It inches forward on bright red wheels. It is a well loved toy, with dents and teeth marks littering its wooden figure. Its lead is a fraying rope, like that of a shoelace, and perhaps it really is a shoelace; she cannot recall anymore.
It rolls forward in her mind, a little wooden body rolling over both carpet and cement. She took it everywhere as a child.
She stumbles on tired legs, her feet adorned in ratty, worn red sneakers. They were too small and rubbed her ankles raw. There was a rock in her shoe.
Bouncing playfully in the breeze, linking the toy and the owner, is a red ribbon. It is far newer and shinier than the shoes on her feet. It does not fray like the cord in her mind. It pulls at her wrist when she lingers too long.
They’d originally tried to tie it around her neck. She managed to convince them to put a bell around her neck instead.
It’s a large bell on her. On them, it is miniscule. On them, it is silent. On her, it is loud and betrays her every movement. She had no idea bells could be so easily disturbed.
It was a surprise to her when the daycare attendants—cheerful and friendly—solemnly told her that soon a change would be implemented.
She didn’t understand, new to being their attendant, head full of bills and the latest show she’d been bingeing. She assumed they meant a cleaning routine, or a safety protocol.
She stares lifelessly at the rubble-littered sidewalk.
She didn’t think they meant a war between humanity and robots.
(as a child, she’d always feared such a thing. Getting to know the daycare attendants had, foolishly, washed the fear away. The daycare attendant was so sweet…)
Sun and Moon were walking her like the dog toy she pulled around as a child. They cooed sweet nothings at her, and held her when she trembled. They forgot, often, her human body could not withstand what their robotic body could. Perhaps, in a way, it was a method to get revenge for all of the hurt they withstood.
She had been oblivious to the hurt that the others in that corporation had inflicted on them.
Animatronics, the eldest of them, were coordinated. They didn’t pause in their endeavors to fight over stupid things, logic and math supporting their opinions. That is, unless a human who had abused them was involved. Then it was bloodshed.
She couldn’t forget the animatronic baker who, never failing in being kind to her and offering her an extra cupcake or roll, went into a craze when she realized the human who had owned her and tossed her out was still alive.
The blood painted the bakery walls for days.
As a trophy.
Humans, for the most part, had been sequestered into shelters. She heard talk of the humans trying to fight back. Talk of how the humans thought they had established the shelters themselves, when in reality they were exactly where the animatronics wanted them.
Shelters, in her mind, had two connotations. Shelter: A place to shield against weather or enemies; to re-group and regain strength. Shelter: A place to house animals. To keep them in a place where you didn’t have to think about them, if you couldn’t afford to adopt the poor little dog or kitty. A place to keep them alive, and to re-house.
She wondered if the animatronics would re-house them. Keep them as pets. Playthings, like the favorite humans were already.
She could picture a young AI asking their guardian for a pet human.
She kept the thought to herself.
The ribbon on her wrist pulled taut. She had slowed for too long.
“Someone must be tired, today.” The voice is amused. “Surely it’s not because they didn’t go to bed when Moony asked so nicely?”
She hurried to catch up, letting the ribbon fall slack between her and the tall animatronic.
She didn’t respond. They would’ve liked her to. She couldn’t form the words they wished to hear.
They told her how much they liked her voice. They whispered it into the neck of her shirt as they held her to their chest like a teddybear. They played it over and over in their heads, sometimes, when they really missed her.
They missed her when they left her at home.
They missed her when she was right behind them, traumatized from the violence and the screaming, and the fall of mankind’s pride and—
They just wanted it to be like it used to.
And yet, she also knew that they didn’t.
They never said it, but she could see it in how they held themselves. They were more confident, and far more free to do as they pleased. They liked roaming the world without being screamed at. They liked to hold her as she fell asleep, and they liked decorating the house.
They liked the suffering and the violence they had inflicted. Doing unto the humans as the humans did unto them.
…And could she really, truly, blame them?
Curse her empathetic heart.
Curse her fear and her instinct to survive at all costs. It was making a mess of her more rational thoughts.
She was still wearing her daycare uniform. They liked how it matched them.
They liked to find clothes for her. Multiple closets at the house over-flowed with clothing. Hers and theirs.
They liked to shop online for her, and themselves. They liked to match outfits. All the time.
They liked when she forgot to catch herself, and admired the clothes on their body.
No. They wouldn’t change a thing about that day.
Would she?
