#in a sort of weird fucked up trauma way

[solemntitty]

today I had to explain to my mother that yes words do matter, actually and they're how we communicate ideas and concepts

[nostalgia-tblr]

re: my seemingly fringe "I don't think we're meant to think Odin was a dreadful cunt" take, when was Thor 1 actually made? Like... 2010/2011? Because I think Odin is (presumably based on comics canon) meant to be "a bit distant but overall good as a parent" but 2010ish is well after the recent (historically recent, by which I mean since maybe the 1980s) shift in our culture's ideas about fatherhood and what make "a good dad" as well as similarly radical shifts in how we approach disciplining children. MCU!Odin is therefore odd because he's a couple of generations out if he's meant to convince the audience that he's A Good Dad or even an acceptable one. Even the people making the film can't have (all) thought he was any good so with this in mind I'm more open to the idea that Odin is meant to be fairly shit. (But not entirely, and certainly not to the point of him being evil - he's doing his best and arguably the issue isn't him but the culture they've all been born into.)

IDK how old the writer was but there could be an intentional generation-gap thing going on there? An "everyone thinks this is acceptable and even good parenting, but it isn't and everyone involved is getting messed up by it." You don't have to go that far back historically before failing to show regular affection to your kids wouldn't be seen as a significant flaw in a father (whereas it absolutely would be in a mother - v interesting that as the status of women in our society has increased our idea of a good dad has shifted significantly towards an ideal that would previously have been considered "maternal" and thus "unmanly." Oh hey, looks like patriarchy is bad for men too!)

I still think a lot of fanon and fanfic overstates it (which is fine until we're at the point of inventing obviously abusive behaviour and then seemingly forgetting that we made that up), and that Odin is at least meant to be 'doing his best' but yeah Them Thor Films must surely be aware that his best is nowhere near Actually Good, yeah? I mean unless they were written by a man who lives in the 1950s, which they probably weren't. (There is absolutely some generational variation in how far the social change has taken hold but you'd have to look for a long time before you'd find a man of any age who'd say "I really wish my father had been more reserved and had spent less quality time with me" rather than wistfully expressing the opposite of that.)

[wanderingmoonmen]

do you spend time trying to talk your brain out of believing everyone actually hates you, thinks you're stupid, annoying, and just don't want anything to do with you or are you normal?

[i-love-love]

Side effect of watching three Mike Flanagan miniseries in a week a little while ago is I now have flanaverse dreams. The plot started and I went “isn’t this just a worse version of Midnight Mass?”

[phagodyke]

trying to watch all of us strangers and it's just making me cry really hard this is why I don't do romance movies WAH

[himbosandhardwear]

Eddie has a bad habit of picking at his skin when he's nervous. Not, like, shy nervous or stage fright nervous, but the real kind of nervous, not-sure-I’m-gonna-survive-this kind of nervous. Like while he was alone in the boat house, he'd shredded every one of his cuticles. That time Hopper caught him behind The Hawk, very obviously selling his wares, he'd bitten his lips bloody.

Tonight he's picking a scab off his knee. It's practically healed already, so it won't bleed, he just needs to feel something on his body come loose before he does.

“You good, dude?” Steve asks, so in tune to Eddie's nervous disposition. Such a good guy. What a friend.

Eddie lets his head hit his knee caps with a thunk.

“Yup.”

Steve snorts. “You don't look good. I mean… You know what I mean.”

He smiles, tilting his head to look at Steve, always happy to give him a hard time.

“Oh, absolutely. You think I look good, don't cha, Stevie?”

He gets a couch pillow to the face for that, but they're both laughing so he doesn't think he's crossed the line yet.

Yet, yet, yet.

“Seriously, what's up with you? You've been quiet. It makes me want to call the squad.”

“Har har,” Eddie mumbles, but he does uncurl himself, sitting back against the couch again. “I'm trying to work up the nerve to ask for advice but it's-” Christ, he doesn't even want to admit to being embarrassed, that's how embarrassed he is.

“It's what?” Steve asks, the picture of earnest encouragement. “You can talk to me about anything, man, we're, like, bonded in blood or whatever.”

“Right. Yeah. Except this has the potential to get real awkward, real quick, and I'm not sure we're at that level of friendship yet.”

“Well,” he drawls, “if you ask me whatever it is that's got you all flustered I'm sure that will level us up. Right?”

“I'm not flustered.” God damn his red fucking face. Steve just laughs at him. “It's just, I don't have anyone else to ask about this. Jonathan probably doesn't have this particular problem, cause he's got- Uh. Sorry.” Steve waves it away, so Eddie goes on. “The kids are too young and the band guys don't understand what we went through-”

“Eddie, just spit it out.”

“Fuck! Okay, fine! You asked for it.” He takes a giant breath, steels his spine and just says it. “The Trauma is affecting my ability to get laid and I don't know how to fix it. Every time I get close to it I freak out and have to bail.”

There. All out now.

He looks over at Steve, and it's so much worse than being laughed at or pitied. He just looks sad.

He shakes it off quickly, hair barely moving, Eddie notes. He finds Steve's hair routine both endearing and ridiculous.

“Yeah. Okay. That's super common, just so you know,” Steve assures him first. “Robin says it's all connected, your mind and your body, so trauma can, like, get trapped in weird places like that. I can't play baseball anymore. Cause the memory of beating demodogs to death.”

“As you do,” Eddie quips.

“Right. But your thing. Uh. Yeah, it took some time before I could relax enough to even attempt getting laid, let alone actually do it.”

“So?” Eddie drawls, waiting. “How did you get over it?”

Something is off. Steve's not known for being skiddish about sex, but his hesitation and his inability to look Eddie in the eye is setting off alarms.

“Hey, if this is too weird for you-”

“No, I'm good, it's fine. Just, I'm the only person you have to talk to about this, so I'm gonna try to be helpful but, uh,” he scratches at the back of his head awkwardly, “in all honesty, I haven't been laid since before Vecna either. Way before. So. Yeah. Not sure I should be giving out advice on anything.”

That's crazy. Like actually crazy. He can't even compute Steve Harrington not absolutely dripping in women. He must have some look on his face because Steve gives a dry sort of laugh, self deprecating, and leans back against the couch with him.

“Weren't you on a date with Brenda Mulligan the night- Vecna’s first attack?”

Steve shoots him a look. “Y- Yeah, but that didn't go anywhere. We weren't, like, compatible or whatever.”

Oh, yeah, it was weird that Eddie knew that at all, let alone remembered it nine months later. “That's too bad,” he replies lamely.

“Yep.”

He feels terrible for dragging down the whole night, it would've been better if he'd just kept his mouth shut. But that's never been his strong suit, as evidenced by him blurting out, “If the hottest guy in Hawkins can't find a suitable date, what fucking chance do I have.”

Steve snaps, “Don't say that. What the fuck?”

Great, now he's gone and made it weird. Good job calling your straight friend hot, you fuckin’ dipshit.

They sit in the awkward silence, out of things to say or out of useful things to say. Either way it's them breathing, the clock ticking, and the M.A.S.H. rerun playing softly in the background.

Steve clears his throat. “Whatever, let's get back to the point. You don't have to tell me if you don't want but…what do you think the specific reason is for your…issue?”

He thinks about it. Has been thinking about it, for a while now. “My dick still works, if that's what you're wondering.”

Steve chuckles, high and surprised. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. It's more like, I can't get out of my head. I start worrying about my scars, explaining them if someone asked. I think about how even though I don't want anything long-term, I wouldn't be able to do long-term anyway, because I'm a fucking mess. If it's really bad, I'll get flashes of Chrissy or Patrick's bones snapping, as a little soundtrack to the fun shit happening outside my head.”

Steve looks sad again. Maybe it is pity but it looks more turned inward, like he's dealing with his own shit more than Eddie’s.

“You hooking up with strangers then?”

Eddie blinks at Steve. “Well…duh. Right? Not like I have guys lined up around the block here in Hawkins.”

Steve is full blown scowling at the TV. It's weird.

“What if-”

Eddie waits but Steve doesn't finish his thought.

“What if…what?” He prompts, giving a little nudge with his foot.

He's still avoiding eye contact, not even turning his head to look in Eddie's direction.

In a soft voice, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “What if we helped each other out?”

He must've heard that wrong. Or he's misunderstanding.

“What?”

“What if we help each other out? Like, a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

That can't be right. No fucking way. It's a test. Like as soon as Eddie agrees, Steve yells ‘Aha! I knew you wanted to molest me! Goodbye forever!’ and runs out the door.

“What, exactly, do you mean? Like, what are you getting out of it?”

Steve finally looks over. “Well, I would think that was obvious. If you're willing.”

Eddie's legs are starting to go numb.

“Okay, so I blow you and you blow me, except when you're doing it I have to watch you take it like you're being force fed liver and onions at Grandma's house?”

Steve slowly shakes his head no.

“Oh, okay, so you're going to blow me and enjoy it,” he snaps sarcasticaly.

Steve nods once.

“You want to blow me?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums without moving a muscle.

“Since when!” Eddie brings his octave down from the upper atmosphere. “Since when, Harrington? This is insane behavior. Should I call the squad for you? I'm serious. I'll do it.”

“You don't have to say yes. I was just offering.” He says it like Eddie isn't one green flag away from stomping on the gas.

He starts nervously laughing, which makes Steve flinch unfortunately, but he can't stop.

“It's cool, just forget I said anything.” He moves like he's about to get up and leave, which is fucking insane because it's his living room. Eddie stops him with a tight grip around the bicep.

“Don't you dare. If you're even remotely serious, we have to have a much longer conversation. Sit.”

Steve drops like a sack of bricks. Which is…something.

“Right. First off, this is uncommon behavior in a straight friend. Is there something you'd like to tell me, so I don't think you've been body snatched?”

He pinches at the top of his nose, like Eddie is inconveniencing him greatly. Too bad.

“I'm probably bisexual.”

“Probably?” Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I'm an inexperienced bisexual,” he amends through clenched teeth.

“Good. Great. Happy to hear it.” His heart may explode from his torso à la Ridley Scott's Alien but sure. “Second on the agenda, what do you mean help each other out? What's on the table? Mutual handjobs and then we never talk about it again?”

“No,” Steve answers immediately. That's good. “I'm open to…whatever you're open to.”

“Steve.” He has to clear his throat. “You dont even know what you're agreeing to.”

“I trust you.”

Fuuuuuck.

“Okay, right, uh, let's circle back to that later. Third thing, what, uh, what is your level of commitment with this?”

He just stares at Eddie, all doe eyed. It shouldn't work, Eddie fucking invented that look. It's gotten him out of more scrapes than he can count. Now it's being used against him but to what end? Does Steve want to get bundled up in a blanket and tucked into bed? Because Eddie can make that happen for him.

“Whatever you want, I guess,” he finally says. “I mean, like I said earlier, friends who help each other out. Casual. I'm not interested in looking for Mrs Harrington anymore and you're having a problem relaxing around guys who don't understand what you went through.” He makes a gesture like ‘Ta da.’

He's not wrong. It makes sense. But…

“Fourth thing. Is this just an experiment for you? Cause I'm all for you exploring your sexuality but, historically speaking, friends are a bad place to start.” AKA ‘it will break my fucking heart if you decide you're not that into it and it's because it's me.’

“Eddie. Look.” He gets more comfortable, facing Eddie straight on finally. “What you're going to provide is practical knowledge on what has only been theoretical up to this point, but the theory has already been well established.” He taps his head. “Understand?”

A smug confidence melts Eddie into the couch. “You liiike me,” he sings. “You think about me naaaked. You wanna-”

Steve lands on him, lacking any elegance or grace, and nearly caves their skulls in with his Jay Garrick approach to kissing. Eddie doesn't say a fucking word. He does wonder at the fucking majesty that is making out sober. What a revelation. Steve keeps making these tiny, almost wounded noises, to the point where Eddie tries to back up and do a check in but Steve doesn't let him, he chases him down and latches back onto Eddie's bottom lip like he's Hannibal Lector. It's stupid hot.

Everything is going great until Steve lets out a sound that legitimately has Eddie worried he's upset about something.

He pulls back and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I just can't, I can't believe I got this fucking far. You're so hot I'm losing my fucking mind.”

“Me?” Eddie snaps. “Dude, you're out of your mind.” He pokes Steve in his meaty chest. “Literal. Prom. King.”

“Fucking stupid high school shit, are you kidding me?” He sits up, straddling Eddie's hips, which is boner enhancing to say the least; he's got Steve's thighs in his grasp immediately. “You don't get it, I'm gone on you. I've got it bad, man. I was playing it cool earlier-”

“At no point tonight were you in any way playing it cool.”

“-but, fuck it, guess I'm ruining it, cause I can't be cool about this. I don't want casual. I don't even want to date you,” and before Eddie can even worry about that, he says, “I wanna skip straight to boyfriends, man. I know you said you didn't want long term with anyone but-”

Eddie interrupts again, this time by pulling Steve back down horizontal and kissing him like he just bravely declared himself as all in.

If this is a pod-person, well, that's a problem for Tomorrow Eddie. Tonight Eddie just landed Steve Harrington as a boyfriend.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

Can we please talk about the insanity surrounding the discourse around Aemond and the brothel madame? She is not his abuser. She is a survival sex worker who was absolutely not in any position to deny Aegon when he took Aemond to her establishment for the first time when they were 12 and 15, respectively. This woman is a victim of this society in the way that all women were, except that it’s amplified ten-fold because of her profession and her status as one of the small folk. 

She’s not a predator. She’s not prowling the streets for young virgins to deflower. And it seems like this takes just reeks of ageism in a lot of ways. A member of the royal family, the potential heir, if talk was to be believed, came to her establishment with a purse full of coin. It’s transactional, yes, but are we really going to act like she, or anyone who worked there, really had the option of telling Aegon no? Would it have been less awful if Aemond was essentially forced by a family member to lose his virginity to someone that you personally found more in line with your beauty or age standards? Because that is what is comes down to. Aemond didn't want to fucking be there, Aegon thinks he's getting cool big brother points via psycho-sexual trauma, and whoever ended up in that room would have been a tool in that trauma. Would it be easier to stomach if that woman wasn't clearly older? If you found her more attractive?

And in the scene in s2 e2, it’s not her infantilizing Aemond. This is what he’s paying for! This is what he wants! This is the kink that he’s choosing to play into, and she’s doing her job and securing her safety and leaning into the protection that being a favorite of a royal man offers, however tenuous that may be. How are we supposed to fault her for doing her job? For taking her own safety and standing seriously in the face of royal patrons? We’ve seen time and again in this universe what happens to women who deny those same whims. Do we just expect her to fall on some sort of moral sword that wouldn’t have even existed then?

Like this kink of Aemond’s isn’t for everyone. You don’t have to like it, it doesn’t have to be your thing. And I get the feeling it’s unraveling a lot of head canons that have popped up over the last two years of waiting, which is why people are getting so weird over it. But to just paint this woman attempting to survive with the brush of a sexual predator is really gross. She didn’t seek him out, Aegon brought him to her, and we know from Viserys screaming at Daemon in s1 e4 that this is probably a common practice within that fucky ass family. One of the major points of this story is that the small folk have no protection, no standing, no recourse. How could she have denied them? It’s explicitly stated when Mysaria is talking to Rhaenyra that people like her, like the madame, have absolutely no protections. And that’s not even taking into account the public hanging of the rat catchers. This is what happens when royals and those in power are angry - the small folk are fodder for their power trip. This is what the entire episode was about.

You can have your icks (though I’d encourage you to ask yourself why her age and profession bother you so much), but to say the person that yucks your yum is an abuser and a predator is just way out of pocket in this scenario. 

