#for the night
I’m tried of walking and feeling a shamed
I’m tried of whipping your kisses of me
I’m tried of rinsing my mouth out after we meet
I’m tried of fixing my clothes to make sure people don’t suspect anything
I’m tried of fixing my hair so I don’t look like a mess
I’m tried of when you ask me to hang out it’s really just to get in my pants
I’m tried of guys using me, making me feel special for alittle time just to get me in bed
I’m tried of Fuckboys and assholes even when they say they aren’t
I’m tired of getting hurt. I want someone to turley want me. Not for a short time. Not for the night. I want them to want me.
TheRidley-Dead-AU, everyone. I shall tag these who commented on it, plus the Dany tag list: @distinctlywhumpthing@whumping-on-the-ridge@queenofthenoobs@ocean-blue-whump@just-horrible-things@whumpymirages
Ridley, B and Leo belong to the wonderful @hackles-up
Cw for (obviously) major character death and thoughts about it. Very vaguely implied past noncon. BBU (vaguely mentioned). Whumpee married to (dead) whumper. Blood. Thoughts about killing a loved one.
He’s dead.
Ridley Lordin is dead. His body is still warm, his brown eyes still open, empty, staring into nothing. There’s a hole between them, slightly asymmetric, towards his right eyebrow. The hole is ridiculously small. Like his ridiculously small gun. Like he is a ridiculously small man.
I don’t know where my thoughts come from. I feel like I’m stuck here, stuck in the present, stuck in this moment, with the cool metal of the small gun trembling in my hands, and warm blood soaking the carpet under my bare feet.
The hole is bigger at the back of his head, of course.
I feel sick.
