#bill has mommy issues

[lisztomaniac-mp3]

IVE BEEN A PUPPET A PAUPER A PIRATE A POET A PAWN AND A KING

and I'm writing multiple novels worth of post-canon gravity falls fanfiction with handyman bill and mabcifica and billford and maybe some billfiddlesford and sooooo much bill angst also puerto rican pines and lots of soos being wonderful and melody being insanely motherly to bill. All the good stuff.

[yrooxrksvigirzmtovwzwwb]

Billy...

I see them...

The stars...

R G H H L K Z R M U F O

[schemmentigfs]

Inhale, Exhale, Repeat.

Summary: Melissa Schemmenti has always been good at hiding her worst habits, but when her smoking starts to get worse, it becomes harder to keep it from you.

WC: 7.75k.

Warnings: smoking addiction, talks about death and alcoholism, mentions of mommy issues.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

There’s no denying it. The smoke is part of her.

It clings to the fibers of her faded Philadelphia Eagles pajama top, the thick wool absorbing every exhale, holding onto it like a secret. It lives in the creases of her knuckles, in the grooves of her fingerprints, in the spaces between her perfectly white teeth, where the taste of tobacco lingers long after she speaks. It settles in her hair, red curls trapping the scent until it’s impossible to tell where Melissa Schemmenti ends and the smoke begins.

She exhales into the dark Tuesday night, standing on the back porch, the tip of her cigarette glowing like an ember in the dark. The air is cold, sharp enough to bite, but her lungs are warmer. Burning, aching, swelling with every drag she takes. It’s routine, almost second nature, the slow pull between her lips, the moment of silent stillness before she lets the smoke unfurl from her mouth like a sigh.

But tonight, something feels different.

The second-grade teacher flicks the ashes off the tip, watching them scatter like tiny embers in the wind. The inhale that follows is deeper than usual, too deep. A tightness grips her chest, an invisible hand squeezing, twisting. The sting climbs up her throat, a cough rising from the depths of her ribs, dry and relentless. She doubles over, the cigarette slipping from her fingers, falling onto the wooden boards below. The glow fades, smothered beneath the sole of her slippers.

Melissa braces herself against the railing, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to catch her breath. It shouldn’t be this bad. She’s always smoked. Her first encounter with cigarettes had been when she was too young to even understand them, when she stole one from Uncle Tony’s glove compartment, hiding behind the schoolyard to try it, to let the heat settle in her lungs and make her feel older than she really was—only to be caught by her mother’s boyfriend before she even got the chance to try. It didn’t stop her. If anything, the urge only grew.

The real deal began when she was seventeen, since she found her first crumpled pack in the pocket of a boy she never loved. Nicotine kissed her harder than he ever could, settling deep in her lungs, making a home there. It stayed through heartbreaks, through fights with her mother, through lost friendships, through the discovery of her bisexuality, through long nights at the bar in center city Philadelphia where she drank whiskey and vodka she didn’t even like—just to have something to do with her hands. It stayed through the years, through every stress-tightened jaw, through the ache in her bones when the world felt too heavy.

It lingered through her troubled marriage with Joe, in the years she tried to convince herself that love and habit were the same thing. Through arguments muffled by the thin walls of their home, when he sighed impatiently as she tripped over her words, her tongue twisting over syllables that never came as easily to her as they did to others. Through nights when she held an open book in front of her eyes, the letters dancing on the page, tangling together like a code she could never quite decipher.

When Joe grew frustrated with her struggles, impatient with the bills she miscalculated, with the messages she took too long to read. “Are you fucking stupid? It’s not that hard,” he would say, rubbing his temples, and she would taste the bitterness of humiliation before even bringing the cigarette to her lips. It stayed when she realized they spoke different languages. Not because they came from different worlds, but because he never tried to understand hers. When he told her she just needed to try harder, that it was all a matter of focus, of discipline. As if she hadn’t spent her entire life trying to fit into a world where letters betrayed her.

It remained when love became routine, when the silences stretched too long, and conversations were reduced to reminders about bills and grocery lists. When he went to bed early, and she stayed up on the porch, taking slow drags, watching the city fade into darkness, feeling the weight of every mistake settle on her shoulders. The cigarette never judged her, never made her feel small. It was the one constant.

Then, after the paniful divorce, came you.

Not as a miracle, not as a cure, but as a breath. A pause in the middle of a road that had been too long. You appeared without promises, without demands, simply existing with a patience no one had ever had for her. You never complained when she took too long to reply to messages, when she read words slowly, spelling them out under her breath without realizing it. You never sighed in frustration when she forgot how to spell something simple or mixed up letters without noticing. Instead, you just laughed softly and waited.

For the first time in her life, Melissa Schemmenti felt like she could make mistakes without fear.

Your marriage was the best thing that ever happened to her. Not because it was perfect, but because it was real. Because you fought and made up, because you cupped her face when she got too tense, because you knew exactly when to talk and when to just be there with her. Because, after so many years of feeling like she had to fight to be understood, she finally found someone who understood her without her having to say a word.

And then came Amelia. Small, freckled, wide-eyed, with a stubbornness that made Melissa laugh in exhaustion. The little girl who called her Ma or Mama with a certainty that melted away any hardness left in her. Who stuffed her tiny fingers into your wife’s pockets looking for candy, who made up songs about absolutely everything, who tugged on the hem of her shirt and asked to be carried even when she was already too big for it. Amelia, who made the redhead realize that life could be so much more than just surviving.

But the cigarette never left.

Not when you softly asked her to try quitting, not when your daughter wrinkled her nose and said the smell was bad. Never when Melissa was alone late at night, sitting on the porch like she had for years, looking at the city and feeling the weight of the day on her shoulders. It was an old friend, a habit rooted deep, something that had always been there, as if it was a part of her.

Your love was the best thing in her life. Amelia was the best thing in her life.

And yet, somehow, the cigarette always stayed.

Even though smoking only made her feel completely exhausted.

But still, no matter where she is, no matter what’s happening or who’s watching—those green eyes always find a way to smoke.

A day after work at Abbott Elementary? When the fluorescent lights burned into her skull, and the endless chatter of teachers and kids drained her patience? She’s outside, on the corner where no one can see, a cigarette between her fingers before she even realizes it.

At a family gathering? At some Schemmenti cousin’s wedding, where everyone is laughing too loud, drinking too much? She’s slipping away to the parking lot, lighting a cigarette next to an aunt who’s been doing the same thing since the ‘80s.

A night at home with you and your daughter? When dinner is done, the dishes are washed, and the house is quiet except for the quiet hum of the television or the fridge? She’s stepping out the back door, telling herself it’s just one, just a quick break.

It doesn’t matter if it’s raining. If it’s freezing. If she’s sick. It doesn’t matter that she once promised to quit at the start of your marriage.

Melissa smokes.

Her chest burns, not with the familiar warmth of nicotine, but with something rougher, something she doesn’t want to name. She spits onto the ground, wipes the back of her hand across her lips, and breathes through the tightness, waiting for it to pass. It does, eventually. It always does. But as the redheaded woman pulls another cigarette from the pack with trembling fingers, as she cups her hands around the lighter to shield the flame from the wind, she wonders. Just for a moment—if the smoke is taking more than it’s giving. If, one day, it won’t let her breathe at all.

Glancing at the watch on her wrist, your wife sighs.

She should head inside.

She knows that.

The night is getting colder, the sharp wind cutting through her frame, the scent of rain clinging to the concrete of the porch. Inside, you and Amelia are warm, probably curled up under a blanket, watching some cartoon the little girl insists on rewatching over and over. She knows that if she opens the door right now, she’ll see Amelia yawning, her heavy head resting on your shoulder, red curls falling over sleepy eyes.

She should be in there with you both.

But instead, she’s out here, hunched against the wind, her fingers cold around the cigarette burning slowly between them. The bitter smell blends with the damp night air, soaking into her senses in a way that should be comforting. It should help quiet the restlessness under her skin, that weight in her chest she can’t name.

The cigarette is almost gone, the ember crackling at the tip, and Melissa should stub it out against the step and go inside. But her fingers hesitate.

There’s a thought poking at the edges of her mind, something she’s been trying to ignore for years. The same voice that whispers every time she wakes up coughing in the middle of the night. That appears when you give her that disappointed look without saying anything, when Amelia covers her nose frowning and says. “Ew, Ma, bad smell!” before running off.

For the first time in a long time, she wonders if this is really giving more than it’s taking.

Melissa lifts the cigarette to her lips but doesn’t inhale. Just holds it there, feeling the ember die slowly, the smoke curling upward without her drawing it in. Then, finally, with a sigh, she drops it to the ground and crushes it under her foot, taking a little longer than necessary.

The warmth of the house wraps around her the moment she steps inside—but it doesn’t sink in. The cold has settled too deep, buried in her bones like an old secret, a weight she carries without noticing. She closes the back door carefully, her fingers still unsteady, her ears straining for any sound from you or Amelia.

The residence breathes in the dim light.

It’s not completely silent—the buzz of the enormous rectangular television fills the air, a cartoon casting flickering colors against the walls.

The scene is familiar, almost comforting.

You must have fallen asleep on the plastic covered couch, Amelia likely curled up somewhere nearby, her small body rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

Good.

She walks through the kitchen with light steps, moving with the precision of someone who has done this before, many, many times.

Her hands find their way on their own to the cabinet above the fridge, where she hides her little refuge. Behind the box of old pasta, next to the half-empty bottle of whiskey she promised not to touch again. Her fingers slide along the edge of the cardboard, pulling it down.

It’s almost empty.

She swallows hard. Opens the box, counts. Three missing.

It’s not enough.

Not when her chest still feels like it’s caught in an invisible vise, not when the bitter taste of nicotine and alcohol still lingers on her tongue, leaving her restless, anxious. Just one more. Just one more to ease the weight on her shoulders, to calm the subtle tremor in her hands.

The sound of a floorboard creaking cuts through the air.

Melissa freezes.

“Mama?”

The voice is small, delicate, still laced with sleep, but sharp enough to split her in two.

She closes her eyes for a brief moment before turning around.

Amelia stands in the doorway, a fragile silhouette against the dim light. Her cotton pajamas bunch at her feet, reddish-brown curls falling in messy waves around her round face. The green eyes—the same ones your wife sees every morning in the mirror—lock onto her, first on her face, then on the counter, where the box rests.

Melissa swallows, wets her lips before speaking.

“What are you doing up, sweetheart?” Her tone comes out low, calm, as if the artificial tranquility could mask the weight pressing on her chest.

Her daughter rubs one eye with her small fist, taking a hesitant step forward. “I heard you coughing.”

The older woman forces a smile, quick and rehearsed. “Oh, that?” She shakes her head, feigning indifference. “It was nothing, just something caught in my throat.” With careful movements, she slides the box away, shoving the pack into her pocket as if nothing had happened. “You should be in bed. It’s late.”

The furrowed brow tells her Amelia isn’t buying it. “Why are you hiding?”

The knot in her stomach tightens.

Lying to you is one thing. You complain, roll your eyes, swat at the pack of cigarettes until it falls from her fingers, muttering about how she smells like some rundown bar. But Amelia… Amelia watches. Amelia learns. Sees right through her, straight to the parts Melissa Schemmenti isn’t proud of.

“I’m not hiding,” the green-eyed woman says, her voice softer now. She crouches down, leveling herself with her daughter’s gaze. “I just didn’t want to wake you.” She reaches out, brushing a curl from Amelia’s cheek. “Did I wake you?”

The little girl hesitates for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “I woke up because you weren’t there.”

The blow is small, almost innocent. But it lands deep, like a knife sinking in slowly. Before she can respond, another voice cuts through the moment.

“Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti.”

Her name, spoken in the way only you say it.

She lifts her gaze and finds you there, just a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest. Your eyes drift from the forgotten box on the counter to hers, and Melissa feels guilt spread through her stomach like hot tar.

You don’t have to say anything.

She sighs, long and heavy, then pulls the pack from her pocket, placing it on the cold surface of the countertop. A small surrender. A silent apology.

Amelia watches the exchange in silence before you crouch down and extend a hand toward her. “Come on, baby,” you murmur softly. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

The six-year-old hesitates for a moment, green eyes flickering to Melissa. Something in her gaze—so full of an understanding far too big for her small body—makes the redhead hold her breath.

She looks at her other mother one last time before nodding and letting you take her away for a night rest.

Your wife waits until you disappear down the hallway before turning her attention back to the pack of cigarettes.

She wants to reach for them. Desperately.

But her fingers don’t move.

The soft click of Amelia’s wooden door closing barely echoes down the hall before you reappear in the kitchen seconds later.

Your silence is a sentence.

Arms crossed over your chest, you don’t need to say a word. Looking at Melissa, it’s as if you already know exactly what’s about to happen, as if this conversation has already played out countless times before.

And maybe it has.

The redhead sighs deeply, tilting her head back. Her fingertips press against her faint headache. “Hon. Look, before you start—”

“Oh, I’m going to start!” you cut in, stepping forward. “You promised, Lis. You promised you’d cut back.”

She rolls her eyes, letting out a humorless laugh. “I have cut back.”

“Not enough.” Your gaze flickers to the nearly empty pack on the counter. “You were outside, coughing like your lungs were about to give out, and your first thought was what? Lighting another one?”

“That’s not how it happened,” she mutters, looking away.

“It is how it happened,” you counter, your voice tinged with exasperated exhaustion. “You’re fooling yourself if you think it wasn’t.”

Melissa’s jaw tightens, teeth clenching. “I said I’d quit.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“This time, I mean it.”

Your shoulders drop slightly, your breath unsteady as you release it. For a moment, the fury burning beneath your skin gives way to something much more fragile.

“Mel…” your voice comes out small, almost pleading. “I don’t want Amelia to wake up one day and realize her mother isn’t okay. I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

Melissa looks at you—really looks at you this time. Your face is an open book she doesn’t want to read. Beneath the exhaustion, beneath the quiet disappointment, there’s something else.

Fear.

And that’s what disarms her.

She exhales slowly, running a hand over her face before stepping forward, resting her warm hands on your waist. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll stop.”

Your eyes search hers, looking for any trace of hesitation. “Do you mean it?”

She nods. “Yes. I do.”

Your body relaxes instantly. The tension in your shoulders melts away, your breathing evens out, and Melissa hates how easy it is to make you believe her.

Because it’s a lie.

You pull her close, burying your face in her shoulder, releasing a relieved sigh against her skin. “Thank you,” you whisper.

She wraps her arms around you, her hands gliding up and down your back. Behind you, her fingers subtly shift.

Fingers crossed.

A childhood trick, a silent pact that the words spoken hold no weight. A habit she’s never been able to shake since she first started lying to her mother for the sake of her own sanity.

You can’t see it. And that makes it easier.

Melissa closes her eyes, inhaling your sweet scent, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair.

She’ll stop.

You pull back slightly, fingers clutching the soft fabric of her shirt. The anger is still there, pulsing beneath the surface, but something more delicate has taken its place. A flicker of hope.

Melissa sees it in your eyes, and for a second, she feels guilty.

But then you sigh, tilt your face up, and press your lips to hers—slowly, as if reaffirming your belief in every touch. She gives in. She always gives in. Your mouth is warm and familiar, the taste of mint from your toothpaste still lingering.

Melissa loses herself in the kiss, her hands gliding down your back, holding you with the naïve hope that this might somehow make the moment last forever.

She wishes it could.

You pull back gently, your thumbs stroking her jaw with tenderness. “Let’s rest. Come to bed, you have to wake up early for work tomorrow,” you whisper.

