’t even think about it, just pulled him close. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him carefully at first, waiting for him to tell you to stop. But he didn’t. Stan stiffened at first, because the idea of being held was foreign to him, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do. Then his face buried against your shoulder, and at first, you thought he was just tired, resting, taking what he needed and nothing more. But then you felt it. The dampness against your skin.

You realized with a sinking heart that Stan was crying.

It wasn’t loud. No sobs, no gasping breaths. Just silent bitter tears soaking through your shirt, his grip tightening on you like he was afraid you might disappear, just like his brother. His body trembled slightly, now he couldn’t hide anymore. It broke something in you, seeing him like this, this man felt so small in your arms. 

He clung to you like a child, because no one had held him in years. No one, no one had hugged him like this since he left his family.

You sighed and held him tighter, feeling his tears soak into your skin. Stan wasn’t just crying about tonight, he was crying for all the years he’d spent running, for all the times he’d pushed people away because it was easier than getting hurt. He was crying because, for the first time in so long, someone was holding him, and it wasn’t just physical, it reminded him of what it felt like to be cared for. To not be alone. 

Your hand gently stroking the back of his head, letting him melt into you like the child he probably hadn’t been allowed to be in years. Decades, maybe. For the first time, Stan didn’t feel like the tough man you knew him as. He felt small, fragile, like he was that little boy again, the one who had been left behind, pushed out of his family and told to figure it all out on his own.

Stanley pulled back, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand, embarrassed as he looked down. But you didn't give him time to think again and regret his actions, you didn’t let him feel that shame for long. You reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table, handing one to him without a word. Stan took it and you lit it for him, the soft click of the lighter the only sound in the room.

You sat together in that silence of the night, both of you smoking. You weren’t drunk this time and that made everything feel more real, clear. It wasn’t about the cigarettes, though. It was the quiet between you, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. Stan wasn’t running anymore, he could finally relax, finally let himself breathe. 

He looked up at the night sky, at the Milky Way stretching above you and smiled then, just a little, but it was there. A real, sincere smile. You hadn’t seen that on him before, not like this. It wasn’t the cocky grin he wore after dumb compliments or the smirk that followed some joke. This was softer. Stanley stared at the stars, his eyes reflecting the distant light and you wondered what he was thinking about. But while he was smiling, you were calm. 

Stanford, real Stanford, he’s always been somewhere up there. In the stars, in the galaxies, in other world, always lost in science and mathematics, in things Stanley never really understood.

Nights passed like this more often, where it wasn’t about the rush of everything. He didn’t have to keep running anymore, didn’t have to keep pretending he didn’t care. He’d gotten soft around you in a way that surprised both of you, but it felt right. He could relax now. He could let himself be vulnerable.

One night, after the smoking had long stopped, after the silence had stretched between you in that comfortable way again, the two of you ended up in his bed. Not in the desperate lust way you had before, but in a way that felt natural. Like this was where you both belonged, in each other’s arms.

Stan was lying on your chest, his head resting against you as you calmingly ran your fingers through his hair, the brown strands slipping through your hands. He let out a long, contented sigh, relaxing into your touch. 

You felt his breath against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest in sync with yours, and that made you understand just how fragile he really was. He never was the tough guy he always tried to be. Stanley Pines was was just a man trying to figure out how to feel again.

Stan’s arms wrapped loosely around you, holding on but not out of desperation this time. Just out of comfort. Out of need.

You smiled softly, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, Stan.”

And for the first time, he believed it and smiled.

***

It wasn’t in Stan’s nature to lay everything out in some big, romantic gesture, not now. This will happen later when he gets older, much older. So there was no official conversation, no ‘what are we now?’ that hung awkwardly in the air.

It happened one evening, at dusk, because at this time of day people always become more sincere and honest, the two of you sitting on the back porch, sharing the silence in the way you’d grown to love. He had that usual cigarette between his lips, the glow of the ember flickering in the dark and you were watching the stars. That's when he said it, which in his language meant “I love you”: 

“I think I like you best when you’re just with me and no one else.”

That was his way of telling you. You didn’t need him to say the word love. You understood him well enough by now to know that what he felt was real and that was all you needed. 

You didn’t ask him to clarify, didn’t push for more. Stan was never someone you could push. Instead, you waited. You knew he would tell you everything in time. He just needed to get there on his own, at his own pace. 

Sometimes he’d disappear into the lab, working on some thing he barely explained, shrugging it off with that typical grumble about science and mathematics. “It’s all bullshit anyway,” he’d say, tossing his hands in the air. “I ain’t ever understood that crap.”

“Not like my brother, he’s the smart one.” Stanley continued in his thoughts. 

Then you started noticing the small changes. The way the bottles that once cluttered his desk and the corners of the shack were fewer now. He still drank, yeah, but not like before. He wasn’t drowning himself in it anymore. It was like he was learning, little by little, how to exist without that forever haze of alcohol clouding his thoughts, feelings and memories.

Stan was still scared though. He was scared of a lot of things, scared you’d leave, scared you’d find out something about him and realise you couldn’t stay. And then there were the nightmares. The ones he never talked about, but they were all the same, repeating every time. You’d wake in the middle of the night to find him tense beside you, his breathing uneven, his hands gripping the sheets as though he was trying to hold on to something slipping away. 

That haunted him. The portal, always the portal. He’d never say it, at least not now. He’s not ready yet. He’s terrified that somehow, you’d be pulled into it too, just like Ford. That one day you’d be gone and he’d be alone again, abandoned forever. 

But when your lips touches his in slow kiss, when you brush your fingers through his messy hair and kiss his forehead, all these fears are washed away. You’d hold him close, feel his body relax against yours and slowly, slowly, his breathing would steady as the nightmares faded. There he stops dreaming about portals and disappearances. Instead, he sleeps deeply, peacefully, like a normal human being.

In the mornings, he’d stay in bed longer than you, his eyes still closed when you slipped out from under the covers. He’d stretch, arms reaching out lazily, that rough voice of his so sleepy. “Sweetheart, come right back,” he’d mumble. “i’ve been waitin’ for you to slip back in bed.” he’d smile when he’d feel your warm body next to his.

That’s what made you fall in love with him harder.

The way he was always a bit softer in the mornings, not yet fully awake and not needing to be. He wasn’t running anymore. Not from you, not from himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, Stan was learning what it meant to just be. To exist in the quiet moments. He still smoked, but it wasn’t to escape anymore, it was just a part of him, something familiar, habit. 

Stanley had spent so much of his life running, from his past, from laws, cops, states, from his brother, from his mistakes. But with you, for the first time, he wasn’t running anymore. He was staying.

[crazylittlejester]

i don’t know if this is something Jojo is doing on purpose, or if it was an intentional detail but i grabbed and ran away with it, or if I’ve just completely read far to into things and entered the realm of just making shit up, but Warriors and his little crooked smile are so GODDAMN important to me and I am shaking him like a squeak toy (gently)

(big yap/analysis under the cut)

disclaimer, i just have a lot of thoughts, probably way too many thoughts, and 97% of them are about Wars so I might be insane, and what you’re about to read provided you’ve stuck around so far might be the equivalent of your high school english teacher yelling with tears in their eyes about how the curtains were blue to “symbolize her sadness”. also my apologies for weird spelling mistakes or oddly misspelled words, i am dyslexic 💔 but with that being said:

Warriors to me comes off as someone who’s constantly acting larger than life. He masks a LOT in front of the chain, he acts overdramatic and a bit ridiculous on purpose, and to an extent he just is a bit ridiculous, but his reactions to things are sometimes blow way out of proportion or are just larger than life in a comedic way where it just seems like he’s doing it intentionally. He comes across as a very extroverted, talkative person, and he seems like he’d honestly be a bit loud too (whether that’s who is REALLY is or what he’s REALLY like is a yap for another post). His (physical) image and the way his character/personality is perceived by others both seem like things that are not his CORE values or the things that mean the most to him, but they do seem to be at least a LITTLE bit important to him just based on how he presents himself and the way he acts. And to an extent, the whole thing with him caring so much about his looks is canon in LU, with that one sketch of him and Legend where he’s looking at his eye in a reflection of a shield and Legend says “alright break it up you two” being the first thing that comes to mind (which is in the post “Mirror Shield”, click the name for the link)

To me, from what I’ve seen and from my perspective, there are very few times we see an actual genuine smile from Warriors, and when we do it tends to be in moments where he’s not in the spotlight, he’s not trying to command the center of attention, and/or the focus is NOT on him. It tends to be moments where he just seems genuinely happy or at peace, and those seem pretty rare. He smiles a LOT, but the majority of his smiles seem big and flashy and performative, and not that that means he’s not happy AT ALL in any of those moments, but those smiles seem a lot more controlled and closely managed because he’s aware of the attention on him and therefore thinking about how he’s perceived. (I’ve made some posts in the past and I’ll probably make others in the future about how I think Warriors puts on this “Captain” or “Hero of Hyrule” persona because of how an entire war was started because a sorceress found him beautiful, and how he feels like him being just him isn’t really good enough for that and how he feels like he needs to fit in and look/act/seem like the legendary heroes he’s being compared to. He’s created this idea of what he COULD be and that’s what he presents to others, fake it till you make it and all that, but thats another yap for another day)

However there are these little moments where we see him smile, and the same one side of his mouth is pretty consistently always just a little bit higher no matter which way his head is facing (here’s a few examples):

@/linkeduniverse, from the 2023 monthly art, “January- Cold Sunrise”

@/linkeduniverse, both from “Dawn pt. 2”

And the thing that really started this whole headcanon of mine that his REAL smile is crooked was this specific part of Dawn pt. 2 where Warriors sees that Twilight is gonna be find for the first time after most likely worrying about him and being up all night:

That middle panel, to me at least, is probably the most genuine expression of a positive emotion we’ve seen from him this entire time. No one’s focus is on him, no one’s really looking at him, he doesn’t have the pressure of being the center of attention on him, and honestly even if that WERE the case, the genuine relief that hit him once he was Twilight was gonna be okay probably would’ve been enough to get a genuine smile out of him anyways. But the second he walks into the room officially, he kinda, for lack of a better way to put it, announces his presence and starts “acting” again (also from Dawn pt 2):