She was at the point that she was wishing she hadn’t wasted so much time and energy fighting them. Yelling and screaming until her voice could only be brought back with time, honey, and tea.
Her mind was deteriorating.
She stared at her shoes.
They’d tried to convince her to wear different shoes. There were so many options to choose from, brand new and shiny.
She’d been so stubborn.
She’d been so stupid.
She looked around her, away from her shoes and the cracked sidewalk. The animatronics had mostly cleaned up the mess they left behind, but there were still remnants of that horrifying day.
She physically shook her head to dismiss the memory of screams whilst being held in thin metal arms.
There were so many animatronics on the streets. Going about their newly freed lives just as humans had done. They ran businesses and helped each other.
She wouldn’t last a second without Sun or Moon.
None of the humans that escaped their animatronic did. They were either brought straight back or dropped off at the nearest shelter.
She wondered if the whole world had been dominated by animatronics. If there were some places where their bodies could not handle the temperatures or the humans living there.
This time, she was the one to tug on the ribbon connecting the two of them. Sun turned his massive head to peer down at her. Old blood was crammed in the crevices of his face.
Maybe he’d let her wash that out before it was too late.
Maybe it was too late.
She held out her arms. “Carry me?”
Sun’s plastic smile, unmoving, seemed to stretch.
He lifted her with ease, carrying her gently in the crook of his elbow. He rested a hand on her shoulder, then her head, and finally her bicep, seemingly unable to stop moving with the giddiness coursing through him.
Moooon~ He whispered where his little human could not hear.
He did not have to. Moon was already watching, coiled like a cat about to spring. Glee bounced between the two animatronics.
Realized since there are so many part of the series I'd make a master doc for Willingly Unwilling
Series Summary: (Warning Spoilers)
Follows Gale and Astarion's life together post game in which Astarion did the ascenion ritual and Gale agreed to be his dark consort.
The Willingly Unwilling: Gale reflects on his time with Astarion early in their relationship after the vampire lord ascended
Forever and Always: Astarion reminds Gale that the mage will always come back
A Man of His Word: Gale get's kidnapped by Gurs out for revenge. Astarion goes to save him.
Let's Play Pretend: Karlach discovers that maybe her friends aren't as good as they claim to be, and learns that sometimes the best help you can offer is by going along with it.
The Two F's: Gale and Astarion spar and then do a lot more than sparring.
Mother Knows Best: Morena Dekarios comes to visit her son. Even vampire lords can be scared sometimes.
Feel Like Making Love: The first time Gale and Astarion have sex is also the first time they make love.
Three Little Words: Astarion gets injured and Gale confesses his love to his vampire lord.
Never Gonna Give You Up: Gale uses Astarion's need to possess him entirely to try and get over Mystra.
The Reason These Glasses are Tinted: Gale and Astarion attended a charity party at Blackstaff while visiting Waterdeep. Gale learns it's okay to be selfish sometimes.
Only Human: Gale get's sick, Astarion takes care of him and realizes they may not have forever. Yet.
Worth the Wait: Gale asks to fix up the garden and surprises Astarion with a simple question.
Challenge Accepted: Astarion implies that Gale is easy and eager when it comes to their sex life. Gale's ego doesn't take too kindly to that.
In all honesty I write this for myself but if someone likes it too that's cool
Namor and Fem OC || King and Priestess || He's obsessed with her and she sees through his facade || Toxic relationship, no romantic feelings, namor is just playful, pristess oc bite backs to him on occasion||
TW: This story contains graphic violence, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, psychological coercion, and power imbalances. Themes of trauma, war, and verbal intimidation are present.
Summary:
The priestess of the king asked for only one thing: To study the humans quietly, to build bridges, not break them.
But when the king declared war, her dream was shattered—and two empires bled for it.
He, who had never known weakness, faltered first before the Black Panther…
And long before that, he faltered before her—Before the priestess who dared to look at him with disappointment in her eyes.
Now, to soothe her grief, he will grant her wish. Even if it costs the world.
Love has nothing to do with it—yet he treats me with a kind of unsettling care, as if I were some fragile, expensive pottery. Only to then drown me in governess work the next day, with barely a blink. I can never clearly tell what he thinks of me. I treat him the same: with equal parts duty, distance, and defiance.
We quarrel. We fight.
And yet— my head remains on my shoulders, unlike the last High Council lord.
