#….in case something nefarious happens

[sluttylittlewaste]

Does anyone else remember how during ACoC people kept trying to prove that Caramelinda was somehow in on [redacted's] betrayal and was actually evil? And do we all remember how many times Brennan had to say "No, she's not evil or Bad or anything, she's just a woman who is trying really hard to make the best decisions she can with the information she has in the heinous circumstances she's in"??? Do we remember Brennan having to tell the Bad Kids that Zayne Darkshadow isn't just some cringefail fucking edgelord but a child who suffered greatly in his life and then DIED?

Does anyone else remember Kalina literally having to snap her own neck to get the Bad Kids to realize that she might not be just *blanket evil*?

I feel like I'm seeing something very similar happening with Porter and Kipperlily and I really hope Brennan once again subverts the idea that just because a character is antagonistic they are inherently Bad or Evil.

Also, just a reminder Protagonist = main character Antagonist = person opposing/challenging the main character

These terms do not possess a moral assignation.

[intersectionalpraxis]

I documented multiple cases with @/ EuroMedHR of Israeli soldiers abducting blonde children from #Gaza claiming they might be abductee Israelis. As Israeli forces are nearing my area of refuge, I just actually told my brother’s wife to dye her blonde daughter’s hair black! [@/ MahaGaza on X. 01/07/24.] Read this twice, took me twice Zionists are kidnapping blonde Palestinian babies and pretending they're isra*lis, Palestinians are being told to dye their children's hair black [@/ Lamis_Deek on X. 01/07/24/]

Thank you to a mutual for sharing/alerting me to this. This is absolutely horrifying. Like WHO was it that said blonde and blue-eyed babies were superior??

This also makes me think of white European colonizers kidnapping Indigenous children and bringing them to "residential schools" -which were mass genocide camps. If ya'll even know a little about this history, that's what it reminds me of. Indigenous children were forcibly separated from their families and cultures. They were forbidden to speak their languages and were violently abused, and many were killed in heinous and cruel ways -there are still MANY unmarked graves in the white-settler nation of Canada.

This is beyond disturbing. I can't even imagine the horrors behind something like this. The IOF are depraved.

*Edit: for context, I'm not saying that the history of cultural genocide of Indigenous people in settler-colonial countries like Canada and the United States is a direct parallel to what is happening or what appears to be happening to Palestinian children. It just brought up initial thoughts (in terms of my perspective) about the IOF kidnapping Palestinian babies for their 'perceived whiteness,' [which made me think of Nazi Germany's white supremacist discourses], and how very specific it is of them to be taking Palestinian babies/young children and saying they are 'Israeli' [which reminded me of how Indigenous children were forcibly taken from their homeland/cultures by violent settler-colonial states]. I think most of us can agree that the intentions behind this are nefarious, and no matter the reason -I am not trying to erase the severity of and atrocities behind nearly 2 centuries of anti-Indigenous racism and systemic violence against Indigenous communities. I saw a re-blog with commentary about this -and I just want to acknowledge what they had said because this is important to address.

[virgincels]

NYMPHOMANIA !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. daddy-daughter incest, femcel reader :3, reader wants to get raped so she talks about that, dub-con for like a paragraph, suicidal thoughts, awful thoughts in general, tiny bit of somno, threats, spanking, slapping

note. HAII :3 back on my femcel shit… god i rewrote this like 15 times and restarted over and over so i hate this 😭 it’s clunky so ignore any mistakes!!! feedback n rbs always so appreciated <3 was thinking of og4 leon but.. honestly idk atp !! anyway sorry again for the slow decrease in quality in this .. title has nothing to do w the fic ack ok bye :3

tumblr removes fics that use, for example, tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

There are two things you want to get off your chest.

You are not, under any circumstances, ugly. Your face just takes getting used to. (This is a cope.)

You have a crush on your dad. No excuse for this one. Cupid is a conniving bastard. That’s that.

These might not seem like related issues, but they most certainly are because being ugly is hard, and having a crush on your dad is equally as hard.

You’re a sweet girl, you didn’t choose to come out ugly, it’s not your fault you turned out this way. It’s unfair, but ultimately no one meant for it to happen

(Well, you hope no one meant for it to happen unless someone had a vendetta against your mother and cursed her firstborn. She’s an irritating lady, you can see why someone would do so.)

You won’t even be the kind of below-average woman who marries a mediocre man to have mediocre sex to make mediocre kids to live in caustic mediocrity. You have one friend, she’s an online friend, and she might be a lonely old man. To be entirely honest you would prefer that. ‘Cause that would mean someone out there wants to creep on you.

If you weren’t ugly, having a crush on your dad would be socially acceptable. That’s why daddy-daughter porn spans pages and pages and pages of Pornhub. Everyone loves to watch a busty, blonde slut on her dad’s dick. If you didn’t have a crush on your dad, being ugly would be perfectly fine— No, that’s wrong.

Being ugly is never fine. Being ugly is on the same level as being a rapist. Being ugly in the presence of people who are objectively not ugly is, like, worse than being a rapist. ‘Cause all the dudes in high school were rapists in the making. Ted Bundy-style shit.

Grope an ugly bitch in the bathrooms and she wouldn’t speak up, and if she did— She just wouldn’t actually. Would be burnt at the stake Salem style. Hung. Crucifixion perhaps. Ugly girls aren’t good enough to die like martyrs did, however. Especially not ugly girls who cry wolf.

Why on God’s green earth would a hot guy go out of his way to slap a freaky-looking girl’s ass, right? Got girls lined up down the halls waiting for him to sign their perky tits, he doesn’t need to rape. It must be wishful thinking on her part, right? A wet dream she took as reality.

Why would you say that? Do you want to throw what he’s worked for down the drain? Accusations like this, they’re not jokes, y’know that? He’s got a scholarship, college wouldn’t take something like this so lightly.

Aw, you miss her. This goth chick in senior year. Your sorta friend. When it all went down and she had nowhere else to go, you invited her over because you’re a nice girl with no nefarious intentions. None at all. When she lay beside you at night, and she opened up, and she thanked you for believing her, you totally did not have your hand in your panties. And you totally did not rub yourself raw while she spoke about it in excruciating detail. You did not treat her rape case as erotica.

The dude got away with it of course. He was on TV the other day in fact. NFL. Baltimore Ravens. Still stupid hot. God, you wish it was you he picked - wouldn’t have told a single soul. Would’ve sucked the sweat from his jockstrap without complaint.

You’re too repulsive to be touched or raped, and you’ve learnt to live with that. Passing out in alleyways would result in rapists who frequent the area to avoid those very alleyways. Only your hand knows the cushiony softness of your tits, the wetness between your legs, how great your mouth feels— Only your dildo knows that, but you can imagine it’s good. You’re a total catch. A nympho. Men love nymphos when they’re pretty, which you are not. So you’re a nympho without the sex appeal. So in other words you are a pervert. A degenerate. A fucking freak.

It’s time to start sticking your fingers down your throat. ‘Cause that’s what gorgeous girls do to achieve that grave-robbed look. Heroin chic. Modelesque. It’s all the same type of beautiful. Emaciated and sickly. Dead girls are the sexiest ‘cause they can’t say yes or no and if there’s no no then it’s a yes. A nymphetic loophole of sorts. Men love dead girls that double as nymphos. Unfortunately, you are well and alive. Walking into traffic seems like fun, but you would be classed as roadkill, and it wouldn’t be tragically beautiful, just embarrassing to get scraped off the concrete like that. Even in death, you would be ugly because you are ugly to your very core. Your bone marrow is so ugly no scientist would want to make stem cells out of it, polynucleotides so deformed— You’re ugly. No need to wax poetic about it. Nothing poetic about being ugly.

Dad is the closest a human being can get to perfection. A divine image. Michelangelo is, like, dead and gone. David should've died alongside him. Dad deserves to take his place in the Accademia Gallery. With the way people gawk at him, he might as well be art. You’re surprised he doesn’t sell tickets to merely exist in his presence. He’s hot like a Calvin Klein model, and mom is hot like a regular model. Due to how you’ve turned out, you have a few qualms with your mother.

Like, what the fuck happened to you in her womb? Did someone take a mallet to one side of her belly to ensure her child came out as asymmetrical as one can be? A lack of nutrients maybe? Was she dieting during the pregnancy? Did dad fuck her too hard? Busted her womb up or some shit.

It simply might be that two rights make a wrong.

Or you were a tester before she popped your siblings out. Little ichor-filled putto. They were child models, scouted in their diapers, and you would stand behind your mother and the cameraman so hurt you couldn’t even feel jealous. Now they’re all grown up, fully-fledged erotes, and they’re working and doing all this shit you still haven’t managed to get a grasp on. Navigating the world as an ugly bitch is terribly hard.

Rape kinks are developed, dads get crushed on - awful, terrible things happen when girls are ugly and alone and unable to leave the comfort of their bedrooms.

Pretty girls have daddy issues that are dealt with in standard pretty girl fashion - finding emotionally unavailable, salt-and-pepper-haired men to fill every hole, including the one in their doll hearts. The thing is pretty girls don’t go for their dads. ‘Cause a lot of the time dads are gross. Dads do not look like your dad does. And to be fair you don’t exactly have daddy issues. Your dad is present and he doesn’t hit or shout or do anything out of the norm. Maybe this is a you issue.

It is a you issue, not even an ugly girl issue or an any type of girl issue. It’s your issue and yours alone.

It is your issue that when Leon asks what you want for dinner you almost ask for his hand around your throat or his hand in marriage. Either would be fine. Both would be preferred.

Severing your relationship would be even better. Goddamn, girls with absent fathers are lucky. You wish he was anything but your dad— It’s just that if you weren’t his daughter, dad wouldn’t ever look your way, he would pass by you like every man does.

Dad is a busy guy, and he’s a strange guy in the sense that he’s never really bothered with you. He loves your sister, and he loves your brother. But everyone loves those two. You don’t think he likes you very much, you can deal with that. Doesn’t mean you have daddy issues ‘cause no one likes you very much. So it’s a you issue and you should try harder.

Leon’s home early today. He’s collapsed on the couch, withered into himself like he always is after business trips. Mom said not to disturb him. You don’t. Then you do. This is like crack to you. Dad.

More specifically, dad without mom hovering over him. Dad’s sleeping so your brain is not stewed by his intense gaze. It only ever lingers on you for merely a second, but your stomach flips like you’ve got appendicitis and your legs spread involuntarily.

He’s a light sleeper, you’re well aware. He’s also a living, breathing Ken doll so you don’t put much thought into it when you reach out to ghost your fingers along the bridge of his nose. So pointy it could pierce your clit. Your clit. His nose. Oh, it could work so well, you want to grind yourself to mush against it.

Until dad shifts, he’s so beautiful up close you almost forget he’s real, not a wax figure. You trace the straight edge of his jaw, then thumb his petal lips, dragging your pointer finger over the fuller bottom one to push the tip into his wet mouth. Your dad is a slut. ‘Cause he sucks for a good second or two. Heat licks at your insides. You might vomit. His spit glistens like cobwebs when you take it back. That hand is shoved down your pants. That finger finds your clit, uses what spit is left to get it nice and wet. Which is totally unneeded, you’ve been soaked since god knows when, your pussy doesn’t know when to quit.

Feels good knowing that a part of dad is in you, his spit pushed into your hole. You’ll give him something back, it’s only fair, you smear your slick on the spot you traced. His tongue pokes out, likely to combat dry mouth, it swipes along his bottom lip— He tastes you. Heat engulfs you, chars your body from the inside out, the scent of rotting meat is in your nostrils.

Dad tasted you.

Holy fuck. You sit there with a trembling smile, staring down at him and he does not rouse. Shit, you’re creepy and you know it, but you’re not stupid. What other chance do you have? You unzip his old shearling jacket, underneath is that compression shirt that fits him too well. You map out the ridges of his abs, the slight dip between his pecs, every hard line that makes up his body. He smells so sexy, lavender and leather, must be some sorta pheromone ‘cause all you want to do is drop your face into his tits to bathe in that scent, to have it stick to your skin. Shit. Holy fucking shit. You’ve got a sex doll instead of a dad. That explains the distantness. He’s made of silicone.

The door clicks the moment you find it in yourself to click open his belt.

“What're you doing?” Mom ruins everything. She’s had it out for you the moment you formed in her womb. “He’s sleeping, don’t disturb him.” She says tersely, placing her Coach Tabby on the coffee table.

“He was cold.” That’s why his nipples are peaking, piercing the fabric of that shirt. Should be illegal to wear that in public. He’s asking for it.

“Yeah?” She asks, unconvinced, bending down to unclasp her heels.

“Yeah.” You stand up, dad’s indirect kiss on your cunt, shoot her a nasty sneer before you scuttle away to your bedroom for the rest of the day.

There are stairs that creak and stairs that don’t. You hang around down here at midnight often so you know the right path to take as to not alert your parents of your presence. They’re speaking about you.

“—be careful around her.” Truly, you hate your mother.

“What is there to be careful about?” Right? You tell her dad.

“Just, just be careful. She doesn’t y’know.”

“She doesn’t what?”

“She doesn’t get off her ass, she doesn’t talk to anyone but, well, I don’t know actually, she doesn’t talk to anyone at all.” You could pretend and say it hurts, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing insulting about the truth.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re a guy, she doesn't talk to guys.”

“We don’t talk much either.” Dad is too stiff to make conversation, and you collapse anytime he breathes in your general direction.

“Yeah, but, Leon.” Mom sounds exasperated, but she’s not getting her point across well. She should know better, dad’s skull is thicker than cement. “I’m worried.”

“What, for me or her?”

“Her, obviously, I don’t want her to… I want her to get out, like, I want her to do stuff,” mom sniffles, she is so putting this on to make dad feel guilty. “It’s so hard to watch your adult daughter just sit in a room and do nothing all day, Leon, she’s like a big fucking baby, why is she like that?”

“Babe,” he coos, and your knees buckle.

“Go talk to her.”

“What?”

“Go talk to her about it,” Mom repeats, voice shaking. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

They go back and forth for a few minutes, and then dad sighs and says fine. You make haste back to your hovel that doubles as a bedroom, crawl into bed and try to look natural.

Leon clears his throat before he knocks, when you don’t answer he pokes his head in. He says your name and you stir, sheets taut to your body as you peek up at him.

“You should open a window in here.”

When you don’t respond, he sits at the foot of your bed, looks around and nods. His gaze is scathing. Not purposefully. You just take it that way.

“Dinner’s ready,” he lies, then he leaves. His perfume lingers, and you touch the space he was sitting in, his warmth remains.

The day after that, you’re in the living room, tuckered out after mom forced you to help her with the groceries. You’re not cut out for this sort of life. The living sort of life. You were made to rot.

“Door wasn’t locked,” Leon says when he steps in, he puts his keys down, shucks his jacket off, tracks mud halfway down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Your shoes, Leon,” Mom groans, “she came in last.”

“Oh, sorry,” you say absentmindedly. If it doesn’t include tits or dicks or pussy it is none of your business. You have enough energy to keep up with one thing and that is your porn addiction. Groceries really took it out of you.

“You should be careful, rapists might come in, murderers or some shit.” Leon is speaking to your mother. Not you because he has seen your face and he knows very well that an ugly girl like you would survive out of sheer ugliness.

Mom snorts, “I think you’re the scariest thing that could walk through that door, honey.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

You’d like to know what that means too. Well, you get the gist, ‘cause you’ve heard all those stories. Dad and his wandering hands.

“You know what that means.” The sound of lips smacking is enough to have you feeling sick, dizzy as you cling to the walls and make your escape. “Did she leave— Quit it, Leon— Hands off, can you go talk to her, please? Properly this time.”

He forgets to knock this time, or he can’t bother to knock. Dad sits in that same spot, he opens his mouth and closes it about five times.

“Mom’s worried about you,” Leon says robotically. “You good?”

“I’m great.” Your tone is unconvincing, but he clearly doesn’t care enough because you're his dirty little secret. Not in a sex way. You would do anything for it to be in the sex way. Dirty little secret as in the ugly kid he chooses to ignore purely because you’re ugly. Dad doesn’t like ugly girls, you know that. He doesn’t think they’re worth a second glance, even a first glance is too much. Dad is superficial and his love is plastic.

These are all things you’re making up in your head based on assumptions. This is how all attractive men think. Ugly girls aren’t worth rape, dirtying your dick in ugly pussy sounds like a hassle. If you were pretty, you wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy. Even as a self-proclaimed ugly girl, you still wouldn’t fuck an ugly guy ‘cause they’re gross, and it’s not like they want you. Ugly guys shoot high and aim for pretty girls. Duh.

So you get it. Honestly. Whatever. Dad doesn’t like you. That’s okay, you don’t like him as a dad anyway. You love him like an obsessive lover. A hallway crush that stars in your late-night rape fantasies. And you’re fine like this. You’re so fine.