And while that same one side of his mouth does seem a bit higher and not very straight, it’s definitely more even than it was just five seconds previously

Now, acknowledging there is an art style, and that I also just might be insane, but Warriors’s smiles for the most part (when they seem controlled) appear to be a Lot straighter and more even to me than when it’s a more genuine moment and he doesn’t seem like he’s “acting” so much (and just a note: it certainly isn’t EVERY time, but in general, in moments like these his smile seems consistently straighter unless he’s just flat out smirking. and im not saying it’s PERFECTLY straight either, just noticeably more even). When he’s being more dramatic or intentionally obnoxious or the attention is on him, it really does feel like his smile is more controlled: here are just a few examples, obviously this isn’t every single time he’s smiled in all of LU

@/linkeduniverse, from “Swords”

@/linkeduniverse, from “Shady Escape pt 2”

@/linkeduniverse, from “Divine Dark Reflections pt. 8”

@/linkeduniverse, both from “Magic Sword”

am i looking too far into a little thing? probably. am i insane? yeah. but i just really love the idea that when Warriors is truly, genuinely happy, the part of himself that he tries to hide, the sweet and caring person he hides underneath all the dramatics, that true self he’s probably kept hidden away since the start of the war who’s been buried under insecurity and hidden because of the fear that who he is just isnt ENOUGH peaks through, and that person comes out through his happiness in the form of his smile. and yeah it does probably mean nothing and Jojo might not have done any of this on purpose, but i’m crazy, and Warriors’s crooked little smile is so so important to me *insert image of a guy crying face down on the floor because unfortunately i’ve hit the image limit*

[brainrotcharacters]

Lifeline

ship: opla luffy x reader

summary: Luffy sees you hanging over the edge of the ship, holding nothing but a piece of rope in your hand.

a/n: remember when I said my meltdown felt finished? So that was a fucking lie. I wrote a comfort fic instead.

tags: sfw, one piece live action, reader is a devil fruit eater, suicide attempt, angst/comfort, friendship, the Strawhat crew is a found family, Luffy fulfills the caregiver role

--

Everything was set into place. After such a long time, you finally controlled one part of your life.

Ending it.

You were going to do it during a clear night sky. There was the sounds of the winds against the sails of the Going Merry, and the lapping of the ocean waves against its magnificent hull. Usopp took great pride in keeping the ship in peak condition― it was easy to keep filling his mug with booze as he boasted about the ship, and it didn't take long for him to weave belowdecks to find his puke bucket.

Nami and Zoro were more difficult to put under, until a comment misheard by one of them led to another drinking game that ended with both of them unconscious under a table. Sanji helped you get them to bed, but when Zoro wrapped a massive arm around him, he was as good as pinned to the mattress with them. You ignored his pleas as you slowly exited the room, moving two barrels of dried meat in front of the door. Sanji's kicks are strong enough to break through wood, but the idea was to delay his movement, not stop him.

The rope in your hand strained as you lean further over the portside. Your feet remained on deck, but the rest of you teetered dangerously beyond the edge. As a Devil Fruit eater, you had a death wish, setting out to sea. Now you were proving everyone right.

"What are we looking for?"

Goddamn Luffy. You couldn't think of how to put him under, and now you were out of time. Luffy descended the ratlines at your right, eagerly squinting into the inky black ocean. "Are there any dolphins? Are they awake at night? I couldn't hear them from up at the crow's nest."

"Luffy..." you loosened your grip on the rope, the literal lifeline that kept you anchored to the ship. "Leave me alone for a bit, please. Sanji needs help with Nami and Zoro. They've been drinking."

"Sanji can take care of them." He planted his sandaled feet on the bulkhead, detaching from the ratlines. "He takes care of all of us. Even you."

Oh, the bastard. A forced, empty laugh escapes your mouth. "I feel the need to ask. Can you tell what I plan to do?"

He blinked slowly, and that's when you suspected he might succeed to persuade you against it. "Yeah. By the way, if you jump, I'm jumping in after you."

This time, you laughed more genuinely. True; in the short time that passed since you first joined, you knew Luffy had that type of personality.

Luffy smiled, simply happy that he heard your real laugh. The you that was his friend was still in there somewhere. "Y/n, please give me your hand."

He lifted his own, palm facing up. All things considered, he could use his ability and yank you back. But he wasn't that kind of captain―wasn't that kind of person.

"I'm out of place, captain." You keep your attention fixed on the ocean. It was easier than seeing Luffy's face. "I don't have much to offer anyone on this ship, least of all you. Joining you was a mistake."

"You don't mean that." Luffy had seen a similar devastation before. Nami, back when they helped free Coco Village from Arlong. "We like having you here. We all want to keep sailing with you."

A scoff splintered your throat on the way out. "What's your point?"

Luffy shifted on his feet, confused. The point? "You said you're out of place. Then, we'll make a place for you!" He thought they were already doing that, anyway.

He watched your grip on the rope slacken further. Only an inch of rope left before you fall to your death. Luffy scowled. "What about your dream?"

You roll your eyes, even as they prickle with tears. You say over your shoulder. "Someone else will be born and have the same dream. Let them fulfill it."

Luffy stopped himself from complaining about how lazy, how defeated of a thinking that was. Think like a captain. He told himself. "Y/n, no one else will pursue your dream the same way you would. That other person will do one thing differently than you, and you wouldn't be able to scold them for not following your lead. Because you chose to jump tonight."

The stars shimmered on the ocean surface tonight. You couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began, only that it was dark. And Luffy was a red and blue and orange beacon within your reach.

"They won't..." You swallow the image that formed in your head. A child who didn't know any better, deciding to change one key element of your dream for the hell of it. "They won't pursue it how I would."

"Right." You heard Luffy take two steps closer. "So come on, Strawhat. Take my hand."

You find the strength to turn your head. Luffy's hand remained lifted, open and welcoming. Especially to the undeserving.

He offered you a tender, genuine smile. The softness reached his eyes. "We both know that when you take my hand, I will help you. All of us will help you, Y/n. But only after you reach for my hand."

He was cruel, your captain. This was him asking you to continue living. To continue suffering, to continue feeling pain. With him. With everyone. The annoying thing about Luffy was that he believed his crew has each other's backs, and actively made sure it became true.

Zoro was half asleep, but he still protected the back of Nami's head when they both fell on their asses under the table. Sanji complained about Zoro's weight on him, but still made sure his and Nami's necks were at comfortable angles. Usopp embraced everyone good night and sang garbled songs about how he found his courage with the crew, on his way belowdecks. When the singing stopped, the puking began. Sanji and you had chuckled to overhear it.

Goddamnit. You think to yourself, twisting fully and grabbing Luffy's hand.

Your captain grinned, pulling you close. His arms were solid as they braced around your middle, hand grasping your shoulder from behind. His face was buried in your hair, his next words muffled. "There we go. The crew is complete again."

[oozedninjas]

i will BEG YOU ON MY KNEES FOR LITERALLY ANYTHING YOU COULD POSSIBLY THINK OF FOR 2007 RAPH he just makes me so HAHWKAHAKEVBS

This time I came up with something simpler and softer, I hope it's okay :)

Summary: Raph is mustering the courage to confess his feelings, but nothing goes as he plans after your birthday party.

MDNI / Raph is 26, and so is reader/fluff/ post 2007! movie

----

"Get a room, you two." 

Donatello rolled his eyes, turning back to the computer. Raphael glared at him, on the brink of delivering a witty retort, yet he stopped upon sensing your hand on his shoulder. You shrugged it off before shooting him a wink.

"No, no, he's got a point. Let's move to your room," you delivered with a knowing look.

Raph grinned, letting out a mischievous chuckle. He thoroughly enjoyed it when you teamed up to playfully taunt his brothers.

"Yeah? I don't know, maybe we won't be able to keep it down if we go," he quipped, infusing a flirtatious tone to his words.

Donatello growled low at the cringe-inducing sensation creeping up his neck. This happened quite frequently. You and Raph would giggle while snuggling on the couch. Some times you were in his lap, some others he laid his head on your legs while you massaged his head or played with the red bandana.

You shared many things together: meals, phone calls, your apartment (especially when he and Leo fought—hell, he even allowed you to use his bike!), and when you weren't teasing each other, you were playfully flirting. Although, at times, it seemed too genuine to be lighthearted. At least in Donatello’s opinion. 

He did his best to ignore both of you and once you left, he and the others started blitzing Raph with numerous questions. Why do you always act like that? Raph, do you like them? Are you secretly dating or something? Raph, have you asked them out yet? 

“Relax, we’re just messing around,” he deflected. 

"You must be careful with your words, Raphael," Splinter said. "Sometimes we dismiss what we think could tear our hearts apart, but that doesn't mean it'll go away, and if you let it linger there for too long, one day you may come to regret it.”

That struck a chord in him.

"I'm old enough to discern my feelings, thank you," Raphael snapped.

Now, one would have thought that after such a sharp response, Raph would not have dwelled on the matter any further. Yet, much to his annoyance, those queries circled in his head all week—a week during which he continued hanging out with you as usual. The only difference was that now he couldn't shake this tingle from his chest.

Perhaps it's always been there, he thought. Maybe he just hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge it.

Do you like them?

You smiled at him at that very moment, and he knew. The realization hit him like a goddamn train at maximum speed. He had feelings for you. Real feelings. Romantic feelings.

Fuck.

Never in a million years would you feel the same about him; he knew it. And even if you did, he was a mutant living in the sewers. What could he possibly offer you? You know, besides always protecting you and taking care of you. Would you be okay just with that? Would it— would he be enough for you?

****

“I think they like you back,” Casey asserted, shooting a smile at Raph. “Just ask them out.”

They found themselves on the rooftop of Casey's shared apartment with April. It was their habitual pullout, a place to unwind for a couple of hours after their patrol shift, when the night was too bright to head home.