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 5 - Meet The Adams Family

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The first thing you’d done when you woke up, still somehow in the Wayne manor, was pull out not-your phone and check the date. When it tells you that you are not, in fact, in some weird version of a time loop, you feel some measure of relief. The second thing you do is look your own damn name up on Google. There were over 3 million results. You have a Wikipedia page. If that hadn’t made you want to gag, the press from last night had you bumbling your way into the ensuite bathroom and puking into the toilet.

It’s still sitting on the bathroom floor, nauseous and achy and sweaty, your mouth washed out but still tasting foul, that you continue your research.

It’s just as you had suspected, your family was dead. Still dead. Well, shit. In the light of day, you supposed that made more sense. That there was no real reason to assume otherwise. You hadn’t for most of yesterday, but as soon as you’d thought that maybe there was a chance, your hopes had been dashed. Which was good, rip the bandaid off and all.

It was good. Things were good. They were fine, you were fine. You really wish you were a better liar.

Again you wash your mouth out. Root around the cabinets for some medical-grade mouthwash, do it again, and then you throw yourself into the shower. Again. You notice the soap smells like whoever’s clothes you stole. Refreshing and awakening, that mint and earth again. You think you can detect something floral in it too. It’s still masculine, but…

Wow, you are such a freak! You put down the fucking soap and manage to resist the urge to slam your head into the tiles. Your headache was bad enough already.

When you leave the bathroom, you glance at the door, and then down at your towel. Guess you’re stealing some more apparel. You find a Superman shirt, give it a judging glance, and then pick out a black T-shirt with ‘The Beatles’ across the front, and some sweatpants. You have to roll up the pant legs so you don’t trip and fall flat on your face.

One hand scrolling through Twitter and TikTok and Reddit and every single piece of social media you could find, getting the people’s source of news and you get the high overlords’ one when you turn on the huge TV attached to the wall. The remote kind of confuses you at first, but you manage to find the good ol’ Gotham news channel.

Immediately, you’re greeted by your miserable mascara-streaked face. You turn the TV off. You take a deep breath. Turn it back on. Luckily it’s not just you getting your private moment of trauma blasted open in the media. Your party had been filled with Gotham’s elite, after all. You weren’t the only rich idiot left crying by the side of the road.

You weren’t the only one who had to suffer. There had been twenty-eight casualties, in total. A small amount, considering the man behind the deaths. The Joker wasn’t known for his cleanliness. You tell yourself that, and yet still, you can’t make them just numbers. They’d been standing right next to you, after all. All in the same boat, all waiting for the axe to swing, secretly hoping you’re the one who lives to the next day. Only one of the party guests had been shot, and that’s because you think they’d personally pissed off the Joker. That’s what Twitter says, anyway. There were multiple video recordings of the altercation, and it didn’t look like he’d been the smartest banana in the bunch. The TV is a lot sweeter on the dead soul.

You feel sorry for all the dead. You still don’t think this rich heir should be the face you see, though. When you check his name, you find several forgotten assault cases. Assault, rape, just like that disappearing bastard had tried to do to you. That female janitor you’d seen shot had done more for this city than that guy ever had.

Did her family know? Did she have a family? Someone to mourn her? You’d never thought about that before. How many people out there wouldn’t have anyone to even remember them?

It’s none of your business, in the end.

After a whiles more research, you switch the TV off and tuck your cracked phone into the sweatpants. You know where your mother’s grave is, on the west side of the estate. Wikipedia knew all, which was now kind of creepy to you as it knew all about you as well. Really, you couldn’t believe it. Your mother, buried with the Waynes? You’d always thought she should find someone new, someone who’d appreciate her, unlike your father who had dipped as soon as Sam was born.

You couldn’t even remember the guy. Still, you remembered that he’d smelled bad and made your Mum do everything, and was just generally all around the worst choice for a husband.

But, Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne? Absolute insanity. You had no idea how the two of them would’ve even met. Let alone fall in love and get married. Your mother was one of the loveliest women on earth but… they had absolutely nothing in common, other than having troublesome kids. And you hadn’t seen her getting lovey-dovey with the other PTA mums.

You walk out of the room you’ve borrowed and into the hallway. In the light of day, the Wayne manor is much less creepy, and you can find it in yourself to appreciate the antique space. Warm sunlight falls over dark oak furniture, illuminating your bare feet as you walk along the Persian rug. Your fingers trail along all the tiny little decorations, some annoying part of you demanding you leave traces of yourself behind. Your fingerprints dirty an old clock, a golden candelabra, a lamp and a tiny spinning globe.

You might’ve gotten lost in a place this huge if you couldn’t hear people’s voices floating down the halls. They were too far away for you to be able to tell what they were saying, but you could still hear them. They’re to the west, so you’re definitely going to have to go past them.

You follow the voices and eventually come to a stop in a hallway. You can smell food. Good, real food. The type that makes your instant-ramen-powered body salivate. The people are in the kitchen, right around the corner. You duck your head and quickly sneak past the mostly closed doorway. On the other side, you pause, your curious self unable to leave just yet.

“She needs help,” Bruce says, and you mentally curse. Balls. You didn’t want to hear this. You guess this was instant karma for snooping. Maybe they weren’t talking about you?

Why did that sound very unlikely…

“She went through a lot last night,” he continues, which, well, yes, you did go through a lot, “And he said that she saw a woman get shot right in front of her. It makes sense if she doesn’t want to talk yet.”

He? Who’s he? Who ratted you out? Wait, dumb question, the four other witnesses who saw the janitor get shot. You were still pretty sure the Waynes weren’t supposed to know that, but everybody knew those GCPD pigs were always just a dollar away from whatever you wanted them to do. It’s not surprising that the Waynes know details only the police should know at the moment.

…It is a bit disappointing, though. You chose to have hope in them, that they’d gotten that information legally. Your fatal obsession with the Waynes wasn’t going to disappear after one miserable party. You wished it would.

“She was acting strange before that,” Timothy Jackson Drake’s smooth voice drifts from the kitchen. You were still a little starry-eyed over him, which was… bad, you think. It’d definitely make whatever relationship the two of you had been forced into a whole lot more difficult. It did not need to be any more difficult.

“Are you accusing her of something?” Bruce Thomas Wayne’s voice is gravelly in comparison, angry, maybe. Also, ‘accusing’? What could he even be accusing you of? It was pretty obvious you weren’t capable of anything nefarious, you were far too stupid for that. You were a plastic bag drifting along the Gotham river, barely able to affect which direction you flowed in.

“God no. And I definitely wouldn’t do it with her listening, that’d be rude.”

Your breath hitches, and you push off from the wall. Busted, damn. Your face feels unbelievably hot. As you leave, you can hear Mr Wayne scolding his adopted son. You walk until you can’t hear their voices anymore, and then a little further, finding an exit door.

You stumble out onto a stone staircase, probably a servants’ one in the olden days. You move down it, hand gripping the railing. You’re barely conscious of where you’re going. There’s a path that leads away from the stone manor and further into the estate, and you follow it. When you spot a small gated area, with stone obelisks and angel statues, you veer off the path and onto the grass.

Hissing out a breath, it’s only now you realise you went outside without any shoes on. Your toes curl in the cold, wet grass. It’s a miserable feeling, and you want to walk right back inside. And then you think about the awkward conversation waiting for you, take a breath and keep going. The gates swing open easily under your hand, the golden embossed ‘W’ glinting in the light.

A guardian angel stands before you. Its stone face is disapproving, glaring down at you from above. ‘Interloper,’ it calls you, but you move past it without pausing. It’s pretty obvious which graves are the new ones and which are the old ones. They’re all clean and well-kept, but the ones to the left have dates going back hundreds of years, and the ones to the right only decades. Your eyes follow the rows of graves. Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…

Your breath whistles out of you, nearly muffled by the grey morning wind.

And your mother. She has a different last name, now another Wayne. Your siblings don’t, which makes sense. You’re surprised to find many of your extended family also in this graveyard. Your grandmother. Your uncle and aunt. A few of your cousins.

It’s cold this morning, and you’re out here with only a thin T-shirt on. Shivering, you rub your palms against your bare arms. It doesn’t do much. Still, you don’t want to go inside yet. Instead, you crouch in front of Sam’s grave, eyes reading the tiny epitaph. It’s not the one you wrote.

‘Beloved Son and Brother.’

Simple, clean-cut, formal… unfamiliar, you suppose. Yours had been much more flowery, ‘All the colour in the world is gone without you’. It was a bit silly, but you’d never said you were a poet. You’d just known you’d wanted something that represented them, if poorly.

Sam was a beloved son and brother. But that wasn’t who he chose to be. He liked colours. He’d change his favourite every other day, so he liked everything rainbow. It made it easier to choose which one he’d like next, he said. You were always buying him more and more coloured pencils because he’d wear them all down to the tips, he dyed the cat a bright red headache, much to your mother’s horror, and considered it his personal job to make every single birthday, christmas, and easter card. He’d paint on the walls in washable markers, and you’d often been the one to volunteer to help him get it all down. In school, he always had the best art project out of the entire class, even if you were slightly biased.

He was a colourful kid. He wasn’t… a plain grey tombstone. Nothing to help remember him, because you were always losing more and more of their precious memories.

The others had similarly impersonal graves. Just what they were, not who. Mother, sister. Nothing that spoke of how they’d lived their lives, what the world had lost when they’d died. It was… you didn’t think it was right. It was a disaster, really. Even when you’d had to rely on the Wanye Foundation donations, you’d managed a better resting place than this.

You suppose you’d never gotten them into the Wayne family’s personal graveyard, though. That was a bit of an upgrade, you guess.

“You need to come back inside. You’re worrying my father.”

“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, leaping backward. Your foot catches on one of the cobblestones, and you end up tipping back farther than you mean to, your ass bruising against the ground. You bump another gravestone, and there’s a horrible moment where it gives a little and you think it’s going to knock over.

It doesn’t. A shining miracle on your day.

From your slightly wet seat on the ground, you look up, finding one such Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. His towering height is the first thing you notice, second his stunning emerald green eyes. Both were incredibly shocking in their own ways, but his height really was almost dizzying. Perfect brown skin and a stylish 'long on the top, short on the sides’ black haircut, paired with the sort of face some European model might have, all come together to make sure you feel as pathetic as possible. His posh-looking outfit doesn’t help.

Neither does the fact he just watches you. He doesn’t even pretend to bend over to help you up. Which you’re sort of grateful for, honestly. It’d just make you more embarrassed. You didn’t know if you could hold the hand of your celebrity crush and… well, be normal. Pretend to be normal. You weren’t doing a very good job of it anyway.

You have to wonder, which was the worst introduction? The drunk, the bloody, or the one where you fell on your ass? God, you really are screwing this all the way up. You wonder how you’re inevitably going to make it even worse. There’s a part of you that desperately doesn’t want to meet any of the other Waynes, even as another part of you is screaming that it needs to.

If they knew they had a fangirl in their graveyard, you’re sure they’d kick you out. That was why you were lying about everything, not because you had intimacy issues.

Stop thinking, you idiot! You’re only making things more difficult for yourself with all your worrying and fretting. And maybe you should get off the ground, you looked stupid. You push to your feet, wiping your dirtied hands on the sweats.

He still doesn’t say anything when you stand, still just staring at you. His open staring is far too intimidating, so you scrounge for something to say.

“Your father? You- Is he alright?” you stammer over your words, giving Damian Wayne an awkward smile. He doesn’t return it, instead canting his head towards one of the windows.

You look toward where Damian Wayne gestured to, find nothing but an empty window frame, and then back to the ridiculously tall man. You swear, the guy had grown like a bean pole. He had to be something ridiculous, like 6’5, or maybe more. You were fairly certain you’d been taller than him at twelve, or thirteen, whenever it was he was first introduced to the world as Damian Wayne. Now, now… not so much.

“There’s nobody in there?” you ask, like you’re questioning your sanity. You are.

“My father’s shy,” He says, coolly shrugging one shoulder.

What. Bruce Wayne? Shy? Was he joking or something?

Damian Wayne stares down at you with narrowed green eyes, and dark brows in a harsh frown. His arms are crossed over his rich kid sweater, shiny black shoes tapping against the cobbles. That’s not the face of someone who makes jokes, you think.

You swallow, mind whirring as you try desperately to fix this conversation, “Right. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back inside, then. Sorry for bothering you guys.”

He keeps staring at you. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“Sorry for bothering him?” you correct.

Damian gives one slow, cat-like blink of his eyes, and then turns with a tsk and walks away. It takes you a moment to realise you’re meant to follow him. It takes you even longer to actually catch up with him because he’s so fucking tall.

On TV he didn’t look this tall. You feel kind of betrayed, which is weird.

As you’re walking along, getting closer back to the manor, a stick or something pokes you in the foot. You curse, grabbing your foot. Thankfully you don’t start bleeding or something. You’d already be tracking dirt all over the inside of the impeccable space, you didn’t want to bring blood in as well. It takes a moment for you to realise the sound of Damian’s footsteps crunching in the grass has stopped, and you glance up.

He’s staring right at you again. He looks even less impressed with you, raising an eyebrow and mouth ticking downward. You put your foot down and tuck your hands behind your back in a very obvious anxious display.

“You went outside not wearing any shoes?” Damian Wayne asks, incredulous.

“I was… yeah, I forgot to,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Not your best moment, but you weren’t really having any of those today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe you should stop thinking about that, actually.

“That’s disgusting,” The young Wayne sneers, and then turns and gives you his shoulder.

You think your heart maybe cracks a little. Well, they do say to never meet your idols. Maybe whoever wrote that quote had you in mind specifically, because now you were in… this situation. Ex-step-sister. If that was a thing. Your Wikipedia page said that you said that a lot, very insistent that you had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes.

…It didn’t really look like you had nothing to do with the Waynes, from an outsider's perspective. Which obviously didn’t make any sense, since you were… you. You were not an outsider, not anymore.

This was too complicated. You needed a coffee. With like, so much sugar it’ll make you bounce from the walls.

Damian strides up the side entrance’s staircase and through the door, leaving it open for you to follow through. You hesitate at the doorway, looking over your shoulder to the graveyard. The statue calls you names in the distance, and although you feel like a stranger who doesn’t belong here, you manage to step back into the house.

You force yourself to walk through the hallway and into the kitchen, fists clenched tight at your side and your shoulders bunched up to your ears. Bruce Thomas Wayne, Timothy Jackson Drake, and the butler from earlier. Damian Al Ghul Wayne steps around the trio, picking some drink from the counter and moving to sit at the dining table at the edge of the room. There’s an open book on the table that he starts flicking through, and well, apparently that’s the end of your first conversation with the youngest Wayne.

You did… well, alright might be pushing it. You're still going to say you did alright.

Tim Drake gives you a sweet smile, catching your attention. The silky raven hair of his heart-shaped fringe falls over his beautiful, pale face, and for a moment there you totally forget that he’d called you out earlier like that. Which was just, such an odd thing to do. His hand lifts to scratch at the buzz cut under the floppy strands of hair. The movement mesmerises you. You look away from his sky blue eyes, very quickly realising they’re robbing you of the few remaining brain cells you have. And you need those, damn it. Especially because you’d already made the decision to hide from all your problems like a baby. Negative, negative…

“How’re you doing today?” Tim asks you, giving you a friendly greeting. It’s a welcome olive branch.

“I’m good,” you lie like you breathe, eyes glancing around the space. Bruce Wayne has his phone out and a mug of coffee in his hands. He sips from the cup, his focus swallowed by the tiny screen. You glance back over to Damian Wayne. Huh, it really does run in the family.

Your neck prickles, and you glance back at Tim again. You get a brief vision of his tired, unsmiling expression, and then it’s back to the angelic and gentle smile. You smile back at him, a wretched, awful twisting of the lips that you hope doesn’t look like a grimace.

