#but my brain is still. yeah. it just blindsided me really hard out of nowhere and now im just kinda. stuck. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

internalsealpanic · 4 years ago

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Better Die Than Doubt

Summary: You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure.

A/n: To no one’s shock, this entire fic was unplanned. I was possessed by the urge to make it (translation: I got the urge to write this and one of my enablers said do it). This story should be treated more or less as a horror story. Nothing is being glorified here except how dorky Jason is. That being said, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS. This fic contains quite a few triggering things and I really don’t want you to be blindsided. Also thanks to @knightfall05x for helping me write this whole thing. Thanks to @batarella (HOE) for action writing tips.

Warnings: graphic violence, stalking, emotional manipulation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, drugging, nongraphic description of rape, and rape aftermath

masterlist

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes. You could practically feel the oncoming headache the way you could sense someone coming down the hall. This is what happens when you’re running on just 5 hours of restless sleep for the last few days. This headache was also not helped by the fact that this was your fifth coffee in the past 30 minutes. You probably should not be drinking this much caffeine this late but intelligent decisions weren’t exactly your strong suit this week. You rub the sides of your forehead feeling another wave of nausea.

You check the time again and groan. It’s been one-and-a-half hours since your agreed upon time had lapsed and yet one Jason Peter Todd was nowhere to be seen. You curse, nerves edging, and mind fraying. To be perfectly fair to him, he is a busy guy, vigilante, and all. You understood that fairly well- and this was sudden to say the least. You can’t really fault him for being a bit late but the long wait was ratcheting up your anxiety. Again, the coffee didn’t help but considering it was the only thing you could keep down since last night, you didn’t have much choice.

Last night.

Your stomach tumbled. You cup your hand over your mouth feeling your coffee traveling back up your esophagus. You let out a long exasperated breath, letting yourself sink into the booth. You look out the window, eyes flickering wildly searching for Jason. Your hands tighten around your mug. The feeling of being watched made you bristle.

Jason, well, Jason wasn’t hard to spot. The man was 6 feet 4 inches of pure muscle and leather. Having a handsome face and a ‘fuck you’ look in his eyes also helped. In short, the man was hard to ignore. You wave weakly to him as he dismounts his bike, a gesture far too small for your usual bombastic self. Jason’s smarmy smile greets you as he returns the gesture with his gloved hand. The motion is slow and cautious, rickety in a way. You wince knowing he’s already noticed. You feel the tiniest bit more at ease as he approaches your booth but it didn’t stop your eyes from flickering and searching for something off in the environment. The creeping sense of being watched trails up your spine. You’re sure.

“Jesus, y/n, you look like Timbo” Jason chuckles sliding into the booth his green eyes shining with scrutiny. You look at him flatly not having enough energy to properly respond to his jab. He winces seeing your lack of reaction. “Rough night, huh?” He asks flagging down a waitress, who looked quite pleased to get away from her previous table.

You nod weakly, slowly as if the fact that it had been a rough couple of days had just sunk in. “Yeah,” you reply, your voice small and a little threadbare. You drum your fingers against your increasingly cold mug. The waitress sets a couple of warm mugs in front of you. Her soft smile makes you uneasy. You and Jason mutter a thanks as she tells you to wave her over if you need anything else. Her warm brown eyes boring into the stark purple bruise on your face. You shrink and smile sheepishly at her.

“I’m fi-”

“I am going to throw these sugar packets at you if you say you’re fine.”

“Damn, ok, Mr.Kettle,” You laugh. His concern startles a genuine laugh out of you. You’re sincerely surprised how lively the sound that comes out of you is. “You know if you keep sounding like that, Jay, you’re gonna wreck the whole stone-cold badass thing you got going,”

“Y/n..”

You huff running your hand through your disheveled hair, trying in vain, to soothe your mind. What was the best way to put it? You swallowed, gathering your lapsing thoughts. “Sooo uh-” The collar of your shirt suddenly felt tight around your neck. “-I-” You breathe. “-I found around 4 or 5 of Blackmask’s boys and Deathstroke-No, I’m not shitting you- in my- my apartment for- well- the third time in the last two months, can I crash at your place? Just ‘til I find a new place. Oh and also how do I get rid of them?”

He blinks as his brain takes its sweet fucking time digesting what you had just said. He leans back groaning and running his hands over his face. He looks like he’d like to deck you if he wasn’t too busy being concerned for your welfare. You shrink again, feeling bad for springing it on him. The decision to leave out the gory details of your hectic week suddenly felt like the wisest choice but you had no doubt he’ll get it out of you at some point.

“I’ll skip the obvious ‘why did you wait three times before moving’ question because I feel like I’m probably going to get an aneurysm from your answer,” Your reasoning wasn’t quite that stupid. You were mucking about Sionis’s operation. The fucker decided to branch out his little enterprise into your city and like hell, you were gonna leave well enough alone. After you had set fire to one of his warehouses, you thought that would explain the False Facers. But Deathstroke? Deathstroke was a mystery. You’ve also been mucking about his business but you two have always been civil if not friendly. Frenemies of sorts, you guessed. You’ve been encountering him a lot in the last few days. You had figured that Blackmask had hired him but considering he threw two men out of your apartment window last night, you’re not entirely sure. You make an affronted noise that Jason elects to ignore.

“What did they do?”

“Aside from necessitating a visit to IKEA? Nothing.”

“Did they take anything? Leave a message?”

“Nope, nothing-” You furrow your brow trying to recall. You shake your head. “-They just made sure I knew they broke in.” You add, shrugging your shoulder. You wince at the movement. Your shoulder still aches from being hit with a bat. Jason’s shoulders shift, moving as if to reach out to you but stops himself. Instead, he continues with his line of questioning. “Sweetheart, there’s gotta be something missing.”

You frown, biting your cheek. Jason rests his chin on his hand, green eyes watching you and urging you to think back. It was either the weight of his gaze or the lack of sleep that was making it hard to recall. You close your eyes and catalog your belongings, analyzing the mental picture you have like a crime scene like how he taught you months ago, breaking it down into the smallest pieces of information and bringing it back into a bigger picture. Still, nothing. Nothing of note was missing. You shake your head and shrug your uninjured shoulder. Jason glares at the immobile one. You shake your head silently telling him it wasn’t from last night which just made him clench his jaw.

“Evidence?”

You shake your head. He frowns baffled.

“Tech?”

You shake your head again.

“Anything personal?” He asks jokingly.

“I-” A cold horror washes over you trailed by embarrassment. Your vibrator had been missing and so were a couple of your lingerie sets. You feel your stomach drop to the floor. “Oh god, Jay- I- Please, let me stay with you.”

“And have them steal my stuff?” He chuckles.

“Please, Jay, like you have anything worth stealing.” Jason frowns at you scrutinizing your face. You level him a glare but it was more in an effort to fight down a blush than anything venomous. Jason’s jaw unclenches and his face breaks into a shit-eating grin. “What color was it?”

“Wha-”

“Bzzzzzzzt ”

If you weren’t blushing before, you are now. Heat climbs up your spine. Your mouth felt dry.

“Well, what color was it, sweetheart?” Jason drawls, his voice dropping an octave. You shiver but bristle just as quickly. You bite your cheek and glare at him. “HA. HA. HA. Funny, Todd.”

“Was it Red Hood Red?” Jason teases, winking and raising his cup of coffee to his lips.

“Nightwing blue” You deadpan. Jason coughed into his drink. You preen with satisfaction.

“Does it make stupid puns while you go at it? ”

“Yup,” You say, the ‘p’ popping. “That’s part of the appeal.” You joke smiling into your mug. Jason snorts. “How is that supposed to be sexy?”

You shrug, a sharper less tired smile cutting across your features. “Dunno man. Nightwing is pretty sexy if you ask me.” You wink.

Jason makes a fake gagging noise. Well, it seems fake with how theatrical the gesture is but with bats? You never could tell. You roll your eyes and giggle. Jason’s shoulders loosen at your bubble of laughter, his face slipping into one of his sheepish smiles. “In all seriousness, y/n, you can stay at my place.”

You smile at him, your usual fluorescent smile.

Click

A man from across the street watches you intently through the lens of a camera.

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Slade throws the photos across Roman’s desk, each glossy piece of paper containing a candid photo of you looking increasingly frayed and anxious.

Roman marvels at how your usually larger than life figure shrank into your puffy coat, how small and malleable and inexperienced you looked. He notes the panicked look in your eyes in every one of the photos and savors it. He couldn't wait to see it for himself.

In one photo, you're looking over your shoulder as you enter your office building.

In one, you’re tracing circles on a child’s hand with your thumb, beaming brightly as you told some wild tale to distract the child.

In another, you're slumped in your desk chair as you think over a case looking absolutely exasperated but determined.

In yet another one, you're locking lips with a man, his hand trailing up your shirt. Roman made sure to give the man some swimming lessons a few weeks prior.

In the photo in Roman’s hand, you're at the emergency room looking like you haven't slept in 2 days. Your face was bruised and your clothes were torn in several places where Slade had managed to land a blow. Your delicate skin marred with cuts and trickling blood. Absolutely gorgeous.

He examines it closely. The photo was taken just a few hours ago. You look like you're going to cry but your shoulders and jaw are squared more frustrated than scared. There's a fire in your eyes that threatens to level the city. A thrill rides up his spine at the prospect of extinguishing it.

“This is why you wanted to throw my men out the window?”

Slade hums. He shrugs and the edge of his lips curl into a smile. “It was the only way to convince the kid that we’re both after her-” His eye drifts to your face. Appraising but impassive. “The kid’s scared out of her mind and exhausted at this point.”

Slade had a point. Roman had to give him that. It wouldn’t be obvious to the casual observer but it would be plain as day to anyone like Roman who had been studying you for a while. You weren’t quite as meticulous with your appearance as Roman thought you should be (He would work on that later) but the dishevelment in your appearance was obvious. The slight dip in your shoulders in place of the prim posture that you usually employed was a blatant indication of your weariness. And the falter in your smile, the flickering in your eyes, and the number of times you let yourself bite your cheek showed the cracks in your fearless image.

Who knew weeks upon weeks of chaos could weather Minos City’s own budding hero?