“Can I… Can I actually have a hug, dad?” You muster up what is left in your hollow heart to ask him that. It’s a big deal.

Leon blinks at you, levels you with his blank stare. He’s so handsome you want to blow your brains out, it’s an easy feat because you’re always looking for reasons to blow your brains out. Every straw is your last and yet you’re still here.

“Sure, sweetheart.” Dad opens his arms, and you crawl towards him, head on his shoulder as his arms loop around your waist. Oh, god, you will your heart into giving out. Dying right here in dad’s arms is ideal.

He holds you so gently it’s brutal. He crushes you with the weight of his loveless love. Dad’s so good at pretending you almost think he cares.

“Can you… I want to stay like this.”

“Uh, sure, sweetheart,” Leon calls everyone sweetheart. Sweetheart is his default. Sweetheart ranges from Auntie Ashley to babysitters to lifeguards and retail workers who aren’t getting paid enough to deal with some old man making eyes at them. Not that anyone minds dad’s attention. It’s fucking unfair. Mom is babe, and your sister is baby, and your brother is buddy or sport or tiger or whatever shit he pulls out of his ass. And you’re sweetheart because you’re not important to him. His firstborn daughter is not important to him ‘cause she’s ugly. More of a specimen than a human.

You would do anything to keep him here.

“Dad?” You whisper into his neck.

“…Yeah?”

“I want you to…” Your lack of life flashes in front of your eyes. Bedroom. Bedroom. Porn. Bedroom. Porn. Porn. Dad. Not much. What have you got to lose? “I want to— I want to fuck you.”

Dad is silent. Then: “Oh.” He never makes the move to pull away, so you sit snugly in his grip for a few seconds longer.

“I— Dad, I touch myself thinkin’ about you.” Your stomach ties itself into a Gordian knot.

“Yeah, okay, why don’t we— Yeah, fuck, I see what she meant, okay. Wow, that’s a lot. Sweetheart, why… Listen.” Dad says a whole lot of nothing as he takes your hands off him.

“Please… I love you, dad. I really like you— I know it’s weird, dad, I do, seriously, I know, but please I just… I just like you.” There is no explanation for it. “Dad… Daddy.”

He full-on winces. It’s like you’re being flayed. Something inside of you just— Just shatters. Not your heart ‘cause it’s pumping more blood than it ever has. Fragments of your sanity splinter into even smaller segments until there is nothing left but nauseating levels of mental disturbance.

“If you don’t…”

“You seriously trying that right now?” Leon scoffs, and he’s so cocky you get hot under the collar.

(Between your thighs too, but that’s a different story.)

“Yeah, I’m serious— If you don’t… If you don’t do it- do it with me, I’ll tell mom you… I’ll tell her you raped me.” In actuality, you would never tell mom if daddy raped you. You would treasure it, keep it in a heart-shaped locket and think about it when you get off twelve times a day. Getting your pussy reamed by dad’s cock would fix you right up.

“Don’t— Are you okay?” Leon smacks your hand away, his tone is even.

“You do it too— I know you’ve done it, I know how you and mom met.”

His face drains, pallor yellowish. “That don’t… That’s different.”

“How is that any different?” Different ‘cause he’s hot and mom is hot. Leon passed it off as a drunken mistake and they end up getting together. It’s not rape if the perpetrator is a hottie. You agree, but still— It’s not fucking fair.

“‘Cause I didn’t do this.” Leon gestures abstractly.

You kiss him, hands braced on each of his tits, digging your fingers into the meat to feel him tense and harden like he’s wearing a chest plate. “You’re so hot dad,” you whine into his mouth, and Leon is quick to push you off, your wrists in his hands. Makeshift handcuffs.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Dad is using his dad voice. It’s like porn to you, only makes you wetter. “I don’t like hitting girls, but you’re givin’ me a damn good reason.”

“You can hit me, daddy.” You offer your face to him, stretching your neck forward, closing your eyes as you wait for the impact. It lands firm on your cheek, his fingertips catching the tip of your nose. Fuck that felt good. Shit. You think you’ve creamed your panties. “Again, dad, hit me again—“ He does. Harder than the last time. Your head knocks backwards, and your brain must have a dent in it.

Dad puts you over his lap and you’re so sure you’ve entered the pearly gates. Or the innermost circle of hell. Probably that ‘cause Jesus Christ are you steaming.

“I hate stupid little sluts that try it out on me,” Leon drags your sweats over the swell of your ass, “Do you have a dick?”

“What, dad— No!” You tell him, more mortified at his question than you are by your bare ass under his palm. Fuck— You’re so wet it’s disgusting, dripping down your thighs and surely staining his lap. Thick like treacle.

“No? Were you gonna rape dad with this stupid cunt?” Oh, you hope he spanks your pussy. Porn makes it look delicious. “You look like you might have a dick with that face of yours.” He traces the seam of your cunt through your panties. “Or is your pussy just fat?”

Good fucking lord.

“Dad…” You arch into him, only to have a hand come down on your left ass cheek. One. Two. Three. They all hurt bad as each other. Four. “Ouch!” That one hurt real bad. Five. You feel like a naughty child. This is not as hot as you thought it would be. More dull and embarrassing. Not even the good kind of embarrassing.

Leon puts you on your knees, the hand wrapped around your jaw forces your lips into a pout, and you think he is going to kiss you— God, you close your eyes and wait for it, lean into him, shit you’d pop your leg if you were standing up. He spits in your face and it trickles down the bridge of your nose.

“Got me dirty with that filthy pussy.” Dad speaks offhandedly, he speaks to you like you’re dog shit. Not dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Just dog shit on the side of the road. Like the sort that bothers you enough to complain about it, but it doesn’t ignite any real anger.

His hand remains tight on your jaw, then he drops it to fish his fat cock from his pants to slap the drippy head on your cheek. The sound ricochets off the walls. Hits you like a bullet. Holy fuck. Dad really just did that. You giggle, batting your lashes up at him as pretty as an ugly girl can, and he grimaces so it can’t be pretty.

“Christ, you nasty fuck,” Leon snickers at the look on your face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Daddy,” you whimper, nosing the tip of his dick, he smells so good you want him in your mouth, “I jus’ love you lots.”

“God, I hate ugly little freaks like you.” He said that already, no need to rub it in. Another slap of his cock on your face. Your heart beats for him and him alone. “You know what I think?” Dad guides his cock into your warm mouth. “Shit, that’s good— I think your mom is a liar.”

His dick is all you’ve ever wanted. It’s heavy on your tongue, though the longer you suckle on the tip, the weightier it gets, and he’s wet. Dripping all over the place. You must get that gene from your dad.

“‘Cause I don’t think,” he grunts, palm resting on your forehead to push you off his shaft, “I don’t think I could make a kid this ugly.”

“No,” you say breathlessly, “No, you’re my dad, my daddy.” Crouched down below him, you lave over his balls, putting more effort into this than you have done with anything else in your life. Gargling dad’s balls is your best work. Nothing else you have to be proud of.

Your pussy is pulsing, shit has its own heartbeat, you drop your hand down to soothe your poor cunt, rubbing figure eights into the bulge of your clit over your panties. It’s not enough, you push them to the side, your fingers slip a couple times, not enough, only dad’s fingers are enough, only his cock will plug up your leaking hole.

“Get off me,” dad instructs, and you might be glued to him, but you detach yourself immediately. “C’mon, stand up.” You use his thighs as leverage, standing on shaky legs that threaten to give out at any second. He takes your shirt off. “Cute tits gone to waste,” dad sighs like it’s heartbreaking. “We could've done something about it, y’know? Could fix your face right up, just had to ask daddy.”

“Really, dad? I want to be pretty, daddy, I want to be pretty for you, you never call me pretty— Daddy, I want to be pretty, please.” You clasp his shirt, and he brings you into his lap once more, raising your legs to slide your panties down so you’re free bleeding on his lap. Free bleeding without the blood. Just good old pussy.

“Messin’ with you, sweetheart, can’t fix that dog face,” dad coos to you tenderly, and the plain-as-day insult flies right over you. Dad could get you to sell both your kidneys if he keeps talking to you like that. “Just gotta live with it.”

You have. You have lived with it. That’s what you do. Live with your ugly face. You could die, that’s an option, but you choose to wait it out. ‘Cause dying is pretty scary no matter how much you want it. And Leon’s dick is hard beneath your pussy so there are things to live for. The world isn’t all cruel.

“Up,” he taps your lower back, you raise your hips and he presses his cock to your stretched hole. Toy after toy after toy. All to ready yourself for dad. When you sink down on him, your body convulses. It’s the sweet release of death. Or an orgasm. Fuck. Dying on dad’s cock is— You haven’t died on his dick, he fucks you through your high, feet planted firmly on the ground as he thrusts upwards, dick angled just right.

Heroin is meant to be good. You’ve seen Trainspotting. Better than any cock— You don’t believe that for a minute. Unless he’s leaking smack straight into your pussy, numbing your walls. Could be that ‘cause god— You’re not really thinking, not that you think much, when you decide to shove your fingers into his mouth.

“Daddy, can you taste me?” You ask him, giving a languid grind of your hips down onto his cock, you regret it immediately ‘cause it’s so good your cunt squelches loudly. “Do you taste me, dad? Dad—“

“Yeah,” Dad says, muffled, “Shoving your fingers down my fuckin’ throat, you little psycho, ‘course I taste it.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Daddy looks so pretty with his lips wrapped around your fingers, you fuck them in and out of his pink mouth, his tongue runs along the length of your fingers like he’s sucking a nice cock. Treating your fingers better than you did his dick.

Daddy’s splitting you in two. He fucks you without a care in the world. ‘Cause he doesn’t care about you. One-time-use pussy. You’re disposable like the gloves you get with box dye. Like a plastic spork. His cock is so deep he might as well tear open your middle and fuck your guts. Leon grabs your hips, forces you up and drops you down. The air in your lungs has no time to build up— You grasp at his shirt, bouncing in his lap like you’re a fleshlight, and you would be so happy with that title. Dad’s personal fleshlight. It makes you giddy.

Leon’s cock twitches inside of you, when he lifts you off of him, your pussy clings to the tip, holding on for dear life, insistent on milking daddy’s dick, taking every drop of his cum.

“Daddy…” Your head drops to his shoulder. “Please, daddy, am I pretty? Can you call me pretty?”

His hips stutter, and you don’t have to see his face to know he hesitates. It’s a struggle to call a girl like you pretty. “You’re so pretty, sweetheart.” Then he dumps his load so deep— So deep, you warm to the thought of having your daddy’s baby. You already fucked so why not go the extra mile?

Dad doesn’t kiss you, but he lays you down and tucks you in like he never has before. “Your mom’s worried.” He goes back to the topic at hand and you groan, covering your face with a pillow. “Hey, we can, uh…” Leon scratches his head. “We can y’know…” He shrugs, glances down at you. “Can do that if you try pulling your weight a little.”

The promise of your dad’s cock is enough to have you applying for every job in a thirty-mile radius. Dad’s cock is a fix for an ugly girl like you. You’ve got a pussy only your daddy could love, and you think you’re more than okay with that.

[showtoonzfan]

Ganna rant about Episode 4 of Hazbin again. For starters it has the same issue that Seeing Stars did for Helluva boss, that being Loona giving Octavia advice in comparison to Husk giving Angel advice. While the characters situations are different, both Loona and Husk were the wrong characters to pick to give advice, or simply just comfort the other character. I’ve already seen some people say that Charlie or Vaggie should have been the one to cheer Angel up, and that would have made more sense. They’ve known him longer and it’s in character for them to do that. For it to be Husk, not only does it feel forced as an excuse to just hook Angel up with a boyfriend and get the shipping fuel going, but it doesn’t make sense narratively.

In Loona’s case, her situation was flawed because she just MET Octavia, didn’t know a thing about her struggles and spouts to her about how she should be thankful just because her dad is “trying”, and the show tries comparing both girl’s situations when they’re not the same. This is practically the same situation with Angel and Husk. While Husk is aware of Angel, he barley knows him. He hasn’t been at the hotel that long considering the pilot took place only a week ago. On screen, all that Husk knew about Angel was that he was a porn star who constantly flirts with everyone, him especially, and we as the audience only see that and only that when the two interact. However episode 4 claims that Husk can see right through him and know that this is all part of his persona that he displays. If we had more time with these two characters outside of flirty banter scenes, this would make more sense, but instead it’s all tell and no show, being rushed with the little time we’re given. Husk even says that the hotel residents go to him to rant their sorrows while they’re drunk and even THAT happens off screen and that’s the problem, the audience has no reason to believe that Husk knows Angel deep down or even cares enough to want to help him, in our eyes, all Angel’s been doing is sexually harassing him.

There’s no reason why these two need to have an emotional scene together, it’s unearned and unwarranted because we haven’t had enough time with these characters, just like Loona and Octavia, there’s just no purpose or buildup. I also resort back to what I’ve said before: Husk selling his soul to Alastor is not the same as Angel selling his soul to Valentino. The show tries to compare Angel and Husk’s situations and it’s just not comparable because Alastor isn’t a rapist who’s trapping Husk to sell his body and be used like a rag doll constantly. Had it been something like “you’re a drug abuser and I’m an alcoholic”- THEN that would have worked, but that’s not what we get, and this leads me to talking about why “Loser Baby” isn’t good.

Some people have already misinterpreted my opinion, so here’s a few things. Is the song in character for Husk? Yes. Is the song about Husk telling Angel not to act and just embrace himself? Yes. On its own, the song is fine outside of some distasteful lines. The CONTEXT, execution, and placement of the song is the issue. Episode 4’s whole purpose is to see just how much Angel suffers. He’s forced to work like a dog at the studio day in and day out, and he gets abused and SA’d by his boss and other demons constantly. He doesn’t have a say in anything and can never say no because he’s under contract. He can’t Fizz his way out of this one and just go “I quit”, he’s literally forced to work in the porn industry wether he likes it or not, and we see all of that on screen. We also explore just how much this affects him. They reveal some pretty dark stuff here, how Angel doesn’t even want his position as a famous porn star and is so desperate to be numb from the pain and suffering he endorses that he’ll get high constantly and let people drug him for nefarious reasons, it’s his escape. They dump ALL of that info onto us, only for this bullshit to come up:

So the writers slut shame him, call him a freak and an addict to laugh at because “haha he’s addicted to drugs and a slut”, even though we JUST got done with a scene that confirms HE DOES ALL OF THIS AS A TRUAMA RESPONSE. He said himself he does the drugs and is addicted to numb the pain, and his own flirting (while problematic) is shown to be an act of him hyper sexualizing himself due to what he goes through. It’s not excusable but it’s still a fact, and we’re supposed to LAUGH at him??? That’s what’s wrong with his character and what continues to be wrong, because Viv sees him as the butt of the joke. Every line of dialogue he has is always about sex and how we should laugh because he’s a slut, an it comes off as so distasteful and insensitive to not only people who have been abused/SA’d, but porn actors in general. We’re supposed to laugh when he talks about cock and sex, but the reason he’s doing it is so dark that we shouldn’t be laughing about it at all cause he’s a VICTIM, yet Viv thinks it’s funny. It’s so disgusting and makes my stomach twist. Angel is trapped being in a position he doesn’t even want to be in, yet his entire character revolves around comedic sex jokes, and once you figure out the reason behind said sex jokes, it feels so wrong.

And this is why Loser Baby doesn’t work. Aside from everything else I’ve already said, It doesn’t line up with what Angel is going through, it doesn’t line up with the rest of the episode. If you wanted Angel to have this arc about realizing he doesn’t need to stick to his persona, fine, but you should have done it in a different episode. This is why Husk comes off as telling him to just suck it up and stop whining rather than what he’s actually trying to say. It looks bad with how they executed it, it just looks like he’s telling an SA victim to get over it and stop whining and what’s worse is they compare their situations when it’s not the same. You literally have a scene of Angel telling Husk he lets people drug him, and not even a minute later Husk is calling him a loser. That’s the issue. The show doesn’t know how to read the room, build character relationships slower, is just so incredibly tone deaf and is hypocritical. We’re supposed to feel bad for Angel cause he’s sexualized to the maxes and is having trauma responses of that, but then we’re also supposed to laugh at him and his sex jokes while also finding him hot. Pick a fucking side Vivienne, the show wants to have its cake and eat it too and look where that’s gotten us. The writing is a fucking atrocious mess and yet it had so much potential if Viv actually cared enough to take Angel seriously, instead of just desperately wanting to give him a boyfriend, and a rushed arc where he magically feels better in the end.

[cloudcountry]

Eeee requests are open for Rollo!! Ahem.

So ever since I watched a playthrough of the GloMas event, I always had this idea in my head where Rollo and Yuu (or in this case, the reader) are dancing in the ballroom. But Yuu/Reader knew Rollo's connection to what happened with the Crimson flowers (?) and they disliked him for it. But they also don't have a choice but to dance with him to avoid conflict.

