#or she'd use a pipe

[enthusiastic-nim]

Realized I hadn't drawn Vinyl and Walkman in months, so I decided to do a quicky piece with all of them!

[kianamaiart]

love the pilot but I read a comment which got me thinking about the question; “he’s never been able to use magic before” so has Aika been beating his shins with a lead pipe many times and just leaving him there?

LMAO FAIR QUESTION

she'd definitely threaten and chase him away to keep him from causing trouble. he became aika's team's problem after he discovered them so they reluctantly indulge in his theatrics to keep him from telling the world who they are (they work in secrecy).

she beat his shins in this time because 1. he blew up the side of their school and did real damage, 2. almost really hurt an innocent civilian (zira) and 3. didn't run away this time

[invoncible]

FAILSAFE ✧˚. 00 / PROLOGUE There's only a handful of people with the skillset to raise a gifted child.

knock, knock

Debbie stopped in her tracks. She just closed the door on a potential nanny who was, unsurprisingly, working for Cecil. Was he so desperate to keep tabs on her and her family that he would send these poor employees to wait at her door day in and day out?

She rolled her eyes as she turned around, walking back to the front entrance. He could send as many as he wanted. She wasn't going to budge—and she'd show him by sending away the next agent he put on her doorstep.

"Hi! I'm April Howsam, here for the nanny position?" The woman greeted cheerfully. "This is my aide, Y/N."

You peeked out from behind your mentor, offering a small wave and polite smile.

Debbie's tired eyes darted between you both but before she could put her foot down, April spoke up.

"Before we begin, you should know that Cecil sent us. Now, I wasn't supposed to tell you, but I think it's unacceptable to mislead a potential employer." April clutched her files close to her chest, her brows furrowing. "Especially one looking for someone to take care of their child."

Your gaze landed on Debbie's face, studying her shock with a hopeful heart. A moment of silence passed, but it wasn't uncomfortable or awkward, rather... like an understanding was being shared.

"Please come in." Debbie stepped back, her eyes holding onto a shred of suspicion but clearing the way for you and April to enter her home nonetheless.

You both smiled at her as you shuffled in, the scent of a clean home infiltrating your nostrils almost immediately. Everything was in place—pillows, rugs, art... It was clear Debbie ran her home diligently.

The door clicked shut behind you, Debbie joining you in the foyer. April handed her the file with your resumes.

"As you can see, I have extensive experience working with gifted children ranging from newborns to late teens." April explained as you rounded the corner.

Your eyes lit up upon seeing the baby in question; the cutest little grape-colored boy crawling on the ground. Your lips broke into a smile, mouthing a little hi! and fluttering your fingers in his direction.

He raised his head to look at you, tilting in confusion slightly before crouching lower to the floor like a lion cub about to pounce. He pushed himself up to his feet and returned his efforts to his excursion across the living room.

"So you know that Oliver is..."

"Half Thraxan, half Viltrumite." April answered. "I also know that Nolan Grayson is Oliver's father, and your son, Mark, is Oliver's half-brother."

"You've been thoroughly briefed, I see." Debbie's eyes lifted off the pages in front of her to glance at you and your mentor.

"Yes, we have," April turned to you with a warm smile, reaching an arm around your shoulder and bringing you into the conversation.

"And—I'm sorry, what's the purpose for both of you?" Debbie asked.

"Thraxans are known to grow quickly. I can foster Oliver's learning and mental abilities just fine, but he'll need someone younger who can keep up with him should he want to play outside, for example." April gestured to you. "Which is where Y/N comes in."

"Ah." Debbie's head tilted in acknowledgment, her lips pursing in thought.

"While I don't have the experience April does, my whole life has been centered around taking care of kids." You piped in, glancing at April for reassurance. She nodded kindly.

Debbie raised an eyebrow. "How old are you?"

"19." You answered quickly. Debbie's face fell just a smidge but you quickly continued, "Finished school at 16, spent the years since learning April's trade. You can rest assured I am well equipped to handle Oliver."

Confidence restored, if only a little bit, Debbie smiled. April waved to Oliver as he approached you.

"My philosophy on child-rearing is simple. Encourage a child's natural curiosity," April bumped your shoulder, handing you a teething toy and nodding towards Oliver. "while giving him structure and a safe space to grow."

You swiftly caught up to him, gently holding onto his wrist before he pulled out a pair of scissors from the plant pot. He whined, but you dangled the toy in front of him as a peace offering.

"How about this one?" You hummed. He grabbed it without any fussing, ditching the scissors. You watched him waddle away with a small smile and handed the scissors back to Debbie.

"I also play a mean lullaby on the ukulele." April joked lightheartedly.

Debbie sighed, putting the scissors away at a safe height before dropping onto the couch. "I appreciate your honesty. I just don't want a GDA agent in my house running interference for Cecil on how to raise Oliver."

"There's only a handful of people in the world with my skillset." April flattened her hand over her chest emphatically. "And I'm choosy with who I pass those skills onto. This allows me and my mentee freedom from government oversight. We work for you, Ms. Grayson. Not Cecil."

"You're the boss." You emphasized. Your attention was drawn to Oliver who was sat at Debbie's feet, toying with the teething ring.

"Mama boss." He chirped, twisting to look at her. Debbie instantly smiled, scooping him up in her arms.

"See? Oliver knows who's in charge." April's eyes closed as she laughed brightly, leaning back slightly in her chair. You couldn't help but go awwww at the endearing sight. You had worked with many kids over the last three years, but none as young as Oliver yet.

Debbie smiled, a low sigh passing through her lips. "Let's do it."

[]

Debbie left you both to your devices, deciding to take a meeting with her company to see how she could integrate her way back into her full-time schedule. She still kept a close eye on you, setting up on the kitchen island while she took calls.

"Alright." April cooed, pulling the coffee table out of the way to free up more open space in the living room. "What do you say we assess your abilities, Oliver?"

He babbled happily and April chuckled sweetly as she pulled out her checklist and notepad.

You sensed a break in Debbie's meetings, getting up and strolling into the kitchen area. "Do you mind if I grab a glass of water?"

"Oh, not at all. Help yourself." She smiled over her computer, fingers clacking away at her keyboard.

You thanked her, opening the fridge and pouring a glass. The fridge door swayed shut, revealing Debbie on the other side. You jumped slightly at her sudden appearance, eyes snapping to where she was just sitting.

"You're the same age as my son, you know." She began.

"Yes," You answered smoothly, refilling the pitcher and shelving it back in the fridge. "Mark Grayson. Invincible's a pretty big name right now."

"Ugh, I know." She groaned, a bitter glare focused on the floor.

You cast her a quizzical look before she quickly shook her head of her frown, clarifying, "I'm so happy for Mark, really. But I just worry sometimes. He's working so hard, and Cecil doesn't make it any easier for him—"

You laugh softly, calming her ranting to a stop. "Oh, believe me. I get it. Cecil doesn't make anything easy for anyone."

She smiled appreciatively. "It's so... refreshing to have people I can talk to about all of this, even the GDA."

The Graysons were a popular name at the GDA, what with Omni-man's betrayal, Mark's penchant for attracting the worst kinds of enemies, and now the new baby. You were well aware of Debbie's situation, her burden—it was one of the reasons you jumped at the offer for this case.

"Like April said, we don't work for the GDA and we have a wide skill set." You leaned against the countertop beside her. "Whatever counseling you need, or if you just need to vent, I'll listen. Nothing leaves this house."

She paused, considering your words. Debbie was smart. Even smarter to be naturally distrusting of anyone who is a part of her or her sons' lives. You and April were convincing enough, though, to make her lower her guard just a little bit.

"Yeah." She whispered, eyes creasing with a genuine smile. "I'd... I'd like that. I tried something and... it didn't really work out." Her face drooped, her waterline growing glossy as she recounted trying her luck with the support group.

Her moment of reminiscing shattered when her phone buzzed. "Uh... another time. Rain check?" She chuckled, rounding back to her station and answering the call.

"Of course." You smiled politely when she met your eyes, sipping from your glass.

You wondered how long it would take them to find out you're lying through your teeth.

[]

Mark wanted to drop dead after spending hours trying to do the exact opposite. But no—he negotiated with Cecil for a few days off so he could spend time with Amber. He wasn't going to crash when he had to prepare for their date tomorrow. He wouldn't forgive himself if he slept in.

Dusting off his sweater and pants as he flew back home, he quietly slipped in the back of the house. It was dark, as expected. His mom was usually asleep during this time, Oliver included on a good day.

It seemed to be a good day.

He wiped his shoes on the mat at his feet, trudging into the kitchen for a quick snack before bed. He had to be up early if he wanted to beat the crowds at the Comic Convention.

He froze when he heard Oliver's sniffles. His head twitched to the side, tuning out the low buzz of the fridge to listen in. He heard a voice—light and sweet, comforting, but most definitely not his mother's.

Panic snaked its way around his heart and tugged, his breath short as he bolted up the stairs. He stood tensely in the hallway, peering into his mother's room to see her untouched bed.

His brows furrowed as he burst into Oliver's room. "Oliver—?"

You and Oliver both flinched at the sudden intrusion, staring up at Mark with saucers for eyes. Oliver giggled happily, reaching out for his brother.

Mark lunged forward. Not to embrace his brother, no—his hand curled around your throat instead, driving you into the wall behind you.

You gasped sharply, eyes screwing shut as the force knocked the wind from your lungs. You clawed at his arm, feet kicking helplessly with nothing to stand on. "Wait—"

He hovered over your squirming body mercilessly, squeezing to watch you splutter.

"Who are you?"

© invoncible

[ddejavvu]

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

request: The BAU going to interview a witness in the hospital, only whenever Spencer is in the room, or speaks to reader in his soft voice, or touches them, their heart monitor starts beeping extremely loudly. Much to the amusement of the rest of the team. And to your sheer mortification. Spencer hypothesises maybe he looks like the unsub, poor guy has to get explained to him why he's wrong for once. And why they all keep sending him in to talk to you ;)

"Guys, I don't think I should go in there." Spencer's face is pinched in a concerned frown, and his teammates eye him with the same worry.

Derek claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder, "Why not, Reid? You're the only one she'll talk to."

"I think it's because she's afraid of me," Spencer admits, shoulders hunched uncomfortably inwards, "I think she's only talking because she's worried I'll hurt her, or something. I must look like the unsub."

"You think she's afraid of you?" Rossi questions, a paper cup of coffee in his hands that is entirely too empty for him to be having this conversation, "Reid, I don't think that's true."

Spencer presses onwards undeterred, shaking his head, sending his curls flying, "Every time I go in there I make her nervous. Her heart monitor starts going haywire, like she's having a flashback or something. I mean, one time I put my hand on her arm and the nurses flocked into the room because they thought the medication they'd given her was causing a seizure. I think I must remind her of the unsub somehow, and we can use that in the profile, but I don't want to keep tormenting her."

There's far too many seconds of prolonged, awkward silence. The team glances at Reid, at each other, at the floor, anything that will keep them from having to open their mouths. Eventually, Hotch steps into his role as leader, and moves through the cramped hallway towards Spencer's nervous, guilt-ridden trame.

"Reid, she's not nervous because you look like the unsub. She- squirms, and stutters, and you're the only one she'll talk to about what happened to her. If she were really negatively affected by your presence, she'd ask us not to send you in anymore. But she practically looks disappointed whenever anyone else tries talking to her. I don't think her heart rate increases because she's afraid of you."

Spencer's silent, his brows creased in thought, but perhaps even his genius brain can't parse this one out in a timely manner. Emily pipes up, "Reid, she's got a crush on you. And if that's what it takes to get this guy, then that's what we'll have to use. You're kind to her, and she's receptive to that. Now it doesn't matter the reason, but you can at least take solace in the fact that she's not afraid of you, okay? Not at all. That's why you have to go back in there, because you make her feel safe."

"No, I- I don't think that's what it is." Spencer's cheeks warm, pinkening beneath the hallway's fluorescent lighting, "I don't think she'd be able to form that sort of connection so soon after experiencing such a traumatic experience."

"That's exactly why she likes you," Derek insists, "You saved her. You swooped in and carried her to safety and now you're her knight in shining armor. And even if she won't feel this way forever, she feels it now, and you're the one she wants to talk to. You're the one that makes her feel safe. So go in there, and make her feel comfortable enough to help us catch this guy. Okay?"

Spencer's mouth tightens in a displeased frown for just a second, "I don't think you guys are right. I- I think it's something else. But I'll talk to her again."

"That's all we're asking." Hotch nods, pushing his shoulder gently towards the door of your room, "Now, go in there, and work your magic, Reid. We need more details."

Spencer turns the doorknob to your room with clammy hands, and finds you sleeping inside. He debates whether or not he should back out and let you rest, but for every minute he delays, their unsub walks free. He presses onwards, and the soft click of the door shutting behind him is enough to rouse your frayed nerves from sleep.

You jolt awake, eyes flying wide open and hands clenching the bedsheets like they're weapons you could use. Your eyes lock onto Spencer, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you stare at him like he'll attack you. But you drink in the curve of his nose, the puff of his lips, the messy ringlets of honey-colored hair that fall around his face, and your breathing evens out.

Your heart monitor, though, does not. Reid watches as your heartbeat stays frantic, and he moves slowly towards a chair by your bed in hopes of not spooking you any further.

"Hi, Dr. Reid." You murmur, your voice soft as you settle back against your pillow, "Is there any news on the investigation?"

"No, nothing new." Spencer admits, watching as you turn to face him. You angle your body entirely towards him, and you even scoot your head a centimeter closer on your pillow. Your face twists in displeasure at Spencer's admission, but you don't move away.

"Oh." You lay your cheek in your palm, "Did you want to talk to me more? I told you everything I know."

"I believe you." Spencer nods, "But l'm here to coach you through a memory exercise. You can stay laying down, but- take my hands?"

There's a slight blip in your heart rate, a missing beat where there should have been two. Then it kicks back up wilder than ever, and you take the hands Spencer's offering to you.

"Close your eyes," Spencer instructs, his own flitting towards your heart monitor where it beeps wildly.

"Think back to when he moved you. What sort of terrain was it? Did he go over any hills? Did it smell like animals?"

You squeeze Spencer's hands, nervous, and he squeezes yours back, "Just- remember, I'm here with you, l'll be here with you the whole time." You breathe deeply, and nestle closer to Spencer on the bed. Your hands are sweating in his own, which is a symptom Spencer knows all too well. You're leaning into him, begging for contact as you angle yourself towards him like a flower to the sun, and your heart rate steadily beeps at a mildly concerning level. Spencer keeps his voice steady as he leads you through the memory retrieval exercise, but nothing convinces him more that his team was correct than when it's over, and your eyes snap open, wildly, desperately searching for him.

"I'm here." Spencer hums comfortingly, and he knows that you're taking solace in him when you squeeze his hands, keeping him close instead of letting him go.

[k3n-dyll]

♱Sinful Deeds

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; 18+, wlw, fem!reader, lots of religious themes, internalized homophobia, religious guilt, sex in a church, cheating, blasphemy, reader's husband is an ass, dom!Abby, sub!reader, inexperienced!reader (with women), oral(r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), spit, corruption (?)

𝐖𝐂 - 3k

𝐊𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ☆ Read the content warnings, if it's not your thing just scroll ♡ . Also can't lie, I rushed the end a little I'm sorry I need to clear my drafts.

Priest!Abby who worked hard all her life to get where she is. Under her father's encouragement, she's made a good name for herself within a small community in this town. Despite setbacks, of course. To be ordained a priest, and to be a young woman is to be criticized - she'd known that from the beginning. Many people consider her a fraud. Consider her a disgrace amongst the church. Initially, her ordination damn near started a riot in front of the very chapel she preaches in.

That, she figured, would be the worst of it. The defamatory statements and the nasty rumors spread about her character and her morals; many families that had originally attended the church back when her father ran it either reluctantly accepted her or left the congregation entirely.

She had her days, of course. Where the rude comments and the disrespect nearly got to her. Nearly caused her to drop any semblance of professionalism within her body and let herself get angry. But with her trust in God and her strength of faith - all of the bitterly uttered words about her, the vitriol thrown her way - it slid right off of her like water off of a ducks feathered back.

If you were to ever ask her, she'd say that her real problems began with you. The day you had walked into the chapel in the midst of her sermon which was - ironically enough - pertaining to marriage, and sat down with your husband in the very back pew so as not to disturb anyone with your tardiness. It's almost shameful how vividly she remembers the dress you'd worn that day; a pretty, pale yellow number that stopped just above your ankles. The color combined so beautifully with your skin and brought out your eyes even from her place up front, the pleats of the modest dress flowing around your legs with each quiet step you'd taken. She'd been so tempted to take her speech elsewhere to get a better look at you. Tempted to stray from her stance behind the pulpit just to stare at you up close.

Temptation. The issue you had brought with your presence alone. Abby couldn't blame you, of course, she'd been dealing with these urges since she was a teenager and well...she's not perfect by any means. She's had her fair share of one-night stands and flings - a much looser version of herself that she normally keeps well hidden from the members of her church.

She'd been damn near giddy when she finally got the chance to speak to you once the service was over, only to find herself disappointed again at the way your husband seemed to interject himself into any conversation she attempted to start with you.

"Hello..." She said, a small smile plastered on her lips. Despite the way she had trained herself to speak to every person in the church with a similar, if not the same amount of intrigue and attention, her eyes never once left you as she spoke. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting either of you before?" You nodded, offering a polite smile back to her, but before you could even open your mouth to say something, your husband had piped up, introducing himself first, and then you as his wife.

Over time, Abby began to notice that it's a quite common behavior for your husband - the man often using your learned timidity as an opportunity to speak over you at every turn. And he often gets his way.

She'd seen it before. In the church, it's a tale as old as time; a man on a power trip marries a young woman who's likely been taught how to be a good and 'proper' wife from the moment she was born - quiet, submissive, a pretty doll that he can have on his arm but never actually have to listen to.