He had stolen from the civilians’ treasury. Sir Attuma’s spear took care of the rest.
It is always the same: greed devours, and sooner or later, heads tumble from thrones.
He calls me dearest— constantly .
" Dearest priestess ," or "Dear little talamaqui, " little doctor.
Words that should sound sweet, but from him, feel like weapons wrapped in velvet. He says them as he slips his arms around my waist during meetings, casually , as if it’s his right. His touch is warm—but it unsettles me to the bone.
As soon as the others leave, I shove his hand away, fixing him with a glare. His brown eyes meet mine—tinted brown-pink, and neither of us looks away.
" Ch’ah ," I say sharply, wiping the places his hands touched, "how many times do I have to tell you not to grab me without warning?"
Ch’ah . His real name— Ch’ah Toh Almehen —a name almost no one knows anymore. Or no one dare to spoke.
He only smirks, lazy and unrepentant. "I did give you the eye signal, my dearest priestess." He lifts his hand— expecting me to take it. I fold my arms instead, staring him down coldly.
"I am not your priestess," I snap. "You are my king, not my god." I turn my attention back to the endless stack of paperwork—reports, decrees, treaties—shuffling the mess to keep from throwing it at his smug face. I already did that last time.
"You could have chosen Namora for this role instead," I mutter, skimming the next page. "She's one of your finest soldiers. Surely she'd advise you better." Warriors are highly valuable in talokan, you’d find them anywhere here, they sometimes practically run the place but they dont. The noble do. I'm one of them.
He chuckles low, an annoying sound. "And have Namora counsel me to conquer the surface world by force?" he teases. "She is a soldier, Xilo, not a mediator. I need someone who thinks first. Someone with empathy, not just conquest."
He slides his hand across the table again, near mine, waiting.
This time, I stand and let him guide me to his side. His arms wrap around my torso, pulling me close. He nuzzles against my abdomen like a tired sea lion seeking warmth.
Any other Talokanil woman might have considered this a dream.
For me, it’s a living nightmare—but I let him stay.
Despite my exasperation, my annoyance , my hand moves to his head. fingers weave into his raven–auburn hair, and for a few long moments, we stay together in fragile, heavy silence.
I do not love him. That much, I know.
My love is set elsewhere, bound to my husband, to my duties, to the sacred vows I took long ago.
Love is a heavy word. So is hate.
And I do not hate him either.
My hand moves almost absently, stroking the back of his neck as he leans against the bare skin of my stomach. If I truly hated him, I would have made it clear decades ago— and I would not be standing here now.
I do not know what I feel for him. But by the gods above, by the goddesses who weave fate with their silver fingers, I know this much:
I care for him. Somehow, against every reason, I care.
Without a word, he lifts me easily, carrying me out to the balcony behind the council room. He sets me atop the emerald–stone rails, as if I weigh nothing at all.
I lean back against one of the carved columns, but he refuses to let go, still holding me tight — that same possessive grip he never seems able to loosen.
"I want to go to the surface," I blurted out. The vibranium sun had dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of my duties for the day— and freeing me to be myself. That was our rule.
"Why is that?" he asked, his voice lacking its usual mocking lilt. Instead, there was something else there. Curiosity .
"I want to see Wakanda," I said, my words tumbling out with more bitterness than I intended. "Their advancements with vibranium, their nanotechnology. I want my husband and I to study them, to find ways to bring their knowledge to the people."
I paused, then added, "But I suppose that's impossible now, isn't it?" The last words struck like a slap — a deliberate reminder of what he had taken away. His declaration of war against Wakanda years ago had made such dreams unreachable.
I pulled away from him, and to my surprise, he let me go without protest.
Yet i felt his eyes never left mine—burning his gaze to my shoulder.
"You had to ruin it," I said, my voice low, trembling with restrained fury. "Had to kill a mother for it."
I turned away from him, drifting closer to the edge of the balcony.
The slow current of the sea stirred my baby hairs and the flowers braided into my hair, brushing them like ghostly fingers. The coolness of the water eased the fire of our argument — but not enough to calm the storm inside me.
I refused to meet his eyes. I already knew what I would see if I did: pride layered over something far darker.
Something that clung to him like a second skin, no matter how gently he tried to touch me.
He could kill me, if he wished.
But he never had.
And I still did not understand why.
"It was necessary," he said at last, his voice strained, but firm. "To awaken my equal. The Black Panther."
