#len's thoughts

[jonahsbf]

crumpets out here making such good ocs for their listeners, and then there's me, just imagining my actual irl self as the listener of my fav characters ...... ("—ᴗ—)

[jonahsbf]

YAYAYAYAYYSYSYSYSYAYYSYXGSYAYAYAYYSYSA

[M4A Audio RP] Tipsy Boyfriend Can't Stop Teasing You

Happy Holidays! Enjoy your time with a tipsy Jonah who might allow liquid courage to confess some sincere truths.

[starchaserwrites]

metalhead guitar player latino james who grew up listening to reggaeton and goes viral for adding guitar riffs to some old school songs.

pretentious classical pianist regulus who pretends he can't stand urban music but has spent hours scrolling through james' videos.

send tweet.

[rockafstw]

so ur telling me that ayrton senna in the early 80s put photos of alain prost up in his childhood bedroom in brazil and these photos stayed there for over a decade, despite the Intense rivalry that developed between them later, and then it was only after senna’s death, after the funeral, that prost was invited to the family home and stood in senna’s old bedroom and saw these photos of himself on the wall? and i am supposed to just go about as normal with the knowledge of this?

[anzuhan]

[jonahsbf]

all the people saying jonah .... (¬､¬)

i think i might get flamed for this, but zaros is going to have to go ("—ᴗ—)

not true actually

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Just so y'all know, if you as a fanfic writer come up with something, and another fanfic writer coincidentally comes up with the same thing... That is not plagiarism. That is a hive mind, and it happens a lot. A lot. And you do not have the right to make someone "credit you" for an idea that they came up with, just because it's similar to yours. By the way.

[730kc]

Destroying Pandora

Kaito has finally found Pandora, but in order to destroy it, he must exchange one of the following

Magic: his talent, penchant, and dexterity for magic will be taken from him-- for the rest of his life, he will no longer be able to perform any of the magic that he had so loved.

Memories: no one will know or remember him, as Kuroba Kaito and/or as Kaitou Kid. Any evidence of his existence will have been erased. He will have to bear the pain of being forgotten and unknown-- even to his close friends and family. Perhaps, he will even begin to lose his sense of self.

Mortality: he will have five years to live--- but he won't remember that he ever chose this option. After this, he'll live life the way he wants to, without the burden of knowing his choice, until the day his time runs out.

have fun...! 🤗 and if you're willing... please explain why! I'd love to know :3

[coldflasher]

okay but re. that post about elseworlds!barry realizing that oliver woke up in bed with iris... if we coldflashed this, i feel that crossover event would have gone VERY differently because you're not telling me that leonard snart wouldn't have realized there was something wrong the second he woke up in bed with oliver queen

like picture this: you're leonard snart. you have years of trauma, hypervigilance, and experience surviving dangerous men (and, ultimately, being one). and you fall asleep next to barry, the man you love---who, don't get me wrong, IS dangerous, but is in most situations seemingly unaware of it; who appears nonthreatening and harmless unless riled, who, most of the time, just seems like a sweet and normal guy---and you wake up next to... something else. something that looks like barry, and sounds like barry... if you aren't paying attention.

this is a thing that walks without making a sound, like it has years of experience sneaking around and moves that way by default (like len does); it turns into a statue at the slightest sound and doesn't even seem to breathe. barry is always crackling with frenetic, fidgety energy, even when he sleeps; he has nightmares and thrashes until the covers are bunched up around him, but this thing slept stiff as a board, flat on its back without moving a muscle and barely wrinkled the sheets. this thing is wary, and quiet, and it moves like a killer, with a killer's instincts. and it's looking around their bedroom like it's never seen this room in its life

and len would KNOW.

[jonahsbf]

jonah, alex, xanthus, andrew, isaac, i'll get u out of prison, i promise ....

What did they go to prison for? / ZSakuVA characters

did i miss anyone?