Tim’s smile turns into a grin. It’s really too pretty and makes you shift in your seat uncomfortably. Damn it all, look away!

“Would you like some breakfast, young miss? I’m afraid we’ve run out of pancakes, but I’d be happy to make some more for you,” the butler says in an awfully familiar British accent. You think you know this person, but you can not remember from where. Shit. Your memory was bad on the best of days, much less after… after an event like last night.

Anyway, the food from earlier had been pancakes. Despite the delicious scent, you really didn’t want to make him make any more food for you. You felt like you were intruding as it was.

“Do you have any toast, or… cereal?” you suggest instead, wondering if rich people even bother with cereal. The butler chuckles, and you think, ‘Oh, yeah, probably not’.

“We have both, miss. Master Grayson has a particular fondness for cereal, in fact,” he informs you, which, oh, cool. You did in fact know that, you stalker you. You’d totally forgotten about that weird fact or the weird fact that you knew that weird fact. Dick Grayson has an Instagram where he posts reviews of different cereals, which of course you have notifications on for.

“It’s more of an obsession,” Tim says, resting his palm in his hand as he… continues to stare at you. Nobody else thinks his ogling is strange, so you try to ignore it as well. Try is the choice word.

“I like cereal too. It’s normal,” you say in defence of Dick, a natural and instinctual urge.

And apparently, the fact that you like cereal is fucking shocking, judging from the open-mouth looks the group gives you. Oh no, you’re supposed to hate him, right? You’re supposed to hate them all, actually. What had you called him on your phone? Something about being annoying and a dickhead?

Swallowing your inner scream, you move around the counter and towards the cupboards. Whatever, they’ll have to deal with this new and improved version of you, which didn’t despise everyone in the room. Along with being a terrible liar, you were also pretty bad at keeping secrets.

You don’t want to think about that, so instead you turn to Alfred.

“So,” you start, “Can I see your cereal collection?” you ask, like a totally normal person. Man, this cupboard’s looking pretty head-smashable right now.

This family has more tact than yours did, because they all manage to put their eyes back to what they were doing and pretend you weren’t acting really, really out of character. Rich people. They’re good at overlooking the crazy.

“Of course,” the butler clears his throat, “In here, you’ll find Master Dick’s collection-” score! Not another fan can claim this right, “-and in the fridge a carton of milk. Are you sure I couldn’t serve it for you, miss? I understand you might still be a little…”

His voice trails off. Little what?

He glances at the others and then leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. Behind a hand, he whispers, “Hungover.”

Ah. Well, yes, but you were a big girl who could make her cereal, even on hangover days. Kind of embarrassing it was that obvious, though. You were usually better at hiding how much of a mess you were.

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say, and the butler nods and backs off. You’re pretty sure at this point that he was the one who called you yesterday morning, but you still couldn’t quite recall his name. When you were out of sight, you’d check your phone for his contact information.

See? You could do this. Stealthy.

As you start perusing through the cereal options, Tim gets up from his spot by the counter and comes to stand next to you at the breakfast bar. He heads straight to the coffee machine, and you glance at it longingly.

It’s one of those cafe-quality fancy espresso makers, with an Italian name embossed in silver on the top. Tim manipulates the machine like a master, which you’re very jealous of because it might as well be alien technology to you. You miss your shitty drip coffee, at least that dingy little machine was loyal to you. Better than George.

“Coffee?” Tim Drake offers, glancing at you. Ah, the starry eyes are back. While Damian Wayne had been a mildly disappointing introduction, Mr. Drake was just reinforcing your celebrity worship. And of course, because your brain works against you, his offer reminds you of the daydreams you’d had on your first twenty-first birthday. Coffee shop au real person fiction- a new low, even for you.

Flustered, you look up at the ceiling. The old mansion is decorated in every single available corner, the plaster above spreading across the entire surface with delicate filigree and pretty curling patterns. It’s gorgeous, absolutely entrancing. That’s what you tell yourself at least.

“Please,” you say, your voice just the slightest bit too quiet. He hears you anyway.

It’s surprisingly domestic. Of course, you don’t know any of these people past face value and Wired YouTube interviews, but… it’s quite indulgent. This is sort of your dream, isn’t it? A full house of people enjoying their morning together. Peaceful bird song drifting in through open windows. The comfort of being around people you trust, not having to perform or put on a show. Well, you are very much putting on a show right now. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever.

“What would you like in it? We have sugar, milk, oat milk, and I like having a few syrups on hand,” Tim chatters excitedly, listing off the different ingredients he has on offer. Your poor ass stares at his rich one, and you are very rudely reminded these people live in different tax brackets than you.

Who the fuck had coffee syrups in their house? You could barely afford the little treats of caramel syrup you get every couple of months. The disappearance of the middle class was one you had witnessed personally.

You rattle off a very basic, bland order. Tim looks sort of disappointed in you which… well, you could be a coffee snob. You just didn’t have the time, usually. A flat white kept you going through the day, you didn’t need anything else. And so, Tim hands you a very bland coffee, and it is god sent. You can’t imagine how good it would be if you had mustered up your courage and asked for some caramel syrup.

Huh, you could be a coffee snob. You could be anything you wanted, really. And your first thought is being a coffee snob. Good God.

“Are you going to be staying?“ Bruce Wayne asks, immediately putting you on the spot. You weren’t ready for this, you were thinking about the coffees you could buy. Oh no, you really aren’t ready for this.

“At least for now, right?” Tim Drake says, just making it all the more stressful. You let out an awkward chuckle, fingers tight around your drink.

“Oh, I don’t want to be an inconvenience-”

Damian Wayne slams his mug down on the table, so hard a crack splinters up its side. He picks the cup up, strides across the kitchen, narrowed green eyes meeting yours for a second, and then he dumps the cup in a secret rubbish can. He murmurs an apology to the butler and then is out of the room.

Okay, well, you certainly feel like an inconvenience.

The butler clears his throat, and says, “Please forgive young master Damian. He’s been having a difficult time recently, I hope you can understand.”

And you think, ‘bitch, a difficult time?! He’s not the one who almost died last night!’ but what you say is, “Of course, I completely understand. I don’t want to bother him anymore so I’d really like to leave today.”

Mr. Wayne laces his fingers together, blue eyes giving you an assessing look.

“Stay for the day, and you can leave tonight. I want to make sure you’re truly alright,” he eventually says, and the mere presence of the man has you yielding to his commands. Didn’t really matter you were an adult who’d managed to survive this long on your own, you were listening to the big scary guy when he told you what to do.

Well, that’s that! You make your cereal and have a very quiet breakfast. You can’t tell if they’re being quiet because you’re here, or if mornings are usually like this. You hope they’re usually like this. Once you’ve finished your very nice cereal (one of the highest rated on Dick’s Instagram) you place the bowl by the sink. You want to wash it, but when you ask Alfred he gives you a look like you kicked his dog. Okay, you’ll just go then.

You’re about to sneak away, when you realise Tim’s staring at you… again…? But this time he seems quite focused on your clothing. His eyes follow the double lines on the side of your sweatpants, before settling on the Beatles logo on your shirt. He hums at it. Raises his brows.

“I’m sorry, I borrowed this because I didn’t have any other clothes. Is there something wrong with me wearing this?” you ask, and then experience a moment of horror, “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

“Hmm?” Tim chirps, “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

And then he turns away from you in a very clear dismissal. Nice, you really wanted to go hide for an hour or two. With one last awkward wave to Bruce Thomas Wayne, you scurry out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom you’d started thinking of as yours. You need to figure out how you're going to handle all this, and you're going to do it alone. Maybe with some dessert, if you can find it. You wouldn't say you think better with sugar running in your veins, but it definitely makes you more willing to deal with the bullshit that is your life. Hopefully it'd work in your new one, too.

-

Tim listens to your retreating footsteps, waiting till you’re far enough away to begin talking to Bruce. Humans were creatures of habit, so you’d probably be going back to the same room you slept in last night. He thinks Damian and him were the only ones who noticed whose shirt you were wearing, B’s off his game today. You’ve really managed to mess him up, to Tim’s delight.

“See? Dames was totally fine with her being here,” Tim says, cheerily enjoying his youngest sibling’s suffering. Bruce sighs, witheringly, lifting his hand to rub against the headache he always has. He’s probably noticed the excited, slightly fanatic gleam that’s entered into Tim’s eyes.

It was sort of obvious. This was all so exciting! You’d come back, sporting absolutely none of the defensive vitriol you usually have, and ate breakfast together. You took a coffee out of Tim’s hands. You’d willingly spoken to the devil, who everybody in the family knew hated you as much as you hated him, and even more than that-

You’d spoken to Bruce. Tim was sporting the idea that you’d gotten head trauma, at this point in time.

“Okay, fine. You get the mission, but-” Tim has to resist the urge to clap his hands together like a gleeful child “-but no extra cameras. I’m serious, Tim, if I find out you’ve invaded her privacy just after she’s starting to warm up to us again-”

“She wouldn’t know,” Tim complains, cutting the Bat off with a roll of his eyes.

“She’s smarter than you’d think,” Bruce shakes his head. Tim has to disagree, after the catastrophe that was last night. Unless of course, you were just playing with them all. So many options, it’s dizzying.

“We’ll shelve that argument for later. So, I want full control of the case, and in turn, I’ll do another two weeks as CEO,” Tim waves off Bruce’s complaints, going straight into haggling. The CEO position was tossed between the two of them like a hot potato, and it was one of Tim’s favourite bargaining tools.

“I am absolutely not agreeing to that, a month and nothing less.”

“This is why half your children don’t talk to you, but sure, whatever. Chase away your last, loyal loving son-”

“My God, Tim. Three fucking weeks, and if I hear another word I will hand this matter over to Grayson,” Bruce sighs, sounding a bit defeated.

Tim gives an offended gasp, placing his hand against his chest. And then he realises Bruce might actually be serious, and freaks out a bit.

“He’d be bad for it. Far too personally involved. You definitely don’t want to do that,” he says, leg bouncing under the table. Of course, the Bat notices, but he doesn’t mention it. He wouldn’t take this from Tim, they both knew he was getting too frazzled around the edges. He needed something to focus on, to ground him.

You were the perfect project. He loved his projects.

“I am aware. But the girls are out of town, and uncontactable. And I think if I gave Damian this assignment the two of them would kill each other.”

“No Jason option, sir?” Tim says because he’s a shit-stirrer and wants to get to work.

Tim succeeds in chasing Bruce away. He’s left to have his coffee in peace as the old man quickly flees the room at the mention of the son he's on the worst terms with. For the next few hours, Tim taps away on his computer, enjoying his time.

And when the front doors open, his ears prick, and a decidedly evil grin spreads on his face.

“I’m home!” Dick calls out, words travelling through the grand manor.

Tim gets up from his seat and wanders leisurely to the main hall, where Dick stands. He’s got a suitcase by his side, filled with all the things he’s brought up from the Blud. When he spots Tim, Dick’s face spreads in a familiar sunny smile. He quickly rushes to Tim’s side, swallowing the younger brother in a hug. Tim groans at the tight squeezing.

Despite his clinginess, it was good to see him. His tanned skin glowed healthily, and his curly black hair was messy over his brow. Sapphire blue eyes sparkled. He was happy to be home, despite everything that was going on. Dick always looked like he’d just gotten back from a run because he usually had. It was hard to get the guy to sit still for even a minute, much less stop parkouring over every imaginable surface.

“Tim! How’s it been? Ah, it’s so good to be home,” Dick starts, and again, Tim groans. When Dick starts yammering he never stops.

“I’m good, man. We can talk later, you should go put your things away before Alfred does,” Tim reminds Dick, and Dick pouts. It was a general rule that unless it was cooking, the family wasn’t supposed to rely on Alfred for everything.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be down in a minute! I have so much to tell you,” Dick relents, hand lifting to mess with his hair. Tim pushes him off, glaring at the man, and Dick laughs.

Tim gives Dick a tired wave as the gymnast bounds up the stairs to his bedroom. Tim watches him disappear down the hallways, and thinks, ‘I wish I could see this happen.’ He sighs, guess he’ll just have to hear Dick retell the story later. The distant sound of your shrieking voice has him chuckling. Yeah, he’ll hear about it later, he’s sure.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

[goldsbitch]

can I request a Lando x reader where the reader’s weakness is when people stroke her hair? Her mind goes completely blank and she falls silent immediately when people stroke her hair and Lando uses it at his advantage.

Fluffy pls and ty🫶🏻

omg, i love this prompt so much - thank you and hope you like it!!

This is one is dripping with sweetness a little too much, don't say I did not warn you. No other warning.

Lando was born a tease, oscillating between clueless and shy, to unapologetic and bordeline dickish. It all depended on the setting, his relationship to the person and how much sleep he got the night before. Sometimes your boyfriend was the sweetest little thing, giggling shyly about everything instead of coming up with an actual response, and the other times he was a walking menace actively seeking every opportunity how to get you into a flustered state.

You and Lando were full on deep in the beginning of your relationship, the sweetest part of the honeymoon phase. To put it bluntly - fucking almost non stop. And the desire was never-ending. Blinding sunshine kissed good morning to every day you two got to wake up next to each other. Problems seem to be non existent. Bliss.

It was the way his hair curled when he got a little bit sweaty, his toned body what you were desperate to explore from every angle and the need to know every little secret trick that worked on him. It became some sort of a game, who would get better at knowing the other. Which one of you found all the buttons to push.

Lando rose up that morning and chose violence. Metaphorical one, of course. Snuggling up to you in order to wake you up as well for some morning work out, as he like to call it. Whispering sweet nothings to your ear and touching you all over your body. But you were just incredibly sore from the past few days, physically unable to keep up.

"Why don't you love me anymore," he pleaded jokingly as you murmured another weak appeal for your sleep.

"Lando, you know I love you more than anything," you replied, still half asleep. But it was hard to distinguish as reality resembled a sweet dream everyday lately.

"I remember when you used to want me, physically," he kept going.

"We literally had sex few hours ago, stop whining," you kissed him between your words. He looked at you with his incredible eyes, little devil dancing in each one of them.

"Exactly, too long ago. Wish I could go back in time when you were not sore and get inside you all over again."

You simply laughed, absolutely smitten with this lovey dovey side of him. His words made you melt like butter sitting under direct sun. You brushed your noses together and then he kissed you.

The best part of romantic relationships is the one that you cannot absolutely share with other people, the almost embarrassing pleas, desire and gross goofiness, simping at each other all the time.

"Fine, if you play by these rules, I'll come back with my own revenge," he said finally as you inevitably had to start getting ready to go to the paddock with him.

Today was the big day. You'd been spotted in public countless of times, the "girlfriend" title officially sitting on your head for weeks now. But this was the first time you were to join him in the paddock as a wag. You were trying to hide your nervousness, but he saw right through you. Before you exited the apartment, he made you stop and took your face in his hands. "I'm happy I get to do this with you. I love parading you around, for everyone to see that we're a team." You smiled, his words hitting like first snowflakes of the year. "Poor Oscar, I can't wait to finally trauma dump the shared misery you bring to our lives," you jokes and locked lips with him once again. "God, it's terrifying how much I like you," you said automatically, without having to think about it.

//

It actually wasn't as bad as you'd expected. It was definitely weird and strange, but not necessarily bad. Having Lando by your side as you passed the gates definitely helped. The photographers were lined up as people at a shooting range would and it did feel like that at first. But as quickly as you were initially overwhelmed, fatigue took over you and you blocked their ever-presence out. Trying to chat up those Lando introduce you to and memorizing the names. You knew how much some of these people meant to Lando, so you were trying to be at your best behavior. The thought that his friends would hate you in the same way as some of his fans haunted you.

In the middle of all the rush, you parted for a moment. To be honest, little peace of quiet and chill was something you appreciated. But remember, Lando woke up and chose violence this morning. And his plan was quite simple, yet bulletproof.