“Alright.” She nods.

The older woman lets you take her hand, lets you lead her through the sleeping house, past the hallway where Amelia sleeps peacefully behind a closed door.

The bedroom is warm, the sheets still messy from the last time you left them. She watches as you nestle under the blankets, leaving space beside you.

She joins you, allowing your bodies to mold together in their usual perfect fit. Your breathing slows quickly, sleep pulling you away.

Melissa stays awake.

Your arm is still draped over her, but her fingers tremble against the fabric of the sheets. Olive eyes locked on the ceiling like a hawk’s, her mind spirals with tangled thoughts.

She should feel worse. She should feel like a terrible person for lying to you, for crossing her fingers like some foolish child.

But all she feels is the craving.

It pulses through her blood, insistent, uncontrollable.

She inhales slowly, her eyes drifting to the dresser, to the spot where she used to hide them before you found out.

She’ll have to find a new place.

Maybe the garage. Maybe the glove compartment in the car. Maybe the toolbox drawer, tucked behind the old screwdrivers she never uses.

Melissa closes her eyes and tilts her head, pressing one last kiss to your hair.

“I’ll quit,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t believe it.

Not yet.

Hours pass. The house is silent, save for the soft hum of the heater and the steady rhythm of your breathing against her chest.

Melissa stays still, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the curve of your back beneath the blanket. She doesn’t know if you’re fully asleep, but she doesn’t dare move—not out of fear of waking you, but because she likes this.

The weight of your body on hers.

The warmth.

The illusion of peace.

She knows what you want. You want her to get better. To be honest. To be the kind of person who can stop just because she said she would.

And maybe she wants that too.

But the craving is still there. It always is.

Green eyes flicker to the bedroom door, her mind already mapping out the next hiding place.

She could slip out early, before you wake up. Light a cigarette in the cold, let the smoke curl around her like an old friend, fill her lungs before stepping back inside and pretending she never left.

She sighs, resting her head against the pillow.

Maybe one day she’ll stop.

Maybe.

But for now, she just crosses her fingers again beneath the sheets and allows herself a weak, small, secret smile.

Just a little lie.

One you’ll never see.

The days pass in a quiet, careful rhythm. Melissa plays her role well.

She wakes up beside you, presses lazy kisses to your temple, whispers; “Good morning, honey,” as if nothing is gnawing at her mind. She makes Amelia’s breakfast, ruffles her red curls, helps tie her shoes when her little fingers fail at the bow. She goes to work, comes home, lets you kiss her at the door like she’s been good.

She smiles when you look at her. Makes sure her hands don’t smell like smoke.

She lies.

And she’s good at it. Too good.

At first, she smokes just one—just one—before driving home, the window cracked open to let the cold air carry away the evidence. She tells herself it will be the last, but then there’s another, and another, and before she knows it, she’s back at the beginning.

Hiding. Avoiding. Pretending.

She stashes a pack in the garage, behind an old toolbox, and another in the glove compartment. Starts carrying gum, washes her hands twice, rolls the windows down while driving.

And you don’t notice.

Or maybe you don’t want to notice. Maybe you want to believe her just as much as she wants you to.

Melissa should feel worse. Should feel guilty when you curl up against her shoulder at night, when you whisper. “Thank you for keeping your promise. I’m so proud of you, my love.”

She only kisses your forehead and pulls you closer, pressing her lips together to keep the truth from slipping out.

Then, on a night like any other, Amelia runs into the kitchen, holding something in her small hands.

“Mommy, look!” she sings.

Melissa gulps.

You turn away from the stove, drying your hands on a dish towel with a soft smile. “What is it?”

Amelia grins, holding up a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Melissa’s stomach plummets. And your own smile falters instantly.

“I found it in the car,” your daughter says excitedly, as if it were some kind of treasure. “It smells funny, just like Ma.”

And suddenly, your eyes meet your wife’s.

The moment stretches—long and heavy.

Amelia, oblivious, shakes the pack, laughing at the sound it makes.

Melissa Schemmenti swallows hard, but her throat is dry.

This time, she doesn’t have a lie ready.

Silence fills the space like a dense fog.

You don’t say anything but your eyes remain locked on Melissa’s, and she feels the weight of your gaze. The silence, the tension, the unspoken accusation—all of it presses against her chest like a slow, crushing force.

She opens her mouth to speak, to find something—anything—to say, but then it happens.

A sudden tightness, sharp and relentless.

Melissa coughs.

Once. Twice. It scrapes against her throat like sandpaper, vibrating in her lungs.

The burning sensation spreads quickly, hot and suffocating, clawing at her ribs. She grips the counter, her knuckles turning white as she struggles to steady herself, but her chest won’t expand properly.

Too tight. Too small.

Her vision blurs at the edges.

She tries to inhale, but the air won’t come.

“Baby?!” Your scream cuts through the haze, sharp with panic. “You’re scaring me!”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is another harsh cough—deep, hollow, tearing through her chest on its way out.

Her knees buckle.

She barely registers the sound of Amelia’s laughter fading away, the way her tiny voice turns wobbly and scared. “Ma?”

Melissa staggers, her hand slipping from the counter.

The room tilts.

And then—

Darkness.

She doesn’t hear anything. She doesn’t hear the way Amelia’s breath hitches, how she lets the pack of cigarettes slip from her fingers, landing on the floor with a soft crumpled noise. She doesn’t see the little girl’s hands start to tremble as she reaches for her, tugging at her sleeve with growing urgency.

“Ma? Ma, wake up!” The voice rises, cracking into a desperate sob.

Melissa doesn’t hear.

She doesn’t hear anything anymore.

Panic floods the kitchen, a whirlwind of cries and tiny, frantic hiccups. Amelia screams, clutching at her sleeve with trembling hands, pulling harder and harder with each passing second. Her wide eyes shine with fear.

You move before you can even think, knees hitting the floor as you kneel beside Melissa’s unconscious body. “Lissa!” Your voice shakes, your breath coming fast and uneven. Your hands grasp her face, fingers pressing against her pale cheeks. “Baby, listen to me!”

But Melissa doesn’t respond. Not at all.

Her heart is still beating—you can feel it beneath your palm, pounding irregularly, desperate. But her breathing is erratic, weak, her chest rising and falling in broken patterns.

You know what’s happening.

Guilt mixes with fear as your fingers tremble, pressing against the side of her neck, feeling her frantic pulse.

“Melia, baby, listen to me.” You turn your head. Your daughter is sobbing, her tiny hands still clinging to Melissa’s sleeve. “I need you to go get my phone, okay? It’s in the living room. Hurry, we need to help Ma!”

Amelia doesn’t move. Her lip quivers, tears streaking down her round cheeks as she shakes her head. “No! I don’t wanna leave Ma.”

Your own tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to stay calm. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” you whisper, cupping her tiny face in your bigger hands. “But we have to help her. Please, baby, go get my phone so I can call the paramedics. Hurry.”

She hesitates, her eyes darting between you and Melissa lying on the floor. But then she nods quickly, taking off in a run, her small feet pounding against the wooden floor.

You turn back to the redheaded woman, your mind boiling with memories of past moments. Of how she always covered it up. Of how you wanted to believe. Of all the little lies and broken promises.

“Please, sweet girl,” you beg, your eyes burning. “Stay with me. With us.”

Melissa stirs weakly, a low, scratchy sound escaping her lips. Her lashes flutter, and for a moment, you hold your breath. She’s trying to come back to you.

Your heart climbs up to your throat, a suffocating knot that nearly chokes the air out of you.

“Honey?”

She blinks slowly, her eyes heavy and clouded with pain and exhaustion. Her brows knit together in faint confusion before her parted lips release a weak, hoarse whisper, barely a breath.

“Amore? You’re crying…”

The dam breaks. A violent sob wracks your chest, and your hand tightens around hers, pressing it against your heart as if that alone could keep her here, tethered to the world, tethered to you.

“Of course I’m crying, you idiot. You just—” You choke, strangled by a desperation you can barely contain. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push back the bitter taste of fear. “I thought I lost you.”

Melissa’s trembling fingers move—frail, almost imperceptible—against your palm.

“M fine…” The words come out brittle, lacking conviction.

“You are not fine!” the anger in your soul spills over, but it’s only a reflection of the raw terror clawing at your insides. “You lied to me. You kept lying. And now? You could’ve died.”

Her eyelids flutter, heavy, as if fighting off unconsciousness is too much of an effort. But you don’t let go of her hand. Not now.

The hurried sound of Amelia’s footsteps echoes through the hallway before she bursts into the kitchen, her wide eyes filled with terror, her cheeks wet with tears, and the phone clutched tightly in her small fingers.

“Mommy, I got it!” she cries, dropping to her knees beside you, her little body trembling.

You snatch the phone with shaking hands, the numbers on the screen blurring through your tear-filled vision as you dial.

Melissa is still watching you, her pupils blown, her breath shallow. Her lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile—so small, so worn, like she has no strength left to fight.

Your grip on her hand tightens.

She won’t fight.

Not now. Not after this.

The Liberty Hill Medical Center smells like antiseptic and something too sterile to be comforting. The cold glow of the fluorescent lights casts harsh shadows over everything, making Melissa Schemmenti look even paler under the white sheets—a cruel contrast against the oxygen mask covering her face.

You sit beside her, Amelia nestled in your lap. The little girl’s tiny fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt tightly, as if afraid that you, too, might disappear. Your hand moves absently through her red curls, instinctive, but your gaze never wavers from the woman who you love so bad.

The kind doctor’s words still echo in your mind, each one carving deeper into your chest, sharp as invisible blades.

“One of her lungs is compromised.”

“Years of smoking have taken their toll.”

“She needs to stop, or next time, she might not be so lucky.”

Next time.

Your fingers tighten around her limp hand as if sheer pressure alone could anchor her here, keep her tethered to life, to the silent promise that she won’t be taken from you.

She stirs slightly, her lashes fluttering before green eyes slowly open, unfocused, sweeping over the sterile room, the machines, the oxygen tube rising and falling with each fragile breath. Then she finds you—and sees Amelia clinging to your chest, half-hidden.

And something shifts in her gaze.

Guilt.

Regret.

Fear.

The redheaded woman tries to speak, but the mask muffles the sound, and a grimace of pain crosses her face as her fingers instinctively drift toward her ribs, searching for the ache as if she needs to feel it to believe it’s real.

You stop the movement, your hand pressing firmly over hers.

“No,” you whisper. “Please. Just rest.”

Olive eyes hold yours, clouded with exhaustion but present, trying to say something her lips cannot. Maybe an apology. Maybe a promise.

But you don’t want promises.

Not anymore.

Amelia shifts in your lap, her little head lifting hesitantly. “Ma?” She sounds so small, trembling, carrying an innocence that shouldn’t know fear. “You’re not gonna die?”

Melissa takes a deep breath—or tries to. The weight of those words hits her harder than her own failing body.

Her fingers, frail and hesitant, stretch toward your daughter, barely able to graze the little girl’s arm.

“No, my love,” she murmurs under the oxygen mask, weakened. “I won’t.”

You want to believe it.

You need to believe it.

But deep down, some part of you knows—Melissa Schemmenti has always been stubborn.

And addiction is a monster that doesn’t tame so easily.

So you just hold her hand. Hold your daughter. Hold on to whatever is left of hope.

And your wife, exhausted but alive, offers you a small, worn-out, barely-there smile—a smile you’re not sure is meant to comfort you or if, deep down, she’s still lying to herself.

But here, between these stark white walls, there is something that resists the emptiness: your hands intertwined. You haven’t let go of Melissa’s hand since she woke up. And, more importantly, she hasn’t tried to pull away either. That has to mean something.

Her green eyes are tired but softer than they’ve been in a long time. There’s no irony now, no half-smirk, no sharp comment to downplay the seriousness of the situation. It’s just Melissa. Raw, vulnerable, real. Her fingers are weak, but they grip yours like they’re holding onto an anchor.

“Babe. I want help.”

Her voice comes out hoarse, as if every word is a confession pulled from someplace deep and dark. She swallows hard, her gaze flickering away from yours, as if she can’t bear to face the hope she might find there.

“I can’t.” Melissa pushes the oxygen mask aside just enough to continue. “I don’t want to put you through this. I don’t want Amelia to go through this anymore.”

Your heart clenches, and for a moment, you feel the air leave your own lungs.

Melissa Schemmenti admitting she needs help.

You never thought you’d hear those words come out of her mouth.

Tears sting your eyes, but you force them down, leaning in closer, squeezing her hand tighter, as if you could anchor her here—to the world, to you.

“We’re going to get you help,” you promise, your voice steady despite the emotion threatening to spill over. “Whatever it takes.”

She nods slowly, but there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache even more—like deep down, she still doesn’t believe she deserves this.

You’re about to say something when the door to the room suddenly swings open, slamming against the wall.

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti, what have you done to yourself?!”

Barbara Howard’s voice cuts through the air like thunder. She storms into the room like a force of nature, her face a combination of fury and heartbreak. Her hands are clasped tightly in front of her chest, as if holding back a prayer waiting to escape—or maybe a scream barely contained.

The redhead’s eyes widen, the shock tearing through the haze that still lingers over her.

“Barb.”

“Don’t you Barb me!” her friend’s voice is sharp, cutting, but it wavers slightly, betraying the emotion fighting to break through. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? Gerald told me what happened, and I.” She stops, shaking her head, blinking rapidly, as if trying to push back the tears before they can fall.

Melissa presses her lips together, like a child caught in the act. Her hand moves, hesitant, before instinctively reaching for her confident and closest friend. “I’m sorry.”

The brunette woman exhales a long, weary breath, and something in her face breaks—the weight of a friend who almost lost something precious.

“Dear,” she whispers, her voice faltering for the first time. “I could have lost you.”

And then, right before your eyes, Melissa crumbles. Her face twists, her lips tremble, and the tears spill down her cheeks before she can stop them. And suddenly, she is just a young woman again, sitting on the church pews beside Barbara, searching for guidance, searching for home, searching for something to keep her steady in a world that always threatened to fall apart.

“I know.”

The kindergarten teacher doesn’t hesitate. She encloses your wife’s hand in both of hers, gripping tightly before bowing her head in a quiet prayer.

“Lord, this woman is far too stubborn,” she sighs, exasperation and affection woven together, before pulling her into a strong, trembling embrace.

Melissa clings to her. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you think that maybe, just maybe. She truly wants to change this time.

Barbara holds her friend tightly, whispering something you can’t quite hear—something meant just for the two of them. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a scolding wrapped in love. Either way, she lets herself be held, her fingers gripping the eldest’s cardigan.

You don’t interrupt. You just watch, your own heart aching at the sight of the woman you love finally letting someone else take care of her for once.

A small rustling sound makes you turn your head.

Amelia stirs in the chair beside the hospital bed, her red curls wild, her little face scrunched up with sleep. She blinks blearily at the sight before her, confusion flickering across her face.

“Mama?”

Melissa and Barbara pull apart. The mother turns toward her six year old, her green eyes still glassy from tears, but the moment she sees her daughter, something shifts. She reaches out a shaky hand.

“Hey, baby,” she rasps. “I’m here.”

The tiny Schemmenti rubs her eyes, then slowly slides off the chair, padding over to the bed. She hesitates, staring at her like she’s trying to decide if it’s safe to touch her. “Are you still sick?”

Melissa trembles, glancing at you briefly before looking back at her. “I’m gettin’ better, piccola.”

“You scared me.”

She flinches. You see the guilt flicker across her face, the way her throat works as she swallows hard. “I know, baby. I—I’m so sorry. I don’t wanna scare you or Mommy ever again.”