Casey swung his bat absentmindedly through the air, while Raph sat with his legs hanging from the building, watching the hasty lights of various cars speeding below.

“I don’t know. What if they don’t? I don’t wanna risk what we have.”

"Raph, trust me, they like you back. Besides, you both look like a married couple already! Like, that fight over the cookies the other day? Come on,” Casey chuckled at the memory.

Raphael scratched the back of his head, trying to tone down the heat creeping up his neck. Yeah, maybe you did look like a married couple.

****

After pondering it for a few weeks, Raphael made up his mind to speak from his heart. He gathered the courage to talk to you and confess his feelings. Not tonight, though. Tonight was your birthday, and you both agreed to hang out after your small party at the lair.

He made sure you had a pleasant evening and gifted you a pretty handmade bracelet. After the song and the cake that Mikey lovingly baked, you both headed to your apartment for a movie.

Now he found himself in your bed, right next to you, and God, you looked beautiful. Who could concentrate on the TV with such a sight beside it? Certainly not Raph. He stared for so long that it didn’t take much time for you to notice.

“Is something wrong, babe?” You asked.

Babe

You’ve never called him that before, not even during fake-flirting. His heart rate pitched inside his plastron. Warmth flushed his cheeks. Damn. He turned quickly, trying to swallow the butterflies in his stomach. 

“Nah, just watch the movie,” he mumbled. 

“I was, you were the one staring at me,” you noted. 

“No I wasn’t” 

“Hmm, I positively think you were.”

“Well, what if I was?” he retorted.

You grimaced at the sudden harsh, low-key annoyed tone. Something felt off, and judging by his behavior over the past week, you already knew what it was. Grinning, you asked:

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Raphael turned back to you, his heart beating faster now, a tingling sensation in his hands. Your gaze was flirty, but not as playful this time.

“You know I do,” he said simply. 

Damn, this was much easier when he hadn’t realized he had a crush on you.

“I think you’re really good looking too.” 

“I know,” Raph smirked, trying his best to play it cool. 

You snorted, turning completely towards him. Stretching your hand out, you ran your fingertips over the bracelet.

“This was incredibly thoughtful, you know? I love it. But you know what would be an even greater birthday present?”

“What?” He prompted.

“If you said this was our first date.” 

All doubts, nervousness, and his plans of awkwardly confessing were thrown out the window with that single phrase. His smile this time was wide, his gaze radiant with satisfaction and confidence.

"It is," he placed his hand over yours, his hold impossibly tender. "At least to us. The whole crew is convinced we're already dating," he said casually, suddenly unable to stop smiling.

“Yeah, I know. The other day your father asked me some things…”

Raphael gasped, horrified. “What did he ask you?!”

You chortled at the expression he made. Man, this was about to become the best birthday night ever.

[the-heartlines]

real, genuine question…how are so many of my fellow shippers okay with dead dove helaemond in fanfic but not in the show? because that’s hypocritical as fuck. lmao.

because as someone who adores dead dove, i am living for the direction they’re taking helaemond. listen, linda…

*hotd leaks/spoilers*

aemond is not a nice person. he is slowly losing his grasp on things because he saw the dragon power rhaenyra has gained and he’s also a targaryen prince. he is desperate, pathetic, arrogant, prideful, in a patriarchal society where his godlike hubris has manifested after claiming a dragon, along with the hate that has lived, grew inside him ever since getting his eye taken and a father who turned his eyes from his sons, to never pour affection or literally care for him at all lbr.

the way in which he grabbed helaena so carelessly and harshly, not daring to give her feelings, her pain a second thought, to drag her into a war with him that they’re losing. (that she knows they’re going to lose)

“aemond is abusive for grabbing helaena like that.” i do not believe he is inherently abusive towards helaena. if he continues to act this way towards her, which i seriously doubt after she clocked his ass, (silence, omega!) then yes. but…an absolute dickhead of a brother going mad who acted rashly and stupidly that should get bitch-slapped? yes 1000%, because he’s so desperate, realizing that he fucked up royally burning aegon and sunfyre, that he cannot face multiple dragons alone. (lmao my idiot sandwich son 💀😭)

he’s always felt like a god after claiming vhagar, feeling superior to others because of his dragonblood, but here’s thing. helaena has predicted everything that has happened to him. they are interlinked because she has seen all that will befall him. and he’s beyond terrified here. the scene on the balcony where he confronts her post grabbing her so brutally, showing his hand ghosting hers, how his goddamn voice goes quiet, begging her to lay waste to their enemy—daemon—almost in a meekly genuine tone which we have never heard?! the little boy begging his big sister for help. “the heed to a truer calling” what he’s been taught all his life, that his blood is superior. and then he has tears in his eyes which get even more glassy with more tears of terror when she reveals her dragon dreams, knowing he burnt their brother, telling him of his death, that what he does won’t change anything. aemond’s threats of having her put to death are empty, and lmao worthy because he pretty much just came begging on his hands and knees to ask her to fight. but pookie don’t give a fuck. she knows how this will end and that the death of her family, aemond, the dragons, is the only way to ensure peace in the realm.

my beautiful fucked up doomed tragic sibling duo. i do believe helaemond in s3 will be something delicious if they decide to have aemond work with helaena and expand her dreamer arc, because they’re paralleling her with alys. especially since alys told daemon that he would die in the beginning of the szn and now helaena telling aemond how he’ll die in the finale, after he begs her to fly to harrenhal with him. the daemond x daelys x helaemond x helys parallels be paralleling.

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[pricegouge]

idk who to tell this and i saw ''price'' in your name so hear hear, can you imagine cptn Price actually not able to handle horror films very well? like Sinister genuinely makes him jump and scream, and he doesn't hide it either he just let it OUT making you who's watching with him jump too but not because of the film, but because of his screaming? i love seeing big buff men getting scared from horror films teehee

god im sooo happy you came to me with this ask lmao. i'm addicted to horror because i have a Fucking Problem. and because price is my goddamn tulpa wife atp, i of course spend way too much time imagining him sitting with me, squirming and cringing and disguising gasps behind smoker coughs

okay, just like everything, i think there is nuance to this. survivalist horror? as long as it's not too gory, price is fineee. "well. simply don't do that next time," he often says, knowing full well there won't be a next time because this guy is about to Bite It. but when that time actually comes, price is flinching away and developing a lifelong fear of wolves when the pack tears that guy to shred in frozen 2010

creature features and supernatural horror are tied for second best. monsters in general will freak him OUT if the effects are well handled, but they don't keep him up at night. and he's the target audience for a formulaic blumhouse demon/ghost jumpscare. like, flinging a pillow at the tv and pulling you into his lap to keep the both of you safe, somehow(?) level

folk horror unsettles him but doesn't spook him a whole lot (while it's still playing, at least. he does definitely get a bit more superstitious as your relationship develops and you make him watch all sorts of fae or cursed horror, though)

zombies or other outbreak movies freak him out and he's not ashamed of it. he has to take a lap to make a fresh batch of popcorn every time mob mentality comes into play.

and lastly i have to give a shout out to @stellewriites because we had the exact same headcannon for this last part. torture porn/slashers/anything gratuitously gory/and home invasion are his absolute worst subgenres. he hates them, can handle anything you throw at him in real life but can't stand to watch it in his free time. he's seen worse with his own eyes and he knows that, but something about a whole team of people putting blood sweat and tears into making the rack in saw 3 sound realistic? that's just too much. "what is wrong with these people?" he asks, fingers flexing around a fistful of pant leg as his feet push against the ground sporadically, as if his whole body is trying to distance himself from the screen with every heartbeat despite being too stubborn to move. you're here, watching this, so he has to be here in case you need him but he is not having a good time. and when he sees that you very much are having a good time he groans, finally breaking to excuse himself when he sees the delight in your eyes as squibs pop onscreen like fireworks, painting the set red.

he's a fucking hypocrite though because he totally gets mad if an action movie doesn't have a realistic level of blood, just saying.

also he will never admit it but alien movies freak him out. you totally catch him reading news articles about that obelisk hoax that happened a few years back at like two in the morning

[weebsinstash]

Atsv Spoilers (not really or kinda depends on opinion I guess? Better safe then sorry) Just thinking about Spider Reader with the destroyed universe getting fucked over by YouTwo and snapping back with "Then just send me home!" and then the Go Home Machine failing cause there is no universe to send them back to. Miguel being horrified that he's made such a terrible mistake, Reader staring at Miguel with absolute hatred in their eyes so caught up in the euphoria of justified rage they don't realize that they've effectively trapped themselves in a neat container for safe keeping.