"Y/N! There you are, my love," you heard from coming from behind you. "I have someone to introduce to you! I'm very much sure you'll appreciate meeting him." As you turned, you saw Daniel Ricciardo walking your way with your Lando. You were a little perplexed as to why Lando was so cheerful about that. You clearly remembered him getting very upset when you admitted to him that at some point in the past, when formula 1 was a world far away from you, that you had a minor crush on Daniel. Which obviously went out of the window once you met Lando. That did not mean that Lando was 100% ok with it.

"Y/N, as I'm sure you know, this is Daniel, hell of a driver and good friend of mine," Lando continued and you knew him well enough to know he had ulterior motives. Not sure what to do, you smiles shyly and shook Daniel's hand.

"Hi, Daniel," you said, eyes flinching between him and Lando. You were full on preparing for anything. Lando's smirk almost had a life of his own at that point.

"Nice to finally meet you, Y/N. I've heard quite a lot things about you!" Daniel opened, life of the party as per usual.

You chuckled. "All good things, I hope!" And with that, Lando stepped behind you and put his arm around you.

"Only the best," he said, leaned closed and inconspicuously started to stroke you hair gently. Oh, he did not just go this low.

It was slow, yet like tidal wave. You stopped breathing for a moment. Your body relaxing, as if you'd just taken the world's best sedatives. The way his hands made you feel was etherial. It was the same sensation the luckier ones experienced when listening to ASMR and the less fortunate ones sometimes called an orgasm. Shivers slowly traveling around your whole body, every part becoming sensitive out of nowhere. You weren't able to look at Daniel, let alone continue speaking. Lando was more than aware of what touching your hair did to you. He'd discovered this trick quite early on. And it was his favorite one.

"So, where are you from?" Daniel attempted at small talk. But how could you possibly give a fuck at that moment. Not that your body would even allowed you to respond. The only thing you were able to take in from the outside world were the soft slow movements Lando's fingers were doing, blocking everything out instanteniously.

Daniel stared at you, waiting. From his perspective, this was a very awkward meeting.

Lando answered for you, with a smirk you did not see, but could feel from the tone of his voice. "You have to excuse her, she is bit shy in front of new people."

You could not give less of a fuck at that moment of what these two were saying. Your lips were starting to shiver from getting so sensitive. You took a short breath and someone who would be standing close and knew you well would know, that what escaped your mouth was not a nervous laugh, but something very close to a moan.

Lando and Daniel were saying words, but none of that was important, while Lando's fingers were working his magic. He would only leave your hair alone once he saw Daniel leaving.

You wanted to be mad at him. But you were still sort of high from all the sensation bomb Lando dropped on you. You slowly turned around to face him, coming down from your own personal nirvana.

You took a deep breath while he watched you without a blink and biting hims smile away.

"You promised," you let out air that got stuck in your lungs somewhere along the way. "You promised you would not do this in public." Your brain was slowly wiring up to normal again.

"I told you I'd punish you for the morning," he said as if it was the most amusing thing ever. "Also, if Daniel is my competition, I'm going to use all the advantage I have."

Lando had a way of looking at you that made you unravel instantaneously and there was no way of stopping it. There was just something about his smile that did it for you. As anyone who is properly in love, you could not imagine somebody being able tor resist that. In your love soaked mind, he was irresistible. To a normal mind, he was probably just a regular guy, but that idea was unfathomable to you.

"I'm pretty sure that after what I just pulled, you will not have to worry about Daniel liking me," you chuckled, having to accept that Lando won this one.

"I would never let my guard down...But yeah, I think this one is pretty safe," he chuckled once more. You kissed his overly proud face and promised to yourself to get back at him later, in the privacy of his bedroom.

[cursedcatvibes]

KILLSHOT!

re4r!fuckboy leon x fuckgirl reader

word count: 5.9k

summary: Leon is only really a fuckboy because of some sort of childhood trauma thing. He doesn’t want to be forgotten, growing up ugly isn’t something he wanted to be remembered by so when he got his glow up he obviously used his looks to his advantage. But what happens when he starts to hear another name other than his own making rounds, everyone is raving about this person and Leon doesn’t like this. Is he jealous of them? Or is he actually jealous he hadn’t gotten to experience it yet?

tags/warnings: Minors DNI! Smut, 18+. Complicated emotions, slight mask kink, using of drugs, drugs mentioned, alcohol slightly mentioned, college ditzy bimbo talking, fingering, cowgirl, praise, characters from other franchises mentioned, halloween party, stalking-ish.. not proof read

A/N: hello! i have not been active in a few months oh my gosh.. literally sickening but life is literally sickening in itself? so.. but anyways, i had this idea strike me and it’s taken so long for me to punch it out because i kept changing the plot and rewriting and deleting shit because i didn’t like it. sue me! but yeah i forced myself to sit and write all day, so if some of the plot is not consistent i apologize! i actually got slight inspiration from pawgleon.. like the way the characters speak. i think she portrays bimbo and ditzy talk very well! (this is me partaking in kinktober)

Songs! ^^

Killshot (Slowed + Reverb) - Magdalena Bay

Rehab - Brent Faiyaz

Yummy - Ayesha Erotica

Like a Dream - Thomas LaRosa

Poison- Brent Faiyaz

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

Leon’s always made a name for himself ever since Junior year in highschool. He had been considered ugly up until that point, had a bunch of acne (just like a normal growing teenager would), wore glasses, and his voice was still a little high-pitched because his balls had yet to drop. So what? Most boys are late bloomers! Definitely nothing to be insecure about.

He got picked on a lot and all the girls he liked never liked him back, always made fun of him whenever they could and called him a weird freak. But that all changed one summer when he got back to school for the new year.

He had gained a skincare routine, traded his glasses for contact lenses, and even started working out. It made him feel good about himself and it gave him the confidence to say fuck you to everyone else.

When he strolled into school however, it proved to be different almost immediately.

Here he was thinking he would have to defend himself again this year but people actually seemed to like him, girls he had never spoken to in his life started coming up to him. All pretty and perky too.

Now all of the sudden everyone wanted to fuck him and he was overjoyed. He quickly lost his virginity not even a month into starting the new school year, it took him a long while to perfect his craft but soon he got pretty good at knowing a woman’s body, men too.

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A few years later and now he’s in college with a reputation of being a fuckboy. It wasn’t a bad thing for him, considering the fact that he was able to get out the pent up stress college applied onto him.

Leon always got to pick his fruit of the night daily, sometimes even more than once a day. He didn’t have to worry about girls trying to get into relationships with him because of his reputation, one, and two, he was always up front about how he didn’t want to date anyone.

He was 1000% sure that if someone could be labeled as best fuck/hookup he would qualify for first every single time.

Well that’s what he originally thought until he started hearing another name going around, almost as often as his own. He was curious about who this person was, he wondered if they were as good as him for this many people to be buzzing about them.

It only took him a couple of minutes asking around before he found out the full name of the person and what class they were in. Surprisingly they were in the morning class of the same lesson that Leon took except his was more in the afternoon.

No wonder they haven’t crossed paths. No worries, he’s sure that a person like him must be cool enough to become friends with.

Oh how wrong he was.

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You had a decent up bringing growing up, didn’t struggle academically and you weren’t bad looking but you weren’t good looking either. Just plain. No one paid much mind to you in middle school.

It was completely fine with you, no drama, no names to remember, and no one to pick on you. You could honestly say you enjoyed it.

No one bothered you up until you hit puberty, you noticed almost immediately that people started treating you differently. It was strange at first, getting used to everyone trying to butter you up for one thing only.

You didn’t see much of an issue because you didn’t care, you didn’t see virginity as a big deal either. Now you weren’t a hoe or passed around, you just had sexual relations with whomever.

You were pretty ecstatic about going to college you had aspirations and dreams, that dream job wasn’t going to be easy. You needed to have a proper education and a little experience in that field before you even tried.

It was also well known in college that you get to sleep around with whoever you want and receive no consequences.

But never raw, you definitely weren’t trying to get pregnant before your life properly started. You applauded the women who did have babies this early in life and still make something of themselves but you could barely take care of yourself on a daily let alone a whole other little human.

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You sat there in the middle row of the lecture, bored out of your mind. You stared at the chalkboard and occasionally glanced down at your notebook to doodle or something to make it appear you were paying attention. It was just an extra class you were forced to do for extra credits before the end of the semester.

Leon on the other hand was sat in the back row of that same class, he somehow managed to weasel his way into the same extracurricular as you so he could spy on you, a feeling of unease brewing in his belly as he watched you.

He didn’t trust you, he didn’t think you were a whore. That’s kinda hypocritical of him but he was put off by your presence. Maybe a little bit jealous of you and how you managed to make a name for yourself. It was almost like he was challenging you mentally. A challenge you yourself wasn’t even aware of.

He glanced up at the clock when he noticed people getting up, he collected his stuff immediately and quietly followed behind you. Leon felt like he was being a bit stalker ish but he wanted answers. Plus it’s not like he was doing it to be a pervert.

He watched as you met up with some friends to go study in the library, obviously he was still shadowing you from afar. His nose shoved inside a book in the far corner in the library but close enough to spy on you from a distance.

He didn’t gain much information, you were hard working with a flirtatious personality, it was kind of hard for him to gather anything from this. But he overheard you and your friends talking about going to a party, his head perked up a bit like a dog smelling a delicious treat.

He wasn’t sure why but he felt this strange feeling wash over him, could he confront you there? But why was he trying to confront you? In all honesty he wasn’t sure, he just knew that he was jealous and scared that he would become a nobody again.

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You and your friends spoke happily about the most random stuff, like who got who pregnant, followed by did you see this new show? The topics never truly stayed on one solid one unless the whole group had a deep connection to it.

So it didn’t surprise you that a party happening later that night was mentioned. “It’s a costume party?” You asked curiously and your friend chuckled and nudged you with her elbow. “Oh my god, like yeah. Obviously. It’s halloween.” Ashley giggled and the rest of them did too.

“That’s so lame.” You murmured, twirling your pencil around in your hand. “Like.. this is the start of a bad hallmark movie or something.” You said as your lips pulled up into a thin line.

Your friends shrugged and they obviously knew you would go anyways, you glanced around the library per usual. Something you did just as a random habit and you spotted someone looking at you.

You frowned a bit as you watched the guy look away and bury his face back in his book. How strange? “What a weirdo.” Your friend, Jill, spoke up and it startled you a bit. “Huh?” You turned back to her and she stared at the guy before looking back at you.

“Do you know him?” She asked and you shook your head no. “Yeah.. I thought so. He kept glancing over here and I thought it was all in my head.” Jill mumbled softly as if to keep it between the both of you. With a nod of agreement from you Jill joined back into the conversation.

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Leon on the other hand was burning red in embarrassment, you had looked right at him and made a face. Now he looked creepy. He should just leave the library now or something, anything! But he stayed glued to his seat, straining his ears to eavesdrop on your table.

After a while he watched you all get up and leave, he sighed softly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nice going, Kennedy. You’ve outdone yourself and now you look like a creep.” He muttered in annoyance.

He quickly packed his stuff up and exited the library, shooting his friends a quick text before heading towards his dorm. He needed a Halloween costume now.

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Halloween shopping didn’t take long for your group of friends. All of you got ready in Claire’s dorm because it was spacious and she was the one who got the best one because rumor had it her brother fucked one of the deans for special privileges and Claire used it as blackmail for herself.

Everyone in that dorm knew it was far from the truth, she was just a good student and because of that she got special treatment alongside Chris.

Ashley was busy doing her makeup when she looked over at you who was staring at the costume you had got. “You okay?” She asked and you turned around to look at her. It was obvious to everyone she would go as Harley Quinn. It suited her. Is what you thought before responding.

“I’m questioning if this is too much.” You responded and Jill perked up. “Definitely not. It’s actually beneficial because it’ll probably be super hot at that party so the less clothes the better.” She murmured mindlessly as she put on her realistic wig..

Ashley and Claire glanced over at Jill before bursting out in a fit of giggles. “This is why we keep Jill on a high pedestal. She’s like super smart and pretty. It’s a two for one.” Ashley grinned and you chuckled softly.

Claire slung her arm over your shoulder and tugged you close. “Besides you’ll be matching with me, and y’know if someone bothers you and you don’t want them Chris will stand up for us.” She pinched your cheek gently and you swatted her hand away with a whine.

“Fine, you have a point.” You relented with raised hands as if you surrender. Claire smiled and grabbed her costume to change into.

Ashley put her hair up into two pigtails and grabbed the spray of temporary hair dye. “So.. Luis is going to be there.” She beamed, and everyone in the room rolled their eyes. “Ashley, you are such a simp for him.” Claire huffed and you and Jill nodded in agreement.

“Okay well it’s not my fault okay! It’s gotta be his stupid accent.” Ashley grumbled softly, pouting as she did so. When she turned around after staring at the vanity mirror for so long she smiled seeing everyone in their costumes.

Jill is Tiffany Valentine from the Chucky franchise, Ashley is Harley Quinn from the DC franchise, Claire is Starfire, and you are Raven.

You purse your lips as you hold the cape up between your fingertips. “You know for the longest time I had no idea what she was saying.” You admitted and everyone but Jill agreed. “You didn’t watch it with subtitles?” She laughed and you shook your head no with a grin.

“I thought she was just speaking gibberish.” You said and it just made everyone laugh harder as they gathered their things to get ready to leave. “Yeah because they would make one of their main characters speak gibberish everytime she used her powers.” Claire teased and you turned red with embarrassment but also laughter as you all walked out the door.

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Leon on the other hand was pre gaming in his dorm room with his friends, Carlos, Chris, and Luis. “Dude you know how many hot chicks are going to be there?” Chris murmured as he slipped into a brown jacket, pulling gloves onto his hands while searching for his Jason Vorhees mask.

“I'm definitely scoring tonight.” Carlos said as he messed with his hair, a soft hum leaving his lips. Leon shrugged, not very interested in hooking up with anybody. He was more interested in trying to one up you.

Luis sat next to Leon on the couch and stared at him for a second. “¿Qué pasa, Sancho?” He asked, tilting his head at the blonde who seemed to be anxious. “Nothing. Just.. thinking. I guess.” He replied, rubbing his nape.

Luis cocked his eyebrow up and narrowed his eyes at Leon suspiciously. “Well, whatever it is. I’m here if you wanna talk.” He assured, placing his hand on Leon’s shoulder. Leon nodded and grabbed his Ghostface mask.

“Are we all ready?” Chris asked as Carlos was putting on his gloves with fake claws on them. He had the signature Freddy Krueger colors on while Luis had the iconic blue jumpsuit and Michael Myers mask. Once everyone was ready they set off to the party, Leon swallowed anxiously under his mask.

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The first thing you were met with when you entered the frat house was a mess, a mess of drunk and high people. You made a face at the smell of sweat and sex filling the air. Have some decorum people. You grimaced as you were dragged through the party.

Somehow ending up in the living room with everyone in your friend group. “They have coke! Oh my gosh, I’ve like totally wanted to try it.” Ashley beamed and grabbed you. “C’mon let’s all do a line, when’s the next time you’ll be offered coke or something. We’ll be all old with wrinkles.” Ashley whined, trying to convince Claire and Jill who sighed and reluctantly agreed.

“Okay but doesn’t this like burn?” You questioned.

“What? Like Molly?” Ashley raised her eyebrow.

“No—Like doesn’t it burn your nostrils?” You raised an eyebrow back at her.

Jill sighed and picked up a straw that was on the table along with random lines of coke on the glass surface while you and Ashley argued over something as tedious as whether it’ll go down smoothly.

Claire followed in pursuit of Jill and did a line too, squeezing her eyes shut as she sniffled. “Jeez, that shit is strong..” She muttered as she pinched her nostrils, Jill nodded heavily in agreement.