For a second, Amelia just stares at her.

Then, without a word, she digs into the pocket of her little hoodie and pulls out something small—her tiny fingers carefully unfolding a piece of crumpled construction paper.

She presses it into Melissa’s hand.

The second grade teacher frowns, smoothing it out. It’s a drawing—crayon marks in bright colors, a little house with three stick figures holding hands.

Melissa.

You.

And Amelia, standing right in the middle.

Above them, in wobbly six-year-old handwriting, are the words:

“I LOVE YOU MOMMY. NO MORE BAD CIGARETTES OKAY?”

Melissa stares at it.

Her fingers tremble. Her breath hitches.

And then she pulls Amelia into her arms, holding her so tight you almost worry she’ll never let go.

“No more bad cigarettes,” she whispers, pressing her lips to the girl’s temple. “I swear, baby. No more.”

Just love.

Just hope.

The days that follow are slow, careful, and filled with something unfamiliar patience.

Melissa stays in the hospital for observation, her body weak but mending. You’re by her side every day, and so is Amelia, who insists on bringing her little drawings and stickers for her hospital gown. Barbara visits too, sometimes with Gerald, sometimes alone, always watching her with that mix of stern affection and barely hidden worry.

But the biggest shift?

Your wife doesn’t ask for a cigarette.

Not once.

She chews gum instead, keeps her hands busy with a stress ball that Amelia proudly picked out for her—one shaped like a tiny tomato. (“It’s like your garden, Ma,” Amelia had said, placing it in her hands with an earnestness that nearly made Melissa cry right there.)

The cravings come, though. You see it in the way her fingers twitch, in the restless way she sits up in bed, in the way she closes her eyes and breathes deep like she’s trying to steady herself against a storm.

One night, when Amelia is asleep on your lap, she looks at you, her voice quiet.

“It’s harder than I thought.”

You reach for her hand. “I know.”

She exhales, shaking her head. “I—I wanna do it. I need to. But sometimes, I feel like my body’s screamin’ for it.” Her voice wavers, just a little. “Like it’s never gonna stop.”

You squeeze her fingers. “It will. One day at a time.”

She stares at you for a moment, then shifts her gaze to Amelia, nestled against your chest. A soft, tired smile touches her lips. “She’s watchin’ me, isn’t she?”

“Always.”

Melissa nods. Something settles in her, a quiet determination.

By the time she’s discharged, she’s different. Still stubborn, still her, but lighter somehow—like she’s finally letting herself try instead of hiding behind an easy excuse.

At home, the house smells fresh, the air no longer laced with the stale scent of cigarette smoke. Barb helped you clean out every last hidden pack before Melissa came back—every drawer, every shelf, every secret place she thought you wouldn’t check.

The redheaded woman doesn’t complain.

She just exhales, steps inside, and mutters, “New start, huh?”

Amelia nods enthusiastically. “New start!”

Melissa chuckles, ruffling her curls. Then she turns to you, something unreadable in her expression.

“You really think I can do this?”

You step closer, cupping her cheek, letting her feel the warmth of your hand, the steadiness of your love.

“I know you can.”

More weeks pass, and for the first time in years, Melissa Schemmenti looks healthy.

Her skin has more color, her cough is gone, and there’s a lightness to her that wasn’t there before. She moves easier, breathes deeper, and—most importantly—she smiles more.

Not the faint, tired smirks she used to give when she was hiding something. Not the forced grins she used to distract from her struggles. But real, warm ones. The kind that reach her eyes. The kind that make you remember why you fell in love with her in the first place.

It’s a Sunday morning when you truly notice the difference.

Melissa is sitting on the couch with Amelia curled up in her lap, the two of them tangled together under a blanket. She is chattering about something—one of her silly little stories that only make sense to a six-year-old—and your wife is actually listening, nodding along, reacting, laughing.

Not distracted. Not fidgeting. Not sneaking glances at the door like she’s itching for an excuse to step outside.

Just present.

You lean against the doorway, watching them, feeling your chest swell with something warm and deep.

Melissa notices you after a moment, her green eyes finding yours.

She smiles—big and bright—and stretches out an arm. “C’mere, you.”

You don’t hesitate. You cross the room and let yourself be pulled into her embrace, fitting perfectly against her side as her arm wraps around you.

She kisses your temple, then rests her forehead against yours. “I love you,” she murmurs.

You close your eyes, breathing her in—not smoke, not nicotine, just Melissa. Just home.

“I love you too.”

Amelia shifts, squeezing in between the two of you, giggling as she wiggles her way into the hug.

Melissa chuckles, pressing a kiss to her curls. “And you, little lady? I love you the most.”

The little girl beams, hugging both of you tight. “I love you, Ma.”

Then, something happens on a warm Saturday evening.

Barbara and the rest of the Abbott gang insisted on throwing a little celebration for Melissa—nothing extravagant, just a gathering at your home, filled with the people who love her. There’s food (because, of course, the redhead wouldn’t allow a party without a proper spread), music playing softly from the old radio in the kitchen, and laughter echoing through the house.

The Sicilian looks radiant. Healthy, glowing, alive in a way that makes your heart ache with gratitude. She’s laughing with Ava and Jacob, rolling her eyes at something Janine and Gregory said, and Amelia is clinging to her side, practically beaming with pride every time someone tells Melissa how good she looks.

It’s perfect.

And you know it’s the perfect moment.

You clear your throat, standing up in the middle of the living room, and the conversation slowly dies down as all eyes turn to you.

Your sweet wife, sitting on the couch with your daughter on her lap, raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on, babe?”

You take a deep breath, pressing a hand to your stomach before looking straight at her.

“I wanted to say how proud I am of you, Mel,” you begin. “For everything. For fighting through the hard days, for staying, for choosing us over the easy way out.” You pause, meeting her gaze. “You’re the strongest person I know, and I love you more than I can put into words.”

Melissa swallows, her eyes glistening. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You smile, glancing around at your friends before returning your gaze to her. “And, well… I figured there’s no better time to share some news.”

Eyebrows frowns slightly. “News?”

You nod. Then, with a deep breath, you place your hand over your stomach again and say the words that will change everything.

“I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, Amelia gasps dramatically. “Another baby?!”

The room erupts into cheers and excited voices—Ava whooping loudly, Barbara covering her mouth in shock, Jacob looking like he’s about to cry. But you don’t take your eyes off Melissa.

She’s frozen, staring at you, her lips slightly parted.

Then, all at once, her face crumbles.

She lets out a choked breath, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as tears spill down her cheeks. “Oh my god,” she whispers.

You kneel in front of her, reaching for her hands. “Lis?”

And then she’s pulling you into her arms, hugging you so fiercely it knocks the breath from your lungs. She’s crying into your shoulder, her hands clutching at you like she never wants to let go.

“You’re havin’ another baby,” she breathes against your skin.

You giggle, your own tears falling as you hold onto her. “Yeah, honey. We are.”

Melissa pulls back just enough to cup your face, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own keep falling.

“I never thought I’d deserve this. I never thought I’d get to have this, to live long enough to see it.”

You press a kiss to her forehead, your heart bursting with love. “You do, sweet girl. You do.”

Amelia, impatient as ever, squeezes between you both and throws her little arms around you. “I’m gonna be a big sister!”

The older woman laughs through her tears, pulling her into the hug. “Yeah, baby, you are.”

The three of you stay like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, surrounded by love, by family, by the life Melissa Schemmenti fought so hard to keep.

[noyasmashing]

Daichi getting dommed by his girlfriend?! Since he's in the police maybe his girlfriend is a detective or some form of government official that works with the police all the tine!!!

★ BAD BOY. daichi!

౨ৎ :: masterlist. reblogs are appreciated.

• warning: daichi + fem!dom reader, male penetration/fingering, mommy kink, cum eating, daichi has the “asian flush”

Daichi really wasn’t the one to drink. Actually, he shouldn’t be drinking. He lacked the enzyme that broke down alcohol once consumed. He wasn't suited for it, plain and simple. However, there were exceptions to his rule.

More often than not, he found himself holding a drink at parties, and tonight was no different. After months of tireless investigation, the combined efforts of the police officers and detectives had finally paid off, solving a particularly complex case. As a well-deserved reward, the team decided to treat themselves to a celebratory night out. They reserved a cozy private room at a highly-regarded restaurant, famous for its exceptional craft cocktails.

Their boss, in a thoughtful gesture, had arranged for everyone's drinks to be pre-ordered and paid for, ensuring that the team could relax and enjoy each other's company without worrying about the bill.

Daichi's concern about his metabolic issue flared up as he was handed a cold drink. However he disregarded it. After all, it was only natural that he felt compelled to partake, he didn’t want to seem stuck up, or rude. He started out with small sips, attempting to feign enjoyment.

No one had even noticed, he had gone almost the entirety of the party without even finishing half. Fortunately, everyones attention was diverted by a heartfelt speech from their respected superior officer, acknowledging the team's hard work and dedication.

As the party continued, Daichi's attention was divided between the celebratory speech and your persistent touch. Initially, the gentle rubbing of his thigh was a reflexive response to his coworkers' congratulations. But as the atmosphere mellowed, your hand remained, sending sparks of sensation through his body. The fleeting touches near his upper thigh were maddening, making him feel like he was losing control.

You couldn't help but notice his gaze lingering on you throughout the night, his eyes drawn to the subtle details of your attire - the short skirt, the blouse that teased just enough to hint at what lay beneath. It was clear you were deliberately drawing attention to yourself, and Daichi couldn't help but be captivated by your presence.

“Shall we take care of your issue in the bathroom?” you whispered in Daichi's ear, your voice dripping with teasing intent.

As he tried to maintain a stoic expression, you couldn't help but giggle at his failed attempt to hide his emotions. His temples flexed in frustration as he remained silent, his grip on your hand tightening under the table.

“You know we can’t do that.” He reasoned, tuning to meet your gaze, just for a moment.

You purred out, “Suit yourself,” in response, your eyes never leaving his face. Before smoothly turning to another detective and launching into a conversation about a different case you were working on together.

Daichi turned to look at his own friends, but struggled to process any of their words, his mind consumed by a maelstrom of inappropriate thoughts. In a desperate attempt to shake off the tormenting sensations and clear his mind, Daichi turned his attention to his drink, downing the remaining contents of his glass with a swift motion. The sudden rush of liquid warmth doing little to calm his racing thoughts.

As he struggled to clear the unpleasant aftertaste of his previous drink, Daichi's eyes fluttered open to find the group surrounding him, refilling their glasses.

Before he could process the situation, the room erupted into a chorus of cheers and toasts, and someone was pressing another glass into his hand. With a sense of obligation, Daichi reluctantly accepted the offering, not wanting to be rude or spoil the celebratory atmosphere. As he added the new drink to his already-lively mix, Daichi couldn't help but lament the fact that he had now consumed two cocktails.

As the surprise toast came to a close, the room began to empty out, with many people saying their goodbyes and departing the restaurant. Daichi noticed your growing impatience, and he felt his own unease mounting. He tried to sound nonchalant as he suggested, "Uh, m-maybe we should get going?" His words were laced with a subtle sense of desperation.

Your hand had been resting on his knee for a moment, but then it drifted away, your gaze flicking to your watch as if checking the time.

You nodded curtly, responding with a, "About time," and turning your attention back to him. "Do you have the keys?" you asked, your tone tinged with a hint of concern as you took in his flushed appearance. Without argument, Daichi handed over the keys, preparing to bid farewell to his coworkers and make a hasty exit.

As you both rose from your seats, Daichi's hand instinctively reached out and grasped the back of your jacket, his fingers digging in slightly as he struggled to steady himself. The sudden movement left him feeling lightheaded, and his face flushed with embarrassment as he realized his mistake. You, however, merely raised an eyebrow and tried to stifle a chuckle, indulging in a discreet caress of his backside as you did so.

You were well aware that Daichi was one of those people who didn't handle his liquor well, and the signs were all too clear. "It was nice seeing you, Chief," you said with a charming smile, shaking his hand firmly as you bid him farewell. Daichi nodded mutely, his eyes fixed on yours with a mixture of fear and distraction as your wandering hand continued its gentle exploration of his body. He was too intimidated to say anything, too preoccupied with the sensation of your touch to speak up.

Once you two were out of the restaurant the cool night air hit Daichi like a train. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps, and he stumbled slightly as he walked to the car. “Why did I park so far away.” He groaned, facepalming when he remembered his decision from earlier that day.

“What’s up with you?” you asked, your voice low and concerned as you raised an eyebrow in inquiry. The crunch of gravel beneath your feet was the only sound breaking the silence as Daichi hesitated.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Daichi stammered, finally turning to face you with a flush rising up his cheeks.

You shot him a concerned glance. "Did you drink too much or something, Sawa? You're breathing heavier than normal," you remarked, wrapping your arm around his waist to steady him as you walked towards the car in the dimly lit parking lot.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "I felt rude not drinking, and then...of course, there was you..." He trailed off, his words hanging in the air as you approached the car, the silence between you thickening like fog.

But before he could break free and make his way to the passenger seat, you pinned him against the sleek, freshly washed car you had purchased together. The new sedan's gleaming surface reflected the dim parking lot lights, creating a sense of intimacy as you leaned in, your breath warm against his ear.

"What about me?" you whispered, your voice husky with desire. "Don't tell me you were turned on in front of your coworkers." you cooed, your knee gliding up to nestle against his groin, the movement deliberate and sensual.

His breath hitched, and he found himself grasping onto your jacket with an anxious intensity. "So-so what if I was?" he questioned, his voice trembling as he felt his heart pounding in his ears, his body burning with a sudden, intense heat.

His eyes widened as you made the bold move of pulling open the second-row door, revealing the dark interior of the car. "I can't wait till we get home," you whispered, your voice low and seductive, "and I don't think you can either." With that, you guided him into the back seat, the motion smooth and deliberate.

The effects of the alcohol were plain to see on him once you sat down beside him. You could almost hear his racing heart, his face a deep crimson, and the most captivating sight of all was his ragged breathing, as if he'd run a mile.

It was the most intoxicatingly vulnerable you had ever seen him, and by God, it was incredibly attractive. Once you closed the door behind you both, your lips crashed together in a sloppy, frenzied kiss. One that was full of fervor and desperation on his part.

Without hesitation, you started to undo the buttons of his shirt. "I think you're going to need a little discipline for overindulging, don't you?" you whispered into his ear, taking a gentle moment to nip at the lobe.

He let out a soft moan, his head nodding in agreement as you spoke. His apologies tumbled out in a slurred, endearing manner. Daichi was typically contrite and apologetic for his mistakes, so it was unusual for him to receive punishment like this, it made him excited.

"Actually," you said, pulling back to gaze at him with a playful smile. His eyes, still glassy from the drink, met yours, and he stared at you with a dazed expression. "You know what? You're adorable when you're tipsy. Kinda like when I finish fucking your brains out.”

He felt his body flare with heat at your words. The only thing his mushy brain could get out was a “please!” His whole body starting to tremble with anticipation as the desire burned within him. Your words conjured vivid images in his mind, leaving him breathless and unsure of himself. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of emotions, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts: plead, sob, or surrender. Your gentle teasing was torturous, leaving him helpless and at your mercy.

"Please? What do you want, sawamura?" you asked, your tone softening as you reached out to gently push him down onto his forearms.

He looked up at you with half-lidded eyes and wet lips. "F-fuck... fuck me.” he forced out, his breath catching in his throat as your hands ran gently along his chest, tracing the curve of his nipples.