Priest!Abby who, after giving her sermons, preaching to others about self-control, and willing themselves against sin - finds herself with her hand stuffed down her boxers late at night in her bed, thick fingers curled deep into her pussy, a small, pink bullet pulsating in the other against her clit, touching herself to the thought of you. You're so sweet, and quiet, and delicate... and breakable. The image of you beneath her naked, writhing and panting underneath her touch is so clear in her mind, the blonde practically whimpering as she cums at the thought of your pretty body being so overwhelmed with pleasure that you shake and twitch at the lightest brush of her fingers.

She figured she'd never have you. As much as she craved it, as much as she wanted to trail her hands along your bare curves, Abby knew well in her mind that you would stay loyal and dedicated to the man you married. Still, the day you come to her alone with the intent to confess, excitement wells up in in her at the potential opportunity.

Saturday afternoons for Abby were generally the same, spending her time sitting on the other side of the partition in the small confession booth and listening to the perceived wrongdoings of those in her congregation. Most of the time she doesn't remember. She doesn't even put in the effort to recognize the voices of those she advises, as figuring out who committed what sin and who didn't isn't really what she's here for, but the moment she hears your voice - that soft, melodic tone of yours that she's fantasized about for weeks on end - she can't seem to help herself.

You aren't used to this kind of thing - it's never gotten this bad to the point where you feel you need to confess...but you can only run from your own mind so much. The silence is deafening as you settle yourself into the booth, and it only serves to make you more nervous. You can hear the subtle sound of Abby's breathing, the rhythmic thumping of your own heart pumping. Shakily, you sign the cross over your body, nipping at the very tip of your thumbnail before you speak.

"Forgive me...for I have sinned" you murmur. "This...this is my first confession."

You speak a lot more than you had originally intended, spilling your guts to the woman on the other side of the screen, the somewhat private setting making it easier for you to let go of everything you'd been suppressing. Abby's almost shocked to hear about your struggles with your urges. Your desires to be with someone that isn't your husband. With someone that isn't even a man in the first place. Years of training herself is the only thing that stops her from showing her irritation at the way you deem these things deeply immoral as well as, selfishly, her elation at the idea that she may have a chance.

Abby is silent for a moment after you finish speaking, letting herself sit with her thoughts, trying and failing not to allow her own greedy desires consume her mind though unbeknownst to her, her quiet only causes the pit of dread in your stomach to swell. It's when she clears her throat that you tense up even more, preparing yourself to be scolded, or worse, kicked out. You've seen it happen before - people shunned and shamed for so much as thinking of the same sex in that way.

"You aren't in any trouble child, calm down." She says finally and you realize you've been tapping your nails rhythmically against the wooden wall. Though she can't see you, you nod and stop, transferring the little assault to your thigh.

Abby knows full well that she should just wrap this up. She should give you something to do - tell you to say a prayer, to beg Christ for mercy on your soul in hopes that these 'immoral' thoughts stop weighing on you, but Abby of all people knows that it doesn't work that way. Not with this.

Before Abby can stop herself, she's already asked you up to her office, shocked by the lack of resistance to her request. Closing the door behind her, she stands, eyeing your frame as you take a seat in front of her desk. She can practically see the anxiety seeping through your pores - the constant tapping at your leg, the shifting in your spot. Without much thought, she walks over and places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently to calm you down.

"This isn't something I typically do." She starts. "I honestly probably shouldn't be doing this right now at all, but I do think we need to talk. No judgment, no barriers, okay?"

You nod but your body is still rigid, the warmth of her large palm on your shoulder is almost enough to send tingles through your body, guilt swarming in your gut at the unconscious reaction.

"I could just send you on your way. I could tell you to repent and beg and plead with God to make you better but..." Abby sighs, removing her hand from your shoulder to stand at her desk, leaning up against it to face you as she tries to think of ways to word what she wants to say. "...I don't want to lie to you."

"Lie to me?" You ask, dumbfounded, to which Abby just chuckles quietly. She knows what the Bible says is law to you, and to hear a priest refute that in any way is likely confusing.

"What I'm saying is: this isn't something that can be prayed away. No matter how badly you may want it to be, it simply isn't."

You shake your head at her words, finding it ridiculous. Or at least you want to, but deep down you know she's right. You've tried praying more than enough times to know that it will end in nothing changing. Still, you're stubborn.

"But my husband. I-I love him"

"Do you?"

"I-" The lie dies in the back of your throat. The fact that you can't bring yourself to answer confidently, or at all for that matter is all the confirmation Abby needs. A beat of silence passes before Abby says anything else, giving you time to sit in your lack of certainty before moving on.

"That's not to say I don't have a...solution in mind" As she speaks, she inches close until she's standing directly in front of you, forcing you to crane your neck to look up at her towering frame above your seated one. Your senses suddenly feel foggy, the scent of pine and musk filling your nose, your eyes unable to focus anywhere but on the stretched fabric outlining her biceps and torso. You could swear she wears a uniform that size just to show off. You blink a few times in a failed attempt to snap yourself out of it.

"I thought you said there was no way to fix it"

Abby's eyes darken, a soft chuckle escaping her at your words. "No. It can't be 'fixed', honey. Desires like that don't just go away... but they can be satiated. Temporarily at least." Gently, she catches your chin between her thumb and forefinger to keep you looking at her.

"I'm...I'm married, it wouldn't be right. I can't do that to him.." You start in half-hearted protest, the implication of her words clear. Your eyes shift to the side, though you make no move to pull away.

"He isn't a factor right now. My focus is you" The pad of her thumb lightly grazes against your lower lip. "Look, I won't push you. If that's not something you want to do, I understand, but really, how long do you think you can keep pretending, hm ? How long until you break?"

Your eyes flutter as she leans closer, the sensation of her warm breath on your skin sending shivers through your spine.

"I've been so...good at pretending..." Your voice is little more than a whisper, melting into her touch despite the alarms going off in your mind. You push it back. "I don't think I can do it anymore..."

"Oh, baby I know..."

It's only a split second between the words leaving her mouth and her lips pressing against yours, her strong palms cupping your cheeks. Though her hands are rough to the touch her hold on you is gentle. Reverent, even. Her fingers ghosting along your skin as if you're a precious jewel she's afraid to shatter. It's slow, yet overwhelming - her kisses tracing a path from your lips to your neck, from neck to collarbone. You feel her begin to massage your thighs, kneading them over the fabric of your dress before getting impatient and slipping them just underneath it.

You should be disgusted with yourself. Disgusted with her. With this. But the ungodly, hungry way at which she kisses and nips at your flesh only brings on an excitement within you that feels almost wild. Like something that had been leashed and caged within you was finally let free. You should pray. But instead of clasping together your hands begin to weave into Abby's hair, gripping and tugging at it to keep her close. The priestess whines at the sensation and you swear her knees buckle. That or her will is hanging by an invisible thread because she sinks to her knees in front of you.

"Let me taste you.." She breathes out, her gaze shifting from your face to your thighs, her hands still rubbing at them, slowly inching the skirt of your dress up further.

You think to hesitate but your body may as well be on autopilot, the mere thought of having her head between them enough to slowly pry your legs open without much coaxing. It'd be embarrassing if Abby didn't seem just as desperate as you.

Her hand slips between your thighs the second they're apart, a thick finger trailing along your slit just over your panties, the wet spot that's formed there amusing to her.

"See what I do to you?" She asks, a small, cocky smirk playing at her lips. "He could never get you like this, we both know it"

All you can do is give a pathetic nod and an even more pitiful whine as Abby teases you, her face inching closer until she's nosing your clothed clit, vivid blues unblinking as she takes in your reaction.

"Please, Abby..." You plea needily, voice cracking despite your attempts to sound stable.

She's merciful to you, wasting no time or words in pushing your panties to the side, parting her lips to allow her mouth to water freely, the coolness of her saliva sliding along your slit sending a jolt of electricity through your senses. Her fingers are first, the blonde collecting the slick mixture of spit and arousal to coat the two of the digits and carefully pushing them inside before she flicks her tongue teasingly against your clit.

Maybe you should feel guilt for this - unashamedly allowing a member of the clergy of all people, to defile you in such a way in a holy place. Throwing your head back, clasping your hands against the armrests of your seat, moaning and whining obnoxiously under the corruption of her tongue. Maybe you would feel guilty. If only it didn't feel so fucking good.

A loving deity would not deprive you of this feeling, at least that's how you justify it in your head as you cry out for more, eyes screwed shut as previously suppressed vulgarities spill past your lips.

"Abby, fuck, just like that - please!" Your cries are loud, tone little less than whorish in nature. "F-feels so fucking good, oh God"

Abby chuckles against you at that, but she doesn't speak. While the irony of you calling out for God amuses her somewhat, she can't tease. She can barely bring herself to pull away from you, her mouth and chin covered, glistening with your wetness, fingers ruthlessly sloshing in and out of your fluttering walls. You're like a drug to her in this moment. Something to be desired. Worshipped.

She finds her free hand stuffed down her slacks, her own core throbbing with need as she admires the pornographic image of your body writhing before her. The low vibrations that come from Abby's muffled moans only send you that much closer to the edge. Only that much closer to the release your body has practically been begging for and yet could never receive at the hands of your husband.

When your thighs clamp against her head, her jaw worn and slightly pained, she doesn't let up even a little bit, lapping at you with her tongue as if watching you unravel was critical to her existence. It just might be with how intently she stares up at you, not letting a drop of your cum escape her mouth as you finally let go, fingers still slipping in and out of you in languid motions. Abby's completely disregarded her own need in place of your own, her hand stilled in her boxers, something she only realizes when you begin to calm down.

"You didn't-" You start to question her, pushing golden strands away from her freckled face with your hand when you notice.

"It's okay, baby" She interrupts, her words coming as a pleased murmur. "This wasn't about me"

You shake your head a little, but before you can protest she's pulled you toward her, her pink puffed lips catching your own in a messy kiss, strings of saliva and cum breaking between your mouths with each breath taken. You let it happen for a while. It's oddly...comfortable. A sense of warmth calming your body in a way it hasn't in a long time before this.

As if on cue, a loud, grating tune breaks the illusion. The sound of a phone ringing. Your phone.

The 4 missed calls from your husband stare reality back into you both and utter dread sends that all too familiar chill through your bones once again.

Donations 4 Palestine - TLOU2 Masterlist

Taglist ; @half-of-a-gay, @porcelainmystery , @tohoko, @rkivedpages, @misfits-army-van,

@andersonfilms,

[spacedace]

I've seen the concept of Jason being adopted by various people other than Bruce while he was still a little tire stealing Crime Ally kid a few times, but I've yet to see anyone put forth the idea of Duke and his family taking him in.

Like, depending on the continuity Jason and Duke are only like 4 or 5 years apart in age, and we know for a fact that Duke was a terrifyingly brilliant kid already shaping up to be able to take down the Riddler in a battle of wits at the age of 9. Now throw in protective older brother Jason into that mix who didn't think twice about trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile and then try and hit Batman with a damn tire iron when he was caught.

Just imagine how terrifying it would be with the two of them growing up constantly feeding each other's unhinged Fight God and the Devil in a Waffle House Parking Lot at 3am and Win energy. Imagine the chaos they would cause. The terror they would strike into the hearts of their enemies- all before Duke ever even gor his powers.

They would be unstoppable. Just a pair of two of the smartest motherfuckers you've ever met who know they're smarter than you, and the only thing sharper than their minds are their vicious verbal take downs.

Also I just have the imagine in my head of Doug Thomas, half asleep early one Saturday morning stumbling into the kitchen after following the smell of breakfast to see his 8 year old son happily stuffing the most delicious looking pancakes imaginable into his mouth. Blinking in confusion as he realizes it's not his beloved wife cooking but some scrawny kid in worn out clothes, covered in engine grease and bruises manning the stove like a seasoned line cook - complete with the most foul mouthed swearing even Doug, a construction worker, has ever heard in his life and a cigarette tucked behind the kids ear.

And Doug has a moment where he's just staring, full on Who's Goddamn White Baby is That? when Duke pipes up to explain:

"This is Jason! I caught him trying to steal your catalytic converter this morning. His mom's dead and his dad is a deadbeat so he's gonna stay with us now!"

And oh. Well. Shit. He knows that look in his son's eye. Knows he's already lost the fight before it evan began. It looks like it's theirs. It's their god damn white baby now.

He's gonna have to call Elaine.

(Elaine, for her part, goes through the full range of human emotions when she gets home to realize that the boy Duke has decided they're adopting is the Todd boy Elaine has been trying to track down for months now.

She's Jason's social worker, not that she's been able to really do her job and help him when he's managed to stay under the radar of every single vaguely responsible adult in a ten mile radius. The one time he had been picked up by one of the few decent cops in the city and Elaine thought she was going to be able to finally finally help him, Jason had managed to climb out of a window of the precinct bathroom and disappear into the night.

He'd managed to steal the hubcaps of six different patrol vehicles while he was at it. Just to rub it in that there was nothing they could do to stop him.

Point was, the kid has been her damn white whale for almost a year. And now she walks into her home after a maddening unhelpful phone call with Doug about needing paperwork to adopt a child only to find the boy she'd spent so long looking for teaching Duke how to take apart and reassemble their toaster in the living room.

She isn't sure if she wants to laugh or cry.

She is sure that there's no way she's going to be able to convince Duke that they can't just adopt his new friend, not when she can tell that both boys have already gotten attached to each other in the scarce few hours they've known one other. Or when her husband is just sitting there eating delicious pancakes with such resignation in his eyes.)

[elysiality]

WISH YOU WERE HERE ! [ TAPE 1 ] ☾ jackie.

꒰ (e.) cryo /ˈkɹʌɪ.əʊ/. — involving or producing cold, especially extreme cold. ꒱

Jackie loved you. she really, really did. but she couldn't claim to be ecstatic when you started crying every time she brought her future up.

DARLING, I SHOULD TELL YOU. THIS TAPE CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT AND IS RATED R:

angst . slowburn. hurt, no comfort. omniscient dynamics. graphic descriptions of cannibalism n gore. dead dove, do not eat. sweet moments of bliss before a storm. canon compliant (so far).

5k words. no beta, we die like Laura Lee. (oh wait, this isn't A03)

· · ────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

TK-SHH. the sound of a woman's heavy breathing comes over the mic, crackly and nearly cacophonous. "Uh..." the hesitation in her soft voice is clear. the sound of buttons being pushed makes it through the screen. "Van, is this thing on?"

somebody, presumably Van, sighs and fiddles with some buttons. the audio quality is considerably better now. another woman clears her throat. "So... we're making a couple of tapes, to try to remember what happened to her. Back then." her voice is raspy but the catch in her voice is audible as she utters the last syllables.

there's a beat of silence and then another voice, eager and enthusiastic, pipes up. "Well, she was part of the Yellowjackets." there's a couple of 'duhs' and grumbles of 'can it, Misty'. Misty obliges without any objections.

Van clears her throat. "Uhm....she liked to hang out with all of us. In the woods, usually." she chuckles placidly.

"Jackie- Jackie hated the creepy-crawlies in there. But she would always go when she asked. No matter what. They- they were close. I think. Jackie and her. Jackie and her 'cinder'."

Jackie Taylor was perfect. perfect girl, perfect grades, perfect boyfriend, perfect life— that was her to a T. if you asked someone to define flawless, they'd probably point you in her direction.

and she maintained the image well. captain of the school’s star soccer team. prom queen. a best friend who bent over backwards to make her happy. it's all a teenage girl could dream for and more, right?

wrong. there was nothing more Jackie Taylor hated than being ‘perfect’. a doll in someone else's playhouse, an untouchable goddess whose smiles were bestowed upon everyone like gifts.

her future was set in stone. a script, written for her to play Barbie and Ken with Jeff, live a perfect demure life with frilled aprons, a huge family, to stay quiet and bury all her dreams, to waste her twenties scrubbing stains out of her husband's stiff-collared shirts while waiting for him to come home to his dingy apartment from his 9-5.

if she'd known that picking the pretty boy from the litter to be her boytoy would lead to this perdurable life, she would've just sucked it up and admitted that she liked girls, even if it meant her parents would boot her to the curb.

college was just something to pass time till Jeff put a ring on it, her parents would tell everyone. it's why they were sending her to Rutgers. a nice, sensible finishing school would've been better, of course, but their daughter needed a complete education at least (even if she would be holed up in a trashed living room for the next living years of her life).

she'd agree politely, letting honeyed words roll off her tongue, pretending that all her dreams of becoming a journalist, a professional soccer player, of being free were just tongue-in-cheek, ignoring the bitter aftertaste that came with them.

she longed to lash out, to scream at the world that she didn't want to be who they were forcing her to be, to sob her pain of not being understood by anyone, not even Shauna, who seemed to shut down every implication that Jackie’s life was anything less than perfect with a subtle laugh.

but let's be real. little miss perfect would never do anything that didn't fit others’ images of her.

that's why she liked you. why she admired you. why she loved you.

she knew how the other kids spoke of you. ‘mad as a march hare’, ‘off her rocker', ‘nutty as a fruitcake’ and a variety of other names too crass to repeat, even in her head.

how they'd avoid you when they saw you gliding down the halls, feet never making a sound, like a mouse. how she'd been warned several times by classmates to ‘stay away from the looney tunes girl’ whenever she was called for soccer practice.

how even coach looked at you like you were a ticking timebomb, liable to explode.

but she couldn't, for the life of her, understand where those misconceptions came from. she could never pin all those stupid rumours to a vision of you in her mind’s eye. ‘crazy’ sounded like an oxymoron next to your name.

if anything, you were a wallflower. an observer, not an instigator. quiet, taciturn, walking like you were on the most fragile of ice, always smelling like lavender and rain and something so faintly earthy, she couldn't put a name to it.

she used soccer as an excuse to get closer to you. she wasn't quite sure why you even joined the team. you were a star player, an ace up their sleeves for sure, but you didn't seem all that interested in kicking balls and getting all sweaty in soccer jerseys and whatnot.

you were popular among the team if not among the school, at least. everyone wanted a piece of you— which was both gratifying and incredibly annoying when Jackie just wanted you to herself.