“I forgot you’re the fucking coke queen of America. That’s my bad.” You huffed softly.

Ashley rolled her eyes and went to reach for a straw for you only to see Claire and Jill holding them. “You guys did it without us!!” She complained and you just sighed.

“Ash, we can just do a line right now.” You murmured which seemed to calm her down enough to keep her tantrum at bay. She holds your hand and leans down in sync with you as you both snorted a line.

At the same time you both did, Leon and his goon squad arrived at the party and everyone started cheering. Garnering the attention of all of you kneeled at the table.

You wiped away the residue on your nose and sniffled, narrowing your eyes at Leon for a second as he put on his Ghostface mask and his face was hidden again. He looked.. familiar.

You tried to ponder where you saw him at, but you just shrugged it off. Whatever. Probably nowhere.

Jill glanced over at Chris a few times while Claire was eyeing Carlos. Ashley immediately bounced up and was about to scurry over to Luis. You grabbed onto her wrist before she could run off.

“Ashley! Are you seriously ditching us for Luis?” You stared at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

“What? Noo—I would definitely not. ‘M just being friendly. I’ll totally come back.” She replied in her usual manner, which gave away that she was lying. You reluctantly let her go and she scurried off.

You sighed heavily as you watched Claire and Jill give each other a knowing look. “You guys too?!” You groaned out and they gave you a sheepish smile. “We’ll come back, we have our phones on sound and we’ll all go home together.” Jill assured, placing her hand on your thigh.

“You guys hate me.” You frowned with a slight pout and Claire pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Pinky promise we’ll come back.” She whispered and you took her pinky in your own. “Okay. Promise.” You sighed out.

Then you watched Claire and Jill disappear, probably to go curl up with Chris and Carlos. You weren’t very amused, the only reason you came was to hang out with them but Leon and his stupid friends came and ruined it.

Whatever. Least you had some entertainment, the coke on the table and the promise of alcohol.

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Leon smirked as he entered the party, he knew he was hot shit. But that lingering fear that he would be some name in the past still brewed within him. Which is why he agreed to tag along. The only question was where were you?

He sauntered deeper into the party with his friends until one by one they were plucked away by girls he recognized from your friend group. He pursed his lips beneath his mask, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he glanced around.

It’s as if fate itself had its way of showing itself as you stumbled into the kitchen, not dressed in much. His eyes widened in surprise as you walked to the punch bowl that was probably spiked by now and got yourself a cup of juice.

He watched from the corner of his eye in awe as you licked the rim of the cup to clean the few drops of juice you got on the side of the cup. He gulped and chastised himself, no he wasn’t supposed to be staring at you like some lovesick maniac. He was trying to prove himself tonight.

He would plow through so much pussy tonight it would leave you behind in the dust. Or at least that’s what he hoped.

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As the night lingered on you got more wasted to forget about the fact you got ditched for some dick. You couldn’t say you were surprised and honestly you were contemplating getting laid. But there was something uneasy about tonight.

Every room you slowly made your way into you saw some guy in the Ghostface costume making out with some girl, borderline groping each other over their clothes. At first you thought it was different guys until you got a good look at the face of the man behind the mask twice to realize it was the same guy with different girls each time. Weirdo. Is all you thought but you were smart enough to remember some guys have a game to see who can get the most kisses, hook ups, blowjobs in one night.

Leon on one hand was shocked each time you walked past him like it was nothing, like you just didn’t care. He was sure he could fuck some girl in front of everyone and you wouldn’t pay them any mind. What the hell?

With a growl he was determined to get your attention somehow, it didn’t even register that he was doing all this for your attention. His body reacting on pure instinct as he broke away from the kiss with the girl. A brief apology as he excused himself. Chasing after you as you drunkenly stumbled back to the kitchen.

He stood at a distance watching you rummage through the fridge. “All my friends hate me, oh my god.” You mumbled under your breath as you found nothing to satisfy your hungry belly. A soft pout on your expression until some guy pressed up against you from behind.

You paused for a second before you stood up straight and turned around to see some random guy in a batman costume staring down at you. “Uhm, hello.” You say as he leans down to inspect your costume. “Oh okay. Just go on ahead—“

“Raven? From Teen Titans?” He asked as his eyes met your own again.

“Oh yeah, my friend and I dressed as Raven and Starfire.” You slurred a bit as he rubbed his thumb over your chin. “Oh—Hellooo.” You giggled as the guy placed his other hand on your hip.

“We’re from the same franchise. I think your costume looks really cool.. I’m Brandon” He uttered softly, leaning down to brush his lips against yours and you eagerly reciprocated, whispering your own name into the kiss. You had plans starting to form in your head to go back with this guy to his dorm and hook up with him.

Well, you did at least plan to leave with him. But no way in hell was Leon going to let that happen. He stormed over, his angry expression hidden behind the Ghostface mask, he cleared his throat and tugged you away from the guy.

He glanced between you and the guy in his stupid batman costume. When he realized what he had done he immediately lied on the spot, blurting the first name of your friend that came to mind. “Ashley! Erm—Ashley asked if you could come help her with something.”

You blinked a few times as you processed what was said, realizing that the guy behind the Ghostface costume must know Ashley, which didn’t surprise you. “Oh.”

You bit on your bottom lip and glanced at Brandon. “Sorry. My friend needs me.” You replied and latched onto Leon’s arm. “Lead the way.” You hiccuped.

Leon immediately walked off with you, feeling a sense of pride at the knowledge he ruined that moment for you. Yet when he looked down at your face you didn’t seem to mind, in fact you seemed more worried about your friend.

Leon guided you out the party, letting the fresh air overcome him and you. He didn’t realize how hot it was inside until he stepped outside with you.

“Wait. She left the party?” You stopped in your tracks and gently tugged on Leon’s arm.

“What?” He said, confusion laced in his tone before he remembered the lie he uttered. “Oh yeah—yeah. She uhm, left to go with him but she told him to tell me you needed her.”

You didn’t seem to question him any further, which was a relief for him because he wasn’t sure how much more he could lie as he guided you back to the dorms. More specifically his.

What the fuck am I doing?

Why did I care so much that she was going to kiss some random dude?

Why am I taking her back to my dorm?

I should’ve been on my fourth hook up tonight and yet I haven’t touched any naked body yet.

Leon’s mind raced as he unlocked the door and guided you inside, closing the door behind him and locking it as you called out for Ashley.

“Ashley! Ugh I swear if it’s not something important and you made me miss out on the opportunity to get laid I’m gonna murder you!” You groaned out as you stumbled in your platformed boots; which in theory are horrible to wear while being wasted.

Leon pulled his mask off and tossed it onto his couch, wiping the sweat from his brow before he followed after you, grabbing hold of your wrist to turn you around towards him gently.

“Ew your hands are like.. gross and sweaty.” You made a face of disgust and his nose scrunched up in annoyance.

“Okay that’s a bit rude.” He huffed and looked at you, he would finally be able to see you for you at this moment. It suddenly hit him.

You’re not competition, obviously not if you’re not bragging about your hook up to him, rather your friend who definitely isn’t here.

Hell, you’re just a girl. A girl who he’s jealous of for no reason.

A girl who’s.. really fucking pretty?

His eyes widened as he came to the realization that it wasn’t anger at being replaced, it wasn’t jealousy of hearing your name being uttered time and time again instead of his.

No, that's stupid. I’ll see if she’s really as good as everyone says she is. He was determined to see what was so special about you.

Your nose scrunched up as if mimicking his own expression as you could see different emotions ran across his face. “Uhm hello?—“ You went to wave your hand in front of his eyes when he tightened his grip on you and pulled you in for a kiss with force. Such force that you stumbled.

A quick lie running out of his mouth smoothly as he cupped your face in his hands. “I lied, Ashley didn’t call you here.. I just have such a big crush on you and didn’t know how to express it.” He breathed out as your tongue ran over his bottom lip.

You, to his surprise, didn’t fight back or protest the kiss. You seemed to encourage it more than anything.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s kinda sly of you..” You remarked as you pulled back from the kiss, your lipstick smeared on his soft plump ones. You brought your thumb up to his bottom lip and wiped away as much as you could.

“So what’s your name you big stud.” You teased in a drunken tone, Leon bit his bottom lip and ducked down to capture your lips again. “Leon.” He muttered into the kiss, slowly guiding you to his room with careful steps.

He could tell you were getting tired of how slow he was moving so he patted your thigh to encourage you to hop up. Once you did he grabbed the back of your legs and held you firmly against him, your lips not parting from his own as he stumbled into his bedroom.

He dropped you down onto the bed and finally pulled away. “I have to turn on the lamp..” He mumbled quietly as he reached off to the side to flick the light on. The moonlight helped to illuminate the parts of the room the light didn’t reach fully.

When he looked down at you he felt his heart rate increase. “Fuck.” He cursed and you just smiled at the sight above you.

You reached your hand up to move his hair out of his face. “What? Think I’m pretty or something?” You asked and he nodded, a soft giggle leaving your precious lips.

So precious. He thought as he pressed his left palm above your head against the bed while his other hand came up to cup and fondle your breast above your costume.

You managed to kick your boots off somehow, leaning back against the bed comfortably. “Well that’s sweet of you. I think you’re quite handsome.” You replied as your hair laid spread out behind you.

Leon hesitated for a second, what does he do now? He’s been hooking up with people for awhile now and for once in his life he’s stunned on what to do next. He opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a soft moan as you drag his hand up to your mouth to suck on his thumb.

“Hah.. you’re good at that hm?” He cooed, pressing his thumb down against your tongue. With a soft hum from you he adjusted the way he was hovering above you so he could use both hands instead of one.

He dragged his left hand down your torso right down to your pussy, he could feel the heat radiating off of such an intimate part of you. This made his cock throb with want as he pushed the crotch of your costume to the side.

“I guess this costume is pretty much easy access..” He spoke his inner thoughts aloud, watching you blush beneath his watchful gaze before his fingertip brushed against your clit.

You mewled softly and brought your hands up to paw at his chest, wanting his costume off but he clicked his tongue. “Patience. Good things come to those who wait.” He scolded you lightly and gave you a shit eating grin as you frowned.

“You’re like a delicacy.” He explained, rubbing his middle and ring finger through your folds before prodding them against your hole. “You must be handled with care.” He punctuated his words by shoving his fingers inside of you.

You gasped and your back arched off the bed a little. “O-Oh fuck. That feels good.. your fingers are so thick.” You whimpered around his thumb, he snickered softly and pulled his thumb away from your mouth, pressing the wet digit against your clit to rub hard and fast circles against the sensitive little bud while his other hand moved in tandem by fucking his fingers in and out of you.

A slick squelching sound resounding through the room followed by lewd moans coming from you. Who would’ve thought having sex while being high on coke made everything feel ten times better?

“Leon.” You whined softly as your walls clenched down tightly around his fingers. “You’re g’nna make me cum..”

Leon just shrugged and leaned down to nip at your neck. “And? That’s what you want, right baby?” He whispered directly in your ear, sucking on your earlobe. He let out a low chuckle as you cried out a soft yes.

He doubled down on his efforts and you swore you saw stars, definitely. You squealed softly as your orgasm crashed down onto your body like a truck, your cheeks and the tips of your ears turning red and hot with arousal.

“There’s we go. That’s my girl.” He lapped at the pulse point on your neck as you settled down from your high, he took the opportunity to strip himself of his clothes but not before getting a taste of what he was going to be indulging in.

He brought his fingers up to his mouth and swirled his tongue around his own digits, sighing softly as he tasted the sweet essence that he had coaxed out of you.

“God. That shits perfect.” Leon bit his bottom lip as he began to remove his clothes, eyeing you hungrily as his cock sprung up into view.

You mumbled something before sitting up on your elbows, your mouth almost instantly watering at the sight of his dick. “Woah.” You blinked a few times before reaching out to touch.

Accidentally grabbing it too hard made Leon hiss in pleasure. “God damn. Easy baby.” He groaned out, and you winced out a soft apology, letting him guide your hand to be the perfect pressure and pace for him to get off on.

“Wait..” You said suddenly which made Leon pause, staring down at you questioningly. “Can you get your uh.. the mask.” You asked coyly, twirling a strand of your hair around your finger slyly as it registered what you wanted in his head.

“Sure thing.” He chuckled and patted your cheek, disappearing for a second before returning with the mask on his head. You grinned wickedly as he stood near the edge of his bed.

“How do I look—“ He was cut off by you yanking him down onto the bed, straddling him as you smirked. “I’m gonna absolutely ravish you.” You sighed out softly, having already removed your clothes when he stepped out the room.

Leon was quite stunned at the 360 shift in attitude. You were just crying on his fingers a few seconds ago and now you’re practically pinning him down. He placed his hands on your thighs, gently rubbing his thumbs against your soft skin.

“Yeah? What if I want to ravish you?” He retorted and you leaned down to press your bare chest against his own, “You could try.” You slurred quietly, but as the hours went on the more you slightly sobered up.

“Guess I’ll have to try super hard then.” He whispered softly as he grabbed his cock, rubbing the tip of it through your folds with a soft hum. You bit your bottom lip as you eventually sank down on him, the two releasing a soft moan in sync with each other.

It didn’t take long for Leon to start bouncing you on his cock as you rode him with an eager pace, it seems the mask was doing things for you that you yourself weren’t even aware would do.

The wet sounds between the two resounding through the room as skin on skin slapping against each other blended into the mix. “Fuck, you’re so tight.. ‘n wet.. ‘n warm.” He whined, fingers digging into your plush thighs as he bucked his hips up into you.

You nodded in acknowledgment. Your eyes fluttered shut as you could feel that coil in your gut tightening with each thrust and bounce. You knew you were close and so did Leon. “I’m almost there.” He panted out, gulping beneath the mask which was starting to prove to be extremely hot. He was sure he had sweat all over his face and head, if he was to remove the mask he was 99% sure that his hair would be thoroughly damp.

Yet if he could get girls to ride him as crazy and as good as you do he would wear it for every hookup encounter he ever had.

You reached your hands up to start punching and twisting your nipples, fondling your tits to tease him. He grunted loudly as he watched you with bated breath. “Fuck, keep playing with yourself like that. Touch that pretty little clit of yours too.” He gritted out as you did so, causing your walls to clamp down tightly around his cock.

Your jaw dropped as his cock brushed against that spongy spot inside of you that never failed to give you chills. “I-I can’t hold it..” You cried out, hand still moving quickly against your clit. Leon could see your chest rising and falling quickly and he was just a few seconds away from spilling his own seed.

“I know. W-Where do you want it?” He uttered aloud, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back against his bed. “Mm. Inside, please.” You whined, bucking your hips eagerly.

Leon's eyes shot open and his head shot up to stare at you. “Fuck.. that’s so hot. Are you sure?” He was a bit nervous and didn’t want to cum inside of you if you weren’t 100% sure.

With an eager nod you spoke once more. “Yes! God, please! Inside of me, Leon.” You insisted, throwing your head back in pleasure as he thrusted a couple more times before pulling your hips flush against his own, he came before you did and it only took a few quick rubs from you before your orgasm hit you once more.

You practically collapsed on top of him with a heavy breath, resting your head on his chest as he moved his hands up to pull the mask off, finally being free of the sweaty contraption. He wrapped both his arms around you as his cock started to soften within your warm wet walls.

Fuck. He had to admit that the people were right about you being a good fuck.

Especially when you looked up at him with that soft smile but your eyes told a different story as you wiggled your hips a bit, it’s as if he didn’t even start to soften to begin with as he was fully hard within seconds.

Guess he was in for a long night, just as long as you don’t hear the incessant buzzing coming from your phone that was discarded on his nightstand haphazardly from your friends.