“I don’t have my strap with me, darling.” You sighed, your hands tracing a gentle path along his torso. His abs contracted and relaxed, shifting beneath your touch. As you spoke, he let out a disappointed sob, his head tilting back in surrender.

“Don’t be greedy, my fingers will do just fine.” And with that, he was suddenly being flipped on all fours, his perky ass presented to you, the fabric of his clothes now inches from your face.

“Y-yes.. yes ma’am, sorry ma’am.” He relented, arching his back in attempts to appease you. You released a contented hum, then unfastened his belt and slowly slid down the zipper of his dress pants.

As soon as his undergarments were removed, his throbbing cock sprang free, glistening with precum that dripped down onto his dress shirt, a rather unfortunate turn of events.

Not to mention his hole, which clenched in eager anticipation of whatever you had in store. Your initial move was to spit on it, which was fortunate, as you would have needed lubricant anyway. He let out a soft "Ahh" of pleasure, sinking deeper into position as he did so.

You leaned forward, your body pressed against his, as you guided two fingers into his mouth from behind. "Open," you commanded, and he complied.

He struggled to resist the urge to suck on your fingers as you roughly explored his tongue, making him gag. A muffled string of moans escaped his lips, accompanied by a gasp as you withdrew your fingers.

"I'm supposed to be punishing you," you scoffed, "but you're responding like this is some kind of reward." you added, scoldingly. You then proceeded to line your now-wet fingers with his tight hole.

"Relax," you instructed as your fingers slid into him. Ordinarily, you would have taken your time to ease him into it, inserting just one finger to begin with. But the circumstances didn't allow for that level of finesse. Instead, you established a rough and demanding pace, one that had him groaning and whimpering into his palm.

"Slow down!" he pleaded, his words slurred with a mixture of protest and pleasure. Despite his plea, his hips continued to move in tandem with your pace, practically fucking himself on your fingers.

You couldn't help but laugh at the drunken scene unfolding before you, one hand rising to make a harsh, stinging contact with his exposed ass. His skin was hot to the touch, and his entire body seemed to vibrate with excitement.

His light pants were now a canvas of moans, his cries of pleasure and pain mingling in a chorus of ecstasy. The stifling air in the car grew thick and heavy, the windows fogging up.

"I wonder how the team would react to seeing you like this," you sneered, your voice dripping with disdain. "Knowing that I fucked you in the back of your car, and you took it like a good slut."

You dug your fingers deeper, searching for his most sensitive spot, and he winced in response. "Stoppp," he drunkenly begged, his voice muffled by his hand. You couldn't help but snort in derision at his demand.

"If you want me to stop, then why are you dripping allll over the seat?" You taunted, your gaze flicking down to the damp fabric. "Somebody's going to have to clean this up, you know."

He paused, his mind processing your words as a wave of tension washed over him. Though you couldn't see his physical response, you sensed it with certainty - his cock was twitching at your rather harsh degradation.

"I'm gonna cum, mommy." he whimpered alas, his voice trembling and nasal, in a tone that was foreign to you. He rarely addressed you with such endearments, so you knew that the alcohol must have loosened his inhibitions. "I'm gonna cum b-because your being so mean to me." he stammered, his words punctuated by sniffles.

"Hmmm," you murmured, slowing your movements deliberately. You couldn't help but appreciate the way his ass looked, supple and inviting as it yielded to your fingers. You didn't want this moment to end too soon. "Perhaps I should make you wait until we get home," You suggested, your voice low and sadistic with a hint of amusement.

He let out a despairing "Hmph" and a muffled string of "no"s as he struggled to force your fingers deeper inside him. To his frustration, you took a firm hold of his hips, preventing him from generating any friction through his own movements.

"You tell me, sawa, how bad do you want to come?" you asked in a calm, measured tone, tracing small circles on his hips and barely pumping him with your fingers.

As you gazed at him, you could see his Adam's apple bob up and down, his ear that angled towards you flushed a deep red, while his face remained mostly hidden behind his arm. The tremble in his voice was palpable as he hesitantly spoke up. "I... I want to so badly. I need to. My head feels all fuzzy, I can't take it! Please. P-please. Please, Mommy. Let me have this."

It was an understatement to say you were surprised. You had rarely witnessed Daichi so beset by neediness. Maybe his “Asian flush”, a hallmark of his vulnerability, only added to his desperation. You were certain you wouldn't be treated to this sight again anytime soon, so you intended to savor every moment of it.

"Lay on your back f’me. I wanna see your face." You urged in a gentle tone. He almost let out a sob when you detached from him, but your words steadied him. He shakily flipped onto his back, propping himself up on his forearms to gaze up at you. The agonizing seconds it took to reposition yourself felt like an eternity to him. As you finally resumed the motion, he let out a guttural moan, as if begging you to accelerate the pace. Unbeknownst to him, you added a third finger to the mix. Your gaze was transfixed on his face, drinking in the sight of his features twisted in a mix of pleasure and strain.

His labored breathing morphed into soft moans, his nose wrinkling as a single bead of sweat slid down his forehead, tracing the messy contours of his hair. The sight was almost mesmerizing, and you couldn't help but notice that your gaze was heightening his arousal. "You're so pretty, sawa, go ahead and come for me," you coaxed, abandoning any notion of this being a punishment.

But how could you be cruel to your lover when his throbbing cock quivered against his abs, as if begging for release? It was a pitiful yet endearing sight, one that tugged at your heartstrings. Just as your other hand reached out to claim his cock, he burst forth with a ragged cry, his semen coating his torso and the open expanse of his shirt.

A soft, whispered "Thank you, mommy" escaped his trembling lips, as his eyelids remained tightly closed, his gaze shut off from the world.

It took him a moment to collect himself, his breathing still ragged as you withdrew your hand from his under side. He anticipated a trip to the baby wipes, so his tiny whimper of surprise was all the more adorable when your warm tongue made contact with his skin instead. His eyes flew open, taking in the sight of you lapping up his semen.

His initial reaction was a gasp, which turned into a stunned silence as you pulled him in for a kiss mere seconds later, the taste of his own come mingling with yours on his tongue.

He eagerly swallowed everything you gave him, determined to prove he could handle it, just like he handled three of your fingers.

You pulled back, leaving a trail of saliva connecting the two of you, your mischievous glint hinting at the tease that was to come. "I should make you lick the seat clean," you said, your tone playful and unrepentant. Though he winced at the humiliation of the task, he couldn't deny the desire to submit to your whims.

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

Found-Family headcanons for a³'s coven of chaos, part 1: (because they all deserved more time with each other)

(part 2, here.)

(part 3, here.)

Agatha learned spanish for Rio, obviously—and spices up her dialogue with Spanish phrases out of habit. I assume she also knows other languages, being alive for as long as she has.

But I'd also like to think that language-learning gradually becomes something they all surprise each other with. And this is definitely super self-indulgent, because I'm always ecstatic when my native English-speaker friends are interested in learning my language.

For example, I definitely think Billy would ask Alice to teach him korean—and she'd be really excited for that. Not to mention, I feel like Billy just has the vibe of someone who'd be interested in learning different languages. (and korean in particular I think he'd definitely find interesting.)

I also definitely think Jen would try learning Sicilian for Lilia, considering the effort she makes to understand her and keep her comfortable towards the end. Lilia would be so moved, because she probably hasn't spoken to anyone in her mother-tongue in centuries. Like, it's literally considered an endanged language. (“Currently considered a “vulnerable” language by UNESCO, Sicilian faces increasing pressure from standard Italian, though it remains stronger than nearly all other Italian language varieties.”)

Mrs. Davis loves making food for all of them, always trying to diversify her cooking to suit their appetites, their cultures, the things each of them can eat, etc. It's a lot, but she doesn't mind!! She's a grandma!! She loves feeding people—and she missed having someone to cook for.

She grows her greens all by herself, too. Rio occasionally helps her with weeding and stuff. Mrs. Davis is freaked out by her rancid vibes at first, but ends up saying she's a “very sweet girl,” to which everyone responds by staring at her horrified.

Mrs. Davis would also definitely make a chore chart for everyone, but it never works out for a NUMBER of reasons.

First or all, Agatha always skips her turn with cleaning, saying that “she forgot.” She knows that either Billy or Sharon will just take care of it anyways. (Jen refuses to do any of Agatha's chores. “She can either do it by herself or drown in her own garbage-”)

Lilia always gets distracted and leaves her chores unfinished. She can only ever remember laundry, for some reason—she does everyone's laundry. But other than that, jeez. My girl is messy and that's okay. She has her very own unique way of finding where she puts her stuff, but others would merely call it chaos. Jen always picks up after her—and Lilia always huffs and puffs about how, “well now I can't find anything!”

Alice is the sort of person who accidentally creates messes everywhere, then stuffs everything wherever she finds. In drawers, under beds, you name it. Very, “out of sight, out of mind.” Like, she probably has “a chair” where she throws all her clothes.

Billy is very responsible, always abiding to the chore chart and oftentimes doing Agatha's chores too.

Jen is a total neat freak. She wants everything to be organised and under control—and she needs everything to smell nice.

She always makes the others scented candles. Agatha claims they're “useless garbage,” but uses them anyways.

Jen is also the one who usually keeps track of the bills and expenses, since she earns the most through her, “real job.”

Lilia is the sort of person to get lost in the mall, or even just the super-market. Alice has needed to look for her more than once.

Agatha loves crushing Jen's videos by appearing in the background and doing whatever bullshit she feels like.

Alice and Billy are everyone's mediators. Whenever someone gets in an argument, they're the ones who force them to work it out.

Alice is very protective of Sharon and Lilia, because she has mommy issues. Agatha has the opposite sort of mommy issues—but Sharon and Lilia treat them both like they're their kids.

The first time Billy brought Eddie to meet his coven, they literally put him through trials to decide whether he's worthy to date their son. Eddie is surprised he's been coven-approved.

“These women are insane, Billy—but then again, so am I for sticking around anyways.”

Eddie is very tired. His favourite coven members are Jen and Alice, who he considers the most normal. I REALLY think he'd fuck with Jen, because they're both so done with everyone else.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

❤ Yandere Criminal ❤

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female reader

WARNINGS: Kidnapping.

Little gift for the New Year! Hope you guys like it :)

--

◾ Yandere!Criminal whose specialty is small robberies of convenience stores and bodegas, nothing that goes beyond that.

That also means that money is tight, it’s hard enough to cover for the insanely high rent, let alone cover for monthly groceries, water and electricity bills.

◾ Yandere!Criminal who’s fucking tired of sitting in his dark shitty apartment, smoking a blunt in hopes of deceiving the hunger that rumbles in his stomach. 

He lays back on his second-hand couch, eyes following the gray ropes of smoke that ascend from his lips, mind racing on every possible way of making money fast.

His rent is due in a week and his fridge is desolately empty, aside from a bottle of water. 

◾ Yandere!Criminal who gets restless and in the spur of the moment, decides to head out on a walk around his block. Maybe that’ll give him some ideas or distract him from the ache in his stomach. 

◾ Yandere!Criminal barely takes a few steps into the street when he sees you. 

A pretty girl walking down the street, eyes nervously darting towards every shadow that moves. 

What are you doing out in the dark street at such hours?

It’s way past midnight, as the old watch in his wrist tells him. That’s not time for a girl like you to be out, especially not his neighborhood at least.

You’re lucky that no one has approached you yet or you wouldn’t be looking so damn cute right now. 

◾ Yandere!Criminal whose interest is spiked when he notices the clothes you’re wearing under the dim moonlight.

The short dress only long enough to cover your ass, the high stiletto heels clicking on the dirty floor at each step you take. 

You’re looking like a serious sex-bomb in those clothes, despite the scaredy expression covering your dolled-up face. 

But a second look at your body has him squinting his eyes, brain engines rolling as he examines your outfit.

Is that a fucking Prada cocktail dress? And the heels that you’re wearing Louboutins? The fancy purse, a Channel limited edition? It’s got to be daddy’s money, cause that face of yours isn’t giving smart vibes.

◾ Yandere!Criminal who instantly knows this is destiny.

You were sent to him for a reason. And the reason is that you’re his new bank account. 

You have to be, otherwise it would’ve been some disgusting scumbag to find you first. 

He wastes no time in reaching out for you. He knows he’s not bad looking, high-cheekbones and lustrous dark hair. Hopefully that works in his favor. 

And it certainly does, a kind expression on his face as he offers you help. You immediately accept - so fucking naive, you poor dumb thing - immediately blabbering that your phone lost battery and that you’re sooo late to his super-chick party whose address you’re not entirely sure of. 

◾ Yandere!Criminal who nods, pretending to understand all your issues. Slapping his face as he remembers that - oh, yeah, he kinda forgot his phone in his apartment. Maybe you’d want to come with him while he grabs it?

It’s not safe for you to be out here, on your own. Dangerous neighborhood and all of that.

And you follow him right away, like a lost duckling. It’s so easy, a smirk creeping on his face when you enter his apartment.  

◾ Yandere!Criminal who instantly pounces on you, dragging you by the hair to his bedroom, a new found adrenaline running down his body.

You shriek and cry out loudly so he’s forced to push some old cloths on your mouth, using duct tape.

Honestly, he’s not even that worried about you getting away cause you’re barely able to put any fight. You’re a weak little thing, aren’t you?

◾ Yandere!Criminal who only waits a day before contacting mommy and daddy, demanding a good amount of green for them to be able to retrieve you.

He thinks a lot about how’s it gonna play out, creating a plan that sounds pretty much bullet-proof.

He gets easily distracted by you, eyes greedily running over your body. The dress doing even less to cover you in the daytime light, the make-up smudged and half-disappearing, revealing a younger – cuter – face.

You’re relatively obedient too, toning down your hysterical cries after he harshly yelled at you. He could bet that if he put on a mean face and threatened you, you’d probably suck him off. 

◾ Yandere!Criminal who finally gets his money, a large grin opening up in his face as he receives the cash. More than enough for him to move into a fancy mansion on a private neighborhood and retire for the rest of his days. 

No more stealing, no more spending his days worried about rent or food. Now he can finally sip on a freshly-made margarita and relax by the infinity-pool of his new house, the sunny rays hitting his toned skin. 

Maybe after he’s done with his drink, he’ll go pay you a visit. You’re still adapting to your new house - and him, hence why he’s keeping you in a tight leash (literally). 

Now you’re all his. His little ATM.

[togrowoldinv]

Settlement

Milf!Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader

You serve as Wanda’s attorney in her divorce proceedings, which leads to you helping Wanda see she can start again with someone new

Warnings: Smut! 18+ please! Kissing, cursing, slight mommy kink, fingering (W receiving), oral (R receiving)

Note: Milf Wanda 🤩 Enjoy!

Milf Wanda Masterlist, Main Masterlist

You try to never get too close to your clients. In your career, you like to form personal relationships with the people you provide services for, but never too personal.

That system was working pretty well until you met Wanda Maximoff. A friend of hers had suggested you to her for legal services. Her husband had hired the second-best attorney in town to defend him in the divorce. She insisted that, as the best, you help her.

You felt drawn to Wanda from the first moment you met her. She has an endearing way about her. She captivates the attention of everyone in the room without ever uttering a word. Just her presence is enough to draw attention.

There were several late nights spent at the office working on her case. You would call her and discuss how things were going. She had to get up early to get her kids ready for school, but she always stayed on the line until she was practically asleep.

Today, the case was finally settled. Wanda got the custody she wanted, thanks to you. If you’re being honest with yourself, you felt sad seeing Wanda for the last time. Her company is something you’ve grown accustomed to.