"She was just a child," I snapped, my voice rising before I could stop it.
When I say he is not my god, it is the truth. I serve the goddess of motherhood, Coatlicue, and childbirth, Xochiquetzal , I serve the goddess who shields the innocent, Chalchiuhtlicue .
And no matter how deeply I cared for my king—I would never understand the cruelty he had chosen to unleash on a child.
"It is not fair to create monsters like that," I said, my voice trembling. "Like you were."
The words struck deep— I could see it in the way his expression shifted when our eyes met.
I did not know whether he was holding back his anger, or whether, somehow, I had truly hurt him.
"And yet," he said quietly, his voice even, almost cold, i felt a shiver behind my neck "without me, there would be no Black Panther above."
He spoke not to console me— but to justify himself.
I felt him move closer, instinctively— and just as instinctively —I flinched.
He stopped at once, his hands freezing mid-reach, the water between us thick with things unsaid.
"Unless you actually make peace with the surface," I whispered, my breath catching painfully in my chest, "I won't let you touch me."
Without waiting for his reply, I pushed away from the balcony, letting the currents catch me.
I swam through the open water, fast and desperate, as if I could outrun the fire burning in my gills and lungs— the fire he always, somehow, managed to ignite.
When I arrived home, I settled onto the couch, awaiting my husband's return. The maids made the bed before retreating to their quarters after I wished them good night, leaving me alone in the gentle hush of our home.
I unwound the flowers and pins from my hair with shaky hands, the strands slipping through my fingers.
Doubt gnawed at me.
Had I gone too far?
Had I been too harsh?
My ancestor’s book warned of this. She wrote that he was sensitive about his past — that he only shared those buried wounds with the few he truly cared for.
Yes, my ancestor had kept her journals in the family library, carefully preserved for those who wished to learn about the king.
She had been there when his mother gave birth—one of the rare few the past queen regarded as a sister.
My family had never flaunted our closeness to the crown. We didn’t need to. Our jewels, our silks, our bearing spoke enough.
We never meddled in the endless current of gossip, never sought favors, no one had offer any helped once.
We stayed in our lane, providing for our people, ruling our lands with quiet dignity.
We, the women of Estil, are highly regarded.
Women have always held the household. My ancestor herself was a woman—strong, wise, and steadfast—and we carried her legacy in our blood.
“Noyoltzin? Xilo? You haven’t gone to bed yet?”
Little heart i hear, a voice was warm, gentle—the kind that always found me even in silence.
I turned to see Matlat standing in the doorway, still dressed from work. I let my pitch-black hair fall loose and sighed, burying my face into my hands.
I heard him set his bag down before he rushed to me, sitting by my side.
“Did he cross the line again?” he asked, voice already laced with worry. “I can go talk to him—”
“No,” I whispered, moving to sit on his lap. His arms came around me instinctively, grounding me. I wrapped my own around his neck, hiding my face in the crook of it. “I fear this time... it was me.”
His touch never faltered, just continued stroking slow circles against my back. He smelled faintly of iron and heat—the scent of metalwork and long days at the heart of Talokan’s technology.
“What happened?” he murmured, ever-patient. His voice always had a way of softening my edges.
“We had our usual quarrel,” I said softly. “But this time, I asked to go to the surface. Like I told you, weeks ago.” I glanced up at him, my hand still resting on his shoulder.
“And let me guess, my dear,” he sighed gently, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, “you mentioned his war with the humans? With the Wakandans?”
His tone was tired, but never unkind. I looked away, guilt tightening my chest, and he pulled me closer until my ear rested against his heartbeat.
“I’m not tired of you,” he murmured. “Work exhausts me, but being with you, talking to you, always calms me.”
He hummed low, his fingers still combing through my hair. I exhaled and slowly relaxed against him, arms wrapping fully around his chest. The smell of iron and sweat clung to him, but it was familiar. Comforting.
“Continue, please,” he said softly.
I nodded, letting the calm settle over my breathing.
“As you said— I did. And oddly enough, he let me speak. All of it.”
I hesitated, then added quietly, “I didn’t let him touch me after. I swam away. And now... I’m here.”
I rubbed my face gently against Matlat’s chest, and he held me tighter, saying nothing– just being there. Steady, as always.
“I want to stay home tomorrow... possibly longer,” I sighed, letting my head fall back against his chest. “I’ll just go to the temple to pray.”