she'd ask you to come with her to the new cafe downtown? you'd apologise and tell her that Lottie already asked you to go see her mother's new flower show.

she offered to lend a hand with the little thatch of flowers you were growing in your own little corner of the outskirts of town? Nat had already come around and pulled weeds with you the previous weekend.

getting you alone was a task akin to pulling teeth, but the reward was worth it.

she'd show up to the outskirts of town in her most comfortable clothes— usually some overalls and a loose shirt, sneakers already covered in mud (something that would've given her mother a heart attack had she not stowed them away in a shoebox under her bed), hair tied in a scrunchy, car coated in a fine inch of dust from not being used, and wait for you to show.

you didn't tell her where your house was, and she didn't ask.

it was just an unspoken rule— she'd camp around the edge of the woods surrounding Wiskayok and you'd show, copious amounts of flowers in your hands, a camera slung around your neck, inconspicuously handing her poppies and leading her by the hand into the heart of the wilderness you seemed to know so well.

she'd watch, enamoured, as you sang to the flowers around you, coaxed the creepers to grow, cajoled the skittish squirrels onto your arms and then petted their trembling heads. she'd never had a green thumb, Jackie, much to the woe of her pitiful mother, but she liked it on you. it suited you, the real you.

she'd often take these opportunities to articulate her miseries, venting her frustrations of being the perfect moldable doll to you, knowing that unlike the rest of the world, you'd listen.

sometimes, Jackie would wonder if you were the earth personified. she could think of no other explanation, no other reason why the woods would listen to you so well, why you seemed like such a wild child, why your presence felt like being cocooned in a warm blanket of magma and shrubbery, so nurturing, so unselfishly caring.

your penchant for getting reclusive baby animals to love you had earned you the affectionate nickname, ‘Cinder’. “Like Cinderella”, she had proclaimed to you proudly, resting her arm against the metal locker, strands of wispy auburn hair sticking to her chin.

you'd just snickered and accepted your new moniker with grace. it was another reason why she liked you. she could be herself around you. playful and warm and awkward like every other teen, not docile and obedient. not perfect.

you'd listen to her patiently, stroking your fingers along the tapered, paper-thin wings of the butterflies that perched on your fingertips, one ear tilted to her, the other tilted to the ground like you were trying to listen to it too.

and when it was all over, when she was shaking with rage and animosity towards everything, when her hands would go to clutch at the poppies in them and crush the petals just because she could, you'd look at her. really look at her. the eyes are a gateway to the soul, someone had once told her. if that was true, you may have seen hers— but she certainly couldn't see yours.

your eyes were always fogged over, distant. like you were staving off the thought of a place that wasn't here, like your heart was in a home completely detached from your body.

but there was always that piercing glint in them. that look that spoke a thousand, raucous words that rang in your ears only, but were hushed husks of whispers to her.

there was a knowing appearance to them— not pitying, just sad. full of empathy. like you were let in on secrets that she wasn't. for once, it brought solace to her. she wasn't sure she wanted to know what kept a gentle soul like you up at night— if you even slept.

“The frost will override the heat one day, Jackie.” you'd tell her ruefully, your typically steady hands shaking as you set a magpie down on the moss, watching it spread its wings to soar away, it's belly full of seed you'd just fed it from your pocket.

she snickered, nudging your arm with her elbow. “Uh-huh. And what's that supposed to mean?”

but you didn't elaborate. you never did.

this same statement was repeated to her several times, and each time she would question it and each time you would just…go mute, like you wanted to tell her but you couldn't— tugging at your hair nervously, plucking at your clothes like they were too tight on your body— so she'd just let it go.

the closest she got was that one time you convinced her to scale a tree. she was panting as she crawled up behind you, muttering a small ‘fuck’ as she noticed the small tear in her shorts— the hem had caught on a stray branch or whatever, clearly.

you were balanced precariously on the far end of a broad branch, shuffling what appeared to be a deck of cards in your hands, muttering something to yourself. that wasn't new.

she'd caught you talking to yourself in hushed voices many times, only to come to a terse stop everytime someone else came near you. she could only make out a few words each time and none made sense.

‘mother’ and ‘snow’ and something about grief that her brain had tuned out automatically— the cons of having mastered the ability to blank out basically everything.

and yes, she's aware that eavesdropping is a shameful crime, yada yada yada, but it doesn't technically count if you're spying on just one person, right?

as she settled herself against the less hazardous limb of the tree, you looked up at Jackie, your eyes fire in the cool morning air of a New Jersey sunday. her heart beat faster and she beat off the feelings with a stick. ‘She’s a girl', she told herself firmly. ‘And you have a boyfriend.’

“I'm going to try to tell you what I see today.” you had said urgently, face staid and earnest in perfect juxtaposition.

Jackie nodded just as dourly, though she was not ashamed to admit that she was suppressing titters. she doubted she could ever see what you saw— you were just wired different.

you saw colours where they didn't exist, people who were long gone, emotions as swirls and mists rather than something abstract. it sounded cool on paper, but even Jackie wasn't oblivious enough to ignore the haunted look in your eyes, the jittery cadence of your voice.

you shuffled the cards so rapidly, Jackie couldn't keep track. you held them out to her, your voice louder than usual, almost eager. “You're the querent, you have to draw.”

“The que- what now?” you ushered her in the direction of the cards. she shrugged and took off the top card.

“The Hierophant.” she drawled with an air of blitheness. she turned the card around and showed it to you. a priest, sitting in front of his disciples.

“That is who you are.” you told her. “It represents traditionalists, following the norms of society, accepting your fate without looking at new approaches.”

she winced internally. well, she couldn't argue with that. she didn't want this life. she didn't want that prom crown, she didn't want Jeff to be her king. she didn't want him as much as she wanted you, as much as she wanted Shauna. but she went with it, because it was the right thing to do.

“Lucky guess.” she murmured, realising only too late that you heard it. but you didn't bother to comment.

instead, you held out the deck again, taking her old card and placing it in between you two. “Take another one.”

she eyed the deck suspiciously. “How many do I have to take before this is over?”

“Six.”

she blinked, holding back a groan of agony, instead deferring gracefully, picking up another card and turning it around for you. “This one's upside down.” she commented descriptively. she'd always had an eye for details like that.

“Your past. Temperance Reversed.” you noted, placing it on one side of the center card. “Lack of balance, excess pressure. You're unable to fit the pieces of yourself together, because they were all made by other people, you're unwilling to change.”

Jackie’s stomach tightens. she’d always felt like that— a body with two left feet, with odd hands, limbs and organs that didn't belong to herself, clothes she didn't even like. it was like churning in a pressure cooker. being forced into beauty pageants as a child, being made to walk across hallways with books on her head like her home was some fucked up princess school.

she took another card silently, holding it up for you. you plucked it from her grip solemnly and placed it down on the other side of the center card.

“Your present. The two of Wands, reversed. You could break the cycle, you could break free. The leap is right there, but you're unwilling to make it. You're afraid of failure, of losing your safety, so you don't move on.”

Jackie shifted uncomfortably, her clothes suddenly feeling too stiff on her, too ragged. she knew you were right.

it was right there. the escape from her gilded cage. Rutgers may not have been the best school she could have gone to, but getting any education at all would mean that she could leave her home behind. find her own way.

but she didn't like the thought of having no warm fireplace to come back to, no love to fall back on, the prospect of working a long job just to barely afford rent.

another card.

“Your future. Seven of Cups. You will struggle to find meaning, you won't be able to reach for any possibilities, any hope. Without drastic change, your fate is sealed to be devoid of hope.”

Jackie scoffed playfully, but there was a clandestine hint of fear in her voice. she'd always been a skeptic, a non-believer. she went to church because her parents wanted her to, not because she actually found faith in God.

“A lot about change, huh?” she snorted, folding the edge of the future card that was placed in front of her. “Is someone going to come from the sky and pelt me with lightning bolts or something?”

you shot her a withering glare that paused her weak chuckles. “I don't believe in these cards as much as I believe in my intuition. I believe what they're insinuating, because I can feel it in my bones. You will strike yourself down if you're not careful, if you don't drop your attitude, if you don't change."

she sobered up immediately, assuming the expression one would have on the deathbed of a dear friend. she picks the next card with unnatural stiffness, offering it to you like she was presenting an award.

you examine it carefully. “Your obstacle. The Moon Reversed. Betrayal, confusion, misinterpretation, fear. Somebody will betray your trust when you need them the most, and you won't understand why.”

Jackie started, her eyes widening as you place it across the centre card. “Wait- who's gonna betray me?” you shrug. “I don't know.” something told her that you were fibbing. but like always, Jackie never asked.

she reclined again, stretching to reach for the final card.

“Your destination-”, you started off as she grasped the topmost card. “Death.” she finishes, staring at the card in trepidation. a pit suddenly formed in her stomach, boring holes into it.

she put it face down, like it was a bomb about to explode, gaping at it. there was an uneasiness that wasn't there before, and she didn't like it. she wasn't gonna be a superstitious idiot after shunning fallacy for so long.

“Inverted Death.” you correct. she looked up at you, startled. your voice was squeaky, wavery. “End without change. Rot. Decay.”

and you burst into tears.

Jackie immediately scrambles forward, her face etched with concern as she reached for you. the cards promptly fluttered to the ground, covered by the shrubbery. she didn't give a damn.

she realised pretty quickly that the branch was snapping far too low, bending under your combined weight, so she took your hand and practically hauled you to the sturdy limb, taking you in her aching arms.

growing up in a household where she was coddled and comforted for even tiny papercuts meant that she knew exactly what to do when the tears started.

she whispered words of affirmation in your ears, reassuring you over and over again that they were just ‘silly cards that should've been used for poker or something' and it wasn't real, that nothing would happen to her.

she couldn't even tell if she herself was at rest with her reading, but what did it matter, when you were sobbing into her shoulder like your heart was cracking, like a flood of sorrow had just emerged from somewhere deep rooted inside you and shown itself in such a raw way?

you seemed damn near inconsolable when the weeping started, but you stopped just as quickly, wiping frantically at your eyes, almost bashedly, like you were ashamed of displaying such lack of self control.

Jackie fished around for her handkerchief, the one engraved with her initials and handed it to you. you wiped your flushed face with shaky hands and stowed it away in your own pocket, mumbling a promise to have it back to her by Monday.

Jackie shook her head no. “Keep it.” she had told you. “It's yours now. Just a token. To tell you that I'm all right.”

you looked unconvinced, but thanked her anyway, enveloping her in a hug that lasted far too long, that had her drunk on your scent. the scent of the earth.

“Hey. Tell you what. Let's go down to that new diner that opened like two blocks from here.” she talked to you like one would a startled animal. "You didn't wanna go last week because of all the terribly-kept plants, but you might like it now..." something in her voice seemed to soothe you. your mask appeared again, the one that made you seem so reticent.

you smiled sweetly at her, nodding as a sniffle escaped you. “Only if you foot the bill.” you said slyly, taking her hand in yours. she rolled her eyes. “Gladly, freeloader.”

she helped you down the tree— your legs were trembling like leaves.

she started to walk off, leading you by the hand like it was a leash. a tight leash. but you tugged on her wrist. she turned around almost stiffly, like a plastic doll. she was more affected than she was letting on.

“Jackie.” you started off, your voice urgent, “I need you to promise me. That you'll be more aware- that- that you won't ignore what's right in front of you.”

she stared at you for a bit, and then laughed, like you were pulling her leg. “Oh c'mon, I know I can be a bit oblivious sometimes, but I'm not that bad.”

she tried to start walking again, but you didn't budge an inch, staying mired on the ground. “No, Jackie I'm serious. Promise me you'll change.”

change. there was that word again, that annoying word that crawled into her head like a parasite and rooted itself there.

“I promise.” she sighed after tarrying for a bit. “I'll try.” you hold out your pinky to her. childish, but the only bond you ever truly trusted. a bond that ran deeper than blood pacts.

she looked at your jutted pinky and silently sealed the promise. you finally uprooted yourself from the mud, watching as she turned around and started trampling her way through bushes.

you pretended to not notice her smile fade when her back was turned to you. she pretended not to see the look of distress in your eyes when she turned away.

and look, Jackie loved you. she really, really did. but she couldn't claim to be thrilled when you'd start crying every time she brought up her future.

when the private plane to nationals (courtesy of Mr. Richy Matthews) crashed, when she was jogged out of her peaceful sleep to the sounds of screams and what she had no doubt was her death knell, her eyes were drawn to you and to Shauna— who was unconscious.

her throat closed up in panic, her lungs wouldn't work properly. she knew Lottie would take care of you, she knew she wouldn't let you die. she had Shauna to deal with now.

she dragged Shauna out of the burning wreckage of the plane twice that day, both times with guilt in her stomach, the last time with tears in her eyes as Van screamed for help behind her, screamed to not be left alone with the burning bodies of her teammates and her own voice.

Shauna clattered on the ground like a sack of potatoes, cuts forming a mosaic on her face, but she was safe. Jackie's eyes darted around the carnage and the wreck, searching desperately for the figure she knew would be dressed in blue.

she spotted a blue blur out of the corner of her eye just as she was about to start screaming your name, and she caught you by the waist just as you jumped into her arms, toppling over.

her wobbly hands clutched at your shirt desperately, trying to make sure you were real. she pulled back, her eyes scanning the wounds littered on your face. “Are- are you hurt anywhere else? Do- do we need to-”

“Where's Van?” you cut her off, staring around the wreckage with wide, sparkling eyes. your eyes reflected the fire behind her right in her face and she shrank back automatically, the shame creeping over the relief she felt.

she rubbed her arms nervously, clambering to her feet. “I….she's…”

“You left her.” the words come out of your mouth so cold, so hostile that Jackie’s knees nearly cave in. her mind is wiped clean of all the multiple excuses she once used to maintain her perfect image.

the look you give her, the look of pure revulsion, so different from that warm gaze of yours— the one that made her feel on top of the world, makes bile rise in her throat. she clutches her stomach like she's trying to hold her innards in— or perhaps rip them out and give them to you.

you push the hand that's reached out to graze the edge of your loose shirt away, shooting her one last scowl before taking off— right towards the inferno burning at the plane.

“Cinder— wait !” Jackie starts to chase after you, but aciculur fingers tug at her shoulder, pulling her back. It's Lottie, looking oddly steely. her eyes gleam with something as she watches your retreating back, her arms locking Jackie to her place— adoration, maybe. Jackie knows where you're going. where you'll always go.

with Lottie practically pinning her against her body, preventing her from dashing to your side like a dame in a bloody letterman jacket, Jackie wriggled out of her grasp to check on an incredibly pissed Shauna. no matter. she knows Shauna, knows how she'll always forgive her, knows how she'll always be there, even if you're not.

sure enough, when she's trying to wheedle an acceptance to her apology out of Shauna, you show up— with Van in tow.

you're both covered in ash and soot, Van looks the worse for the wear— but you're still alive. that's a lot more than she could say for certain other people, she thinks, as she gawks at Coach’s body, lolling over a tree, dripping tiny droplets of blood like rain.

she catches Van's eye, then yours, and she knows she's not welcome. the harsh glares bore into her like a stake to the heart. she turns and walks away as Tai engulfs Van in a hug that lasts far too long to be friendly.

and thus grows the emotional rift between you two. the longing glances she shoots in your direction, only to be met with radio silence or often times, nothing at all. but you're not petty. you never were, and she knows and god, it makes it so much worse.

to know that you still stand up for her, still defend her indolence when she lazes around instead of helping with gruelling chores, still defuse the tension between her and the others, even though there's the hatchet that can never be buried in between you two.

losing Laura Lee was painful for everyone, but more so to you and Lottie. she was there, watching the plane fall just as quickly as it rose, watching you run out to the lake, Lottie following suit, watching as you dropped to your knees, Lottie screaming her heart out beside you. she padded into the frigid waters and held you to her chest, her heart beating in time with yours as you sobbed silently, each gulp of air a wheeze that probably rendered you blind with its fervidity.

you drank the soup with everyone else at Doomcoming. you watched her go off with Travis, your eyes all knowing, shining with a clarity that no other foggy eyes held. you locked her in the closet that night. not out of spite, but out of fear for her own safety. this hive was no longer hers to control, no longer looked up to her like she was their queen who hung the moon in the sky. and you knew better than most, like you always did.

she started to protest as you shoved her in, cans of stale food crashing to the ground as she gripped at the wooden shelves for support. “Stay here, Jackie!” you hissed, your voice unnaturally deep. the look in your eyes was…proud. confident. like you knew what you were meant to do, for once in your life.

Jackie wiped the dust off on her dress, starting to follow after you as you took long strides towards the door. but you whipped around, pushing her back in with a force that was practically inhumane. she stared at you, her mouth agape. “I'll come back for you, I swear!”, you seethed. she didn't miss the slight hint of rancour in your voice as you made the promise.

silently, she extended her pinky to you. the harsh shadows that had settled on your face seemed to clear, if only for a moment. you clamped your pinky around hers, locking eyes with her own clear hazel. then, you slammed the door shut behind you as she slid to the floor, curling in on herself.

but you didn't come back for her, did you? not when she needed you the most, not when she needed you to bring her back in from the cold. literally. when the inevitable fight with Shauna came, when years of hidden acrimony and malice surfaced, when feelings that had never been communicated to her— ugly, jealous feelings, came to light, she had no one.

she had fallen from her throne. no longer the untouchable goddess. no longer the high-horsed queen. in a setting where morality and traditionalist ideas didn't matter, Jackie had nothing going for her.

Shauna, with no qualms about the ‘eat or be eaten’ rule, with nothing holding her back, unloaded years of anger and scorn onto her, and everyone turned their backs on her. her, who held fast to civilized behaviour, she who refused to adapt as the situation required.