In the photo next to Roman’s hand, your laughing face is stark and lively against the drab atmosphere of the diner, bubbling laughter carving life into your exhausted features making you look more like the shining paragon your city has come to rely on. The man sitting in front of you is laughing too. The sharp edges of his grin softened by the fondness in his eyes. It was hard not to recognize him even with such a foreign expression plastered onto his face. Roman crushes the photo in his hand.

“BUT NOW SHE’S WITH THAT SCUMBAG RED HOOD”

“And she’s now with the Red Hood. In his secluded safe house. Weakened and far from help. Most likely thinking that she’s safe under his protection and blissfully unaware of the tracker I put in her arm.”

“I see… It seems like you are worth the pay.”

Slade made no effort in hiding his smug grin.

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“Jay, I really am sorry about this.” You mumble for what seemed like the fifth time in the past half hour.

“I sincerely hope you’re apologizing for the fact that you neglected to tell me you had bruised ribs before getting on my bike and not the fact that you’re staying with me because two crazy assholes decided your place needed remodeling.” Jason exasperates, pinching the bridge of his nose. You feel kind of annoyed by the gesture but he did have a point especially with your city’s less than smooth roads. You were also pretty banged up. As it turns out, facing off against a bunch of goons plus a master assassin is not good for your health. You swore viciously under your breath. Now, you weren’t expecting Deathstroke to go easy on you despite your rapport but the guy really didn’t have to throw you around like a rag doll. Even with your power to adjust the odds, it was a miracle that you escaped intact.

“Well, Mr.Pot, you ride your bike all the time even with broken ribs.” You bite back. Jason rolls his eyes unaffected by the distilled venom in your voice.

“Well, one of us is a stone-cold badass- ”

“And the other is a sasquatch with a stick up his ass.” You sneer snatching the beer bottle from Jason. Your tone was far too fond and playful to have any actual bite. Jason chuckles at you and ruffles your hair before snatching it back and handing you a bottle of water.

You huff taking the bottle from him and following him to the couch. He sits down on the couch patting the seat beside him. You plopped on to the couch, placing your sock feet on his lap. He grabs your ankles and throws your feet back at you. You just as quickly throw them back on and this time you do it with an absolutely delighted smirk on your face. “Rude,” He mumbles but doesn’t attempt to extricate you again.

“So Deathstroke, huh?” Jason starts, side-eyeing you over his beer. You adjust yourself to sit up a little straighter.

“You mean the asshat who broke my favorite lamp last night?”

“Who the hell has a favorite lamp?”

“Me! And get to your point.”

“Have you two- yanno?” Jason jokes, his eyebrows wiggling and hands gesturing vaguely. Your eyes grow wide and heat creeps up your neck and face. You scowl at Jason throwing a pillow at his face for good measure. He catches it with ease much to your frustration giving you his trademark triumphant grin. You kick at him with no real force.

“NO! What kind of soap opera shit is that?” You giggle into your drink. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before. The guy was skilled and pretty witty. You also had eyes and the man was handsome but something always felt strange about taking it further. You were civil but you kept your distance.

You pout at Jason again causing him to chuckle. “What? I’m just saying it’ll air out some tension~” He suggests winking.

“Oh my actual god, I hate you. I sincerely, truly hate you.” You laugh, kicking at his thigh. Jason makes an obviously fake hurt noise which draws out even more giggles out of you. Some tension in Jason’s shoulders releasing upon hearing the bubbly sounds.

“You speaking from experience, Jay?”

Jason shakes his head and coughs. “Catwoman-” Cough. “Talia Al Ghul-” Cough. “Sorry, sweetheart, seems like I have a really bad cough this week.”

And that is how you spend the rest of the night questioning Bruce’s love life.

“Food is in the fridge,” Jason says pointing to the said fridge which was sorely lacking magnets, sounding like a somewhat tired single parent.

“Do I look like I can keep anything down?”

Jason snatches the water bottle you had abandoned on the side table next to the recliner. “With that big mouth of yours? Sure.” Jason teases lightly booping you on the nose with your water bottle. “Get some rest.”

“Yes, mother” You sighed, burying yourself into the thick comforter he’d given you, crumpled water bottle in hand. He ruffles your hair.

“You know you’re safe here, right? ” The question startles you. You shift uncomfortably, pulling the comforter tightly around your shoulders. You shrug at him, not entirely certain how to answer. You know Jason’s safe house is, well, safe but you also thought your apartment was too. Your stomach twisted.

Jason squeezed your shoulder probably sensing the spiral of your thoughts. He smiles down at you, probably. It was hard to tell with the helmet.

“If you want, I can-”

“No, Jay, I’ll be fine here. You can go on patrol. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

The thing with Jason was that even when he was so big and bulky and hella intimidating, his empathy towards others had a bad habit of always shining through despite the layers of armor and sarcasm. You squeeze his hand, pressing little circles into his palm, and smile up at him. It was forced but it was the best you could do. Jason ruffles your hair again before letting go and making his way to the window.

“Get some sleep.”

“Aye aye cap’n” You yawn settling into a slump on the couch. Jason can’t help but smile fondly at you. You wave him a sleepy goodby before he sets off.

You passed out on the couch, an old habit you never grew out of. You always slept on the couch when you felt uneasy. It may have been some sort of way to separate stress from your bedroom. It sure as shit wasn’t for safety reasons. Your equipment was dispersed throughout your apartment but your weapons were usually stowed away in your room.

You feel a hand running gently through your hair, smoothing away all your apprehension.

“Jay” You grouse, your hand halfheartedly swatting at the hand stroking your hair. You bury yourself further into the warmth of the comforter feeling the need to shrink away from the touch. You feel a soft prick on your neck.

Your eyes fly open.

Shit.

The hand tangles in your hair. It throws you to the wall. The air is knocked out of your lungs. Your ribs scream. You scrabble to your feet. Your limbs fail you. They flail uselessly. Your breaths pick up. Your chest feels like it's caving.

"JAY" You shriek. “HELP.” A large hand grasps your throat. A rush of adrenaline kicks in. You thrash. You kick. Your hit lands. Another grasps your ankles. You scream. You swear viciously. Another grabs at your wrists. Something rough winds around your wrists and ankles.

The world tilts into an odd angle. Your head feels heavy so do your arms and your legs and everything.

"Jaaay" You slur, the air in your lungs becoming sluggish like everything else. "Jay" you sob again, knowing he wouldn't come. Not when he was so far away.

"Shut up you ….. bitch" You feel a swift kick to your stomach. It barely registers above the haze.

"Hey man-"

"What? The …. man said we …… rough her up."

"We can?"

"Yeah, ……, said so"

Your eyes blink, stupid, and uncomprehending. Distantly, you hear yourself grunting and whimpering. You can feel their blows but your body is too far away, too inaccessible. It was strange to physically feel yourself drift away.

Roman traces the sun shaped scar radiating on your shoulder with a leather-clad hand. The one shot he’d managed to land on you the first time you’d stormed one of his warehouses. You were all cocksure and quick wit and boisterous laughter. You really had the devil’s own luck but it seems to have run out. Not that Roman’s got any complaints. Not when he’s got you laying at his feet, tied up and vulnerable.

He crouches down, hand on his chin. His eyes roam appreciatively over your sleeping form, appraising you like a premium cut of meat. You look pretty against the black silk sheets he’d chosen. He sighs content with his prize. He traces the tip of his knife over your cheek, a dark purple bruise maring your features stark against the stainless surface of the blade. Slade really was quite careless when handling you. Not that Roman has any plans on being any gentler.

He lets his blade drift down, trailing down your neck down to the flimsy protection of your oversized shirt. Your steady breaths falter. You keep your eyes shut trying to gather more information but it’s hard not to focus off the tip of the blade cold against your warm skin even as the blade cuts through the thin fabric of your shirt. A large hand grasps your face roughly.

“I know you're awake, baby-” You blanch still not opening your eyes. The grip on your jaw tightens. You grin like a madman. “It's rude to keep daddy waiting.”

“Sorry, Sionis, I was really hoping not to have to wake up you’re ugly mug.” You sneer, voice thick and raspy with sleep but still full with your trademark confidence. Roman looks more amused than irritated. Your body and mind are still at the cusp of sleep. You wriggle and almost cry out with joy when you feel them move. You mind the hand on your jaw and its tight grip.

“Baby, I won’t tell you a-” You spit in his face, cracking an eye open to see his reaction. A bloody grin spreads across your face like wildfire when you see the annoyance on his face.

“You’re going to regret that” He growls, wiping his face with a torn piece of your shirt.

“Oh please-” Something cracks across your jaw.

“The next time it’ll be the other end,” It takes a moment for your mind to catch on. You stare at the hilt of the blade for a moment before letting loose another smarmy grin. His violent reaction spurs you on. Yeah, you can definitely see why Jason thinks you’re going to age him twenty years. “Oh please, You like my face too much for that.”

“You really wanna test that?”

“Nope,” You say, spitting into his eye and landing a punch square in his face. You cackle like a madwoman when he goes down. You don’t bother hiding the delighted chirps that escape your chest.

Being petty, you give him a swift kick to the face before dashing towards the door. You launch yourself, feeling like you can fly. The copper taste in your tongue almost feels sweet.

Your hand grasps the door when a hand tangles itself in your hair.

Roman throws you back onto the mattress, the springs digging into your back. You scratch and claw and thrash against the large hand wrapped around your throat. You snarl as Roman leans closer, his body pinning yours against the mattress, his weight immobilizing your fatigued limbs. A sweet-smelling cloth covers your mouth and nose, you gasp in surprise, inhaling the scent. Your mind is already sluggish by the time it catches on.

Your vision dims.

You feel hollowed out.

Your limbs fall away, arms drooping and pliant against the silk-covered mattress. The cloth feels too much against your skin. Vaguely, you feel horror prickling up your spine or maybe it was just the springs again.

Roman pulls away. You think you breathe a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of him lifted. He straddles your body, grinning down at you. Your mouth falls open to say something. You want to say that you curse him out or that you threaten him. The sound you make is small. Your tongue feels too heavy. No, something is pressing it down, you think.