I was obsessed with Enemies to Lovers by Joshua Kyan Aalampour at that time so it kinda influenced the idea hehe

Thank you and take a good rest after this!! <3333

SUMMARY: you're trapped in a fearful waltz with the man you hate.

WARNINGS: none!!

COMMENTS: COOKIE THAT PIECE IS BEAUTIFUL........readers if you wnat to listen to something while you read please listen to it its so good and made my writing flow so easily omg

i havent played the full event so if some parts dont make sense thats why!! im only going off of some spoilers ive seen so if you havent seen any spoilers for this event tread carefully i guess!!

Your hands shake as the man in front of you takes them, his stare cold and triumphant. He knows he’s won this battle, that you have to dance in order to preserve Night Raven’s reputation or risk making yourself look bad. He knows he’s won and it kills you inside. You have half a mind to step on his toes but you decide against it.

His hand grasps your waist and sweeps you into a waltz. You hold back a violent shudder at the touch of a madman, your heart pitter-pattering like the ashes against the cobblestone paths. Rollo sighs, almost like he’s relaxed, like he’s enjoying this dance with you.

You could not agree less.

“Are you having fun?” he asks, words laced with a mocking poison.

You seeth, but keep your mouth closed. You will not give him anything to use against you. The dance continues as the orchestra hits another crescendo, and bile crawls up your throat when Rollo spins you and dips you in accordance with the music.

He’s a delightful dance partner, although you loath to admit it. If he wasn’t so unpleasant to be around and didn’t actively put the people you loved in danger, you may have enjoyed this moment.

That thought vanishes the second you see his face and the ugly smirk that adorns it. You hate this. You hate this and you hate him. You hate having to rely on your magical peers to drag you away from Rollo, even though they can’t right now because this dance is supposed to signify goodwill.

It doesn’t matter how much Deuce hates to see you uncomfortable, or how much Jamil takes in your partner's body language to make sure he isn’t planning anything nefarious, or how hard Azul clenches his fists in displeasure or how much Grim wants to bite his ankles or how much Malleus wants to rip Rollo’s hands off of you because they would ruin everything if they did and that’s simply not an option any of them can take anymore.

And so you dance.

You dance and you can’t wait for it to be over.

[jeeaark]

in a timeline where the illithid invasion never happen, a world where the absolute never existed, what would greygold's life be like? or maybe even lae'zel's? a world where they stumble upon each other without all the destruction around them.

The funny thing is.

Without squids trying to ruin their life, Greygold would have never discovered the power of friendship

Worse even, they'd still be a dispassionate lone ranger with questionable bird ethics surviving the wilderness and living off raw eggs like a weirdo.

Meanwhile, Lae'zel is still a Vlaakith devotee and if they stumble upon each other without a plot to drive them to work together and get to know each other... Bad things would happen! Someone would probably die. Most likely Greygold. But! Lets say. A plot did happen.

Buckle up buckaroos. This train thought went off the rails enough that I had to draw pics. Faster than writing out a 13k+ fic (for me anyway).

Let's say Greygold got the 'steal the githyanki egg ' job from Esther. Let's say they succeeded in sneaking in and out without too much of a fuss (mostly involving cat familiar distractions). And something Unfortunate happens before Greygold could complete the quest, leaving Greygold with an egg that eventually hatches:

And the githyanki child is not your average run-of-the-mill space lad either (Who loves eating raw eggs now too. It's fine. Builds character. Probably) But uh yeah, that whoosh accidentally cosmos-signaled all the githyankis and Vlaakith to which she reacts with a 'Wtf? Did anybody just get Prince of the Comet vibes from that? With a "I love egg" aftertaste? No? Just me? Hrm.... I do currently have a lot of free time on my hands....Fetch me that child. I want to study him like a bug. I'm suddenly feeling... Creatively ambitious with a side case of nefarious today. Might bury an old big secret if that kid is replacement-viable.' Thus search patrols investigate-

And never return.

After the first surprise patrol disaster, Greygold has been putting their danger ranger skills to good use via setting up counter-ambushes for all the constant surprise attacks. Classic "who is hunting who?" ordeal.

Nonetheless, there is more of them than there is of Greygold, so they resort to hiding in the Underdark after realizing the githyankis don't have dark vision and it's more environmentally dangerous than the surface. It is also a fun learning experience for the kid. Search patrols continue to never return. Until-

Lae'zel can't help but notice her mission orders do not add up and her rationality has a mighty need to make sense of it before solving problems with immediate hostility. Meanwhile this has been Greygold's first super tiny dose of kindness involving people interactions in years. Instant crush. Chase Shenanigans Ensue. Until child makes their first hunting trap. Instead of catching food, Lae'zel is captured. It also turns out the over-the-top trap involves sinking sand and a nest of Ankhegs (giant burrowing man-eating bugs). Greygold tries to help Lae'zel. For Reasons.

Something akin to mutual respect is formed. Stuck working together. Get to know each other. Discuss contradictions with mission. Verdigris worms his way into Lae'zel's heart (as much as she loathes his name). Escape the Ankheg nest which had terribly escalated because a giant fire ant invasion decided to overrun the ankheg nest at the same time.

Everyone is covered in bug guts after this.

Something something bond over experience enough to trust and listen to each other's opinions. Short Rest. Negotiate. Discuss plans to investigate Da Truth together. Shenanigans Ensue. Then Bad Shenanigans Ensue. Argument Ensues, resulting in Lae'zel Splitting Off. Verdigris disagrees with this approach and chases Lae'zel in order to bring back. Unanticipated Ambush happens at most inopportune moment. Greygold is Captured.

But they escape. Not before confronting Vlaakith's projection and discovering her plans and secrets thanks to one extremely curious Verdigrisgold (Verdi for short omg so long) with ridiculous super psionic powers.

And then they coincidentally interwovenly meet/save/recruit their bg3 companions anyway because there are no mindflayer abduction to stall certain ill-fated situations from happening to certain Companions-to-be and I need for them to be OKAY. So. Greygold discovers the power of friendship again. But is also now co-parenting a fate-of-the-githyanki-freedom child with Ex-Vlaakith-devotee Lae'zel. How's that for an AU timeline?

[onesidedradiostatic]

I feel like this fandom blames Vox's shitty behaviour too much on Alastor / Valentino

"Alastor rejecting him is the reason why he's like this in the present" this

"Valentino is the reason he's like this now" that

How about; Vox's shitty behaviour should be blamed on VOX because he's a shitty person and he's in hell for a reason.

Dunno I've seen many people baby him too much

idrk what's with the fandom's need to victimise vox so much honestly, what really pisses me off is that I've unironically seen a post with 200+ notes completely sympathising with vox like he's a baby going on about how alastor was completely using him and MADE him believe they had a mutual partnership, going about how TRAGIC vox is that he was rejected, absolutely ZERO sympathy for alastor whatsoever, completely painted as the singular master manipulator in their relationship, only used to talk about how bad they feel for babygirl vox. yes the unrequited feelings were brought up too and I cannot begin to say how bad it is to villainise the target of affection for not returning those feelings.

like okay... guess we will ignore how alastor presently has his irrational hatred of video now too (episode 1) which was likely a result of his falling out with vox that affected HIM too... no we will only think about how vox is the poor poor victim rejected by evil manipulator alastor mhm.... there's absolutely no chance alastor had any sort of genuine care for vox during that time whatsoever, he was just using him mhm mhm mhm

like look this isn't me trying to deny alastor being the type of person to do this but when you're ONLY painting alastor in the bad light and not giving vox any responsibility that's when I'm raising my eyebrows, I hate this type of black and white reading, like even with the hotel that we KNOW alastor has nefarious intentions for, there's some hint of genuine care there, is it so hard to think that that might've been the case back then with vox too? is it so hard to think that the relationship didn't just negatively impact vox but alastor too?

this is why I'm glad complicated (and sad!) is one of the ways they're described so I can hope for this take to be completely killed off when season 2 drops.

anyways, accidentally started ranting about radiostatic takes here I didn't even respond to the second part, I'm sure this one's been discussed at length but yes, the fact that this happens with both vox's relationships with val and alastor sure says something, like people LOOOVE to remove vox from responsibility of his own crimes/wrongdoings, no he must ABSOLUTELY be 100% the victim in all his relationships, there's no way he's done anything wrong...

[cerastes]

as far as my circle of mutuals goes, i think you're the only cishet guy around these days

We held a tournament, Highlander style, where we beheaded each other after climatic sword duels and absorbed the fallen's power. I am the Last Cishet who absorbed all of their power, known only by my title: Son Boy Allowed.

No but jest aside, that post did make me think of the times it's been brought up that I Am This in spaces where that's not the norm, and, well, each friend group or community has its own story, and in my case, it happened to be that the majority of people in my friend group & adjacent community, over the years, came out as trans mainly plus a few other identities, and while I did not understand it at all initially (even considered it could be catfishing, because I am from ye olde internet where catfishing was rampant and an olympic sport), my logic was "ok I love this person, they are asking me if I can refer to them as the other gender now, and that that's what they really are. There's not anything wrong at all with that, nor do I think this person I consider my friend could have nefarious intents with this, like catfishing, because I know them, so sure thing, let's go with that" and with time, I learned more and more about these topics, either by my own initiative (because I wanted to understand more) and when committing faux passes, because my friends would correct me or pull me to the side (send an IM) going "hey uh Drimo, you reblogged something pretty bad just now, are you aware?" "oh fuck no why" and I'd always get a helpful explanation.

Which brings me to the point: As a cishet dude, it REALLY helped me a LOT to understand these topics to have not only loving friends that live those lives, but to have said loving friends that live those lives and are willing to assume that my fuck ups and oopsies were born from ignorance and good faith, not from a hateful and discriminatory hill, and who then kindly informed me of X and Y.

So I have to agree with that post! At the risk of sounding self-aggrandizing, I do think being able to tolerate the misteps of a well-intentioned cishet guy who might not know all the 1s and 2s of the dance does in fact directly correlate to healthy, cool friend groups and communities. Over the years, the majority of my net friends have come out as trans, and a few others as non-binary and genderfluid, and I've never really had a situation where someone blasted me for my misteps, instead explaining What Happened instead. I've learned a lot over the years, and in fact, as a therapist, I've helped trans kids come out and have explained the whole shebang to their parents, but as a cishet guy, again, initially this was all very arcane to me, so I am always thankful for the people that took time and care so we could remain friends and so that I could grow to be a more worldly and open minded person.

[mrtwizz]

Snow On The Beach W.A. [Part One]

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Fem Reader slow burn series

Warnings: canon violence, it’s slow burn, reader likes bees, unedited

Word count: 6.7

Summary: Y/n takes a small liking to the new girl who allegedly killed two normies at her old school.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

It was a usual Sunday in Enid’s dorm room, her and Y/n were doing their weekend assignments that they put off for last minute. Later Enid had plans to redo Y/n’s nails as they had chipped last week when she smashed her hand in a drawer. She even made a mental note to ask her new roommate if she wanted hers done, just in case she warmed up to the pair quicker than expected. 

The door to the room opened, both Enid and Y/n looked up to see who had entered. Y/n sat up from her lying position on Enid’s bed to see that it was Principle Weems and the new girl. Y/n stands up while Enid squeals and jumps up from her position at her desk, “Howdy, roomie!” 

“Wednesday, this is Enid Sinclair, and Y/n L/n.” Weems introduced the three, as Y/n moved to stand next to Enid. 

Wednesday said nothing as she took in the room she stood in, and the girls in front of her. The blonde, Enid, was wearing the purple pinstripe uniforms. While the other one wasn’t, or at least it wasn’t the proper uniform. Where Enid’s went down to her shins, Y/n’s stopped above her knees. She also didn’t have the matching jacket. 

“Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.” Enid points out. 

The new girl, Wednesday, looks horrified. 

“Wednesday always looks half-dead.” The man behind her says, presumably her father. 

“Oh,” Enid says in a soft whisper, and outstretches her arms, “welcome to Ophelia Hall.” She moves forward to embrace Wednesday, who promptly moves backwards to avoid the interaction. “Not a hugger, got it.” 

“Please excuse Wednesday, she’s allergic to color.” Her mother says, and grimaces as if there's stories to tell about how they found that out.

“Oh wow, what happens to you?” Enid questions.

In a flat tone, Wednesday speaks for the first time, “I break out into hives, and then the flesh peels off my bones.” 

“Luckily, we’ve ordered a special uniform. Enid, Y/n, please take Wednesday to the registrar's office, to pick it up along with her schedule. Give her a tour along the way.” Weems smiles. 

The blonde werewolf does a little happy dance while Wednesday turns to face her parents, who’s faces fall at the look their daughter gives them. She quickly walked past the two of them out into the hall where Enid and Y/n happily followed, Enid skipping as she did so. 

Enid begins her history lesson on the place, “Built to educate people like us,” She was walking backwards as she spoke to maintain eye contact with Wednesday. 

“Freaks, outcasts, monsters,” Y/n filled in, walking beside her. 

“You can save the sanitized sales pitch,” Wednesday said, looking around as she stopped in front of Enid and Y/n, “I don’t plan on staying here for long.” 

“Why not?” Enid asks. 

“This was my parents’ idea,” Wednesday looked at something behind Y/n’s shoulder, “Oh look, there’s my mother smirking at me” 

Y/n moves her head to look at the picture Wednesday was looking at, “They’ve been looking for any excuse to send me here. It’s all a part of their nefarious,” Once more the raven haired girl turns back to Y/n and Enid,”yet completely obvious plan.” Enid’s tone is a stark contrast to Wednesday’s plain and flat one, “What plan?” 

“To turn me into a version of themselves.”

Enid and Y/n grimace, “In that case, perhaps you can clear something up.” Enid begins to lead her tour once more, “Rumor’s been swirling around that you killed a kid at your old school, and your parents pulled strings to get you off.” 

“Actually, it was two kids, but who’s counting?” Wednesday quickens her pace. 

Enid falters for a moment and stands still, where Y/n quickens to keep up with the girl. Soon they make their way outside, and Y/n places her sunglasses over her eyes. 

“Welcome to the quad,” Enid stretches her arms out for dramatics. 

“It’s a pentagon.” Wednesday observes the awful name choice for the courtyard. 

“The whole snarky goth girl thing might have worked at your normie school, but here things are different.” If anyone else had been speaking, Y/n’s tone might have come off condescending, but it was cheery and meant to give some sort of light to the situation. 

“Let me give you a rundown on Nevermore’s social scene.” Enid turns to Wednesday and then begins to walk off again. 

“I’m not interested in participating in tribal adolescent cliches.” 

“Well then use it to fill your obviously bottomless pit of disdain,” Enid begins, “there are many flavors of outcasts here.”

“There are the four main cliques,” She counts off on her fingers, “Fangs, Furs, Stoners and scales.” 

“Those are the Fangs, aka Vampires. Some of them have literally been here for decades.” Y/n explains. 

“That bunch of knuckleheads are Furs, aka werewolves. Like me!” Enid says, “Full moons get pretty loud around here, that’s when Furs wolf out.” 

“I suggest you pick up a pair of noise-canceling headphones.” Y/n says in a joking manner, but both know it's not a joke. 

Wednesday ignores her comment and looks at the group around the fountain, “I’m assuming Scales are sirens.”

“You catch on quick.And that girl, ” Enid points to one of the sirens, “Bianca Barclay, is the closest thing Nevermore has to Royalty.” 

Y/n smiles at the implication, “She’s my roommate, and you will soon be happy Enid is your roommate and not Bianca.” 

Enid ignores the comment, “She used to date our resident tortured artist, Xavier Thorpe. But they broke up at the beginning of the semester. Reason unknown.” “Fascinating.” Wednesday says in a cold tone. 

“I know right!” Enid went on, “My blog is like, the number one source for Nevermore gossip.” 

“Yo, Enid, Y/n! You’re not gonna believe the dirt I heard about your new roommate!” Enid’s crush, Ajax, approached. 

Y/n rolled her eyes from beside Enid and turned to face Ajax, who went on about the rumors, “She eats human flesh. Totally chowed down on that kid she murdered. You better watch your back.” 

Enid stepped aside to reveal Wednesday, “Quite the contrary, I actually fillet the bodies of my victims. Then feed them to my menagerie of pets.” 

Y/n silently wondered if Wednesday found enjoyment in making others squirm at the details of her alleged killings. 

Enid’s tone is as cheery as ever, “Ajax, this is my new roommate, Wednesday.” 

“Woah, you’re in black and white.” The gorgon boy looked the new girl up and down. “Like a living Instagram filter.”

“Ignore him, gorgons spend way too much time getting stoned.” Y/n stated as Enid turned Ajax away. She turned back to Y/n and Wednesday, “He’s cute, but clueless.” “Clueless? Yes, cute? Still up for debate.” Y/n breathed out a laugh. 