Jackie gathered up her pillows and blankets, marching to the door on feet that felt unnatural on her body, her eyes locked onto the pretty, soft hands that were useless, that no longer mattered in a callous life. everything she had known collapsed in on her. she had lost all meaning, all purpose, all will to live, to eat and to do anything that once mattered to her.

she turned back one last time, to make one last cutting remark at Shauna. but something stopped her. you were huddled by the fire, counting your fingers, dressed in a loose, thin-strapped black dress that was so far off from what you would've usually worn, Jackie wasn't even sure she was looking at the same person anymore.

but then again, it seemed she had never known any of these people, jammed together in a dilapidated cabin in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. it was the look in your eyes when you raised your head that stopped her cold.

your eyes glittered like gemstones, reflecting the firelight in a way that should've been impossible. instead of the warm atmosphere your gaze usually gave her, the butterflies, the red cheeks, Jackie felt like there were a million bugs crawling up her legs, binding her, suffocating her. you gave a fleeting glance towards the door and returned to counting your grimy fingers, like nothing ever happened. like her conceited self deserved her fate.

like you never even knew her. not the mask she put up, not the face behind it.

it crushed her. because fuck, it hurt. it hurt so bad, she didn't know it was possible for an ache so deep to exist after all the pain she had just suffered through. it gave her the courage she needed to walk out the door, to feed her own ego.

you didn't want her anymore? well fuck you. she didn't want you either. she wouldn't change. not for the world, which was always given to her on a silver platter, but had now rotted with her heart.

your last words to her rang in her ears, crept into her dying dream as her body grew colder and her soul grew warmer. “I'll come back for you, I swear.” you're reneging on your promise, just like she did on hers. eye for an eye, huh?

when Jackie woke the next morning, she was no longer herself. she was detached, more detached than she had ever been. she rose and her body did not follow. she couldn't say she was very surprised, staring at the white snow that coated everything, every surface, every treetop, even her own cold, cold body. so your damn tarot reading came true after all.

she wanted to see your reaction to finding her like that. blue-faced, but peaceful, more peaceful than she had ever been in life. and hey, she certainly left a pretty corpse behind for you to find, right? she blocked her ears against Shauna’s screams. they were too blood-curdling, too painful to hear, even if she had declared the brunette dead to her mere hours ago.

she had one priority and one priority only. her transcluent eyes scanned your impassive face. nothing. not a tear. just cold disinterest, like she had never mattered to you at all. all she could glean was a twitch of your lips and nothing more.

Jackie decided to stick around. somehow, she knew that there was no ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ waiting for her. she would be free when she chose to be. she hadn't panned out in life and she wouldn't move on in death. take that, reversed Temperance. she knew exactly who she was. a petulant, stubborn bitch who wouldn't let go.

over the course of the blazing winter, somehow, the darkest, murkiest parts of her had manifested into this twisted version of herself that communed with Shauna sometimes, mocking her and taunting her for the death that was, in Jackie's opinion, at least, entirely her own fault.

but she was pleased to know she was haunting someone, if not you. or maybe she was.

because after Tai found out that PTSD Shipman was playing dress up dolly with her two month old corpse and the spontaneous decision to cremate her was made, you stepped up just as Shauna was about to light the fire. you stooped down to her body and pressed a kiss on the forehead of the stinkin cadaver, before gently unhooking the necklace that rested on her bony collarbones.

you fastened it around your own neck, untangling the golden chain with an almost reverent hand, kissing the heart charm.

your eyes were closed, but she could feel the sorrow around you like an aura, emitting towards her in a way your feelings never had before. maybe she was having like a spiritual connection to you or something. cuz of the necklace. maybe she had haunted the necklace with like— her skin cells or something.

she had expected to feel some tie to her physical body post-humous cremation. some agony tantamount to being burned alive or something. but as she watched her former teammates rip into her perfectly cooked carcass, scarfing down chunks of her flesh like it was ambrosia, sucking her fingers like they were cornucopias and would leak nectar, she felt nothing. nada. not even disgust, let alone anything physical.

she supposed she didn't have anything corporeal to feel her pain with anymore. there goes her plan of being a vengeful ghost.

Jackie never really put herself in your shoes. she never saw what you saw. she loved you, but not enough to consume you. not like you did now. you weren't ravenous like the others, weren't giving into your baser instincts, despite being as emancipated as anyone else.

you took your time, running your fingers along smoked flesh, the curve of her hip, the trail of her face. no one else noticed or commented, lost in their gluttony. you picked carefully, sitting at the metaphorical head of the metaphorical table.

her feet, nearly burned to a crisp, a symbol of humility. her eyes, the gateway to her soul. her hands, the ones that had made so many promises with you over the years. her lips, the ones which you had grazed with your own on nights when she was too tired to lie to herself.

she felt those, even though she didn't. placebo effect or whatever, but she did. a pleasant burning in her eyes. featherlight fingertips over her feet. a warm press in her numb palms. a brush of plush, chapped lips on hers, reminiscent of a time when her future was still set for her, but not as bleak when she was still on top.

you looked straight at her and the hole where her heart should've been gave a feeble twang. a desire for what could've been. you've always been one to love like that. devouring her like an animal with all the softness of a human. when she looked at you, you looked right back at her. aware. always so aware.

so no, Jackie never really did understand you. but there, looking at your eyes, the only ones filled with tears at a table full of beasts as wild as yourself, but in your senses, so painfully aware, gave her an inkling that even if it was for just that small moment, she did.

a/n : ran into so many hiccups on the way but it's finally here ! this is part 1/10 ! find the main masterlist here.

TAGLIST: @beaucate @theoreticalfreak @f4riedimples @scatorcciosbabe @theworldscalamity

[trevuorzegras]

SOUTHERN CHARM 　QUINN HUGHES

　　　quinn hughes x fem!reader

SUMMARY 　quinn comes across a bartender who’s southern accent not only catches him off guard, but also catches his attention.

contains 　mild alcohol use (mentions of beer and bartending), poorly described bar scene, romantic tension, use of y/n.

　　THE NEON SIGN above ‘Y/n's Taproom’ buzzed gently in the stillness of the Michigan summer night. It’s red glow casting a soft haze across the sidewalk. The air was thick with humidity, but cool now that the sun had slipped behind the trees. Moths danced around the overhead streetlamps, and music was played from various surrounding places. It was the kind of night that clung to your skin and slowed everything down in the best way possible.

Inside the bar, the lighting was dim and golden, the walls bathed in flickers from string lights hung along the ceiling beams. A low sound of country music could be heard — Zach Bryan or maybe Tyler Childers, something simple and easy to listen to. The place smelled like aged wood, spilled beer, and faint citrus from the cleaner y/n used behind the counter.

Y/n moved like she belonged there — because she did. She was twenty-three, young to most people, but years ahead in experience. She wiped down a glass with the kind of steady focus that came from running a place with her own two hands for years. The bar was hers, through and through.

Every scratched barstool, every creaky hinge, every regular who knew better than to start drama on her watch. She did the books, stocked the shelves, repaired the pipes, and handled drunks without flinching. It wasn't glamorous, but it was hers — and that made it enough.

Her hair was pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck, though a few rebellious strands clung to her temples thanks to the lingering heat. She wore a faded tee, jeans, and a towel slung over her shoulder. Comfortable. Capable.

The door opened with a sharp chime, letting in a gust of lake scented air and a group of unfamiliar voices. Her eyes instinctively flicked to the entrance. Six men walked in, talking low, scanning the place like tourists unsure of where they'd landed. She didn't know them. And in a town like this, that meant something.

She kept her posture relaxed, but alert. Y/n knew her regulars by heart. These guys weren't from around here, and she didn't particularly care to add them to the roster.

The group tucked themselves into a booth in the back, half-shadowed by the flickering lights.

Y/n let her gaze linger just a second longer before looking away and turning back to the counter, her hands already moving to tidy up the bar out of habit.

She was halfway through wiping down the surface when one of the men stepped up to the bar. He looked to be about her age, maybe a couple years older — tall, with a kind face and wet hair that curled slightly at the edges.

His t-shirt clung to his shoulders in the heat, and there was a sunburn creeping across his nose.

He hesitated, then offered a small, unsure smile.

Y/n returned it with the kind of easy charm she'd perfected over years of serving beers and shutting down bad pickup lines. "What can I get for you?" she asked, her accent smooth and slow, still carrying the lilt of somewhere further south.

His eyes widened, just a little. Not in a rude way — more like she'd surprised him. He blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Uh, just six Coors, please."

She chuckled, her eyes crinkling. "Didn't expect the accent, huh?"

He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed but smiling. "Something like that."

She laughed again, the sound warm and effortless, and turned to the cooler. As she pulled out the beers, she could feel his gaze on her — not in a heavy, leering way, but curious. Interested.

When she set the six cans on the bar in front of him, he was still staring, like he hadn't meant to but didn't quite know how to stop.

She cleared her throat, raising an eyebrow with amusement. "Opened or closed?"

He blinked again, snapping out of it. "Uh — open."

She nodded, tapping on the screen. "Last name?"

"Hughes," he said, reaching into his back pocket and handing over his card.

She nodded, typing the name in and swiping the card with practiced ease. "Alright, Hughes," she said, pushing the beers towards him. "You boys behave back there."

Quinn — she caught the name on the card just before she had put it away — gave a half-smile and muttered something that sounded like a promise.

He walked the beers back to the booth, but his eyes lingered on her a beat too long.

The night carried on, slow and steady. Locals filtered in and out, some stopping to chat with her, others simply nodding on their way to their usual stools. But every so often, her gaze would drift to the booth in the back. And more often than not, Quinn was already looking at her.

It wasn't overt, wasn't desperate ��� just glances shared in the soft glow of hanging lights, in the brief silence between one song and the next.

When she laughed at something a regular said, he watched like he was trying to memorize the sound.

When he ran a hand through his hair, she noticed the way it curled at the ends, still damp from the lake or maybe a shower.

By midnight, the crowd had thinned, and the speaker played its last song — an old Tim Mcgraw tune that seemed to fill the quiet. Y/n wiped down the counter one last time, glancing over as Quinn rose from the booth and made his way back to the bar.

"You closing soon?" he asked, voice softer now.

"Couple minutes," she replied. "You need anything else?"

He hesitated, thumb tapping nervously on the wood. "Just one thing."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He smiled, a little crooked. "Your number. If that's alright."

Y/N leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, the ghost of a grin playing on her lips. "That depends, Hughes. You always this smooth with bartenders?"

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Only the ones with southern charm."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed. She grabbed a napkin, scribbled down her number, and slid it across the bar. "Don't make me regret that."

"I won't," he said, folding the napkin carefully before tucking it into his wallet. "Night, Y/n."

"Night, Quinn."

He walked out into the summer night, the door swinging shut behind him, letting in one last breath of lake air. And y/n just stood there for a moment, staring at the door like she wasn't quite ready to let it close.

NAVIGATION　　 ✶ 　　NHL MASTERLIST

© V A M P — plesse do not copy, repost, translate, or use my work without consent.

[formulafanfics13]

The Secret Girlfriend - Chapter 1

Masterlist

Disclaimer:

This fanfic will contain mature themes and topics (smut, abuse, power imbalance, drug use, alcohol dependency, control, and eating disorders). There will not be warnings throughout, so if you proceed with this fic, please bear this in mind!

The girl the world thinks they know

It always starts with the shoes. The paparazzi photos never catch her walking, only arriving. Louboutin heels like blades. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes still wearing the silver anklet she never takes off, like some quiet fuck-you to symmetry. In a world where women are taught to be nice and tidy and quiet, Lily James bleeds beautifully into the chaos. She is all hips and contradiction, all silk and sin. And everyone wants a piece.

By twenty-one, she's already more myth than model. A household name on a first-name basis, like Madonna or Cher or that bitch you can't stop hate-stalking at 3am. 

Lily. 

Just Lily. 

Vogue calls her "a generation-defining supermodel." Rolling Stone once referred to her as "the most dangerously intoxicating thing to happen to fashion since Kate Moss kissed a crack pipe." Someone printed that on a T-shirt. She wore it to a Marc Jacobs afterparty and smiled for the cameras.

She's everywhere and nowhere. The press call her "The Crown Jewel of Monaco" but she doesn't even show up to her own brand launches half the time. She doesn't need to. Just the rumour that she might be attending triples the value of whatever event it is. Her face is on every magazine. Her body is on every billboard. And yet... nobody really knows who the fuck Lily James is.

But the world pretends it does. And the world is obsessed.

It started when she was six. Her parents, colder than a Versace warehouse in February, stuck her in ballet classes, pageants, and perfectly posed childhood campaigns. She smiled because she was told to. It stuck. By twelve, she'd walked her first editorial. At sixteen, she signed a contract with Victoria's Secret that changed her life and burned her relationship with her parents to the ground. They never forgave her for showing skin. She never forgave them for trying to control it.

By seventeen, she had her own apartment in London. By eighteen, she was on her sixth Vogue cover. By nineteen, she was being called a fashion oracle — everything she wore sold out in three hours or less. Her lips, her voice, her waist, her Instagram captions — all studied, copied, dissected. No matter what she did, people couldn't look away.

And she knew it.

The first time she trended worldwide, it wasn't for a campaign. It was for bleeding down the Victoria's Secret runway. She had caught her heel on the top step of the stage, tumbled, and split both knees open. Blood ran down her legs as she finished the walk. She smiled. Blew a kiss. Took her wings off backstage and lit a cigarette before the medic even touched her. That photo, the cigarette, the blood, the glassy-eyed grin, became a tattoo on a fan's thigh in Australia. Lily reposted it with the caption: "bitch fell but didn't break."

That was the moment the world fell in love.

Her daily routine is religious.

No matter what city she's in, Milan, Paris, Tokyo, LA, Lily James wakes up before 7am, even if she went to sleep two hours earlier. Her alarm is the sound of a camera shutter. No joke. She thinks it's funny. She makes herself a bowl of strawberries and an espresso before moving through her tiny rituals: Roll her neck. Light a blunt. Swipe through her calendar. Smear gloss on her lips. Sip. Pose. Stretch. Exist.

She runs when the air still feels like night. Pilates if her knees are bruised from a shoot. She is disciplined to the point of delusion, but in a way that looks angelic from the outside. Her skin always glows. She eats constantly. Shovels fries into her mouth at shoots between outfit changes. Once ordered three cheeseburgers during Paris Fashion Week and posted the receipt online with the caption "leave my metabolism alone xoxo". People called her unfiltered. Lily called it Tuesday.

She vapes like it's oxygen, cherry ice, the metallic click of it is the backing track to her every move. She vapes before makeup. During fittings. On yachts. On red carpets, if no one's looking. She posts thirst traps in couture and captions them "fucked your dad last night" with no emojis. The world laughs. Screenshots. Reposts.

But underneath it? There's a calm to Lily James that nobody ever talks about. Like she's the eye of the storm and she knows it.

She rarely speaks in interviews unless it's live. She's polite but distant, soft-voiced, impossibly gracious. When asked about her success, she shrugs and thanks her team. When asked about her scandals, she bites her lip and says, "I think people confuse honesty with recklessness. I'm just not pretending."

People say she's calm. She is. They say she's soft. She is. But they forget that soft doesn't mean weak.

Lily James has survived cities. She's walked for brands that destroyed other girls. She's slept four hours in four days across five countries and still made it to the front row of the Dior show with eyelashes perfectly curled. Her nose is pierced. Her nipples are too. You can see them in her editorials, tasteful, shocking, iconic. She once posted a mirror selfie in nothing but an oversized jacket and wrote "modesty is a social construct". Anna Wintour laughed. Vogue reposted it.

She's adored in fashion. Protected like royalty. Domenico and Stefano send her gifts "just because." Kate Moss calls her "my chaos daughter." Marc Jacobs once cried backstage watching her walk. Anna Wintour has publicly said that Lily James is the only model who "knows exactly when to cause a scene, and when to sit down and drink her tea."

And yet... despite all that noise, no one knows where she sleeps at night. They don't know who she shares her life with. No one's ever seen her in the same frame as a man for longer than 0.3 seconds, unless it's Jude Bellingham, and everyone knows they broke up forever ago.

She posts pictures of sunsets. Countertops. Her perfectly manicured hands holding strawberries. Her hip bones in white lace. A glass of champagne in a blurry hotel hallway. Her ankle hanging over a balcony ledge. The edge of someone's arm. But never more than that.

They say she's a party girl. They say she's a muse. They say she's reckless, holy, iconic, spoiled, hardworking, wild, calm, vapid, brilliant, stunning, fake, and real.

They say she's everywhere. But she's not. She's just Lily James. And she's exactly where she wants to be.

The first time Lily James ever saw Lando Norris, he had whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

It was some rainy Thursday in London. She was seventeen, running late for a casting, ducking into a coffee shop with her hoodie pulled low and her heels slung over one shoulder like a weapon. The place was packed, buzzing with laptop people and oat milk warriors and someone loudly arguing over a screenplay in the corner. Not a single free table in sight. Except there was a boy. Curled into a chair by the window. Black hoodie, curls tucked under a cap, head down in a laptop. Quiet. Alone.

She walked right up and said, "You look like you hate people. Mind if I join?"

He didn't even glance up. Just gestured to the seat across from him and said, "Can't hate you more than I hate the rain."

And that was that.

They didn't speak much at first. She ordered an espresso and a croissant. He had a hot chocolate the size of a soup bowl and three screens open. She asked if he was a gamer. He said no. Just busy. Then they sat there, in mutual silence, occasionally glancing at each other between sips. When she left, she said, "See you never, mystery boy."

He smiled, barely but cheekily, and replied, "Hope not."

They didn't exchange names. Not that day.

They ran into each other again three weeks later in the same café. She slid into the seat opposite without asking. He looked up and said, "You're late."

She grinned. He blushed. It was over before it started.

For a whole year, they were just friends. The kind of friends who know too much. Who spend weekends on her couch eating takeout and watching horror movies even though she hates them. Who leave each other voice notes that start with "don't panic but I did something stupid". Who sleep in the same bed on nights when the world feels too loud.

He never flirted. Never touched her in the wrong way. Never looked at her like the rest of the world did. He just saw her. All of her. The messy parts. The tired parts. The versions she didn't post.

And she trusted him. Instantly. More than she'd trusted anyone in her entire fucking life.