Above you, Roman is a towering colossus. You’re vaguely aware of the shifting of his hips. He removes his gloved hand from your mouth and caresses the side of your face with mock gentleness. His movements are sluggish and syrupy. You make another noise when you realize to some degree of horror that isn’t. Your mind felt heavy and useless.

He snaps his fingers. The sound is dull like it's contending with water. A muffled set of steps approaches you. A man, you realize. You don't think you’ve noticed him before. His dark shape is messy and incomprehensible. A red dot flashes stark against his form. The mechanical sounds of a shutter drift in and out of your mind. You turn your head back to Roman at the sound of shifting fabric.

Above you, Roman, already without his suit jacket, loosens his tie, eyes staring hungrily at you. The pit of your stomach feels painfully cold. You blink at him stupidly. He chuckles, grasping your chin to make sure you’re looking at him. You protest against his touch.

“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll be the star of our little show like the filthy attention whore you really are. ” He laughs. It rumbles like thunder in your ears.

The world falls away.

Click

One

Two

One

You feel a prick on your neck.

Hot breaths fan against your face.

Your body is too warm.

You don’t want to know why.

Twenty-five, you continue counting.

You feel fabric shift against you.

Something sharp digs itself into your flesh.

One

Two

Three

Three?

Something’s crushing your windpipe.

Your body is aching. You’re not entirely sure whether it’s from use or disuse and by who.

“Good girl”

Thirty

Twelve

There’s something scraping against your flesh.

Is it a knife?

Hot pants fan against your skin.

Teeth

Four

Fifty-six

“Boss, I-.... going a …. bit too far?”

Smack!

“Do …. You…. to think?”

Two sixty-eight

A hand strikes you. You think your jaw is broken. It hurts but then again everything hurts. All you can do is take it and whimper.

Tears sting against your face.

“That’s right. Just like that. Like that, you little whore.”

Your body is warm again.

You still don’t want to know.

Two

Two?

You’ve counted two before.

You blink.

The haze of your mind lifts.

The coldness of the room seeps in your bones. You’re bare. You take stock of yourself, running your hands over your skin. Everything is still there.

Everything and a few other things. You let disgust and shame roll over you. A sob tears its way out of your chest. Your breath picks up. You feel your mind slipping. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, calling your mind back and steadying yourself.

You take stock again. This time moving your limbs and jangling your joints. They were weak but workable. You’re surprised to find yourself unbound aside from the collar around your neck. You suppose Roman’s confident in his drugs. How long have you been here? You press lightly against your neck, feeling the higher than normal pulsing of your artery. You shift yourself waking your legs up.

You stiffen, gooseflesh spreading over your skin as light filters into the room through the door. Your eyes snap shut, stinging from the sudden intrusion of light. The pulse beneath your fingers jackrabbits. You think you’ll keel over.

“Shhhhhh”

All the strength in your veins floods out, leaving a feeling of cold horror in its place. You scream or you try. Your body feels impossibly rigid. Roman stalks towards you, his footfalls slow and deliberate and too loud. Your heart jumps up to your throat with each step. You inch yourself away from him, drawing yourself up to make yourself feel bigger. He coos at how adorable you are, trying to look defiant. The mattress dips under his weight. Your mind begins to slip away from you again. The world falls away from you. You anchor it, digging your nails into your palms. He cups your face, thumb caressing your bottom lip. You glower at him and bite out something witty. He laughs amusement lighting up his features, the sound grates against your ears.

“Not gonna fight back?” He taunts, pressing his thumb down on your bottom lip. Your body recoils but then goes slack as he runs his hand up and down your side. Shame blankets you but the fear etched into you keeps you still.

Roman loosens his tie.

Your mind falls out of your reach.

“Such a good little slut.” He murmurs against your lips.

You wanted to say.

Instead, your mind starts counting again even as you hear the rustle of fabric.

BANG

A gunshot rings through the thick atmosphere of the room.

Roman curses.

His men stampede.

Another round of shots fire.

Something- No, no. Someone tears Roman off of you.

“Deathstroke?” You croak, your voice sounding foreign and absurdly brittle.

“Do you know anyone else walking around looking like this, kid?”

“Ravager” You snark, lips twitching into a smile. He rolls his eyes underneath his mask. The familiarity of the exchange breathes life into your body. Roman’s hand grips your wrist with bruising intensity. Your breath catches.

No. No. No.

The word loops in your head like a constant rat-tat.

Slade’s foot makes contact with Roman’s head, the force of it unnecessary but satisfactory. The sounds of bone-cracking fill the air. The man falls uselessly to the grimey floor. He shoots him with a couple of rounds for good measure, each shot instilling a pang of finality in the back of your mind.

You scrabble towards Slade, wide-eyed and shallow breathed. You cling to Slade as he bundles your body in silken sheets. He hoists you easily into his arms. You bury your face into the junction between his neck and shoulder, closing your eyes, the image of Roman’s bloody body on the floor pressed into your mind. You sob in relief. Your hands clasping onto Slade, white-knuckled and shaking.

"I've got you, sweetheart," He rumbles, running his hand through your hair soothingly. The tight knots in your body, loosen. You whimper a quiet thank you. “I’ve got you.”

You lift your head only to see Roman twitch.

Your breathing falters.

Fear pricks your spine.

Your mind falls away from you again.

Distantly, you feel Slade’s grip on you tightens.

Distantly, you hear him murmur something.

Everything is too far away.

Your eyes blink sluggishly. The world becomes dimmer with each blink.

A warm spray of water drizzles down over your aching skin. Your open wounds sting but the warm water pooling around you soothes the aches of your bruised flesh. Your eyes focus on the soft off-white of the tile on the wall opposite you. You don’t let yourself about the thin, rusty red film swirling in the water. The air in the room is thick with steam and the scent of lavender.

The absence of grime on your skin makes you feel lighter and gauzy and immaterial. You felt naked and obscene like you had been taken apart and now someone was examining pieces of you. You almost miss it.

“Lean back” Slade grumbles as he lathers your hair with some lavender concoction the hotel provided. Your body follows automatically, eagerly, obediently. You tell yourself you’re just tired. You tell yourself nothing’s wrong with your response. You tell yourself you’re ok. You wince. The warm water around you shifts. You hear it splash against the tile. You flinch at how loud it sounds. You take a deep breath and lean into his touch. He’s handling you delicately as though you would fall apart any second. You might.

Blinking away tears, you watch his face, aware that by leaning back, you’d be giving him a good view of the hickies, bite marks, and knife wounds Roman ‘gifted’ you. There’s a slight twitch in the corners of his lips. He must be disgusted with you too. You want to sink into the hot water and let it burn you anew, but you don’t trust yourself not to drown.

You close your eyes as another spray of warm water pours over you. You melt into it hoping it’s enough to wash the last few days- weeks?- away.

Your hands grasp his face, pulling him towards you. His hands brace against the tub, keeping him from falling in with you. Your arms loop around his neck, your hot breath fanning against his lips. You press your lips against him, searching and wanting. For what exactly? Comfort? Safety? Stimulation? His lips press lightly against yours, not quite a kiss. Slade actually looks taken aback.

The rest of the world floods back in. You peel away, your eyes wide with terror. “Shit- I’m- Fuck! Fuck! Shit, Slade, I- I’m sorry. I- Shit! I didn’t-” Your breathing ratchets up, becoming shallower as the pulsating in your ears grow louder. There’s a tightness growing in your chest that makes you think your ribcage is about to implode. You cover your face with your hands not caring how it didn’t help your shallowing breaths. You can’t look at him. You just can’t. You know you’re disgusting.

Your body wants to come apart, dissolve, and if it can, evaporate. You can’t breathe. You curl into yourself, into the water. A hand grabs at your wrist. You flinch. The hand carefully pries your hand away, forcing you to uncurl. Slade’s other hand cups your face gently, guiding you to look him in the eye. The lack of disgust in his face rattles you.

His thumb brushes against your lips making your stomach twist and your spine curl. He dips his head closer to yours. You kiss him eagerly. He lets out a pleased hum and smiles against your lips. Something cold licks at the bottom of your stomach but it’s overtaken by the need for connection, to fill in what had been hollowed out.

You press closer to him than strictly necessary as you watch the news, chewing on your cheek. He pulls you close, shifting you on to his lap. You don’t protest, eyes glued to the TV.

“Businessman, Roman Sionis, was found with several gunshot wounds to the stomach in one of his warehouses here in Minos City. He is now in stable condition. Authorities say...”

Your jaw falls slack in mute horror. Your stomach tumbles to the floor. You’re hyperventilating. Your teeth are digging into your cheek, you taste copper. Your mind spirals back into the room, back to the dirty mattress, back to Roman.

Strong arms wrap around you, stilling your trembling body against a broad chest. Your body relaxes a fraction. You curl into him, the buzz of nervous energy settling into a quieter panic.

“You’re safe with me, you know that don’t you, sweetheart?” Slade says tracing circles into your palm. You lean your head into his shoulder. You nod easing against him. “I’ll never let that monster anywhere near you.” He promises, pressing a kiss into your hair. A little sob wrenches free of your imploding chest.

Slade keeps his face buried in your hair even as you fall into a lull. It was the only way to hide the triumphant grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take good care of you.”

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A/n: Thanks for reading. There’s a follow up to this because I can’t cope with bad endings. I had to promise myself a good second part to make the ending horrifying.

The writing process for this fic was basically:

Me: I have this horrifying idea!

My brain: Yes but what if we put a little dork Jason in it.

Me: I guess that wouldn’t hurt.

Me: Ok I have written nearly 2k of dorky Jason where’s the other parts?

Brain: Uh what other parts?

Me: *sighs and spends the next few days spamming @knightfall05x*

taglist:

@batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @americasmarauders , @l-horizon11, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell

#yandere dc #yandere blackmask #yandere roman sionis #yandere deathstroke #yandere slade wilson #Black Mask #Deathstroke #slade wilson x reader #Roman Sionis #roman sionis x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #Jason Todd #red hood x reader

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eponymous-rose · 5 years ago

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Hector was coughing pretty heavily out of nowhere this evening, and I know there's a good chance it was because he wolfed down his food absurdly fast, but it's also, you know, one of the things you watch for in cats with advanced heart problems. He also had a brief moment of open mouthed breathing on Friday night... but again, there's the alternative explanation of him and his sister sprinting up and down stairs for half an hour before she flew off the bed to tackle him.

