#SUSPICIOUS.......SO SPOOKY....... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gallusrostromegalus · 2 years ago

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The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

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I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

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If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

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As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

youtube

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

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So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

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#Family Lore #Dogs #It's Halloween babey #friday the 13th #blood mention #I hope that kid had a good night and at least one of his friends believed him #Long post #Video

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theballadofharkness · 2 months ago

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What happens in Vegas…

Mason and the Macabre Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x HorrorExec fem!reader

Summary: When you, the horror queen of Continental Studios, accidentally eat 14 grams of shrooms at a Vegas suite party, your girlfriend Maya Mason, marketing genius, streetwear icon, and the only thing keeping this presentation together, must wrangle her melting girlfriend, a missing studio head, and a PR nightmare in the making. Featuring chaotic executives, Kool-Aid mascots, wall cheese, and one very public descent into babygirl delirium.

It’s CinemaCon. What could possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 10.2K

Warnings: smut warning and mentions of drug use so as always MDNI

A/N: this is looking to be a three parter… also sorry angels for taking so long I wanted to watch the finale first incase it changed how I wanted to end it ❤️

The private jet smells like luxury and something suspiciously herbal.

Quinn’s already got her sunglasses on despite being indoors, lounging across two seats like she’s in a music video. “I’ve always wanted to do shrooms in Vegas,” she says, voice high with excitement.

Matt chuckles as he pulls a tin from his backpack, eyes gleaming. “Well, today’s your lucky day. These babies are from my Dave Fanco’s dealer in Topanga. They're microdosed which I think means we probably won’t die.”

“Cool cool cool,” Sal says, settling into a seat with a can of hard seltzer already cracked open. “As long as I don’t piss myself in front of Dave Franco again, I’m chill.”

Patty doesn’t look up from her tablet. “Again?”

“I was nervous, okay?”

“Hey don’t even worry about that dude, let’s party hard! Viva Las Vegas!” Matt holds up a silver tin, presumably full of drugs, with mock ceremony.

“You’re such a good boss,” you murmur, dry as dust. Your black nails curl around the edge of a glass of sparkling water. You’re in a tailored black suit and vintage sunglasses even though you’re inside a plane. You look like you could summon a demon or greenlight a Sundance darling with the same raised eyebrow.

“Aw, come on,” Matt says, angling his body to face you. “Don’t you wanna trip in the Bellagio fountain like a horror priestess?”

You tilt your head. “I want Maya.”

Your leg bounces, restrained but constant. You’ve already read the CinemaCon itinerary twice, checked the slate updates, reread Maya’s 1 a.m. text about venue stress five times. You’re not worried, she’s Maya fucking Mason. You just miss her. You want her voice in your ear, her laugh in your mouth. You want her to see you in the black silk blouse you wore specifically because she said it makes you look like a wicked little Victorian ghost.

Matt leans in. “Hey. You’ll see her in a few hours. She’s gonna be at the venue with Tyler doing final run-throughs, right?”

You nod, absentmindedly twisting a ring on your finger. “She’s been texting. Said she thinks she’s finally got the Kool-Aid segment tight.”

Patty eyes you. “You good, spooky?”

You hum. “I will be.”

Quinn leans over the seat. “Okay, I have to ask, do how the fuck are you surviving two whole days without her? Like. Genuinely.”

“I’m not,” you say, with complete seriousness.

Sal laughs. “You are down bad. It’s so gross.”

“She told me not to come early,” you mutter. “Said I’d throw off her concentration.”

Matt looks up. “You’d throw off Maya Mason’s concentration?”

“She said I’d make her horny in front of the cinema con people...”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Sal says.

You sigh and lean your head back, already picturing her: Maya in cargo pants and a cropped tank top, headset on, yelling at a PA while sipping a matcha and wearing sunglasses she refuses to remove indoors. She’s probably pacing the stage in her Jordans right now, doing a run-through of the Kool-Aid bit like it’s her own personal Super Bowl. You know the lines already. You know her cadence. You want her voice in your ear and her hand on your thigh. You want her to shove you into a broom closet and ruin your lipstick.

You’re curled in your seat, legs tucked up, fingers flying across your phone screen with precise little taps. The last message from Maya is two hours old. You’ve reread it five times.

<Maya: Final run-thru at 10. Kool-Aid bit is tight. I’m so fucking smart it’s sickening.>

<Maya: Miss you, don’t come early I’ll get distracted and try to finger you behind the LED wall.>

You bite back a smile and type:

<You: I’m 35,000 feet in the air and this tin of shroom chocolate is glaring at me. Matt said the dose is “probably” fine.>

<You: If I die, tell the ghost in the Continental elevator I say hey.>

<You: Also I miss you. Two days without you and I’m unwell. I think Quinn’s starting to worry.>

A second passes. Then two.

<Maya: typing…>

You lean forward, heart doing that humiliating little skip.

<Maya: Don’t take the chocolate, baby.>

<Maya: I want you lucid when I see you.>

<Maya: Also Quinn’s always worried. She’s high half the time and thinks you might be a vampire.>

You grin and type back quickly.

<You: I’m saving myself for you. Spiritually, sexually, and psychotropically.>

<Maya: That’s my good girl.>

You go still.

The plane roars under you, Sal’s yelling something about Vegas strip clubs, and you… you sink into your seat like your spine’s made of warm honey. Maya always knows how to shut the world up with one text.

You type slower this time.

<You: What are you wearing.>

<Maya: Gucci. Supreme. Headset. Clipboard.>

<Maya: Why? You touching yourself in the sky?>

You bite your lip and glance out the window.

<You: No. But I’m thinking about what I’ll let you do to me once you’re done selling the shit out of our movies and making millions my gorgeous marketing genius xo>

She doesn’t respond right away, and when the typing bubble comes back, it stutters like she had to compose herself.

<Maya: Fuck. I should’ve let you come early.>

The Vegas sun slaps the side of the taxi like it’s owed money. You’re all crammed into one SUV, Matt in the front talking poor Quinn’s ear off about 80’s classics set in Vegas, the rest of you stacked like unstable luggage in the back.

Sal’s practically bouncing in his seat. “Wait, wait, wait, you’ve never seen Casino?”

Quinn shrugs, scrolling on her phone. “It’s three hours long and it’s mostly dudes in suits yelling.”

“It’s Scorsese! It’s Vegas cinema! It’s essential!” Matt twists around from the front seat like he’s about to start a TED Talk. “That movie is why we’re here. It is the reason.”

Patty, wedged between you and Quinn, mutters, “Matty, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“No,” Sal says, wild-eyed. “Hold on. Hold on. You’ve never seen Showgirls either?”

Quinn blinks. “I’ve seen the gifs.”

Matt gasps like she kicked him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not gonna apologize for being Gen Z.”

“Okay but even Y/N’s probably seen Showgirls,” Sal says, flailing dramatically. “And she only watches like, demon nun films and that one where the guy bleeds out of his eyes in a haunted motel.”

Quinn smirks. “Bet she hasn’t. She’s too busy watching underground horror films from cursed VHS tapes.”

You glance up from your phone with a slow blink. “Honey. I live with Maya.”

Everyone looks at you.

You arch a brow, deadpan. “Of course I’ve seen Showgirls. I’ve seen Casino. I’ve seen Leaving Las Vegas and Fear and Loathing. I’ve watched Cocktail on VHS because Maya said watching it while doing edibles is a spiritual experience.”

Matt makes a sound like a strangled wheeze. “I knew it. I knew she was secretly romantic.”

“She sobbed during Leaving Las Vegas,” you add, with zero shame. “Wouldn’t let go of me for an hour after.”

Sal cackles. “That’s so her.”

“Okay but in fairness,” Quinn says, pointing at you. “You also made us watch a Swedish found footage film about a haunted puppet that speaks in tongues.”

“And it was brilliant,” you say, lips twitching.

“It gave me nightmares,” Quinn says.

“Art should haunt you,” you reply sweetly.

The car hits a bump and Matt groans, slumping back into his seat. “You two are so fucking weird.”

You grin, texting Maya beneath the window line:

<You: They’re trying to drag my taste in movies. Im defending my taste in a cab full of normies.>

<Maya: If they slander our love of leaving Las Vegas, I will light that whole venue on fire.>

You snort softly and tuck your phone away, pulse buzzing. Almost there.

Almost time to see her.

The hotel lobby is pure Vegas, mirrored ceilings, gold trim, the faint scent of chlorine and sin clinging to the air. You walk through it like you own the place, long black coat trailing, sunglasses still on, a walking omen in heeled boots.

The rest of your crew trails behind, wheeling carry-ons, already vibrating with party energy.

Matt’s mid-rant. “So I called the front desk and sweet-talked our way into that ridiculous suite, the one with the piano and the hot tub in the living room. We’re partying tonight. No excuses.”

“You sweet-talked?” Patty says, eyebrows raised.

“I offered to name my firstborn after the concierge. Don’t worry, we’re good.”

Quinn spins in a lazy circle as you pass the lobby bar. “I want to get high and cry on a piano like I’m in a breakup montage.”

Sal stretches his arms over his head, grinning. “I’m getting so drunk I forget how movies are made.”

“You say that like it isn’t your usual Monday,” Patty mutters.

They all glance at you as you pass through the gleaming hallway, making your way toward the auditorium. Your boots echo with every step.

“Y/N,” Matt says, like he’s been saving it. “You and Maya have to come tonight.”

“Yeah, come on,” Sal adds. “It’s not a party unless the hot gay horror couple shows up and makes everyone feel deeply unsexy.”

“You’re not allowed to say no,” Quinn calls. “Vegas law. You and Maya must attend. She has to wear something unreasonably expensive and you have to stare at her like you’re under a spell. It’s your whole dynamic.”

You smile without looking back. “She is unreasonably sexy when she wears things that sparkle.”

“Exactly!” Quinn yells. “Lean into it!”

“You haven’t even seen the outfit she planned to wear for the after party,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. “I’m going to need to be sedated.”

Matt groans dramatically. “Please. Come tonight. It’ll be epic. We’ll do karaoke. There will be mushrooms. There will be blackout confessions. There will be someone peeing in a closet, probably Sal—”

“I said I only did that once!” Sal protests.

Quinn nudges your shoulder. “Come on, make an appearance. Let people see what it looks like when the goth girl and the streetwear goddess take over CinemaCon.”

You glance down at your phone.