“Shut up,” Enid gave Y/n a small shove, “anyways, it’s a small school. There wasn’t a lot online about you. You really should get on Insta, Snapchat, and TikTok.” 

“I find social media to be a soul-sucking void of meaningless affirmation.” Wednesday turned back around, leaving Enid defeated. 

The three finally made it to the office to get Wednesday's schedule and uniform. They then parted for her to say her goodbyes to her family. 

Later that night when Enid and Y/n made their way back to Enid’s room they were shocked by the sight they saw. Wednesday was crouched down in front of the window peeling off the stickers that gave the room a colorful shine. 

“What the hell did you do to my room?” Enid demands as she marches into the room. 

Y/n carefully shut the door behind her, standing and observing the two of them.

“Dividing our room equally.” Wednesday says as she stands up, “Looks like a rainbow vomited on your side.” 

“I-” Enid tries to spit something out. 

“Silence would be appreciated, this is my writing time.” Wednesday sits down in front of an old-timey typewriter and pulls up the sleeves of her black zip-up. 

“Your writing time?” Enid asks, still having not moved from the middle of the room. 

“I devote an hour a day to my novel. Perhaps if you did the same, your blog might be coherent. I’ve read serial killer diaries with better punctuation.” Wednesday’s hands look to not know what to do with themselves for just a moment. 

Y/n made her way over to Enid’s bed to sit with all of the stuffed animals on the bed, she grabbed one of them and placed it in her lap as she did so. 

“I write in my voice! It’s my truth. It’s what my followers love.” Enid defends her blog.

Wednesday turns to face Enid, “Your followers are clearly imbeciles.” She pushes off the desk chair and walks toward the girl, “They respond to your stories with stupid little pictures.” 

Enid scoffs, “You mean emojis? It’s how people express their feelings. I realize that’s a foreign concept for you.” 

“When I look at you, the following emojis come to mind. Rope, shovel, hole.” Wednesday pauses a little after each one for dramatic effect, “By the way, there’s two D’s in Addams. If you’re going to gossip about me, at least spell my name correctly.” 

Enid ignores her and puts on some bubble-gum pop music, and begins to dance, making Wednesday’s head snap in her direction. 

“Turn that off,” 

Enid ignores her and continues to dance in a taunting manner. 

Wednesday huffs and walks over to the colorful girl, “This is your final warning.” 

Enid makes a noise that is supposed to sound like a growl, that makes Y/n laugh from over on the bed, but instead comes out playful as she bears her manicured claws. Wednesday eyes the claws. 

“Don’t mess with me.” It comes out as a genuine threat, just because Enid is all cute and rainbows doesn’t mean she couldn't be dangerous if she wanted to be. “This kitty’s got claws, and I’m not afraid to use them.” 

The door opens, “Good evening, girls. Sorry about the mud.” Enid hides her hands behind her back and Y/n stops fidgeting with the stuffed toy in her lap to look at who opened the door. All three girls look at Ms. Thornhill. 

“I wanted to make sure that Wednesday was settling in. Is this a bad time?” She asks, it’s a rhetorical question. 

“Most definitely.” Y/n speaks for the first time since her and Enid entered the room. 

All heads snap to the girl sitting in Enid’s bed, Enid and Wednesday had both forgotten she was there. 

Ms Thornhill decides to ignore her comment and introduces herself, “I’m your dorm mom, Apologies I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived. I trust Enid, and Y/n apparently, have given you the old Nevermore welcome.” 

“They’ve been smothering me in hospitality, I hope to return the favor. In her sleep.” Wednesday speaks, everyone hopes it's a joke but nobody is sure. 

“Well, here’s a little welcoming gift from my conservatory.” She smiles as she hands Wednesday a black dahlia flower. “I try to match a flower with each of my girls, and when I read your personal statement in your application, I immediately thought of this one.” 

“The black dahlia,” Wednesday looks at the flower. 

“Oh you know it?” Ms Thornhill questions. 

“Of course. It’s named after my favorite unsolved murder.” There’s a moment of silence, “Thank you.” 

“Okey-dokey. Before I leave, I want to go over a few house rules. Lights off at ten, no loud music, and no boys, ever.” She emphasizes the last part, making Y/n snicker. 

“Do you have something to share, Y/n?” Ms Thornhill looks over. 

“No, no.” Y/n smothers her smile in the plush toy in her hands. 

“What’s the story about going into the local town?” Wednesday asks. 

“Passes to Jericho are a privilege, not a right. It’s a brisk twenty-five minute walk, or there’s a shuttle on the weekends. The locals are a tad bit wary about the Nevermore kids. So please, don’t go making any waves, or perpetuating any outcast stereotypes. That means keep your claws to yourself,” She turns to Enid first, then to Wednesday, “and no smothering people in their sleep.” 

“Are we clear?” She waits for any objections, “Great talk!” 

Ms Thornhill leaves with a wave. 

“Anywho, Enid, can you fix my nails?” Y/n whines at the blonde the moment the door closes, and moves to grab her favorite colors of nail polish. 

The next day goes without incident, Enid and Y/n do their thing and Wednesday does hers. 

“Could be worse.” Y/n comments as Enid complains. 

“How? She could be a deranged murderer? Oh wait!” Enid is exasperated. 

“I call her bluff.” Y/n says as they make their way out of the library and to Enid’s dorm. 

“Why do we never go to your room again?” Enid asks. 

“Because Bianca? Duh.” Y/n feigns annoyance, she truly didn’t have anything against Bianca. The two were kind of friends, or at least Y/n considered her a friend. 

As they open the door they hear music coming from Enid’s balcony, the two cross the room and step through the window as the song ends. 

“How the hell did you get that oversized violin out the window?” Enid questions. 

“It’s a cello.” Y/n mumbles before seeing the hand sitting on the music stand. 

“I had an extra hand.” Wednesday says, not bothering to look at the girls behind her or the appendage waving at them. 

“Woah.” Enid grimaces. 

“Where’s the rest of him?” Y/n asks. 

“It’s one of the great Addams family mysteries.” Wednesday replies, placing the bow on the stand. 

The hand drops from the stand with a thump and walks away. If that’s what you can call it. 

In the distance the three can hear the Furs howling out. 

“Why aren’t you wolfing out?” Wednesday looks at Enid. 

Y/n frowns at Enid’s body language, knowing how she felt about not being able to wolf out yet. 

“Cause I can’t,” She turns and looks at Wednesday and flashes her claws, “it’s all I got.” 

She walks over to the edge of the balcony and Y/n moves to stand next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders while Enid rests her head on the other girl’s shoulder.  

“My mom says some wolves are late bloomers, but I’ve been to the best Lycanologist. I had to fly to Milwaukee, can you believe it?” 

Wednesday made her way over to the pair. 

“Yeah, she says there’s a chance I may never…you know.” 

“What happens then?” Wednesday stood on the other side of Y/n.

“I’d become a lone wolf.” Enid’s voice cracks at the thought. 

“Sound’s perfect.” Wednesday says, clearly not reading the room. 

“Are you kidding me? My life would actually be officially over.” Wednesday looks over at them, “I’d be kicked out of my family pack, with no prospect of finding a mate.” 

“I’m failing to see the problem here.” Wednesday voices.

“I could die alone!” The blonde exclaims, horrified. 

“We all die alone, Enid.” Wednesday states, as if it’s a known fact, 

“I will never leave you Enid.” Y/n comforts. 

“You really suck at this, Wednesday.” Enid utters and her voice cracks again, “Cheering people up.” She begins to cry. 

Wednesday turns to Enid and Y/n, “Why are you crying?” 

“Because I’m upset!” She moves her head from Y/n’s shoulder to look at the other girl, “Haven’t you ever cried? Or are you above that too?” 

“I was six years old,” Wednesday began, “I took my pet scorpion, Nero, out for his afternoon stroll, and we were ambushed. They wondered what kind of freak would have a scorpion for a pet. Two of them held me down and made me watch,” She paused, “while the others ran Nero over until…” She trailed off. 

“It was snowing when I buried what was left of him. I cried my little black heart out, but tears don’t fix anything. So I vowed to never do it again.” Wednesday finished and Furs began to howl once more. 

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Enid said. 

“Still think you’re weird as shit though.” Y/n added to lighten the mood. 

“The feeling is incredibly mutual.” Wednesday looked over, “how would you like your single room back? You just need to show me how to use your computer.”  

Y/n and Enid look at each other and get set on explaining to Wednesday on how to use technology. Wednesday then sends Thing off to the normie boy she met, Tyler. 

The next few days go by with nothing remarkable happening, Enid and Y/n do their shenanigans, sometimes resulting in death threats from Wednesday. While the Addams girl continues working on her novel or playing the cello. 

At the festival, Wednesday is a stark contrast from the other two girls she stands with. Both girls in varying shades of pinks, while she is wearing black and white. Maybe Ajax had a point…

“You seriously are going to get into a strange boy's car?” Y/n asks as they stare at the normie boy and his father. 

“I mean, are you sure you can trust that normie?” Enid backs her friend up. 

“I trust that I can handle myself.” Wednesday spoke, none of the three ever taking their eyes off the sheriff and his son. 

The sheriff finally walks away from Tyler and Enid turns to face Wednesday, “Well, good luck and safe travels.” 

Enid moves to try and hug Wednesday, who immediately shuffled back, resulting in her bumping into Y/n. 

“Still not a hugger, got it.” Enid says and walks off, Y/n following behind. 

For the next few hours Y/n and Enid play dumb carnival games and ride rides. They end up bumping into Yoko and some of their vampire friends. 

Yoko and Enid were talking and something caught Y/n’s eye. It was Wednesday running after someone into the forest. Y/n pondered whether to follow and see what the commotion was, and after a moment she decided it was worth her while. 

She quickly followed Wednesday and the boy, keeping a distance.

Suddenly Wednesday and the other figure stopped, “Rowan, wait.” 

“What do you want?” Rowan growled out, “Why are you following me?” 

“I don’t have time to explain, but you’re in danger.” Wednesday said. 

Y/n hid herself behind a clump of trees, suddenly cursing the bright pink skirt she wore. The pair talked too quietly for Y/n to hear what was being said. 

Then suddenly Wednesday’s body was being lifted into the air and thrown against a tree by Rowan’s telekinesis. Y/n gasped and she hoped Rowan didn’t hear, but it appeared Wednesday did. She looked right into Y/n’s eyes before they returned to Rowan’s. 

“You’re the one who’s in danger.” Rowan says, an outstretched hand holding the girl up. 

“What are you doing?” Wednesday asks, sounding frantic.

“Saving everyone from you.” Rowan responds, “I have to kill you.”

“The gargoyle, that was you?” Wednesday’s already wide eyes appear to widen, “It’s always the quiet ones.” 

A paper flies up to the girl's face, “The girl in the picture, that’s you.” 

Wednesday seems appalled, “You want to kill me because of some picture?” 

“My mother drew that picture, twenty-five years ago, when she was a student at Nevermore.” Rowan’s voice seems rushed, “She was a powerful seer. Told me about it before she died.” 

“Rowan, put me down.” Wednesday demands, once more sounding panicked. 

“No! My mother said it was my destiny to stop this girl if she ever came to Nevermore.” Rowan sounds like a whining child who’s toy was taken, “Because she will destroy the school, and everyone in it.” 

Rowan tightens his hold on Wednesday, who struggles against the tree. 

“Rowan,” Y/n shouts, finally getting her whereabouts to step out from behind the tree. 

The boy turns his head but doesn’t have time to respond when a growl comes from nowhere, and a creature unlike one Y/n had ever seen before grabs Rowan by his green zip up. The monster smashes the boy to the ground and Y/n is certain she heard a crack as Rowan screamed. 

Wednesday crumbled down from the tree with a thud and watched as Rowan was torn to shreds. Blood splashed everywhere as the monster slashed through the boy. The monster looked at Wednesday and ran off, running by Y/n without giving the girl a second thought. 

Y/n rushed to the bloodied body of Rowan, she knew the boy didn’t have a chance of living but checked his pulse anyways. Wednesday looked to the sky as something fell from above, it was the page torn from a book, and it landed on Rowan’s slice open chest. Wednesday picked it up before Y/n could get a good look at it. 

As the two left the scene Y/n felt sick, and if she had anything in her stomach she would have thrown it back up. 

Wednesday finally spoke, “Do not speak of this to anyone, not even Enid. If the cops ask any questions, let me speak.” 

Y/n drew in a shaky breath, “Okay.” 

Y/n woke the next morning to her alarm in her own room, her and Bianca danced around each other as they got ready. Their room wasn’t nearly as separated as Enid and Wednesday’s was and they constantly left things on the others’ side. They knew each other well enough to be considered friends but didn’t hang out besides when in their dorm. Y/n knew all about Bianca and Xavier’s relationship, and why it had ended. 

The two knew almost every secret about one another, Y/n knew about Bianca’s past and vice versa. 

The two went their separate ways for classes, and halfway through Y/n’s first lesson Principal Weems came in to ask to take Y/n out. When she left the class, the sheriff and Wednesday were both there. 

“How could you miss a dead body?” Wednesday asked the man. 

“‘Cause it wasn’t there?” The sheriff responded, “No footprints, no blood, no sign of a struggle. Nothing, nada.” 

Suddenly all of last night's events flooded Y/n’s mind. “That’s impossible, I watched him be ripped apart, I saw Rowan’s chest cavity.” 

Wednesday gritted her teeth, but showed no sign of…well anything.

“My search party looked all night.” He responded, as if that was supposed to clear everything he is claiming. 

“Well, your search party must have left their seeing-eye dogs at home, I saw that monster kill Rowan.” Wednesday said as they walked up the stairs. 

“Get a good look at this monster thing?” Sheriff asked accusingly.  

“It didn’t stick around for a chat, maybe I’ll invite him for tea next time. Get a few pictures with him.” Y/n spoke angrily as she looked back at the man and Wednesday, as she stomps up the stairs to accentuate her anger. 

“Maybe it was one of your classmates.” The Sheriff said, looking around. 

That was the final straw for Y/n who stopped dead in her tracks and spun around to face the man, “Okay what the hell are you doing here then? Because it clearly isn’t to gather any leads, piss poor detective work to already have a bias.” “I don’t care, because I’ve got three other bodies in the morgue right now. Hikers, just ripped apart in the woods.” Sheriff says. 

Weems interrupts, “The mayor said those were bear attacks.” “Yeah well the mayor and I disagree on that.” The sheriff responds. 

 Weems has one hand on her hip and the other leaning against the railing, “So you automatically assume that it’s a Nevermore student? Even when there’s no evidence that a crime has even been committed.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot, you only teach the good outcasts here. Right?” Sheriff accuses. 

Weems sighs as cocks her head at him giving him a look, and her energy changes. They make their way to her office. The older lady sits down behind her desk. Wednesday and Y/n stand in front of it. 

“My guess is that Rowan ran away. State troopers have put out an alert and I’ve contacted his family. They haven’t heard from him either.” “Dead people are notoriously bad at returning calls.” Wednesday retorts. 

Y/n stifles a laugh at her comment as the Sheriff sits down in one of the chairs. 

“What were you two doing out in the woods with him, Ms Addams, L/n?” The two girls turn to face the man speaking. 

“We heard a noise in the forest, and I went to investigate. I told Y/n to stay back, but she insisted I don’t go alone. That’s when we stumbled upon the attack.” Wednesday lies through her teeth. 

“Then what happened?” The sheriff asks. 

Wednesday continues her narrative , “Then we ran into Y/n’s roommate, Bianca Barclay. I told her to go get help. Next thing I remember, I was waking up in my dorm.” 

“And just to be clear, this monster wasn’t a bear attack? Or some other wild animal?” His tone isn’t intrigue, it's condescending. 

“I’ve hibernated with grizzlies,” Wednesday states,”I know the difference.” 

Y/n wants to question this, but knows it's not the time nor place. Wednesday Addams was a mystery to all, and an open book to none. And Y/n wanted nothing more than to know more about the girl in all black. 

“Is this all true, Ms L/n?” Sheriff asks, turning to face Y/n. 

“All I remember is Rowan’s mangled body and then everything is blank after that.” Y/n corroborates Wednesday's version of events. 

“There you have it Sheriff, I think the girls are done now.” Weems speaks as she stands up. 

“Actually, I would like to speak to Sheriff Galpin,” One of Wednesday’s eyebrow quirks, and if Y/n hadn’t been watching her so intensely she would have missed it, “Alone.” 

“I’m not sure I can allow that.” Weems says. 

“I’m sure I could take her down to the station, and get a formal statement. But I’ll also need Y/n’s.” Galpin smirks for a millisecond, “Yeah let’s go.” 