He seems completely normal now, no signs of hypoxia or anything, but... yeah. Definitely got sucked into the horrific-yet-comforting array of blog posts out there from folks who also had cats with a similarly poor prognosis. This sucks so much.

When I was a cat-crazy 7-year-old and my parents surprised us with two kittens, I couldn't stop crying - my parents tease me about it because they thought it was because I was so absurdly happy, but it was actually because I'd read all the cat magazines that were full of accounts of grieving owners and I was horrified that I'd have to go through that someday. There's some textbook anxiety for you: 7-year-old kid can't be happy about tiny kittens she's wanted all her life because she's already so scared of their deaths. As it happened, they lived almost two decades past that, and I was thousands of miles away both times my parents had to make the call. It was hard in its own way, but so much easier than if I'd been there.

And I've been fighting off that scared 7-year-old self ever since. Petsitting, working at the shelter... underneath the joy was always this underlying, almost overwhelming terror, the 7-year-old me I had to keep shushing. She started up in earnest again when I was signing the shelter paperwork for these two, and it took everything in me not to just say "sorry never mind" and run out of there. And then they mentioned the heart murmur and it took days to get the 7-year-old in the back of my head to stop crying. The first few days were rough - the anxiety was almost overwhelming, and my brain was just a loop of 'this was a mistake' - and then the bad news at the vet just blindsided me. Every fear I'd been telling my inner 7-year-old was completely irrational was suddenly and horribly realized.

But adult me actually has the experience and the tools to make it through this, I think, and I couldn't just abandon him, and there's a deep and wonderful peace when they're being goofballs or curled up on my bed, and there's a weird comfort in being able to stop trying to force 7-year-old me into calm and instead tell her that, yeah, sometimes the worst thing really does happen, and to validate and start to heal that fear with the knowledge that there's the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that. And eventually you stop drowning and start swimming.

I hope he doesn't suffer, and I hope he's here for an improbably long time, but if not, I hope all parts of me can finally accept that the worst can happen and there's still good at the end of it.

#eponymous cat tag #pet medical tw #pet death mention

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danfanciesphil · 6 years ago

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Some Kind Of Folliful (New Fic!)

Edgelord!Dan x ObliviousBisexual!Phil AU (based off the 80′s classic Some Kind of Wonderful)

Synopsis: Dan has one friend, and only because he was forced into it. Phil is loud, excitable, and irritatingly happy all of the time. Phil seems to find Dan's perpetual attitude funny, and despite Dan's best efforts to shun him and everyone else, wants to be around him all the time. That is, until Phil starts talking about Amanda Jones. Word Count: WIP (Estimated 12-15 chapters) updates every Tuesday Rating: Explicit Warnings: Smoking, swearing, implied prostitution, broken home, class divide/classism, pining, light homophobia, sex

Back at it again, kids! Highly recommend checking this out/subscribing to this on Ao3!

“You know Amanda Jones?”

Dan stops scrubbing the counter for a moment, blindsided by the strange question.

“From school?” Dan asks.

Phil nods.

“Hardy Jenns’ insipid arm candy, you mean?”

Phil rolls his eyes, hitching himself up onto a nearby countertop. “If you like.”

“I just cleaned that,” Dan complains; Phil doesn’t move an inch. “Yeah, I know her. Why d’you ask?”

Phil shrugs, swinging his feet to and fro. “What do you think of her?”

“Uh… I don’t. She’s part of a social structure I’d rather stay far away from.”

“Which is?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “You know. All that ridiculous status quo, popularity contest stuff. High school politics.”

“You mean ‘cause she’s one of the Elite?” Phil smirks knowingly.

“I think Elite is a strong word,” Dan grumbles, walking over to the sink to rinse out the cloth. “Rich, snobby assholes would be a more appropriate term for them.”

Phil snorts in amusement. Dan turns from the sink to survey him, brow furrowing.

“Why are you asking me about Amanda Jones?”

“I just think she’s interesting,” Phil answers, shrugging. “You know she’s not rich, don’t you?”

Dan sighs, grabbing the disinfectant spray off the side. He starts spraying the fridge door with it, wiping it down with the cloth.

“Yeah, I heard something about that,” Dan says after a moment. “She lives on our side of town, right? Big deal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dan huffs another sigh, already sick of this conversation. “Phil, she might have a trailer-trash bloodline, but she runs with the rich and the beautiful. It’s guilt by association.”

“Okay, that’s ridiculous,” Phil says with a snort.

Dan just glares, moving to the sink at Phil's side. Phil aims a kick at him as he passes, but Dan scoots out of his path.

“You can’t just hate her because of who she hangs out with,” Phil persists, so Dan whirls around to whack him with the wet cloth, making him shriek. “Hey!"

“Why can’t I?” He asks. “The way that girl and her big-money, cruel-heart society spit on everyone is not ‘interesting’. It’s pathetic.”

“She’s the only one who’s ever made it across the tracks, though,” Phil points out, as though this is some great achievement. “That’s pretty interesting, you’ve gotta admit.”

“She clawed her way to the dark side because she’s skinny and beautiful and leapt into bed with Hardy Jenns as soon as she snagged his attention,” Dan snaps; Phil raises his eyebrows at the tone.

“You sound pretty defensive,” Phil notes. He folds his arms and leans back against the wall, smirking again. “Jealous?”

Traitorously, Dan feels his cheeks grow a little warm. He turns away and snatches up the stock list in order to give him something to focus on.

“Of her? Don’t be stupid,” Dan mutters. “She’s got the charisma of a linoleum tile.”

“She is pretty though, isn’t she?” Phil muses.

Dan spins to face him, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction. “I knew this was about that.”

“About what?”

“About your sex drive.”

“I didn’t say anything about sex.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, rolling his eyes again. “Wanna start a book club with her?”

Phil snorts, jumping down from the counter at last. He grins at Dan as he sidles towards him. “Maybe.”

“Phil,” Dan sighs, trying hard to ignore the way his body stiffens as Phil steps closer. “Take my advice and let this go.”

“Dan, I’m just interested in her,” Phil says, one of his hands finding the end of Dan’s apron tie – ever the flirt. “I’m allowed to think she’s interesting.”

Dan shakes his head. “Don’t go roaming where you don’t belong.”

“You sound like an old wizard or something,” Phil says around a smile.

He’s standing so close now. He has a specific, sweet aroma that Dan’s pretty sure he produces without the aid of deodorant or perfume. It’s a tangy, syrupy scent, like caramelising sugar as it’s poured over a red, crisp apple. Dan has never known anybody smell so naturally delicious aside from Phil.

“If I was, I’d cast a banishing spell so that you’d stop pestering me at work.” Dan yanks his apron tie out of Phil’s hand, moving swiftly away.

It’s useless to stress the point though, he knows. It doesn’t matter how often Dan tells Phil he can’t keep showing up at the café while he’s working, wheedling free coffees, straining the Wi-Fi, and worst of all wandering through into the kitchen where he is absolutely not allowed – he’s never going to listen. Phil’s just not the type of guy who pays attention to rules like that. It’s not that Phil is a hardened criminal, he’s just a bit odd that way. He’s a dreamer, so things like hygiene regulations and fire safety probably don’t filter very far through the hazy, rose-tinted cloud of his brain.

It helps that he’s so confident, too. Whereas Dan has a tendency to turn his emotions inwards, Phil has a bright, exuberant personality, and no qualms about expressing himself to anyone at any time. He’ll chat with anybody: from the homeless man on the street corner, to the peculiar woman who walks her five corgis through the park every afternoon. Heck, he’ll even stop to converse with the corgis themselves. He’s obscenely likeable, really, and he gets away with a lot because he’s so friendly and chatty that it’s sort of impossible to be annoyed with him. Dan knows this far too well, unfortunately. Though, out of everyone, he’s probably the most successful person to maintain a level of annoyance with Phil Lester.

“You love it,” Phil says, his smirk stretching into a full on grin. “You want me to do it more.”

“I do not, as it happens, love getting fired,” Dan retorts, hoping the warmth in his cheeks isn’t as obvious as it feels. He distracts himself by walking to the far shelves under the pretence of further stock-checks. “You know how much of a bollocking I got from Jenns last time he saw you in here.”

“Yeah, but he’s not here now,” Phil says. “If he shows up, which he won’t because he never bothers to, then I’ll just hide in the pantry.”

“Louise is gonna be here in a second,” Dan warns, ignoring him. “She won’t be happy either.”

Phil scoffs. “She’s easy to get round.”

“Oh, am I?”

Dan and Phil whip round to face the back door of the kitchen, through which enters Louise, her bouncy blonde curls springing free as she removes her thick scarf.

Phil grins sheepishly at her. “I just mean you’re too lovely to kick me out.”

“Nice try, Lester,” Louise says, one eyebrow raised. “C’mon, hit the road. You can flirt with Dan after his shift is over.”

Phil pouts, but begrudgingly seems to accept that he has to get going. He finds his bag and hitches it up onto one shoulder, sighing.

“Fine. It’s boring here, anyway,” he says at last, and Dan glowers at him.

“Why do you listen to her and not me?” Dan asks.

Phil laughs, walking over to nudge Dan with his shoulder. “She’s just got an air of authority about her. Don’t take it personally.”

“I hate you,” Dan says, scowling as he pushes past Phil towards the door to the customer counter.

“Love you too!” Phil calls, still laughing; Dan rolls his eyes. “Come over later, yeah? I wanna hear more about your contempt for the bourgeoisie.”

“Bye, Phil,” Dan calls over his shoulder, stressing the farewell.

He hears the click of the back door as Phil leaves, and tries to ignore the pang in his chest, knowing that now he has four hours of his shift left without Phil’s inane chatter to keep him company. He sighs, hating himself for being such a hypocrite.

“Dan!” Louise calls out. “Come wipe Phil’s assprints off the countertops.”

A week passes, and Phil doesn’t drop the Amanda thing. It’s baffling to Dan, who has never so much as heard Phil name a serious, real-life crush in all the years they’ve been friends. Sure, he jokes that his heart is forever beating for Buffy Summers, but as she’s fictional and a literal superhero, Dan hadn’t really taken it too seriously. Now, out of seemingly nowhere, Phil has become, for lack of a better term, obsessed with a girl who is, in Dan’s eyes, shockingly mediocre.