I didn’t want to see the king just yet. He probably wouldn’t be happy to see me either. I hadn’t visited the temple in moons, being the advisor had kept me away, so maybe this was the right time to return.
“You could just quit altogether,” Matlal said with that familiar playful tone of his, teasing the idea like he always did.
I chuckled and reached up to pinch his cheek. “And let the king abuse another woman in my place? She wouldn’t last a day.”
“A second, you mean- that guy’s insufferable.”
“Matlal Sitlallin!” I laughed, loud and free, the kind of laugh only he could pull from me. We always joked about the king. I was glad he didn’t have to deal with him constantly like I did.
He laughed too, and placed a warm kiss on my forehead before scooping me up in his arms. He swam us gently up to our room, the current swaying around us like silk.
“How about we get some rest,” he murmured, “and think about tomorrow later? You look exhausted.”
“And you don’t? Notlazohtlé? ” my darling, i say to him. He kissed my cheek and nuzzled his nose against mine with a soft smile.
“With you in my arms, I think the labor was worth it,” he said warmly. “Especially if we’re to bring children into this world someday.”
He rubbed my stomach gently and I chuckled, swatting him lightly.
“We have to fix the world first before bringing life into it, isn’t that our deal?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, smirking playfully as he laid me gently onto our bed and pulled away from our embrace. “I’ll clean myself up first. You rest, notlazohtzintlé .”
My dearly beloved, he said to me. He kissed me softly on the lips before slipping away into the washroom.
He was right, of course. I could quit. I could return fully to the role of priestess, come home to my maids, drink octli –wine, and spend my days weaving tapestries. But what would those tapestries tell? What stories would they hold if I hadn’t lived them yet?
My dream was taken from me. How could I indulge senselessly when I hadn’t yet fulfilled what I was meant to do? This is exactly why I don’t want to be a housewife just yet.
If I’m going to weave, I want my threads to speak. To carry meaning, to hold history.
But that is for tomorrow.
Tonight, as my husband’s warmth sinks into my bones and soothes the storm in my mind, I allow myself to rest.
It had been too long since I last walked its polished coral floors, too long since I offered prayer beneath the watchful gaze of the goddess, too long since I felt like myself — not the royal advisor, not the one who holds back rage with grace. Just me .
The scent of incense, of crushed shell and sweet moss, grounded me. The temple was sacred. A place for women and women only. It was the one corner of Talokan untouched by politics or pride.
So imagine my surprise when, as the final prayer faded from my lips and the candles hissed softly beneath the water’s current, I turned to find him—the king—kneeling before me.
Everyone had been dismissed. Other priestesses had left in silence, and now the chamber felt eerily still.
Ch'ah–no–Kukulkan, King of Talokan, was kneeling on the temple floor, his head bowed.
Behind him, Namora stood stiff as coral, arms crossed, jaw set in disapproval. Her glare could pierce stone, but she said nothing—not here. Not in the temple.
“Tōtōtzintli,” Ch'ah said softly. “I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” Namora will hear him and think it is kindness.
No. It isn’t.
The word tōtōtzintli —little bird—is an old word. Gentle on the tongue as it meant endearment for children. But in his mouth, it is not gentle. It is a collar. It means small, soft, delicate.
Barely pecking . Barely a threat.
A thing to cup in his palm. To keep.
And he knows exactly what it means.
That’s why he used it here — on his knees, in my temple, where I cannot call him out. A performance of humility, all the while whispering: you are mine, and you are small.
Namora sees devotion.
But I hear cage.
His voice was calm, too calm, and sincere— or at least he knew how to sound it.
“Of course I forgive you, Hueyi Tlatoani ,” I replied, bowing just as calmly.
Great ruler i say, I used the title purposefully. No pet names. No softness. Just formality wrapped in silk.
My claims no irritation. Not here. Not in the house of the gods. Smart of him, truly. He knew I couldn’t lash out here. He knew the temple demanded grace and restraint. And so, as always, he chose the perfect stage to disarm me.
Using the temple—my temple—as a trap. A net of ritual and reverence.
He wore his usual smug look, “Good, now—”
“Oh, the temple needs me, my king ,” I cut in smoothly, the barest curve of a smile playing on my lips. “I am a priestess, after all, am I not?” I tilted my head slightly. “I am more than just your advisor. If I am needed, should I not heed the calls of the people?”
A game. Lightly played, but deliberate.