<You: On our way to the auditorium. Lobby’s chaotic. Matt says if we don’t come to the party he’ll scream.>

<Maya: Tyler just said Matt texted him the same thing. We’re cornered.>

<You: I can’t wait to see you. Bet you look beautiful.>

<Maya: You’re gonna pass out when you see me.>

You pocket your phone and finally glance at the others, deadpan. “Fine. We’ll come.”

They erupt into cheers.

“But only if I get to go to our hotel room with her before midnight,” you add.

“Like anyone doubts that,” Patty says.

The stage lights are already up when you’re ushered into the auditorium. It’s freezing in that distinctly Vegas, over-air-conditioned kind of way. Tyler waves you in without even looking up from his checklist, gesturing to the stage like you’re late for something sacred.

Maya is in the center of it all, giant screen behind her, production crew moving around like clockwork, but she’s the one setting the pace. She’s in a khaki oversized Gucci x Adidas collab co-ord, hair long and wild beneath a camo hat that says Supreme in faded red. Clipboard in one hand. Radio in the other. Gold bracelets jangling as she barks, “If this screen isn’t crisp enough to slap God in the face by morning I swear to Christ—”

The second she sees you and the others filter in, she raises her voice and grins wide, headset already half slipping off one ear.

“Welcome to my fucking Thunderdome!”

Quinn lets out a whoop. Sal gives a dramatic bow. Matt raises his arms like he’s witnessing a miracle. “Mason!”

You don’t say anything. You just stare.

Because holy fuck.

You wave shyly and she goes still briefly, subtly, but you see it. You feel it. That flicker of softness. Of heat. Becuase fuck, there she is.

And you run.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. You cross the auditorium in four quick strides, boots hitting the floor like you’re possessed. Maya barely has time to drop the clipboard before you’re in her arms, flinging yourself at her like something feral that’s just come home.

She catches you hard, one arm banding under your thighs as she lifts you clean off the floor and crushes you to her chest. Her radio clatters to the floor. You wind your arms around her neck and bury your face in the curve of her jaw.

You tilt your head back, eyes wide, lips parted, needing her to see you. “Hi, mommy,” you whisper, quiet and soft and so sweet.

“Fuck,” she breathes, staggering slightly from the force of it. “Jesus, baby. You missed me that much?”

“Uh huh” he captured her lips in a kiss.

“I know,” she says, and her mouth is already brushing your ear. “You’re such a good girl.”

Your stomach flips.

From across the auditorium, Patty says flatly, “I always forget she’s a bottom.”

Maya smirks. “She’s not just a bottom. She’s my bottom.”

You blush so hard your ears burn, but you press yourself closer to her anyway, letting her loop an arm lazily around your waist and tug you into her side like she’s just reclaiming what’s hers. She smells like hotel soap and heat and Sharpie ink.

Quinn laughs. Matt makes an awww sound. Sal mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “fucking hot.”

Maya ignores them all. Her lips are at your ear now, voice low and velvet-rough. “You always this needy for me, huh?”

You blush so hard your nose scrunches against her neck. You don’t answer. But your fingers curl tighter in the fabric of her shirt.

She pulls back just enough to look down at you, her baby, her haunted little nightmare in a silk blouse and lipstick designed to be ruined.

“Tyler!” she calls. “Run the Kool-Aid slides again. I’m gonna give my baby a tour of the dome.”

“Copy,” Tyler says, not looking up.

“Come on,” Maya murmurs, nudging your temple with the brim of her hat. “Lemme show you how im going to make us fucking billions.”

You take her hand.

You’d follow her anywhere.

Maya’s hand is hot against your lower back as she guides you up onto the stage, clipboard tucked under one arm, headset mic slipping slightly as she multitasks like a chaotic god.

“Alright!” she barks, spinning to face the group. “Everyone shut the fuck up and pay attention. I’m walking you through the entire CinemaCon run-of-show. Tyler, cue the visuals.”

“Copy,” Tyler calls from the tech pit.

You, Matt, Sal, Patty, and Quinn fan out across the massive stage as the LED screen flickers to life behind Maya. You try to stand like a professional. But she keeps brushing against you. Keeps shooting you those looks. The ones that say you’re mine.

You cross your arms to look casual. You’re failing.

Maya starts pacing. “We open with Black Wing. Big visuals, massive IP energy. Sal, you say Zoe Kravitz is locked?”

“Yup. Just no one ask about the incident with the bird, and we’re golden.”

She nods. “Then it’s Silver Springs, then Alphabet city with Dave Franco which- Matt, did you finally get Ron Howard to stop calling it his redemption arc?”

“He’s calling it his magnum opus now,” Matt says. “It’s… fine.”

“Whatever, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Maya mutters, already turning back to the screen.

“Patty, you are going to introduce Silver Springs. Then once they’ve screamed themselves hoarse—” she flicks to the next slide, a flickering title card in bone-white on blood-black:

WITCH’S CURSE

The latest film you’d gotten made. She doesn’t even look at the screen. She looks straight at you.

“And then,” Maya says, voice dropping, “we go with blood.”

Everyone’s quiet for a moment.

You swallow. Try to keep your voice level. “You really think it’ll land?”

Maya cocks her head. “Baby. You know how people scream when they see the Devil in church? That’s what’s gonna happen. The horror heads in that audience? They’re gonna weep.” She grins. “Then we go full nuclear. Kool-Aid comes third. I need the vibes to be explosive. Like borderline-litigated. This is our Barbie moment.”

She waves at the visual cue and boom—an animated mock-up of the Kool-Aid Man bursting through a hotel ballroom wall plays across the screen. The next slide? A rendering of the actual suit rig Maya commissioned, with him descending from the ceiling on wires like some kind of fruity Messiah.

Sal claps. “It’s so dumb. I love it.”

Quinn gasps, “I’m high already just looking at it.”

Maya grins. “Exactly. Dumb sells. The crowd’s gonna lose their shit.

You try to nod. Try to stay sharp. But she’s standing too close. Her voice is too low. Her lips are right there. And everyone’s watching.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Yeah. I mean, it’s solid. Good build. Nice neon mascot chaos reveal baby.”

Patty raises a brow. “You alright over there, Countess Dracula?”

“I’m fine,” you say. Your voice comes out weirdly breathy. “Totally. Focused.”

Sal’s whispering to Matt “She’s gonna combust.”

Matt’s whispering back, “I’d combust too. Look at Maya’s fucking outfit.”

Maya, grinning like the cat that owns the whole damn dairy farm, turns to the group. “Alright, any questions?”

Quinn raises a hand. “What’s the protocol if the Kool-Aid Man suit gets stuck mid-descent?”

“Then we go full Carrie,” Maya says. “Dump red liquid on the crowd and call it avant-garde.”

You snort, because of course she has a plan B.

And then her hand slides over yours. Casual. Hidden. Possessive. You squeeze back before you can stop yourself. Professional. Totally.

You are so fucked.

Maya’s flipping through her clipboard like it’s a holy text, lips moving as she runs lines in her head.

“Matt,” she says sharply. “Where the fuck is Griffin?”

Matt flinches like he’s been caught texting in class. “Uh. Probably still in the spa? He texted me an hour ago saying he was ‘rejuvenating his cells.’”

Maya exhales like she’s trying not to throw her radio across the room. “He needs to be here for the Kool-Aid segment. If he’s gonna shout about synergy while the mascot drops from the rafters, he needs to rehearse it. This isn’t high school theater, it’s CinemaCon.”

“I’ll call him,” Matt mutters, already speed-dialing.

While the others shuffle around debating Griffin’s whereabouts, the stage lights shift, and then, with a low mechanical whir, a man in a Kool-Aid Man suit descends from the ceiling.

You instinctively take three steps back and glare up at it like it just declared war on your bloodline.

The actor inside the rig flashes a peace sign. “Yo! Can I get a selfie with everyone real quick?”

You immediately shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

Quinn wheezes. “Y/N looks like she just saw her sleep paralysis demon in hi-res.”

Patty grins from the side of the stage. “Come on, baby, don’t you want to pose with the eldritch fruit god?”

You narrow your eyes. “If that thing touches me I will hex the whole convention.”

The Kool-Aid Man lowers slowly to the floor like an omen. Sal pulls out his phone anyway. “Okay but he’s kinda iconic. I’m gonna frame this.”

As the mascot’s rig clicks out of sight, Quinn walls closer to Maya. “Okay, more importantly, Maya. You’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

Maya raises a brow. “The one Matt bribed the front desk for?”

“Yeah!” Sal says. “The suite’s massive. Hot tub in the living room, DJ setup, Zoe Kravitz might make an appearance. You have to come.”

Quinn leans in conspiratorially. “Because let’s be honest… Y/N’s only gonna show if you show.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sal says, smug. “You’re so ride or die for her it’s, like, scary. You’ve been sulking without her for two days.”

Maya hums like she’s enjoying this way too much. “Is that true, baby?”

You give her a warning look. “Don’t.”

“Did my girl go full tragic Victorian ghost without me?” she purrs.

Quinn cackles. “So you’re coming, right? For the vibes?”

Sal grins, “for the power couple appearance. Like c’mon. It’s Vegas.”

Maya looks directly at you. “You wanna go, baby?”

You hesitate.

Because the idea of being pressed up against her in a giant suite while she lets you sit on her lap and whisper filthy things in your ear sounds amazing. But it also means… people. Mingling. Noise.

She tilts her head, reading you like always. “We’ll go,” she says, low and final, “but only if I get to keep you close all night.”

Your heart lurches. “Okay,” you whisper. “Deal.”

Quinn fist pumps. “YES. Gay chaos confirmed.”

Sal’s already texting someone. “I’m getting my Vegas guy to bring medical grade cocaine.”

But Maya? She’s already planning what she’s gonna do to you the second she gets you alone.

The moment the stage clears and the clipboard’s handed off to Tyler, Maya’s hand wraps around your wrist. “Come with me,” she says with no room for argument.

You barely get a breath in before she’s tugging you down the hallway behind the stage, past flashing EXIT signs and a stressed-out tech guy who takes one look at Maya and vanishes down a side corridor. Her grip is firm, fingers sliding between yours like she’s reminding your whole body who you belong to.

Then suddenly she’s stopping. Shoving open a heavy door to a backstage alcove with blackout curtains and a wall of rigging. And pushing you up against it.

Hard.