Sure, she’s absolutely gorgeous. There’s no point in denying that, as you’d have to be blind or dumb not to recognise her dainty, symmetrical features, or the waft of shiny, nutella-brown locks cascading past her cute, studded ears. Her figure is something out of a seedy magazine. She’s petite and skinny, with a waist you could close a fist around and boobs the size of cantaloupe melons. She’s very, very pretty. But that doesn’t make her interesting. Dan has tried to explain this to Phil countless times since he first brought her up, but he doesn’t appear to even listen. He’ll just laugh or shake his head fondly, as though Dan were the one with the bizarre perspective of the situation.

“You can’t judge a book by its cover,” Phil had said to him one such time.

They’d been lying on Phil’s bed, staring up at his ceiling. Something was playing on Phil’s TV in the corner, but neither of them were paying attention.

“Yeah, but you can tell how much it’s gonna cost,” Dan had replied, a tad bitterly perhaps.

Phil had been quiet for a moment after that, and for a second Dan thought he might’ve actually gotten through. But then it was back to Amanda, back to how surprisingly sweet and clever and smart she seemed… from a distance. Because that’s another thing – Phil has never actually spoken to this girl. The reason for this is not because Phil is shy. He is possibly the least shy person Dan has ever known, in fact. The issue is that Amanda Jones is an esteemed member of the Elite, and Phil is… well, not. According to the hideously boring social structure of St Anthony’s Secondary School, any attempt Phil makes to cross the rickety bridge between his level of popularity and Amanda’s – even for so much as a conversation – would be practically suicidal.

Hardy Jenns, Amanda’s shit-head boyfriend, and coincidentally the son of Dan’s boss, would pound Phil to a mushy pulp if he so much as sniffed a rumour that he might be trying to chat up his girl. There are basically a whole plethora of reasons why Phil should just forget about Amanda altogether, but Dan cannot seem to convince him of this no matter how hard he tries. He drags on the stub of his cigarette as he considers all of this, trying to make it last. He hasn’t got any more after this one. A new pack of smokes would probably bankrupt him, too. He chucks the burnt out end on the ground and squashes it with the toe of his boot. Before all this came up with Phil, Dan spent maybe one minute of his life concerned with the boring, vapid lives of the Elite. Now, he has to engage in lengthy conversations about them every damn day. Even worse is that, as Phil is pretty much Dan’s only friend at school, there’s no relief from it.

His lack of friends willing to discuss non-Amanda related topics is entirely self-inflicted however. He’s projected an ‘unapproachable’ vibe for as long as he can remember, because it suits him to have his peers see him as a loner. He is a loner, after all. Except for Phil, of course. According to Phil, other people at school see him as mysterious, and alternative. He’s got some admirers, apparently, though Phil might be teasing him about that. Dan honestly could not care less how anyone at St Anthony's perceives him. As long as nobody actually talks to him, he’s fine with letting them think whatever they want.

Of course, Phil is a separate matter. Because even Dan can admit that having one person to talk to, or sit with, or just hang around during his down time, is a lot better than having nobody at all. Up until Year Nine, Dan’s school life was totally devoid of friendship. He’d thought, at the time, that he didn’t mind it. And then, like a comet bursting through an endlessly dull night sky, Phil appeared.

Dan had been sat in Chemistry at the beginning of term, already having chosen himself a seat at the back, in the corner by the window. Nobody picked the seat beside him, obviously, which was far from a surprise. And then Phil pushed into the lab, late - which Dan would later discover is one of his most prominent character traits. The teacher, irritated, asked Phil to find a seat. And that's where Dan's life transcended from utterly mundane, into bafflingly, ridiculously absurd. Because Phil swept that sharp bblue gaze across maybe five empty stools. He smiled at his friends waving manically, he ignored the frantic hands gesturing for him to sit beside them, and fixated on Dan, alone, scowling, in the far left corner. He plonked himself right down in the space next to him, his broad smile never faltering. Nothing has been the same since.

“Have we ever even met?” Dan had asked him, horrified by the audacity of this strange, perpetually happy person.

“We’re meeting now!” Phil had replied, grinning infectiously. He stuck out his hand for Dan to shake, and for some reason, Dan just did.

He’d tried in vain, after that first day, to be cold towards Phil. He’d tried to speak to him with only the bare minimum, answering Science-related stuff monosyllabically, or pretending he didn’t know the answer at all. Phil never bought the act. He laughed at Dan’s attempts to shrug him off. He teased and prodded and joked until Dan couldn’t hide the responding smile any more. He followed Dan about after class, telling him stupid anecdotes about his encounters with the squirrels outside, or prattling on about his latest clumsy incident.

It didn’t seem to matter to Phil that Dan barely ever responded. He was just content to lean against the lockers beside Dan’s while he rummaged inside, rambling about his newest art projects. He seated himself in the cafeteria next to Dan, tilting his phone screen to show him funny memes and videos of dogs. He’s the most persistent person Dan has ever known, to date, and he still has no clue why Phil didn’t just give up. But eventually, Dan was worn down. He began laughing at Phil’s stupid, unfunny puns. He sent Phil an occasional meme of his own over text. He made suggestions about what Phil should draw next. He started watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer , and texted Phil his opinions. It must have been an agonising few months of slow, tortoise-like progress for Phil, but they did become friends. By the time Christmas rolled around, Dan had someone in his life that actually cared enough to buy him a present.

Dan, who had never bought a Christmas present for anyone in his life, let alone received one, felt terrible, but Phil just gave him a hug, and told him it was fine. They’d watched stupid Christmas films on Boxing Day, wearing the paper hats from the Christmas Crackers Phil insisted they pull. It must have been around then that he finally accepted Phil as someone he didn’t mind having around. He dreads to think of what might happen if, somehow, Phil actually makes it across the Elite border and begins weaselling his way into the cool crowd. Those snooty kids are sure as hell not going to accept Dan as a member over there, even if they do, for whatever reason, make an allowance for Phil. Not that Dan has any interest whatsoever in associating himself with half-witted phonies, sipping the Kool-Aid of their conservative lifestyle.

“Hey,” a voice interrupts his reminiscence, startling him. He glances up at Phil, feeling caught out somehow. “Are you waiting for me? I thought you were working today?”

Dan stands up form the cold, brick wall he’s been sat on for the past half hour, resisting the urge to rub his sore ass.

“Not waiting for you, just smoking. Louise swapped my shift with Zoe,” Dan explains, shifting to discreetly work some life back into his numb buttocks.

“No way!” Phil exclaims, ridiculously excited by the news. His face lights up in a grin, and Dan has to look away or he’ll start smiling back like a lunatic. “Awesome! Surprise Dan-time.”

Phil slings his arm around Dan’s shoulders. He tuts and gives a half-hearted attempt at shrugging him off, but Phil knows him too well to take the bait, so he just squeezes Dan tighter as they begin their walk home.

“What do you wanna do?” Dan asks, heart picking up its pace a little. Don't say my house, don't say my house-

“I need your help, actually. Wanna come over for a bit?”

Dan’s shoulders sag in relief as they take the turning towards Phil’s street.

“Please tell me this is not Amanda Jones-related.”

“Maybe,” Phil says, aiming a guilty glance at him. “Come on, please? For me?” Phil begs, making Dan roll his eyes. “Besides, if you help me out, then I’ll stop talking your ear off about her.” Phil pauses. “Maybe.”

Dan sighs, contemplating how to respond. He’s said everything he can think of to dissuade Phil from this Amanda thing. He supposes could flat-out refuse to help. He could list all the reasons Amanda Jones is bad news for the zillionth time. He could storm off in a huff. But Dan has been looking forward to surprising Phil with this afternoon off work. He wants to chill out with the one person whom he can truly relax with, no matter what the topic of discussion is. Besides, Phil is far too pig-headed to listen to a word of Dan’s feeble protestations anyway.

“Ugh, fine,” Dan relents, not bothering to hide the reluctance in his tone.

Phil stops in the middle of the street to wrap him in an absurdly tight bear hug.

“You’re the best, Dan.”

“Get the fuck off me, you freak.”

Phil laughs, and squeezes harder.

(Chapter Two posted next Tuesday!)

#phan #phanfic #phan au #some kind of folliful

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mabotomo · 7 years ago

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ALL OUR LIVES | Gob/Michael pre-slash, G. | 4,412 words Gob was worried. But then, being worried about your little brother after his wife died--that was normal, wasn’t it?

The grass rustled with cool winter air when Michael's wife was lowered into her final resting place. George Michael clung to his father's hand as he said his goodbyes--he was only eleven, but already he had the eyes of an old soul.

The cancer came out of nowhere, as these things were prone to. Tracey didn't even have any family history of it, and she was relatively healthy as far as Michael knew, but it wasn't like the world was nice enough to warn you every time something bad was going to happen. Even if, in the grand scheme of things, you were supposed to be a good person (and Tracey was one of the best people Gob knew). In any case, good person or not, it didn't change the fact that Michael was now a single parent. A single parent to an eleven year old boy.

Gob remembered the phone call. How could he not? It happened less than a week ago, at three a.m. on a cold December morning. The details were burned into his brain: the fading scent of sex lingering in the air, the nameless woman snoring on his pillow, the calmness to Michael's voice, the early December chill creeping its way through Gob's bones, the fact that it was going to be Michael's birthday in less than twenty-four hours. It was one of the worst experiences of his life, hearing Michael crumble the way he did, but as he watched George Michael cling onto his father's hand, his cheeks pink in the cold, he told himself there had to be hope left in this world somewhere.

Click.

A few weeks later, Michael told him: "She wanted to divorce me."

"I'm sorry--" Gob was blindsided for a moment, certain Michael and Tracey were supposed to be the happy couple in all of this. "--what?"

Michael didn't enjoy Gob staying around George Michael too often, claiming him to be a "bad influence", but the sitter cancelled and George Michael was too sad to be alone, so he called Gob to take over while he handled a few late night things at the company. The past few times he babysat for George Michael, they'd watched Star Wars without fail, and Gob was getting so tired of it he caved and bought George Michael some Monopoly pieces. He thought he'd get him the rest of the board game another time, but that the pieces would at least be enough for some make believe.