[havenotwillnotreadthebooks]

Hello! Back at it with a kidnap fam headcanon, except this ones about Earendil.

Consider; Maglor is so awkward around Earendil in Valinor. Earendil is good-natured about Stuff™️ but also awkward.

Anyway, at one point Earendil comes to Elrond’s home straight from his ship and Maglor accidentally brushes against him, only to find out Earendil’s skin is ice-fucking-cold.

Maglor instantly enters some sort of trauma response from the E&E twins’ childhood and starts lecturing Earendil on dressing properly for the weather and doesn’t he know Peredhel get cold more easily than elves? What if he got sick?

Maglor emerges from his parent haze to find Earendil has been wrapped in a sweater, two blankets, and one of Maglor’s outer robes.

Earendil is kinda just chilling. Like, he hasn’t been smothered like this in literal Ages of the world and its sorta nice to be cared about since he doesn’t get a lotta social time (touch-starved Earendil headcanon insert)

Anyway, the awkwardness has broken because Maglor is a bard, you best bet he is gonna commit to this bit. He puts a beanie hat on Earendil the same way he did for Elrond and Elros. Earendil is real quiet and just basking in the attention.

Elrond thinks this whole thing is fantastic. Slightly weird, but fantastic.

The meme format for this goes;

Earendil, fresh from the sky: heyo *COLD TO THE BONE*

Maglor, feeling Every Peredhel-Parent Instinct Reactivate: Where is your coat.

Yes this is inspired by RaisingCaiin & Jaz-The-Bard’s fics about cozy peredhel. No, I am not ashamed of anything.

Maedhros, if he’s around, is worse about it. Because Mae is used to getting the “baby is cold” instinct around grown adults (e.i his brothers) so that, combined with his Peredhel Is Cold instincts is just a recipe for disaster.

Maedhros has the thought peredhel is shivering, and next thing anyone knows there’s a blanket on Earendil. They both blink owlishly at each other for a moment, but Maedhros grew up with Feanor and he will Not Back Down.

Earendil gets another blanket.

Elwing, when she learns of the Cold Peredhel Instinct is…temped, to see what happens if she shivers near them. Because she is an awful seagull elf with an awful sense of humor. But there’s still too much tension between her and them for the joke to be funny yet. So she waits until she can look at them without flinching, and they can look at her without stiffening.

Then, and only then, does Elwing shiver around Mae&Mags and subsequently get blanket bombed.

[little-annie]

Gareth's POV

---

Eddie was acting weird.

And not his normal, kind of flighty, maybe a little sleep deprived thanks to childhood trauma and nightmares, weird.

No. He was weird in the sense that he hadn't quit smiling. And not in the sort of sinister, sort of menacing way he did when he was going to do something stupid or get into shit. No. He was smiling like Gareth had never seen him smile before. All dimples and fluttering eyes, catching himself with a giggle and turning away to shake it off as if it'd ever actually go away.

He looked happy, smitten if Gareth really had to put a word to it. Twitterpated, Love-Struck, Infatuated; if he had to put a few more.

It's a look Gareth had only ever seen in a smaller multitude when Eddie bought his Warlock those few years ago. And now, holding that same guitar, plucking mindlessly to a fucking Tears For Fears song, Eddie smiling like that, but ten fold.

Gareth has his suspicions, one much more likely than others. Maybe Eddie's high, maybe he finally passed Mrs. Click's class and hasn't told anyone yet, or maybe, the most likely of the three because Gareth might be just a touch dumb like any other teenage boy, not blind; Steve Harrington.

Steve "The King" "The Hair" Harrington.

Steve "who was never really a problem but still kind of a douchebag" Harrington.

Steve "who Eddie never shuts the fuck up about" Harrington.

Steve "who just so happens to be coming to their band practice today" Harrington.

Steve Harrington, Gareth's 99% sure.

As much could be proven by the way Eddie slips up on his cord and blushes the deepest shade of red upon Steve's arrival. 

Not to mention the fact that Harrington's sporting a Black Sabbath t-shirt Gareth knows to be Eddie's because they went to the fucking concert together. 

Well, then there's the hickeys that suspiciously match between the pair and the way Steve's eyes rake with a disturbing sort of hunger over Eddie's body. 

It's then that Eddie's change in the flavour of weird he's giving off today makes sense. That dopey smile, those heart shaped eyes and the way he just seems blissfully happy; it all makes sense.

[wilwheaton]

When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

[hiding-in-my-blanket-fort]

Soap is THE BEST at healing any social trauma you might have.

He adopts you instantly and he's not shy about it. Slinging an arm around your shoulders as if you've been best friends forever. Sitting next to you and leaning back against you with a big yawn. "What a day, eh?"

Maybe physical contact is a mystery to you because you just...haven't experienced much of it before. With Soap, he acts like it's as easy as breathing.

When you enter the cafeteria, or meet up for lunch, he raises his arm and shouts, "Get over here. Saved a seat for ya."

Steals your fries/chips. Partly because he's a pain in the ass and it's his weird way of showing his affection. Partly because he's challenging you to play along with some friendly banter.

"Are ya just gonna let me rob ya blind without sayin' a word about it? Come on. Let out that mean streak. I know you've got it in ya."

Eventually, you become so comfortable with each other, that when Soap tries to steal a fry/chip, you elbow him away. He elbows back. And it becomes a shoving match (you will lose).

In group settings, Soap has a tendency to get caught up in the moment. He's an adrenaline junkie so he'll get a social buzz pretty quick. But he won't let you get lost in the mayhem. He bounces back to check in with you, or pulls you into the fray (if you're up for it).

Hypes. you. the fuck. up. Oh my god. This man is so damn proud of you just for existing????

Even when it confuses you and you're like, "I'm really not all that."

Doesn't matter. Soap is proud of you for being you.

If you have a personal challenge that other people have deemed "small" or "irrelevant", i.e. anxiety around ordering food for yourself, Soap recognizes the effort it costs you, and he celebrates with you when you conquer it.

Say goodbye to your personal space. Soap doesn't know the meaning of that term.

Big enthusiastic bear hugs that make your ribs creak and your toes lift off the ground.

On movie nights, he flops down onto the couch practically on top of you, pressed shoulder to shoulder, and flicks popcorn at you.

Makes a little smiley face on your knee out of M&Ms or Skittles.

When you have plans for the day, he's an obnoxiously early riser. So he'll just barge into your living space, annoyingly cheerful. If you don't respond quickly enough, he'll pummel you with a pillow until you get up.

He talks over you and interrupts, but it's because of his ADHD brain kicking into overdrive, not because he's ignoring you. Sometimes he'll catch himself doing it and curses himself for not letting you get a word in edgewise.

When you get really comfortable with each other, just punch his arm and tell him to shut the fuck up, I was talking, dumbass.

Sometimes, Soap runs his mouth. And he says shit without thinking it through. It hurts you, even though you know he didn't mean it.

But he's a really good friend, and you don't want to mess up your friendship by saying anything. So you just get really quiet and try to cope with it on your own.

Soap doesn't always notice that something is off at first. When he catches on that you've been out of sorts, he pulls you aside and he's genuinely serious when he asks what's wrong.

You expect him to laugh it off when you explain that he hurt you. Soap is rarely serious around you, right? But he's instantly apologetic and it kinda throws you for a loop because he's not joking around like he usually is???

He tries to make it up to you, typically through food, or letting you win at your favorite game. Anything to lighten the mood and get things back to normal between the two of you.

Then he'll ask, "Are we good?" with the most earnest look. It knocks the breath out of you because you're a traumatized little bean. People don't usually take your feelings into consideration like this.

If someone in the group makes a joke at your expense, Soap has zero problem calling out that shit. He'll tease you, but he won't tolerate anyone putting you down.

Because Soap is so friendly, you really have to TELL HIM that you don't feel like coming out of your shell sometimes. He wants to see you thrive, to show you off, and get everyone else to see how awesome he fully believes you are.

But there are times when you're just not up for it.

Soap is more than happy to accommodate you though. If all you want to do is stay in and watch movies, he'll build you a gigantic blanket nest or a big blanket fort, with plenty of snacks, and settle in for the night.

Masterlist

[whumpshaped]

tw past trauma, conditioned whumpee, dehumanisation, de-conditioning (gone wrong?), manipulation

“I… I’m not sure about this. It feels kinda mean.” 

“I’m literally asking you to do it,” Whumpee said, rolling their eyes a little. Despite their attempts to seem nonchalant, though, it was very clear that they were nervous about this. “Please. I can’t live my life like– this. If I’m outside while some fucker is training his dog, I– it’s embarrassing. I need to do something about it.”

“And you think re-triggering yourself is… the way to go.”

“It’s exposure therapy. I don’t get why you’re the one being so weird about it. You’re not even the one who’s about to do the heavy lifting.”

Caretaker sighed, still uneasy about the concept. “I just don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I don’t want to be rude, I don’t want to do any of that. I want you to be okay.”

“Well, I need this to be even remotely okay.”

Caretaker bit their lower lip as they thought about it, trying to convince themself this was fine, and they shouldn’t be making a fuss about it. Whumpee was right, they had to get over it at some point. It was just… Caretaker didn’t imagine they would be the one doing any sort of therapy. “Okay,” they said softly. “Um… then, uh, do you wanna start on the floor, or–”

“No. Come on. Tell me to– say the command.”

Fuck, this was so uncomfortable. Caretaker took a deep breath and closed their eyes. “Alright. Kneel.”

The sound of Whumpee’s knees hitting the floor followed just a few moments after. It wasn’t really a conscious reaction, from what Caretaker understood. It was instinctual. Reflex. They opened their eyes to see their friend looking at the carpet, flexing and unflexing their hands that were resting on their thighs. 

“Can you get up?” Caretaker asked gently. 

“I… Of course…” Whumpee swallowed audibly, and made no move to actually get to their feet. “I just need a moment…”

“This was a bad idea.”

“No! No, I can do this. This is so stupid. I can do this. I need you to repeat the command whenever I start getting up, though. Please.”

“I shouldn’t–”

“Can you just help me for once? Instead of coddling me endlessly? I want my fucking life back!”

Caretaker flinched a little at the yelling. “S-sorry. You’re right. Um… Go ahead, then.”

Whumpee slowly took their hands from their lap and placed them on the floor, then made an attempt at pushing themself to their feet. Caretaker hated to do this. They hated seeing their friend on their knees, they hated ordering them around like an animal. But what else was there to do? Whumpee had asked them for help.

“Kneel,” they repeated quietly. Whumpee’s resolve crumbled immediately, and they sat right back down: back straight, hands in their lap, perfect as ever. They seemed embarrassed by it. “If at any point you’d like to stop–”

“I can do this,” Whumpee insisted. “I can do this. They’re just words. Stupid words.”

They tried to get up again. Caretaker sent them back to the floor with a single word. They tried to get up. Caretaker told them to kneel. It was awful. It was so bad. Whumpee started crying after the fourth time, and Caretaker just couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m done,” they said, tears in their eyes. “I’m not doing this to you.”

“What the fuck?” Whumpee snapped. “You said you’d help!”

“And I said I didn’t want to hurt you!” they yelled back. “You’re sobbing! I’m not doing this. I want you to get better, and I’ll pay for as many therapy sessions as I can, but I’m not doing this.” They turned around and stormed off, wiping their eyes as they went.

[itsmarsss]

Scandalous (Blitzø x Fem!Succubus!Reader x Stolas) [Helluva Boss] Bonus - Trippin' Balls

How the mighty do fall. (Getting into a weird three-way situation with an imp and a succubus isn’t exactly considered classy, Stolas.)

A truth serum and emotionally repressed demons. What could go wrong with that?

pt 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | 1st bonus | pt. 6 | pt. 7 | pt. 8 | pt. 9 | 2nd bonus

Word Count: 7,045

Warnings: truth seekers episode. hallucination, depictions of various types of trauma, uncomfortable hallucination scene involving boundaries being pushed, don't hate me for reader's hallucination, sexual remarks, jokes and innuendos as always, dhorks are their own warning i dont like the mfers lmao

Look who's back!

You sigh as you watch Blitzø hang from a window frame, trying to climb it.  “‘Kay, Blitz, I get it, can we please just go now?” It’s been a long day and, as endearing as his shenanigans can sometimes be, you’re all way too tired for him to be doing all this.

“Shhh, remember- we can’t be seen!” He whispers in reply, right before his hands slip, causing him to promptly fall off his ass from the dumpster he’d been hovering over, landing on the pavement.

“Pardon my words, sir, but you’re currently being the loudest,” Moxxie points out, and it’s objectively true. All his unnecessary tumbling out of stuff and rolling on the ground has been making much more noise than the rest of you combined.

Millie walks off into the portal, Loona already waiting on the other side of it, laughing at the way Blitzø stands back up at lightspeed just to shove his finger on Moxxie’s face. “You shush your dick-sucking lips, Moxxie.”

“Dude,” you call him out, “he’s right. Stop tumbling out of stuff like you’re some secret agent or something.”

“Well fuck you too, bitch! I’ll have you know I stuck a perfect landing.”

Finally changing out of your human form, you decide it’s best not to argue with him if you want to get home any time soon, settling on rolling your eyes and just agreeing with him instead. “Yeah, sure. Very cool. Can we please go now?” 

You can just feel he’s right about to insult you in some way when his expression shifts: his eyes widen at the sight of something behind you. “Fuck, shit, Mox, get down!” He yells out, and you don’t even get any time to look back and see what it is that he saw before he tackles both you and Moxxie to the ground and, out of the corner of your eye, you can clearly see what you assume are two tranquilizers land exactly where the two of you just stood. And then you see them. 

“Loona! Close it!” Blitzø yells, and you watch as Loona complies, hurriedly closing the portal that led directly to the meeting room in the I.M.P. office, leaving the three of you stuck on Earth.

And, in the middle of all the chaos, that’s when they get you. 

All you can register before blacking out is Blitzø screaming in pain at being covered by something, some sort of glowing net. And then everything goes dark. 

Shit.

[. . .]

You start panicking the very moment your eyes begin to flutter open, your sight begins to focus and you begin to gain your bearings after being out for who-knows-how-long, assuredly from the damn tranquilizers. Looking around, you gather that you, Blitzø and Moxxie have been tied up to chairs with your backs turned to each other. You pull on the ropes that tie your hands together on the back of your chair, but to no avail, and you hear Blitzø scoff at your attempt.

“Blitz! You’re awake?”

“Yeah, that doesn’t work. I tried. Maybe I should’ve bought that online course on untying army-grade knots.” He shrugs. 

“Fuck. Where even are we?” 

“Some government facility, I think.”

“You think?”

“Well, take a better fucking guess!”

“Hello?” Moxxie mumbles, beginning to wake up as well. 

“Mox?” You call.

“What’s going on?” He asks, groggy from the tranquilizer still.

The agents show up out of, seemingly, nowhere. It would be creepy if they didn’t look (and sound) so utterly unqualified and absurdly pathetic. “Y’all finally awake, huh? Your partner there’s been awake for a while.” The blonde woman tells you and Moxxie.

Blitzø immediately starts talking. “Look, shitbag, it takes a lot to keep me down, alright? I took a fuckton of tranquilizers in the college I dropped out of.” 

Now that’s new. “You went to college?” 

He arches an eyebrow at you. “Why you so surprised?” 

“You never told me about that.”

He shrugs. “Eh. Never told you ‘bout the time I was strapped nipple-first to a car battery either, so-” The other agent points a light directly to his eyes, making him squint. “Oh, okay-”

“Tell us, demon scum, who do you work for? Satan?” The guy asks.

“Heh, I wish. The guy’s hot as fuck,” you remark, and Moxxie laughs. By now, you know you’ve all silently agreed to pull the annoying card on them.