Wanda felt the same way. Which is why she got her checkbook and drove to your office one more time. You are deep in the next case’s work papers when you hear a knock on your door.

“I’m busy,” you mumble, figuring it was someone needing your assistance.

“Too busy for me?” your favorite voice in the world says.

You look up from your files to see her standing there in all of her glory. The beautiful Wanda Maximoff.

“Is everything alright, Ms. Maximoff?” You ask, standing up from your desk.

Wanda notices the way your eyes flicker to the way her chest looks in the blouse she’s wearing. She eyes your body too as you don a dark colored suit.

“Oh yes, everything is fine,” Wanda says. “I just wanted to thank you again for everything.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” you say.

Wanda is definitely older than you and her eyes tend to darken when you use terms like ma’am or call her missus.

“Come further in and have a seat.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Wanda says. The word flows off her tongue with ease. “Have I mentioned that this office is very impressive?”

“You have, but I never mind hearing it again,” you tell her. You can’t help the grin that forms on your face. “It feels nice to have my own space.”

“Right,” Wanda says. “While I’m here, I thought I could pay my final bill.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that until you get an invoice,” you say. “I talked to the billing department and did get some of those fees waived though. I don’t want finances to be an issue.”

“Well, thank you,” she says. “I guess I should just be going then.”

“Have a good night, ma’am.”

Wanda stands up and walks towards the door. You notice she takes her time. So much of you wants to stand up and call after her, but you just aren’t sure if you should.

Luckily, Wanda turns around on her on accord.

“Y/n,” she begins. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but do you think I have a chance at this new single thing?”

“Meaning?”

“I haven’t been alone since I was sixteen,” Wanda says. She walks back to the chair she was previously sitting in. “I don’t know how to be single.”

“It’ll be an adjustment,” you say. “But I know you can do it.”

“Maybe if I just get the first times out of the way,” Wanda wonders aloud. “Like the first date, kiss, all of that.”

You listen to her but don’t say anything. You can’t get a read on her. Does she want to do those things with you? Or are you projecting?

“Maybe we could- never mind,” Wanda says.

“We could what?” you finally speak again.

“Well, it’s just you have been so kind to me,” she says. “I was thinking maybe you could help me out one last time.”

“Okay,” you say. “How can I help you?”

“Will you kiss me?” Wanda asks.

“Oh.”

“I just- no I know it’s silly!” Wanda says.

She stands and paces in front of your desk. You rise and walk to her.

“Hey, it’s not silly,” you say.

“No?”

“No. If you want me to, I will kiss you.”

“Please.”

You take her face between your hands and brush her cheeks with your thumbs. The blush on her cheeks and the way she closes her eyes in anticipation makes your heart flutter.

Taking your time to lean in, you finally place your lips on hers. The electricity is palpable. You kiss her slowly, taking in everything that is Wanda. She deepens the kiss. When your tongue brushes against hers, she loses balance.

“Oh,” Wanda mumbles, pulling away just enough to regain her balance.

“How was that?” You ask her.

“Better than I could’ve ever imagined.”

“Yeah?”

Wanda nods. She feels herself yearning for you even more now. Asking for a kiss was a test to see if she wanted more.

Without uttering a word, she kisses you this time. Wanda pushes you back towards your desk, and you sit on the edge. Her intentions are clear in the way she slots her thigh between your legs.

“Wanda,” you say breathlessly. She moves her lips to your neck. “Wanda. Ms. Maximoff, slow down.”

Wanda stops and looks at you. You’re both flushed.

“Are you okay?” She asks.

“Yeah. I just want to make sure you want this.”

“I want this. I want you, sweetheart.”

“Then take me.”

Wanda gasps at your words, and you continue to take her breath away. Your hands make quick work of unbuttoning her blouse. The material falls to the floor along with her bra. You move your lips to her chest and suck on her perfect nipples.

She lets out the most beautiful moans. You move your hand to her pants and slip it down her jeans. Moving your fingers over her wet folds, you nip at her breasts.

“Fuck,” Wanda says. “Baby, please.”

“I’ve got you, mommy,” the word slips out.

“Fuck,” she mumbles.

You pull down her pants and finally insert your fingers into her. She gasps with every thrust.

“Come for me, mommy,” you tell her. “All for me.”

“All for you, baby,” Wanda says.

She comes hard against your fingers. She buries her face in your shoulder as she regains her breath. You kiss her head.

“May I?” Wanda asks, her eyes shyly looking towards your core.

“You may,” you say, with a slight chuckle at her sweetness.

Wanda kneels in front of you and pulls your pants down to the floor. She drops kisses to your thighs.

“Don’t tease me, Wanda.”

She continues to kiss you everywhere but where you need her the most. You take her hair and pull her into your pussy. Wanda licks you before taking your clit in her mouth.

“Fuck, mommy,” you say.

“Fuck,” she moans against you.

It doesn’t take long for Wanda to make you come against her tongue. You bring her up for a searing kiss.

You’re both breathless as you look into each other’s eyes. Your hearts flutter.

“Thank you,” Wanda says.

“Anytime, Ms. Maximoff,” you say. “Only the best for my clients.”

Wanda giggles sweetly, and you kiss her lips once again. You have a feeling you’ll be doing this quite often.

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 4

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

as usual, I'm billy. WE WOULD LIKE TO KNOW, JAC SCHAEFFER

jen filling the gaps with her own headacanons, i see you girl

they're kinda doing their own little agatha deep dive, lol. she's a fascinating specimen, okay? don't you just want to study her in a petri dish?

billy, who's definitely not been projecting his mommy issues on a whole coven (three dead, several unlocked traumas) and hasn't been following agatha around like a lost puppy in need of a mentor: it'S nOT LoYALitY It'S AnALYSiS

that's agatha's entire son, dear lord. 'maximoffs are so dramatic' my ass.

YOU'VE BEEN TRYING TO VIOLENTLY SHOVE HER IN THE WARM EMBRACE OF A COVEN FOR THE PAST THREE TRIALS. for fuck's sake, william.

he's acting so mature and cynical when in fact he's so hurt about the people who died and about agatha's betrayal. he's putting up barriers, he's trying to trick himself into not caring, when crying and letting himself mourn would be much healthier responses! in other words, he's learning alllll of agatha's shitty coping mechanisms.

no but I won't shut up about this, it's the kind of psychological response that really fascinates me. billy has had to learn to lie and censor his true self because he doesn't want to upset his parents. he went through something EXTREMELY traumatic (reincarnating in someone else's dead body? hello?) and he can't process it with the kaplans, he knows it would hurt them too much.

so he finds agatha who is, on paper, someone who can absolutely understand what he's been trough and could totally help and guide him. he's tried to win her over, he's tried to open up, to understand her and to be understood in return. and agatha, DESPITE LOVING THIS KID SO FREAKING MUCH, is so EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED that she has rebuked almost every attempt at a deeper connection. and when you do that to a kid, not only you hurt them, you teach them by example. billy is not mature enough to be the bigger person, he sees agatha hurting him, he'll want to do the same. that's the kind of shit parents imprint on you that will be hell to unlearn as an adult.

agatha, who is - I promise you! - truly hurt by billy's words: ahahaha ouch!

I want to strangle her

one moment of silence for jen who's now alone and stuck in the middle between these two

agatha has somehow managed to sell billy's immortal soul to her ex wife while ALSO breaking her own heart AND said wife's heart in the process. and she's having A TRULY NORMAL ONE about it.

aaaaand she goes straight for jen (no pun intended). starts slow and bratty with some kindergarten insults.

OUCH, AGATHA. WHAT THE FUCK?!! AND TWIRLING YOUR HAIR?!

YOU FUCKING BITCH.

oh dear lord look at jen's face. this is actually the first time I see everyone's faces (fuck you lighting department) and it's making agatha's behavior even harder to stomach. and yes by the way, this scene is absolutely a metaphor for microaggression. knowing that jen's big moment is coming is only a half-consolation.

also agatha falling on her face, that's maybe a quarter of a consolation.

of course it is. this is the green witch trial, it's about the circle of nature, it's about life and death beginning and ending and beginning again.

here comes the tantrum!!!

now she yells at billy. and he scrambles to justify himself. this is funny but also SO FUCKED UP??

lilia when billy makes a mess: that's okay baby I got you.

agatha when billy makes a mess: oh are you having a problem? I'M GONNA MAKE IT ALLLLLL ABOUT ME! I'M GOING TO MAKE IT FUCKING WORSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(fuck she's literally my dad. jac schaeffer I'm sending you my therapy bill)

so, anyway. if a parental figure does this to you? they're being vile and immature. I don't care if they've got their own issues, this is abuse.

(and frankly, learn to recognize this pattern in friends and partners and family too. but it's especially egregious when it's done to a literal child.)

and billy going from apologetic to stone faced. barriers up. he needs to protect himself from her.

while agatha huffs and puffs, jen quietly gets on her knees when she sees the shoes. the camera goes from sharon's shoes to lilia's to alice's.

you guys, this episode is... it's so good? it's not in-your-face like episode seven, but it's doing a lot of subtle things that are getting under my skin

agatha of course plans to barrel through her problems like a rouge zamboni, and just look at jen's reaction! I'm astonished at what sasheer zamata is accomplishing in this scene. I admit the first time around I was too fascinated by hahn chewing scenery to look anywhere else, I got a poorer viewing experience for that. jen has had all her walls up, she's been doing her one note mean girl bit for seven episodes. look at her now. she is crumbling.

god I love me a show that takes very funny characters and let you enjoy them only to pull the rug from under your feet and go: now let's examine why all their funny traits are fucked up trauma responses!

JESUS CHRIST AGATHA

agatha notices billy looking at the shoes and of course mocks him about it. what are you going to do, pay actual respect? cry and properly mourn? like some weak baby???

pay attention now: billy gets mad, and agatha suddenly looks at him with interest and, dare I say, expectation? was she provoking him on purpose?

yes, yes she was. that's the evil of agatha harkness. and I'm not saying her tantrum wasn't real, she was absolutely upset and she relished pouring all her spite and anger and desperation into it. but agatha's theatrics are always happening for a reason. when she's alone she's much more subdued; when she's in public, she vents out her overwhelming emotions trough a big fucking show, so she can make it everyone's else problem. that's the equivalent of when an abuser throws a tantrum and somehow always ends up breaking your stuff, never their own. it's both self-soothing and a scare tactic, two birds with one stone. that's why she went after jen and immediately taunted her about lilia. her words were precise and on target. she enjoyed watching jen squirm.

and yelling at billy just now? it was another one of her calculated risks. what billy is going to do next is anyone's guess, but at least they're not stuck on the Road any longer.

I don't know if I'm making myself clear enough. it's like, how can agatha be so smart and such an idiot at the same time? because she's a coward. because she chooses to. because the alternative is facing her own fucking issues and admitting the truth.

and the truth is scary. the truth is too awful.

next up: billy lands them at the morgue.

great job there, agatha!!

go to episode 8 part 5

[teeramoonlover]

This got me thinking.

Billy Loomis, Stu Macher/William Afton, and Bo Sinclair as they grew older, at some point they need someone from their own flesh and blood to continue their legacy, right?

So yeah those three gonna build one big happy family with reader, and their kids gonna be a bunch of satan's spawn but only being lovely to their own mom/dad/guardian.

And ofc in this case, those three lovely slashers ain't dead in these scenario.

Billy Loomis

As we all know, Samantha Carpenter is the infamous daughter of Billy Loomis. But what if Billy Loomis actually have another kid from the reader? I'm gonna assume this guy gonna be his son.

(My pov) His son definitely will hunt and kill the Ghostface, who dare to be like his dad. In his mind, he was like 'my dad and his friend are the only Ghostface, no one's gotta be like him. And it will stay that way'. So to ease his bloodlust, instead of killing innocents, why not just kill these Ghostface rookies. It's like they're asking for it, didn't they?

Not surprised to see he loves horror movies, maybe get inspiration from crime documentaries. High chance he is the mastermind and have many ways to lure those new Ghostface to him. Tempting to torture them like John Kramer did to his victims.

Oh and if his dad has mommy issue, bro got a whole daddy issues coming in. Like father, like son

Cast (Son): Benjamin Wadsworth

Born: 1997

Stu Macher/William Afton

If Stu Macher had a kid, ya bet his children gonna be a goofball like him? Wrong. In fact (from my pov), his son gonna double up from Stu's inner psychotic tendency in him. More aggressive, more violent and more unhinged. His son knew to embrace madness.

If Stu Macher become a killer because of peer pressure, this kid just pure psycho. Instead of being a friendly social butterfly or party king like his dad, he's the appitome of school's bad boy type of thing. It's either being mean or meanest.

Don't let me start on him becoming Micheal Afton.

If he gets proper love from his mom/guardian, he gonna be a big softie and overprotective (possessive) to his love ones. Gonna be hella toxic. He can be good, only with his mom/guardian, but to someone else? Rarely occasion.

Cast (Son): Drew Starkey

Born: 1996

Bo Sinclair

Ok first of all we all know, BO SINCLAIR IS A BEAST IN BED (rip reader's cunt/rim hole) and when he knew reader is pregnant, he was worried he might not be a good father figure to his kid until their first child born. Things change. Seeing his son's big blue eyes, like him, stir something in him. The Sinclair Jr made him soft. So ofc, Bo becomes bold and wants another child cuz he doesn't want his son to be lonely.

It's to be expected. To be apart of the Sinclair, they would eventually have twins sooner or later. Thank god both their son's head still intact in one piece. On the other hand, his three sons grew handsomely and receive motherly love from the reader.

The eldest, have a nasty tempered like his dad. You got on his way, he'll beat the shit out of you. He only be really nice to someone he care most, like his mama dearest. Always goes to church with his dad to see his grandma and help him in the garage.

The twins - The first twin (middle child) definitely got the charm from his dad. Knows how to be a sweetheart to ladies, but can be deadly once he hunt them for his uncle's sculpture. Most likely helping Vincent to build the museum. Might as well make an art museum next door too.

The second gonna be a rebellion, daredevil (youngest child) Well, not like strapping him to the chair. No no, mama won't like that. He loves adventure so definitely follow uncle Lester from town to town. He likes hunting, depends whether the prey will be animals or people. He can be nice. Charming too. Gonna be good friends with Stu's son, probably.

Cast (Sons): Eldest - Bill Skarsgård, Middle - Harris Dickinson, Youngest - Rudeth Pankow

Born: Eldest - 1994, Twins - 1996

Yep, one big chaotic, happy family indeed.

[sashaaababy]

Candy - Che Ecru

Authors Note: This is a Toji fanfic;) Ive been saying i was working on a fanfic so here it is? i hope its up to standards, and for all you horn balls ill highlight the first word of where the smut starts

Summary: Reader is a young and broke dropout who was offered a job as a bartender at a strip club since she was friends with the owner. toji is a divorced single alcoholic

Wc: 2,621

Cws: Oral, rough s*x, An*l, creamp!es, p in v, nsfw, smut, dacryphilia, doggy, age gap, spit, c*m play, tummy bulge, size kink, toji is BIG, daddy kink, headlock, biting, choking, slight p!ss, reader has daddy issues, Not proof read!!

Being a drop out college student meant being on bad terms with your family, not contacting them for months, and working as a bartender at a strip club. Which also meant dealing with creepy old men wanting to fuck you on the daily, but it was the only way for you to pay for your cheap lower class apartment. You had daddy issues mommy issues shit, all kinds of issues, you hated your life and would kill to change it. but you cant, so you get dressed putting on your work uniform (a skirt and white collard shirt) and look in the mirror straightening yourself up and brushing your hair, throwing on whatever makeup fixed your eye bags. You grab your keys and purse and walk out the front door, and down the stairs of your apartment, "y/nnnn i feel like i never see you, you work late yeah?" the creepy old man at the front desk always tried to make small talk with you and you always tried your best to ignore him and walk faster out the broken revolving doors that lead into the apartment complex. Once your out you scramble for your keys in your purse and unlock your car door.