You gasp, not from fear, but from how fast her body presses into yours, how instantly she takes control. Her mouth hovers inches from yours, breath hot, jaw sharp, hat brim brushing your forehead.

“You think I didn’t see you squirming through that whole run-through?” she murmurs. “You think I didn’t notice how you couldn’t stop staring at me? At my hands? At my mouth?”

“Maya…” you breathe, already dizzy, already gone.

She smirks, one hand cupping your face. “You were trying to act like the big scary horror exec. But you’re just my baby, aren’t you?”

You whimper, barely nodding.

Her fingers trail down your side, slow, possessive. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over that lighting rig and let the Kool-Aid Man watch.”

“Maya!” You can’t help but giggle.

She kisses you. Rough. Deep. Like she’s staking a claim. When she pulls back, you’re gasping, your back still pressed hard against the cold wall.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” she says, voice dangerously soft. “You and I are going up to our suite. You’re gonna strip. And I’m gonna take my time with you.”

You swallow hard, wide-eyed.

“And then,” she adds, “we’ll go to the party. You’ll wear something tight. You’ll sit in my lap. You’ll behave. And everyone will know you’re mine.”

You nod, because you can’t speak. You’ve melted. Fully. Irrevocably.

Maya steps back, adjusting her hat like she didn’t just rearrange your soul.

“Come on, baby,” she says, smirking. “Let’s go ruin that suite.”

The door clicks shut behind you and the suite is suddenly silent, no crew, no tech, no Kool-Aid mascot descending from the heavens. Just you and Maya. And four uninterrupted hours.

She turns, slow and cocky, like she’s going to tease you.

You don’t let her.

You’re on her in an instant. Mouth crashing into hers, fingers yanking at the hem of her track jacket, pushing her back step after step until she bumps into the edge of the massive hotel bed. She grunts against your lips, one hand trying to keep her hat on like she actually thinks you’re going to be gentle.

You shove it off her head.

It hits the floor with a soft little flump.

“Careful, baby,” she breathes, lips already swollen. “That’s Supreme.”

You kiss her harder with teeth and tongue and heat. “Don’t care if it’s vintage Valentino,” you growl. “You’re wearing too many fucking layers.”

“Oh fuck,” she gasps, laughing, breathless. “Okay then.”

You tear her jacket off, flinging it somewhere toward the minibar. Your hands slide under her tank top, greedy and rough, dragging the fabric up over her stomach, over her ribs, baring inch after inch of golden skin. She arches into your touch, biting her lip.

“You’re feral,” she mutters, delighted. “You missed me that much?”

You push her back onto the bed with one hand, the other already pulling her track pants down over her hips.

“You don’t get to be smug right now,” you snap, climbing on top of her. “You left me alone for two days with nothing but your voice memos and a haunted VHS tape of Possession.”

Maya smirks, legs parting without hesitation. “You love that tape.”

“I love you,” you snap. “Now shut up and let me take my time.”

She groans, throaty, ruined, her hands sliding up the backs of your thighs as she exhales, “There’s my girl.”

You don’t make it more than a few steps toward the bed before she spins you, pressing you back into her chest with arms like iron. Her breath hits your neck first, hot and teasing, as her hands slide up your thighs, under your skirt, fingertips dragging slow, delicious trails.

“God, I missed you,” she murmurs, voice ragged with it. “You don’t even know my h.”

You’re already breathless, melting back into her touch. “I do. I know. I’ve been—” You cut off, swallowing hard. “I’ve been aching for you.”

Her hand slips higher. “I can feel that, baby.”

You whimper.

She kisses the side of your throat, slow and open-mouthed, biting just hard enough to make you jolt. “Tried to be good. Tried to focus. But all I could think about was you. Crying on my fingers. Making those sweet little noises in my ear.”

You moan softly, body twitching in her arms. “Maya…”

“Shhh, I know, baby,” she coos, walking you backward toward the bed. “You were so patient. My good girl.”

Your knees hit the mattress and you go down for her easily, willing, desperate, and already trembling.

She climbs over you, one knee between your thighs, her hair falling forward, mouth brushing yours like a secret. Her fingers hook into your underwear and tug, slow and rough.

“Open your legs for me.”

You do. Instantly.

Her fingers are warm, confident, and unrelenting, like she never forgot your rhythm, like she’s memorized the sound of you falling apart.

And god you do.

You gasp, legs trembling, thighs slick, hips rolling up to meet her hand with every ragged breath. Your hands twist in the sheets, trying to hold on to something real.

She kisses your jaw, your neck, her breath catching when you whimper her name like it’s sacred. “There you are,” she whispers, curling her fingers deeper. “There’s my baby.”

You cry out, sharp and broken. “Maya…please—”

“I know, angel. I know,” she pants, forehead pressed to yours. “You need to come for me? You want to show mommy how much you missed her?”

You nod, frantic, so close you could shatter.

“Then do it,” she growls. “Be good. Come all over my fingers.”

And you do.

Hard.

Shaking, sobbing, head thrown back, thighs trembling. Her mouth is everywhere, whispering praise, soft kisses, breathless groans. She holds you through it, never letting go, like her hands are the only thing tethering you to the earth. And maybe they are.

The room is quiet now.

The storm of your own release has passed, and you’re still trembling slightly, curled in her arms, flushed and breathless. But Maya? She’s not done.

She’s sprawled across the bed like something divine and untouchable, hair a wild mess, tank top rumpled, gold bracelets pushed up one arm. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling in deep, lazy breaths. Her track pants are still halfway down her hips. One thigh cocked lazily, waiting.

She smirks at you, and it burns. “My turn, baby.”

Your knees hit the floor like instinct.

She spreads her legs wider, dragging her panties the rest of the way off and tossing them aside without a thought. “There you go. Let me see those eyes.”

You look up at her as you settle between her thighs, wide-eyed, pupils blown. Your breath catches at how wet she already is, just from touching you, from talking to you. It makes your chest ache.

You start slow. Kisses on the inside of her thighs, tongue dragging warm and wet over sensitive skin. You want her to feel worshipped. And Maya, god, she lets you.

“Mm, baby,” she hums, eyes fluttering shut, fingers finding their way into your hair. “Been dreaming about that perfect fucking mouth.”

You press a kiss just above her slit. “Been dreaming about tasting you.”

Maya groans, low and real. “You say that shit and I’ll come before you even start.”

But you do start. Your mouth closes over her and her body jerks, a hiss slipping from her teeth as your tongue works slow, languid circles over her clit. Her grip tightens in your hair, grounding herself as she lets her head fall back against the pillows.

“Jesus fuck,” she pants. “You’re so good at this. So fucking good.”

You moan into her, and the vibration makes her hips jump.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, legs tightening around your head. “You missed this, didn’t you? Missed my pussy? Missed how I taste?”

You nod, tongue flicking quicker now, more desperate, and she just laughs, head thrown back, a hand dragging down her own body like she’s overwhelmed with herself.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” she groans. “God, I love watching you down there.”

You whimper, sucking softly now, mouth slick and messy. Her thighs are trembling, one foot planted against the bed like she’s bracing herself, the other dragging across your back, possessive and shaking.

And then she starts talking, filthy and focused, her voice going dark. “We’re gonna get high at that party,” she says, breathless and shaking. “You’re gonna wear something tight, something short. Let everyone look. Let ‘em wish.”

You moan helplessly against her.

“And you know what happens after?” Her voice drops to a whisper, her fingers curling into your hair like a leash. “After they all see you hanging off me like my pretty little girl?”

You nod, desperate for her to keep going.

“I’m gonna take you back to the room,” she growls. “Get out the strap I packed in my fucking suitcase.”

Your hips buck against the mattress, breath catching.

“I’m gonnao put you on the bed,” she continues, voice rough and so low, “and I’m gonna fuck you until your mind goes blank. Until all you can do is cry and say my name.”

You moan, high and needy.

“Gonna make you ride me till you’re fucked-out and stupid.” She pants. “Gonna fill you up so good you won’t even remember your name, just mine. Just mommy’s.”

And that’s when you push her over the edge.

Her thighs lock around your head and she screams, a guttural, broken sound as her hips jerk up into your mouth and she comes, hard and long, pulling your hair, writhing beneath you as she chants your name like a prayer.

You don’t stop. You can’t stop. You keep licking, keep moaning into her, your face soaked, your body on fire with need just from the way she falls apart for you. Finally, finally, she pushes you back with a shaky hand, breathing ragged.

You look up at her, wrecked and shining.

She stares down at you like you’re her favorite fucking thing in the world.

“Oh, baby,” she whispers, reaching out to cup your jaw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You’re still on your knees, panting softly, mouth swollen and wet, when Maya finally reaches for you. Her fingers curl under your chin and tilt your face up to hers, and the look in her eyes… fuck. It’s all hunger and awe. Love and power. Like she’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“C’mere,” she murmurs, voice hoarse.

You climb into her lap without hesitation, straddling her thighs, your trembling arms wrapping around her neck. She pulls you in close, tucking your face into her shoulder, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades, the other stroking softly over your thigh.

“Good girl,” she breathes, pressing kisses to your hair, to your temple, to the damp corner of your mouth. “God, baby, you’re so fucking good for me.”

You sigh into her skin, lips grazing the spot just under her jaw. You’re still high off her, off the sounds she made, the way she came on your tongue, the way she let herself break for you.

She reaches for the tissues on the bedside table, gently wiping her own slick from your mouth, from your cheeks, murmuring soft little nothings with every pass. “Look at this sweet fucking face. All messy for me.”

You let her, eyes fluttering closed under the warmth of her touch.

And then, soft and aching, you press your lips to hers. The kiss starts slowly. Gentle. Her hands still, trembling slightly against your jaw. But it grows hotter, deeper, heavier, your body shifting in her lap, hips beginning to roll just slightly.

Maya pulls back with a breathy laugh, lips brushing yours. “Still needy, huh?”

You nod, nuzzling her cheek, your voice just a whisper. “I missed you so much.”

“I know, baby. I missed you too.”

You press another kiss to her neck. Another to her collarbone. Your hips twitch in her lap again, instinctual, greedy. “Maya…” It comes out soft. Pleading.

She hums, one hand sliding under your ass, palming you gently. “Yeah, baby?”

You breathe in against her throat. “Maya, my pussy…”

She pulls back, brow raising, a smirk blooming slowly across her swollen mouth. “What about your pussy?”

“Please,” you whimper. “Need you. Want your fingers again. Wanna come for you. Please, Maya.”