@xzhdjsj @belladonnadawn @kieran-rhoades @peppymintdreams @xxminxrq @dollsprincesa @xxluneilaxxaus @penelopesbaby @shelllyy

[jonahsbf]

thinking about xanthus 24/7

[thewhizzyhead]

how genderbending the warriors (2024) is done not for the sole sake of "bad-assery"

okay here we go feminist ramble time for our newest chick on the block: warriors. now i'll be honest, prior to listening to the album, when i first heard that the warriors main girls were originally dudes in the movie and the novel, i thought that the decision for the genderbending, in lmm's perspective, were from the following: 1.) girl power move in like a very basic meaning of the word "bad-ass" 2.) simply a twist on a cult movie about big gang bros loved by the film bros, and 3.) a way to have the schuyler sisters back together gjfkdfldf

but when i read more about warriors and its development and how lmm took inspiration from the gamergate controversies of 2014-2015 aka among the peak of gamerbro misogyny campaigns, that's when i realized that Oh Shit Is Serious - because adapting a story about a group being framed and targeted and harassed for something they are accused of doing without any substantial proof other than a man screaming "THE WARRIORS SHOT CYYYYRUUS" with 21st century misogyny campaigns in mind makes the theme of fighting back a lot more complicated and a lot more resonant, going beyond just marketing a cast you can call "badass"

take the hurricanes' quiet girls, for example. the hurricanes (concept album version) is the only gang that lets the warriors off the hook and with a stern warning: quiet girls don't make it home. here, the hurricanes berate the warriors for not saying shit or attempting to defend themselves from accusations they know well aren't true. THIS MESSAGE IN PARTICULAR is what stays and influences ajax, fox, and swan til the very end of their stories.

literally one song after this does ajax show how easily she resonated with the hurricanes' lesson by finally sticking with her gut and actually choosing to fight back against both the baseball furies AND against the sleazy undercover cop. the latter encounter is one of the instances that really solidifies the recontextualization of the story because in the OG movie, ajax (a dude) WAS the sleazy fuck up harassing a woman in a park - and now with the literal character switch, ajax goes from being just a rebellious gangbro dude bro into someone whose want to fight is warranted. such a want to fight is seen in fox seeing as fox is the first to comment on the quiet girls scene and that, in the concept album, she is the one that instigates the rumble against the police in union square - saying that she is sick of being afraid of them and their 'fuckin powder blue' colors (also notice how she is the only warrior that really does say fuck the cops i think that's cool BUT I'LL TALK ABOUT FOX MORE NEXT TIME)

to a less obvious extent, swan also gets the receiving end of this recurring theme - by the album's finale, the usually violence-averse caution-first interim leader becomes a lot fiercer in protecting her crew. but perhaps among what i consider to be the biggest recontextualized change in the feminist sense is MERCY and her motivations to join the warriors in the first place. according to the wiki, her attraction to swan and the warriors and um seeing the orphans as wimps is what led her to switch sides BUT IN THE CONCEPT ALBUM, mercy's motivation to become a warrior is deepened, rooted in admiration rather than attraction - wanting to be like those women who hold their head up high. and again, we see this in Sick of Runnin' when she takes part in the rumble, finding her bravery within their ranks as they fight back. here, mercy becomes less of a swan tagalong and more of someone that wants what the warriors have: pride.

of course now that i type this out i realize that warriors is not based solely on the feminist rhetoric as with their theme of hope amidst adversity, the story is more intersectional and rooted in community struggle and wanting for more than that. but nonetheless, i genuinely believe that the twt filmbros arguments on why the genders should not have been changed in the first place just for "woke" points is kinda like,,,very shortsighted because not only does the narrative of women narrowly escaping unwarranted accusations actually fucking fit, but the act of learning to fight back amidst all odds - be it that of disbelieving, predatory men or the power of oppressive pigs - stays resonant for women yesterday, today, and the days to come.

ultimately, warriors (2024) is not solely a tale of female badassery - rather, it is a tale of the need for such "female badassery" in the face of past and present realities, which is why it somehow fucking worked.

[mayordea]

BADDEST ENDEST NIGHTEST

[jonahsbf]

i kind of desperately need to know what happened with us and isaac once vic left ("—ᴗ—)

MINX ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: slight vic x reader (pickel), suggestive, likely takes place sometime before Isaac's final audio, mentions of asriel, direct mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, dancing(?).

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

"The sight of you leaves me weak

There are no words left to speak

But if you feel like I feel..."

Your voice trails off, and a soft hum takes its place, a melody that belongs more to the room than to you. The sunlight has shifted, slanting through the tall windows and scattering patterns across the worn Persian rug. Dust motes dance in the air, caught in a celestial waltz as the rhythm of the music stirs something deep within you. The duster slips from your hand, landing on the desk with a faint thud, forgotten like the rest of the world in this moment of quiet abandon.

The twirl comes naturally, as if your body is answering the call of some invisible conductor. The hem of your skirt flutters like a petal caught in the breeze, and the office—Isaac’s domain—feels momentarily yours. The books, the maps, the small carved owl perched on a shelf as if guarding secrets—they all seem to watch, silent witnesses to your unspoken reverie.