The drive feels short but you wish it felt long, you dreaded work but once again the bills aren't going to pay there self. You get out of your car and walk to the more expensive revolving doors that lead into the strip club, unlike the ones to the apartment complex these one actually work. "y/n! omg i feel like i havent seen you in forever" one of the girls run up to you and give you a hug squeezing you so tight you feel like you actually cant breath "didnt you see me yesterday?"you let out a soft giggle patting her back slightly as she lets go of the tight hug she had on you "hmmph yesterday was a long time" she pouts "i have to get working ill see you later yeah"

you set your stuff in the employee locker room and walk out to the bar table serving people there drinks and receiving tips from people who are probably to drunk to even drive home but is it bad you couldn't care less? "can i get the cotton Candy margarita" you hear a deep raspy voice from behind you as you were putting away a few bottles you turn around and see the man who was talking to you, he looked like shit, i mean no he was attractive but he looked like he had just been through the worst moments of his life "you gonna get me my drink, sweets? or no" you scramble for your words "o-oh yeah sorry about that" you turn back around embarrassed for staring make him his drink and hand it to him and like every start of some cheesy romance show, your fingers brush and you try to think nothing of it until he try to make small talk with you "you look pretty young to be working here ma, how old are you?" you stare again, not because he looks like shit but because this guy is huge like muscles that could crush you on accident without even trying, "your staring" you snap out of your gaze "oh- uhm I'm sorry, I'm 22 recently- my friends owns the place so he gave me a job here since i was kind of looking for a job" you stop yourself before you go on a ramble about how your a drop out low class apartment living failure "ahhh i see" he takes a sip of his drink looking around the bar and back at you, this time up and down like he's checking you out, you look away and clean a cup to act like your distracted or busy. "do you dance?" your eyes snap back to him giving him your full attention "dance?", "yeah like on the poles and shit" of course he meant that, gosh you feel so stupid "oh- uhm no I've never tried it before, I'm to shy for that kind of stuff." your eyes go back down to the cup you were cleaning "thats a shame" thats a shame? what does he mean thats a shame? does he wanna see you half naked on a pole? no you don't even know the guy. thoughts rush through your mind completely distracted to the fact that the guy has already left and also, left a $100 bill on the counter, your a bit disapointed you didnt get to say bye but whatever.

You walk back to to the locker room to grab your stuff, you walk outside in the cold fresh air and get inside your car to drive home, but this drive felt long, unlike it was driving to work, driving home you couldn't stop thinking about the interaction with that man, yes yes you have spoken with many people at work serving them drinking, shit you even have regulars who come in everyday and speak to you, but this guy was oddly mysterious and come on the way he just left?the $100 tip? way weird. But before you can stop thinking about it, your already home stepping out of the car and into those broken revolving doors that you need to push to get past, luckily that weird creepy guy isn't on his shift and its a lady who's about to fall asleep, i mean it is roughly 2am so its completely valid, you take the elavator all the way up to your floor and walk down the eerily quiet hallway, you dig for your keys in your purse and unlock the door and sigh as you step into your sad embarassingly small apartment, you set your stuff on the counter and sit on your bed to count your tips, you go through them when you come across the $100 bill and see something on the back of it, his phone number, you look confused not knowing if this was an accident or he meant to do it. you ignore it and put the cash away in your nightstand and stand up to take a shower and get ready for bed you turn on the shower and strip off your work clothes waiting until the shower is warm enough to step in.

You step out of the steamy hot bathroom and dry your body off scrambling through your drawer to find some pj's, once you do you climb into bed and stare at your ceiling not able to get that man and the phone number off of your mind, you grab the $100 bill from your nightstand drawer and text the number, only to see if he meant to put it or if it was an accident of course, "hey, this is the girl from the strip club, the bartender who served you your drink, did you mean to put your number on the bill or?" send. you set your phone down not expecting him to respond to the text immediately since it is 2am at night, *ding* your phone goes off just as your about to close your eyes, you reach for your phone and see the number pop up as a message notification "Hey sweets, you can start by saying thank you for the tip" you read the message slightly annoyed "thank you." you type back and hit send before falling asleep not being able to stay up any longer.

You wake up to your alarm and check your phone to see no reply back from him, you notice you don't even know his name but you move on with your day as that was just a random thought, when the time arrives to get ready for work you do your usual routine and grab your keys having that creepy guys at the front desk try to make small talk while you quickly walk out, the get to work and start taking peoples orders, and it is BUSY your exhausted as the night drags on, but then that same man comes by "hey sweets" you look up at him "you didn't answer my text" you say in a softer voice than usual, you hate to admit you were a bit sad he didn't text you back, even though you didn't even know him or his name, your life was insanely boring and he made it slightly interesting "what was i supposed to say to a thank you?" he pouts and you almost believe he was actually sad you didn't start a real conversations, you change the subject "i don't even know your name" you say softly looking at the empty glass in your hand pretending to be occupied so you don't have to look him in the eye "Toji". "Toji" you repeat feeling the way it rolls of your tongue "it sounds nice coming from you sweets" he says resting his chin in the palm of his hand, and you cant help but feel your face heat up a bit "im y/n, your weirdly comfortable to someone you don't even know" you say with a smile finally making eye contact with him, "let me take you out" your face visibly heat up at the sudden ask, take you out? he doesn't even know you but how could you not, i mean look at him. "okay" you say acting unbothered trying to hide the fact your screaming inside "perfect, ill pick you up after your shift" he says it so calmly like none of this is new to him.

Next thing you know you're getting into a mans car you barely know, "you buckled up ma?" you nod nervous for what your getting yourself into "where are we even going, its super late i doubt anywhere is open." he shakes his head "don't worry that pretty little head of yours alright?" and you listen obediently sitting patiently in the passenger seat of his car. he pulls up to an expensive looking building and thats when you realize its a penthouse, your at his house, on the first time going out with him? i mean your already here and you cant change your mind now. He gets out and runs to the other side of the car to open the door for you before holding his hand out to help you out of the car, you look up at the building as you step out, you have butterflies swimming in your stomach, you hands are sweaty your scared if he can feel it, "cmon ma no need to be nervous" he kneels in front of you putting his face in your hand looking up at you "i have sum good food, games, i don't expect anything from you i just want you to have a good time ma" oh this man is down bad which is surprising for how scary and big he looks, but you give in feeling more comfortable and not as he gets up and leads you inside and into the elevator you both walk into his dimly lit penthouse and your shocked, food on the island table, a pool table, being a broke drop out you never thought you could ever step foot in a place like this or breath near a place like this, you look around fascinated and excited at the food "did you make this?" Toji wont lie to you he didn't make it, his house keeper did "hah, no i have a house keeper she's a great cook" you look around at all the sweets and eat a cupcake happily, he comes up behind you hugging your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder "is this okay ma?" you nod slowly shocked but comfortable having the man twice your size hold you like this, in some way you felt safe even though being here with a man you haven't even known for a week is probably insanely dangerous.

And it was, because next thing you know your getting your brains fucked out on the living room couch, he's putting you in doggy style forcing your back in a arch you didnt even know you could do, pounding his cock into your warm cunt, bullying your cervix with his fat tip kissing it and your g spot making you feel that deep stretch with his girth, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as wet *plap plap* noises fill the room while you gush all over his cock and balls, "f-fuck baby your pussy's so h-hah tight" he's digging his nails into your hips you swear it will leave marks in the morning, he leans forward putting his weight and chest on your back as his arm reaches around putting you in a headlock that makes your brain feel fuzzy and your vision go blurry, all you can feel is his cock drilling your pussy "h-hnngh T-toji s-stop -i need to -pee" he thrusts even faster you swear he's just being mean "h-hah i don't care" you whine and try to squirm away from his cock but the headlock he has on you keeps you in place "T-toji seriouslyyy" he uses his other hand that was on your hip to reach under you and push on your bladder "i s-said i don't care" you whine and piss on his cock and his thrusts only get faster "f-fuck your such a dirty fucking slut on my c-cock" he bites down on your neck trying to muffle his whimpers and grunts, he moves his hand towards your lower belly feeling the bulge in your tummy "f-fuck you f-feel that baby? thats d-daddys cock drillin your belly" you start crying from the overstimulation and the orgasms hes taken out of your body "f-fuck baby your so small compared to me, i don't even know how this small little hole is taking me s-so well- oh fuck!" you feel warm thick spurts of cum fill your hole shooting directly at your cervix as he pumps it deep into you with long slow thrusts making sure you get your fill, "fuckkk baby just like that- milk daddy's cock cmon sweets don't s-stop" he flips you over onto your back as he slips out of your gaping pussy so he can watch the mix of juices run out of your hole and onto the bed sheets "fuck baby your beautiful" he climbs closer to you hooking his arms under your legs spreading them wider as he settles his face between your thighs licking his dry lips before leaning in and looking up at you with his gorgeous eyes. Sucking on your clit flicking it with his tongue before giving your hole attention, sticking his two thumbs inside and spreading it wide so he can look inside, "fuck i filled you up good huh baby?" he sticks his tongue in fucking it in and out tasting the mix of you both combined spitting on your pussy and playing with it "fuck baby, tastes js like Candy" he uses 2 fingers sticking them inside while he sucks on your clit while your a crying whiney mess trying to push his head away but it just makes him flick his tongue faster on your clit, "T-toji s-stop it i cant-" tears stream down your face from the overstimulation "your so pretty when you cry baby, you have no idea" and once you cum one last time for him he kisses your clit before crawling back up to you and hugging your waist pulling you up close to him and kissing all over your neck before having you fall asleep on top of his massive body that you barely cover half of.

[lacedinweb22]

I don't wanna let you go ❦︎

inspired by Enhypen’s “Bills” - Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader (angsty chapter from my Wattpad series Vampire Next Door)

‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱

Miguel’s mother wasn’t gentle. His personality attests to that.

She was abusive, resentful, lacked any empathy, just overall shitty. Not much of a mother at all.

Miguel didn’t thrive at home, but he did thrive at school.

Though he was sarcastic, talked back to any authority (to be fair, he usually had a point), and had a hell of a mouth on him, his teachers gave him the validation his mother didn’t—academic validation.

He was a genius, really, and school was his distraction from the hell hole he lived in.

High school was far too slow-paced for him. And university, he found slightly challenging, but when he looked around to see everybody else was really struggling, having breakdowns, begging for his tutoring, he realized he found his courses quite easy. He realized he was different…

socially and academically.

He’s only ever had three friends, Vel being one of them.

He surprisingly found a friend in the hard-shelled vigilante, an acquaintance, someone he could banter with, argue, fight. They were there for each other.

Is it impossible to turn back time? No time.

So when he realized in addition to you possibly being hung up on some girl you used to live with, his own acquaintance had made a move on you, he came in swinging.

He reflects, remembers:

“I know you already hate me… already don’t trust me, but I need to tell you something else,” you muttered.

“Dios, what?”

“Vel… has been flirting with me. When you left, after she hurt herself, she… she kind of admitted her feelings to me.”

“Vel? Vel. Vel as in Velvet, Vel as in—”

“Yes, Mig. The only Vel we both know.”

“Vel?”

“Oh god.”

“After I cleaned up her messes, after I patched up her knee? After I—”

“I know.”

“And you did what? You said what?”

“I was kind of in shock, and I know— I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming… I just, I said I wanted you, and that’s when she brought her up. She said you were in the way like my roommate’s boyfriend was. Struck a nerve, struck several, so I left.”

One day, the invoice that you stuck on me, the pain that became my share,

He nods.

“Funny. Thought you were still hung up on her, thought you were going to abandon me and move back with her, meanwhile, the only real threat was my own fucking friend. Adds up.”

I’m sure I paid for it.

He shakes his head, forehead resting on his own big hands. He doesn’t look up at you.

****

He realizes he has mommy issues, abandonment issues, every issue in the book really.

Getting closer to you scared him. He worried he was a burden, that you’d have to deal with all of the weight that came with him. But you were reassuring, seemed like you could handle it, like you wanted to handle it.

You made him trust again, made him a better person.

He sits on the fire escape, slouched, head hung in thought.

It takes everything in him not to go to your bedroom window, just right there, he wouldn’t argue, he’d just embrace you. It’ll fix everything he thinks.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he sits, continues to think.

He never really had space for insecurity, or reason for it really, being at the top of the class with no threats ever, made him secure in himself, gave him a strong sense of confidence.

Besides… maybe the insecurity stemming from the rejection and neglect from his mother—but he refused to count that. He accepted their fucked relationship at a young age, and decided he’d become smart, build his way out of there. Fuck her. He didn’t need her. It was a lost cause,

but you, he could never give up on you. He does need you.

New emotions, love, being loved by you, this, however, brought forth a new sense of insecurity.

For once, he didn’t have control over everything, over himself.

He seeks your love, attention, wants to make you feel loved, understood, and the idea that you could find someone else to do that, made him insecure, made his heart race, body temperature hot.

Maybe his mom did have something to do with this, Vel always said so anyway. Maybe for once she was right. He feared you’d abandon him—emotionally, physically—the way the one person in the world who was meant to love him abandoned him.

He wonders how he—

Your window slides open. He turns back to see you. You look exhausted—he hates to think he’s to blame—tired, and still beautiful.

“Y/n.”

“Miguel.”

The sad way you say his name makes his stomach drop. You sit on your window sill, fiddling with your jacket.

“I’ve been thinking.”

I thought about it, it’s not paid.

He looks up at you, desperate to know what you think.

“Maybe… maybe we need a break, maybe we just need time apart,” you say, weakly.

He exhales, like he’s been punched in the stomach.

You continue, “Maybe I’m still not healed from her, and I know—I see that it hurts you.”

You sniffle, tears rolling down. You rest your head against the brick wall.

“I don’t want to let you go,” you sob, gently.

He wants to hug you, but it’ll only make this harder.

The price of parting keeps getting more and more expensive. I just wanna let it go.

Maybe he deserves to be abandoned. Maybe you’ll both hurt less this way.

Why don’t you just let me go?

He wonders if this is permanent, if it’s really the end, but it only makes him feel dizzy. He stands up, wipes the tears he didn’t realize were falling, and gives you one last look,

“If that’s what you want.”

The right price I only learned through tears. 

｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱

ughhh angst

anyways yeah shocker I'm an Engene ❀*ੈ  go stream Romance: Untold

time-skip chapter coming soon ₊ʚïɞ 

[cowgirlcherrie]

georgia canned peaches — ⋆｡°✩ 🐎 cowboy! ellie

pairing: cowboy! hitwoman! ellie x black! fem! reader. wc: 5.0K

synopsis: on the run was Tennessee’s peach, who trades a life of discomfort for security with a Texan stranger

warnings: 18+, MDNI! mommy issues, slight religious trauma if you squint, heavy touching, ellie has an accent, mentions of death and loneliness, heavily inspired by Bones and All ( minus the c*nnibalism and gore), dom! ellie, domestic! ellie, heavy use of petnames (peach, sweetness, sugar, doll), stranger danger lowkk…, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, mentions of weapons, killing, black feminine coded reader, running away, taking care of injuries, injured ellie (so mention of blood, bleeding),

━━━ ♪ peach & georgia by kevin abstract

a/n: heyy everyone!! here's a quick lengthy one-shot for cowboy-ish Ellie! if you enjoy it babis my ask button is open and I'm always accepting requests if you want headcanons, etc, but enjoy!! ⊹˚. ♡⊹˚. ♡

✧˖°.