She laughs, low and dangerous. “Oh, honey.”

Her hand moves instantly, sliding between your thighs, cupping you through soaked lace. You gasp, full-body shiver, already rocking into her palm like a thing possessed.

“You really want more?” she whispers. “You’re that desperate?”

You nod, dazed. “Always. Always want you.”

“Fuck,” she breathes, kissing you hard, open-mouthed and greedy, hand already slipping past the lace to drag her fingers through your soaked folds. “Lay back, baby. Let mommy take care of you.”

You barely have time to whimper before Maya’s got you on your back.

She rolls you beneath her like she’s done it a thousand times, your body light in her hands, your thighs already falling open as she climbs between them and leans over you, her hair loose, mouth swollen, breath hot.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, eyes trailing down your flushed chest, your parted lips. “You’re fucking trembling. You came once and you’re still desperate.”

You nod, breath catching. “Need you.”

“Oh, I know, baby.” She brushes her nose against yours, soft and tender, even as her hand trails back down your stomach. “I could feel it when you were licking my pussy. All that hunger. All that need.”

She hooks her fingers in your underwear and drags them down slowly, like she’s unwrapping something expensive. You can barely lift your hips to help, you’re too wrecked, too raw, but she takes care of you. She always does.

When she sees how soaked you are, she groans, deep and guttural, her hands flexing around your thighs. “God, look at that. Look at what a fucking mess you are.”

“Maya…” you whimper.

She hushes you with a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, her fingers slipping through your folds, dragging through the slick there with reverent ease. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Your fingers,” you breathe. “Please… want you inside. Deep.”

“Good girl,” she whispers, and pushes two fingers in slow.

Your mouth drops open on a gasp. She curls them the second they’re fully seated, dragging a strangled cry out of you that only makes her smile. She kisses your jaw, your throat, her other hand pinning your hips to the bed so you can’t escape her rhythm.

“That’s it,” she coos. “You’re so wet. You needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

You nod helplessly, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from how full you feel. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“I missed you too, baby. Missed this tight little pussy clenching on my fingers.”

You sob, back arching.

Maya loves it. She fucks you harder now with slow, deep pumps that hit your spot every time, dragging obscene wet sounds from between your legs. She presses her lips to your ear, voice low and filthy.

“Tonight we’re gonna party, and everyone’s gonna see you clinging to me. They’ll see how needy you are. How sweet you look with your lipstick smudged and your knees shaking.”

“Fuck,” you moan, hips twitching beneath her grip.

“And then we’ll come back here,” she growls, curling her fingers again, making you scream. “I’ll put you on your knees. Put the strap on. Make you beg for it.”

Your thighs are trembling violently now, your hands tangled in the sheets. “Maya… I-I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” she whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “Come for me. Let me feel you. Let me hear you.”

You cry out, voice ragged, back arching high as your orgasm tears through you, violent and gasping, your body shaking apart under her hand.

She doesn’t stop.

She fucks you through it, kissing your tears, whispering praise against your cheek until you go soft and boneless beneath her.

And only then does she slow her hand, easing her fingers out gently. She kisses your forehead, your jaw, your lips. Tucks you into her chest and holds you like something precious.

“My good fucking girl,” she murmurs. “So sweet for me.”

You cling to her, still trembling, still catching your breath.

She smiles into your hair. “And we haven’t even made it to the party yet.”

You’re both still tangled in the sheets when she finally stirs, sweaty and sticky, but smiling, her hand stroking lazily down your spine as you lie across her chest, soft and heavy and full of her.

“Okay,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “We’ve got, like… two hours before Matt starts texting us in all caps.”

You make a sound halfway between a whine and a sigh, burying your face in her collarbone. “Don’t wanna move.”

“I know, baby,” she chuckles. “But we’ve got a suite to dominate.”

She rolls you over gently, kisses you once more, then slides out of bed in nothing but her tank top and briefs. She pads across the room, bare-legged and golden in the afternoon light, grabbing her makeup bag off the counter and digging through it.

From under a pile of compacts and glosses, she pulls out a little clear pouch of silver clips. Cool-toned metal, all different shapes and sizes, a little chaotic like her. The biggest couple of slides say ‘Kool-Aid’ in rhinestones as an homage to the film that would make the studio billions.

“I want these,” she says, turning to you with a sly smile. “Can you do them for me?”

You blink. “You want me to—?”

“Yeah,” she says, flopping back onto the bed and into your lap like it’s her throne. “Make mommy feel pretty. You said I deserve it, right?”

You flush immediately, reaching for the brush. “Of course you do.”

She leans back against your thighs, head tilted slightly, the slope of her neck exposed and glowing. You start brushing through the wild knots in her hair gently, slowly, taking your time. The room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional satisfied sigh from her mouth.

“You’re really good at this,” she murmurs.

“I like taking care of you.”

She hums, low and content. “You’re the only one I let touch my hair like this.”

You smile softly and start pinning the silver clips in place, one at a time, a constellation of glamour and chaos crowning her head.

When you’re done, she shifts to turn and look at you. “How do I look?”

You take her face in your hands and kiss her gently, reverently. “Like the hottest woman in the fucking building… on the planet.”

“Damn right,” she grins, licking her lips. “Now let’s get you dressed, my creepy little witch.”

She pulls you up from the bed and walks you over to your open suitcase, sorting through your outfit options like she’s styling a client. “Wear the black silk one. The tight one. With the lace at the hips. I want them looking at you and knowing they can’t touch.”

She glances at you over her shoulder, silver clips glinting under the lights. “And baby?”

You blink up at her.

“Don’t wear panties.”

You whimper.

She tosses you your outfit, smug. “Atta girl.”

The suite is already packed.

People are spilling in from the hallway with red Solo cups and half-tied ties, the bass thumping through the carpet. Someone’s made a DIY DJ setup out of an ice bucket and a Bluetooth speaker. There’s champagne chilling in the bathtub. The place smells like weed, cologne, and expensive anxiety.

And then the door swings open, and she walks in.

Maya Mason.

Head held high, lips glossy, chains shining under the light. Silver clips glitter like little weapons in her hair. She’s still in her Valentino pants and crop top with a keyhole on the chest, but it’s elevated, jewelry layered, walk fierce, voice already cutting through the crowd like a sword.

“Let’s FUCKING GO!” she yells, arms up, grinning wide like she owns Vegas. “Where are little execs at?!”

Cheers erupt from across the room.

Matt’s already halfway to her with a drink. “Mason! I was just saying we needed someone to do a shot out of a novelty skull.”

“I love a skull,” Maya yells, grabbing the cup. “Where’s Sal?!”

“Probably doing coke with someone in the hallway!” Quinn calls from the couch, legs kicked over the armrest. “Or crying!”

Patty’s standing by the bar, sipping tequila like it’s medicinal, already rolling her eyes fondly.

And you?

You’re standing just behind Maya. Silk and lace hugging your body, no underwear between your thighs, lips still pink from where she kissed them clean.

You’re not really a party person. You don’t like the noise or the bodies pressing in too close. But watching her? Watching Maya in her element, lit up and loud and herself?

It’s fucking electric.

She turns to look at you, eyes scanning your outfit with a predator’s grin. She leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “You look unreal, baby.”

You smirk, voice low. “You gonna behave?”

“Absolutely not.”

She grabs your hand and pulls you into the room like a trophy and a weapon all at once. You settle into the corner of the couch, legs crossed, drink untouched, letting the party swirl around you while Maya does her thing, shouting, laughing, hyping everyone up like she’s the queen of every fucking Casino in Vegas.

You watch her pour a shot into someone’s mouth. You watch her command the aux cord. You watch her dance a little too hard to a remix of Barracuda.

And when she finally locks eyes with you again across the room, breathless and glowing, she mouths one thing:

Mine.

Eventually the noise gets a little too much. Maya’s dancing with Quinn and Sal to Le Freak in the middle of the suite like she’s at Studio 54, and while you love watching her, love the way she moves, the way she commands every room she enters, you also need a minute.

You drift toward the snack table at the far end of the suite like a beautiful little banshee in sheer black lace, bare thighs catching the light, hair still a little messy from her hands. No one stops you. You move like a ghost. You are the horror exec, after all.

The table is chaos. There’s a bowl of chips, two half-eaten charcuterie boards, a pack of what looks like gas station cupcakes, and a little pile of chocolate squares on a black napkin. Right next to them: two perfectly rolled blunts.

You raise a brow.

“Classy,” you mutter, striking a match from the little book Maya always keeps in her bag, black with Continental Studios: Sin Is In stamped in blood red across the front.

You light one of the blunts and take a drag, exhaling slow as you lean back against the wall. Your gaze flicks over the party as you take another puff, Sal is doing body shots off someone from distribution, Patty looks like she’s mentally editing everyone out of her will, and Maya is still the center of gravity. Glowing. Wild. Yours.

You glance back at the chocolates.

They’re fancy. Little squares, dusted with pink sea salt and chili flakes. No label. No note.

And surely, surely, Matt would’ve labeled the drugged ones. Right?

You shrug, grab one, pop it into your mouth.

Rich. Spicy. Kind of perfect.

You lean against the wall by the snack table, blunt between your fingers, eyes heavy-lidded as the smoke curls up toward the glittering hotel light fixture overhead. It’s warm in here, buzzing with bass and chatter and the glittering energy of a party that’s about to tip over into chaos.

The chocolate melts perfectly on your tongue. It’s rich and spicy, dusted with something salty and weird, and you hum softly to yourself as you pop another one.

You assume it’s the blunt making you feel like this. A little floaty. A little slow. Like your limbs are made of melted wax and velvet. The bass feels deeper now, like it’s crawling up your thighs.

But it’s not unpleasant. It’s… warm. Lazy. Sweet.

You lick your thumb clean.

Everything tastes like it’s glowing.

Maya laughs across the room, and the sound makes your chest flutter. You glance over, smiling softly as you watch her throw her head back, silver clips glittering, teeth bared in that gorgeous wide grin.

She’s so in her element. Hair wild. Hands flying as she tells a story that has Sal howling and Patty trying not to smile. She looks high off her own power and it makes your knees weak.

You take another drag from the blunt and let your head fall back against the wall.

This party is weird.

But in a good way.

Like the kind of weird where if you stared at the carpet for too long, it might start whispering secrets to you.

You blink slowly.

Probably just the blunt.

Everything’s fine.