“Fine, you have five minutes. And everything is off the record.” Weems says, walking from her desk, “Play nice, or I will call the mayor.” She threatens and leaves the room. 

Y/n leans against the desk as the two argue. 

The door opens, “Sheriff, you’re gonna want to see this.” It opens further and there is Rowan, in the same outfit he was wearing last night. The same zip up  that was soaked in his blood last night is suddenly void of any grime. The button up that had been torn apart, whole again. But more importantly, Rowan was alive unlike how the two had left him the night prior. 

“No, that’s fucking absurd. No, absolutely not.” Y/n says and leaves the room, not believing her eyes. 

Y/n makes her way outside to where she knew Enid was, the pair hadn’t spoken much this week.  Then Y/n spots Wednesday in one of the corridors. 

“Hey Wednesday, wanna come see Enid with me? Looks like you could use some sunshine and fresh air.” Y/n says in a joking manner. 

Wednesday said nothing as she began walking alongside Y/n. Before they step outside, Y/n pulls her sunglasses from her bag and puts them on her eyes. They were unlike the other vampires, they were unique and possibly designers. But Wednesday didn’t know the brand. 

“Ladies, come on! Let’s work on those teeth.” Enid’s cheery voice was comforting for Y/n to hear, “More scowl. This kitty is taking no prisoners. If Bianca Barclay wins again this year, I will literally scratch my own eyes out!” 

“I would pay money to see that.” Wednesday says, and Enid turns around with a hop and squeals. 

“Howdy, roomie! I’m so glad you decided to stay.” Enid smiles. 

Wednesday’s arms are crossed firmly around her middle, “I thought you wanted your single room back.” 

“Full disclosure, I don’t like living solo. Why do you think Y/n’s in our room all the time? And Thing gives a killer neck massage.” Enid confesses, “So why the change of heart?” 

“I refuse to play the role of a pawn in someone else’s corrupt game.” 

“You mean Rowan?” Enid says, her cheery tone never ceasing. 

“We witnessed his murder, Enid.” Y/n responds.

“It’s just, we all saw him this morning.” Enid explains, “Very much, like, not dead.” 

“I know.” Wednesday says, uncrossing her arms, “Which leads me to believe I’ve been losing my mind.” She shrugs her shoulders and gives a defeated look, “It’s not nearly as fun as I had anticipated.” 

“Shared delusions, they get you, I’m telling ya.” Y/n adds. 

“You are Nevermore’s gossip queen, what’s Rowan’s story?” Wednesday asks. 

“Other than being a weird loner? Uh, no offense.” Enid quickly adds. 

“None taken.” Wednesday responds, the tiniest smile pulls at her lips for a moment. 

“Xavier Thorpe’s his roommate, you know if you had a cell phone you could just text him and ask him. Why didn’t you ask Y/n?” Enid turns to yell at Yoko before either could answer, “Flare those whiskers! The Poe Cup droops for no one.” 

Y/n laughs at Enid’s dramatics. 

“What is the Poe Cup anyway?” Wednesday asks. 

“Only my entire reason for living right now.” Enid breathes out, “Part canoe race, part foot race, no rules. Each canoe has to pick an Edgar Allan Poe short story for inspiration. You could grab a brush. Ms Thorhill’s just ordered pizza, want to take a stab at being social?"

“I do like stabbing.” Wednesday responds and looks around, “The social part, not so much. Besides, it will cut into my writing time.” 

“No worries, as long as you’re with Y/n on the lakeside cheering us to victory on race day!” Enid exclaims. 

Wednesday says nothing, “Or you can just glare uncomfortably, whatever works for you.” Y/n turns to Wednesday and gives her a playful wink. 

The girl dressed in all black turns without a word and goes back inside, presumably to her dorm. 

After a bit Y/n realizes she left her favorite top in Enid’s room and decides that she immediately needs it. 

“Right now?” Enid asks. 

“Yes Enid, right now. Or else I will forget about it or even worse, I won’t be able to focus on anything except for my top and I will mess up your canoe.” Y/n explains, really she was just getting bored and the sun began to irritate the exposed skin of her legs. But she did have a shirt that was left in Enid’s room. 

“Okay, yes go.” Enid instructs, sending the vampire on her merry way. 

When she arrives at Enid and Wednesday's dorm she can hear the distinct tapping of Wednesday on the typewriter. The girl doesn’t give Y/n a glance or even stop her typing when she enters.

Y/n pays no mind to her or Thing as she goes to look for her shirt. Until suddenly the typing stops and Wednesday stands up from her desk. 

“Come with me, we need to go find Rowan.” Wednesday demands, and Y/n was too afraid to ask what for or to deny her. She simply stood from where she was sitting on the floor, and followed Wednesday.

After searching the school for a good hour, Y/n spoke up, “Maybe we should go ask Weems…”

Quickly the pair make their way to Weems' office for the second time that day. 

“We need to speak with Rowan, and we can’t find him.” Wednesday had been speaking for both of them a lot lately Y/n notes. 

“It won’t be possible, I’m afraid. He’s been expelled.” Weems doesn’t look up from her laptop. 

“For what?” Y/n asks. 

“Never you mind. He’ll be on the first train out this afternoon. What were you doing out in the woods with him in the first place?” Weems finally looks up from her work. 

“We told you already.” Wednesday regurgitates the same lie from this morning, “We heard a noise, I went to investigate. And Y/n didn’t want me going alone.” 

Weems scoffs, “That excuse might have placated the sheriff, but you can’t fool me. You had a psychic vision, didn’t you?” 

Wednesday’s gaze shifts, “I realized you might be having them when we passed by the accident, and you knew that poor farmer had broken his neck. Your mother started having visions around your age. They were notoriously unreliable, and dangerous. I remember at first, she thought she might be losing her mind. Have you spoken to her about them? Clearly the person withholding information here is you.”

“May I go now?” Wednesday asks. 

Y/n thinks that Wednesday may be feeling uncomfortable with what Weems has said, but Wednesday is harder to read than most people. She keeps her cards close to her. 

“Not until you’ve picked your extracurricular activity. We want our students to be well rounded.” Weems attitude takes a whirlwind change. 

“I’d prefer to remain sharp-edged.” Wednesday crosses her arms. 

“I took the liberty of putting together a list of clubs that have openings.” Weems slides a list on the desk. 

“How thoughtful.” Wednesday looks down. 

“You need to have picked one by the end of the day. I’ll be keeping my eye on you, no doubt you’ll find something that tickles your fancy.” Weems says. 

“The last person who tickled me lost a finger.” Wednesday said, moving to pick up the list. 

The two quickly leave the room to where Thing is waiting for them. 

“Weems is clearly trying to keep tabs on me. Keep an eye on Rowan.” Wednesday speaks to the appendage, “Don’t let your fingers out of his sight.” 

The three part ways, Thing going to Rowan, Wednesday to find an extracurricular to check out, and Y/n to go to the bee hive with Eugene. 

“Where have you been?” Eugene asks as Y/n enters the little shack. 

“I was busy,” Y/n responds, putting on the hat and net that keeps the bees from her face. She never wore the full suit, claiming that the bees wouldn’t hurt her as long as she didn’t harm them. 

Y/n worked in the shed and glanced out the window to see a figure Y/n had begun to know all too well made its way towards them.

“Are you interested in the ancient art of beekeeping?” Eugene asks Wednesday, who turns around to face the boy. 

“Eugene, Eugene Ottinger.” He sticks out a gloved hand, “Founder and president of the Nevermore’s Hummers.” 

Wednesday shook his hand, “Wednesday, Wednesday Addams. Am I late or is it only you?” 

“Y/n L/n is in the shed, but it’s only the two of us. The hive life isn’t for everyone.” Eugene responded, “Most kids are afraid of venomous insects. Are you willing to feel the sting?” 

Eugene leads Wednesday into the shed to get her a suit. 

“Y/n, this is Wednesday Addams.” Eugene introduced. 

Y/n smiled coyly, “So I’ve heard, we keep meeting.”

“Great.” Eugene says, handing Wednesday a suit and leaving the shack. 

The white is a stark contrast to Wednesday’s usual attire, “Why don’t you wear the suit?” Wednesday asks. 

“They won’t sting you as long as you don’t give them reason to. I’m not afraid of them.” Y/n says, fond of the bees. 

Wednesday opens the door and goes back outside to where Eugene waits, as he talks she inspects the gloves. 

“Bees have been producing honey in the same way for a hundred-fifty million years. They’re nature's perfect community. All working together to achieve a common goal.” Eugene goes on about bee facts. 

Y/n spots Thing off to the side between two hives, she didn’t know what he was trying to tell Wednesday but she assumed it was important. Y/n’s gaze shifts to Eugene before Wednesday wanders off. 

“Nothing personal buddy, she disappears a lot.” Y/n reassures the boy as he sighs defeated. 

The next day during Ms Thornhill’s Wednesday is scolding Thing who was hidden behind a plant. Enid gossiped about this or that, while Y/n was in her own little world.

“I see you finally made a friend.” BIanca teases Wednesday, “Even if it is a plant.” 

“I go for quality over quantity.” Wednesday retorts, causing Bianca to roll her eyes and sit down. 

Y/n sat in her usual seat, only this time Enid didn’t sit next to her. Wednesday did, Enid shrugged and sat next to Yoko. 

“Wednesday, we are thrilled to have you join us on our journey into the world of carnivorous plants. Now,” Ms Thornhill turned to address the class, “who can tell us the name of this beauty?” 

“Dendrophylax lindenii.” Wednesday responds without a second thought. 

“Other known as a ghost orchid.” Bianca says. 

“First discovered on the Isle of Wight in 1854.” Wednesday recites from memory. 

“Wednesday, perhaps you can identify the ghost orchid’s greatest qualities.” Ms Thornhill suggested. 

“Resilience and adaptability.” She says, “It’s able to thrive in even the most hostile environments.” 

“But its mere presence can change the ecosystem,” Bianca butts in, “causing the established plants to reject it.” 

Wednesday responds, “Usually because the native species is allowed to thrive, unchecked.” 

Y/n can’t help but wonder if this was actually about plants as she stared at Wednesday’s side profile. The girl beside her was textbook weird, but she was undeniably beautiful, something about her drew Y/n in.

“Nothing a weed wacker couldn’t fix.” Wednesday continues. 

“You can most certainly try.” Bianca says in a faux sweet tone. 

“This is definitely not about flowers.” Y/n says to no one in particular, and changes her focus to her notebook. 

For the remainder of the lesson, she doodles in the margins of her notebook paper. She even doodles a small cat on Wednesday’s paper, who feels an unsettling fondness for the girl sitting beside her. 

Y/n sat on the grass next to Enid as she painted on the canoe, Wednesday approached the pair. 

“I have to go back to the woods. But Weems has been circling me like a vulture circling a carcass.” Wednesday says, standing over Y/n, addressing Enid.

“And you want to return to the scene of a crime that didn't happen? Enid asks, not looking away from her artwork. 

“I have beekeeping club this afternoon, I need you as a decoy.” Wednesday explains. 

“Sorry, two strikes.” Enid scrunches up her nose, “I’m busy, and bees totally creep me out.” 

“Why don’t you ask Thing?” Y/n asks, tilting her head to look at Wednesday who looks down at her.  

“Oh you can’t because he’s mad at you.” Enid says before Wednesday can speak.

“Why’s he mad? He’s the one who screwed up with Rowan.” Wednesday questions. 

“All I know is that we spent an hour giving each other manis, and he really opened up. He feels like you don’t respect him as a person.” Enid explains. 

“Well technically, he is only a hand.” Wednesday looks at Enid. 

“Wednesday!” Y/n scolds from the ground. 

“He’s your family! And he would do anything for you. Go apologize and I’ll reconsider helping you.” Enid suggests as Wednesday walks off to, presumably, find the appendage. 

“You gave Thing a mani, but not me?” Y/n suddenly asked. 

“We talked about you too, you have grown very fond of Wednesday Addams.” Enid says. 

“What?” Y/n asks, feigning confusion. 

“You have a crush on Wednesday.” Enid repeats in a sing-songy voice. 

“Shut up, I will drain you of all of your blood.” Y/n threatens. 

Y/n didn’t know what about Wednesday drew her in so much, maybe it was her dark eyes, or the way she said whatever was on her mind not caring about what others thought. What she didn’t know was that Wednesday was having an internal battle of her own about the same feelings.

[fairuzfan]

Your post about how many people are unknowingly falling for & spreading propaganda... yeah. I typed up a whole spiel of a comment on one of your posts the other day that I ended up deciding not to not actually post because it felt like detailing, but seriously. The amount of well meaning, genuinely anti-zionist people ignorantly sharing zionists' posts because they just don't pick up on the leading undertones is honestly more terrifying than than the amount of actual zionists in some ways.

I'm someone who was born into a doomsday cult, and seeing all these people falling for the exact same blatant (or so i thought lol) recruitment/manipulation tactics I've seen used by them my entire life has absolutely fucking terrifying. These are people who are actively trying to combat zionism, but I guess the general public is so uneducated about propaganda/cult tactics that what immediately reads as blatantly manipulative, misleading bullshit to me just doesn't even register as strange to most people. Not to be repetitive, but seriously: fucking terrifying.

There's so much focus on the way people/groups who want to manipulate you will use language of fear, but in this case especially, people need to realize they will almost always appeal to your compassion before they appeal to your fear.

It's all peace and love and happiness because that's what gets people in the door. You preach (or post) the mushy, happy, fun stuff that makes people feel good to draw them in, and you slowly start peppering in the ideas you actually want to lead them to believe later on once you've got them wanting to believe you.

This also has this added effect of helping the group or person's image. Even the people who you don't manage to draw in will have the impression of you as someone who runs their mouth 24/7 about how you're full of love and want the best for everyone, which is especially useful for when you inevitably want to frame yourself as the victim to demonize the people who will inevitably oppose you. If your first and only exposure to a person is seeing them calling for world peace and universal love, you are much more likely to be inclined to believe they (and by extension their cause) are the sympathetic, loving, peaceful good guys being unjustly targeted.

Sorry for rambling, but like... really. It won't always be something nefarious, of course--the vast majority of the the time, it won't be--but I think we would all be in a much better situation if people took it as a general rule of thumb that you should always be a little suspicious of overly vague talk about peace and love.

You're EXACTLY right. I really appreciate this message, because you put to words a lot of my inherent analysis of arguments and ideas. I like grew up with this rhetoric so it's easy to spot for me, but the way that people speak about "peace" as the overall goal when they're zionist is so blatant to me because there is no material change in the scenario they propose but rather a calmness where Palestinians are ignored.

And picking up on subtext of a lot of messages is something you have to have a muscle for kinda because of how subtle it is. The frightening part is, you're right, that the indoctrination part of zionism is the most harmful part because you appeal to their pathos — their fear, their sense of safety, etc — and you go on down the rabbit hole and slowly start being radicalized and pro-zionism or you might not even be pro-zionism 100% but enjoy... soft zionism as a mutual of mine put it once (if you read this and want to be tagged, lmk). Which soft zionism is the MAIN opinion in many liberal circles btw, its not an uncommon opinion.

I even remember once sharing a post by a zionist because i saw them talk about esims but when i went on their blog a few days later because something rubbed me the wrong way, I noticed their pinned and I was like "oh dam I gotta delete that other post" like that's how often this happens.

Idk, I try to combat this by putting sources or approaching from a standpoint of logical arguments rather than identity-based politics (although, sometimes i think there are some things that people who are a certain identity can be the only true experts on) so that I try to encourage actual engagement with ideas and walking them through thought processes rather than "I'm palestinian so just trust me."

Like even with my one fact checking list, idk if I succeeded but I wanted to emphasize that there are multiple factors you should consider when confronting ANY sort of information and should not blindly trust things. News sources have regularly burned or ignored Palestinians so I know a lot of us are really sensitive to these things, but I don't know! I hope people can engage with ideas more than just surface level thinking in general because it helps everyone when you actually interact with the point of view the other person is providing rather than just blindly trusting/distrusting people.

[ckret2]

Chapter 25 of human Bill is the Mystery Shack's prisoner and somehow befriended Mabel: in which Bill and Mabel make friendship bracelets. It's heartwarming. Bill is not, I repeat, not secretly up to anything nefarious.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the chapter, Bill is secretly up to something nefarious.

####

"I'll be back in exactly one hour," Ford said. "Be finished showering by then. You've got everything you need, as well as..." He looked disdainfully at a baggie of shampoo and conditioner sample bottles, "your gift from the Northwests."

Bill eyed the Northwests' little care package skeptically. Four entire separate products that were supposed to be used all in one shower. He was drowning in mammal-cleaning slimes. What a waste of his time. "You don't expect me to use allthis junk, do you?"

"Frankly, as long as you aren't bald and don't smell like gnome urine in an hour, I don't care what happens between now and then."

"You're the most merciful warden I've ever had, Stanford."