No but deadass I spent my entire overnight shift last night just like, literally brainstorming different and horrible ways Reader could be "kicked out" and one idea I thought of was, Reader gets confronted and accused of being YouTwo, and YT themself is there to help pour on the tears and treat you like such a nasty awful bully and make up all kinds of accusations and also just different little ideas on things the SS does to make Reader spiral into WANTING to leave (like for example what if Reader and Miguel have a big argument because you were there during like the second movie and you're like "O'Hara what you said to that kid was genuinely so fucked up" and start avoiding him which drives him crazy, more so than you usually make him by just existing anyways

Imagine if instead of using the machine to send you home, YouTwo just strides up and basically suckerpunches you and steals your bracelet right off your wrist, saying you can just glitch out and go home that way (because YT is literally trying to fucking kill you at this point)

You're just glitching and you're crying and SCREAMING in terror, because even if you've been so depressed you were contemplating suicide, ideation is different than HAPPENING RIGHT NOW, and NOW you don't have a choice, and you're getting hysterical BEGGING "I'll go somewhere else and never come back! Don't do this! Don't take my bracelet! I'll die!! I'll die!!" And most of them don't believe you because they're convinced this is another manipulation attempt by the person they THINK you are and they don't want to give you the bracelet because they don't want "fake you" to come back

Some of them, though, realize you're just a bit TOO upset, and that maybe something really IS wrong. You start looking at people and calling them out by name, trying to recall specific events and memories, but many are convinced that "you" were so devoted on spying and copying "the real you" that you must have had them bugged or stalking them and just overheard these moments. They're all so tricked that maybe YouTwo even claims they had a diary that you stole, and that's how you know everything

These are people you've spent months and months if not a few YEARS with, being their friend, training with them, fighting alongside them, helping them through grief and loss, and suddenly you realize, oh my fucking god if you weren't a Spider and they didn't think you still had a home universe to protect, still had a home universe that would collapse without you, would they actually fucking kill you? Like imagine the horror at realizing the unspoken threat and knowing they WANT to kill you or significantly harm you, that they WOULD kill over something like this, over what is essentially just... personal beefing? Idk but, I was also thinking, what if YouTwo had actually sabotaged the elevator project from the other idea I had, so, maybe they've been up to all kinds of dangerous shit

(As a side bar, imagine Miguel investigating the accident bc he thinks the whole like suddenly falling apart thing was very sus and maybe there had been an explosion and upon investigating he learns "you" planted bombs and he like. Gently confronts you about it like "I know you've been stressed and feeling like you need to prove yourself but you can't do things like this" and you're just like. Goddamn that hurts for him to just not even, doubt it was you, maybe YT has created some sort of alibi. He doesn't like, punish you or anything, but, you just kind of blow up at the accusation and I think it'd be pretty entertaining if you're like, "ok you know what, fuck you actually, I'm going to go live in the normal part of the city" and he doesn't even, take that seriously, he just sort of acts like you're throwing a tantrum but he's like, clearly not wanting to punish you even though he's obviously disappointed in you, for something you didn't even do, ouch)

But anyways, so, I've thought about how Reader would get the bracelet back, and it's ranged from "Reader saying something only the true you would know, something that was private or no one else would know about but you and certain witnesses" to "Reader has a food allergy certain people know about but YouTwo doesn't so you just say 'ok bitch watch me prove this shit and also fuck you' and you deliberately eat the thing and go into straight anaphylactic shock out of spite"

YouTwo fakes an allergy attack and says you poisoned them and you're just like "oh you wanna see a REAL allergic reaction bitch" *starts seizing after licking an almond joy*

But no anyways back to more serious ideas, you're just, starting to glitch out more and more, screaming and begging "don't kill me!" and Miguel is starting to wonder if maybe he should just give the bracelet back, he's got an, uncomfortable feeling, and A Lot of Spidey Senses start going off and you're freaking out because you literally think you're about to die (although for closure I like to think you just, bounce somewhere else, and you'll maybe keep bouncing before you find another sort of anchor, and also for spite of course i like to think of that anchor being another Miguel, like either you naturally "settle" there or he gets you a dimensional watch)

And my preferred preference of routes here varies. "YouTwo exposes themself on accident by saying some dumb shit" to "you say something only you would know, something like extremely personal, like maybe you even stalk up to Miguel and bring up something he said to you about losing his family and like, how you respected him for going through all that and how you were glad he was the society's/your leader and he barely gets that bracelet on before you vanish" to "asking YouTwo to prove theyre you by answering certain questions" to "they realize youre telling the truth but literally JUST as theyre about to put the watch back on, you vanish" to, finally, "you cant prove your innocence fast enough and they genuinely do just let you fucking disappear on purpose but instead of dying you just go somewhere else until you meet a different Miguel who rescues you and now you're like hardcore trauma bonded to that man because you were just bouncing around terrified until you found him and he's just like insanely protective of you and you're just kind of, glued to his side bc you only feel safe when he's there to protect you, because you're scared of, everyone at this point, like totally traumatized by what happened and also if you're with him 24/7 you can't be swapped out and he won't think you're a fake and try to kill you right?? Ha ha you aren't traumatized at all :) and it just makes your hero all the more, attached to hear all that you went through, from the beginning, and see what it did to you, and it 'definitely' isnt feeding into any extremely intense feeling of his that you WANT to be with him 24/7"

Ok actually that concept is about to highjack this post, I need to swing back to that later bc there's some real potential in, like, Reader being like so extremely fucked up over what happened that it immediately thrusts you into the arms of another terrible situation. Like you just got straight betrayed and "murdered" by all of your friends, like basically your entire social community, and Miguel2 is now the only one you can trust, and meanwhile he feels genuine empathy for you and is angry at the people who hurt you and he just kind of vows to protect you, and, I like to think, maybe Reader has time before they glitch between worlds (unless you just, magically settle again like you did in the other Nueva York, maybe you're a mutant or your destiny is tied to Nueva York or at least staying alive.) so maybe he literally develops the tech to anchor you down within like, the days you have there, maybe it's a 3 day time limit. So, now you've got just him and you, no Spider Society, no original Miguel, and maybe you just kind of totally fall in love with this dude, but of course Miguel 1 is obviously horrified by what he did to you when he somehow finds out you're still alive. Like an anomaly villain breaks into your new home and, oh great here are some of your old friends and your ex, um, boss showing up and he's just, speechless when it becomes obvious youre the same one. Like imagine you tried to not even speak to them and avoid them to try and keep your new life but youre so obviously scared of them and you accidentally look in your original Miguel's eyes and he knows immediately it's you. Bruh his PAIN AND REGRET when he steps forward to try and embrace you in relief and joy bc oh my god you aren't dead, and you just flinch away from him, maybe you even cling to the new Miguel, and the original just. He's ready to fucking fight. He wants you back, he wants to apologize, he wants to be able to make things up to you and go back to how things used to be, especially if he has feelings he had wanted to act on, whether being more romantic or just more platonically affectionate in general, more open and vulnerable with you, but never got to before the YouTwo wrecking ball came swinging through

But yeah I'm just. Thinking of dramatic painful ideas and grinding them up and snorting them like crack. I think it's the whole "you burned me and now you're groveling for my forgiveness" that does it for me 🤌

[leviathans-watching]

om m.list ━ individual characters (bros)

[back]

lucifer

lucifer watching you sleep

reunion w/ lucifer

open affection with lucifer

lucifer x witch!mc

random texts with lucifer

your heart’s on my horizon - 1.8k

“And you don’t know what kind of curse?” Lucifer runs a hand through his hair anxiously. You stir slightly but still do not wake.

“We’ve got it narrowed down. Nothing too harmful, at least for demons, but the main concern is that we’re not sure how it’ll interact with a human. We’re just waiting for MC to wake at this point.”

Lucifer crouches down, examining your face closely. At least you don’t look like you’re in pain. Removing a glove, he presses the back of his hand to your forehead. It’s as he’s doing this that your eyes flutter open, taking him in.

“MC?” he asks panickedly, and Diavolo hurries closer, leaning over you as well. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m more than alright,” you say, sitting up. “Now that you’re here, Lucifer, I’m perfect.”

haunted & holy - 2k

“We’ll always be together, right?” you asked, clasping his hand softly.

“Of course,” Lucifer replied with ease, flipping your hand over so he could hold it for real. “Nothing in this world could ever take me from you.”

Oh, how those words played in his head when he fell, your tear-stained face the last thing he had seen. Your hand, reaching futilely for him, even as you were pulled back by several other angels.

can’t afford to lose you any longer - 2.3k

stepping into the hall, he clicks on mammon’s contact, holding his phone to his ear. it rings several times, but just as he thinks it’s going to go to voicemail, his younger brother picks up.

“lucifer!” mammon says. “oh thank god. i was just about to call ya!” mammon’s voice is loud, nervous. something is definitely wrong. why would mammon be calling him?

“what’s the matter?” lucifer asks, a bad feeling unfurling in his chest.

“it’s about mc,” mammon says, grave. “they got into an accident, and are in the hospital. i was gonna call ya sooner but satan said i should wait ‘till the doctor told us what was goin’ on.”

“what? mammon, what happened? are they okay?”

mammon hesitates. “they’re not in any immediate danger,” he hedges, and lucifer growls. “okay, okay. they’re in a coma, caused by the exertion of magical energy-”

“magical energy?” lucifer exclaims, but mammon barrels on.

“-but it’s estimated they’re not in any danger,” mammon continues, “we just don’t know when they’ll wake up yet. ‘pparently some lower-level dirtbags got brave due to your absence and decided to ‘purify the devildom once more.’” lucifer could hear the disgust in his voice.

mammon

playing pool with mammon

school play lead!mammon

“for you my dear? anything.”

getting overwhelmed by yelling/fighting

modeling with mammon | part 2

mammon with a chubby/fat mc

roller skating with mammon

mammon and sick!mc

painting a mural with mammon

dancing at the royal ball with mammon

rejecting nightbringer!mammon

meet-cute with mammon

It’s mammons bday again

swirl with mammon

mammon's birthday

random texts with mammon

selfish, for once - 18k

Mammon… is not what you were expecting. Instead of some horrific creature, you’re met with a pretty normal-looking guy, all things considered. Sure, he’s got horns and wings, but that’s it. Oh. He has abs, too. So horns, wings, and very prominent abs.

“My name is MC,” you say bravely, looking very intently at his eyes, which are an inhumane blue. “And I summoned you. I wish to make a pact.”

“A pact?” Mammon squawks, confusing you. “That’s what you were tryin’ to do?”

You raise a brow. “Yes?”

Mammon curses, slipping into the rough tones of the underworld. “A goddamn pact. Shit.” Shaking his head roughly, he fixes you with a hard look. “Hate to break it to you, Sweetcheeks, but you fucked up.”

“What?” You squint at him. “No. No way. I followed all of the instructions perfectly.”

“And there’s your problem. Whoever told you that was a pact spell was lyin’ to you.” Mammon seems genuinely distressed, and you feel very out of your element.

“Well then, what kind of spell was it?”

Mammon winces like he was hoping you weren’t going to ask. “It’s a, uh, binding spell. We’re bound together now. Our souls are, for a lack of a better term, intertwined.”

chaos causer - 10k

Alone for the holidays? Mad at your family? Hire me to ruin the night.