At eighteen, she'd been dating Jude Bellingham, sweet, grounded, golden retriever energy and a perfect first boyfriend. They were good together. Safe. Lily loved him in the way you love sunshine, warm, uncomplicated, always welcome. But as her world got louder, the covers, the travel, the backstage breakdowns, something shifted. Not in a cruel way. Not in a messy way. 

Just... quietly.

One night, they sat side-by-side at a party in Ibiza, and Lily looked at Jude and realized she didn't feel anything in her chest anymore. Just gratitude. Familiarity. Friendship.

So she told him. And he smiled and nodded. Said he felt the same. They hugged for too long. Kissed one last time. And just let go. No drama. No tears. No Instagram story with a cryptic caption.

They were friends the next day. They still are. Jude likes Lando. Thinks he's weird, in a good way. Soft and solid. Just what she needs.

The apartment in London was another story. Lando was never home. The racing schedule was insane. He said his flat felt like a hotel room he never checked into. She said, "Why not just move in with me?" Casual. Like it was nothing.

He paused. Blinked. And said, "Okay."

Three weeks later, his things were in her guest room. Except he never really used it. Somehow he always ended up in her bed. Platonic at first. Two friends curled under silk sheets, knees brushing, sleep softening the world outside.

But proximity does dangerous things. And one morning, he kissed her shoulder before getting out of bed. She didn't say anything. Just watched him walk to the kitchen, her heart clawing at her ribs.

They didn't talk about it for days. Just let the tension simmer. And then one night, after too much wine and a movie they didn't finish, he kissed her properly. Slow. Gentle. Like she was fragile glass. Like he already knew how easily she broke.

She moaned into his mouth and whispered, "I've been waiting for that."

They bought the Monaco penthouse on a joke. She'd said, "Let's run away." He'd said, "Only if it has a sea view."

The place was white and soft and full of light. Papaya-orange cushions for him. Baby blue walls for her. Two living rooms, one for her photo shoots, one for his content. A kitchen neither of them used but that he cooked in anyway. A balcony she loved to dance on barefoot. A bed they never made.

It was theirs.

Their friend group is chaos and perfection. A collection of the hottest, most unbothered people on the planet, each with their own brand of feral.

Barbara Palvin: runway angel, emotional support system, Lily's go-to for shots and secrets.

Lila Moss: younger but terrifying. Lily calls her "my little demon in Prada."

Jude Bellingham: ex turned best friend, emotionally fluent, always making sure Lily eats.

Pablo Gavi: the wildcard, younger than everyone but somehow always the loudest. He once dared Lily to jump off her yacht in couture. She did it.

Lando Norris: the anchor. The one who balances it all. Who watches the madness from the corner with a drink in hand, always tracking Lily with his eyes like she might disappear if he looks away too long.

They travel together. Celebrate together. Sleep in the same bed in different combinations. Nothing is off-limits. Nothing is weird. They just... exist. Loud and close and untouchable.

Lily is the sun of the group. Everyone orbits her. But she orbits Lando.

To the world, Lily James is the most famous girl on the planet. To her friends, she's just Lily. The one who drinks wine straight from the bottle. Who cries at Pixar movies. Who hogs the blanket and falls asleep with her cherry vape in hand.

And to Lando Norris? She's his. Entirely. The girl who kisses him on the forehead when she's hungover. Who hums Lana songs while brushing her teeth. Who texts "need head. bring nuggets" like it's a grocery list.

They don't need the world to know. Because what they have is private. Sacred. Real.

And she'd burn it all down for him. But only if he asked.

The Fashion World Knows. But They Don't Tell.

Lily James doesn't just walk fashion shows. She owns them. She floats through couture week like a cigarette ghost in heels, all slinky limbs and glossy lips, giving nothing, taking everything. Editors plan entire issues around her availability. Designers shift run orders because "Lily doesn't do third row."

But even in a world obsessed with what she's wearing, no one ever sees the most important detail. Who she walks for. Who she walks to.

Because Lando Norris is nearly always there. Not in the front row. Not beside Zendaya or Dua Lipa or whatever crypto heir's paying to sit next to Donatella. No, Lando is backstage, tucked into a quiet corner of organized chaos, shielded by fabric racks and temperamental stylists, where only the most trusted are allowed. Right where Anna Wintour puts him.

It started quiet. Everything with them does.

The first time he ever came to a show, it was Versace in Milan. He sat in the fifth row, hood up, pretending he was someone's assistant. Nobody noticed him, except Anna. Who clocked him immediately.

After the show, while Lily was still changing out of a beaded catsuit and trying to find her vape, Anna Wintour walked up to Lando, removed her sunglasses, and said, "You should've been closer."

He blinked, nervous. "I'm fine where I am."

She nodded once, then turned to her assistant and murmured, "Next time, backstage."

And from that point on, he was never not there, unless it clashed with a race, of course. Backstage at Chanel, Valentino, Jacquemus, YSL. Always somewhere near the garment racks, sipping a black coffee, watching her like the whole fucking show was just for him. The cameras could never find him. The designers always made sure of that.

Donatella Versace kisses both his cheeks every time she sees him. Marc Jacobs insists he tries on jackets while waiting for Lily to finish glam. Domenico and Stefano once paused a fitting so Lily could FaceTime Lando from Paris and ask his opinion on a hemline, he hated it, she agreed, they changed it.

He never complains. Never asks for a seat. Never tries to be part of it. He just watches.

Watches her get sewn into gowns by trembling assistants. Watches her blow kisses to the mirror before stepping onto the catwalk. Watches her strip out of tulle and velvet into a hoodie and cherry vape haze once the lights go down. He's her stillness in the storm. And everyone in fashion knows it. They just don't say it.

Because if there's one rule in Lily's world, it's that the love stays off-camera.

On the rare occasions Lando can't make it, whether he's trackside in Bahrain or locked in simulator hell, Jude or Pablo show up instead. No hesitation. No questions. Jude with a suit and a secret, Pablo with sunglasses and chaos. They sit backstage. They cheer. They carry her bags like it's holy ritual.

And the press?

They love it. Jude's name trends every time. "Are they back together?" "Why is he always there?" "What's their deal?" They eat it up. The internet assumes any man's hand in Lily's photos is Jude's, his rings, his wrists, the way he holds champagne.

Never once suspecting the boy who actually sleeps beside her. The boy who bought her those rings. The boy who's in the group shots, not the close-ups.

Lando likes it like this. He likes the blur. The anonymity. The way he can exist in her world without being swallowed by it.

In group photos, him, Lily, Jude, Barbara, Lila, Gavi, he blends in like wallpaper. He's the hoodie in the corner. The arm over Lily's chair. The grin behind someone's shoulder.

She's always touching him, but never obviously. A hand on his thigh. A leg across his lap. A whisper in his ear, disguised as laughter. He never corrects the headlines. Never flinches when people assume. Because there's something intoxicating about being the one thing the world doesn't know about her.

Everyone sees her lips. Her legs. Her lingerie campaigns and her tequila shots on yachts. But he sees the way she cries over music videos. The way she tucks her vape into her bra before shows. The way she hums under her breath while getting dressed. The way she texts "you breathing okay?" when he's stressed about a race. The world knows her face. He knows her silence.

The friend group is iron-clad. Tighter than secrets. Cleaner than NDAs. They're chaotic, sure, nights out that turn into airport mornings, brunches that end with someone in a cast, half-naked photos with captions like "accidents were had". But there's no jealousy. No gossip. No betrayal. Just trust.

Jude plays interference. Barbara runs PR. Lila handles the vibes. Gavi starts the drama, then forgets why.

And Lando? He's the soft-spoken shadow at Lily's side, always ready with a jacket, a joint holder, a way out.

No one in the group ever posts a picture without checking with Lily first. No one leaks. No one slips.

Because this is her safe space. And he's their golden boy. The sweet one. The calm one. The one who doesn't get involved unless someone hurts her, and then, only once.

There was one time. A stylist made a comment. Something about Lily's "runner's thighs" and whether she could "squeeze into a 0 if she stopped snacking."

Lando was there. Quiet in the corner. Watching her face freeze.

He didn't shout. Didn't confront. Just walked up to the stylist, leaned in, and whispered something. No one ever found out what it was. But the stylist didn't come back the next season.

The fashion world knows. They know whose eyes she scans for first after every finale walk. They know whose arms she melts into backstage once the chaos dies down. They know not to ask. Because Lily James gives the world everything but her heart.

And Lando Norris?

He has it, quietly. Always has.

The drivers talk about her constantly.

Not in press rooms or interviews, no, they know better than to give the media more than it already has. But in group chats, on long-haul flights, during late-night hotel poker games with whiskey bottles half-drained and race data glowing off their laptops, Lily James is their religion.

"Bro. That last post. You saw it, right?"

"The mirror one?"

"She's unreal. Like... I had a fucking dream."

"I literally woke up soaked in my own boxers."

"Shut the fuck up-"

"No seriously. I'm not even embarrassed."

Lando just smirks. Takes another sip of his drink. Doesn't say a word.

They send each other her posts like holy texts. A carousel of her in lingerie on a balcony in Cannes. A blurry shot from backstage at Fashion Week, her nipples clearly pierced under sheer fabric. A close-up of her mouth holding a vape between her teeth.

He always likes the message. Sometimes adds a fire emoji. Never more.

It's part of the bit now, "Lando's our honorary simp," George says. "Even Jude doesn't hold back." They all think she's just another one of Jude's lingering flings ,some impossibly hot ex that hangs around, maybe flirts with the group when she's in town, but isn't tied to anyone.

They think Lando and Lily James are adjacent, nothing more. He's close with Jude. Jude's close with her. Of course Lando knows her. They assume it's casual.

They have no idea

They don't know he's the one who unties her dresses at the end of the night. They don't know he's seen her naked with glitter in her hair and lipgloss on his abs. They don't know she texts him "can I use your face?" and he replies "I'm already on my way."

They don't know she moans when he calls her "good girl." They don't know she shakes when he holds her down and tells her "one more time, you can do it, baby." They don't know she once cried when he bought her a cherry ice vape after hers died, because he remembered without being asked

Lando thinks it's fucking hilarious.

The way they all joke around him. The way they say shit like:

"She's my Roman Empire."

"I'd let her ruin my career."

"Imagine her calling you baby? I'd fucking collapse."

Max once slapped him on the back and said, "You ever met her, mate? In real life? I'd combust."

Lando just shrugged, grinned, and said, "She seems intense."

Carlos laughed so hard he spilled his drink.

The truth is, Lando likes it like this. He likes that she's untouchable. That the world worships her from behind screens and velvet ropes and locked iPhone albums while he gets the real thing.

While she wakes up wrapped around his chest, lashes tangled, lips swollen. While she straddles him on the Monaco balcony and whispers, "Don't come until I say so." While he groans against her thigh and she tells him, "You make me feel like a slut and a princess all at once."

None of the drivers know that she whimpers when he praises her. That she cries when she comes too hard. That she clutches his hair and begs for more even when her legs are trembling. That he's the only man she's ever let control her completely.

And he's never going to tell them.

Her Instagram is a fucking playground.

They zoom in on her rings. Her tattoos. The little glint of nipple through satin. The stretch of her spine when she's arching in a mirror. They dissect every frame like it's sacred.

"I swear I saw her with Gavi last month. There was a photo-"

"Nah, probably just Jude. They're still close."

"Either way, lucky bastards."

Lando likes those messages too. He saves the screenshots. Shows them to Lily when she's curled on his lap post-runway, vaping and scrolling through memes. She always laughs. Blows cherry smoke in his face and says, "They're such whores."

Then she flips over and fucks him like she's trying to leave bruises where no one can see.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Mignon & Pollito

Barcelona Femení x Teen!Reader

@wileys-russo's Pollito x Teen!Reader

Summary: You and your partner in crime

Whether it was the gods smiling down on you or just an extreme miscalculation on the staff's part, you and Pollito end up sharing a room.

This training camp was only a week long so it must be fairly expensive to move you all from Barcelona to here but, you're not the higher-ups at the club so you don't get much of a say.

"I'm bored," Pollito declares and you roll your eyes.

"Would you prefer sleeping on the bottom bunk?" You ask dryly," I heard that's more interesting."

Pollito's head appears above you, poking over the edge of the top bunk that she had wrestled you onto the ground to get to first.

"Don't be silly!" She says, a smug grin on her face," I'm doing you a service! I'm letting you stay away from the top bunk boredom."

"I'm sure I can deal with it."

"Yeah, but you Frenchies always change your minds."

"I'm trying not to be offended here."

Pollito's grin only widens and her fingers appear to jab you in the forehead.

"I'm still bored."

"I've got UNO."

"UNO's shit."

"Unless you're playing Jana. I made twenty euros off her in one round."

"Oh, shit, you're right. Let's go and find Jana."

"We're banned," You remind her," After that time that we rigged the game."

"Oh, yeah."

The bed above you creaks as Pollito throws her back against in annoyance.

"Is there really nothing we're allowed to do?"

"Irene said that we can get lunch. We just have to tell the others that we're doing that."

"But they'll make us eat healthy."

"Yeah."

Silence for a moment and then...

"I'm bored!"

You jab your feet up into the mattress on top of you and Pollito yelps.

"What do you want me to do about that? Play you to sleep?"

"You'd play me to sleep?" Pollito scoffs," What does that mean? Kicking a ball at my head?"

"I meant with my flute, dimwit."

There's silence again

"You can play the flute. Since when?"

"Since always? This isn't new information."

"It is to me!"

Pollito peaks back over your bed, a wide grin spreading over her face. "I think I have an idea."

It's Irene who hears it first.

It starts off quiet, barely audible over the phone call with her wife and son. But it's still audible and she frowns.

"Are you playing music?" She asks and her wife shakes her head.

"It must be coming from your end."

Irene pokes her head out of her hotel room, spotting a few of the others doing the same.

"Who's playing that music?!" Alexia complains, looking like she's been woken up from a very good nap if her messy hair is anything to go by.

"I thought it was Pina."

"Me?" Pina scoffs," I don't like classical music."

"It's hardly classical music," Keira says," It's the song from the Muppets. You know that one that goes 'do doo be-do-do, mahna mahna, do do-do do'-"

Everyone to turns to look at her, similar looks of judgement as Keira peters off, face crimson.

"Or, you know, I think that's what it is."

"Either way," Alexia brushes her off," Who is making that noise?"

What started off as soft flute music suddenly gets louder and louder until it's booming across the whole floor and Alexia's grip tightens on her door frame.

Her eyes dart to the room at the end of the corridor and she does a quick count in her head.

Everyone and their roommates are hanging out of their doors, heads poking out to see what all the noise is.

Everyone except two people.

Her teeth grind together.

"Who let Pollito and Mignon in the same room together? Who let them room together with no supervision?"

Usually, Alexia would be the one sorting out all of the rooms but she'd left it to the staff this time because she'd gotten distracted on the bus when Pollito had hidden you up in the luggage rack and you'd taken it upon yourself to drip water onto Mapi's head from your hiding spot.

"Er...They might still be in there?" Pina offers up but everyone else knows that it's a pipe dream to say something like that.

"Spread out," Alexia snaps," And find them." She massages her temples. "They take years off my life."

The longer they take, the louder the music gets until it rings in their ears with every step.

There's thumping at the door and you jolt, your flute music wavering as Pollito pops her head up to look through the window.

"It's Ingrid and Frido! Pretend we're not here!"

You both hide under the window where they can't see you.

The change in position makes your playing a bit unstable for a moment as you adjust, fingers cramping from the past forty-five minutes of nonstop repetition.

"I know you're in there!" Frido bangs on the door," This is the room with the sound system. Come out!"

"You'll never take us alive!" Pollito yells back and you want to hit her for being stupid.

"Shut up! You've blown our cover."

A hand reaches through the window and you instantly want to murder the idiot who thought windows should be able to be opened from the outside because Ingrid's hand immediately grabs onto your flute.

You yelp, finally stopping your playing as you try to wrestle it back.

"Hey! No! That's mine!"

"Give it over," Ingrid says," And we'll tell Alexia that you both cooperated."

You pop your head over the window. "Give us a moment to discuss."

"We can't just give in," Pollito says to you in a hushed whisper.

"Well when our other option is to run the laps Alexia will make us do if she finds out we fought them..."

"You make a good point but...No, you do make a good point." Pollito sigh," Fine. Let's give in."

You clap her on the shoulder. "Don't worry. We may have lost the battle but we haven't lost the war."

Frido sighs from the other side of the door, hitting her head repeatedly against the wall.

"You're both so dramatic."

[tacticaldiary]

Can you do a fic where reader and simon are kidnapped and simon has to watch reader be tortured and creeped on by their kidnapper for information.Happy endibg with them being rescued.Ignore if it makes you uncomfortable :)

Captured In Tandem

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Content Warning: Torture, Men being creepy, mentions of sexual assault

"I'll give you a choice." He says, cocking the gun. "Shall I put a bullet through you, or her?"

He's been trained to keep his mouth shut, taught himself from enough pain to span a lifetime, but never did he fathom she'd be dragged into it with him. It's unforgivable.

Masterlist, Part 2

A/N: This is literally one of my favourite tropes-

The first thing he registers is the pounding in his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, Ghost claws his way back to consciousness, sluggish mind attempting to click the pieces swimming in his head together into a cohesive narrative.

He was asleep...no, he was unconscious. Why? Ghost doesn't open his eyes for a moment, gathering his bearings. His senses snap to him quickly. The metallic smell of blood, the scent of gunpowder. The hard wood under him...a wooden chair? He exhales sharply, charting the sharp stinging in his side.

Injured.

He can't move his hands, ropes digging into the skin above his gloves. Once he's grasped back his control, steadied his breathing into something calm and acceptable, he takes a second to listen. There's nothing but the steady dripping of what he assumes is water on the floor. A pipe?

He's cold. His hands are freezing and so is his face-

His face?

Ghost's eyes snap open at the realisation.

His mask was gone, ripped off and on the floor by his feet. He's tied to a chair. He doubts he'd have gotten such a warm welcome if he was back at base right now, so where...?