You take another slow drag from the blunt and close your eyes, letting the bass rattle through your bones. You feel… floaty. Not bad, just kind of untethered, like your soul is trying to ghost out of your body but politely, like it’s waiting for your permission.

Your fingertips tingle. Your thighs are buzzing. It’s fine. It’s probably just the weed. And the party. And the fact that Maya kissed you so hard before she left for the balcony that your legs still haven’t recovered.

You shake your head gently, trying to center yourself.

Just breathe. Chill out. Maybe get some water. Then go find Maya and ask her to take you back to the suite so she can fuck you into the mattress. That’s a normal plan. You’re a smart girl. You’re okay.

You turn toward the drinks table, only to freeze when you catch sight of Matt near the suite door.

He’s standing next to Zoe Kravitz and Dave Franco, and Zoe is looking at him like he just told her the building is on fire.

“Wait, are these drugged?” she asks, eyeing the chocolates on the snack table.

Matt is standing beside her, sipping from a half-empty LaCroix with tequila in it. “Yeah? It’s an old-school Hollywood buffet. There’s drugs in everything.”

Zoe blinks. “Are you kidding? I just had three.”

Matt tries to calm her. “It’s fine. They’re microdosed. Like a quarter of an ounce. Chill.”

You pause mid-step.

Zoe stares at him. “A quarter of an ounce?! What does that even mean, Matt!”

Dave Franco bursts out laughing up behind them, grinning. “Oh no, they’re not microdosed.”

Everyone turns. Dave’s holding a plastic cup of god knows what, sunglasses on inside, absolutely vibing.

“They’re seven grams each,” he says casually. “Whole thing’s heroic dose territory. Old-school style.”

Matt’s mouth drops open. “What?!”

Zoe’s already spiraling. “I’ve had twenty-one grams of mushrooms?!”

Matt is pale. “I thought they were just, like, chill party chocolates!”

Dave takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. “Nope.”

The words echo like a shot in your skull.

Seven grams. Per piece.

You blink. You had two.

You stare down at your hands. They’re tingling.

You try to speak, but your lips feel too far away from your brain.

Fourteen grams.

You’ve never done shrooms before.

Suddenly, the light overhead hums louder. The floor dips. You feel the shape of your body trying to melt into the wall.

“Oh no,” you whisper. “Oh, fuck.”

Your heart starts to race.

You clutch the edge of the snack table and whisper the only word that makes sense anymore:

“Maya.”

It’s all happening too fast.

Zoe’s voice is high and sharp, her hand clutching Matt’s arm like it’s the only real thing left in the world. “I had twenty-one grams, Matt. You drugged me and I’m going to die!”

“I thought you knew! I said it was an Old Hollywood buff-”

“Stop saying Old Hollywood buffet!” Zoe interrupts him frantically

Sal appears behind them, wide-eyed. “Wait- wait. 21 grams? Why the fuck didn’t you label them?”

Matt is pale, sweating, stammering. “I thought… I thought it was like a chill thing! Like an eighth of an ounce!”

“Do you even know what an eighth of an ounce is?!”

“I thought it was less than fucking 7 grams!”

Sal grabs Zoe’s arm. “Okay. Okay, no. We’re going to the bedroom. We’re doing deep breathing. Someone get cold towels. Matt, you need to shut this shit down.”

They half-carry her across the suite, her designer shoes clacking against the floor like a horror movie heartbeat.

You’re still frozen at the snack table, hands gripping the edge like it’s a lifeline. Your breath’s coming short and fast, and the floor feels like it’s breathing underneath your feet.

Fourteen grams.

Your mouth tastes like smoke and sugar and doom.

You turn, stumbling away from the table, heart racing, limbs heavy. Your pulse is thundering in your ears. You’re not even sure where your legs are taking you until you spot Maya in the corner of the suite.

She’s got one hand curled around a shot glass, the other thrown around Patty’s shoulders. Maya’s head is tilted back, her lips shaped in a wild grin, silver clips in her hair catching the light like glittering stars.

She looks radiant. Powerful. Untouchable.

And then she turns her head and sees you. White-faced. Wide-eyed. On the verge of tears. Her grin drops like someone killed the music.

You stumble toward Maya, chest tight, vision narrowing. The lights flicker like they’re breathing. The music warps, slows, then speeds, then folds in on itself. You can hear your pulse in your teeth.

Your knees almost give out when you whisper, “Maya… I had two of the chocolates.”

She freezes mid-laugh, arms already wrapping around you as you sag against her.

“Fourteen grams,” you croak. “I’ve never… Maya I’ve never done shrooms before—”

Her whole body locks around you.

And then Matt and Quinn come barreling over, panic painted all over their faces.

“Matt!” Quinn shouts. “What the fuck were in those chocolates?!”

Matt looks panicked, glassy-eyed, shirt wrinkled. “I thought it was, like… microdoses? A eighth of an ounce or something?”

Maya’s head whips around. “A eighth—?”

And then Dave Franco appears, too calm, way too calm.

“Dude, I told you! They’re seven grams each, it’s a fuckin mega dose!”

Quinn’s jaw drops. “WHAT?!”

“Zoe had three of them, we’re fucked.” Matt admits in defeat.

“Yeah, she’s in the bathroom trying to negotiate with the wallpaper,” Sal adds, appearing behind them. “It’s not going well.”

And that’s when Maya loses it. “IS THAT WHY I’M SO FUCKING HIGH?!”

The music doesn’t stop, but the party does. People turn. Look. Someone across the room drops a shot glass. The Kool-Aid Man in the corner freezes mid-thrust.

“You drugged me,” Maya snarls, eyes locked on Matt. “You drugged my girlfriend.��

“I didn’t mean to!”

“She’s on fourteen grams! She’s never even done shrooms before! And we’re presenting a full studio slate to a room of executives in less than twelve hours!”

She shifts you in her arms, one hand smoothing over your back protectively. Your face is buried in her neck, eyes glassy, breathing shallow.

“Maya…” you whisper. “I think the carpet’s trying to talk to me…”

She kisses your hair. “I know, baby. I know. Stay with me, okay? I’m right here.”

“I don’t want the Kool-Aid Man to eat my soul.”

“I won’t let him.”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad!” Matt whisper-screams

“You don’t get to think,” she growls, “when I’m in charge of a fucking CinemaCon presentation tomorrow and the love of my life is melting into the floor.”

Dave Franco raises his hand casually. “Just for the record, I did know. And I’m having a great time.”

Maya turns on him. “I will end you, Franco.”

You groan quietly. “Are we dying?”

“No,” Maya says, lips brushing your temple. “But he might be.”

She’s breathing heavily now, trying to keep her cool, still high, furious, terrified, and still trying to act like she has control over anything. But she’s not leaving. She can’t. This is still her presentation. Her fucking Thunder Dome.

And now her girlfriend’s high as balls, pressed against her chest like a trembling kitten in a horror film.

She looks up at Matt again, teeth clenched. “You’d better fix this.”

Zoe’s reappears, shouting something about “seeing sound” and “textures trying to kill me” as Matt and Sal rush to practically drag Zoe down the hallway, muttering frantic apologies and trying to convince her that the curtains aren’t bleeding.

The party doesn’t stop. Not really. The music keeps pounding, the bass now vibrating through your ribs like it’s trying to tunnel into your bones. People are still drinking, laughing, taking selfies with the Kool-Aid Man.

And Maya’s still holding you, her arms locked tight around your waist like she’s scared you’ll float away.

You blink up at her, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, the world turning syrupy at the edges. “Maya…” you whisper.

She pulls back just enough to look at you. “Yeah, baby?”

You lean in close. Mouth brushing her neck, lips soft, breath hot.

“You know the white streak in your hair?” you murmur, voice thick with awe.

Her brows raise, just slightly. “Yeah?”

You kiss right beneath her ear. “It makes you look like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

She laughs, shaky and breathless. “Okay, you’re so high.”

You kiss her again, trailing lower now. “It makes me wanna ride you.”

Maya chokes on air.

“Like… hard,” you whisper. “Like… monster-fucking on a science table. You’d look so hot strapped down.”

“Jesus Christ,” Maya hisses, gripping your waist tighter, glancing around. “Okay… okay, no. We are not doing this here, you are tripping your tits off.”

You pout against her neck. “I like your tits.”

“Babe,” she says, somewhere between a moan and a warning.

You’re swaying against her, messy and dreamy and so gone, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands slip beneath her jacket, fingertips grazing bare skin.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper. “I wanna lick your collarbone.”

Maya groans. “You are so lucky I love you.”

You hum sweetly, nuzzling her jaw like a cat in heat. “I’m your babygirl. You said so.”

“I did say that,” she mutters, trying to suppress a smile.

You end up in her lap.

Of course you do. She’s sat back on the couch now, arms open, and you just melt into her like there’s no other place on Earth you’d ever exist. Your legs drape over hers, hands tangled in her collar, face buried in her neck like you’re trying to crawl under her skin. She smells like sweat and perfume and danger. She feels like home.

“Maya,” you whimper. “I’m so wet it’s insane.”

She groans into your hair. “Don’t say that to me right now.”

“But it’s true,” you moan, squirming slightly in her lap. “I keep thinking about your strap. About the hotel bed. About your fingers…”

“Okay,” she mutters, adjusting you on her thigh. “Stop. No, actually. You need to stop.”

You shift again, hips moving slowly, absentmindedly, your cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Maya…”

She grits her teeth. “Baby. You’re high.”

“You’re high too.”

“Yeah, but I’m functioning. You’re currently gazing at the Kool-Aid Man’s reflection.”

You glance across the room. “He’s staring at me.”

“He’s not.”

“He wants me dead.”

Maya sighs and tightens her arms around you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You exhale shakily, nose brushing the curve of her jaw. “I just… I want you to touch me so bad.”

She tenses beneath you.

Your voice softens. “I feel like if you touched me right now, I’d come instantly.”

Her hands flex on your hips. She swears under her breath.

“I want to, baby,” she says, her voice low and wrecked. “You have no idea. But I won’t, not while you’re like this.”

You pout, shifting again, pressing your body tighter to hers. “But I’m yours. You always say that.”

“I know,” she breathes. “You’re mine. You’re my good girl. And that’s exactly why I’m not gonna fuck you while you’re tripping your pretty little brains out on fourteen grams of shrooms.”

You make a sad, needy little sound and bury your face in her throat. “Then can I just stay right here?”