I am a human magic user that has recently had a lot of time open up to me with nothing to fill it. Why not use this time in a meaningful way? I asked myself, before dismissing the idea. I’m a young adult willing to pretend to be your date for any holiday dinner or party.

Thanks to my magic, I can play any age, except child (for obvious reasons), and have no problem changing my appearance as need be. I am a skilled actor and promise to sell my character well. Your satisfaction is guaranteed.

I revel in causing chaos and making things worse.

I require no payment aside from the free meal. This offer is available to anyone in any of the three realms, as I have experience dealing with an assortment of humans, angels, and demons. Do NOT contact me with unsolicited offers or services.

home is wherever I’m with you - 1.3k

"let’s get out of here,” you say one day, in the wake of an explosive argument between the brothers that left mammon nearly in tears.

“what?” he says, tilting his head towards you. “just- drive?”

“yeah. we’ll come back eventually, but let’s just go somewhere that’s not here.” mammon doesn’t look quite convinced, so you double down, pleading with him. “i’ll take all of the blame and everything. please mammon, i just want to explore some.”

“lucifer’ll kill us.”

“not if he can’t find us,” you say with more cheekiness than you feel, making mammon snort half-heartedly. “c’mon,” you wheedle, “just the two of us, complete freedom, no tasks, no chores-”

“fine,” mammon agrees, and you grin. you feel impulsive and wild, the wanderlust already taking over. “let’s do it.”

liminal spaces (in my heart) - .9k

you and a handsome stranger keep meeting in the oddest of places. mammon x gn!reader

Golden - 4k

“MC. I know you want to do something for Mammon’s birthday.”

“How do you-”

“All-seeing time lord, remember?” His tone held a note of humor. “Anyway, I have a plan. There is a car in the parking lot of the school, that has swimming suits, a picnic, and everything you’d need for the beach.”

“Diavolo’s?”

“Yes. Now, as a responsible person, I shouldn’t be suggesting you skip school, but I also know Mammon is deeply upset, and the sooner you head out the better. You will know the car when you see it. It is by the back of the lot.” Barbatos gave you a small smile.

*

When everyone forgets Mammon’s birthday you can’t let it slide. With the help of Barbatos, you take him to the beach for an afternoon that hopefully makes up for everyone else’s forgetfulness.

angry at all the things i can’t change - 1.9k | part 2 - 3k

ask from @/dexpairs-blog: Hi! If that’s ok could i request MC not hiding their preference for Mammon (in general, not just romantic), and when they’re asked why they say that they relate to him since at home they’re treated the sale say his brothers treat him and want to make him feel loved.

*

Five times you give Mammon the love and care he deserves and one time you make sure the other brothers get what’s coming to them.

levi

nervous!MC asking levi out

getting overwhelmed by yelling/fighting

playing scary games with levi

drinking with levi

misunderstandings with levi

levi’s fkn hot

levi's bday (yr 3)

satan

seeing snow with satan

domestic morning with satan

comparing now

spring walk

asmo

mc wanting to learn about asmo’s interests (fem!reader)

‘ruination’ with asmo

asmo x goth!mc • part 2

meeting asmo at the club

dancing with asmo

like, subscribe, and maybe fall in love

*NOT CLICKBAIT!!!* when asmo learns that you, the newest exchange student has a youtube account and following somewhat comparable to his own, he decided right then and there not to like you. however, after an unfortunate (and misleading) exchange goes viral, he has no choice but to fake date you in order to save face. will asmo crush you and put you into place like you deserve? or are those funny feelings in his stomach not hate, like he had thought? like, subscribe, and maybe fall in love (with this smau) to find out!!

beel

beel with a mc who works out with him

beel concerned about mc’s appetite

mc not being scared of beel

getting overwhelmed by yelling/fighting

tipsy!reader telling beel you love him

beel winning you a teddy bear

seeing the sunrise with beel

giving beel candy

should have known better w/ beel

human world buffet

stupid handsome boys

“just stay with me”

love thy neighbor - 7k

Before the boxes can fully tip over, you feel the top one getting lifted, a tanned arm entering your vision.

“Whoah,” the stranger says, and you shift the boxes remaining, moving them out of your way. Without the box that had been on top, it’s much easier for you to get a handle on everything. “Careful there,” he continues once you’re finally able to see him, and you have to adjust where you’re looking because seriously, this guy is way taller than you expected.

Or, living next door to a demon.

belphie

belphie doesn’t like sleeping with you

showing him constellations

what might be memory feels like flesh and bone - 1.4k | part 2 - 1.1k

He was blinded by his rage, his grief, and the only person who had made an honest effort to help him out was you, you who he had so easily turned on once he had gotten what he wanted.

It was hard, Belphegor was learning, facing and owning up to his own mistakes.

*

He did not deserve your kindness.

Yet you offered it to him in quiet moments, and in soft movements.

And he could only comply, ensnared by the soft feeling of your fingers on his cheekbones, collecting any wayward tears.

[bubblepopsims]

To whom it may concern,

This pains me...

I know a lot of posts have been floating around the whole "system" of Tumblr.. i.e. the reblogs, likes, shares blah blah numbers. yeah.

And to start this off with, I don't care if you like my posts or reblog them.. this is not about me... I am saying this for the people that put a lot of time and effort into their content.. the people that push through this shit with blood, sweat, and tears... out of excitement to share their vision with people. the ones who are now feeling burnt out, overwhelmed, and defeated from the lack of support that is given on this SOCIAL MEDIA platform, the ones who face dms of people attempting to control what they post, and how they post it.

first of all.... who the fuck are you to go into anybody's DMS and think that it's alright for you to BELIEVE you have any power here?

If you don't like something... move. on. Don't follow them. Don't interact with them. that's it!... the audacity, the fucking ego trips some of these people are on, it's unbelievable... get a life, read a book, drink some tea, masturbate... do something other than genuinely making someone feel like shit on a daily bases...

I am not saying you have to be a kiss-ass to everyone... a matter of fact. DO NOT. don't be fake. but if you like something why not tell them? SHARE IT! In this day and age when everyone has so much to say about everything else... you have nothing to say for someone who shares a common interest with you? when did everyone forget to support each other? has the world made you that cold?

I am beginning to see many content creators that I adore so much... drop off all social media (slow down, quiet down.. fade off) platforms due to the lack of support and the hate.... the hate... Stealing from each other, not just content but ideas too... belittling each other, asking people for stuff and not even having the common decency to say thank you or share what you have been gifted by another creator... talking behind each other backs, the envy, the stupid made up rule of "if you like and share one of my posts I'll do the same hehe" *rolling my eyes* This is called a community for a reason... but by the looks of it we are more divided than together... The fact that I read posts of people talking about how "stressed the fuck out" over this they are, or "Am I the problem?" is upsetting...

This is supposed to be fun... and for those of you who say "Well, they are just insecure, don't worry about the numbers, it's about you" go fuck yourself. because you probably get the likes and reblogs, who don't give to their community at all.. just shove that up your ass. respectfully -clears throat- excuse me that was rude... but I meant it. But it's supposed to be fun... there should be no malicious intent here... no undermining, no masterminding the system. what the fuck even? anyway... there should be none of that. Nobody should have to feel like that... ESPACIALLY HERE. did you all forget that we are a bunch of fucking NERDS! cool nerds. But A bunch of fucking nerds playing dress up and storytellers and builders and photographers in a goddamn video game. so what about someone is better than you. and? Did you forget that's how you get better?

[Yeah yeah fight me, bite me, whatever me about the whole nerds shit. It's a compliment in my eyes. I love being a fucking nerd.]

being prideful has its perks but it can also turn ugly real quick if used wrong...

I posted this for a reason so if you have words you want to say to me or just in general by all means.

if you disliked my post and feel icky by me now.. you can unfollow me.. because I will not ever NOT speak my mind, and this generally hurts me... because these people I see fading away... are fucking great people. These genuine people just want to play a game, share the content of that game, and tell you about themselves... Just. like. you.

I just wish people were nicer to each other...

some hippy dippy shit but I am one.

peace and love

[tartrazeen]

Things I appreciate in the FNaF movie as I go, but under the cut so I don't spoil things for people:

(update: watched the whole thing, excellent movie for fans, pretty fun movie for those who are new to the franchise, will be best experienced back-to-back once all the movies are out, may finally be the thing that causes MatPat's head to pop)

1. The cold open's Chekhov's Loose Screw

2. The very charming 16-bit snatch-and-grabs that Golden Bonny super casually pulled off

3. The Dream Theory book

4. The absolute mockery of the canonicity of any theory and how it "depends on what you believe" 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 Loved that

5. Mike's PTSD-fuelled fountain tackle

6. The very slight room for hope I have that Matthew Lillard is somehow Phone Guy but as an employment centre guy

7. The fact that they are not gonna say Mike's last name lmaooooooo

8. The obvious Evil Inspiration mood switch from Matthew Lillard as soon as he gets to Mike's last name

9. The fact that they're only barely pretending that Abby isn't actually seeing real ghosts

10. The slight possibility that Garrett is gonna be the Puppet rather than Golden Freddy

11. The suspicious hint that pictures are the most canon thing out of all the evidence we have in the series so far 👀

12. The fact that none of the letters in the sign are burnt out

13. The fact that oh my god YES Matthew Lillard is covering Phone Guy's role, but is obviously also gonna be Purple Guy, CONFIRMING ONE OF MATPAT'S ORIGINAL THEORIES RETROACTIVELY LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

14. How little Training Lady blinks

15. The training tape that ABSOLUTELY has freeze frame lore bits in it

16. baby bb :3

17. The static in the speaker gearing up to be the IT'S ME hallucination

18. Omg the five kids in the dream - is this actually proving me right about the brother being the Puppet?!

19. is that fucking matpat

20. IS THAT FUCKING MATPAT

21. DO YOU KNOW HOW SCARED I GODDAMN WAS THAT HE WASN'T GONNA BE REFERENCED IN THIS MOVIE LIKE SOME WEIRD SNUB BECAUSE NO ONE WAS TALKING ABOUT IT AND THIS GUY HAD A GODDAMN ROLE IN IT THE WHOLE TIME