Namora’s glare could’ve sliced kelp from stalk—but I corrected my posture with trained grace. She knows her place. I know mine. And she stands in my sanctuary. Both of them do.
“I will return in three suns—”
“Make it six, chālchihuitl-tē .” He interrupted me with ease, stepping forward, and for a brief second our eyes locked like opposing currents.
But I saw it, not anger, not annoyance—amusement .
Then he lowered himself in front of me, He knelt again, Like before. Slowly, purposefully. He extended his hand to me.
I didn't hesitate, eyes are watching so i took it.
He kissed my palm with ceremonial reverence, and I lifted my other hand to cup his cheek, my thumb brushing over the sharp line of his bone. A soft gesture—one that masked the blade beneath.
I leaned in, just enough for my words to stay between us.
“Six suns? How generous of you. Should I make a sacrifice in your honor, Tlahtoāni ?” My tone gentle, I used the title sweetly, silk-wrapped steel.
“A sacrifice isn’t necessary—”
“You’re right,” I cut in smoothly, tone serene, “you’ve exhausted enough of our resources already. More sacrifice might turn you to a greedy god.”
He blinked—just once. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before it softened into a low chuckle.
“You’re cleverer than I remember,” he said, and I could tell he meant it.
And I could tell it annoyed him.
“You forget easily, then,” I said sweetly.
He stood, and I let go.
“Rest well, priestess,” he said, placing the edge of his robe over my shoulders like a crown laid in quiet mockery. Heavy, warm, soft with feathers, stitched with power.
As he turned to leave with Namora, I caught the faintest glance he cast back— like he wasn’t done playing yet.
And that’s what unsettled me the most.
Not that he called me little jade, not that he kissed my palm twice.
But he let me win. Or made it look that way.
I went back to my duties with knots in my stomach. Odd, something is definitely wrong.
He didn’t want me back to the palace that quickly?
That alone was enough to set alarms echoing in my bones. He always demands me back to the palace— no delays, no excuses, no questions asked. But now? He grants me rest? Extends my leave?
Six suns. Too generous. Too unlike him.
Whatever the news is… it’s not good.
And now I’m left in the temple, draped in his robe like a marked creature, pretending to find peace while my thoughts circle like blood in open water.
Something is coming. I can feel it in the salt of the sea.
Oh Chalchiuhtlicue, deity of water, give me strength for his antics in six suns time.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Big City Greens (Cartoon)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Babe | Chip Whistler's Girlfriend/Chip Whistler, In the background, chip whistler & wholesome greg
Characters: Chip Whistler, Wholesome Greg, Wholesome Rose, Babe | Chip Whistler's Girlfriend, mentioned - Character, The Green Family, also mentioned
Additional Tags: Missing Scene, scene exploration, Exposition, Villains, Villainy, villain focused, Kind Of, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Psychological Manipulation, trickery, Mental Coercion, Coercion, Isolation, Crack Fic, crack fic with a serious side, no beta we die like how chip was supposed to, Not Canon Compliant, Oneshot
Summary:
Wholesome Greg pulls a Soos and calls Wholesome Rose to catch her up on the recent development regarding Chip. With a side of how Chip got Greg on his side further.
AKA: A crack/silly idea I and Noodlepals had together that is getting a fic because why not?
Noodlepals, consider this is my Christmas gift to you.
I did some journaling and came to accept the fact that I was infact was in a emotionally manipulative relationship. It was heartbreaking to realise because im still giving some benefit of the doubt to my ex. There were incidents were i felt like I was being manipulated but i let it go, to hold on to the good, blinded by the love, and made to feel guilty for thinking like that. He knows how i am, what kind of person i am, sensitive, emotionally vulnerable and he took advantage of that. Someone who apologises a lot, and made me feel guilty for most of our disagreements. Put the responsibility on me, questioning of don't you trust me, is this your trust, saying he felt misunderstood, he felt hurt, he felt unheard, making myself question my sanity, almost to the point where all of my triggers were triggered but made sure I couldn't say anything to him about it. He knew my buttons and pressed them accordingly and played me like his personal toy. Isolated from my friends, our mutual friends with stories of stories of how he is a victim of their ignorance and influenced heavily on my own struggles with them then made me cut contact with them, now he's all buddy buddy with them, while I'm struggling to come to terms with all of this. I'm at a position where I can't even say anything out loud because through out the relationship i was made to feel as the toxic one, and he'll just say that to them too, just like how he said for all his exes. How he's a poor victim and his partmers are all toxic.