And then there’s the chair. His chair. Sturdy and unyielding, a contrast to the man who occupies it. Isaac is a paradox—precise yet unpredictable, stoic yet brimming with an undercurrent of something raw and untamed. The scent of him lingers here, mingling with the ancient aroma of leather-bound books and the faint smokiness of extinguished candles. It’s a scent you’ve come to associate with comfort and distance, warmth and walls.

“Make sure everything’s perfect,” he had said this morning, his voice sharp but his meaning opaque. Perfect for what? Or for whom? You wonder again, your thoughts weaving through the labyrinth of his words, searching for meaning. Perfection—it’s a word that carries the weight of centuries, the impossible aspiration of philosophers and poets. Does it even exist, or is it just a shadow cast by our longing for something greater than ourselves?

"Please let me know that it’s real

You’re too good to be true

Can’t take my eyes off of you..."

The music shifts, swelling into a crescendo, and your steps falter. You catch yourself on the edge of the desk, your fingertips brushing the cool, polished surface. Your gaze drifts to the globe atop the cabinet, its surface worn smooth in places, the continents blurred by time and touch. How many hands have spun it, how many dreams projected onto its faded map? You think of Isaac, his fingers tracing its surface absentmindedly as he ponders his unknowable thoughts. Does he dream of far-off lands or of mastering the one he already inhabits?

The door creaks open, breaking the spell. You straighten abruptly, your heart leaping as Isaac steps into the room. His presence is a force, filling the space without effort. He pauses, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—the forgotten duster, the soft strains of the music, the faint flush on your cheeks.

“You’re still here,” he says, his voice low, as if he’s caught between surprise and something unspoken.

“You told me to finish,” you reply, the words slipping out too quickly, as though they could cover the vulnerability of being caught in your moment of freedom.

He steps further into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His gaze shifts, settling briefly on the chair, the desk, the faint swirl of dust still hanging in the air. “It looks... different,” he says, his tone neutral but his expression thoughtful.

You glance at Isaac, standing near the doorway, his arms crossed as he watches you with an expression that’s impossible to read. To break the moment—or perhaps to prolong it—you smile, the corners of your lips lifting in a gesture as natural as breathing. The music shifts, the familiar chorus swelling, and with a playful twinkle in your eye, you turn the duster upside down, gripping its handle like a microphone.

“I love you, baby,

And if it's quite alright,

I need you, baby,

To warm the lonely night,

I love you, baby,

Trust in me when I say…”

The words spill out with playful abandon, your voice lilting and carefree. You sway to the rhythm, letting the melody guide your movements, twirling in place as though the room itself were your audience. The hem of your skirt catches the light as it flares, your bare feet gliding over the polished wooden floor. For a moment, you lose yourself entirely in the song, in the sheer joy of the moment.

Isaac’s sharp gaze softens as he watches you, his usual stoicism giving way to something unguarded, something almost tender. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, as if afraid that even the slightest sound might break whatever fragile magic hangs in the air.

You finish the verse with a flourish, holding the imaginary microphone out toward him as if inviting him to join in. “Your turn,” you say with a grin, the teasing in your voice clear.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. “I don’t sing,” he says, but his tone lacks its usual edge, and the faintest smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Everyone sings,” you counter, stepping closer, emboldened by the softness in his demeanor. “Just not always out loud.”

A sharp knock at the manor’s grand entrance echoes through the halls, shattering the fragile stillness. It reverberates off the high ceilings and polished walls, reaching the room where you stand like the final toll of a distant bell. You freeze for a moment, the duster still in your hand, as the warmth of the shared moment dissipates like smoke. You mourn its loss silently, your hand hovering over the record player as the music continues its quiet serenade. Finally, with a steadying breath, you lower the needle and let silence claim the space.

Isaac is already moving. His steps are measured but brisk, his figure disappearing through the arched doorway without a glance back. The faint sound of his footsteps fades, leaving you alone in the quiet room.

A pull of curiosity stirs within you, unbidden but insistent. Isaac’s vague words earlier—“It’s none of your concern”—circle in your mind like a bird searching for a perch. Yet the tone in his voice, the tension in his frame, suggested otherwise. Whoever was at the door wasn’t just any guest.

You place the duster aside, your feet carrying you almost of their own volition toward the kitchen. It’s a safe vantage point, one where you can observe without being seen. As you reach the shadowed doorway, you glimpse the scene unfolding in the entryway.