22. DO YOU KNOW HOW HAPPY I AM YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

23. THIS MOVIE GETS A FREE PASS ON LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE THAT CAN HAPPEN NOW 💖😍💖😍💖😍💖😍💖😍💖😍💖

24. Also that interrupted the thing I like being that my dumb ass only now realized that "I wish somebody would buy me a ring" wasn't a reference I missed, just her saying she had a crush on Mike lmao

25. The black crying tears :3

26. 🤔 The interesting but satisfying choice to write IT'S ME in the mirror instead

27. The real possibility that they're going to make Vanessa a legit twist villain this time to make up for Security Breach

28. Bonny's eyes opening first 👀

29. Casual use of the word 'golden' to mean good lmao

30. Fuckin' Chica's stare at the other guy, narrowing her eyes like that LMAOOOOOOOOO

31. The kids havin' a little giggle on the phone

32. LMAOOOOOOO THE LOADING OF THE CUPCAKE INTO THE VENT

33. Foxy sticking to that Sixth Night in FNaF 1 from Help Wanted insta-trigger

34. The Bite of Whatever-Year-This-Is 😍

35. Vanessa's very creepy over-familarity

36. The description of Mike's family dinners matching the dinner scene in the Security Breach basement

37. Chekhov's Electric Guitar Riff

38. Abby putting a hit on Mike with the robots by scribbling his face out lol

39. The pharmacist 🤣💖

40. The actual legit deal the kids are trying to make, which is WAY more story than this series has ever had

41. This movie have the backbone to show actual on-screen violence - like, legit and genuine and soooo overdue violene, FINALLY

42. The screw paying off 👏🏽

43. The set up for Abby to actually become Baby 👀

44. The hope she'll call him the Purple Guy

45. Ahhahahahahhaha the disappointment that she didn't looooool oh well, I guess they're making that part of Security Breach canon somehow? Vanessa being his daughter? Okay

46. The genuine hope that Matthew Lillard is actually just Phone Guy, which would be amazing, because I really hope Springtrap doesn't reveal who's inside until the third movie

Edit: goddammit nvm

47. Sweet performance though, this is legit the voice Afton should've always had, not that weird British thing

48. How pissed Golden Freddy's ghost looks LOLOLOLOLOLLOLOL just closing that door

49. 👀 surprisingly bad-ass end credits song

50. 🤔 the odd realization that I'm not sure that was five nights

51. >:3 bb

In conclusion:

- shockingly good!

- I can't believe there was an actual story!

- Springtrap really said "hi i'm here too but i left the car running so chop chop on this scene plz"

- The "Come Find Me" spelled at the end of credits was good 👀

- Soooooooooo incredibly excited to have MatPat slam through this and have his head exploding juggling movie-verse, book-verse, and game-verse. I think we can actually break him, you guys!! :D

[cdyssey]

Hacks (1.10) Reactions:

the dedication being to jean’s late husband ;-;

God, Deborah edging Ava out of the schedule but not confronting her.

lol, the fact that deb has apparently served dj

“… because if you don’t want me to do this show I won’t.” Deborah genuinely asking DJ is such a good moment. DJ has spent so much of her life having to be subject to what her mother thinks best.

God, that beat after DJ makes Deborah genuinely laugh—she soaks in that moment, clearly proud and a little awed to have caused it. As we’ve seen with both Ava and Marcus, when you’re in Deborah’s spotlight, it is the most magical place in the world.

The Jimmy/Kayla dynamic isn’t quite working for me atm… her actress is great, but I need kayla to grow up just a little.

(heard they get more complex as the seasons go on, though!)

jfc, Deb doesn’t believe Ava about her dad because of the previous lies.

Deb doesn’t confront her, but Deb doesn’t look at her either. God. This drama is so fucking good.

“I don’t really think about you.” / “Yeah, right, lady. You do think about me. And I think about you. It’s called a human relationship. And sorry, but we have one.” OH, MY FUCKING GOD

“No one’s allowed to communicate honestly with you. And if they do, you either shut them out or push them away, or, I-I don’t know, hit them with your car.”

THIS IS SOME FUCKING GOOD FOOD

“This is my life!” JEAN SMART, THE WOMAN THAT YOU ARE!!!!!

“Does KFC want you to be the new Colonel Sanders?” GNDNFNSNDN, cold

“You are a fucking hack.” / [Deborah slaps her.]

OH MY GOD, DID THAT JUST HAPPEN

DID THAT JUST FUCKING HAPPEN

THIS IS THE MOST INSANE CONVERSATION FUCKING EVER

The tangible silence after that—the tears in Ava’s eyes, the immediate regret in Deborah’s. All of their punches have been verbal until this exact moment, but now a new line has been crossed, and it can never be taken back.

“I’ll trade you a Xanny for a cigarette.” Lol

AVA’S REVENGE. OH, GOD GIRL. STAY AWAY FROM YOUR PHONE WHEN YOU’RE DRINKING

Kiki is so hot.

Deborah taking responsibility with Marcus… but only because Ava is out of the picture. Hhhhhhhhhgh.

MARCUS CEO AND 10% RAISE!!! OH, HE DESERVES IT

The tears in his eyes and voice. Carl Clemons-Hopkins is such a good actor. He’s brough Marcus to life in such beautiful ways.

“‘Cause you’re already in a relationship. With Deborah.” WOOF. Yeah. And the use of “relationship” takes us back to Ava and Deb in the dressing room, firmly hammering it in home that Marcus and Ava are two sides of the same coin

THE TIMES COVER.

I THINK SHE WILL.

XOXO

I’M CRYING

Deb getting a standing ovation upon entry 😭😭😭😭 yeah, that’s right. That mother

SHE’S GONNA USE THE NEW MATERIAL

SHE WORE THE STILETTOS BECAUSE THE PAIN IS WORTH IT

THIS GODDAMN SHOW

jfc Ava’s dad is dead. 😭 She never got to see him again after moving to LA.

The environmental detail in Ava’s childhood bedroom is peak. Ofc, she has mean girls and twilight magazine covers

“I gotta be up before Kelly Ripa’s day is done.” Deborah is in her head.

I’m going to be nuts over them. I am going to climb the freakin’ walls

This argument with Ava’s mom feels so fucking real, down to it casually ending with, “Do you want some coffee?” as though they just get out of a devastating fight about everything that has historically made their relationship dysfunctional

DEBORAH AT THE FUNERAL

I’M WEEPING

IN A FUR COAT AND EVERYTHING

“It’s exhausting to lose a loved one.” she gets it.

Deborah warming up the crowd like she would a standup. 😭 I’m not kidding, y’all. there are actually tears in my eyes.

DEB IN AVA’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM

“Hey, shoes off.” AKAKSKJD

Ava got into comedy because it made her feel connected to people—a response to a shitty childhood

“Well, no. You can’t quit. You’re too good.” Oh, God, and that’s what gets Ava to finally cry. Because it’s not just grief, goddammit. It’s catharsis and much needed release. The show began with Ava stuck in a rut because the entire comedy world had deemed her irredeemable. At her childhood home, she was and is the lonely creature who could never quite get her parents to understand. But here and now, here’s someone telling her that she’s talented.

And that she belongs.

Deb about mostly bombing: “And I loved it…. I haven’t felt that way in years. The show didn’t work, but it will. The pieces are there. I just have to figure out how to put them together.” Ava has pushed her out of her comfort zone—into new and exciting territory. And that thrill of the unknown has made her feel more alive and passionate than she has in years

DEBORAH ON TOUR!!!

“Okay, but you really can’t hit people.” I’m so glad that Ava (and the show) doesn’t let her get away with that.

That handshake transforming into a tender hand hold is so goddamn beautiful.

Poor Marcus. He’s gotten what he wants at so high of a personal cost

AVA FUCKING SENT AN EMAIL ABOUT DEBORAH WHILE SHE WAS DRUNK

OH, GOD AND DEBORAH IS HAPPY AND OBLIVIOUS, AND IT’S JUST LIKE THE DRUNK VOICEMAIL ALL OVER AGAIN.

ALSO, AVA SITTING NEXT TO DEB ON THE JET WHEN DEB USED TO NOT LET HER. BUT NOW THEY’RE ON EVEN GROUND TOGETHER, EXCEPT THEY’RE NOT BECAUSE THERE’S APPARENTLT AN EMAIL

FUCK ME!!

okay, not to be hyperbolic, but that was one of the best first seasons of television that I have ever consumed in my life

[albinodeer]

Opening Up: A Helluva Boss Fanfic

This is my latest fanfic commission from @anitoonzforever

They requested a fanfic that takes place after Stolas and Blitzo go to Ozzie's, but this takes place instead of them parting ways.

If you are interested in a commission, please feel free to reach out to me!

Well, Blitzo thought, that was fucking humiliating.

            The van rolled to a stop in front of Stolas’ mansion, and Blitzo threw it into park. He stared ahead of him and waited impatiently as Stolas struggled to climb out of the car, which was much too small for him in the first place. Stolas shut the door behind him, then leaned his head in the open car door window. Blitzo looked away as he spoke, unable to meet his gaze.

            “Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” Stolas said softly.

            Blitzo held in a groan of frustration. Why the fuck was Stolas thanking him? The whole thing was a fucking bust, and it was all Blitzo’s fault. Not that Stolas had been much help, though, when push came to shove. Blitzo couldn’t help but replay the scene in his head: Stolas hiding behind his menu at the mere thought that he would be seen with Blitzo.

            Stolas continued. “Despite everything that’s happened, I enjoyed spending time with you.”

            What a goddamn liar, Blitzo thought. Stolas didn’t have to pretend to like Blitzo. It’s not like Blitzo didn’t know what was actually going on.

            Blitzo sighed and returned his eyes to the windshield. “Yeah.”

            Stolas didn’t give up. “You know, I have some more wine… in the house. Octavia’s with her mother this weekend, so we could…”

            There it was. The real reason Stolas wanted Blitzo around.