She softens, instantly. “Yeah, baby. You stay right here.”

She wraps her arms tighter around you, rocking you just slightly as the party swells and warps around you both. People are dancing. Shots are flowing. The Kool-Aid Man is dabbing in the corner.

But none of it touches you.

Because Maya’s here.

And even if your mind’s somewhere in the clouds, your body’s safe in her lap, in her arms, her lips on your hair as she whispers, “You’re gonna ride it out. You’re gonna be okay. And when you come down… I’m gonna take you apart so fucking slowly.”

You’re curled in Maya’s lap like a sleepy little shadow creature, hips occasionally twitching against her thigh, her arms a fortress around you. She’s rubbing slow circles into your back, her lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft things like:

“You’re so pretty when you’re high,” and “I’m gonna ruin you when your pupils come back to normal,” and

You hum sweetly and nuzzle her jaw. “You’re my wife.”

Maya chuckles, low and warm. “We’re not married, baby.”

You pout. “Not yet.”

She presses a kiss to your forehead. “Alright, spooky. You proposing to me mid-trip?”

You nod into her neck. “You’re hot and powerful. I wanna haunt you forever.”

She’s laughing, properly laughing, when suddenly a blur of beige and panic crashes into your line of vision.

“Maya!” Quinn breathes, flushed and wide-eyed. “We have a situation.”

You blink at her, dazed. “Urgh. Go away, Quinn. Stay away from my wife.”

Maya snorts so hard she almost chokes. “Oh my god.”

Quinn ignores you. “Maya. Seriously. Griffin’s gone.”

Maya blinks. “Gone?”

“Like. Gone gone.” Quinn runs a hand through her hair. “He was doing rails off a lighting cue card like an hour ago, and now no one can find him.”

You lift your head from Maya’s neck, frowning. “Who’s Griffin?”

“You work for him, babe,” Maya mutters, already shifting into damage control mode.

“Oh.” You pause. “The old guy that smells like cologne and capitalism?”

“Yeah. That one.”

Quinn is pacing now. “He was last seen near the fake tree in the lobby, talking to a planter. Said he was ‘ready to ascend.’ Tyler tried to follow him but he lost him near the staff elevator.”

Maya’s already standing, setting you gently onto the couch like a possessed little doll. “Okay. Okay. We are not losing our studio head the night before CinemaCon.”

You reach for her, hands wobbly. “Don’t leave me. My wife.”

She groans. “I’m coming back, spooky girl. Stay here. Drink water. Don’t start levitating.”

Quinn adds, “Don’t eat anything else. Literally nothing.”

You glare. “You’re not invited to the wedding.”

#maya mason x fem!reader #maya mason x reader smut #maya mason smut #maya mason x reader #maya mason #kathryn hahn #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #claire debella x reader #claire debella

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domutkniecie · 4 months ago

Note

march eridan stealing from sephora

urm its more like eridan acting suspicious at sephora lol i hope this is alright idk i wanted this to have this kind of liminal feeling, so idk how to draw theft in this style

oOoOoOh spooky ghosts telling eridan not to steal

#march eridan #my art #homestuck fanart #asks #requests #eridan ampora

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witherby · 6 months ago

Note

SORRY IF THIS IS TOO LONG EL forgeting about my last idea since its kind of generic (this one is also but whateverrrrrhahahsg)

so you know Starfire is an alien right?(tamaranean) how about something where reader is a sort of alien too? (x damian too bc im starting to hyper fixate on him) and like they meet as Damian does patrolling/a mission, kind of how Dick and Star met!!

ill leave if up to there and if you like it!! ANYWAY HI EL!!

—🦈

HI SHARKY.

I was gonna finish writing the vampire!Jason prompt but I saw this and immediately fell into a fugue state instead. When I came out, it was with this. I hope you like it 🩷

Flight of Fancy

Damian Wayne x Winged!Reader

Featuring: language barriers (gibberish), a shoulder wound, and a kiss.

It had started out as a routine track-and-report mission. Damian was supposed to investigate the suspicious cargo shipments in Gotham Harbor, try to figure out what was being delivered, and come back to the Cave with his findings.

Tim's bet was human trafficking. Dick's was illegal arms dealing. Jason's was drugs. Damian guessed poaching. Bruce wanted them to stop making bets about what horrible thing of the week was going on and please focus on getting the task done.

(Bruce was just upset that he wasn't allowed to bet anymore because he kept winning.)

As the night drags on and the boredom starts to creep in, Damian wonders if the ship sitting on the loading dock is actually conducting legal business for once. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, and it would mean less follow-up work to do.

"Red Robin," Damian mutters into his comm, "there's been no activity for three hours. I'm about to declare this endeavor a wasted one and return to base."

"Copy," Tim says in his ear. "There's no spooky stuff happening on the computer, either. Give it ten more minutes and then come back."

"Understood." Damian shifts on his perch — an unsurveilled roof of a tailoring shop — and casts his gaze along the area for the thousandth time that night.

Cold, choppy waters, devoid of any suspicious activity. Dock workers walking around and doing their jobs as they chatter and whistle amongst each other, devoid of any suspicious activity. The cargo ship that docked an hour ago, devoid of any suspicious —

Well. It wasn't suspicious until he realized that the distant ringing he's heard all night wasn't interference from the dinky, little radio one of the workers has been using to blast old, jazzy tunes, but a shrill crying noise coming from the ship. A normal person wouldn't even be able to detect it, but years of training with the League taught Damian to filter and identify any and all noises he picks up automatically.

"Red Robin. I've identified a potential trafficking situation. Stand by."

"Copy. Standing by," Tim says. "Ready to dispatch EMTs on your word and receive that fifty bucks when you get back."

"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, grappling down the building and taking cover in the shadows, maneuvering his way around the harbor men and onto the ship without a sound.

The closer he gets, the louder the crying becomes. He can tell it's just one person making the sound, and that they seem to be locked in one of the titanium crates on the back of the ship. It's child's play to locate the right one and pop the lock open with the small hand laser from his tool bag.

The second it's gone the lid flies open, and Damian gets knocked down by someone he can only describe as ethereal.

You are a collection of stand-out features. Glowing, bright eyes. A wild mane of hair. Well-tailored, form fitting robes. And a huge, breathtaking pair of white wings, that unfurl from your back and shake out into their full width with barely a whisper of sound.

You're bleeding, Damian realizes belatedly. You're bleeding gold. It drips from a wound in your shoulder, running down the sleeve of your robe and soaking the fabric. Small beads trail down your fingertips and stain his chest where you're using your weight to pin him to the ground.

"Whoa," he mutters, because that's the only thing in his mind. Just. Whoa.

You furrow your brow and glare at him, muttering something in a dialect he doesn't understand. The confusion on his face must be evident, because you quickly become frustrated.

"Ira neshmi le-hyr!" You demand, waving the wrist of your other hand in his face, which has a LexCorp-branded tracking bracelet on it. There are faint scratch marks around the skin where you obviously tried to pry the device off.

"Robin? What's the situation? Am I dispatching EMT?" Tim's voice sounds in his ear, startling Damian into taking full stock of the situation again. He blinks a few times, picking up on bootsteps approaching his location, your increasing franticness from where you're knelt above him, and the riskiness of what he's about to do.

"No EMTs," Damian says, reaching for the handheld laser again. He holds it up for you to see, then gestures to your wrist.

You hesitate for only a moment, then offer him your arm and watch him slice the bracelet off and pocket it. With a quick sleight of band, he presses a tracker of his own into the sleeve of your robes, then urges you to get off him.

"Bad people are coming," he says, gesturing to the shadows of figures he can see getting closer. "You should come with me. I can get you somewhere safe."

You stare at him like you don't understand what he's saying. He lets out a frustrated sigh. There's no time for this.

"Me. You. Come with me. That way." He gestures to you, then himself, then points in the direction of the Bat Cave with urgency.

Your eyes dart to where he points, then you nod. He's about to try to figure out how to pantomime you tucking your wings in so you can sneak around better, but you stride forward, wrap your arms around his waist, and use them to take off into the air. Damian clings to you and yelps, drawing the attention of the men on the ship. There's a cacophony of shouting down below that quickly grows faint the farther away you fly.

"The package is escaping!! Someone call the boss!"

"Do we shoot it down?"

"No, you idiot! We need it alive! We'll track it down —"

The rest of their words are lost to the wind. Damian holds onto you with white knuckles and refuses to look down. It's too dark and too smoggy in Gotham to look up at the stars, so the only other thing to observe is you.

If he thought you were stunning on the ground, you're something else in the air. The wind pushes your hair around and out of your face, revealing small markings around your cheeks and eyes. The light your wings catch makes them almost glitter with every beat as you propel the two of you onward. Briefly, you travel over a more illuminated section of the city, which make your eyes look like little constellations.

He's utterly captivated.

"Nirr'm? Luola stesh?" You try to ask him, directing your gaze to him. Damian has no idea how to answer a question he can't understand, so he just points to the ground.

You scan around for a secluded spot to land and gently coast to the ground, setting him down. Damian locks his knees to keep them from buckling and takes several slow, deep breaths.

"I can't understand you," he says after a moment. You furrow your brows again. "And based on your expression, it's vice-versa."

"Robin, come in!" Tim says in his ear, and, oh, he'd forgotten that he stopped responding for ten minutes. "I'm tracking your location and it says you're four miles away from the harbor? What's your status? Do I need to send Batman in for backup?"

"Negative, do not send backup. Don't send EMTs, either."

"You said there was a trafficking situation?"

"Yeah," Damian says, "metahuman trafficking. Don't send anyone until I can figure out how to communicate that they wouldn't be a threat."

"Communicate? What, they don't speak any of the thousand languages you know?"

Damian doesn't respond.

"Oh, shit. Okay. Standing by."

While he'd been talking to Tim, you had inched your way closer and closer to Damian. When he focuses on you again, he almost flinches back after finding you less than a foot away. You perk up when you notice him give you attention and lift your hands up, curling them around his shoulders.

"Um," he mutters, "what are you doing?"

"De-ad'nin," you say, leaning closer. Your eyes don't leave his. "Hmnik?"

"I don't...I can't understand you," he says again. You're waiting for him to do something, he can tell that much. He just doesn't know what you want.

You lean in even more, practically sharing breath. Damian can feel his cheeks warming, but curiosity overwhelms the impropriety, so he doesn't move away. You seem to take this as some sort of permission.