An RPG, he suddenly remembers, a sour taste in the back of his throat. They had been on an OP with Price, the team had been split into two, sent to clear out a building on the outskirts of the city, tasked to meet in the middle.

An unaccounted armed squad had aimed at them with an RPG. Ghost remembers barking out an order to his partner, shoving her roughly out of the way behind a beat up car. The rocket hit the car, igniting the engine causing it to explode, the both of them thrown back against the brick wall behind them and-

Her.

His blood runs cold at the sound of a small groan from in front of him.

Shit.

Slowly, he raises his head and his stomach drops at the sight of her opposite to him in the same state.

Shit. No, this was all wrong. The RPG must have knocked them both out. They'd been captured.

"Fuck, my head." She groans, blinking herself awake. Like him, he can tell she's charting up the extent of her injuries, piecing together the events leading up to their capture.

Price would find them soon. They can't have hauled them too far away under the threat of them waking up mid transportation.

"Sleep well?" He rasps, watching her still, head snapping up to look at him.

"Best I've ever had." She responds dryly, looking him up and down. Her eyes linger on the dried blood staining his shoulder. It's a miracle the both of them ended up as unscathed as they did. Only bruises and scrapes, miraculously. She yanks on her bindings, scowling when they don't budge. Ghost can see the angry red marks around her wrists, the same as his. "We're in for a treat, huh?" She laughs humourlessly, leaning back in her chair. "Don't suppose you keep any knives hidden in your sleeves, L.T?" Half joking. She wouldn't be surprised if he did.

"Can't feel 'em." He grunts. "Must have searched us."

Of course they did.

She shifts in her seat, hating the idea of hands touching and probing at her when she's not awake to bat them away. Ghost would be just as, if not more uncomfortable with the thought, if the angry furrow in his brow is anything to interpret.

Voices. Footsteps. Both of them go rigid in their chairs, eyes snapping to the other. No words are exchanged, but a slight raise of the chin from her. They would not break.

She knows exactly what's to come for them for the next however long it took for their team to retrieve them. She's been through this before, been trained for it, seen it happen, hell she's even participated on being the one not in the chair.

They wouldn't break. The knowledge they have could compromise more than just their current operations. Ghost acknowledges the shaky exhale she lets out, casts her an unreadable look before the door swings open behind him, his eyes turning cold once more.

If she notes the tension in his shoulders, she doesn't mention it.

Three men walk into the room, mumbling under their breath. Russian. A quick glance to confirm the other caught it.

The thing with the both of them is that they worked better together than anybody else in the team. Working in tandem, information exchanged with just a glance, seemingly in tune with every thought and movement of the other. It's why they were almost always paired together.

"Some of the best your the military has to offer, you are.." He smiles, flicking through the file. "It seems I have struck a goldmine." The file snaps shut, is handed off the someone else.

She hopes the motherfucker gets a nasty papercut.

                               · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

They come twice a day. Once for him, once for her.

Ghost keeps his mouth shut, isn't surprised when she does as well. The both of them have been trained for situations like this, have both gone through a lot of shit that renders them capable of handling it.

It's her that he hasn't been trained to account for.

Ghost had only jeered at the men that interrogated him. Drenched after being waterboarded, bloody from being cut and beat, he had not given them a single thing to work with, taking what they threw at him with a calm, strong, cool exterior.

It was when they turned to her that he felt that crack.

Every knife turned against her, every crack of her bones, each small sound of pain that left her had an anger he'd never felt before bubble up inside him. Glaring death into the people who lay their hands on her as they questioned her, he stayed silent, unmoving as they put her through the same routine as him.

"Not long before they find us now." She'd said hoarsely after the second day. They'd just left them after being unsuccessful in loosening their tongues. Again. He takes in how her arm bends at a strange angle (He'd never forget the scream that teared out of her throat when they snapped it in half), the cuts dripping blood onto the floor and on her tattered clothes (Each one he'd pay back tenfold, he swears), and the exhaustion lining her face the same way he's sure he looks.

Being unmasked...it makes him more on edge than usual.

It's nothing she'd never seen before. She'd touched his bare face countless times, mumbled promises and declarations they had no business making against his lips at night. It had always been in private, shielded from the eyes of others. Now, out in the open, he was more aware of his reactions than ever before, refusing to let out any reaction except for the occasional grunt of pain.

"They're sure taking their damn time." He spits out.

"Gonna give them an earful when I get back." She cough, watery. Ghost's eyes widen when blood splatters to the floor. "Shit." She breathes, inhaling shakily.

Internal bleeding. A telltale sign.

He yanks against his bindings for the hundredth time. Nothing changes aside from more blood trickling down his torn open skin.

"Don't think about it." He orders. "Look here." When she doesn't listen, just blinking at the blood she coughed up as if in a trance, he repeats himself roughly, drawing her attention.

"Right here. Keep your eyes on me." He commands, and it's all she can do to let instinct take over and listen to his low voice. "That's it, love. Good."

She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Swallows dryly and tries again. "If I-"

"Shut up."

"Ghost." She says weakly, "It's a possibility, and if-"

"I told you to shut up." He hisses, fixing her with a glare.

She was in a much worse state than him. Far bloodier. They were rougher with her, thinking she'd be the first one to break, to concede under pain and answer their questions.

Safehouses, plans, locations, inner workings. The intel they stole a month ago. They wanted to know answers that neither of them would ever give them.

The door swings open. The man from the first day walks in, in crisp clothes, wrinkling his nose and the sight of them.

The sight makes Ghost pause. He was in charge here, clearly. This kind of work wasn't normally put on people like that, which meant that things were getting serious. Something had sparked urgency in them if they were seeing this guy. Something had changed.

The 141.

As if on cue, there's the distant sound of gunfire, and the building trembles slightly, dust cracking down from the ceiling. It's ignored by the man completely.

"Admirable, you are." He addresses them. "But I'm afraid there's not time for a soldier's pride during war." They stiffen when he pulls out a revolver from his pocket, clicking open the empty chamber. "I require answers. Call it compensation for what was stolen from me. I don't think you understand that I will get my way in the end. By whatever means necessary."

A single bullet. Loaded into the chamber. Ghost follows the movement with his eyes.

"I'll give you a final chance to be cooperative before I give you a choice." The Russian says evenly, looking at them both in turn.

"Go to hell." Ghost drawls. In his bloodied, beaten state, weak from blood loss and in a disarray from being tortured, he seems to look even more intimidating than usual.

The man sighs deeply. He clicks the chamber shut.

He aims at her and fires.

She barely has the chance to tense before a click fills the room. Nothing. It's when he turns the gun to Ghost that her breath catches in her throat, panic clawing it's way up and through her veins.

Ghost does not flinch. Does not wince or react, merely holds her gaze calmly, in that reassuring steady way he always has.

Click. Nothing.

He continues moving back and forth between them until there's only one chamber left. An undeniable bullet inside. The man turns to Ghost, a smile on his face.

"The choice you have, my friend, is which one of you I put this bullet through."

Ghost visibly stiffens in his chair, fixes him with a scathing stare.

"If you refuse to answer, I have no issue shooting you both." He says evenly, weighing the revolver in his hands. "So who will it be? You, or your lady?" He points the gun back and forth, her heart in her throat.

Me. She thinks. Pick me. The thought of him taking that bullet when there's a choice for her to instead makes her sick.

But it's Ghost. And he's selfless in the most annoying of ways.

"Me." He says tightly, the words forced out and full of venom.

The Russian grins, pleased, raising the gun. She's about to yell at him, tell him to shoot her instead-

She doesn't have to.

The gun turns to her, fires, and pain explodes in her right thigh, wrenching out a scream from between her clenched teeth as she doubles over. Her vision goes black for a second and she can't breathe.

Yelling. There's yelling over the ringing in her ears. Ghost shouts profanities at the man, threats and growls as his chair scrapes against the floor at his attempts to get loose.

He breaks.

The Russian simply laughs, tucking his gun away.

Where the fuck were they? Where were the others? The team? They were close, that much was obvious, so why the fuck weren't they here yet, then?

She gasps when her head is wretched back painfully by her hair, pain thrumming through her like sharp needles as she's forced to straighten up. It hurts, fuck, it hurts worse accompanied with every other goddamn thing wrong with her right now.

"You just couldn't seem to stop looking at her. I thought It'd be more of an incentive to loosen your tongue." He chuckles at Ghost's fury.

"They won't find your body." He hisses, low and threatening, eyes wild. "I'll make sure you're in so many pieces you-"

"I understand why, though." He continues on like Ghost isn't threatening great bodily harm on him. "She's quite the beaty isn't she? Even under all that gore...so easy on the eyes."

She had taken beating after beating. Cracked ribs, cuts and bruises, waterboarding and being prodded with a hot poker, but this? The lecherous way he looks her up and down, yanks he head back farther to expose her neck? It makes her blood run cold, her heart stop.

His breath fans across her face, acrid and disgusting. A choked sob tears out of her lips when his hand trails up her body, grabbing and yanking and pulling in places he has no right to touch. Her head spins from the bullet wound and the pain, and it takes a lot to gather her thoughts.

"Motherfucker-" Ghost snarls.

"I know you're bad at sharing but you wouldn't mind if I had a taste, would you?" He croons at Ghost, who jolts in his chair, pulling at his bleeding broken skin to get loose. "Not that you can do much but watch." He laughs.

This, she would not let happen. She would not let him take something that was hers and hers alone to give to whomever she decided. When he leans down farther, she gathers all her remaining strength and rears her head back, smashing it into his nose.

The satisfying crunch of bone and yell of pain makes it all worth it, draws a smile from her, even if his blood splatters the side of her face.

"Bitch." He spits out. A hand cracks across her face so hard black spots float over her vision. She cries out as it jostles her leg, her broken arm, all her cuts and and he ribs. Before she can gather her bearings, a searing pain pierces through her side, the Russian's knife driving straight into her flesh. She can't help the choked scream that leaves her, hears the way Ghost shouts, his struggling intensifying.

He wretches her out of the chair, shoves her to the floor. Tears track down her bloodied cheeks, not out of fear, but out of pure pain and anger. Disgust, pain and rage is what she feels when the Russian straddles her hips, keeping a hand on her broken arm to keep her down. His other one wraps around her neck, squeezing roughly to cut off her air.

"Answer my questions." He seethes at Ghost. "Your safehouses, the intel you fucking stole from us. Where are they!? Tell me or you'll see this pretty thing die." As if to prove his point, he squeezes harder, making her choke.

Ghost spits out threats that would make any normal man quiver. He would rip this man apart. Rip into him slowly with all his knives, prolong it as much as he could. Days, maybe even weeks. He deserved to die by his hands for what he's done to her, for touching someone so wholly and utterly his. Every single cut he'd return tenfold, twice as deep.

Part of her wants to succumb to the darkness edging her vision, but she's afraid if she does she might never wake up. She couldn't die. Not here, not like this. Ghost...Simon would blame himself, she knows it. He'd replay it over and over again, wonder if he could have done anything to prevent it.

"Get the fuck off of her!" He seethes. Seeing her under him, red in the face and bleeding, dying makes panic tear through him, a horrible desperate feeling he can't help but succumb to. She wasn't going to die, he wouldn't allow it.

Not her. Not her. Anyone but her. Take me instead.

The world was fucking cruel.

The past year had been the best of his life. The lightest, the most at peace he'd ever felt. Loving her came easily, naturally. Something he couldn't help even when he tried to push her away.

Her eyes catch Ghost's. His are desperate and frantic in a way she's never seen before. That...that was panic. But that couldn't be right because Ghost? He didn't panic. He planned and adapted, got angry and was calm. Panicking? She'd never seen it before.

Fuck. She wasn't going to die. She...was, wasn't she? Already, her vision was slipping away, her hearing going muffled. No. No, this isn't it. Not here, not like this.

If she died, Simon might, as well, and she loved him to much to leave him in a situation like this.

Clenching her jaw, she blindly reaches her bound hands to her side. When her fingers brush against the hilt of the dagger inside her flesh, she pauses.

It was the only thing keeping her from bleeding out faster than her bullet wound was already doing...

She yanks it out with all the strength she has left, slams it into the throat of the man above her. He's too busy with Ghost to chart her up as a threat. The way his eyes bug out of his head as he releases her throat in favour of clutching his own has a sob ripping through her mangled throat as she gasps in greedy gulps of air.

She shoves the man off her and in movements wild and jerky, climbs on top of him switching their positions. Ripping the knife out of his throat, she yells a broken shout as she brings it down over his chest. Then his shoulder, his neck. His chest. Over and over again, tears blurring her vision, adrenaline making her shaky, she drives the knife into him again and again thinking about nothing but killing him, taking his life so he couldn't take theirs, so she could feel her skin stop itching from the way she was touched.

"-dead, he's dead!" A voice floats to her, far, far away.

A name...her name. Her movements slow down as she recognises Ghost's voice calling out at her. Confused, disorientated, she glances over her shoulder, pausing, chest heaving.

"You're alright, sweetheart." He says, his eyes a fraction wider than usual. "Here, look at me. Right here, love." He waits till she drags her gaze up. "He's dead. It's enough."

Enough.

The word cracks something in her, the knife clattering onto the stone floor and she looks down at the bloody, unrecognisable mess under her. Scrambling off of him, she leans over and vomits up bile; acrid and burning her throat as it comes out. A strangled sob leaves her as she finishes, realising the sheer amount of blood on her. Her hand shakily goes to her side, comes back bloody in a way that makes her head spin.

"Grab the knife." Ghost urges, looking ready to try to snap the chair under him himself to reach her. "Can you do that for me? Pass me that knife." When she doesn't respond the way he wants, Ghost takes in a shaky breath and repeats himself, voice hard.

"Sergeant. The knife." He commands, low and deep and urgent.

Still a soldier despite her trembling, her body reacts to the order automatically, head clearing. Swallowing, she moves slowly, agonisingly to reach the knife.

"You're doing good." Ghost praises when she drops the knife for the second time from her shaky fingers. "Bring it here."

The moment the knife reaches his fingertips, he cuts through his bonds, kneeling in front of her, cutting hers off too. "I've got you." He murmurs, pulling her close, laying her over his lap as gently as he can as he looks over her. He doesn't really need to, it's more instinct to do so. Ghost was watching her the entire time. He knows the location of every single one of her injuries.

Swearing under his breath, he leans over, roughly rips part of the dead man's shirt off, bunching it up and pressing it against each of her two wounds. She whimpers, a strangled sound that makes him clench his jaw in rage and worry.

"I know it hurts." He consoles her while he secures another part of the shirt around the wounds. "You did well, it's over now." Mindless talk. He just needed to keep her awake.

Her hand closes over his, stilling him as he ties the final knot.

"'m sorry." She breaths, shallow and short. "Can't...Just go." She shoves weakly at his shoulder, and the incredulous, angry look Simon gives her would have been funny if everything wasn't on fire inside her.

"I'm not fucking leaving you, you dolt." He snaps, slowly pulling her up so she's sitting. The way she bites her lip hard to keep in the whine of pain doesn't escape him. "Easy." He says, supporting her despite his own screaming ribs. His left leg was mangled up, ankle dislocated so Ghost doubts he'd be walking with her out of here.

It was too risky. They could run into someone armed, and at such a disadvantage...no, it was better to stay here and wait for the others to show up.

Her eyes flutter, panic slams into him.

"None of that." He demands, prodding her forehead to make her focus. "Keep those pretty eyes on me, love."

A small huff from her that might have been a laugh sends her into a harsh coughing fit. "'m trying Simon." She whispers, words slur.

"Try harder." He squeezes her closer to him, keeping an ear out for footsteps.

"So hard to please." Barely a whisper. "You...you're okay?"

"Christ, woman," he huffs, leaning down to press his lips against her bloody forehead. "I'm better off than you."

A slight smile, her eyes fluttering shut. The loose grip she'd had on Ghost's vest slackens. His bloods turns to ice.

"Hey." He tries, calls out her name. "Hey!" He yells it this time, shakes her gently. Then rougher when she doesn't wake up, breath stuck in his throat. No. No, she was still breathing, he chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

This wouldn't work. Ghost steels himself and stands up, gritting his teeth at the pain that radiates up his leg into his whole body. Ignoring it, he hauls her up in his arms, stumbles slightly.

Staying here wasn't an option anymore, not when she was unconscious, not when the small puffs of breath against his neck could stop at any moment, not when he could lose her.

Gripping onto the small bloody knife, he limps towards the door, pushes it open without hesitation.

He'd walk for a mile like this if it meant he'd get to hear her laugh again. Fuck his own injures, her wellbeing was more important. Ghost moves the knife between his teeth, bone clacking against metal, metallic blood on his tongue. Hiking her up more securely, he starts down the hall, intending to find his team before they found him.

He'd die before he ever let her bleed out on his watch.

                               · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·  

Her hearing comes to her first. Muffled, but still present. Under the dark haze of sleep, she hears muffled noises. The steady beeping of a machine, the rustling of bedsheets nearby. A voice talking int he distance, something she's unable to make out.

It takes too much out of her. Her mind is sluggish, thinking is hard, so sinking back into the arms of whatever is pulling her down is easier. Painless.

The second time her sense of touch returns.

Someone's holding her hand. Rough, calloused fingers, running up and down her palm, soothing gestures than accompany the beeping that she realises is a heart monitor. The familiar pressure, the roughness of those hands, the soothing movements...it lulls her back to sleep almost immediately.

The third time is quick.

Her sight returns last, One moment she's seeing darkness, the next she's blinking up at white florescent lights, the clean scent of hospital waking her up. What...?

Pushing herself up, a gasp tears out of her throat when she finds herself unable to move. Blinking and looking down, she swallows as she sees herself.

Covered in bandages, a cast around her arm. Heavy wrapping around her thigh and chest. All of her is stiff and achy. It all comes back to her in a rush.

The chair. The ropes. The bullets and beatings.

The blood.