Ford wasn't sure if that was supposed to be sarcasm or an awkward glimpse into Bill's sordid history, so he just shut the bathroom door. "One hour."

"One hour!" Bill waited until he couldn't hear Ford's footsteps; and then he turned on the shower, fished a crushed cider can and eight candles out of his hoodie, and stood on the wooden crate by the window.

Over the last few days, he'd spent every spare private moment using toothpaste and toilet paper to polish the bottom of the can into a perfect, shining, concave mirror. Now, he held it up to the window with one of the candles, using the mirror to focus the sun into a point on the wick of the candle... and...

It took a couple minutes of agonizing patience, but finally the wick smoked and then ignited. Yes. Moving carefully so he wouldn't douse the flame, he used the burning candle to melt the bottoms of the other candles just enough to stick them to the floor, lit them in turn, and in the middle Bill quickly made a (frankly terrible) drawing of Kryptos by finger painting with a tube of toothpaste.

And then he knelt in front of the candle circle, and—quietly enough that the shower covered the sound—he started chanting.

Some humans called Bill a dream demon. It wasn't exactly wrong, even if calling him a dream demon was kind of like naming the entire human race "the mountain bikers."

Which was to say, if Bill was a "dream demon," then so were the rest of his people. The other surviving shapes could cast themselves like shadows onto the walls and floors of other dimensions, slip through the cracks in reality that were too thin to accommodate the depths of three-dimensional creatures, and wander through the higher dimensions' mindscapes.

It was just that it was only one of their many side hobbies rather than their main pursuit as a species—and not a particularly popular hobby, at that. Most shapes weren't into taking safaris through aliens' dreams.

Out of the shapes Bill still hung out with, Hectorgon wouldn't do it; he appreciated why Bill went on his psychic excursions for the everyone's benefit, but skulking in a higher plane's second dimension made Hectorgon feel voyeuristic—and he'd only gotten more uncomfortable with the idea since his three-dimensional makeover. Bill could wheedle a majority of Amorphous Shape into a sightseeing trip once a millennium or so, but they were just a passive tour group who would be lost without Bill as their tour guide. Kryptos alone had taken enough of an interest in alien mindscapes to make the leap from "occasional tourist" to "frequent traveler." He was the only one other than Bill who spent enough time on Earth to network with the locals; and he was the only one other than Bill who had bothered to set up a summoning ritual, in case an earthbound buddy wanted to ring him up for a party.

Kryptos's party line was going to be Bill's salvation.

Which was a shame, because Bill just knew Kryptos would be annoying about this for the next million years. He'd worry about finding a way to bully Krypt into not lording it over him after he was safely back home in the Quadrangle of Qonfusion.

But when Bill called, nothing happened.

That wasn't right. Nothing wasn't supposed to happen. Even if Krypt didn't pick up, Bill should feel the spell working. The sound of the shower should pause. The air should go still and cool. Everything should be gray.

Bill opened his eyes. Nothing was gray. He checked each candle to make sure they were all lit, checked his drawing to make sure it looked right—it wasn't exactly flattering, but the lines were straight and the angles were correct, and anyway it was recognizable enough to work for the summoning. He remembered the words, he knew he remembered the words.

Try again. He shut his eyes. "Rhombus sapphirinus. Fraternitas, caritas, veritas. Te invoco, te invito." And then, not because it was necessary but because he was getting mad, he tacked on, "Responde mihi, quadrum defututum! Culum tuum calcitrabo!"

Nothing. The world went on un-paused. Bill remained awake. He opened his eyes to the vibrant, colorful, tragically real world around him.

It didn't make sense. Even without his powers, he should be able to reach Kryptos. Any human could do this ritual, and Bill knew a whole lot more than any human. Either Kryptos was dead (unlikely; but without Bill there...), or something was blocking Bill. The block could be inside him—maybe the Axolotl was sealing off even this paltry little magic—or outside, some sort of shield blocking the mindscape. But whatever the source, the result was the same:

He couldn't get a call out. Nobody, not even his oldest friends, could hear him.

He stared at Kryptos's ugly mug for a long moment; then blew out the candles, hid them and the crushed can back in his hoodie, used toilet paper to wipe the toothpaste and wax off the floor, and got in the shower.

If he wanted to get out, he had to make new friends. He'd been making some good progress lately, particularly with Mabel. Perhaps it was time to test just how far her compassion could get him.

####

Prisma the Rainbow Fairy said, "Gee, Sunny Cat, I haven't seen you spending time with Teddy Tender lately. What happened?"

"He's a killjoy," Bill said, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV. "He's a wet blanket."

A sunshine-yellow bipedal cat said, "Teddy's so sad today, and it's making me sad. I don't want to hang out with him when he's like this!"

"That's what I said," Bill said. Heckling the characters helped distract him from the urge to scratch the exposed skin on his arms until he scraped it off his bones. After showering, his hoodie had been confiscated for a round of emergency post-eye-bat-repellant laundry, and he was temporarily back in a reject gift shop t-shirt. He felt exposed.

Prisma said, "Sometimes when our friends are sad, all they need is another friend to give them a hug or tell them they care. It'll help them feel happier."

"I don't know," Sunny said. "When I feel sad, being around other people makes me feel worse."

"Everyone's a little different, Sunny. Why don't you offer to hold his hand and see if that makes him happier?"

"I guess I could try."

"Nah, it's too late for Teddy," Bill told the TV. With some glee, he added, "The most caring thing you could do is put him out of his misery."

Mabel, sitting up on the couch with three colors of embroidery floss tangled around her fingers, lightly kicked the back of Bill's head. He grinned wider. Mabel said, "Bill, I don't think you're taking this seriously."

"Was I supposed to?"

"It's a beautiful June day and I'm inside with you, so you could at least pretend to. I thought you were a good liar."

"I've never told a lie in my life," lied Bill. "But okay, fine. I've seen the error of my ruthless ways. Maybe there's hope for Teddy yet."

Mabel nodded, mollified. She set aside her current project and rummaged through her bag of embroidery floss. "Hey Bill, what's your favorite color?"

"Gold!"

"Why did I ask. What's your next favorite color?"

"Every color simultaneously superimposed over each other, instantly blinding you!"

Mabel tried to picture that. She imagined a rainbow that was also a laser that was also iridescent. Her mental image looked a lot like Prisma's combat magic. "You have such good taste."

"It takes good taste to recognize good taste!" Bill mentally reviewed the last couple minutes of conversation, saw an opportunity to bolster the "reforming monster" image he was trying to sell to Mabel, and added, "By the way—thanks for sticking around just to keep me entertained!" (See: he can say thank you unprompted.) "This sure isn't where I'd want to spend my afternoon," he laughed wryly, "but unlike me, you have a choice in the matter."

"Yeah," Mabel sighed. "It stinks. I wish you could go outside with me."

Bill quietly, smugly filed that statement away for later use.

Mabel pulled a couple fresh rolls of embroidery floss out of her bag and got to work with them. "We can't set off fireworks inside the shack. Or play with Soos's paintball guns."

Bill's smugness vanished, leaving behind only the hollow feeling of missing out on a lot of fun. Fireworks and paintball guns. Those were three of his favorite things: explosions, colors, and interpersonal violence.

Mabel went on, "And Candy's saved up three years of Magic Vision Poster calendars to wallpaper the inside of her closet. She read online that if you cross your eyes just right to make them all look 3D at the same time, you can hallucinate going inside them! We're gonna try it out tomorrow. That seems like something you'd like."

"What!" Bill groaned. "I've always wanted to see an autostereogram poster with two eyes! Now here I am, stuck in a stupid meat body, and I don't even get to enjoy the only thing binocular vision is good for?"

Mabel patted his shoulder.

"Back home I've got a chair with autostereogram detailing. I've never actually seen it work. And where is it when I've got two eyes?"

"I think they've got Magic Vision books in the kids' section at the library," Mabel said. "Do you want me to check one out for you?"

Bill glared at the TV, silently fuming. Then he muttered, "Yeah. I'd like that. Thanks."

The low-stakes drama on Color Critters was resolved when Sunny asked Teddy Tender if he wanted to maybe hug or hold hands until he felt less sad, and Teddy revealed he felt bad because he was lonely when he hadn't had a play date with a friend in a while. Sunny and Teddy went to the playground together, the gray swings and slide and seesaw blooming orange and yellow as they played. Crisis of the day concluded. Prisma watched proudly, before joining in the play herself. Bill was not jealous of their freedom to go to the playground.

As the credits rolled, Mabel said, "There! Give me your hand!"

Bill stuck his right arm straight out to his side. "Why—?"

Mabel wrapped something thin around his wrist, and there was a quick tug as she tied it off. "Bam! You just got friendshipped!"

"What?" Bill pulled back his wrist to examine Mabel's handiwork. It was a bracelet made out of embroidery floss knotted together into a flat band as wide as his thumb. "What is this?" Stupid question.

"A friendship bracelet!" (Of course it was a friendship bracelet; he was passingly familiar with the art form, he'd seen it centuries before they were called "friendship" bracelets.) "Make a wish."

He wished to get his body back.

"You've gotta wear the bracelet until it breaks, and then the wish'll come true."

And if he believed that, he'd already be chewing through the knot. "And, why am I getting this?"

"Because we're friends!"

"Oh." Well. Yes. Obviously.

He examined the bracelet more closely. The band formed a zig-zag pattern of black and metallic gold triangles; and Mabel had tied glass beads that looked like eyes over several of the gold triangles.

"I didn't have every color simultaneously, but I thought the black would make the gold pop." Mabel pointed at the triangles. "Look! It's you."

"I can see that." She'd used nazar beads for the eyes—a dot of black ringed in blue and white. A little eye-shaped lucky charm humans had been using to ward off the evil eye for millennia. Cute. He laughed, pointing at the beads. "So is this supposed to protect me from the evil eye, or am I the evil eye you're protecting everyone else from?"

Mabel was thirteen. Mabel hadn't put any deeper thought into it than these look like eyes. All the same, Mabel didn't hesitate before replying: "I'm turning your face into a protective charm! Now you've got to keep everyone safe!"

"Oh." And that, too, Bill quietly filed away.

"I expect you to take your new job seriously," Mabel said, pointing at him. "Don't let me down!"

"You give me a gift with my face on it and then tack on a bunch of extra terms and conditions. Very slick, kid." He admired the bracelet. It really was a pretty fine offering. He hadn't been gifted textiles in a while. "But all right! I've never gone back on a deal before," lied Bill.

Though it galled him to get something without a way to pay back the favor. It felt uneven. People don't want a god who grants miracles worth less than the tribute he'd been offered. He ran down his usual list of tricks—he couldn't snap his fingers and summon up a dream gift, he didn't have any useful info he could offer without prompting an interrogation session with his jailers, right now he couldn't even call somebody else to pull some strings on her behalf... His gaze drifted over to Mabel's bag of embroidery threads. He could see beads and a couple more friendship bracelets inside. "How many of these are you making?"

"A bunch! I'm giving one out to each new friend I make this summer."

That'd do. "Teach me."

"You what?"

"Teach me." He turned around to face the couch and pointed toward the bag. "You're making them anyway, right? Just show me as you go."

Mabel stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? She thought he was serious.

A broad smile stretched across her face. "Okay!" She dug beneath her supplies for a little dog-eared friendship bracelet pattern book. "What kind of jewelry making experience do you have? Especially involving beads or knots."

"I can tie a living creature's blood vessels into quipu knots that spell my name—all without breaking the skin!"

"That's great! Can you do it with embroidery floss instead of blood vessels."

Bill eyed the bundle of floss Mabel held out. "Yes."

"Perfect!" She shoved four thread colors in his hands, a pair of scissors, a jar of pony beads, thought better and quickly took back the scissors, and added a roll of parachute cord. "I'll teach you everything I know. Even my secret trick to keep the edges from going all wobbly! We'll start you on chevrons and then move up to teardrop loops and triangle ends." She put her hands on Bill's shoulders, looked him in his uncovered eye, and said, "I'm gonna make you a friendship bracelet master."

Solemnly, Bill said, "I'm ready."

####

Ford squinted blearily into the living room.

Sitting alone on the far side of the room, Bill was bent over the living room table, fussing with several multicolored strings and a few beads.

Bill glanced at Ford from the corner of his eye, and then—with a faint smirk—turned back to his project without a word. Oh, he wanted Ford to ask. He was dying for Ford to ask.

It was too early for this. Ford wasn't dealing with it before coffee. He shook his head and shuffled onward to the kitchen.

Stan was already up, eating eggs with some unidentified liquid meat poured over them. Over the past year, typically Ford had been the earlier riser; but this summer Stan had gotten used to Ford pulling late nights downstairs as he worked on his research, so he didn't comment on Ford's sleeping in as he poured himself a mug of coffee.

But Stan did look at Ford's face and immediately ask, "Okay. What's the latest Bill bullsh... soup? Bullsoup."

"He's..." Ford tried to figure out what Bill was doing. "Making jewelry in the living room, I think."

Stan grunted and nodded. "Yeah, he was doing that yesterday with Mabel."

"Well, now he's doing it by himself."

Stan raised a brow.

The Stans leaned around the living room doorway to watch Bill. 

Bill was engrossed with picking out a mis-tied knot, frowning deeply in concentration, one eye squeezed shut and the other squinted. He smoothed out the thread, his face relaxed; and then he glanced at the doorway, did a double take, and his shoulders went up around his ears. "What am I, a zoo attraction? Shoo! Scat!" He waved them away. "I'll throw salt at you!"

Ford raised his palms defensively. Stan said, "Okay okay, we're going."

They retreated to the kitchen.

"Well?" Stan pressed. "Is he up to dangerous voodoo stuff?"

"I'm fairy certain Bill doesn't practice Vodou."

"Answer the question, smart aleck."

Ford ran through every form of magic incorporating strings or knots he could think of. It was a pretty short list, and most of it was used for protection or binding separate things together. "Not that I know of," he said dubiously. "But it's more likely he's up to something I don't know about than it is that he's doing arts and crafts. Don't you think?"

Stan considered that. He shrugged. "Eh," he said. "It can wait 'til after coffee."

Eh. Ford was tired. He didn't want to go to red alert over some string and plastic beads. He sat down with his mug.

####

"I'm home!" Mabel called. "Biiill, I couldn't get you a Magic Vision book! The pictures in Candy's closet started moving, and I don't know if we were hallucinating or if we accidentally summoned an invisible holographic horse you can only see when you cross your eyes, so we decided to burn the posters and library books to be safe! Do you know if Magic Vision Posters summon things...?"

"I wish," Bill said. "But hey, I've got something better. Gimme your hand."

Mabel held out her hand, half pulled it back, and said, "Why?"

"Relax." Bill grabbed her wrist, tied on a bracelet, and said, "Make a wish!" He grinned. "You're impressed, admit it. Tell me you're impressed."

Mabel studied the bracelet. "Whoa." Purple, green, and orange threads formed lacy loops around a central thread, forming an endless wave that rolled up and down. The threads passed through several star-shaped pony beads, making the wave look like the tails of shooting stars. "A Peruvian wave with a perfectly straight center cord. That takes crazy precise string tension." She looked at Bill. "I have nothing more to teach you."

"Thank you, teacher."

"Is this supposed to look like my sweater?" Mabel asked, studying the pink in the tassels tying the bracelet on. "The one on your zodiac thing?"

"Sure! You gave me one that looks like me, I gave you one that represents you. Friendship's supposed to go both ways, right?"

"Bill! Is this why you wanted to learn to make friendship bracelets?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"Biiill! You're being so nice!" Mabel flung her arms around him. "I love it!" And then she took off, running laps around the living room, cackling madly and waving her braceleted arm in the air. Abuelita, who'd been watching TV, calmly turned to watch Mabel zoom around.

Oh, this was great. Look at this, Bill was the best at being a friend. Everyone who'd ever ditched him was a moron who didn't know what they were missing out on. They could've gotten personalized friendship bracelets. Maybe he should have offered Ford a friendship bracelet? No, that was stupid, why would Ford prefer a friendship bracelet over unimaginable cosmic power. But then it didn't have to be either-or, did it? Ford's favorite color was red, what went with red?

When Mabel had gotten the enthusiasm out of her system, she trotted back out to the entryway and hugged Bill again. He endured it. "You won't stop making friendship bracelets now that you've made this, will you?" Mabel asked. "You're such a natural at it! And you need more hobbies that are constructive instead of destructive."

"Ouch, kid. I'll have you know I have plenty of constructive hobbies."

"I don't believe it. Name one thing you like creating."

"Weirdness bubbles."

"Name one thing you like creating that doesn't terrify people."

Bill pursed his lips. "Agree to disagree. Anyway, I'm not getting out of the friendship bracelet game just yet. In fact, I've already got another few projects in mind."

####

Bill plopped down at the kitchen table across from Mabel. "Hey star girl. Guess what."