They pass the light between each other, the woman now holding it to your face. “How did you get to our world from the afterlife?” She asks, but gives you no time to reply, as the light is passed to the guy again. 

“Why are yous killing humans?”

And back to her. “When did you show up here?”

“Damn, that’s a lot of questions,” you point out.

It seems annoying enough, as the man lets out a frustrated growl. “You-”

Blitzø cuts him off. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna stop you right there, bitch. First of all, we just woke up from a veeery nasty shock and I’m still feeling fucking woozy, so I’m gonna request you fetch us some coffee before we get into this. I mean, everyone gets coffee in shitty movies with scenes like this, am I right? I want something iced, bitch. Y/n?”

“Ooh I’d die for some hot chocolate right now! Mox?”

“I’ll have a neapolitan cappuccino, more ‘capu’ than ‘ccino’, make sure it’s got no more than four ounces of milk, the beans won't have the right texture otherwise. And make sure they spell my name correctly on the cup, they always put Foxy or Roxy, I hate that. If you can’t handle that I’ll have a venti traditional misto, please use soy milk, with two blonde shots, affogato and ristretto! I’d also love three vanilla pumps at the very bottom and add the coffee after, and-”

You’re surprised they let him keep going for that long before the man interrupts him. “Enough! We aren’t getting yous coffee!”

“Wow, I was getting massive douche chills just there, Mox, congrats!” Blitzø comments, and he actually sounds proud. 

“It was beautiful!” You exclaim.

The lady crouches down to be at eye level with Moxxie. 

“If we have to, we are willing to resort to torture methods to get answers out of you nasty Hell beasts.”

“Ooh, you promise?” You ask her, turning up the fake-excitement in your voice, just to piss them off.

“When you say torture do you mean physical or psychological? Physical seems counterproductive. I mean, we’d likely tell you anything if it meant an end to the pain, and you would have no way of knowing what was true.” Moxxie tells her, matter-of-factly, and he’s not wrong.

“Or we might like it too much, and then you got a whole new thing to deal with,” Blitzø adds.

You nod. “We’ve done roleplay rougher than whatever this is.”

The man in front of you quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “What do you mean by that?” Now he’s just asking for this. Blitzø grins. 

“Ah, you’re stupid, huh? I can work with stupid. Daddy likey dummy.”

Moxxie can’t contain his laugh at that one, stomping his feet on the ground at Blitzø’s words. “Good one, sir! Daddy likey-” 

You can’t keep yourself from laughing, either, when the two agents all but jump back in disgust at what was said.

“You better stop laughing at us!”

“Yeah!”

“But you make it so hard!” Moxxie exclaims.

“You know what else is hard?” Blitzø goes, and it sends the three of you into a laughing fit again. 

“Hey!” The man picks Blitzø up with some difficulty. “You are the ones at our mercy.”

Moxxie turns their attention back to himself. “It’s hard to resist, I’m really sorry. I mean, considering your approach thus far you’ve had us tied here for what? Hours? And you haven’t even had us confirm what exactly we are.”

The two idiots share a look between themselves before the woman speaks up. “Well, what are you?”

“I’m a virgo!” He mocks.

“Ha!” Blitzø yells, proud of him, and the man actually looks done this time, letting Blitzø down. 

“Ooh, a smart guy, huh?”

His partner looks increasingly annoyed too. “One more quip out of you and we’ll shut you up.”

“Ooh, keep talking dirty,” you purr, and Blitzø immediately matches the energy.

“Getting kinky!”

Both agents jolt backward in disgust, the guy even letting out a horrified screech which, frankly? A bit too much, isn’t it? “We aren’t playing any of your vile demon kinks!”

“I mean, that's what it sounded like back there, you sickos,” Blitzø continues taunting.

“What else do you wanna do to us?” You ask them, raising an eyebrow suggestively, in an over-the-top attempt at ‘flirting’ meant to disgust them even further.

Moxxie catches on. “Please don’t give them ideas!” He exclaims, sounding purposefully fake in the request, as if he wants them to get ideas. Honestly, you’re pretty impressed. 

“Why not? I know the shit you’re into,” Blitzø states, and for a second Moxxie’s pleased expression falters. 

“Ah!” The man yells. “We are not getting kinky with you!”

You fake-pout, making eye-contact with him. “Why not, big boy?”

“I- I-”

“Oh, you’re good.” Blitzø compliments.

“Thank you.”

The lady pats her partner’s shoulder. “Calm down, One.” That’s the alias? They’re ‘One’ and ‘Two’? Pathetic. “Don’t let these monsters get into your head.”

You can’t contain it. “Aw, but we’re all so good at head!” 

‘Two’ growls and the three of you laugh.

“So, aren’t we gonna get our phone call, bitch?” Blitzø asks, annoyed.

‘One’ crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, that entirely depends. Who are you gonna call?”

“Your fat mom! Thanking her for a fat time!” Blitzø blurts out before the agent even finishes speaking entirely.

“Nice try, demon. His fat mom is dead!” ‘Two’ yells out, and the man promptly starts crying.

Okay, things are getting too weird now. And incredibly annoying. So much for getting home soon.

“Stop insulting my mother! She’s dead!”

Eh, you’ve got nothing to lose. “Okay. No more about your mom. Can’t you guys just let us go or something?” 

“No?” Both agents reply, at the same time.

You shrug. “Tried.”

“You thought that was gonna work?” Moxxie asks.

“I’m all out on the inconvenient comments.”

“Hey, let’s just leave them here until they feel like talking,” The lady tells ‘One’  with a grin. You all try to tug on the ropes again as soon as they’re out of the door, but still to no avail. 

“That online course really would’ve paid off right now,” you point out.

“Hey, don’t worry, we just keep being obnoxious and they'll eventually slip up and we’ll get a chance to get out. Let’s just keep fucking with them until they get so frustrated they stop thinking clearly, it usually works.”

“I guess.”

Moxxie tugs on the ropes again. “I’m just worried about Millie. She’ll be on her way by now, I'm sure.”

“Ugh, she'll be fine, Moxxie. It would take a fucking hippo to take down that woman when she’s upset.”

“He’s right, Mox. Millie can handle her shit.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never dealt with the human government before. She’s in danger!”

“Uh, are you guys seeing this too?” You ask, as you see a green fog slowly spread through the floor of the room.

“Do you ever honestly shut up about Millie? It’s always ‘oh, how's Millie?’, ‘I can't tonight, I’m hanging with Millie’, ‘I'm so worried about Millie’ and she’s always five fucking feet away from you, it’s pathetic.” Blitzø complains, and he actually sounds pissed. 

“That was… oddly personal.” Is all Moxxie says in response.

“Yeah dude, you alright there?”

“No you’re right, I don't know why the fuck I just let my guts spill like that.”

That’s a little weird, alright, but are they not seeing the actual, much bigger issue going on right now? “Okay, look, do you guys not see this weird fucking green fog all around?”

Moxxie looks down and, sure enough, is startled when he finally notices it. “Fuck, they’re filling this room with something!”

“Yeah no shit, Moxxie, that’s what I just said!”

“Fuck, the hell is this?” Blitzø asks.

Moxxie squints, looking around a bit more before declaring “I think it’s some kind of airborne truth-telling serum.”

“Oh, you just guessed that’s what it is?” 

“Well, uh, just ask me something specific I wouldn’t normally tell you.”

“Okay. Uh… does Millie ever peg you?” Of course that’s what he asks.

“Sometimes,” Moxxie replies instantly without a care before what he just admitted dawns on him. “Wait- ew! Fuck. Why that?”

“Heh. I knew it.”

“Hey why’s that so funny?” You’re speaking before you even process it. “You begged me to peg you for like wee-” Woah. So that was not supposed to come out. 

Blitzø interrupts. Thankfully. “Heeyyy, hey, how ‘bout we all shut up?”

“Your suit is tacky!” Moxxie blurts out, as if he’d been holding that in. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“And you have shitty taste in music,” Blitzø blurts right back out. “Fuck I’m sorry.” 

“You said you liked that musical I recommended to you!” 

“I lied! I left halfway through. I lied to you guys so many times! I’ve lied to Looney before too! Oh my sweet, sweet, Looney, I hope she’s alright she must be so scared-”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Yeah, like you don’t absolutely suffocate Loona. You talk about Moxxie and Millie but you’re so much worse with her. She's fine.”

“You take that back, she’s my daughter and it's different!”

“Is it really?”

“I don’t hear you saying shit about how Stolas treats his daughter.”

“Oh I didn’t know Stolas was in this room with us!”

“Oh I bet you wish he was.”

“Well you know who’s also not in this room with us? Your horse. You know why? Cause it’s not fucking real.” Only after all of that does it actually cross your mind that these aren’t things you should be saying. Curse Moxxie for being right about the truth serum. “Oh my- shit I’m sorry.”

“Oh you did not, you bitch! Lavender Magic Bubble Tea is real and she loves me!”

“As real as y/n’s shooting skills.” Moxxie laughs. 

You turn your head to face him at lightspeed. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“I’m sorry, shit, I shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

“I’ll have you know I am improving!” You yell out before you promptly start crying.

“She's improving, Moxxie!” Blitzø defends.

It’s not long before the three of you become a big crying mess, apologizing to each other over and over again through your tears.

 [ . . . ]

“Moxxie, this is all your fault!” Blitzø spits.

“How is this my fault?” Moxxie tugs on the ropes that bind his wrists together behind the wooden chair once again as he cries, but it’s not useless this time around. 

The ropes fall graciously to the floor as he sets himself free, standing up to walk right into… what even is this? The empty dark room he’d just been in somehow morphs into an almost endless golden staircase, soft white clouds enveloping its surroundings. It makes him cough.

“Guys? I can’t see you. God, this smells awful.”

Moxxie doesn’t question it. He climbs the steps eagerly, wondering what it is he might find at the top. 

“What’s that music?” He asks out loud as a melancholic melody takes over the atmosphere. He keeps climbing, and climbing, and climbing until he reaches steps high enough that he’s able to see the top, only to find…

“Blitz? Is that you? Is this a prank? Because I swear to Satan-”

“It is no prank, bitch!” Blitzø , who, for some reason, is dressed in something weirdly similar to the Phantom of The Opera, mask covering the burn marks on his face and all, interrupts.

“Hey! Why do you sound like that?” Moxie questions, as his appearance doesn’t seem to be the only thing that’s different about his boss- his voice lower, more dramatic and… was that an accent he could hear? 

“Because you, my precious little bitch boy, are trippin’ balls!” Blitzo declares, and, in this bizarre chain of events, it does seem like the best explanation as to why the imp sits by an organ at the top of a golden staircase in the sky, somehow playing a perfect melody that just compels Moxxie to sing his worries instead of talking about them. It still freaks him out.

No, what? How could this be? I’ve never tried acid, shrooms or DMT It’s a bad trip, oy gevalt! Of course, Blitz, this would be your fault!  My lungs are full of honesty Would you promise me that you won’t judge? Yes, bitch Not trying to divulge too much But I’m in too deep So, first of all, fuck you! What? This is just typical Well, two can play in this game of dismay ‘Cause, if you’re here causing frustration, I’m torturing you in your hallucination!

[. . .]

Blitzø doesn’t know what this place is or how he got there, but this definitely wasn’t the same dark room he was in just a couple seconds ago. In fact, this barely even looked like the same reality he was in just a couple seconds ago. It’s still empty in this new place, but everything around him looks warped, fake. He’s covered in some sort of red goo that he can’t help but try to smell, and, for some reason he can’t comprehend for the life of him, he’s dressed like a circus clown, because of course that couldn’t be left out from this bizarre nightmare sequence he was living though. 

More red goo falls onto him, causing him to fall from his chair, to which he was somehow not bound anymore, onto the muddy ground, but it’s not like that was the weirdest part of all of this. The goo morphs into some kind of cartoonish version of Moxxie, oddly similar to Blitzø’s own drawings of the imp, and this Moxxie-like creature speaks to him with words he can barely process, let alone comprehend.

“I simply follow your orders. It isn’t my fault your orders are as nonsensical as sun-tanning bed left out on the cold rainy porch of a fresh april shower-”

“Why are you talking like that? What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I am simply speaking Satan’s plain English. Perhaps you should crack open a dictionary sometime. And then maybe you could understand half of the frivolous things I carry on and on about in my many rants about upbringings. It is my honor that you should-”

“Shut up!” 

[ . . . ]

Fog.

All you can see all around you is fog. The same green fog that you’d warned your friends about, that had been slowly coming out of the vents, now consumed everything. 

You try to blink, to squint, to somehow see anything beyond the fog, but to no avail, as it was so thick you couldn’t even see your own hands as you tried to wave them around in front of your eyes. 

But wait… you were waving your hands around. How? 

Standing up, you realize that, just like your hands, your legs had somehow been untied from the wooden chair, leaving you free to take Moxxie and Blitzo and run out of-

Where were Blitzo and Moxxie, anyway?

For all the dead silence indicated, you seemed to be alone in the room, no sight of them anywhere near. You walk around, mind spiraling with all sorts of awful possibilities. Maybe they were still there, but the fog had made them pass out. Shit, the more time passes, the more it takes over the space, sure to suffocate you soon enough. 

Coughing as you feel the substance fill your lungs with each breath you take in, you call out their names, voice hoarse from the lack of air. You call them once, twice, three, four, ten times, until it dawns upon you that they are simply not there, and panic sets into you. If they're not here with you, where are they? What if they're hurt? What if they're- 

You let yourself fall to the floor, defeated, and the tears immediately start to come out. What were you supposed to do from here, trapped, alone, scared… dying? How were you supposed to help?

Is this how you die? You’re-

“You’re gonna die like this? That’s pathetic.” A familiar voice makes its presence known from somewhere behind the fog. It takes a single blink for it all to fizzle out, leaving the room almost completely dark and empty, except for…

It can’t be. “Verosika?”

She paces back and forth in front of you. “What, embarrassed? I couldn’t miss this for shit. This might be the best day of my life, really.”

“Verosika, Blitz- he-”

She scoffs, flipping her hair with the back of her hand. “Ugh, enough about the pathetic little imp! This is about you. And about me, I’m enjoying this very, very much.”

“You have to call I.M.P, they-”

She leans closer, looking down at you, and it makes you feel smaller tha you’ve ever felt before. Her tall figure looms over you, and it’s easy to imagine how pathetic you look in comparison to her right now. She lifts your chin with her pointer finger and squeezes your cheeks together. The action alone calls you powerless in all languages you can think of. “Shhh, shhh, shh, shh, shh. Come on now. You can’t do anything to help them. You’re dying. Ha! Isn’t that hilarious? You’re dying. And so are they. And there’s nothing you can do to stop that.”

With your cheeks squeezed together with increasing strength, you struggle to talk back. “Thats not fucking true, you-”

“Hey, I’m not the one saying it.” She releases you, putting her hands up in surrender.

“What?”

All she does is laugh, and it does sound like her normal, full-of-disdain laugh at first, but an uneasy feeling settles in your stomach when it slowly turns into a sinister sound, a deep laugh that echoes all around the little dark room, giving you shivers. Her face contorts in an uncomfortable, bizarre way as the sound gets louder, like her face is made out of clay and being molded by some entity’s invisible hands into something else …

Or someone else.

“Millie.”

“Y/n? What the- what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m- I- these guys, they-”

She looks around furiously, interrupting you. “Where’s Mox?”

“I don’t know, Mills, I can't find him, I-”

Her focus returns to you, and her tone changes drastically as she repeats your own words. “You can’t find him?”

“No! I’ve been trying, but-”

“You been tryin’? You been tryin’? Last thing I checked you’ve been curled up in this corner talking to yourself.”

“What? No, I tried-”

“He’s gone. Isn’t he?”