Her stomach lurches at the memories. Simon? Where was Simon? He made it out, right? What if-

Her mind immediately settles down when she spots him. Ghost lays on the hospital bed next to hers, eyes shut, chest steadily rising up and down. Relief slams into her so hard tears prick her eyes. They made it out. Both of them. For a moment she thought...

The need to be near him, to touch him, to make sure he's real wins over her desire to stay put and ward of any discomfort. Her second attempt at moving is successful, only because of the strong pain meds dulling the edge of pain she's feeling.

Slowly, she pulls herself to the edge of the hospital bed, gingerly lowering herself onto the ground. She gasps when her leg protests, the one she was shot in. Testing her weight, she glances desperately at Simon, still sleeping. She needed him, needed to touch him, to feel him under her hands, solid and real.

She uses the walls to support her, shuffling over until she's in front of his bed. After taking a moment to gather herself and breathe, she reaches out with a shaky hand, places it on his cheek. Her throat closes at the feeling of his warm skin.

Ghost being Ghost wakes up instantly at the touch. Eyes snapping open, instantly alert even when just waking up.

Relief fills his face, something so powerful it makes a small sound push past her lips, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. "You're okay." She whispers, hoarse from not talking.

"You shouldn't be up." He responds, propping himself up with a wince she doesn't miss. He frowns at the way she trembles, looking her up and down slowly.

"I just..." She brings a hand up to wipe off her tears. "Sorry if I woke you." A watery chuckle. "Just needed to make sure, you know?"

"I do." He admits. Ghost's hand slips up her uninjured arm, guiding her onto the bed with him until she's laying down. A long, shaky exhale pushes itself out of her as she lays her head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, quicker than usual but still steady soothes her instantly. He was familiar, the dips in his body, the hard muscle and those arms. It was so achingly familiar she wanted to cry.

Having her here, having her in her arms and holding her...it was almost too much to bear. Ghost had never felt relief like this.

11 days.

11 days she hadn't woken up, each one made him more irritable, restless, snappy. He was ordered to stay in bed, but he got out of it every night to sit next to her, holding her hand, just silently watching over her. 11 days was plenty of time for him to think, to run through everything he did to figure out a way he could have prevented this.

It was plenty of time to realise that he'd never take her for granted, even if there was a gun to his head.

He'd carried her all the way out of the building until he'd spotted Gaz. The poor bloke had done a double take at them, shouted something frantically in his comms and ran at them.

Ghost had forced himself to stay awake as the others arrived, forced himself to make sure she got the care she needed, sat awake with the the entire time on the heli, until they got to the hospital. Only then had he let himself get checked over and crashed hard, exhausted in a way that ran deep into his bones.

"I'm glad you're okay." He says quietly into her hair, strong arms pulling her close, their bodies intertwined.

"Are you sure this is okay?" She asks, though the way she sinks into him says she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. "Don't want to accidently hurt you or reopen anything."

"You're worse off than me, I think I should be the one worrying about that." He responds, rubbing small circles on her waist. Soothing. Calming.

"I'll always worry." She mumbles against his chest, already feeling sleep pulling her in.

"Your downfall." He huffs, pressing his lips to her forehead for a long moment. "Thought I lost you." The admission is something vulnerable, real. Painful.

"Rather me than you." She responds, eyes slipping shut.

"Say that again and see where it lands you." He grumbles, arms tightening around her. Being as helpless as he was in that situation wasn't something he'd ever forget. Having to sit there, watch those bastards touch her, hurt her, forcing himself to look impassive and cold. Unreacting.

It had been a worse torture than any of their knives.

The second he was cleared to leave the medbay, he was going on a nice little trip back. He'd retrace his steps, get Price to get him the name of every. Single. Motherfucker that had been in the building that day.

Every single one would meet a fate worse than death itself could present them with.

They'd pray for the reaper before Ghost was done with them. He'd make them beg, draw out every single scrape they left on her until they begged to be spared. Only then would Ghost let them bleed out, nice and slow. Maybe he'd even do it one at a time, make the others watch.

They're dark thoughts, but the fury that had been boiling inside him for the past two weeks needed to an outlet, and what better place than the very bastards that had dared to lay their hands on her? The thought pacifies him for now.

He's assured his revenge, but she's more important than anything like that could ever be to him.

"I'm sorry I scared you. You can't get rid of me that easy, though. Thought you knew that by now." Completely unfazed by his threat.

"I wouldn't want to." He assures her, rolling his eyes. "It'd be a bloody shame to lose someone like you, love."

It makes her smile against him, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Safe. She was safe here.

It doesn't take long before she's drifted off again, securely in his arms.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

Part 2

(09/07/2023)

[froginmygarden]

It started with an ad: an unlikely opponent

It had been late. Danny was exhausted, could bareley look straight, giving Dani a bath - getting splashed by soapy water. It happened almost too quickly, one second she was in front of him, the next - held above his head, water dripping down on him. There was a shattered tile in the tub.

"mmmmmmmu", Dani was kicking around in the air, almost nailing Danny in the forhead.

"Yeah, that was a close one, honey," he'd kissed her cheek. Was it to calm her or himself?

"Well, off to bed for you!", that had raised another round of protest, it wasn't even that late!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a puddle in his kitchen.

Scratch that.

There was a pond in his kitchen!

Indeed. The sink was overflowing with used water, spilling over it's brim straight onto the floor, flooding it. The lake had some small islands of soap and hardened fat floating around - the smell was terrible, Danny was going to barf (preferably not in the sink). He had to snatch Dani off the floor, least she grabs one of the floating bits and, just for the fun of it, stuffs it in her mouth.

Yeah. He can't quick-fix that one. Time to call an actual plumber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's going to be fine for now. Some genious seperated the drain pipe to go into the garden, probably for wattering," they were able to drain the kitchen (thank god) without much spillage to other rooms - since, as it turned out, the room is tilted so that the lowest point is towords the buildings outer wall. It still needed to be ventilated though.

"The only reason this happened is because of the rainstorm. The garden probably got flooded, whitch ended with the water comming up the pipes." Thankfully someone was able to come on short notice, and was soft harted enough to give the poor sod a discount - on acount of having a small child living with him.

"It's unlikeley to cause you much truble, well- at least not untill next rainy season. But you might wanna take care of it before then. God knows what else might be wrong with the pipes."

Danny thanked him prefusely, offering some tea and sandwitches, to atleast somewhat repay the man - he insists!

And that's how the Fentons got only 90 dollars poorer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another late night. It's so dark, so quiet, strange for such a liveley city.

There's a bright light shining up ahead.

"Hey, man...", Mark must've changed the bulbe.

"Hi..."

"Did you think about it?", wasn't that strange as well, how this stall allways seemed to be open just past it's time, how this young man seemed to care just a bit too much about someone he didn't know (how he cared about Danny more then people he had needed to trust with his life, a complete stranger)?

"I don't know...", what else were he supposed to say - Actually my kid and I are half human half magical extraterestrials and I don't want to expose my doughter to anyone that might suspect her peculiar development!! - "It just doesn't seem worth it..."

The kid was frowning at him something terrible, "you would't know untill you try. That's. The. Whole. Point.", really he was way too nice today - something good must have happened, "besides- it's only 85 cents. It wouldn't be a loss!"

"..."

"Just do it. If not for yourself then for Dani... Think how this could help Dani..."

"okay."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

---"and if the room's still available I'd like to have a look- thank you! *clik*"

"Well will you look at that... Let's not get too excited", he sipped his tea, "one thing at a time..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is bullshit! She didn't want to sit here! The best place was obviousley by the tall table!

Dani had been placed, per her wishes, on her mat in the livingroom, but now had deduced that shed much rather have her dadis company.

"aaaaaaahhhh..."

She'd started off small, but that didn't seem to get more then a quick checkup. "But that's fine," she thought to herself, "it's just one guest, dadi will get me soon."

Then she waited and waited.... and waited.... damn it!

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!"

"Ohmygod, hunny!" In a moment's notice Danny was rushing in, scooping and checking her for any harm, while Dani simply cooed at him.

"So this must be the little missus?" The bad guest - yes he was bad, Dani decided, good guests don't stay for too long - asked her, but he wasn't worth responding to, she wanted dadi to take her to the tall table (maybe there would be some food on it again?). She simpley turned away, pressing her cheek to her fathers chest, you know like a dignified lady.

"She's a little shy, doesn't like new people." No she wasn't, she was very vividly expressing her distaste for the man! Dorri would be proud no doupt.

"She'll get used to you in no time, I'm sure! That is if you'll stay?" ..what

"Well it seems nice, so... if you'll have me." ...excuse me?

The bad guest had the audacity to wave at her. Stay? Stay where? Here? NO! She was wrong! This man wasn't a bad guest but a VERY bad guest! How dare hE??

"Hi, I'm Hal. I'll be staying with you and your dad for a while."

Dani shook his extended finger. Hal was it? Well, bad-guest Hal, I'm going to make you regret this - and so she plotted away, there were tons of ways to get back at bad guests, because bad guests deserve to be punished. Teribley.

"See, she likes you already!"

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Runaan's Last Secret

*smokes bubble pipe* I suppose you're wondering why I've gathered you all here today. It is simple, mes amis. We've waited six years to find out what really happened inside King Harrow's chamber the night the assassins attacked. And with the release of S7, all these long years later, I finally have the last pieces of information I need to find the full truth.

We all thought there was a murder to solve in the king's chamber. But I'm here to tell you now, that is not the case.

Let us begin at the beginning and assemble our evidence:

The night Harrow died, Runaan tried to convince Rayla to give up the egg, tried to scare her off from returning it.

He couldn't sway her from her journey of redemption, though. They came to blows.

But he chose his mission over killing her. He wasn't even out of breath when they stopped fighting - if he'd truly wanted her dead, she'd be dead.

He left her behind and led four assassins up the front steps of the tower. There, he executed a frontal assault on the king's chamber, when they're built and trained for stealth.

The fight dragged on loudly. It drew extra soldiers from around the entire castle, who left their posts unguarded. But it had a purpose.

Delaying his own victory would cost lives on both sides, but clearing a path for Rayla to escape with two soft human princes in tow would ensure her survival. Runaan had already committed himself to this course when he refused to force her to complete the mission. He couldn't back out now.

Alright, that's the catch-up. For years, we had no idea what actually happened inside Harrow's chamber. But in S7, we finally got a peek. And I'm afraid it's told me everything I need to know. *more bubble pipe noises*

Let's consider these newer clues from S7:

When Runaan finally breached Harrow's door, two other assassins rushed in with him: Andromeda and Skor. Only Callisto, it seems, had fallen alongside Ram out in the hall.

Runaan drew his bow and killed Harrow - or so his binding ribbon believed -

- but the next we see -only moments later as the reinforcements have not yet arrived from below - only one assassin staggered out of that chamber and onto the balcony.

The other four members of the squad died in this battle, and their bodies were recovered by Viren, along with their weapons.

Which means, no one else survived that room. Only Runaan.

The assassins weren't attacked by human troops, either. Runaan had time to stagger out to the balcony at his hobbled pace. No guards caught up to him until he'd already shot the shadowhawk arrow.

When he burst into Harrow's chamber, this is what he was wearing.

When he left it, this was all he had.

Moonshadow assassins are some of the deadliest fighters in all of greater Xadia. No one survives them. No one.

No one... except Runaan of the Silvergrove.

Remember when I said we were not here to solve a murder in the king's chamber? That is because we are here to solve several murders in the king's chamber.

He turned on them.

Runaan turned on what remained of his own squad - Skor and Andromeda. He killed them. For Rayla.

They wanted Rayla dead. In the show, they believed she should die alongside them. In the novelization Book One: Moon, they specifically wanted Runaan to kill her for failing to do her duty. Either way, if any one of Runaan's squad survived and returned to the Silvergrove to report what Runaan had done - and had not done - when his mission went pear-shaped, he would've had to kill Rayla then and there. Right in front of Ethari.

And that, mes amis, he could not abide. He could not bear to be the monster he feared he had always been, right where his husband could see him.

And so, his only remaining option was for his surviving assassins to perish in battle, with their own honor intact and his in tatters. But they went down hard.

They broke Runaan's horn. They stripped off his tunic. They nearly cut his throat. They messed up his hair. Oui, the most unforgivable.

They wanted to live. Runaan did not allow them to.

He trained them all. He loved them.

And he killed them, to save Rayla's life.

For love of Rayla, his precious daughter, Runaan of the Silvergrove killed his own assassins.

It is no wonder he could not look Keeper Lyrennus in the eye when the man asked Runaan about his son.

He's drowning in guilt. He knows what he did. Even though Ram died from another's strike, Runaan knows he would have killed him himself if he'd had to.

This image of Runaan's fear at the sight of the red spirit Lyrennus cast, it lands differently now, no?

He hasn't told them. Perhaps he never will. But he has committed this sin nonetheless, and he must carry it with him for the rest of his life.

Runaan's last and darkest secret. No wonder he accepted Callum the moment he turned against Ezran and fought his own soldiers for Rayla's sake. He knows exactly what that feels like.

[ckret2]

Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it. 

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song. 

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike. 

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

[eclipseberrycake]

Poly! MoonBerryCake x Reader PT. 12

Obligatory AN: Guess who's back, back, back, back again. I've been swinging hard into a FNAF: Security breech hyperfix and have been reading nothing but sun/moon fanfic. So y'all drop your recs /hj

Part One -> Part Two -> Part Three -> Part Four -> Part Five -> Part Six -> Part Six 1/2 -> Part Seven -> Part Eight -> Part Nine -> Part Nine 1/2 -> Part Ten -> Part 11

Warnings: Switching of roles (IYKYK), talks of abuse/mistreatment of the toons, mentions of nausea/vomit, talks of needles/ injection of Ichor (I've decided Delilah is not a good person)

☁ Your vacant blink does not give him much reassurance. You seem to register the question, fold your hands together in a nervous fidget only to use them to wring your tail. You bite your lip, eyes darting every way but their way.

☁ "...Why do you ask?" You manage to get out, shuffling just a bit. Blu pops up from where she was lounging on top of Coal, ears flickering at the sound of your voice. She murps then jumps onto the bed, moving to crawl into your lap. You occupy yourself with playing with her instead, letting her nip at your fingers and swat at your palms.

☁ "She came up in one of the files we were reading through." Astro pipes in, watching you carefully. He clocks immediately the way you curl slightly, as if to shield yourself for something you've probably suspected beforehand anyway. You're avoiding saying more than necessary, garnering how much they know and building your answer around that. Astro suspects it's a fear response, perhaps leftover from when you were with Ciara.

☁ You take this information for what it is, nodding softly before heaving a heavy sigh. Cosmo's right there beside you, rubbing your back and laying on your shoulder, feeling you shake beneath his cheek. It's a small tremble, but one nonetheless.

☁ "Ciara is-..." You immediately stop, choking on the words as they try to escape. You pause, tongue dry and too thick for your mouth suddenly before pushing past it, fighting the acid that builds in the back of your throat. "Was. Ciara was not quite my handler." You admit, retracting your hands from Blu to curl your hands into fists. As if to stop an ulterior action. "I wasn't allowed a handler."

☁ You still refuse to look at them, but they allow you the small mercy. Sprout gently places a hand on your knee, rubbing small circles into the flesh as he watches you carefully. As much as he wants answers, he doesn't want them at the expense of your own happiness.

☁ "When...When the commons started to out number the mains, Delilah and Arthur-" You groan, pressing the butt of your palm to your temple. "I-...I don't know how or why. I don't remember, but I know there was a...a trial of sorts. If they could turn a common into a main." You pause and nearly upchuck then and there, but swallow it down. It burns, speaking of it, you know you shouldn't. Who knows where Ciara is. If she knew, she'd-....She'd....She'd do nothing. She is little more than a rotten name spotting memories you can barely grasp. Like candle light in a dream you can't quite place.

☁ "Ciara was assigned to me, to get me ready to be a main. She trained me." You know they want you to elaborate, but you don't. You can't. You won't. You refuse to go back to that time. To the appointments where Delilah held you down, injecting Ichor into your flesh and documenting the effects. The changes to your arm, fur, words, thoughts, even your soul. It was like you were some great version of a patchwork project. "She wasn't good. She wasn't like Austin or Sam. She worked mostly with Delilah."

☁ There's silence for a moment before Astro is opening his mouth, "Starlight, if-"

☁ "No, I-...I just, I don't remember what you're probably asking about." You wilt and curl completely, trapping Blu between your chest and legs. She mews, but doesn't move. "I don't know if they were successful. I don't know anything beyond what Ciara wanted."

☁ "And what did she want?" Sprout asks before he can stop himself. he immediately kicks himself for it, especially as you wilt further.

☁ "To be like them. Like Austin and Sam and- and- and-" Your breath catches as you shake your head, eyes immediately shutting. Cosmo sits up enough to pull you to his chest, hushing you softly as you shake your head to fight off tears.

☁ He pets down your fur and gently murmurs against your temple, reassuring you you've done nothing wrong before. It's an act that's foreign to Sprout and Astro, watching Cosmo work, but one the cake roll is all too familiar with.

☁ Cosmo knows you. Has known you for a long time. He likes to think he's been in love with you far longer than he himself even remembers. He has memories of all kinds with you before the outbreak. He even remembers meeting you for the first time. When he was a freshly made toon, Delilah made it a point to familiarize him with the others quickly without letting him settle from his creation first. He was much too overwhelmed and the sounds were much too loud, even the feel of the sweater gifted to him made his entire body curl and cry out. You were there. You barked at the others to back off before walking up to him, laying on your belly so he could look at you without having to look up at the lights past your head.

☁ He swears that was when he fell in love with you, hopelessly pining, especially when you gently hummed a soft tune to him that he still clung to to this day. He can't explain the feeling that erupted in him the first instance of Ciara's cruelty. She was an individual driven by monetary value and chased it at the expense of anyone else; especially if it was you who paid the price. He hated it then, and he hates it now.

☁ The two of you had created a sort of routine when Ciara had gotten to the pinnacle of her nastiness. You'd knock on the frame of his bed and he'd wordlessly let you crawl in with him. You'd sleep against the wall and he'd sleep with his back to the door, hiding you under the blanket as your fingers curled around his sweated, burrowing between his neck and hood to muffle to sounds of your cries.