Even now, he broke up wanting to explore career other people, not to be tied down by labels, by the conditions of a relationship, and still I'll be the love of his life, and that it's my decision if I want to take him unconditionally because ofcourse it's all up to me now, easy for him to manipulate others in the future, that he gave me love but it wasn't enough for me.
everyone is always quoting the ‘you drew stars around my scars’ but they always forget ‘and now I’m bleeding’ which makes the lyrics so much more powerful and deep and oh my god so painful.
summary: a confession of an anxious reader that would eventually lead to everything they thought they wanted — everything ransom wanted.
word count: 1.7k words
warnings: kind of a manipulative ransom, the reader definitely has anxiety in this, gender-neutral reader, unhealthy relationships, ransom being a dick, the reader just going with it even though they know they shouldn’t
a/n: idk man i wanted to write for ransom and then this came about
You had been sitting in the cafe across from Ransom for who knows how long. The clock by the door continued to tick away, but you hadn't once checked it. Your phone remained stuffed in your jacket pocket, out of sight just how Ransom liked it. Your hands remained wrapped around a warm mug of your favorite drink, your eyes glued to the minuscule scratches lining the table.
Ransom was equally as quiet, but you knew he'd be annoyed with you eventually. You had an inkling to say he was already annoyed. You were the reason he was here, and yet, the words you wanted to say to him were caught in the back of your throat, clinging to the pink flesh like an anchor.
A part of you thought you knew exactly how Ransom would respond. Another part of you was completely oblivious to the man in front of you, drowning in the oceans within his blue eyes. And that nagging, teensy-weensy part of your brain was screaming that you didn't know him at all — but the rest of you ignored that, knowing it was just your anxiety trying to get the best out of you.
The man in front of you sighed, leaning his head back. He waved the waitress over, ordering himself another coffee.
He said nothing more to her as she left, taking his second mug with her.
Ransom clenched his jaw as he returned his attention back to you.
"You know, I don't have all day. It'd be nice if you could get on with it."
You knew it. He was annoyed.
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. Your eyes quickly raised from the table, meeting with his instantaneously. Those blues would surely be the death of you.
"Any day now, [Your name]," he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched you.
The knit sweater he wore caught your view. You bit your lip, letting go of your mug. Your hands lowered to your lap, fingers interlacing as you nervously watched him.
"I," you began, clearing your throat. "I know. I'm sorry. I just..."
"You just what?"
Ransom nodded at the waitress as she left his coffee, before returning his attention back onto you. He was frowning.
"I think... I think I'm in love with you," you mumbled, keeping your voice low in hopes that Ransom would somehow miss your confession.
Luck was not on your side.
The man raised an eyebrow, a curt laugh escaping him. "What? You what?"
You bit the inside of your cheek, rubbing the back of your neck. You could feel the ball in the back of your throat forming, threatening to alert your eyes of your oncoming tears.
"I... I'm just gonna leave," you said, abruptly standing. You threw a couple bills on the table, hoping that it would be enough to cover your single drink, grabbing your coat in the process. "Forget I said anything."
"No, I want to t-" Ransom stopped short as you bolted out of the cafe.
The momentary rush was short-lived as soon as the cafe door shut behind you. Pulling your coat on, you felt around for your car keys, knowing you needed to leave before Ransom followed you outside.
Panic devoured your soul as you realized your keys were missing. Were they inside? They had to be. You had them just minutes ago.
Defeated, you gradually allowed yourself to sit down on the edge of the staircase. Bitter cold ate at your thighs, but you did your best to ignore it. You should just go back in, grab your keys. You had nothing to be ashamed of. But you couldn't. Not with Ransom still sitting in there, mulling over your confession.
You knew it was far-fetched. Someone like Ransom would never go for someone like you... right? Right. You were nothing compared to Ransom — a lowly nobody, with the only thing going for them being a steady job and a house plant that was somehow staying alive. Being friends with Ransom was ambiguous, to say the least. How was it even possible? Perhaps he had friends of lower status, but it just seemed... implausible. Because it was you. Because of you.
Ransom stood by the door, his eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook, and the way your body heaved as you took in a deep breath.
A frown coated his lips, one of annoyance, but not for you. The annoyance was directed at himself. He should have stopped you, and he most definitely should never have opened his damned mouth. It always seemed to get him in trouble when he least needed it to. In a moment like this, he realized he should have tread around the subject much smoother — perhaps you wouldn't have run out so quickly had he done so.