Mama didn’t raise no bitch! Or a conniving little thief either. 

You tested that theory. Your hands became sticky with anything remotely flashy. Perhaps that was how you found out how to survive on your own. Times like this you wondered where you would be if your mama had just been a perfect Mary Sue. Made dinner, taught you how to wash your clothes and braid your hair, tucked you in at night, and just maybe taught you how to be better than a man. But now you were alone, in the hot Texan heat, and it felt like a smack to the face. Similar to her handprint the night she let you loose and hissed that you are on your own. You didn’t wanna cover the bills anymore or hear her bullcrap about how it was Adam and Eve — not Eve and Eve. You grew tired, and so did your feet that seemed to get you as far as you were now. Perhaps it wasn’t smart to smash your piggy bank taking the $500 dollars you spent bussing tables to go and a messenger duffle that could fit 3 heads. No plan either, which was significantly negligent, but your sticky fingers got you farther than you ever could, and they made sure you were fed. 

That would explain why you were stealing in a gas station grocery. Crouched by the nonperishables stuffing anything and everything into the duffle bag. Georgia peaches, check. Canned pineapple, check. Dried beans and nuts, double-check. You weren’t exactly careful, but the place loomed with unfamiliar faces who certainly were too full of themselves to stop you. So you kept going, a first aid kit for the bruises that were forming on your knees and sewing material to fix the rip in your jacket. Well not your jacket, but your dad's jacket. Brown thick cotton over your shoulders to cover the long dress you were in, it was a smart decision. The jacket kept you warm on the desert nights, and it made home in your hands during the day. The little pockets are perfect for stuffing loads of crap you don’t need. With the crack of another can hitting the floor, it paralleled a shiny brown boot. Drenched in leather and gold detailing as it smacked the tile. Left foot – right foot – left again. Your eyes followed the trail of feet, ignoring the can that rolled away from you as a hand reached down to pick it up. A roughened, bloody, feminine freckled hand. Now the mystery girl was looming over your figure, in an authoritative stance, as if her ego had been bigger than her height itself. But she was also bleeding. Her right arm clenched to her hip as blood seeped between her fingers. 

“Yers’ drop somethin’ peach?” The accent sent a shiver up your spine. It was thick and unfamiliar but maybe the word peach, at the end masked her roughness. You now made eye contact with the girl, green eyes looming into yours as you shakily took the can of peaches.

“M’sorry that was my bad,” you mumbled taking the peaches back and tucking them into your chest. You couldn’t slip it back into your bag now, next thing you know she would yell THIEF! and drag you by your collar to the front counter. But the woman was in such poor shape to do so, her freckled face wincing ever so slightly with every movement her body made. She was a cowgirl, you’ve heard all about them in the papers but didn’t take them for the real deal. Her hat told you all you need to know, brown to match her thick belt and blue bell bottoms. Oh, she was the real deal.

“Could ya be a doll n’ grab me a kit” The woman groaned out, pushing her body weight in front of you. Her standing position contrasted yours that was crouched down, at eye level with the material. “You’s a real catch ya know? Put the peaches back in. I know you were stealin’” This made you freeze. Fuck!Fuck!Fuck! Your brain shouted you were screwed.

Your hands now moved slower reaching for the kit in front of you, and you suddenly realized how overly close the woman was to you. Almost blocking your field of vision from anything to your left. You ignored her statement, as you shakily lifted the first aid kit to her hands. 

“Peach…you are a delight, but now you listen,” The woman didn’t take the kit, “A camera has been pointed at ya for the past 5, and now you got Tina’ at counter watchin’ ya. You are gonna live up to bein’ delightful and pay for this one thing” The woman was scrounging in her pocket and you took the moment of silence to think to yourself, you had barely any money. $500 was something you needed to make stretch.

“What?”

“I don’ take you for a fool, I’m Ellie, and I mean no harm.” Ellie took off her hat placing it over the left side of her chest at her heart, giving you a simple nod before putting the dusted brown hat back on her head. Ellie this time put a stained $10 bill on top of the first aid kit that had been suspended in the air by your hand. This action made you stand up – eye level with this time. Noticed the girl has a height to her, her figure looming over you as you stood.

“Give me the bag [what?] your bag sweetness! we don’t got all day, dammit I’m hurt” Ellie stated bluntly. There was no more time for jokes or stealing any more Georgia canned peaches. There were better things to worry about. Like the fact that you can go to jail for stealing and Ellie who was bleeding out in front of you. You slid your brown bag off your shoulder handing it to Ellie who swung it over her left shoulder. 

“Go see Tina with ‘er blonde hair, act sweet, say your visitin’ family. If they ask, say the Williams Ranch, she’ll give you no hard time” Ellie started as she was giving you instructions, “When ya finish, keep the change, meet me at my car I’ll be outside. You get your bag – I fix my wound, and you get the fuck outta town.” Ellie finished. This time her look was stern, and aggressive as if she was testing you. Testing your loyalty, your honesty, your act. She wanted to see how you worked under pressure, she wanted you to suffocate from fear. All you could do is nod, swallowing harshly, as Ellie turned her body walking down the Isle to your left.

You took the initiative to make your way to ‘Tina’. Ellie was right, the blonde had been suspicious of you. Asked you all the questions that Ellie said she would, but she backed off once you mentioned the Williams Ranch. Handing you the exact change of 0.50 cents and a hospitable smile, saying “Have a great day.” Tina’s defensiveness changed with one simple title. This made you wonder how much authority Ellie had over the place, questions flooding through your brain as you pushed the door and walked out, being met with the setting sun.

The sun was getting low, and there wouldn’t be a motel for another mile out. Sure you could do the walk but you weren’t guaranteed anything. A whistle brought you out of your trance, belonging to Ellie who this time had a toothpick between her cushioned pink lips, as her body leaned against a ran down red car, with muddied wheels. You jogged over this time seeing that your bag was missing from her shoulders rather this time in the passenger seat of her car. 

“Here you go, what you asked.” You pushed the first aid kit into her hands like you’d done back in the store. Ellie mumbled a thank you, as she nibbled on the toothpick. This time, taking the kit and putting it on the hood of the car. 

“Yous’ as quiet as a mouse, but orders ya take well…Peach could you help me patch up, I ensure you a place to stay and food in return – all comfort no lies…” It took you time to think about it. What did people call this…southern hospitality? She was sweet to you despite not really knowing you but the situation was still tit for tat. You do for me, I do for you. Wax on, Wax off. You weren’t gonna say no to a place to crash, where you didn’t have to worry about the faucet being broken or water barely coming out because the bill wasn’t paid. You were certain her bills were paid. 

“Yes, please…uh thank you!” You exclaimed as you began to dig through the box, taking out a bottle of water from your coat pocket, also stolen using it as a hand wash and something to clean the area, temporarily where the wound is. “doncha thank me just yet, you’re just getting started, peach.”

 Ellie was surprisingly still gentle with you, taking her time to crouch into the backseat of the car, while you sat next to her with the kit on the center console. Ellie took her time to untuck the white button-down shirt, as her hands shakily fiddled with the buttons. Due time, her snail speed started to irritate you making you smack her hands away doing it yourself. The exchange was silent, but you preferred it to keep the awkwardness at bay. Ellie shook off her white button down, leaving her in a white tank top — Ellie this time took the initiative to roll the tank top up to right below her boobs allowing you to wince at the large gash on her hip.

“Holy Sh—”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“Not my first Rodeo” Ellie continued as you poured water on the wound making Ellie grit her teeth. Tilting her head back as whimpers left her mouth at the sudden coldness. All of it was hard to do when you’re in the back of a car trying to patch up a borderline dead woman. But before you could ask any questions, Ellie took the initiative to do it herself. 

“W-Where you headed, whats yer’ story?” Ellie grimaced through the pain as she held her head against the headrest, pants escaping her lips at an alarming rate. “God…I’m sorry,” You hesitated, you couldn’t even answer one simple question, your hands shaking at the blood that was covering your hands as it just wasn’t slowing down.

“Jeez– I hope a lil’ blood don’t scare you peach, I woulda done it myself baby,” Ellie hissed, trying to stay moderately sweet as she was now gripping onto the door handle, her right hand finding its way to your thigh, squeezing for the endless support. That’s when you noticed her tattoo, a death’s-head hawkmoth, and vines. Beautiful, yet chaotic, she had a story. Ellie squeezed again your thigh again making you look back at her. “Eyes up here baby [sorry] where [shit] ya’ from?” You couldn’t lie, the rifle at the back of her car taunting you. If she wanted to kill you she certainly would have done it by now. She wasn’t a threat, and she proved that in the store.

“I’m from Tennessee, I’ve been traveling on foot. I’m runnin’ away” You confessed as Ellie nodded her head in response, Your accent was slight, barely noticeable making more sense in Ellie’s head at why you struck her as different. Your beautiful brown skin glowing under the setting sun, you were a beauty to her. “Figured, how old?” Ellie questioned as you continued to stay frozen, eyes on her face to continue the conversation. “21” Ellie nodded again. 

“Thought so, 22” Ellie responded. There it was again, the tit for tat. 

“You seem like a good girl, far away from home aren’t cha. What’s wrong with yer family? Perhaps your mama?” Ellie tilted her head watching as your face transitioned from bliss and tranquility to fear and panic. She knew she struck a nerve, your mama was the problem. She didn’t wanna pressure you, hell it didn’t matter now. You were on your own, like a scared little lamb that has been deterred from its family. Possibly you were the black sheep, different from the rest. Ellie, once again, didn’t wanna pressure you. 

“You look like you need someone to take care of ya, don’t worry Peach I’ll take care of you” Ellie whispered, her voice all velvety like icing a chocolate cake. Smooth and sweet with care and caress. Ellie was unlike others you’ve met. Or any ex-lover you had. This time you weren’t afraid to let her in or take care of you. Hell you wanted that, you’ve been craving it for all years of your life while you had to do it for others. Maybe it was time someone exchanged the favor. The good karma bell rang in your ears, as a smile tugged at your lips.

“Make sure you cared for, if you let me” Ellie whispered some more, her hands this time traveling to your waist, giving a gentle squeeze, to which you could only hum in response. She was a charmer and knew all the right words to get you sunken in with her. Mama always said to not trust strangers, but why didn’t she feel like one? Her scent was intoxicating all you wanted to do was lean down and sink your pointed fangs into her shoulder, hearing her cry of satisfaction while she continued to call you Peach. Peach…Peach…Peach. You liked that name, no one called you that but considering that's what she handed you when you first spoke, it didn’t run as a surprise. 

Ellie squeezed, “Words, sweetness?”

“Yes” you squeaked, which probably sounded oddly sexual now that you thought about it. Unholy thoughts plague your brain at the sight of the Texas beauty in front of you. Realizing your task still was unfinished you got back to work. Hands working fast as you took your time, threading the suture thread through the needle as it came in contact with the flesh that was Ellie’s loose and separated skin.

Ellie wincing as you dug the needle in, and back out with an exhale. It was a semi-shitty stitching job, but you were able to tightly close the wound and stop the bleeding. Ellie didn’t speak, considering she’d risk completely yelling every curse word and potentially scaring you off, she settled on biting the hem of her tank top instead. Thick black lashes coated with tears at the sudden pain and blood crust. You were gentle though, Ellie caressing your waist as you put down a gauze pad, followed by wrapping it with the gauze roll and securing it with the adhesive tape. Patting to let her know that you were finished. 

“Yer’ such a good girl you know?” Ellie cooed as her hands found their way up to your braids, bringing your head down so she can give a chaste kiss to your head. Right…Right… Southern Hospitality. The feeling almost made you cry. Praise, followed up with affection? Like nothing you have felt before – hell you only thought they did that in movies. Ellie, however, was like a movie. Purley a fever dream, you were scared to fall asleep, what if you imagined the whole thing? You were enjoying your runaway escapades too much for it all to be fake. 

“Let’s get the show on the road,” Ellie gave a smile, making her way out of the back, suggesting that you do the same. So much for not trusting strangers.

✧˖°.

Father, Forgive me for I have sinned… it was blurry 

As we forgive our trespassers…still blurry

Trespassers…clear

You were a trespasser, is what you were getting from Ellie’s narration. Over the 30-minute car ride to her Farmhouse, Ellie explained to you the whole ordeal. Her cowboy hat was on your head as you listened to her tell narration of the cowboys' sealant for the townspeople. Why Tina, at the gas station tried to make you a friend. This Texan desert, farmland was constructed with the passage that cowboys and cowboy decedents protect the townspeople from narcs and trespassers, which in this case you could have been either. Debunked neither. It was one of those towns that people suggest you pass, hell probably inquire why it's still on the fucking map.

Ellie confessed that she was also a trespasser, just like you. Taken in by her late found father Joel who showed her how to run the rodeo. How Millers Ranch, became Williams Ranch. It was impressive, your eyes gleaming with admiration. Then it hit you, why she had the shotgun she did bounties on narcs, drug smugglers, the whole ordeal. People who came in to steal, wreak havoc, and destroy the peace. She was the town's grim reaper. She was the one who knocks. You felt faint, as the realization knocked into you like a brick. Nothing was truly sweet about her, that accent was to mask how with one click she’ll hunt like they were rabbits. You were trapped in her cage.

Upon arriving at her farmhouse which was large enough for more than one, it made you sad to see. She was alone, by herself. No wonder it was easy for her to drag you into her company, human interaction seemed obsolete out here. A dim light shown from what you assumed to be the horse stable, that was rather quiet as the nightfall had put you at ease. You held your jacket to your body tighter at the sudden gust of wind, hearing the weeds brush against each other — almost screaming in the wind. You held tightly onto your bag while Ellie limped past you, with the white button-down rested over one shoulder. Fiddling with the keys in her pocket. 

“Shoes off at the door, watch your step,” Ellie spoke up as she opened the door, you were hit with the sudden aroma, it smelled like fresh wood, pine, and just a hint of freshly baked cookies. It was how you pictured going to visit your grandmothers to be. Warm and welcoming. Complying with her wishes, you took your boots off, leaving you in mix-matched socks with funky designs that you have bought out of quirkiness. Ellie found this amusing. White ones to contrast your colors, the two of you had a lot of differences. But for the lack of similarities came an understanding. A mutual grounding between the two of you. A grey area. Ellie was behind you this time, taking her hat off your head, hooking it onto the wall, your thick jacket as well, and placing it on the hook beneath it. 

“Welcome, home” 

Now that made your stomach curl, you didn’t know what home is, besides yourself and your belongings. Attaching your home to people, not places. It was a wave of worry and fear that hit you. Your feet stuck as it felt like someone took a hammer and nailed your feed to the wooden floors. It was lively and well-decorated for someone that lived alone. Breaking free from your sinking feet you started to observe the living space. There was art, tones of it, stumbling across a photo in the bookcase of a much younger Ellie and an older man with salt and pepper hair who you had presumed to be Joel. The name fit his face well, A small smile creeping up to your face at the closeness of the two. Ellie seemed happy – carefree now that you look at her, that happiness seemed sucked away from her life, she didn’t smile quite like that anymore. Not until you cracked jokes in her car and made her laugh.