She looked up from her cereal at the dark rings under Bill's eyes. He had one eye squeezed shut; he could usually keep both open when he'd just woken up. "Were you up all night?"

"Doesn't matter. Time is an illusion and I can see the projector. I'm counting that as your guess. Look." Bill tossed two matching bracelets down on the table between them, deep watermelon pink and minty green, shaped like macrame chains with hearts where each link of the chain met.

"Aww, little hearts."

"Thought you'd like the hearts."

Mabel picked up one end of the bracelet and slipped it on—and then noticed the long coil of embroidery floss connecting the end of one bracelet to the other. "Bill? What's this for?"

"Didn't you say a few days ago that you wished we could go outside together? I thought up a perfect solution!"

With a sudden sense of dread, Mabel realized that the chain pattern and the string connecting the bracelets made them look like an extremely long pair of handcuffs; but before she could take off her half, Bill picked up the other bracelet and said, "There's a little magic in these, look. When both ends are being worn—" He slipped on the bracelet, and Mabel felt its matching pair gently tighten around her wrist. The string connecting them vanished into thin air.

Mabel gasped. "What—?"

"Poof! It's like a ghost: still there, but invisible to human eyes. We could even go into separate rooms and it'll connect us through the walls." He demonstrated by waving his hand under the table. "But we can't get farther apart than the length of the thread. I gave it about ten yards." He plucked up something invisible and gave it a tug, and Mabel felt the bracelet go taut against her wrist. There was no force, no matter how hard Bill tugged she didn't feel like the bracelet was pulling her; rather, it felt like the other end of the thread was tied to an immobile boulder preventing her from moving further away, until she moved her hand closer to Bill's to give the thread a little slack. "And..."

Mabel tried to jerk the bracelet off her wrist; it stuck around her hand. "How do I get it off?! Bill—!"

Bill put a finger on her hand, stopping her. He said, "Neither of us can take our end off until we both decide we're ready. Like... now." He winked; and the bracelet suddenly loosened again.

Mabel pulled it off with a sigh of relief.

"Unless one of us dies or something, I guess," Bill said thoughtfully. "That'd deactivate the magic. It'd be pretty gristly to have to keep sharing a friendship bracelet with a corpse!" He laughed. "Anyway—"

Mabel chucked the bracelet in his face. "That was mean!"

Bill blinked in surprise. "What was?"

"You tricked me!" She cradled her wrist against her chest, heart still pounding from the brief unexpected captivity.

"I did not!" He took the bracelets back and started coiling up the thread between them. "You put yours on before I even said anything."

"But you could have warned me before you got us stuck together!"

"Sure, I could have, but would you have kept it on then?"

"No, you jerk. That's the point!" She looked around for something else to chuck at Bill's face, plucked a dry piece of cereal from her bowl, and flicked it at his nose. 

Bill endured his punishment without flinching. "Well, sorry, but I had to demonstrate how they work somehow." He twirled the bracelets around one fingertip. "This solves your whole 'can't let the big scary triangle out unsupervised' problem! Slap these bad boys on, and I've got automatic supervision that I can't escape! Maybe this'll convince the adults that I can be trusted outside, right?" He ate the piece of cereal. "So? What do you think?"

She thought he was still a jerk. All the same, she studied the chain bracelets. "Did you just make me a gift that's actually a gift for yourself?"

He didn't even look a little bit ashamed. "I prefer to think of it as something we'll both benefit from!"

"Bill."

"C'mooon. You know you want me out there." He lowered his voice. "Who else in this town will help you break into the pet shop to dye the dogs' fur?"

Oooh. Mabel should not have told Bill about that ambition. "Well..."

"Or help you grill hamburgers with sprinkles. You know Stanley's never gonna do that for us again," Bill said. "Or what if you need a drive somewhere, huh? The guys with licenses are gonna get tired of trips to the craft store eventually."

"You can't drive!"

"Of course I can drive, didn't you see me during—?" Bill's eyes widened. "Oh no, you didn't see! I can't believe you didn't see my car. You, you would have loved it."

He seemed serious. Maybe he could drive. "You... shouldn't get to drive."

"What if it's an emergency and I'm the only one who can do it. Do you want me in the driver's seat with or without a leash?" He spread his hands in a shrug. "And anyway... think of everything else we could be doing together outside. Purple poodles and pink pugs are just the start, my friend."

Mabel hated when she knew she was being manipulated but Bill still made a good point. She bit her lip and glanced at the clock over the sink. A tour had just started; the gift shop should be empty and the vending machine safe to use.

She got out of her seat, taking her cereal with her. "I'm gonna run this by the household magic expert."

Bill rolled his eye. "Fine. Tell Sixer we're out of apple cider."

####

"Tell Bill we got three packs last time," Ford said. "If that's not enough to hold him one week between grocery trips, then he has a drinking problem."

"Okay, but what about the bracelets?"

Ford set aside the book he'd been reading and studied the bracelets. He slipped one on his wrist.  "Mabel, would you mind putting on the other side?"

"Sure!" She pulled on the bracelet. It tightened around Ford's wrist and the thread between them disappeared. Fascinating.

After a few minutes of experimenting to see how they worked, Ford was fairly sure this was a spell he'd learned about years ago, although he'd lost the details when he tossed his second journal in the bottomless pit. Usually it was done with metal chains—but the spell should make the bracelets nigh on indestructible while the magic was active, so, as promised, it would contain Bill. As long as he didn't murder the person on the other end of the spell.

"So can I take Bill outside?" Mabel asked, hands laced together and eyes wide. "Please please please?"

"You did hear what I just said about murder, right?"

"We'll bring someone else along! Bill wouldn't try to kill me if someone else is standing guard!" (At least she still recognized that there were circumstances where Bill would try to kill her.) "He's been stuck inside for weeks. That's not healthy! He needs to stretch his legs, get some sunshine!" She smacked Ford's desk as a thought occurred to her, "And we need to take him clothes shopping. I can tell he's uncomfortable in gift shop t-shirts and Abuelita's skirts. Does he even like skirts?" She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Does he even have underwear, or is he still wearing Soos's old swim trunks?"

Ford winced. "Melody was kind enough to pick some up a few days ago." But he could admit it had taken them longer than it should have.

"What about the rest of his clothes? Does he have a bra?"

"Wh—" Ford sputtered. "Does he want one?"

"I don't know, I haven't asked. It might be more comfortable. He has a lot of chest."

Lord. Ford closed his eyes. He did not want to think about bras.

"Pleeease?" Mabel said. "I wanna take him clothes shopping. He's probably never explored human fashion before! He's got to find his style. I can be his style consultant."

Aha. So that was what Mabel was getting out of all this: a person-sized dress-up doll.

Truth be told, they probably should take Bill outside. Depending on how Fiddleford's research proceeded, destroying Bill could take weeks, if not months. If there were ever an emergency, they might need to relocate Bill quickly—so it was better to ensure the bracelets worked as advertised before they became necessary.

"Fine. But this won't be a regular thing," Ford said. "Ask Stan when he can go. And your brother—I'd rather Bill know the numbers are stacked against him. And he's not allowed to talk to anybody outside the shack. You, Dipper, and Stan will have to intercept anybody he might speak to."

"Don't worry about that! I've got the perfect solution," Mabel said. "What if Grunkle Stan doesn't want to go?"

"Ask him to talk to me. I think I can convey the importance."

"You don't want to come? Are you too busy figuring out how to kill him?" Mabel's gaze moved to the books Ford had been reading.

Ford suppressed the urge to shut the books and hide the papers beside them. Mabel wouldn't be able to understand the books anyway: it was an ancient Roman historian's description of augury—fortunetelling with birds—and a Latin reference dictionary he was consulting to help him translate. He was more afraid Mabel's gaze would fall on the pages next to the books, where a few vocabulary words from the mystical, mythical language of the birds had been scrawled out in Bill's distinctive chicken scratch.

No, Ford wasn't busy figuring out how to kill Bill. He was still waiting to hear back from Fiddleford about the feasibility of synthesizing or replacing the quantum destabilizer's Dontium; and, in the meantime, he'd allowed himself to believe there was nothing else he could do on his own... and by now, he'd gotten thoroughly distracted. Going through Bill's notes, verifying his claims, following up on the leads he'd subtly slid in. Bill's miniature grimoire was the most dense magical text since the Emerald Tablet. Opening it up was like a cryptography puzzle mixed with a dissertation research project, and each sentence was a fractal flower of information, a bud that bloomed into a dozen more buds that each bloomed into a dozen more.

It was amazing. Enthralling. This was the kind of research Ford was made for. He was the most relaxed he'd been in weeks.

He hadn't told anybody what he was doing while Fiddleford worked.

"No, not that," he told Mabel, "I just don't want to spend time around Bill. Especially on what's essentially a social trip. Stanley can... handle it better."

"Oh," Mabel said. "That makes sense, I guess."

Ford glanced uneasily at Bill's papers, then looked away before Mabel could see.

He was so caught up in his own shame at getting caught toeing at one of Bill's traps, he didn't notice the quick shameful look on Mabel's face for the same reason.

####

(Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment or reblog if you enjoyed, y'all's commentary is what helps keep me writing. ❤️

Also I feel like Google translate can handle the Latin pretty well if you wanna see what Bill's saying at the start, but it's important to me that you know Google is wrong about "quadrum defututum" and it can actually be more accurately translated as "you square slut.")

[daytaker]

Congrats on 250 followers! ^_^ Could you do the 'only one bed' trope with Lucifer?

At long last, I come bearing a drabble. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!

The Puppetmaster

Ship: Lucifer/Reader Genre: Humor and fluff Word Count: 825 CW: Dubcon but it's cuddling? Also (joking) mentions of peeing as a kink. I'm sorry I'm like this.

[Part of my 250 Followers Mini Event!]

You were suspicious from the start, because it wasn’t like Lucifer not to plan ahead.

Now, you’re not even suspicious. There was no way that Lucifer, the Avatar of Pride, would be spooning you if he didn’t absolutely intend to. His brothers? You could buy any of them claiming they just grabbed onto you in their sleep, or at least accept the room for reasonable doubt. But Lucifer? Never. Not in a thousand years. This was intentional. This was premeditated. This was planned.

You should have known this was going to happen.

You did know, actually. You would have been fully prepared if not for the mind tricks of Lucifer, the all-seeing Puppetmaster.

“Unfortunately, it seems like our accommodations tonight will be lacking in one respect.” Lucifer nodded apologetically to you as you made your way to the hotel room you’d be cooped up in until morning. He unlocked the door, and the moment you stepped inside, you saw the problem: the single queen-size bed, and nary so much as a sofa to serve as a substitute.

“It’s…fine,” you’d said, trying to brush it off as insignificant, even as your instincts began whispering to you that something was amiss. “It’s just for one night, and I trust you not to pull anything weird.”

Lucifer smiled at you when you said that. Not a kind, appreciative smile. No, it was the smile of the wise man humoring the fool. It made you uneasy.

“...Lucifer,” you said in a warning tone you normally reserved for Mammon.

“Hm? What is it?” He was taking his pajamas out of his suitcase, and his voice and expression were so nonchalant—dull, even—that you started to second guess yourself on that look you thought he gave you.

“Uh… I was just going to ask to use the bathroom before you step in to change,” you said, thinking to yourself what a nice save that was. Lucifer bowed his head and politely gestured for you to proceed.

…Oh, he would gaslight you into thinking you hadn’t seen anything, all to serve his twisted, demonic ends of cuddling you when you least expected it, at a time when you’d wake up, dazed and with a full bladder and no escape in sight. In fact, he probably made that initial, wolfish expression for the exact purpose of then playing innocent so convincingly that you’d stop suspecting him. He was just playing mind games with you at this point. He was toying with you.

As the two of you climbed into bed for the night, you each kept respectfully to your own sides. After a brief and awkward goodnight, he turned off the light, and you laid awake and stared at the ceiling.

Why…was there just one bed?

The question wouldn’t stop nagging at you.

Lucifer didn’t book this room in advance. The circumstances that led you here were unexpected delays that meant you couldn’t make it home at a reasonable hour. But… But…

Would Lucifer allow this to happen if he didn’t want it to? No! Absolutely not! Lucifer normally would have taken the chance of delays into account in his travel plans. He would have been prepared for this eventuality.

More than that though. In what sane world would Lucifer allow himself to be subjected to the humiliation of sharing a bed with you for any reason that didn’t include his deliberate, conscious choice? In which case, what was he pulling right now? You didn’t really think he was going to attempt anything truly nefarious, but your unease didn’t go away.

Nor should it have.

It’s about five o’clock in the morning, you need to pee, and you’re being prevented from making a smooth escape to the bathroom by Pride himself. The Machiavellian bastard. The way he played you like a fiddle. 

Maybe you should just let it out. Maybe that would teach him. 

But what if he knows about that too? What if this is all playing into his hand? He’s not into that, is he? What if he is? What if this entire scenario was orchestrated carefully from the beginning to get you to this point, where you’re trapped in his arms and feeling spiteful enough to wet the bed?

You feel a huff of breath behind your ear, then you hear the low pitched grunt of a baritone-voiced demon waking up.

“Lucifer!” you hiss.

“Mm?” He releases you, stretching his arms over his head calmly. “Good morning. Did you rest well?”

“Why were you hugging me?” You shoot an accusatory glare at him. You know about the piss kink. You have your ammunition locked and loaded.

“Because you’re lovely and warm, and I enjoyed the proximity. I hope I didn’t offend you.” He meets your gaze with an expression of such good-natured and genuine affection that your heart almost comes unmoored.

It’s a masterstroke. You have been defeated. Red-faced and groaning, you slip out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom.

[fire-lizard-ro]

Bottom Dragon Dan Heng

Bet you didn't expect THIS, huh?

I feel like there's barely been HSR smut recently, so I did it myself. >:D))

CW: DP (technically in two holes- you'll see-), top reader, bottom character, non-human anatomy (for my dear Dan Heng), knots (Dan Heng's), fucking a hole you probably didn't expect me to say you're fucking, belly bulge and a tiiiiiny bit of cumflation~ <333 (like it's only a little bit of a bulge left over), mention of crying, hair/horn pulling, usage of the word "slut" exactly once, only a tiny mention of dirty talk (I'm now realizing I don't really do dialogue in these...)

GN reader.

Cock is interchangabe with strap and I mentioned that... And I say cum for the reader, but also mention that it can be fake cum for a strap.

You know I REALLY tried holding off so I could finish making myself write down all my Aeon stuff, but dragon Dan Heng is still very much so stuck in my mind.

So whoopsie here's yet another ramble session from Roro about nefarious things I think about this scaly bitch (affectionate).

So uh- This is written as x reader(s) because ye, but when I was having whore-knee thoughts it was more like I thought it up in a daydream of me somehow scoring Dan Heng, Blade, and Jing Yuan and watching those three have at it. hA-

A n y w a y s -

One of the only times I write top reader(s), lmfao. Since I prefer bottom reader content, but top reader is also smeggsy sometimes.

NSFW:

Okay so for this, you're gonna have to be two people sometimes, I guess foijeo- Maybe you and your bestie like sharing or something.

But like.... bottom dragon Dan Heng who gets fucked in the ass and has a cock/strap in his internal cock sheath thing. I mean- It is a slit... That just so happens to have two cocks in it... Just slide on in and make it three. This could also be only you fucking him this way while shoving a dildo/plug in his ass. But something about the idea of watching him get stretched out on two cocks that had been fucking him is hot.

Watch the way his belly bulges out from your thick cock and listen to how he sobs from the stretch he feels in both of his holes. Dan Heng would likely never admit it, but he loves it when you fuck his sheath- When you put yourself in the hole he had never considered before. It's already slick on the inside naturally to keep his cocks from chafing. And it's so tight from there being two cocks in there.

He was hesitant when you first brought it up, not having thought about it before and worrying that it would hurt or just not work out- After all, this was not a hole that was supposed to be fucked. But he was ultimately curious, as it is in his nature. At least I think. After all, he does manage the archives and seems to know a lot about various subjects.

But once he tries it? Fuck there's no going back from there. He was used to you shoving your tongue in there or even gliding fingers through the slick of his internal sheath and feeling around his cocks while they were inside... But this was a whole different ball game. His tail would be thumping against the bed while you gently finger the slit of his sheath's opening. One, two... then three and even four fingers. Just in case. You don't wanna hurt your pretty boy, after all. :((

Then you slick up the shaft of your dick/strap and ever-so-gently press the head inside along his two cocks that had popped out while you were fingering him. There's a gasp as he feels it stretch him out inside and he's panting while trying to get used to the new feeling.