The grand door, carved with intricate scrollwork, stands open to reveal the figure of a man. Vic.

 ──

You can almost feel the weight of Vic's gaze pressing against your skin as you lower the drinks onto the small table beside the couch. The silver platter is cool against your arm, tucked there as a shield, though it offers little protection. You straighten slowly, your movements deliberate, careful not to make a sound that might draw further attention. The air in the study feels heavier than the ornate curtains that hang at the windows, dense with words spoken and unspoken alike.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been paying complete attention to the conversation—an intentional oversight. The tone between the two men has been taut, laced with a tension so palpable that your instinct was to blend into the background, to become invisible. And yet, Vic’s presence seems to resist such anonymity, his gaze a force that refuses to let you fade.

He sits relaxed in the chair opposite Isaac, his posture deceptively casual, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. Despite his apparent ease, there’s a sharpness to him—a predator’s patience. His hands cradle the tumbler of amber liquid you’d just placed before him, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the silence as he swirls it absently.

Isaac, in contrast, is a study in control. His back is straight, his shoulders squared, but there’s a stiffness to his movements, a deliberate restraint that feels as if it might snap at any moment. He leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands clasped tightly together.

“I didn’t come here for games, Vic,” Isaac says, his voice low, measured, though the edge in it is unmistakable.

The conversation between Isaac and Vic had been sharp, almost clipped, but you had stopped paying attention, caught in the strange pulse of the room, the undercurrent of something unspoken that hummed beneath the words. And just as suddenly as Isaac had started to rise and leave the room, you felt your pulse quicken, the realization that you were now alone with Vic pulling you into the present, a little too quickly.

You glance toward the door Isaac had just exited through, your mind racing for a moment before you shake it off, focusing instead on the man sitting across from you.

Vic, with his smooth confidence and unsettling gaze, notices immediately. “Not to worry,” he says with an easy grin, his voice low and almost teasing. “He’ll be back soon.”

You offer a quiet nod, a soft hum slipping past your lips, but you can feel the tension, thick and palpable, settling between you. He’s studying you, and you can’t quite tell if it’s with genuine interest or the kind of detached amusement that comes from knowing you have the power to unsettle someone without lifting a finger.

With deliberate slowness, Vic reaches for the glass of whiskey you’d placed before him. His fingers brush the crystal, the light catching in the amber liquid as he brings it to his lips, savoring the movement as though every second of it is an indulgence.

When he finally lowers the glass, his gaze doesn’t stray far from yours. There’s something dark in his eyes now, a spark of curiosity, maybe even a touch of something more dangerous.

“I’m somewhat surprised you’re still here,” Vic says, his voice dropping low, smooth like velvet, as if his words are meant to settle in your skin, make you feel them. He leans back in the chair, his posture languid, relaxed, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now—like a cat watching a mouse from the corner of the room.

His eyes never leave yours, and you feel that pull, as though he’s drawing you in with little more than the intensity of his gaze. The whiskey glass in his hand is a casual prop, but the way he holds it—fingers wrapped loosely around the stem—sends an entirely different message. Each subtle motion feels calculated, measured, yet entirely effortless.

There’s a dangerous kind of knowing in his expression, a glint that suggests he’s watching you just as closely as you’re watching him, maybe even more so. "I would have thought you’d slip away by now, when the tension’s thick," he says, his words a slow drawl, drawing out the syllables just a little too much. “But here you are... staying in the eye of the storm.”

The soft clink of the glass as he takes another sip lingers between you both, and you feel the weight of it, how heavy the silence becomes once he lowers the glass. He leans forward, just slightly, the movement so fluid it could have been scripted. His eyes flick to your lips for a moment before returning to your eyes, the action so quick, so fleeting, you wonder if you imagined it.

“I wonder,” he continues, his voice barely more than a murmur now, “what keeps you here. Curiosity? Or maybe something else.” His smile is sharp, suggesting more than he says, and you can feel the heat of his words before they even reach you. It’s a light tease, almost playful, but there’s a deeper undercurrent to it—a suggestion, a challenge buried in the half-light of the room.

You shift slightly, uncomfortable under his gaze, and yet, a part of you can’t seem to look away. The question hangs there, unanswered, as he watches you with that half-smile, knowing that the silence is just as much a part of the game as the words. He’s waiting for you to react, to say something, but your lips stay sealed.