            “I’m not fucking you tonight, okay?” Blitzo snapped, finally looking at the prince. “I’m really just…” Blitzo felt a tear in his eye, and he quickly hid his face behind his hand as he gathered himself. He had to watch his tone. Stolas was a prince, after all. Blitzo was just a stupid imp. That had been made clear at Ozzie’s. He sighed. “I’m not in the mood, Stolas.”

            Blitzo didn’t expect what the prince said next.

            “We could talk,” Stolas offered. “Or… watch a movie, or maybe cuddle?”  

            That sent Blitzo off the edge. He turned to face the owl, a scowl on his face. “Stolas, don’t act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay?” A hint of emotion started to creep into Blitzo’s voice, but he persisted. “You make that really clear all the time. But, I just… I can’t do it tonight. Okay?”

            When Stolas was silent, Blitzo risked a quick glance in his direction. Stolas looked… genuinely upset. “I’m sorry,” Blitzo said, his eyes returning to the steering wheel.

            Still, Stolas didn’t move from the van window. “Blitz,” he said in a gentle voice, “I promise that I have no expectations of you for tonight. If you would like to leave… that’s okay. But I would love to enjoy your company for at least a little longer.”

            Blitzo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fine. If that’s what Stolas wanted, then fine. Without saying a word, he opened the van door and got out before slamming it behind him. He didn’t look at Stolas as he stalked into the mansion, but he could hear Stolas’ footsteps behind him.

            Stolas shut the door gently behind them and asked Blitzo, “Red or white?”

            “I don’t care,” Blitzo responded shortly as he made his way into the living room without bothering to wait for Stolas. Inside his head, his thoughts felt like they were running a marathon at a sprinter’s pace. His emotions weren’t far behind. Luckily, he had learned over the years how to shove those away into a nice tiny bottle, which was only opened when he was totally and completely alone, and preferably drunk.

            Stolas entered the living room a few moments later with two bottles of wine, one red and one white. “I couldn’t decide what to bring,” he explained awkwardly. He set two glasses in front of them. One was smaller and obviously meant for Blitzo, but Blitzo immediately reached for the larger.

            Blitzo popped open the bottle of red and poured it in his glass until it reached the brim. Typically, Blitzo would choose to forgo the glass altogether and drink straight from the bottle, but this bottle took him two hands to even lift, and he didn’t want to look like an infant with a sippy cup. He set the bottle down and grabbed his glass.

            He brought it to his lips and drank without saying anything. Beside him, he could tell that Stolas was reeling, just looking for something to say. What was there to say? Nothing that Blitzo could think of. They had both been absolutely humiliated, but Stolas… Stolas was humiliated because of Blitzo.

            “So,” Stolas started, but he didn’t seem to know how to follow it up.

            “So,” Blitzo echoed. He took another long drink from the glass and waited for Stolas to say something else.

            He listened as Stolas started and stopped speaking several times over, never getting past, “I feel,” or “I think” before abandoning a sentence. Blitzo felt his stomach wind itself tighter each time Stolas fell silent. He knew what this was. He had been here before, and he knew that the best way out of it was to hurt the other person before they could hurt you.

            “I get it, Stolas,” Blitzo said abruptly. “I humiliated you. I know that. You don’t have to try to pretend that you still want to be with me in any capacity after that.”

            Stolas frowned. “No, I⸺”

            Blitzo cut him off. “Don’t. You don’t have to tip toe around the problem. You can’t be seen with me anymore, even if you wanted to.” He set the glass of wine down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “We can break off the deal and go our separate ways. I will find a way to the human world without the stupid book.”

            There was a second of silence, and Blitzo started to stand, but Stolas grabbed his arm. “Wait,” he said. “Please. Sit.”

            Blitzo sighed and sat back down. Why was Stolas dragging this out?

    ��       Stolas kept his hand rested gently on Blitzo’s arm as he spoke. “I knew that you would be worried about the deal,” he said, his voice soft, “but I want you to know that I am not calling the deal off. At least, I will allow you to keep the book. If you do not want to have relations with me any longer, then I will not ask.”

            So, Stolas was turning this around on him now? He was making it seem like Blitzo wanted this?

            Blitzo clenched his jaw. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it seem like my decision.”

            “But it is,” Stolas assured him. “I do not see you as just part of a deal. I do not care about what others think, and I am sorry for acting as I did back at Ozzie’s. If I could go back and do it over, everything would be different.”

            Blitzo felt something stir up inside him, but he did his best to push it down. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled.

            “It’s true.” Stolas moved his hand from Blitzo’s arm to lace their fingers together. Blitzo let him.

            Blitzo turned his face away from Stolas, processing what the owl prince was telling him. “No. I’m just another imp to you. One who fucks you, sure, but that’s it. A… plaything.”

            He could hear the shift in Stolas’ voice. It didn’t sound like pity, however. It was apologetic. Remorseful. “I never should have called you that,” he said. “I never meant to make you feel that way.”

            Blitzo rolled his eyes and reached for his glass, untangling his fingers from Stolas’ as he did. “Yeah, well…”

            This time, Stolas cut him off. “No, Blitz, I need you to understand this,” Stolas said, still soft but somewhat stern. “You mean more to me than their opinions ever will. I chose you because I like spending time with you. Everything else is a bonus.”

            For the first time, the words actually seemed to get through to Blitzo. He the glass back down without taking a drink. “You don’t mean that.” His voice sounded strained as he spoke. “You can’t mean that.”

            “I can, and I do,” Stolas told him firmly. He reached out and gently turned Blitzo’s head so he could look into his eyes. “Understand?”

            Blitzo felt his throat get tight from holding back tears. His voice broke a little as he asked, “What do you really think of me, Stolas?”

            Stolas’ gaze softened. “Oh, Blitz,” he murmured, “I think that you are one of the strongest beings I know. I think that you are genuine and determined, and you are more talented than you know.”

            Blitzo didn’t know how to respond. His brain was yelling at him that it was all bullshit, but part of him believed Stolas. Stolas’ eyes caught his, and before he could say anything, Stolas told him, “I want to be with you, Blitz, no matter what.”

            Those were the words that struck Blitzo at his core. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he tried to turn his face away, but Stolas stopped him. “You don’t have to hide from me,” Stolas told him softly. He pulled Blitzo into his lap, letting the smaller demon rest his head against his chest as he cried. Stolas held him tight, allowing him to let all of the emotions out.

            Blitzo didn’t understand. No one wanted to be with him. In fact, no one willingly spent time with him, not even his own daughter. Why should Stolas be any different? Yet, here he was, looking Blitzo in the eye and telling him that he wanted him, consequences be damned.

            After a few minutes, Blitzo quieted and stilled. Stolas lifted Blitzo’s face up, wiped his eyes, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, “no matter what.”

Thank you again to @anitoonzforever for the commission!

[nicawlette]

A  FUCKED  UP  KISSING  MEME

@nobully asked: 💔 i am ready

18. a  kiss  that  draws  blood.

She wasn't not drunk— not that much, at least. Not enough to be unaware of what she'd done, or was doing. Not enough to forget it all tomorrow.

Just enough that loose inhibitions had all but disappeared during her time spent at various bar counters, laughing and flirting with whatever patrons had been chosen to keep her company before she'd set off for her next destination. Nicolette preferred not to look too deeply at all the things that had led to her spending the evening like this, eager to turn everything hazy around the edges.

The problem with letting go of inhibition, however, was that she lost the restraint she already possessed so little of. Emotions ran high, volatile, ready to take the place of logical thought with the slightest provocation. It was a dangerous cocktail that often got her into trouble.

It was precisely why Nicolette finds herself sitting in Wang Yi's apartment with her shirt rolled up, biting cheek and tongue through the stinging pain of antiseptic being dabbed against the ugly wound on her waist. She's not drunk, but somehow sentiment had won out above all rationale, leading him to be the first name she thought to call as she'd sat bleeding in the alleyway behind the bar. He hadn't sounded too happy to be woken up so late and just as anxious as the first time she'd called him for reasons like this, but even so... he'd answered.

And then he showed up.

❛ I'm not going to the hospital. ❜ Had been the very first thing she'd said when his feet came into view, and she must've expressed just how nonnegotiable it was from the start because, miraculously, he hadn't argued. Still, an acute sense of dread had filled her, that he might just leave, and while Nicolette could realistically take care of herself just as she always had, it would be a nightmare. And... she didn't want to be alone. ❛ Take me to your place— it's closer, and I risk running into Zhilan if I go back to the apartment... we can't worry him. ❜ We, because it was the best way she knew to convince him.

Thank God for little miracles. It had worked, and she's only half regretting it as Wang Yi nudges his fingers a little too firmly against the split flesh. She hisses sharply through her teeth, and he surprises her by murmuring a soft ❛ sorry ❜ despite his apparent annoyance. Nicolette won't dare to fool herself into believing he's actually worried... that this gentle care is anything other than an effort to preserve the flimsy facsimile of normalcy he's created for himself by acting like a good person. Still, it's enough to make warmth bloom within her chest, right alongside a dull ache.

Another bit of rough prodding causes her to flinch away from his touch, a gasp of pain leaving her lips as they pull into a grimace. ❝ Oi, nurse, you're patching me up, not dissecting me like a goddamn frog! ❞ Nicolette turns to shoot him a warning look, but the expression on his face gives her pause. She manages to catch him tearing his wide eyes away from her expression of pain just in time, but he's not quick enough to play off the way his gaze lingers on her sluggishly bleeding wound, cheeks slightly flushed in a matching shade of red.

❝ Maybe if you stop moving around so mu— ❞ He starts to complain, a rather poor excuse, before her harsh bite of laughter silences him.

❝ Oh, I see. ❞ The words are drawn out and dripping with meaning. The cut on her bottom lip burns as Nicolette smiles, appraising Wang Yi with great amusement.