But once he's adjusted and you've picked up the pace? He's letting out the prettiest choked out moans while you fold his legs up to his chest and fuck him hard, your hips slapping against his ass with every forward stroke. And he's likely whimper if you lean forward to mouth at those cute nipples of his. They look so lonely and nibble-able, you know? :((

(I am of the belief that EVERYONE deserves to have their nipples sucked. <333)

The way his tail twitches and spasms and even thrashes around from not being able to control it while he's getting fucked like a good, perfect slut- And then the way it wraps around your waist like he's trying to ground himself- Or maybe he's pulling you closer? Trying to get you deeper? God- Please tug on his tail, too. I'm not sure how well fucking his sheath from behind would work because of possible positioning of said sheath, but if you do? Please yank this man's tail to pull him back into your thrusts while you pin him down with a hand on the back of his head to shove him into the pillows. Better yet- Grip his hair, too, while you're at it. Or his horns/one of his horns. Use his horns to pull him into your hips as you make heavy thrusts into him.

And oh lord- When he cums? His knots and cocks swell which makes everything tighter and he's crying and writhing beneath you while calling out your name and pushing at your stomach because it's just too much- There's cum all over your belly and his and he looks so fucked out and his legs are shaking and his hips are jumping in little aborted thrusts to grind your cock inside him just a little more while he rides out his orgasm.

For my cock havers and my strap users (specifically those straps that you can use a pump with to pump stuff into your partner-):

I hope you can see my vision when I say he looks so pretty with cum squirting out of not only his dicks, but out of his shealth. The way his belly has a little bulge left over from how much you fucked into him- The way it squelches out from his slit, between his flagging cocks as they retreat into his internal pouch and more cum gushes out- And how he whimpers and whines and tears leak from his pretty eyes and he squirms while you push on his belly to force the cum out of his stuffed sheath.

It's just so pretty. :((

He's just so pretty. :((

Once again: I prefer top character and bottom reader stuff, but... Sometimes.... Ahaha- (If I were in that JingRenHeng poly relationship that I mentioned I was thinking of when I imagined this up, I'd love to watch those two do this to him... [screams])

I might have missed something/a few things because my mind was going wayyyyy faster than I can type (though I can type pretty fast...). So if I did and I remember later, I will put in an edit and post something to let people know it was added to.

I shall now go fucking die myself because who knew I'd be writing this and putting it where people can see it ahahahahfiosejg-

OH OH OH P.S. PLEASE TALK DIRTY TO HIM AND NIBBLE THOSE CUTE EARS OF HIS HE'LL GET SO RED THIS IS CANON TO ME.

[chickenparm]

livestream (Wriothesley/gn!Reader)

AO3 Link

Wriothesley/gn!Reader (no pronouns, no descriptions) 1,284 Words - NSFW voyeurism, m!masturbation

---

No one really messes around with the cameras. 

Not for lack of functionality, but simply because they’re a hassle to use and a technology that most people just aren’t familiar with. But you’re familiar, and you’re about as nosy as a certain pink-haired journalist that still writes letters to you in the fortress asking if you’d like to take on a job at the Steambird in your spare time. 

You don’t write back, only because that is a hassle you’re not ready for. 

There’s a terminal near the bunk you’d claimed for your own, and after only a little bit of fiddling and a lot of brute force with a password, you make your way in. Not for nefarious purposes, but simply because you’re a bit bored. You paid coupons to get out of work this morning, and now you’ve realized there’s not much to keep you occupied beyond figuring out these cameras.

Glancing down the hall in the only direction someone could come from, you check that the coast is clear for the moment. Surely it’s against some kind of rule, even if the guards don’t even use these. But you’re close enough to the end of your sentence that you’re careful, just in case. 

The screen flickers to life as the terminal changes from red to teal, and with a little grin, you begin pressing the buttons to get a feel for the UI. One camera is above you, and you can see yourself from the back. The quality is actually pretty decent, and you wave your hands a few times to get a feel for the almost nonexistent delay. 

Then, you push the button that takes you to the next camera down the hall. Then one to the entrance of this wing, right above the head of the usual guard there. You can see out into the main atrium of the fortress now, and you move the camera back and forth, zooming in and out, just for fun.

You zoom in on something particular when it catches your eye - someone, actually. His Grace, the Duke, Lord Wriothesley, whatever title you’re supposed to call him. The guy has a million. You lean closer to the screen, absorbed in following him as he strides through the atrium toward his office, its large insignia gleaming above the door. 

Interesting. Maybe this could be good if you learn his schedule, figure out when he comes and goes so you can sneak an unabashed peek without getting caught by him. Then you can be as shameless as you like if you happen to stare for more than a full minute without blinking.

And then he’s gone, tucked away in his office and away from your admittedly pervasive sight. 

It’s a little less exciting to flip to the next camera now, seeing a different angle of the atrium. The next few are of the level below, and the handful after that are of various places in the production area. No one is working at your station, and you quietly murmur a little cheer at that - they won’t move the tools around in a weird way. 

Beginning to grow bored, you start to flip through them a little faster, seeing other areas you haven’t bothered to go to. Areas you probably shouldn’t be seeing since they seem to be in disuse, but you’re just looking. It’s not like you’re down there or anything. 

Flip, flip, flip. One after another, your eyes start to unfocus just as the camera feed goes from very dark to rather bright, showing a room that’s well-lit beyond what’s normal in the Fortress. Curiously, you zoom in, and you realize what you’re looking at - and almost click away. 

But then your boredom is gone, isn’t it? You’re suddenly interested, enraptured as you lean closer to the screen as if that will give you a better view of the Duke sitting at his desk, slouched in his chair, one hand holding a book while the other holds his-

You flip away, cheeks burning with warmth. No way did you just see that. It had to be a trick of the camera, a smudge, a glitch with the feed. You turn your back to the console and rub at your face to cool off, then turn back. Still, no one comes down the hallway, and your finger hovers over the button to go back. 

Just a look won’t hurt. Surely it can’t be that, and then you can get this out of your mind. 

Click. The feed switches, and your mouth falls open as you lean in, your nose nearly brushing the scratched glass of the screen. That’s no trick of the light, that’s the Duke lazily stroking his dick while he reads a book that you can’t make out. As if you were even looking at the fucking book in the first place when he’s in front of you fisting his cock. 

Why is this feed so nice? The quality is disgustingly good, enough that you can see the sheen on his tip from every bead of his pre cum that he squeezes out. Saliva pools on your tongue, and you swallow roughly to get yourself under some kind of control. It would be smart to just turn the camera off, to give him some privacy while he gets himself off. 

So why aren’t your hands moving? They’re curled around the edges of the screen as you brace yourself, nearly kissing the glass with your proximity. Shut the camera off. 

Wriothesley’s body flinches, nearly dropping his book as his head dips for a moment. His hand moves faster, twisting a little at the tip to give himself a different sort of friction. You could do that with just your tongue, you think. Not a single thing comes to mind that you’d rather do more. 

Your shoulders slump, elbows lowering to brace yourself, and you accidentally hit a button you hadn’t bothered with yet. As it clicks, a quiet sound comes through the speakers that nearly kills you. Wriothesley’s groan of pleasure at his own hand, his pace picking up and filling his office with a slick, wet sound. 

The line of his throat shifts, a swallow before another shuddering groan comes from the bottom of his chest. His adam’s apple is stark against his skin and you wonder what sort of sound he’d make if you were to drag your tongue across it, sink your teeth into it. God, you want to take a bite of him.

A shaking breath leaves you, followed by your quiet murmur of, “Holy fucking shit…”

And Wriothesley’s head snaps up, immediately looking at the camera, looking at you, and you shut the terminal down with a slam of your fist. Quick steps send you stumbling backward, your spine pressed taut against the metal wall as you put as much distance as you can between yourself and what you’d been doing. 

Of course, the sound goes both ways. You feel like an idiot - and a pervert, actually. You kind of already knew that last one, but at least you had a modicum of respect. This was just gross. You wonder if he’s already broken the camera that he might not have even known was there. A gross sort of inquisitiveness makes you want to power it back on to check, but you nearly slap yourself. 

One time you could pass off as an accident if he confronts you about it. Two times makes it on purpose. Well, it kind of was on purpose after a while there, but he doesn’t really need to know that. 

How many years gets added to a sentence for watching the warden jerk off, anyway?

[kittyball23]

True Crime (a Trolls fanfic)

Summary: Bruce hears something unexpected on the True Crime podcast he listens to

__________________________________________

Beach days were always the best.

It gave his wife Brandy the ample time she needed for a little R n R. It gave their 13 kids the fun they craved, hitting the waves and splashing about in the warm Vacay Island waters. And it gave Bruce the opportunity to kick back, tan, and listen in on the next episode of his True Crime podcast.

His kids were well-behaved for the most part (save for Bruce Jr. and his biting problem, and perhaps Freddy with his desire to stuff his body into whatever little cramped spaces there were). But, with a quick reminder to mind their manners and beware of any rough waves, he knew that they were well off.

As he settled down on the towel, he could hear the faint sounds of his children laughing and splashing, their mother floating on a surfboard nearby and watching over them. Bruce then removed his vest, rubbed tanning oil on his body, donned sunglasses, popped on his earbuds and began to play the podcast. The narrator's mysterious voice began to speak, introducing the story.

“In tonight's episode of True Crime, discover a true story about betrayal, deception, and greed, and the defeat of two nefarious villains who were finally dethroned from their treacherously influential reign…”

Bruce was already intrigued. Ooo, this is gonna be a GOOD one. He could tell. He tucked his arms behind his head and got comfortable.

“When one is a troll, there is no better way to live your life to the fullest than with hugging, dancing, and of course, singing. But for one troll, these harmless activities become the paramount of his nightmare for the next two months.”

Bruce scrunched his nose, skeptical. Singing and dancing that led to, as the narrator described, a ‘nightmare’ situation? He had to hear the rest of this.

“You never expect this sort of thing to happen to you, you know?” a new voice said, which Bruce could presume was the victim of the unfortunate scenario. “I sure didn't. They seemed like a nice pair of siblings. I never suspected anything malicious. They saw my performance, enjoyed it, and asked for some tips to boost their own careers. We had some drinks and… and the next thing I remember is waking up in a diamond bottle.”

Yikes, Bruce thought, pitying the victim. He sounded like a nice guy, too, with the calm, serene tone his voice had. Trapped in such a cramped space for so long sounded awful.

“And you won't believe who those said siblings were,” the narrator continued. He was very right in that, too. Because as soon as the podcast began to play a sample of the hit single ‘Watch Me Work,’ Bruce’s jaw practically dropped on the floor.

No way…

“Yes way. You heard correctly. Criminals in this case are none other than superstar sensations Velvet and Veneer, from the bedazzling city of Mount Rageous. But following them now, is a not-so-bedazzling record. (And we don't mean the musical kind.)”

A new female voice began to list off charges. “Troll-napping, Troll torture, not to mention tax evasion. You won't believe how many yachts, bling, and exotic PETS they illegally bought!”

Even if Bruce could believe it, he was still having a hard time wrapping his mind around the initial news. Velvet and Veneer? The well-known household names that his kids - and himself for that matter - were fans of? Well, not anymore! Hearing such things that they did made him sick. Man… it’s gonna be hard separating the art from the artist.

“And today, just two months after the duo was turned in by their assistant, Crimp, they find that their names live on forever not in fame, but in INfamy,” the narrator said.

“Oh, I feel awful,” the distinct voice of Veneer said next. “I wanted nothing more than to be famous, and… Vel made me believe that it didn’t matter HOW we did it, as long as we DID it. Even… even if it meant KILLING a troll. It was real rough - I mean, sucking up his talent was easy enough, but we were literally sucking the LIFE out of him. His skin was turning pale - and, like, not in a stunning Victorian way, either - and that magenta hair of his was turning whiter and whiter by the minute…”

Magenta? Bruce wondered. He’d known a troll once with magenta hair. His own younger brother. Could it be…? No, it couldn’t… I mean, there’s PLENTY of Trolls that have magenta hair, don’t they?

“I didn’t say anything to Velvet though because, truly, I was too afraid to stand up to her. She’s my sister! My biggest inspiration… I didn’t wanna discourage her. But now, I see that what we did was wrong. Very, VERY wrong.”

Good, Bruce thought.

“But despite the change of heart, this Mount Rageon still has to serve at least another six months in juvenile imprisonment, alongside his sister,” the narrator said. “It comes as much relief to the now-free victim.”

“Jail can’t be fun,” the same serene voice from before admitted, “but I’m glad they’re serving their time. Everyone makes mistakes, and just like it’s important to learn from them, it’s also important to pay the repercussions for your actions.”

Well said, Bruce had to admit. He also had to admit something else.

That sounds a LOT like something Floyd would say…

And if his suspicions were not enough…

“While recovery has been successful for the troll and he has plans to return to singing, he still feels as though something is missing from his life…” the narrator continued.

“I was solo-ing around for quite a bit of time before I ran into Velvet and Veneer,” the Troll said. “But, really… I would LOVE if I could perform in the band I was in years ago… but, we kind of had a fight, and ever since that fight, we haven’t seen each other. If we could reunite - oh - that’d be a dream come true. It’s been too long.”

Bruce swallowed. Twenty years is a long time…

The next part was the real kicker, though.

“Until that day, 36-year-old Floyd still holds onto the hope that he will see his bandmembers - also known as the brothers who made up the band BroZone - someday,” the narrator said.

“John Dory, Clay, Branch, Spruce… if ANY of you are listening, I want you to know that I miss you. And I want us to be a family again…” the Troll - FLOYD - said.

Bruce’s thumb went to hit the pause button. He had to stop. This was a lot to process, all at once. He was flabbergasted. Bamboozled. Shocked. He broke down everything he had heard piece by piece, trying to make sense of it.

Velvet and Veneer were baddies.

They had taken Floyd.

His brother Floyd.

They’d used his talent.

They’d almost killed him.

He would’ve never had the option of seeing his brother again.

But now, he did.

“Daddy! Daddy!” one of his kids - Windy - was suddenly calling to him. “Bruce Jr. threw sand in my eye!”

“I said I was sorry!” Bruce Jr. protested.

“Only after Mom told you to!” LaBreezy pointed out.

“Did not!” Bruce Jr. countered.

“Did too!” Cove jumped into his sister’s defense.

“Well, Daddy, aren’t you gonna punish him??” Windy demanded to know. The way he saw it, it wouldn’t be fair to let him slide!

But the way Bruce saw it… well, he wasn’t seeing anything. His brain was still overloaded with what he’d learned.

Brandy had followed the kids, curiously noting her husband’s surprised expression. “Honey?” she questioned. “Are you all right?”

Bruce looked at her resolutely.

“I… I have to find my brother…”

[velnna]

I want to know more about your butterfly bug man so bad im eating DRYWALL 👀👀👀

Name’s Ashton Rose (he adopted that last name from his stage name Crimson Rose bc he’s that extra). Grew up in a broken home, loads of abuse, substances and material struggles. Used music as an escape and was exceptionally good at it but life kept getting in the way of his pursuits.

For some background, yes he’s technically a bug inspired person. Lives in the outskirts of a vaguely industrialised metropolis that brings together many a fantasy species (we got some good old elves, more bug people, people with horns, wings, you name it). His species in particular isn’t very common or well known, and most of them go under the radar as unremarkable slimey 4-armed cryptids with your average human lifespan and below average consitution score.

The education system there isn’t too bad and Ash manages to graduate what would be something of a highschool equivalent, all the while trying to make ends meet for himself and his deadbeat parents and getting himself into trouble constantly. His musical talent gets noticed by a specific professor during this time (who also happens to dwell in magic shenanigans and there’s a link to the music there but I’ll leave it at that), and this dude does his best to try and steer Ash in a good direction, covering higher education tuition fees and getting him glasses bc the bug’s eyesight is godawful actually

Unfortunately he keeps getting into more and bigger trouble + struggles with substances himself and there’s only so much the professor can do. At some point in his late teens he meets Dahlia, who has a different but comparable background, and they become partners (in crime?) pretty quickly. They both harbour a lot of resentment for their own families and the systems they were brought into and it pushes them further and further away from a lawful path.

In their early 20s Ash reaches a breaking point and then comes into play a thing his species can do but which is regarded as taboo: cocooning lol. Essentially there’s a time slot in their youth when the butterfly ppl can trigger that process, after which that’s no longer possible. It turns them into more beautiful, stronger, better (and sometimes venomous) versions of themselves, with wings that in principle are functional. Not a lot is known about this outside their own communities so after this Ash effectively gets to come back as a different person. He and Dahlia orchestrate a whole heist to take the underground criminal net of the city by storm. His music magic and Dahlia’s venom (she’s a spider hybrid of sorts) play a big role there.

Now they’ve got a drug empire of sorts amongst other nefarious things and Ash is on a mission to unlock a specific sort of power/formula to address things (spoilers?) that pose a threat to his life and ruling. He’s one of the BBEGs btw in case I haven’t made it clear lol

I love them but they’re the worst make no mistake