It wasn't so bad, though, babysitting. George Michael was a good kid, if not like an awkward photocopy of Gob's baby brother as they grew up, but he liked the same ice cream flavours Gob did and didn't mind when Gob took him out to impress the ladies as a "good single dad". They did, of course, have a tacit understanding that Michael wasn't supposed to know about the ice cream and pick-up game, and it was working pretty well so far.

Anyways, Michael shrugged and tossed one last piece of dirty laundry into the hamper. Gob was asked to do the washing, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't. "She hated that I had to wait for her to get better." He paused. "That, you know, being married to... to, to a sick person was weighing me down.

"She said--we haven't even lived together in months. That this was how she could make it right for me."

Gob's mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't find the energy to snap it shut. Who would divorce Michael?

Glancing up at him, Michael smiled sadly (as he so often did, Gob noticed) and chuckled. "I know," he said, then let out a sigh heavier than Gob thought he could carry. "Believe me. I know."

Then he left for work and Gob was left with George Michael. It turned out that Monopoly was useless without the board, but Gob decided to pull out all the stops as they played Return of the Jedi on the television: he held the lightsabre and all, made the schwoom schwoom noises as he fought his nephew. George Michael used to be really good at this, Gob supposed, as he wasn't sure what 'good' constituted in nerd world, but he was sure that having George Michael all distracted and a little sniffly was not what a good fight constituted. By the end of it George Michael decided to curl against Gob's side and pass out a full half hour before bedtime, and he wasn't even all that tuckered out.

Instead of waking George Michael up for their promised ice cream and pick-up game, Gob deposited him into his bed, awkwardly stood by the side of it, and then flipped the light off. He took a moment, however, to stand in the doorway and watch him sleep peacefully; Gob never had any particular want to make babies, but if he did, he thought a kid like George Michael wouldn't be the end of the world.

Click.

Rollo wouldn't stop bitching at him about the lack of magic practise, and if he weren't so fucking scary, Gob would definitely punch him in the kidney. The thing is, Rollo could probably take him (or at least match him punch for punch) and they had some Chinese New Year show coming up, so really, maybe they should try to smush in at least one more final practise before the actual gig.

If there was one thing Gob wanted as a kid, it wasn't to be a magician, but little Michael used to watch him with sparkling eyes every time he did it, and in the end it turned out that doing magic would help get him out of P.E., so it became a dream. What little Gob really wanted was a train set big enough to ride, but since that was more difficult, he was working on the whole being a magician thing, even though Michael didn't admire him any more and Gob had to demand to be taken seriously.

For the moment, he was the second half of a magic duo called The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo, and they were good at explosions and dancing and handkerchief shit and sometimes doves. It wasn't glamorous (yet, but Gob couldn't find a right set of legs for that level up) and they didn't make much money (yet, but Gob had dreams of starting a Magician's Alliance, and he felt if he kissed his dad's ass enough he could get some cash from him), but either way, Gob loved getting up on stage and blowing people's minds, even if it meant his family thought he was an idiot. At least he got free drinks at the Gothic Castle. (Gob was a man with his priorities in order.)

They finalised their third song's choreography for the show (to It's My Life by Bon Jovi, which was too slow for Gob's tastes, but Rollo was sick of The Final Countdown) when they took a break.

"So, your brother’s wife wanted to divorce him?" Rollo asked, dice flicking between his long fingers.

Gob sipped his water, nodding. "Yeah. Something about how dying made her a shitty wife."

"That's like some E.R. level shit," Rollo replied, flicking the dice out onto the stage.

"Worse is that my brother's pretending it didn't matter to him." Gob pressed the bottle of water against his lower lip and pondered, leaning against the speaker on the floor. "I mean, come on, his wife was dying and now she was talking about leaving him? Christ..." He trailed off for a moment, looking elsewhere with a sigh. "He gets this sad little smile sometimes, and it's like. Just cry already, for Pete's sake. Fucking robot."

Rollo snorted, then moved to gather their dummy doves up, if only because they didn't want to kill any more doves practising before the actual show. It took a few moments before Gob returned to planet earth and watched Rollo do what he did best for a minute, and then he smiled and picked the last dove up to go back to him.

Click.

"What is that? What are you doing with your hands?"

Gob jumped, startled out of his skin and nearly dropping his champagne flute. He was never that fond of champagne--it was too girly, really--but hey, it was free, and he was never the type to turn down a free drink, even if it came from his mother.

"God, mother, you scared me." Gob scowled and looked away from her.

Lucille straightened, reaffirming her spot next to Gob and brushing imaginary dust from the shoulders of his suit. It was the fourth year in a row that she was hosting this annual Valentine's party, and Gob was having a hard time remembering why he always went along with her. Didn't he move out of Balboa Towers, like, six years ago? And yet Gob still found himself returning to her stupid parties whenever she invited him. He could admit that sometimes his mother was amusing, but that was only when she wasn't being a total bitch to him.

"That horrible thing with your hands, what was that about?" she asked again, holding her own hands up in mockery.

Gob frowned deeper. "A picture."

"I'm sorry," Lucille began, crinkling her nose at him. "What was that?"

"I was taking... a picture, mum," Gob replied, irritated. He lifted his hands again as if holding a camera, framing a shot of George Michael in a sweater that matched Michael's while his father poured juice for him. The two of them were talking, Michael looking like he was scolding him a little, and George Michael looking panicked because his father was pouring him juice and he didn't know how to hold the plate of cake he had with just one hand.

Lucille looked at him blankly for a moment, then rolled her eyes before leaving, muttering, "Don't even have a camera with you--who dropped you on the head as a baby?"

Gob drank the last of his champagne, dropping it on a waiter's tray, then scowled as he crossed his arms in annoyance. He just wanted to make a memory, was that so bad?

"If mother was in a sweater like that, I'd want to make a memory of it, too," Buster piped up behind him, hands landing on Gob's shoulders and massaging him until Gob smacked him away in protest. "But only because it'd really go with her hair, I think, just like how it goes with George Michael's, while on Michael it's more..."

"Oh my God, why are you people trying to talk to me?" Gob groaned, exasperated. "Would you leave me alone, please?" He really needed another drink, and now that he thought about it he wanted some of that cake that George Michael was having, and he didn't want it to run out before he got to it.

An hour later, George Michael was passed out, his arms folded atop a table and his cheek resting on them. Michael rubbed a hand lightly up and down his back.

Gob, unsure why he was still at this party, stood across the room, and managed a small smile as he brought his hands up once more. This time, he made sure he was out of his mother’s eye-shot.

Click.

"I was in a gay movement once," Tobias told him, apropos of nothing during a rare visit to Newport Beach. Maeby and Lindsay were at the banana stand with George Michael and his father, leaving Gob here to test out his brand new Segway while Tobias was... Tobias.

Gob coughed, turning slowly with wide eyes that likely betrayed him. Tobias was smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet as if announcing he was some gay protester to his brother-in-law was no big deal. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, it was wonderful," Tobias continued, smiling off into space. "They had all the best parties! I met a lot of beautiful women there, but, well, it turned out they were more into other women--except Lindsay, who, I think, liked this man named Robert who had the strongest arms..."

"Uh. Okay?" Gob turned away from him again, shaking his head. He'd always suspected Tobias of it, had done so for years now, but an actual gay experience was news to him.

Wait. Lindsay was with lesbians?

"Well, I'm just saying," Tobias commented just over Gob's shoulder, making him jump and squeak a little and nearly fall off his Segway. Tobias placed a hand on his back to steady him, chuckling. "Maybe you should take Michael to one, what with how worried you've been. They're really quite fun, and someone of his dry humour would be well appreciated. Maybe you can even do that today! I'll take George Michael off your hands, and--"

Gob stared at him for a long moment, confused as all fuck about why George Michael would be his responsibility. Then he remembered that Michael had been calling the sitter less and Gob more and. Huh. When was the last time Gob actually played ice cream and pick up?

"--it would be fabulous, just fabulous." Tobias clapped his hands together, smiling.

Click.

George Michael's friends took him out for the weekend, so Michael was taking a break and trying to be happy that his son's friends were making him feel better as much as they could. Gob knew that Michael appreciated these efforts, even if he worried about his son all the time and not enough about himself. The world might be shitty, what with Tracey passing on, but at least Michael still had George Michael, and from the way Michael treated him and looked at him and talked about him, George Michael was probably the greatest thing he could ever have in his life.

Gob arrived at Michael's door at 7 p.m. with a case of beer and an action/thriller/semi-romance film, even though the romance was really just gratuitous D-cups with a muscled man. It was weird not having George Michael around, which he noticed every time Michael turned to where George Michael would often sit on the sofa as if he had to tell him to cover his eyes at the sex scenes, and then turned back at the television looking humbled.

George Michael's birthday was in a few weeks. Gob was continuing watching movies with him for reasons he couldn't quite figure out, but since Michael's decision to overwork meant he'd finished months' worth of it in a few weeks and also got himself some free time, sometimes Michael was initiated into the league of rebels as well (awful Darth Vader voice and lightsabre sound effects and all). In the back of his mind Gob thought that it was almost like they were a normal family, except for the fact that Gob was Michael's brother, and they both had dicks, and also Gob was pretty sure he was only thinking about Michael all the time because he was worried about Michael's well-being and nobody ever seemed to worry about the most functional Bluth in the family.

Whatever--he shrugged when the thought came to mind and grinned through it. Families were what you made of them, not what you were born with, so even though Michael was born his brother, they could be co-parents if Michael wanted them to be. Not that that would be a thing, Gob supposed, since even though he'd been concerned about Michael raising George Michael alone, a few months in showed his baby brother doing just fine.

At least, until they started drinking.

It was four beers and thirty minutes into the film when Michael lost it. Gob had never seen him cry and he wasn't sure what to do with himself--hug him? Pat him on the back? Awkwardly sit at the other end of the couch and wait it out? Yeah, he figured, he'd go with that one. Unfortunately, he survived only thirty seconds of silent weeping and watching Michael's back shake with the effort, curled up into himself, before he broke and slid back to pull Michael close to him.