Vic watches, amusement flickering in his eyes, before he takes another slow sip from his glass. His gaze flickers once more, lingering on the curve of your neck, your shoulders, his eyes tracing you as though he’s memorizing every detail. When he speaks again, the words seem almost too casual, too effortless, but there’s something deeper, darker beneath the surface.

“Funny,” he muses, his voice still that low, teasing cadence. “Most people would have run by now, would have found an excuse to leave when the game’s no longer in their favor.” He pauses, letting the words sink in, then leans back again, eyes never leaving you. “But you... You’re still here. And I have to wonder why that is.”

There’s a teasing lilt to his tone, but also something far more predatory, like a hunter circling its prey, testing the waters before the real move is made. His eyes flicker over you once more, assessing, as if trying to gauge the depth of your silence, the depth of your thoughts.

The air in the room seems to close in around you, thick with something unspoken, an invisible thread that pulls tighter with every glance, every breath, every slow word he lets slip from between his lips. 

The weight of Vic’s gaze is undeniable. It’s as though he’s slowly peeling away the layers of you, studying every detail, the silent tension between you thickening with each passing second. His eyes—dark, unfathomable—seem to wrap themselves around you, pulling you in, making you feel exposed in a way that’s both thrilling and unsettling.

Then, without warning, his voice slices through the quiet, the question hanging in the air like a charged wire.

“Have you two had sex yet?”

The words land like a shock, the weight of them hitting you just a beat too late. At first, you don’t fully process what he’s asking, the question sitting there, suspended, as if your mind can’t quite catch up with the force of it.

A sudden rush surges through you—a heat that spreads through your chest, up your neck, and ignites your skin. You feel your heart skip a beat, a flare of panic shooting through your chest. The air feels thick, heavier now, the room closing in around you as the question lingers, waiting for a response you aren’t sure you want to give.

You part your lips, your body instinctively recoiling from the boldness of his question, yet your throat feels tight, unwilling to speak, yet forced to answer. “No—No, not yet?” The words come out uneven, clipped, as if your body can’t quite catch up with the rhythm of your thoughts.

Vic’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens, his gaze sharpening as he leans forward ever so slightly, as though savoring your discomfort. The tension between you thickens, and he watches you with a mix of amusement and something darker that edges the corners of his expression.

“Yet?” he repeats, his voice low and teasing, the word hanging between you, practically daring you to justify it. "You plan on having sex with Isaac?"

The question hits you again, the weight of it pressing down on you, but this time you’re more aware of how he’s looking at you. His gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. It’s a game to him—this little dance of words, this push and pull—and you’re already caught in it, trapped between wanting to flee and being drawn deeper into the web he’s weaving.

“That’s—That’s not what I meant!” you stammer, your voice rising a bit more than you’d intended, a nervous laugh slipping from your lips as you try to dismiss the question, but his smile only widens at your discomfort.

He tilts his head slightly, that playful glint never leaving his eyes, as if he finds the whole thing utterly entertaining. "Oh?" He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically against his whiskey glass, never breaking eye contact. "Then what did you mean, darling?" The term of endearment slips from his lips so casually, so effortlessly, that it feels almost mocking, as if he’s daring you to explain yourself, to offer more than what you’ve said.

The room seems to get warmer, the air thicker with each passing moment. You feel your chest tighten, and the space between you both feels charged—almost electric. He’s not just asking questions anymore. He’s drawing you out, pushing you into a corner, all while maintaining that smooth, confident ease that makes it feel like you’re the one who’s overreacting.

You open your mouth to try and correct yourself, but no words come. Instead, the silence stretches between you, heavy and thick, and you realize that Vic is content to let it sit there, watching you squirm.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Vic says, his voice a velvet drawl, the teasing edge sharpening now, “do you think Isaac’s the type of man to leave things… unfinished?” His words are slow, deliberate, as though he’s savoring each syllable. “Or is he the kind to tie up all the loose ends… in his own way?”

The way he says it, so casually, with that flirtatious tone beneath it, sends a shiver down your spine. There’s something so disarmingly confident in his voice, in his posture. You wonder how much of this is just a game to him and how much he actually enjoys watching you unravel, just a little, with every word.

He suddenly stands from his seat, walking towards you. Vic’s presence looms over you, and the heat between you both intensifies with each word he speaks. He senses the way your body reacts—how you tense when he gets too close, how your breath hitches when his gaze lingers too long. And he’s enjoying every moment of it, like a predator savoring its prey, watching you squirm under the weight of his attention.