“Ya thirsty peach?” Ellie questioned her voice coming out muffled as her figure was far away in the kitchen area, hearing as the refrigerator closed. “I’m good, thank you though.” You put the photo back where you found it, following the trail of her voice. She was very trusting for a stranger, you were already infatuated with the woman, yearning for more. Yearning for her to give you a taste or perhaps a touch. Now you were sitting on her marble countertop, placed there by Ellie as she moved quickly around the kitchen pouring herself a glass of water from the glass pitcher, drowning it all in one go. She wiped the falling water around her mouth with the back of her arm eyeing you in the process, Ellie laughed. You knew her for a short amount of time, but long enough to know that laughter from her was rare – take it as a compliment, you thought. 

Ellie made her way over to you, her hands now on your knees, moving them further apart as she pushed her body in between her legs. Her arms resting on the counter space behind you,  trapping you in her arms.

“Mama didn’t teach you no good...to trust strangers? Oh…Babygirl you’re dangerous” Ellie scolded, laughing as you give the girl a doe-eyed look – your hands finding a  home on her arms. Wrapping your hands around her biceps, as your thumb move up, down, and in a circle. 

“I figured if you were gonna kill me, you already would have done so.” You mumbled as Ellie’s face got a lot closer to yours now. You can see the freckles that decorated her cheeks, her hydrated pink lips from the water she just had, the slit in her eyebrow, and her eyes. The piercing green forest that was her eyes, but it was beautiful, reminded you of the trees that you had seen when you walked. The storm that was your life, before Ellie became your superhero, the knight in shining armor. She saved you, and you owed her big time.

“Bingo! I know you smart peach, and that’s why imma tell you once, listen t’me real good.” Ellie specified, bringing one arm up to grip your chin gently, not allowing you to look anywhere else but herself. Ellie seemed possessive, maybe she lost too many people or her lack of social interaction but she didn’t want to let you go, and you could tell. She needed you just as much as you needed her, a packaged deal.

“You don’ trust nobody that ain’t me.” Ellie began, “Someone’s overly nice to ya’ you tell me. Mean? You fuckin’ tell me. Both don’t fly with me baby, if it ain't from me” Ellie finished, letting go of your jaw to which you nodded. Ellie was a fuckin’ force to be reckoned with, It was like digging into a mystery box, you were unsure of the flavors and layers she had to herself. Hell, she could be manipulating you and you wouldn’t even notice. Hospitality for comfort or comfort for hospitality, it all looked the same.

“Ay Ay, captain!” You playfully military saluted the girl, making Ellie roll her eyes at your statement, you were exceptionally fun. Which Ellie didn’t have anymore...fun. If you classify a night at Typsy Bison as fun then so be it. “You hungry? I can run you a shower before you eat – it’s leftovers if that's alright with yourself?” Ellie questioned and that’s when it hit you, you’ve been traveling afoot all day, and the thought of even having a meal slipped your mind, but you were famished, stomach lightly growling at the mention of the word food.

“I could use food, yeah — as long as there’s no cheese.” You challenge making Ellie back away this time as she took out a glass plate, a fork, and a knife. “No cheese sugar, but something to get you settled – I always have dessert peach if you want that instead?” Now you felt like a kid in a candy store. Dessert was a rarity and boy did it sound delightful right now. Ellie smiled as she watched the way your eyes gleamed at the mention of dessert.

“Got a sweet tooth huh?” Ellie smiled, making you laugh in return. You did have a sweet tooth, anything sweet was enough to bring a smile to your face. That’s why you had a love for canned peaches. The taste reminded you of peach pie that you would get at the diner as you worked a closing shift. Sitting at a booth as you devoured a piece of peach pie, it was heated, like a warm hug in the winter. You cried every time you had a piece. It reminded you of all the good things in life – like how good your mother could be. 

“I hope you have pie” you pleaded, making Ellie nod her head. “You aren’t pressin’ yer luck! I got an apple pie from a good friend of mine, I think you’ll love it – not too sweet, but fillin’” Ellie smirks in satisfaction as she placed one hand on her hip. 

“Let’s run’ya a shower” 

✧˖°.

How were you supposed to explain to Ellie why you were crying? Pajamas that you stored in your bag resting on your body as the matching white tank top and light blue shorts attached to your frame — you just had the best shower you’ve ever had in a while. Not only was the water hot, but it didn’t cut out every five minutes, and the faucet wasn’t leaking, everything was comfortable, perfect. Ellie herself took the time you were in the shower to clean up herself, now in different clothing —  a white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants that clung to her body nicely. The two of you sitting at the dining table as Ellie watched you eat the warmed pie, a tear fell from your eye with swiftness. Ellie’s gentle gaze transitioned into confusion and eventually fear as she watched you cry. 

“Oh god, wait!... I’m sorry” you laughed in between sniffles, taking the back of your hand to rub your face.

“Jeez, I thought I did somethin’ sugar” Ellie exaggerated holding her hand over her heart as if someone pierced an arrow through it. Now it was your turn to reveal your story, like how you cried every time you ate pie, specifically with peaches. It made Ellie give a small grin. Feeling as though she did something right in her life where she wasn’t playing god,  It was wholesome that’s for sure. The redhead found it odd, but it was a sweet moment and she understood it. Ellie’s smile fell when she noticed the clock behind your head striking 10:30pm making her frown. The good times she was having at the moment were coming to an end, for both her and yourself. 

“You go’n watch the tv til your tired, I have some business to take care of before tomorrow” Ellie didn’t wanna scare you, her business was taking the grey cloth, as she wiped down her guns and reloaded them for tomorrow. She didn’t want to give you the wrong impression.  

“Can you watch it with me?” You inquired, ignoring the part where she said she had business. 

“I’m cleaning guns.”

“So? You don’t scare me cowgirl” You wiggled your eyebrows as Ellie snatched the empty plate from your hands, placing it in the sink as she let the sponge soap up to wash the plate clean with hot water.

“Fine. I see you jump – I’m goin’ to another room, I don’t mix business with pleasure” Ellie confessed as she was less focused on you this time. You chose this time to leave the dining area, entering the living room as you hit the squared television's 'ON' button. It was small and run down, similar to the one at your moms before you left. You pulled at the antenna to catch a signal. The static glitching before on came Looney Tunes. You enjoyed the show finding amusement in the animals chasing each other and the crescendo of the music at all the right moments, it was comical and amusing. You spread your body out on the couch, laying on your side as you watched the television in silence, laughing every few minutes at something that you found funny. Ellie walked into the room with a black box and 3 guns in her hand. The redhead gently settled down the weaponry, being careful not to startle you, as she slipped into the seat on the far left — your legs now found a home in her lap, Ellie gently sending a rub at your legs. If someone walked right in, they would assume the two of you were probably married for some years now. 

“This okay?” Ellie whispered as you mumbled a “yes” while your focus was still not on her. Ellie could see that you were getting tired, the way your eyes were low, and your breathing slowed down. You were at peace with yourself and with Ellie, this was one of the times when the silence was okay, a mutual serenity, and understanding — everyone was mindful of each other and it was pure love and bliss.

Ellie eyed your figure as your eyes fluttered shut, this time you were sleeping, fully this time letting yourself melt into the softness of the couch as Ellie reached over to her left to grab the blanket and drape it over your sleeping figure. This was also the time she finally got started on cleaning her guns, knowing that you were relaxed and cared for. Ellie wasn’t sure what she was doing, She felt vulnerable and that was rare, but she was doing what she said she would. Taking care of you, like you were taking care of her. You saved her life, and she saved yours, tit for tat.

Ellie in this moment craved nothing more than your lips on hers, perhaps your teeth to graze her flesh, biting…hard into her – wanting to connect and morph bodies. She craved for your love and your intimacy, she wanted you to love her bones and all. Ellie wanted you to love her past, her insecurities, her mistakes, and her wrongs. You were too good for her, she knew it, but there was nothing a sweet peach like you couldn’t fix. 

[mother-ofthe-universedraws]

So you said Bill in Simon’s body can remember being Bull for up to 6 months, what was that like for him? It’s like inevitable countdown to where he couldn’t really considered being himself anymore, but he’s also himself. I just wanna know his thought process during this, not to mention his shock at being Stanley Pines’ child.

He’s got a love-hate relationship with it. Babies are kinda useless when it comes to their ability to do anything, but he does take a lot of pleasure in the fact that all he has to do is scream and Stan will give him anything he wants.

Spoilers for the Book Of Bill, btw;

The idea is that Bill was reincarnated as Simon as a form of exposure therapy; he’s been in the theraprism for centuries by the time this happens, and while he’s been getting better, or at least getting to a point where he’s actively accepting help and trying to change, he still has a lot of unsolved emotional baggage that mostly revolves around his mommy and daddy issues. His parents weren’t great people; while his mum seems to be better than his dad, she still seems problematic. The general vibe that I’ve been picking up from them is that their love for him was very conditional; they wanted him to fit in with the rest of Euclydia to Bill’s own detriment. And even after spending centuries in the theraprism, the damage this did to Bill is still ever-present. Hence the idea of exposure therapy; they’re gonna expose him to unconditional love from a parent.

That’s where Stan comes in; the guy cares about others to the detriment of himself, and never expects someone to change their flavor of weird for anything. What one might consider freakish, he considers special, and all he ever really ask for from other people is for them to care about him too, even if it’s just a little bit. Not to mention the empathy aspect; he knows what it’s like to be unwanted by his own family. He’s kind of perfect for the role of the Good Dad, not to mention that Stan really needed someone in his life who loves him the way Simon does; someone to keep him from being as lonely as he was all his life; Stan needs Simon as much as Simon needs Stan.

Forgetting who he was and becoming an entirely new person is a painful process, but it wasn’t like Bill went into this process unknowingly. He was offered something that could help him, but warned that said help involved reincarnation. He knew the rules and how everything worked when he went into it, but decided that he might as well give this idea a shot, at least for the sake of curiosity than for no other reason. He didn’t know all the details going in, but he knew enough to know that whatever he was doing, it would involve his soul being wiped clean and an entire new life being grown from the ashes. But, by that time he’d been in the prism long enough that he was willing to accept help and try out different methods of getting better.

Simon and Bill are not the same person, but they’re cut from the same cloth. Their personalities and base instincts are extremely similar, as are their interest and quirks.

Being born to Stan is the major shocker, and Bill isn’t very happy about it. He still doesn’t like the guy, even if the intense and bitter hatred has calmed down over time. Bill does have fun “tormenting” Stan just a little as a newborn; he’d scream as often as he could out of spite, and tried his absolute best to keep Stan from getting a full nights sleep. And he does find it rather amusing that all he has to do is scream a bunch and Stan will basically be at his beck and call. He considers it a small amount of payback for the whole “killing him” thing.

He does warm up to the idea of Stan as his father over time. It’s kinda hard not to when the guy’s constantly holding you and giving you attention and love. By the time his days of being Bill are practically over, he’s pretty ok with the idea that this guy is gonna be his dad from now on. Hell, he even has an inkling of faith in the guy; he might consider Stan a failure at absolutely everything, but even he’s gotta admit that Stan’s really good at loving his family. That baby is Stan’s whole world, and even Bill can find some manner of comfort in that fact.

Sorry to go all essay on ya lol. This is something I’ve thought about a lot!

[lambmotifz]

can you pls rec me some wincest feminization kink fics? thank u 🫶🫶

my forever-favorites!

it’s easy if you try [orphaned] (daddy kink, short but beautifully written)

i’ve built my life around you by kermiethefrog (pre-series, dark & angsty)

honeywater by weefaol (sam has a pussy and dean wants to fuck it.)

hell, michigan by weefaol (“not a girl, dean,” he growls, low and feral. “but you can fuck me like one.”)

love my way by shir_hashirim (dean’s mommy issues exploration fic ft. mommy!sam)

honeymoon [orphaned] (dean’s always wanted a wife. sam fits the bill perfectly.)

mommy dearest by tradwifesam (sam wants to play mommy and daddy. dean is into it. one of the hottest fics i’ve ever read, very in character + delicious dialogue)

[helluvagirlboss]

In light of the impending Ghostfuckers emotional damage, here’s a scenario that I don’t think will happen in the show, but I think it would be absolutely fucking hilarious (based on a conversation I had with @awkwardandeccentric )

Imagine later down the line after Blitz and Stolas have been in an established relationship, Blitz is now on decent terms with Octavia, and maybe Stolas has been working at IMP for a bit, Blitz decides to throw the company a party called the “Our Dads Sucked Party” because of how all of them have Daddy Issues.

Stolas, Blitz, and Moxxie are the obvious choices, but they include Loona too because her biological dad sucked. Octavia joins, despite having a good dad, but she does have Mommy Issues and more recently Uncle Issues (aka Andrealphus) and doesn’t wanna be left out.

Millie is there for moral support.

Blitz also invites Fizzarolli to this party because Fizz’s dad was fairly absent and that contributed a lot to his exploitation later in life.

And assuming he has made up with Barbie by this point, he invites her.

Eventually Blitz makes the executive decision to have an open invite.

He posts about it on Sinstagram that says “kum or dont, idc, fuk r shitti dads”

So Blitz doesn’t have the most popular following on Sinstagram and enough people hate him that he assumes like maybe a few extra people shows up so he just rents out a floor in one of the nicer buildings in the Pride Ring.

But instead of like a few extra people…like half of Hell shows up.

So many of his ex flings and one nights stands are there as well as a bunch of people he never dreamed he’d be in the same room with again.

Verosika shows up.

Angel Dust shows up.

Multiple Overlords show up.

Blitz panics.

Because now they have to rent out the whole damn building and he has to designate floors. Tailored to specific needs.

There’s the crying floor, the therapy floor, the rage floor, the fuck it we ball floor, the fuck it we fuck floor.

This proves difficult when someone in dire need of two or more floors can’t cross over, and it causes multiple fights, that he needs to break up.

Also he has to work overtime to keep the Overlords the fuck away from each other because he is not going to deal with the fallout if an Overlord feud gets too murdery.

(He also sees an interaction between Angel Dust and Valentino that sets off the red flags in his head that he really needs to keep Valentino specifically away from Angel.

Angel thanks him for it the next day.)

His last straw is when Lucifer fucking Morningstar shows up.

Absolutely not. Blitz refuses to lose cool points by having this party go sideways in front of the King of Hell Himself.

So he bites the bullet…and calls a certain hotel for help.

Turns out Princess Charlie Morningstar is more than eager to take an overwhelming majority of drunk party-goers into her hotel, and somehow manages to bed and feed all of them.

She gets stars in her eyes when multiple hungover residents express a desire to stay at the Hotel for longer.

(Husk tries to tell her it’s because they all have hangovers that’ll last them multiple days, but Vaggie’s spear shuts him up).

And that’s the story of how Charlie managed to fill up the Hazbin Hotel for the first time in forever and it’s all because Blitz decided to throw a party dedicated to everyone with daddy issues.

Blitz doesn’t know if he regrets everything or nothing.

He doesn’t regret the praise he gets for throwing the biggest party in Hell.

But he does regret the reparation bills he gets from the owner of the building he rented.

[superboy-number-1]

To: any Lex Luthor of this platform

From: your Son-not-so-that-you-neglected

Topic: You

Dear Lex,

I would like you to know that even after all your almost-world-conquering shenanigans, you're just a bald asshole who has both daddy, mommy and child issues and a few more bucks than the average income of the population of this entire planet.

Take away those dollar bills and you'll be no better than Baldi Basics.

Everytime I look at you, the following emojis come to mind: 🚽, 💩, 🕳.

You don't even pay child support.

We get it, you hate Superman, but please stop trying to air your bald ass on TV just to raise awareness about your rivalry with him.

That is all, but I will reblog if anymore complaints I have about you comes to mind.