"It'll be okay," Gob said, patting Michael awkwardly on the back. Of course, now wasn't the time to be thinking about how nice Michael smelled or, Jesus, how Michael used to hold Gob like this when he cried because of their parents, and how Michael had always been there for him, and how Gob was being there for him now, and how much he loved his brother and how being there for him the past few months had given him a weird sense of purpose. Now was the time to be comforting Michael, he told himself, even though Michael lifted his head to look at him with puffy eyes and tears streaming down his face...

And Gob thought, Oh, shit. I'm going to swoop on him.

So their lips met somewhere in the middle of all that, like some rift opened up in time and space and Gob was falling through it slowly. Part of him felt bad about taking advantage of his innocent brother in need, but Michael's lips were softer than he thought they would be (not that he imagined such things any more, no, of course not) and he wasn't exactly forcing himself onto said innocent brother. If anything, Michael was... kind of enthusiastically returning Gob's every kiss, every breath, every sigh. And then they pulled apart in tandem and Gob was frozen in the moment, torn between laughing with joy and screaming with terror.

What the hell did he just do?

Oh, right, he just made out with his baby brother. That was it.

Michael smiled a bit hazily for a moment, sending Gob's heart into a leap... before it plunged into darkness at the same time Michael's expression fell.

"Shit," Michael breathed, bringing one hand up to rub at his face.

"Yeah," Gob agreed. He wasn't sure what he was agreeing to, but he really wanted to get back to that part where they were kissing.

Michael stood, moving away, clicking the television off. He refused to look at Gob's face, and for one fleeting moment, Gob thought: holy crap, shit just got real. But then Michael turned and it was like all the joy had been sucked out of the room--Gob had a fleeting moment of wondering where the fucking Dementor was when he realised, no, it was just Michael staring him like that with a look Gob was all too familiar with.

"We can't do this," Michael said, and Gob could practically do the speech along with him.

"You're my brother," Gob said flatly, looking down at his hands. "You can't make a living as a magician. You're my brother. How do I explain it to George Michael? You're my brother, Gob, and I appreciate you being here for me, but we're brothers and we stopped doing this in high school for a reason, and..."

Looking back up, Gob saw the battle raging behind Michael's eyes for the first time in his entire life. There was want there, and need, and desire, and confusion, and sadness, and rage, and Gob always figured he'd only ever see that Molotov cocktail of emotion whenever he looked into the mirror, so it threw him off more than he wanted to admit.

But he grinned. "Hey, Mikey. It's okay. I get it."

He was at the door when Michael caught his arm.

"Listen, Gob," Michael said quietly. "I can't. I want to, but I can't. I have to think of George Michael. I have to be a mother and a father, and this is wrong, and I just... I can't."

Gob laughed, pulling his arm away. "I know," he replied. "George Michael comes first--needs good role models or something, right? Look, let me know if you want me to have him next week for Star Wars. Or not, 'cause I get it either way."

Holding up his hands, Gob fought back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

Click.

It's almost Christmas! Gob wrote in scribbly, awkward lettering. Hope you've been a cool kid. You write to Santa yet? Do you still do that? I'll be home in time for Gangy's Christmas party, so you better be there, kiddo. It's been way too long.

Gob finished the letter off and stuffed it in an envelope. It was the latest in a long string of pen pal letters to his favourite guy. Sometimes he asked about Michael, but he kept it as light and fun as possible. George Michael was going to be in middle school soon, too smart for his own good and not confident enough to make friends. Gob missed him everyday.

He sighed, leaning back in his especially comfy seat. They were cruising at about ten thousand or so metres above the ocean, coming back from a show in Denver. Following "the incident" (as Rollo named it), The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo had a good show, received sponsors, and earned enough for Gob to start the Magicians' Alliance. Gob threw himself into magic, making new tricks with even better music, but creative differences with Rollo had them splitting as a duo a few months in. He said something about how Gob shouldn't reference Star Wars so much in his tricks on his way out, and Gob had only countered with the Force being the most magical thing the world probably had to fucking offer.

Either way, his new manager, a pretty girl named Marta trying to make her big break in acting, curiously looked on as Gob sealed his latest letter to George Michael. The return letters had all been wonderful, pictures of George Michael and his father as they went through their year littered throughout. It'd been months since Gob last saw him... since he last saw his dad.

"You're becoming famous now, Gob," Marta said, head cocking slightly. Gob wasn't sure how to deal with her, because his instinct told him to flirt with her and fuck her, but Marta had two kids, and experience told him that wanting to fuck anyone with a kid would probably end in disaster. "You might have to be more careful about what you put in your letters."

Gob snorted, reclining in his chair. "I doubt the press'll be real interested in my twelve year old penpal," he replied. He could hear Marta breathe a quiet sigh of relief, then wondered what it was she thought of him if she thought Gob was writing dirty or inappropriate letters. Granted, Gob didn't have the best image, but still--he was an all right guy. Gob Bluth, upstanding citizen! (Never mind the fact that she'd seen him bring girls back to his hotel room, and...)

By the time they were back in Newport Beach, Gob had one more show, another woman in another hotel room, bad food, and a midnight run to get himself some booze. More than once he'd found himself missing Star Wars night--even the lightsabres. He told George Michael this in one of his letters and even went out to buy a Stormtrooper sticker for the seal.

It was Christmas Eve when he actually found himself a spot of free time. Gob couldn't believe it'd been over a year since Tracey passed, and that it'd been nearly a year since he last spoke to Michael. Nine months and fourteen days, to be exact, but who was counting?

His mother's party was already in full swing when Gob got there, fancy wine in hand. Marta tagged along this year, both her sons excited about free food and unlimited juice and the chance to relax with their mother for a few days. They weren't even totally through the door when Buster found himself startled by Marta, and then enchanted by her, and Gob had to reach out to grab his shoulder and say: "Yeah, I'll forgive you for not saying hi to your brother first, but try not to scare my manager off with your weird, huh?"

Marta tilted her head, looking back. "What was that?"

"Oh!" Buster jumped, half hiding behind his hands as he glanced away. Gob released him, watching as Buster stumbled away, and Marta was left doing the same for a moment before her sons tugged her along. Shaking his head, he scanned the room for his own special people, and--

There they were, like no time had passed at all. Except George Michael was taller, his hair was cut shorter, and those god-awful dental equipment was finally out of his mouth. He was wearing a suit, as he tended to for Christmas things, but Gob could tell this one was new--he was growing up now, the nerd, and he needed new suits and. Gob's heart was in his throat, weird enough, and when he heard George Michael call "Uncle Gob!" before heading over to him and giving him a hug, he swore to God he was going to start crying somehow.

Gob laughed, though, and returned it. "It's good to see you too, kiddo." And he meant it, because as they pulled back he could see George Michael was doing much better than he was when Gob had last seen him. The chubby was back in his cheeks, in the same way that Michael's cheeks were when he was a kid, and...

A voice he'd been waiting for said, "Click."

So Gob turned, looking at Michael, who was smiling at him with hands raised in camera formation. Gob's stomach went tight as feelings came rushing back anew: the want, and the need, and the fear of the unknown. But all these were pushed away as Michael wrapped an arm around George Michael and used the other to pull Gob's head down into his shoulder, his lips brushing over his temple.

"Welcome home," he said, bringing his hand down to grasp Gob's free one. "It's good to see you again."

George Michael looked between them, confused for a moment, but then settled for taking Gob's other hand in the same way Michael's did. "Yeah, like dad said."

"Like dad said," Gob echoed, his fingers squeezing over the two hands he wanted to hold most. He'd never thought himself to be the clinging type, but found that it was more comforting than its vulnerability would ever lead anyone to believe.

#ooc prob? lol #bluthcest #gob x michael #*#*fics #*f: ad #otp: i do it for you

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tumblunni · 8 years ago

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I NEED TO PRODUCTIVITY GAMES Anyone ever have a moment where you have TOO MANY CHOICES on a thing that you like, so you cant decide which to pick and you pick none of them and you just sit here being sad??? I have that as a huge problem on Steam, whenever I get a humble bundle or a deal or something and I have more than five games I havent played, I sit here paralyzed. And now I currently have OVER 100 GAMES that I haven’t played! Thats how bad I’ve let it get! if I don’t play a game immediately after i buy it, or if I get ANY DEAL EVER, I just never play it and I’m stuck here scared of playing things I enjoy, somehow?? I’,m just so confused, my brain doesnt have the capacity to comprehend the reasoning that’d allow me to choose. I’m really REALLY desperate to play one of these games but WHICH ONE FIRST AAAA Why does it even matter which one i play first??? And some of these have been in my play list for OVER A YEAR so i dont even remember what the game IS, and its even harder to choose! I get scared going into things blind for some reason even though I know its just a game and it cant physically hurt me. And the times steam games have most psychologically blindsided me were all games where I DID do the reasearch and I had no way of working harder to be prepared for the twist, it was just the fault of reviews not mentioning stuff that really needed a trigger warning :P That GODDAMN lolicon witch simulator game that goes three hours in looking fine before suddenly throwing little girl vaginas and weird positive portrayals of female-on-male rape at you, and the game description doesnt mention the sexual content at allllll And then Amnesia Memories wasnt a completely irredeemable game and it wasnt as disgusting as that, but still it had really creepy nonsense out of nowhere and I’m glad I was prewarned at least... BUT YEAH ANYWAY This is the pain I am stuck in right now cos my dumb brain doesnt work :P And I guess I might actually be able to blame that witch game for starting me doing this stupidness, gahhh. ive always had a problem with being scared of making choices but it never went this far before I had a reason to be scared of games :P Two out of three games that’ve freaked me out like that are all steam games and all of them happened in the last two years for some reason. Games are getting way more sexualized without having appropriate age warnings, I feel... And i mean, its not just that it contains fanservice that is bad, its just when its this weird unhealthy shit. Why is THAT so much more common suddenly in 2015-17?? Goddamn ps4 digimon game having bondage gag rape metaphor boss battle against an underage teenager, goddamn monster possesion thing that looks inhuman when it absorbs men yet looks like a rape cage for the only female victim. WHYYYYY ...actually that probably traumatized me MORE than the witch sim, cos it was a franchise I trusted making this horrible mistake. Halfway through a 70 hour rpg that I’d chucked 400 HOURS into because I wanted to unlock all the digivolutions :P Much more painful when it hurts your opinion of a franchise you actually WERE invested in, WERE enjoying... I’m much more scared of accidentally enjoying half a bad game and then friggin having to mourn it as well as being traumatized :P ANYWAY GAH THIS IS THE PROBLEM I need to focus on just clicking a random game in my list and being able to actually enjoy it, rather than remembering bad stuff and getting unnecessarily worried I actually had this exact damn feeling before I played Undertale, it was why i took like a month to play it after it came out. i was so scared that the hype was wrong and there were a bunch of confusing rumours going around of there being ‘a virus jumpscare’ that was specifically bad for people with anxiety disorders and I was completely blind about what the game was about so I had no clue it was this uplifting morally good thing that just happened to have some scary bits. Normal scary bits that any other damn game could have, nothing worth trigger warning unless you have a specific fear of that particular thing. And the ‘virus jumpscare’ was only in the no mercy run so you kinda deserve it. i think everyone who deliberately takes the bad scary route probably already knows its gonna be bad and scary?? But yeah I had that spectre of worrying over a sudden unexpected unexplained bad thing happening at any moment, and it took me ages to get past toriel’s introductionary scene and ease up enough to actually enjoy the game, actually get immersed... This kind of feeling makes me not enjoy games that I otherwise would have enjoyed, so i kinda do have a reason to worry about playing a game during an anxiety mode... But then again playing a good game can snap me OUT of anxiety mode, like Undertale eventually did! GAHHH MY DUMB BRAIN IS SO HARD TO CONTROL