Closing the gap, you press your mouth to his, and Damian freezes.

Soft, he thinks. Your lips are soft. His hands twitch at his sides as he fights the urge to grab your waist, but you have no such reservations as you press yourself practically flush against him and prod at the seam of his mouth with your tongue. A frankly embarrassing whine leaves him, but Damian relents and starts kissing you back with the same level of enthusiasm you show him. Even though his gloves, he can tell that your hair is ridiculously soft as he runs his fingers through it. He's briefly lost in a flurry of sensations, overwhelmed by you, and just when blood starts redirecting itself to other places, you pull away again and clear your throat.

"You helped me," you murmur, slowly and steadily, like you're testing out the words as you say them. "You set me free. Thank you."

"...you're...welcome?" Damian pants, his mind still a little gooey. "Wait, that's English. You're — did you kiss me to learn English?"

"I did," you smile. "I needed to convey my gratitude in your common tongue. I hope I didn't offend you."

Offend was definitely not the word to use. He gently pulls his hands from your hair, but you make no move to separate, so he settles them on your waist instead.

"You're wounded," he says, tipping his head in the direction of your shoulder. The bleeding has slowed, but not stopped. "Let me take you somewhere to get that wrapped."

"Take me where?" You ask. "Not back to the laboratory?"

"No." He doesn't know what lab you're talking about, but he knows he would never willingly put you back in Luthor's hands. "A cave. It has a medical ward where you can have that cut stitched closed."

You seem to give it some thought, idly playing with the hair at the nape of Damian's neck. It takes so much more effort than he anticipates not to melt into it. Your bare skin against his almost burns. You're exceptionally warm, near-feverish.

"Yes," you eventually agree. "You are..." You tilt your head as you search for the right words to use. "Trustworthy. I will go with you there."

Damian relaxes. He presses a finger to his comm.

"Red Robin, send the Batmobile to my location for extraction. I'm bringing the metahuman to the Batcave."

#el speaks #winged reader au #damian x reader #damian wayne x reader #🦈

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solxamber · 8 months ago

Text

Possessed || Ace Trappola

Something’s going on with Ace. He's being nice which either means he's possessed or has done something extremely illegal. (Spoiler alert: It's neither)

“You’ve been weird,” you say, squinting at Ace from across the cafeteria table. “New levels of weird. Scary kinds of weird. Are you possessed or something?”

Ace just leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs with that infuriatingly carefree grin plastered across his face. He tosses a piece of bread into his mouth before raising an eyebrow at you, clearly not fazed by your accusation.

“I wish,” he responds with a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. “Then I could blame all this weirdness on a curse or something and not just... you know, life.”

You cross your arms, not letting him brush it off so easily. “No, seriously. You’re being freaky. You helped me carry books to class the other day. Without asking for a favor in return.”

“Yeah, so?” Ace shrugs, but the slight twitch in his grin gives him away. “Maybe I was feeling generous.”

“Maybe you’re losing it,” you counter, leaning forward. “Since when do you do anything without an ulterior motive? I’m starting to think you’re planning something.”

“Me? Plan?” Ace feigns innocence, one hand over his heart. “You wound me, Prefect. You’re thinking of Azul, not me.”

“Nice deflection,” you deadpan. “But it’s not just that. You haven’t pranked Deuce all week.”

Ace’s smirk falters. “Okay, first of all, Deuce is too easy to prank. It’s like dunking a biscuit into water and calling it an achievement. Second—”

“I heard that!” Deuce calls out from the next table over, turning around to glare at Ace.

“You were supposed to hear that,” Ace shoots back without missing a beat, tossing a crumpled napkin at his friend.

You wave your hand in the air, trying to reel the conversation back in. “See, this is what I mean! You’re off your game! The Ace Trappola I know would be messing with Deuce every chance he got. Not sitting here, being... helpful and nice. You even opened the door for me yesterday.”

Ace looks horrified. “Wait, I did?”

“Yes! And you said something ridiculous like, ‘You can go first.’ It was spooky.”

He seems to visibly recoil, his face scrunching up as if he’s genuinely disturbed by the thought. “Wow. That is scary. Who am I turning into?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you exclaim, throwing your arms in the air. “You’re possessed!”

He leans in toward you, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Okay, real talk? Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Into what, a decent human being?” you ask, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Ace rolls his eyes again but leans closer, his expression strangely serious now. “Look, I’m just trying to... I dunno, be more... considerate.”

You squint at him, not buying it for a second. “Why? Who put you up to this?”

Ace huffs, running a hand through his hair, his face growing a little red. “No one put me up to anything, alright? I just thought... maybe you’d like it.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. You’re not sure what to make of that.

“What?” Ace asks, noticing your bewildered expression. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, I’m just... processing. You’re being nice because you think I’d like it?”

He shrugs, averting his gaze now. “Yeah, well... you’ve been giving me a hard time lately, so I figured, why not? You know, mix things up. Be nice for a change.”

“Uh-huh.” You narrow your eyes, suspicion creeping back in. “But... why me?”

Ace avoids eye contact, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his collar. “Does it matter? Just... shut up and let me be nice, okay?”

You stare at him for a long moment, trying to figure out what’s going on in that mischievous head of his. Finally, you let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Fine. But I’m still convinced you’re up to something.”

Ace smirks, the cheeky glint returning to his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Over the next few days, Ace continues acting suspiciously... well, nice. He doesn’t trip you in the hallway or throw random jabs at your study habits like usual. He even brings you snacks during lunch—without eating half of them first.

It’s weird. Unsettling, even.

And every time you ask him about it, he brushes it off with a nonchalant “just felt like it” or “don’t read too much into it, Prefect.” But his little quirks keep poking through. Like when he sneaks up behind you, pretending he’s going to scare you, only to offer a helping hand with your bag. Or when he gives Deuce a hard time, only to turn around and cover for him when he forgets his homework.

Deuce, for his part, seems equally as confused. “Is he dying or something?” Deuce whispers to you one afternoon. “He’s not usually this nice unless he’s pulling something.”

“I know, right?” you whisper back, eyeing Ace from across the courtyard where he’s currently chatting with a group of students. “It’s unnatural.”

“He even let me borrow his notes last night,” Deuce continues, shaking his head. “His good notes, too. Not the ones he scribbled in crayon to mess with me.”

“Okay, now I’m seriously concerned,” you mutter. “He’s definitely plotting something.”

But the more time passes, the less it feels like a trick. There’s no punchline, no grand reveal. Ace is just... being Ace, albeit in a more considerate, slightly awkward way.

One evening, you’re leaving the library when you spot Ace waiting for you outside, leaning against a wall with his usual lazy posture. He looks up as you approach, flashing you a casual grin.

“Yo, Prefect,” he calls out. “Need help with your stuff?”

You raise an eyebrow, adjusting the books in your arms. “Are you really offering, or are you about to ‘accidentally’ trip me again?”

Ace chuckles, pushing off the wall and walking over to take some of the books from you. “What, you don’t trust me by now? I’ve been an absolute angel lately.”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem,” you retort, but you let him take the books anyway. “You’ve been too nice. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Ace smirks, walking beside you as you head toward Ramshackle. “Maybe I’m just growing up. Becoming a responsible, dependable guy.”

You snort. “Now I know you’re lying.”

“Hey!” Ace protests, nudging you with his elbow. “I’m serious. I can be responsible when I want to.”

You side-eye him. “Sure. And pigs can fly.”

Ace rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft smile on his lips. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one.”

The two of you walk in comfortable silence for a while, the moonlight casting long shadows on the cobblestone path. It’s peaceful, almost... nice.

Then, out of nowhere, Ace speaks again, his tone quieter this time. “So... you really think I’ve been weird lately?”

You glance at him, surprised by the question. “Yeah, kinda. Why?”

He shrugs, looking up at the sky. “I dunno. Just curious.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you seriously still playing this ‘nice guy’ act? What’s your angle, Ace?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stops walking, turning to face you with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“There’s no angle,” he says softly. “I just... wanted to see if it’d make a difference.”

You blink, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. “What do you mean?”

Ace rubs the back of his neck, looking unusually nervous. “I mean... I’ve been trying to... y’know, be a better person. For you.”

Your heart skips a beat, but you’re not sure if it’s because of his words or the fact that he’s actually being vulnerable for once. “For me?”

Ace avoids your gaze, his cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah. I figured... maybe if I stopped being such a jerk all the time, you’d... I dunno... like me more.”

You stare at him, your mind racing to process what he’s saying. “Wait. Are you... confessing to me?”

Ace scowls, clearly embarrassed now. “Ugh, don’t say it like that. You’re making it weird.”

“You’re the one making it weird!” you shoot back, feeling your face heat up. “I didn’t ask you to go all soft on me!”

Ace glares at you, but there’s no real malice behind it. “Well, excuse me for trying to be nice for once.”

There’s a beat of silence as the two of you stand there, staring at each other, before you both start laughing.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, shaking your head.

"Yeah, but you hang out with me anyway," Ace finishes with that signature smirk of his.

You roll your eyes, but there's no denying the truth in his words. There's something about his brash honesty, his ability to keep things light even when they're serious, that you can't help but be drawn to. His quick wit, the way he keeps you on your toes—it's always been part of his charm.

"Maybe I do," you admit, crossing your arms and giving him a playful look. "But you're still a jerk sometimes."

Ace grins wider, stepping a little closer. "Oh, I'm totally a jerk. But I think that's why we work so well. You need someone to challenge you, and I need someone to keep me in check."

You snort. "So that's why you've been weird? Trying to impress me?"

Ace shrugs, his gaze softening just a bit. "Something like that. I just... didn't want you to think I'm always messing around. Sometimes, I actually want to be serious."

It's strange hearing him say that, but in a way, it makes sense. You've always known there was more to Ace than the mischievous, carefree front he puts up. He's clever and observant, and maybe—just maybe—he's been paying attention to you in ways you hadn't realized.

"So, what now?" you ask, feeling the tension between you shift from playful to something a little more... real.

Ace takes a breath, glancing up at the stars for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I dunno. Guess I was hoping you'd say something like... 'I like you too, Ace.'"

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. "And what if I do?"

His eyes widen, just for a second, before his cocky grin returns in full force. "Well, then that'd be great. 'Cause I'd say I like you too, Prefect"

You both stand there for a moment, the air between you charged with something new and exciting. It’s not the usual back-and-forth banter, not the endless teasing. This is real, and Ace’s normally confident posture seems just a little unsure, like he’s still figuring out how to navigate this new territory.