❝ I don't know what you're talking about, ❞ he argues, ❝ do you want my help or not? ❞ Knowing him, he's probably bluffing— there's no way he'll just leave her to bleed out, no matter how much she pisses him off. All she has to do is seem a little hurt, genuine or not, and he folds for her, every time. Is any of that real? Is any of that concern for her wellbeing or feelings actually directed at her as a person? Or is it another lie, one he won't let go of, even in her similarly twisted presence?

She decides not to think too hard about that, right now. Instead, Nicolette focuses on how that earlier warmth has dipped low to pool in her gut at the way he'd seemed so enraptured by her suffering. ❝ Are you sure it isn't you who wants something from me? ❞ She tests, reaching down to wrap scarred fingers around his thin wrist. ❝ You seemed awfully focused on something other than providing medical treatment, just now... ❞ Her grip tightens before letting go altogether. ❝ Do it again, ❞ she says, quiet and provacative, ❝ you know you want to. ❞

Emboldened by her open invitation, Wang Yi only appears to hesitate for a brief moment, as if waiting for her to lash out, before his firm touch returns to the edges of the injury and presses a little harder than necessary. Her brows knit, face pinching in discomfort as she makes a soft, wounded sound. He's wholly entranced, giving her his full attention in a way he hasn't before ( aside from the night he'd been drunk ).

She's always been addicted to that— being under someone's sole focus.

Nicolette realizes belatedly that her bottom lip is bleeding again as it's abused between her teeth, copper coating her tongue. Wang Yi seems to notice, catching the way a drop rolls down her chin. Of course, she notices that, too. ❝ Hey... did you still want to try my blood? ❞ The words come suddenly, surprising even herself, though she doesn't allow it to show.

❝ Yeah, kind of, ❞ he admits, before appearing suspicious, ❝ wait... you don't mean— ❞

❝ You don't hate the idea, do you? ❞ She interrupts, turning towards him on the stool to lean closer, unbandaged wound momentarily forgotten. ❝ Don't lie. ❞

❝ That's not— that isn't the point. ❞ There he goes, trying to make excuses, instead of just going with the flow. ❝ Plus, if I really wanted to, I have your blood on my fingers. That'd be much easier. ❞ Proving his point, Wang Yi begins to lift the hand that had fondled her just moments ago, bringing it towards his face.

Nicolette stops him just as quickly by grabbing his wrist again, yanking it away and in turn, pulling him closer. Her other hand grips his face, thumb and forefinger holding his chin in place. ❝ It's no fun that way, ❞ she scolds, clearly teasing. She's still thinking about the way he'd reacted to hurting her, and it makes heat rise to her cheeks in excitement. ❝ Come on, doc... ❞

❝ I don't think this is covered by your insurance. ❞ He snarks, though it's weak and clearly just for show. He makes no move to pull back.

❝ It's okay if you're too embarrassed to admit it... you can just push me away if you don't want to... ❞ That whispered warning is all he gets, and when no rejection comes, Nicolette does not allow herself to hesitate. She closes the distance between them quickly, angling his face towards hers by the hold on his chin. He seems cautious still, meeting her movement more slowly.

Their lips slide together wetly, aided by the slick fluid coating them from small cut. She hums curiously, deciding to make it easier for him. Fingers release his chin for a moment before grabbing his face, pressing into his cheeks and forcing his mouth open at the same time she lets go of his wrist to rest her hot palm atop his thigh, using it as leverage to lean against.

This seems surprise him enough that he bites down on her bottom lip on reflex, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. The cut splits further and floods their mouths with blood. He jerks, gasping audibly, but she follows after him even as he begins to pull away. ❝ It's fine, ❞ she reassures against his lips, breathless, ❝ keep going. ❞

He pauses for only a second longer before relaxing by fractions, returning the kiss with growing fervor. He's not as wildly eager as he'd been when drunk, too held back by his own thoughts. Still, it's clear he's enjoying himself, and she's pleased that his talent in this field is just as prominent while sober. Wang Yi doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, but settles for moving one towards the curve of her waist, settling it below the cause of this whole situation.

His fingers twitch like they're barely holding back giving into temptation, and even that soft brush against her tender skin causes some hurt— yet the muffled ❛ ah ❜ she makes in response is hardly one of just pain. Apparently, that proves to be ample motivation. He does not flinch this time, nor pull his hand away. Instead, he parts his lips further and their tongues meet at long last.

It goes on like this until she loses track of time. Until everything starts to feel a little hazy around the edges again. Nicolette had been sober since she'd called Wang Yi in the alley surrounded by unconscious bodies in worse shape than her, and knows that alcohol is not to blame. In fact, her side feels far too warm and wet, even if the press of Wang Yi's fingers against her flesh is pleasant. She's the one to pull away first, growing lightheaded from lack of air, among other things. They're both flushed and panting, and she notices that her hand had found its way to the nape of his neck while the other remains gripping his thigh.

Nicolette blinks slowly, breathing in deeply. Her voice is wrecked and her gaze is liquid hot as she confesses, ❝ I'd love to continue, ❞ and if that doesn't make him sputter, ❝ but I... think I might pass out, soon... ❞ There's only a second of confusion before he notices the state of her wound and pulls away, all heat replaced with outrage and panic. She closes her eyes, mildly disappointed, though a muted smile plays on her lips as she drowns out his questions and scolding.

❝ It's fine, ❞ the assurance is punctuated by another squeeze to his thigh, ❝ I've... lost a lot more than this, and survived. ❞

❝ Just... bandage me up... and let me sleep over, yeah? I'm tired... ❞ Maybe if she's lucky, her pitiful state and wildly impressive makeout skills will keep her from having to occupy his bed alone, this time.

[sunnydaystories]

You stare at your laptop screen, uncomprehending. Your eyes flick back up to the person sitting across from you with their own laptop, who you know in your mind is your friend. It's them. You know it's them. It has to be them, it's always been them in your memories and your phone and your files. The person sitting across from you is your best friend and has been for as long as you can remember. The same short-cropped, straight dark hairstyle that hasn't changed for years. The same height difference that always prompted them to lean on your head.

They smile at you, the same lopsided grin you've known since your childhood.

"What, something on my face?"

You smile back. You hide your stirring uncertainty.

"Yeah. Acne."

"Damn, okay. I liked it better when you were working quietly."

"Sucks for you, I guess."

You look back at the laptop. You re-read the email.

If you're reading this, that means I'm gone.

It's full of all the right lines.

If you're seeing this, it means that I'm dead.

All the usual things to say for a final message.

I'm sorry.

What a drama kid.

Your heart can't decide whether it wants to cry or laugh as you read through the words again. They knew you so well. So goddamned well. What did they think they were doing, writing this? Were they trying to make your heart feel like it was tearing itself in two?

Why does it feel so right? Why does it feel so genuine, so true, when it could not possibly have come from the person sitting across from you?

You re-read it again.

It's heartfelt. It's real. It's right in a way that you can't describe. You read it and think "This is from my best friend in the whole of the planet of a size beyond the capacity of the human mind to understand, let alone the ever-expanding universe" and want to sob into your laptop and then you look at the person across from you, clearly alive and well and perfectly fine.

The pit of doubt in your stomach grows.

It hurts.

You start looking back at old files in your computer. It's the face you know, the face you remember, the moments you shared. Selfies on the beach under the moon, selfies in woodshop loft under RGBs. 0.5 shots featuring their brown eyes and horrid acne, your brown eyes and glasses. The two of you holding a badminton trophy. The two of you holding a Best Saxophone Section plaque.

I'm sorry that we'll never be able to start that band together.

The photos you took of them with your Nikon, because you loved to see their smile, see their laugh. You can hear it ringing in your mind, and you're sure you could hear it ringing through the air if you passed a meme to the person sitting across from you. Who is your best friend. Who was always your best friend. Whom there was no reason for you to think wasn't your best friend.

I'm sorry, I forgot to buy you the new camera you'd wanted for so long. Oops. Maybe badger it out of my sister, say it was my dying wish.

Except for this email.

I love All The Things You Are and I always will

This email. This email that's so, so, painfully real that it's stabbing itself into you even as you sit across from someone that you're sure is your best friend.

It has to be fake, doesn't it? That's the only way it could go. That's the only way any of this could make sense, except it doesn't, because it's not fake. It can't be fake. It's as fake as the very real person sitting across from you. Both feel genuine but can't be, how could they be?

Take photos of the eclipse for me. Please?

You close your laptop and get up from your seat. "I'm gonna plug my laptop in upstairs and just read my book."

They shoot you a thumbs up without looking up from their own screen.

You walk upstairs. As soon as you're in your room, you shut the door, and pick up your album of Polaroid photos.

And you freeze.

The photos are of your best friend. At the same time, they are not of your best friend.

Some of them are from the exact same days that you took photos with your phone. You wrote the timestamps out yourself, on the spot.

The person in the photos is not the person sitting downstairs.

This person has curly, red hair, and acne-free skin instead mottled with freckles. Their grin isn't lopsided. Instead, their smile is missing a tooth. A memory surfaces of them taking a poorly thrown flag to the face during a marching band rehearsal. How could you forget?

The person in the photos is not the person sitting downstairs.

They're the same height as you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as you hold up the band's championship trophy and (you remember) the vocalist taking the photo. Their long hair is half in your face and one shot (you remember) features you spitting it out of your mouth.

The person in the photos is not the person sitting downstairs.

Their hazel eyes shine as they laugh during their birthday, when you taught them how to play Palace and you stayed up playing cards, sometimes against humanity.

"This is them. This is my friend," your mind whispers. At the same time, a different part is saying "That is my friend. Downstairs. They are my friend." They both sound right and you have no idea what to believe. The files? The photos?

The email?

Fox, Toby. "Don't Forget." Deltarune, Chapter 2, 2021.

Its words are like a knife. You look at the Polaroids, at the gap in your friend's smile. Your heart aches.

The person in the photos is not the person sitting downstairs.

And the person in the photos is your friend.

Your best friend has left their last message for you, lamenting that they are no longer in this world should you receive that last message. It would have been emotional and tragic, had said friend not standing next to you, alive and in good health.