Sighing, Ransom opened the door, his boots treading in the snow softly piling on the cafe stairs. He sat down beside you, leaving plenty of room for anyone coming and going.
Your eyes widened as you quickly looked up. Your hands moved fast to wipe your tears away, and you were grateful for the quick action. You could only hope he hadn't seen your tears.
"Why are you acting like this?" he blatantly asked.
You scoffed, looking away from him. Did he really deserve to know he was the reason? Surely he knew. He wasn't dumb. You knew that.
"You didn't even give me a chance to respond. Do you do this with everyone you confess something to?"
"No," you softly replied, your arms wrapping around your torso in hopes of trapping the warmth escaping the confines of your coat.
"You took an hour of my time to confess that you loved me. Why wouldn't I be surprised?"
"I'm sorry I wasted your time, Hugh," you said, glaring over in his direction. "I'll do better next time."
His eyebrows raised as he watched you, a soft smirk forming on his lips. "It's Ransom," he corrected, jaw clenched as he turned to face you. "I didn't say you wasted my time, now did I?"
You cleared your throat once more, tears threatening to spill all over again. This time, you didn't know why you were crying. Perhaps a mix of everything that had happened in only a moment's time. A whirlwind of the finer feelings you felt towards Ransom, the utter disregard Ransom seemed to have concerning you. It was all too much.
His lips were moving, but you weren't listening. You buried your face in your hands, attempting to quell the tears that were doomed to appear.
"[Your name]," he said, placing a hand on your shoulder and shaking you gently. "Look at me."
You didn't look at him, but your head raised in response.
"You are really testing my patience," he chuckled softly. "Really testing it."
Ransom reached forward, taking your chin in between his thumb and his index finger, forcing you to look at him. His eyes peered down at you beneath his long eyelashes, the oceans residing in his eyes threatening to drown you once more. You watched as his gaze flickered from side to side, almost as if he was observing everything you were — everything you had to offer.
Ransom chuckled softly, finally letting his eyes lock with yours. "If you had waited just a few more seconds, you would have heard exactly what it was you wanted to hear," he said.
"What... what is that?" you nervously asked, not sure if you wanted to know his answer. At times, Ransom could be deceptive. You just wanted to be sure this wasn't one of those times.
He smirked. His hand moved from your chin to the back of your head, pulling you towards him in one swift motion. He pressed his lips to yours, eyes closed and body expecting you to return the gesture.
Your eyes were wide. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Was this a joke? Some cruel joke Ransom decided to indulge in for the time being?
As the seconds quickly passed, your worries melted away as your lips molded against Ransom's, your hands grabbing at the edge of his jacket.
As Ransom parted ways from your touch, a smirk plastered itself onto his features.
"I'm telling you, [Your name]. Just a couple of seconds."
You looked up at him, your cheeks burning — your heart pounded in your chest, hammering loudly in your eardrums.
"You're... you're serious? Do you feel the same way?"
He rolled his eyes. "I'm not saying it just because you want to hear it now. You missed your chance, so you'll have to wait."
You blinked slowly as you watched him, giving a small nod. "I... I guess I understand that," you said.
Ransom sighed and stood back up, wiping the snow off of his backside. Some of it had already melted into his clothing. He rolled his eyes before holding his hand out to you.
"Come on," he said. "I grabbed your keys. You're coming back to my place."
"I... I am?"
"Yes, you are."
You nodded and reached out to take his hand. The warmth of his touch sent sparks throughout your body. Your calmed heart had picked up its pace once more when you grabbed his hand.
You couldn't help but wonder if Ransom was being true to his word. You knew your social status wasn't the same as his (not that it should even matter in this day and age). You knew he was friends with some pretty powerful people. You were just you. Little old you.
Did he really love you? Wouldn't it have been simple for him to just say it back?
Ransom pulled you off of the stairs, leading you down to his car. Without saying anything else, he opened the passenger side door and allowed you to easily slide in. Your nerves were sure to get the best of you — Ransom knew just how your mind raced. How you would make your decisions based on the anxiety you felt surrounding a situation. But now, he knew that you did love him. In fact, he had known it for quite some time now, but he just needed to be sure.
He knew just how to use it for his own personal gains, even if it was at the expense of everything you were. You would be his, and he would make sure of that.
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