☁ It shattered his heart into pure dust to hear those noises, and he admittedly hoped they were long since left in the past. And then you were turned again. And the recovery began. And with that came your frustrations as to not healing fast enough for your preferences. Then this.

☁ It's the only thing he can think to do when he sees you flounder is to turn back to those old habits. He lets you hide, acts as the protector for even just a second. With the amount of times you've done it for them, he'll take every opportunity to return the favor.

☁ Sprout and Astro both send him pleading glances, begging wordlessly for directions on how to help. They've never seen this side of you and are grasping at straws on how to aid in any sort of way. Cosmo shakes his head a bit, pulling you so you're straddling him, letting you hide your face in his neck once more as he rubs up and own your back. Blu takes the opportunity to run off then, perching herself back on top of Coal.

☁ "It's a sensitive topic." Cosmo starts, feeling you practically claw at him to hold on tighter. "But you didn't know, that's not your fault." He's quick to cut in as he watches a flurry of emotions cut across their faces. "As far as we know, they weren't a main. I don't know what kind of tests they do to determine this, but they didn't pass them. If I had to guess, if they are a main now, it's evolved after being a twisted." He explains, hearing you hiccup. "That won't change anything about how we feel though, pudding."

☁ "No, oh god no." Sprout shakes his head. "Never would it ever change anything bud. We just...were curious. But should've gone about it better. I'm sorry."

☁ "I'm sorry as well." Astro wilts a bit himself, toying with his cloak. "But please trust that I absolutely agree with both Sprout and Cosmo."

☁ You sniffle once before pulling back just a big, dusting Cosmo's shoulder even if he doesn't care about what you've perceived to be a mess. "You went about it in what was pretty much the best way possible." You lips spread in a shaky grin. "Sorry I kind of freaked out."

☁ "You have nothing to apologize for, pudding." Cosmo gently nuzzles against your snout, making it scrunch. "It's just a sore spot."

☁ Sprout and Astro nod and a solemn silence falls for a second. It's thick and tangible, sweltering as it practically chokes them.

☁ Cosmo hates it.

☁ "C'mon, let's go on a run. I think it would be fun." He's already sliding off the bed, taking you with him with his hands under your thighs. You yip at the sudden action before peeling into laughter, holding on tighter. Astro and Sprout let out their own calls, quickly scrambling after Cosmo. He laughs in time with you, his heart soaring at the sound. He knows Sprout at least has the ability to catch up, but to his surprise, it's four hands to catch him and you rather than two. Astro is chuckling as he pulls back, sandwiching Cosmo between his chest and you.

☁ Sprout with all the gracefulness of a bull in a china shop runs right into the three of you and you all go toppling into a pile of giggles. It fits and it feels right, so Cosmo endures Sprout's weight, on top of Astro's and your owns, a moment longer before pushing you all off.

☁ He stands to dust himself off, pretending not to notice the soft moment you share with Astro and Sprout, both giving their own apologies once more before your waving them off and pressing soft pecks to their lips.

☁ By the time you make it to the elevator, the four of you are laughing like you normally do, with inside jokes and petty little squabbles mixed in with sneaky little pecks. However, because of that, others have clued in that a run is going on and wave you off. Glisten and Goob are the first to spot you both, seperating much further than they probably should be if what they were previously doing wasn't anything scandalous. You say as much, turning on your heel to run the second Goob's arms stretch for you. You don't make it far before he's pulling you back and your stuck, Goob's knuckles digging into your head as you squirm before breaking free.

☁ It's a normal run, with the barest idea of possibly getting Rudie Research, but still full of all sorts of jokes and laughter. Floor by floor, each machine is done well and quickly as you distract, and you're shocked by Sprout's prodding to learn how to distract as well.

☁ He's fast enough and had grabbed Toodle's trinket on the way out rather than Vee's remote, so you obliged, sitting on a nearby table with an airhorn ready whenever it was a single twisted floor. He kept up easily, maintaining a good distance between himself and his test twisteds. You watched carefully though, attention only diverting whenever Cosmo or Astro came up to check on the two of you.

☁ You were honestly proud of Sprout, telling him as much as you both jogged into the elevator, taking great pride in his pink cheeks as his leafy tail gave away his elation. You leaned in further to make your paint, poking his cheek even as he swatted at you, Cosmo and Astro even joining in as well.

☁ Then Dandy showed up. His eye was twitching, as it does, once more focused on you with a strained smile on his features. You give him a much lighter one, lips upturning to showcase your newly sharpened teeth from your time as a twisted. It makes Dandy lean back, just a smidge, meeting your gaze with a simmering one of his own.

☁ "You are quite the pain." He sneers, smile never faltering. You feel Sprout hover behind you, one of his hands gently laying on your lower back as Astro and Cosmo watch with baited breath. Dandy's twisted form wasn't scary anymore. Not to you. He was too slow and too sluggish to be a real threat after you realized this, the biggest concern being when he decides to try and strike. He's predictable in that sense though and you can tell it's coming from a mile away.

☁ "I've been told." You practically purr, giving a devious little smirk. "Gonna throw another fit about not getting tapes?" You push further and Sprout's hand on your back becomes more insistent.

☁ "Bud, c'mon now, remember what happened last time." He urges, thinking back to how Blu came into your lives. He's unsure of the power Dandy has and isn't willing to test it. To your credit, you do back off a bit before Dandy's snarl turns sharp and full of teeth.

☁ "That's right, listen to the main, Common."

☁ You whirl around before Sprout can catch you, hurling threats at the flower as his elevator descends and your left spitting out all sorts of venom.

☁ "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" You cry out, stomping your feet angrily as your hands curl, as if strangling him. Your boys are too busy watching you, Cosmo and Astro admittedly hiding behind Sprout before your taking in a deep breath. "I need to calm down first." You shake your head and take one more deep breath. "This is fine."

☁ "You...sure? We can call it? This was already further than we planned." Sprout tentatively offers, and you nod. "No, I'm having fun, he just...pisses me off." You fully settle at last giving them a smile. "Unless you all are admitting you're finally tired of me."

☁ Astro scoffs at this. "Tire? Of you? Please. Don't insult me." He turns with a flourish, the cape of his cloak following him with a trail of stars as you snicker. Cosmo's already rolling his eyes at the dramatics, but Sprout gives the other a soft smile.

☁ "Oh, of course, of course, how dare I." You tease, and the elevator opens once more. You go to take off before stopping, eyes immediately darting to the object in front of you. It looks like a smoke bomb, and you probably would've encouraged Cosmo or Astro to take it, it not for the glaring green color staring up at you. The other three come up behind you, peering over your shoulders at the new object. You blink. They blink. The thing doesn't move.

☁ "There's a unanimous decision to not touch it, right?" You question, getting a trio of agreements right away. You learned your lesson the first time and carefully try to maneuver around it. However the sound of a snap makes you perk up, immediately tackling Sprout, who was spotted by a twisted Scraps. Cosmo and Astro scramble back a few steps as you land on Sprout, but the attachment on her tail continues and crashes into the new object. Green smoke erupts around the four of you and you immediately wave your hand in front of your face, helping up Sprout who scrunches his nose at the smell. It doesn't really smell, but it's thick. It's like smog, choking you and you hate it.

☁ What you hate more is the sudden tug at your body. Nothing is grabbing you, but you feel something yank at your chest, pulling and pulling until something sharp snaps and it's gone. It almost feels like something else is snapped into it's place, but it's chunky and doesn't fit right. It's like if you swallowed a piece of chip too big, but it shifted halfway down and is now awkwardly lodged in your throat as it makes it's way to your stomach.

☁ The green smoke clears, but Scraps is still right there, so you have no room to wait, immediately taking off despite it all feeling wrong and off. She snaps at you and you're stunned for a second as it digs into your arm. You should've been much further then you were, but a glance back shows that you weren't. You put much more effort into running a second time rather than the usual jog you do, hiding behind a box as you take a breather. You check your trinkets, but they're just fine. Working as they should.

☁ Looking over the box, you're able to spot the other three, similarly freaking out behind a box. You glance back at Scraps, seeing her wander off with a frustrated shake of her head.

☁ You quickly dart to where they're hiding, Cosmo immediately shaking your shoulders. "What was that?!" He hissed, checking the injury pearling Ichor on your shoulder. It's not that bad, but it's still worrying.

☁ "I-I don't know. I wasn't-...." You pause, glancing back to the dust now laying on the ground as remnants of the object. Your eyes widen at this, looking to Astro, Cosmo and Sprout, they don't look any different, but something feels off. The normal warm aura that seems to come from Sprout at any given time has been disturbed, no longer there in a settled hum, but rather missing entirely. From the other end, Cosmo seems like he's practically vibrating with new energy, ready to peel off in the same way you normally do. Astro seems out of sorts as well, looking at his hands like he's missing something. He turns them over, then flips them again, then once more before shakily setting them on the ground. The normal lights glimmer out, but rather than feeling a burst of adrenaline, your wound closes up, sealing itself into little more than dried ichor staining your fur.

☁ There's silence before all four of you scream. Astro is freaking out, looking at his hands while Sprout is flipping them every which way. Cosmo is pulling your arm closer, inspecting it like it was some sick trick. You have one hand pulling at your head, fingers threading into your fur as you cry out. "What is going on?!"

☁ You don't get the answer as the yells have drawn Scraps attention back, and with her comes Toodles, already darting for you. You scramble, pushing at the boys to all move it. You would normally try and distract, but you have no confidence in your own abilities currently so you stick with them for a worst case scenario. You only gape as Cosmo's much faster then he's used to, tripping over himself and into Sprout, who yelps, taking Astro with him.

☁ You rush to pull them each up, Astro and Cosmo going first as Sprout slaps a hand on the ground to push himself up, only for it to feel like a shot of adrenaline was pushed straight into your nervous system. You gape at this once more before pinning it, pulling them into a room out of the way and hiding behind a desk. The four of you take a moment to pant, slowly settling from the entire ordeal.

☁ You drag your hands down your face, taking a breath and mentally counting in your head before exhaling. "Okay. So. Somethings wrong."

☁ "Something's wrong? Something's wrong?!" Astro grabs at his hair, pulling it slightly with two of his hands while the other two shake in front of him. "I HEALED?!"

☁ "Yeah, I got that, i was there." You gently unthread his fingers from his hair, soothing the stands slightly as you hold two of the hands in your own. "I think...we switched." You spit out, ears perked for signs of any twisteds.

☁ "Switched?! How is that even possible?!" Cosmo cries out. "So-so-so-so what?! Sprout is now our Astro equivalent? And Astro is Sprout?"

☁ "It didn't take any tapes, so it's more likely you and Astro switched." Sprout explains, running a hand through his leaves. "Okay, okay. Let's work this out. Cosmo, don't think we didn't see you. You and Y/N probably switched. So there's that. i switched with Astro, and Astro switched with either myself or Cosmo. How do you feel?" He turns to the celestial who swallows.

☁ "...Like I got hit." He answers slowly and Sprout nods. "Okay, so Cosmo got faster, I got weird stamina powers, Astro can heal like Cosmo does which leaves-" He turns to you. "You. You have my power."

☁ You swallow at this, clenching Astro's hand tightly. Looking into your inventory pouch, you quickly count your tapes, nodding at the surplus in there. "I don't know how to heal."

☁ "You didn't know how to make Blu appear and still did that." Sprout jokes, even if it sounds flat. It makes you snicker anyway before Sprout continues. "Just...try to imagine the energy of the tapes moving into Astro. It should-...should do the rest itself."

☁ You slowly nod at this, and do it, envisioning a small strand connecting to Astro from the tapes. Something settles then pulls taut before snapping. The bigger portion slithers towards Astro before lifting and your bag feels lighter. "This is insane."

☁ "I don't know how to distract, I don't wanna distract!" Cosmo cries out.

☁ You shake your head. "No, no, you don't have too. I should still-" You pause. "Actually, I don't know. I don't know how to distract without my speed." You wilt, and this time Astro squeezes your hands.

☁ "Then we'll have to be sneaky, won't we?" Astro prods just a bit, nudging you until you smile. "C'mon. If anyone can handle this, it's us. We got this. Just...do as we normally do. But behind more walls." He nods, standing and taking you with him even as you yelp.

☁ Sprout and Cosmo stand up as well, shooting each other a grin. It should be fine, It would be fine.

☁ It was not.

☁ You would later say that floor was by far. The Worst. Floor. You've ever done. Cosmo kept tripping over himself, not used to anything more than his usual saunter, slamming against the floor and calling the attention of the twisteds. Luckily, you stuck nearby, switching trinkets with him as he begrudgingly kept the twisteds on his tail.

☁ You would take over every time you could, switching with Cosmo intermittently as you found yourself at odds as well, nearly getting your ankles snapped on by Toodles since you weren't used to being conscious of your speed.

☁ Astro has his own difficulties as well, trying to stick between hovering to ensure neither you or Cosmo would get too hurt and having to catch himself from trying to give you both stamina, frustrating him at every turn.

☁ Sprout, on the other hand, seemed to be having a blast, despite the three of you glaring at him every time he popped by, letting Astro's own power roam like it was his before taking off. He found himself enjoying the lack of stress that came with healing, and admittedly found himself chuckling at the sound of the three of you scrambling every time one of you tripped or stumbled. He knew you'd be fine, they weren't overly awful twisteds and with all three of you there, it would be stressful, but scraps wouldn't snap without a clear target. Which she wouldn't have with all three of you running like chickens with heads cut off.

☁ he finished the last machine with a click of the vee-mote he took from Astro, hearing the elevator open and the three of you take off. He met up with you guys right away, letting a final thrum of Astro's power hum. Cosmo has one last tumblr which sends both him and Astro tumbling into the elevator with you following and Sprout being the final one.

☁ It shuts and you waste no time sending them back up. There's silence before you giggle, then you cackle then you're giving full on belly laughs as you clutch your stomach. "That was awful." You cry out, head tilting back as the hormonic sound echoes.

☁ Cosmo is quick to follow, still on top of Astro, which makes the celestial laugh, and before any of them can stop it you're all laughing at the absurdity of it all.

☁ In the very least, at least there wasn't another Blu.

[akawifeyy]

reputation | smau (CS55)

description: ...and in the death of her reputation, she'd never felt more alive. the story of y/n l/n, and how one scandal altered her life forever.

tropes: us against the world, reinvention, age gap (25 and 30), mv33!ex, popstar!reader

face claim: sabrina carpenter

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing, hate speech & misogyny

| note: currently clowning as i wait for the release of reputation (taylor's version), so i wrote a fic based on it!

comments (9103):

@ user1: diabolical coming from a man who looks like sid the sloth 🤨

@ user2: I don't listen to Y/N L/N's music, but she deserves more credit than what Max is giving her.

-> @ user3: I agree, you don't get famous from nothing. she put in a lot of work and Max is invalidating that

@ user4: no way bro is reducing her to just a pretty face when he lacks that 🗣️

@ yourusername: was i just a fool?

tagged: @ yourbffusername

comments (3742):

@ user5: We love you Y/N 🫶

@ user6: don't listen to the haters y/n we absolutely adore you

@ yourbffusername: my flawless queen 👑

@ user7: Everything Max Verstappen says about you is true, you sound like a dying whale every time you open your mouth

comment deleted by @ yourusername

Interview with Max Verstappen (2025):

After being asked about his opinion on his ex — Y/N L/N —'s newest single, Max Verstappen grew visibly agitated and attempted to change the subject. When forced to reply, he scathingly responded, "She used me as a stepping stool to reach the next level of fame, and she got what she wanted. The past is in the past, and I don't care about her anymore."

comments (29458):

@ user3: Insinuating that Y/N slept with him to become famous is repulsive, and I hope Max gets what's coming for him

-> @ user8: didn't he literally cheat on y/n?? 😭

@ user9: "I don't care about her anymore" the eyes never lie chico, we know how you really feel

@ user10: I've never been a MV33 fan and this just adds fuel to the fire.

@ user11: can someone PLEASE explain to me what's going on? I know Max and Y/N were together at one point but I got grounded and had my phone taken away for a loooong time so I don't even know anything anymore 🙂‍↔️

-> @ user8: @ popculturetea just made an amazing timeline explaining everything!

@ yourusername's Private Instagram Story

@ popculturetea's Timeline

@ f1ynlover: mama y papa, mama y papa

tagged: @ carlossainzjr, @ yourusername

comments (4852):

@ user12: I bet Y/N doesn't wanna touch another F1 driver with a ten foot pole, but this pairing would absolutely devour 😜

-> @ user8: he would 100% match her freak

@ yourusername: i do love chili peppers 🌶️

@ yourusername: we're balling not bawling

tagged: @ yourproducer, @ carlossainzjr

comments (3832):

@ user13: OMG

@ yourproducer: Next big song is on the way!

@ user14: Carlos Sainz tagged is crazyyyy

-> @ user4: he's definitely the mystery man 🫣

Text messages between Carlos and Y/N (2025):

@ grillthegrid: The difference between Max Verstappen (c. 2022) and Max Verstappen (c. 2025). Crazy

tagged: @ f1, @ maxverstappen

comments (49325):

@ user15: NOT THE OFFICIAL GRILL THE GRID ACC PIPING IN ON THIS DRAMA

-> @ user16: it's the loss of y/n effect 🤗

@ user17: Cheating on Y/N will do that to you lmaoo

@ user18: Sid the sloth ahh 🥱🥱

@ carlossainzjr: F1 drivers were given a second chance, and I wasn't going to screw it up. Más que feliz de ser su pimiento picante para siempre. Happy 2 months, mi amor.

(More than happy to be her spicy pepper forever.)

tagged: @ yourusername

comments (7392):

@ yourusername: you're so much better <3

@ user1: soooo cute 🥲🥰

@ user19: Spicy pepper and firecracker, a dream made in heaven

-> @ user20: They're perfect for each other omg 🥹

─── ୨୧ ─── THE END ─── ୨୧ ───