“Still so quiet,” Vic muses, his voice low and smooth, like a velvet caress that sends a shiver down your spine. He takes a step closer, the space between you narrowing, and you feel his gaze trail over you, examining you like you’re a piece of art he can’t quite figure out. His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and the intensity of it all leaves you breathless.

He reaches out, casually brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers grazing the side of your cheek with just enough pressure to make your pulse race. The touch is deceptively gentle, yet it carries with it an undeniable weight—a promise of something more. His hand lingers, just a second too long, and when he speaks again, his words are hushed, almost as if he’s whispering to you alone.

“I can feel it,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, thick with something you can’t quite place. “The tension between us. It’s almost... electric.” His fingers trace a slow, deliberate line along your jaw, a touch so light it almost feels like a ghost’s caress, but it lingers in the air between you like a spark that might ignite at any moment.

“Surely Isaac will give you away once he’s done with you, hm?” Vic murmurs, his voice a velvety whisper that sends a shiver crawling up your spine. His breath dances against the side of your neck, warm and intoxicating, and for a moment, you almost forget to breathe. His words leave an ache behind, a nagging question echoing in your mind. When Isaac’s done with you?

You stiffen, instinctively pulling back slightly, but Vic is faster, his grip tightening around your waist, just enough to hold you in place. His eyes, dark with mischief, lock onto yours, and you can see the way he’s enjoying this—enjoying seeing you squirm, seeing the way your composure falters under his teasing touch.

“You’re not really the type to be shared, are you?” he continues, his voice a mix of amusement and something else, something far more dangerous. “I’ve always thought you had a certain... depth to you. So serious, so careful. But I’m starting to think that beneath all that control, there’s a little spark of rebellion.” He leans in just a little more, the air between you crackling, and his lips brush the softest touch against your ear, making your breath catch in your throat. “Tell me, are you the type to be let go of so easily? Just handed over to someone else when they’re done playing with yo—”

Isaac’s voice cuts through the air like a sharp knife, the command so powerful it makes you flinch, your body instinctively recoiling. "Vic. Off. Now," he says, the authority in his tone leaving no room for argument. His eyes snap to yours, and for a moment, it’s like the entire world narrows down to just the two of you, your heartbeat suddenly thunderous in your chest.

Vic freezes, his hand lingering on the air where it had just touched your waist, but he doesn’t immediately pull away. Instead, his lips curl into a mischievous smile, clearly amused by Isaac’s sudden shift in tone. He glances at Isaac, then back at you, his eyes flickering with that same playful intensity, as if he’s enjoying every second of the dynamic unfolding before him. 

Isaac’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes a step forward, his presence immediately shifting the energy in the room. “I said, off, Vic," he repeats, his voice no longer laced with the usual calm detachment, but edged with something sharper. The change is subtle, but it’s enough to make Vic’s smirk falter for just a fraction of a second.

Vic, ever the instigator, seems to savor the tension. He leans back slightly, his fingers trailing lazily down the edge of the chair as if he’s considering Isaac’s words, his eyes flicking between you and Isaac. He gives a small, exaggerated sigh, as if reluctantly conceding the point. "Alright, alright," he mutters with a shrug, his voice playful and almost sarcastic. 

“I’ll be sure to let Asriel know you both are—involved,” Vic had said, his voice dripping with implication, the inflection on the last word lingering in the air like a challenge. The subtle bite of his words tightens something in your chest, a knot of unease settling deep within. Without waiting for a response, he takes a deliberate step back, his eyes flicking briefly to Isaac as he moves toward the door.

Isaac’s expression hardens just a fraction, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face as Vic walks past him. The tension between the two men is palpable, their silent exchange speaking volumes more than the words themselves. Vic’s gaze lingers on Isaac for a moment longer, studying him with an intensity that feels almost predatory, as if he’s savoring the discomfort he’s just caused.

“Good day, Isaac,” Vic says with a casual smirk, his voice light, but the undercurrent of something darker is unmistakable. He pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time, his gaze lingering for just a beat too long, as if he’s trying to gauge something in your eyes—something he’s not yet satisfied with.

──

author's note: im craving a starbucks cake pop, specifically the pink one with white marble like sprinkles.

the song played at the beginning of the story is 'can't keep my eyes off of you' performed by frankie valli.

[goodsmellerart]

the Fangamer Fungrounds concessioners.. would you buy their burgurs and their fries

[hickeygender]

reblog for a bigger sample size of former angry, creative, and/or highly dramatic children