“What? No, he’s out there, I know it-”

“You ‘know it’? How could ya possibly ‘know it ‘when you’ve been here feeling sorry f’yourself ‘stead of looking for him?” Tear threaten to fall from her eyes, and her voice trembles. You’ve never seen her more distressed, and it scares you. If Millie’s lost hope, if she believes Moxxie’s dead, then… “He’s gone, Y/N. My Moxxie’s gone and it’s all your fault””

“You have to listen to me, I-”

“No,” she interrupts, and her knife is pressed to your throat before you can even see her take it out. She’s crying now, but sadness isn’t the only thing you see in the eyes that stare right into your soul. 

Anger. You see anger in them.

“Millie, we can still go find them!”

“You won’t be here to find shit!” She lunges at you and you raise your arms over your face to protect yourself, but nothing comes. No knife pierces through your skin, no hands hit you, no teeth sink into you. You let your arms down, only to see remnants of green fog where she stood, as if she’d completely vanished. 

“Millie?”

There is nothing but silence for a moment, and you’re sure you’re back to being completely alone when you hear the noise of steps coming from behind you.

“Millie?”

Whatever it was that made the noise leaves you no time to wonder before you’re tackled to the floor, hard.

[ . . . ]

Why do you hurt me so?  I know, I push my friends away  (Why must you push your friends away?) Why does this seem like a reoccurring thing that you alienate with your toxic routine? I don’t know, eventually everyone goes  ‘Cause you’re thoughtless and cruel and you’ll end up alone! 

[ . . . ]

“Admit it, my dear boss- you don’t know what you’re doing half the time! And you depend on me and the girls to manage your foolish flights of fancy.”

“I don’t need you. I could do this shit on my own so easily!”

Blitzø is thrown back onto the ground with so much strength he struggles to sit up, and when he does he’s met with a terrifying sight. Before him now is no longer the version of Moxxie he’s used to scribbling on corners of papers when he���s bored. ‘Moxxie’ has transformed into something much worse:

Striker towers over him, and he borrows Blitzø’s own voice as he spits the truth Blitzø ignores like the plague while looking down at him. “But you don’t want to be alone, Blitzo!”

Blitzø has no time to react  as he’s yanked into the air by muddy, bodiless hands- only, when his eyesight focuses, they’re not bodiless anymore. A warped, black-and-white version of Fizzarolli contorts and twists its body to spill Blitzø’s insecurities directly to his face: “You tried the solo act, it didn’t work out so well!”

‘Fizzarolli’, who also borrows Blitzø’s voice, untwists his body as he laughs a freaky, grotesque laugh, sending Blitzø flying back to the floor, from where a creature emerges from the mud in front of him, taking form of yet another demon Blitzø loved to pretend he didn’t hurt. 

Verosika crawls her way over to him, cornering him back into something he can’t see. She holds his face in her hands with such strength Blitzø fears his eyes might pop out of their sockets. Unsurprisingly, yet still horrifying, his own voice comes out of her mouth, too,  when she speaks. “And you still shove away anyone who gets too close until they resent you for being a selfish shit-spittin’ snob!”

In a desperate attempt to flee from her, Blitzø blindly yanks himself away from her hold, standing up and turning around to face whatever it was that he’d been backed into- only to see it’s a big, fancy staircase. He tries to climb up its steps, only to be stopped by some sort of invisible force that prevents him from getting any closer. 

The staircase that looked endless unveils the sight of none other than Stolas, who sits, in all his royal glory, on a golden throne, while clones of Blitzø himself and Y/N tend to him. Blitzø doesn’t spare a single thought into the matter before he tries to crawl up the steps once again, realizing perhaps this is how he’s supposed to get there- by crawling his way up to him- seen as the force that once stopped him doesn’t bother him this time around.

 As he crawls his way up, he notices his previous circus clown get-up morph into his usual work clothes, but that is long forgotten about when someone magically appears by his side.

Y/N crawls her way up to Stolas alongside him now, golden collars attached to matching golden chains materializing around their necks. Stolas pulls on said chains, forcing them both into kneeling at his feet right before his throne. Stolas leans down, and he gets at face-level with him, but his place is still clear: beneath him, less than. 

Stolas tilts his head to the side and smiles. 

“Are you afraid to love people, Blitzy?” He coos, before releasing his hold on Blitzø’s face. With a flick to his forehead that is almost comical, Blitzø is sent rolling down the steps, landing back on the muddy ground. He holds himself up with difficulty, hands instinctively feeling his neck for the collar that once was there, only to find nothing. Looking back to the top of the stairs, he sees Y/N has been freed from the collar and chains as well, only she’s still there with him, still kneeling on the floor, still worshipping.

“Y/N, come on, you don’t have to-”

She turns back to face him, and her expression shows nothing but anger. “Can’t you let me have this one fucking thing, Blitz?”

“What are you-”

A white flash of light blinds him. He covers his eyes with his arm, blinking rapidly to try to see again, only to see something that is somehow even worse- Y/N no longer kneels before Stolas’ throne, but sits right on his lap instead, wearing clothes Blitzø could swear looked identical to what he’d seen Stella in before. The clones of the two of them are now gone. 

“What, did you think we needed you?” She laughs as if the mere idea were utterly stupid.

She leans further into Stolas and whispers something in his ear, to which he giggles. 

“You’re right, darling, why would he think we would want him?” Stolas speaks to her, but stares right into Blitzø’s eyes as he does so, and grins.

Moxxie, the real Moxxie, instead of some cartoonish version of him, appears in front of him once again, only this time he wears this weird princess-like dress. Blitzø doesn’t question it for even a single second. 

“I believe your self-conscious is trying to tell you that you simply cannot fathom proper intimacy, but also crave it as well. And you fear your inability to show affection to those you care for will heed their need for you entirely. Is that not right, sir? It’s rather unfortunate, really, considering it’s often how you treat those who stand by you… suck as myself. Are you worried I may have enough of it one day as well?

“Stop fucking talking, all of you!”

[ . . . ]

You bring your hand up to touch the back of your head, where you’d hit the ground, relieved when you see no blood, and you struggle to stand back up. “Fuck. Millie?”

“How could you let him die?” 

Shit, that wasn't Millie.

“Loona?”

“You said you’d take care of him. You promised.”

“Loona, I-”

“He was the only thing I had left. He was the only one to actually see me as a fucking person and not some rabid guard dog.”

“Loona, we can go find him, I’m sure he’s-”

“He’s gone! Fucking gone! And who’s fucking fault is that, huh?”

“Loona, I swear, I don’t know what happened to him-“

“Stop lying! You don’t care. You never fucking cared. You don’t care about Moxxie and you don’t care about Millie and you don’t care about Blitz and you don’t care about me.”

“That’s not true, Loons, I love-”

“Shut up!” She yells. Angry tears roll down her face and fall to the ground, fizzling out as green fog into the air. “Shut up. Don’t fucking say it. We all know what it is that you care about.”

“What?

The green fog from her tears envelop her entire figure, leaving you with Stolas right where she just stood when it dissipates.

He holds your face in his hand, lovingly. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Stolas. Is this… is this really you?”

He laughs, tenderly. “Of course, darling. Who else would it be?”

“I… I don’t- I don’t know-”

“Here, you got struck pretty bad, didn’t you? Are you hurt?”

“No, I-”

He doesn’t listen, manhandling you into sitting back down so he can look at the bruises that now cover your face and body.  “Don’t lie to me. We’ll take care of it. Alright?”

“Stolas?”

“Hm?” He pays half a mind to what you’re saying as he murmurs what you assume are healing spells as he runs his fingertips over your split bottom lip and the cut on your eyebrow.

“Where’s Blitz?”

He ignores. “Did you get tackled, dearest? This does not look good.”

“Stolas where is Blitz?” You repeat yourself. Surely he just didn’t hear you, right?

He touches the bruises on your hand, amused. “And these! Oh my. Have you been fighting some rabid dog?” He laughs.

You retract your hand from his. It can’t be that he’s just ignoring everything you say, can it? “Stolas. Answer me.”

He dodges, once again. “May I look at your head? You might have gotten a concussion from all this.”

“STOLAS!” You yell out, exasperated.

His preoccupied expression drops in a fraction of a second. “What is it?” He asks, annoyed.

“I am asking you a question!”

“I don’t know where he is! I don’t keep track of what you little imps do.”

“What? He’s in danger, Stolas, we need-”

“We need to do what? Help him? Save him?”

“Yes! How can you act so unbothered about all of this when I’m freaking the fuck out-”

“How about we make a deal?”

“What?”

“I’ll help you find your friends. If you give me a little… something… in return,” he offers, leaning closer to you.

“You’re not being serious right now.”

“But I am. You’ve seen no issue with my… deals… before.” He slowly drags his pointer finger along your face, condescendingly tapping your cheek once when he’s done. It actually makes you uncomfortable.

“Stolas, this is not the time.”

“Really? When is the time, pet?”

“Stop. This is not like you.”

“Is it not? Blitzy did warn you.”

“He’s wrong. He’s wrong. He’s wrong.”

[ . . . ]

Why, Moxxie, why?  Do you hide your true feelings inside? I am scared of rejection  Why, Moxxie, why?  Do you have Millie put it in your butt? It gives me an erectio- hey! No need to hide We accept your true feelings, so promise me That I can do To be true The world is your anus, so peg it with honesty “Ugh!” I’ve been a jackass, it’s true (You’ve been a jackass, it’s true) But soon as we’re back as ourselves I will be a better friend than i was before  Be better at speaking my mind  And together we’ll begin to become… Fine 

[ . . . ]

Your eyes flutter open, adjusting to the brightness of the lights, and you catch a glimpse of the reminiscents of the green fog dissipating. You’re still bound to that damn wodden chair and you can feel Moxxie and Blitzø move as they awaken as well. You look down at the floor, unable to even try and look at either of them after whatever that was that your brain conjured during your hallucination. Judging by the sheer silence, you can only imagine they’ve also gone through some sort of terrible vision while tripping on whatever this substance was.

Moxxie is the first to say something after what feels like an eternity. 

“Blitz?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember what you said to me after my first day with the company?”

“Not really,” Blitzø replies with a shrug.

“I remember. You told me I did a good job and that you were proud to work with me. I feel like you wanted to say something more judgemental, but… you said that because I needed it. And it helped.”

“I felt that too.”

“What?”

“When you came by to offer me the job. I wasn’t going to accept. I think you knew that. But Moxxie said you’d talked non-stop about me and how you needed me for this to work. I felt like you wanted to correct him, but you didn’t. You let him tell me that. I still don’t know if it’s even true, but… I needed that.”

“Look, you care too much about what everyone thinks, except for… me, because, you know, my opinion is correct, but just… keep doing a good job, okay? I’m hard on you because I know what you’re capable of. Both of you. You shoot and kill good, you escape things easy, you can be strategic and cold-blooded when you need to and… don’t expect any more compliments, I maxed out.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You know my name. Use it.”

“Thanks, Blitz.”

A silence fills the atmosphere for a few seconds before you manage to say what you’ve been meaning to ever since waking up. 

“Hey, Mox?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you… would you maybe give me shooting lessons?”

“Hey, I’m really sorry I said those things-”

“No, you- you were right. I can handle myself with a knife or a dagger but I’m pretty shit with a gun. And you’re the best shooter I know, so…”

“Second best shooter you know,” Blitzø corrects you, and you roll your eyes, smiling.

“So? What do you say?”

“Yeah. I’d love to, Y/N.”

“Cool.”

“What, you’re not gonna say anything to me?” Blitzø questions, annoyed.

“Honestly? I just… I’m glad you tried to steal from Ozzie that night. I’m glad we’re friends. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah. Same. Don’t expect much more than that, this has already been way too touchy-feely for me.”

You laugh. “Fair enough.”

“So how long do you think they’re gonna keep us-” As if on cue, Millie barges into the room through the glass, interrupting Blitzø. Through the huge hole left on the cracked glass, you see Loona standing on the other side of the room, and for only a moment does it make you nervous to see the both of them again, memories of them, angry and crying, coming back to you. 

But Millie crushes Moxxie with a hug and peppers kisses all over his face and unties you and hugs you tight and asks you if you’re okay and suddenly your worries wash away like nothing but a bad memory. She’s there- the real her, and she’s worried about you. 

Besides, you don’t get much time to dwell on the memories of what you saw while in delirium, because a siren starts sounding, alerting every single one of the agents in the building of your presence. 

[ . . .]

“I- I can’t see dick!” Loona exclaims, exasperated at the useless attempt to read the words from the Grimoire and get all of you back home.

Blitzø fumbles with his pockets, trying to find more weapons, only to come up empty-handed. “Oh, shit. looks like we’ve milked this weapon tit-dry and now we’re out of badass-erry.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you’ve got yourselves trapped into a government facility in the human world with no way to get back home and, suddenly, the two idiots that had held you hostage for the majority of the day didn’t seem as stupid as they did just a few minutes ago, now that they had the upper hand. 

“Ha! You demons aren’t going anywhere now!” ‘Agent One’ mocks, holding a gun in your direction. 

It seems like it might actually be the end for all of you, and it’s actually terrifying.

Until something happens. 

The atmosphere in the room shifts, chills coursing through your spine as some sort of presence makes itself known. The many monitors in the room turn on, one at a time, making the sound of static take over the room before they begin to fall to the ground, one at a time as well, screens shattering against the floor. 

A voice echoes through the tiny room, ominous and bone-chilling: “Who dare threaten my impish little playthings?”

You and Blitzø immediately whip your heads around to face each other, sharing an alarmed look. 

Fuck. Stolas.

[. . .]

“How did you even know that we needed help?” Blitzø asks when Stolas comes back into his usual, normal form.

“I have my ways, darling. Are you two alright?” Is the first thing Stolas says as if possessing someone from Hell and making corpses summon him so he could come up to the human world though that someone’s body was no big deal, grabbing both you and Blitzø by your cheeks and squeezing them hard. 

“We’re fine, Stolas,” Blitzø replies with an eye roll.

“Good. Good.” Stolas takes a deep breath before his eyes widen so much they might as well fall off his face- all four of them. “How the fuck did you get caught by humans? Are you little creatures not being careful up here? You know if you get in trouble I get in trouble. We don’t want that.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Stolas. We’re sorry,” you try.

Moxie nods in agreement. “They caught us off-guard, Your Highness.”

Blitzø has a… less respectful approach. “Yeah, you can unclench your bird-puss, Stolas. It's not gonna happen again, okay?”

“Luckily for you, most don't believe the words of the demon-obsessed lunatics. They are seen as kooks.” Stolas laughs. “Kooks! Such a silly word. Now, let us all return,” He says, opening a opens a portal back to hell with ease.

“Yes, please. I'd like to return to the correct hell-hole as soon as possible,” Moxxie says, jumping into the portal, followed right away by Millie and Loona. 

Unspokenly, Blitzø takes his place in Stolas’ arms, and you climb his back until you can wrap your arms around his neck, wrapping your legs around his torso as well. 

He looks pleased at the position the three of you find yourselves in, “Am I going to get any thank you for this rescue?”

Blitz raised a hand to his chin, as if seriously pondering over the answer.“‘S’ppose you should. What do you think?” He asks you.

“Are you kidding me? That was so fucking hot, you can fuck me into next week for that.”

Your words ignite something within Stolas, whose voice sounds higher than usual when he tries to speak. “Oh. I’d very much like that.”

“Want me to fuck your brains out while you’re at it?” Blitzø offers.

“Very much so.”

“‘Kay but you’re gonna keep quiet or I'm gonna use the bear traps.”

“As if he’s not into that!” You accuse, laughing.

The feathers around Stolas’ neck puff up with arousal as he conjures up images of the scenario in his mind. “Please do.”

“See?”

A/N: yall thought i was giving up huh think again!!!