#bunni original vintage post #sorry #vent post

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theclockworkbibliophile-blog · 7 years ago

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The Thousandth Floor Review [Speed Read] [SPOILERS]

Summary:

NEW YORK CITY AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN IT BEFORE. A thousand-story tower stretching into the sky. A glittering vision of the future where anything is possible—if you want it enough. WELCOME TO MANHATTAN, 2118. A hundred years in the future, New York is a city of innovation and dreams. Everyone there wants something…and everyone has something to lose. LEDA COLE’s flawless exterior belies a secret addiction—to a drug she never should have tried and a boy she never should have touched. ERIS DODD-RADSON’s beautiful, carefree life falls to pieces when a heartbreaking betrayal tears her family apart. RYLIN MYERS’s job on one of the highest floors sweeps her into a world—and a romance—she never imagined…but will this new life cost Rylin her old one? WATT BAKRADI is a tech genius with a secret: he knows everything about everyone. But when he’s hired to spy for an upper-floor girl, he finds himself caught up in a complicated web of lies. And living above everyone else on the thousandth floor is AVERY FULLER, the girl genetically designed to be perfect. The girl who seems to have it all—yet is tormented by the one thing she can never have. Amid breathtaking advancement and high-tech luxury, five teenagers struggle to find their place at the top of the world. But when you're this high up, there's nowhere to go but down....

My Review:

WARNING: THIS REVIEW IS NOT SPOILER FREE! IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THIS BOOK, PLEASE DO NOT CONTINUE ON!

So, I have no idea why I didn’t already read this book when it came out. I bought it not too long after it was first released, but like many of my other novels, it sat on my shelf. The cover is to-die-for gorgeous and the premise is everything I could want in a book! I mean, futuristic New York? Yes, please!

Alright, so I’m going to break this down by character and, if you ignored the fact that this is filled with spoilers and you scrolled down anyway...don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Leda Cole

So, Leda Cole is one of the “rich”. She has just returned from rehab, though she is keeping it a secret. She stayed there due to the fact that, after she slept with the gorgeous and brooding Atlas Fuller in a hot tub in the Andes and he just up and left her to go to the Amazon, she started taking pills to lessen her pain and basically ignore it. She does a pretty good job of keeping away from the pills, but it’s hard for her to stay away from Atlas. I actually thought Atlas really did have a thing for Leda, but I guess not since he would rather have his sister that’s not really blood related to him. Yeah. I felt bad for Leda because she was so into this boy and he dumps her like a sack of potatoes, causing her to spiral out of control with drugs again and, what’s crazy is that, she accidentally causes Eris’ death by pushing her and having her fall off of the Tower’s roof. Obviously, she is upset. However, now she knows everybody’s secrets and forces them to come up with a lie about her death so she won’t go to jail. She’s a sneaky girl, but I still feel sorry for her. She is a recovering...well, not anymore...drug addict and is so messed up because of one boy. Oh yeah, and she believed that Eris was having an affair with her dad. There’s that. Let’s pray she finds the light in the sequel.

Eris Dodd-Radson

I wasn’t really a fan of Eris, even though I was surprised that it was her that fell to her demise. Actually, I wasn’t 100% surprised. 15% of me had a feeling it was going to be her because she had that moment where her life was coming together, she had found love and she was all happy. You know how it is in films; the character finds silver lining in life, happy and hopeful music plays in the background and, just as they are about to start their new life, they die. Anyway, Eris was totally into her rich lifestyle that it blindsided her when she found out that her mother had had an affair, resulting in her birth. Since her father wasn’t really her father, the two of them had to move to the lowest level of the Tower. She meets Mariel and she is totally different, challenging Eris and making her believe that things aren’t that bad. Eris struggles with the fact that she isn’t rich anymore, but she has Mariel to go to. Though, she does struggle with her feelings for Mariel and the two of them go at it one too many times. Turns out, Eris was NOT having an affair with Mr. Cole, Leda’s father. Mr. Cole was Eris’ real father. Cue dramatic music. However, he didn’t really want to see her again in order to save face, but he did pay her hush money that made her rich again. Mariel didn’t really appreciate that and it was their last fight of the night. What sucks is that, before Eris went up to the roof, she and Mariel were about to meet to make up. Everything was turning around for her and then she had to plummet off of the roof. It really sucks, but now it seems as if Mariel is taking the place of Eris’ chapters in the upcoming sequel as this book ends with Mariel’s POV at the end with her also revealing that she knows the truth about her death. Things are going to get really interesting.

Rylin Meyers

I really enjoyed Rylin’s chapters. It’s just her and her younger sister Chrissa. Their parents died and Rylin is no longer at school, working to keep paying the bills. It’s hard, though. She is behind on her rent and she is in serious debt with the bank. It’d be easier to work with her boyfriend Hiral and his drug-selling friends. But, that’s not what makes her comfortable. Eventually, she takes a job at Cord’s party, cleaning for a good sum of money. At the party, she and Cord immediately grow close and share a kiss, causing Rylin to slap him. Even after that, she can’t stay away from him. Admittedly, it is pretty shitty of Rylin to be kissing Cord and hanging out with him when she has a boyfriend. Then again, her boyfriend is shitty anyway. She has a connection with Cord and it becomes complicated when she steals some of his meds - Spokes. She hates hiding the secret and when her boyfriend goes to jail because of his connection with drugs, she is forced to steal more Spokes in order to get his bail money. When Rylin wants to break up with Hiral, he threatens to tell the police about Rylin’s involvement with drugs. Although Rylin claims that Hiral isn’t like that, I wouldn’t put it against him to backstab her. I didn’t really like him. Cord does find out about the stolen Spokes and forbids her from coming back to his place ever again, refusing to talk to her. This is where Eris comes in. At a party, Rylin tries to find Cord so she can talk to him. She sees him with Eris and freaks out, but Eris tries to go after her so Cord can have her back, since he is in love with her. She goes up to the roof, Eris follows and...you know how it ends. I’m pretty sure that Rylin, because of Eris’ death, will be hesitant to get near Cord in the sequel. Which sucks.

Watt Bakradi

Watt is a total tech nerd and a total lawbreaker. He is super smart and ended up creating, basically, a super computer named Nadia in his brain that can tell him and hack into everything. This is how he makes his money, too. He’ll do illegal jobs for people and will never get caught. He even uses Nadia to talk to girls. In a nanosecond, Nadia will have a person’s information right in front of Watt so he can never miss a beat in conversation. It’s kind of creepy. He uses this to attract Avery, but slows down with Nadia because he grows to really like Avery. She is gorgeous and really nice to him, but he can sense that she has other things on her mind when she is with him. Not only that, but he is getting paid by Leda to spy on Atlas and to watch his every move. It’s obviously awkward. He gets invited to a gala and he and Avery actually have a wonderful time. When Avery whisks him back to her place, things look to be speeding up until she sends him home without an explanation. This irritates Watt and he vows to stay away from her and the “rich” people. However, things take a nasty and interesting turn. Nadia shows him footage from Atlas’ room, showing him and Avery doing...stuff. Obviously, he is grossed out. I don’t know if he is going to use this against Avery because Leda knows, too. He still isn’t happy with her in the end of the book, but Leda holds the Nadia secret in her hands, able to send him to jail for life. Interesting web we have here.

Avery Fuller

Avery is the perfect girl. She was made to be perfect and it’s very irritating to her. She wants to be normal and she’s also in love with her adopted brother. She knows it’s impossible for them to be together, but her feelings are way too strong. It doesn’t help that her best friend is Leda, who also has feelings for Atlas. Most of the beginning of Avery’s story is based around her feelings for Atlas. It takes a new turn when she learns that Leda and Atlas have had sex and that she likes him. She obviously can’t tell Leda her secret, so she has to watch from afar. After a party, both of the siblings are drunk on the roof. However, Atlas makes the first move and kisses her. Not long after that night, the two of them finally express their feelings and are now...kind of in a relationship? They obviously have to hide it from everyone, especially their parents. They even made plans to move away to a tech-free zone so nobody could find them and they could live and love freely. The party at the end was meant to be a going away party without anybody knowing. Now, because of Eris’ death and because Leda knows their secret, there’s no way they are leaving. I know Atlas is not blood related, so I don’t know how to feel about this relationship. He came into the family when he was seven and, apparently, Avery has loved him for nearly that long. I guess it’s okay? I don’t know.

This book was mind-blowing and the only time I put it down was to fall asleep last night. So many secrets and bombshells! Every page is filled with something that will have you glued to your seat. I’m picking up my ARC immediately so I can find out what happens next. And, I promise that one will be spoiler-free.

My Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Goodreads

#the thousandth floor #Katharine mcgee #books #book review #reading

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