"Alright, fine," you say, your voice softer now. "I like you, Ace."

He blinks, clearly taken aback that you actually said it. For once, he's the one who seems at a loss for words.

"...You serious?" he asks, sounding almost vulnerable. It's a rare thing to hear from him, and it tugs at your heart just a little.

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "Yeah. I mean, you've been acting all weird and nice, and it kind of freaked me out, but... I get it now. And I like you too."

Ace lets out a relieved breath, his grin softening into something more genuine. "Well, that's good. 'Cause I was starting to run out of ways to be nice. It’s exhausting."

You laugh, the tension finally breaking as the two of you slip back into the ease that’s always existed between you. But now, there's something more. Something deeper.

"So," you start, tilting your head at him, "does this mean you're going to stop being a jerk to me?"

Ace snorts. "Nah, that’s part of my charm. Besides, you’d get bored if I went all soft."

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "Fair enough."

Without warning, Ace reaches out and ruffles your hair, grinning like a kid who’s just won a prize. "You know, you're not too bad. Maybe we can make this thing work."

You swat his hand away, laughing. "Maybe. If you stop being so weird."

"Deal," Ace says, though you can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s already planning his next prank.

Deuce, who’s been watching the whole thing from a distance, finally decides to pipe up, calling out to the two of you from the other side of the courtyard. “Hey! Did you guys seriously just confess? In front of me?”

Ace turns around and shouts back, “Yeah, what of it?”

Deuce groans, looking exasperated. “Couldn’t you have waited until I wasn’t around to witness that?”

“You’re just jealous!” Ace calls, slinging an arm around your shoulders with a triumphant grin.

Deuce rolls his eyes but grins anyway. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go getting all mushy on me.”

Ace laughs, giving you a sidelong glance. “No promises.”

And as you walk back toward the dorms, Ace’s arm still around you, you can’t help but smile. It’s a weird, unexpected kind of happiness, but somehow, it fits. Just like Ace.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #ace trappola #ace trapolla x reader #ace

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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The overwhelming urge for a spooky detective story where you take a boat to a remote island to investigate a series of suspicious murders, and the patron Lovecraftian monster of the town becomes interested in you (to an unhealthy extent). Thus he orders the cult to chase you down and retrieve you. You think they’re trying to kill you, so you do your best to evade their kidnapping attempts. The more aggressive they become, the more certain you are that truth is getting closer. In reality, eldritch creature is just becoming terribly impatient to be in possession of the curious little human.

But wait, now that I’m typing this, an idea occurs to me: the murders are completely unrelated to the cult! You realize it after finally meeting the ancient Beast. He is greatly amused by your detective shenanigans, so he insists on helping you solve the case.

There you have it. Sherlock Holmes with a tentacle Watson who occasionally tries to flirt with you. Next episode: the underground tunnels that lead to the true villain only have one bed available.

[Full story is now finished]

#can you tell I have a thing for detective stuff #yandere monster x reader #yandere monster #monster x reader #monster x human #yandere x reader #yandere

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woogilicious · 3 months ago

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rent's cheap, ghost included ꒰ wooyoung ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: broke college student!wooyoung x ghost!reader (gender neutral ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 2.4k words ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: comedy, fluff, hurt/comfort, supernatural au, soft angst ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: curse words, discussions of depression, suicidal thoughts, mentions of death (non graphic), wooyoung being an annoying little shit sometimes ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a.n: this oneshot is more casual than the others and it's actually my favourite, lol. i know it sounds cliché, but i just really love this type of storyline so much.

You don't know who the hell decided to rent out your house to another human so soon. It's been, what? Two months since the last one moved out? And you were this close to getting peace and quiet.

But nope. Now you're stuck with watching some college kid struggle to drag in a suitcase twice his size and sad looking rice cooker into your kitchen.

You float near the ceiling, arms crossed, frowning hard enough to wrinkle the ghostly air around you.

He's muttering under his breath the whole time. "God, finally," he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie. "I don't even care if this place is haunted. It's cheap, and I'm broke, so I've accepted death."

You narrow your eyes. He's accepted death? Oh, honey. We'll see about that.

You watch as he dumps his stuff in the middle of the dusty living room, sighs deeply, and flops onto the floor, face first. You wait for a bit.

...now.

You blow a cold breeze past his ear. He shivers, shrugs his hoodie up to cover his head like a turtle, and immediately starts snoring.

What?

No screaming? No running away? He's just... asleep?

You float down closer, staring at him. He's cute, you guess. A little stupid, maybe. Who sleeps on the floor without a blanket?

Fine, you'll step it up.

Later that night, after he wakes up and shuffles into the kitchen to cook himself some instant noodles, you slam the cupboard doors. Not once, not twice, but eight times.

He doesn't even flinch, just stands there, stirring his sad little noodles, muttering, "Me too, buddy," like he's the one haunting YOU.

You rattle the windows, and he throws a thumbs up at the ceiling.

You drag a chair across the floor with an awful screech and he shouts, "Sounds good, friend!" and keeps eating.

You...

You don't know what to do with this guy.

He's ruining your reputation as a ghost.

You float around, sulking, until you finally decide that if he won't be scared of invincible ghost you, then you'll just show yourself.

You remember the last tine you showed yourself. An old man had almost died of a heart attack and you felt so bad that you cried.

But Wooyoung? He deserves it.

You focus real hard, pulling your form together. It's a little tricky since you haven't done it in a while, but you manage. A little translucent, and a little floaty, but you look decent.

You drift right in front of him while he's standing by the sink, trying to get the hot water to work.

"Hi," you say, your voice a little echoey and spooky on purpose. "I'm the ghost haunting this house."

He blinks, dropping the mug he was holding which thankfully, was empty. He tilts his head a little. Then, with all the enthusiasm as if someone finding out their favourite ramen flavour was back in stock, he grins and goes, "Cool!"

You stare at him and he stares back, so genuinely delighted that you actually float back a little, suspicious.

"So―" he sets the mug on the counter carefully. "Are you, like, a real ghost? Or, like, a stress hallucination? I mean, either way it's fine, but it'd be sick if you were real."

You blink at him, a little thrown off. "...I'm real."

He pumps a fist in the air. "Hell yeah! This house is awesome, cheap rent and I get a new friend? Awesome!"

You don't even know what to say to that. No one's ever been happy to see you before. You're kinda... weirdly flattered?

After that first night, everything gets... weird.

Day by day, Wooyoung just keeps talking to you. You don't even have to show yourself anymore. Half the time, you're just floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching him live his life like he's got an invisible roommate.

And oh my god.

He. does. not. shut. up.

You kinda thought he would calm down after a while. Maybe get tired of talking to a ghost who barely replies.

But, nope! Turns out, for someone who is constantly tired and has panda eyes and sighs like he's carrying the weight of the world on his back... he's got a lot of mouth energy.

"Today I dropped a whole box of paper towel at work and my manager looked at me like I committed a crime," he tells you one afternoon, kicking his shoes off and throwing himself face-first onto the couch. "Like dude, calm down? It's just a paper towel, not some fragile diamonds."

You hover over the lamp, just blinking slowly.

He waves a hand in the air, half heartedly. "Yeah, yeah. I know. Your silence is valid too, and you're so real for that."

Some nights, he sits cross-legged on the floor, eating cup noodles as usual and watching weird documentaries on YouTube. All of a sudden, he tells you some random facts.

"Did you know that octopuses have three hearts?" He says, pointing the noodle cup at you like it's a microphone. "And they can just vibe with no bones. Just, squish around."

You just float nearby, dead silent.

"I think you'd like being an octopus," he adds thoughtfully. "You're kinda floaty too."

Sometimes you wonder if you're the one who is getting haunted by this loud, chaotic, tired human.

Not that you mind, exactly. It's just new.

But one night, it's different.

You know the second he walks in.

He slams the door harder than usual. He doesn't kick his shoes off, doesn't mutter a tired "I'm home" like he always does.

You drift down from the ceiling, watching.

He throws his work apron onto the floor and his hands are shaking a little.

"Fucking―" he starts, then cuts himself off, dragging his hands through his hair. "Customers are the worst!"

He paces the living room in circles. You follow him slowly, floating just a few feet away.

"This one guy today," he says, voice getting louder, "This asshole―he yelled at me for like, five minutes straight because the yogurt he wanted was sold out. Like I fucking make the yogurt myself, right?"

You float quietly.

He's not really talking to you. He's just letting it all pour out.

"I hate it," he mumbles. "I hate this stupid job. I hate that I'm broke. I hate that I'm killing myself for college when I'm not even smart. I'm just doing it because―" he stops, swallowing hard. "―because if I don't, my parents will be disappointed. Tsk, like they aren't already."

You reach out without thinking―your hand passing through his shoulder gently―trying to comfort him, even if he can't feel it.

Wooyoung laughs a little, but it's not the funny kind. It's broken.

He sits down hard on the couch, staring at the floor, then he looks up, right at you.

Even though you're invisible, somehow, he knows where you are.

"...Hey," he says, voice small. "Is it fun? Being a ghost?"

You blink.

"Like... is it better?" he keeps going, softer now. "Do you get to just... stop worrying about stupid shit? Like bills and parents and yogurt?"

He huffs a breath that's almost a laugh.

"I mean, if it's better," he says, looking back at the floor, "Maybe I should just―you know? Join you."

The room goes very, very quiet.

And you.

You feel something deep in your chest, something you haven't felt in a long time. Fear.

Not for yourself.

For him.

You don't even hesitate to pull your form together. No more floating half-there, no more hiding. You focus until you're solid enough that he can see you clearly.

You step forward, right in front of him, and say―out loud, real and desperate―"No. Don't do that."

Wooyoung's hand snaps up. His eyes go wide, so wide and then―just like that, he breaks.

He lets out this raw, awful sob and crumples forward, burying his face in his hands. It's not loud, or dramatic. It's quiet, like it hurts too much to even cry properly.

"I'm so tired," he chokes out between broken gasps. "I'm so fucking tired of pretending."

You kneel down in front of him, trying to catch his gaze, but he just keeps talking, keeps pouring it out like a dam that has finally broke.

"Everyone thinks I'm―" he waves a hand weakly. "The funny guy, the loud guy, the one who never shuts up. And I guess you probably think that too."

Well, that is true.

"But I'm just..." he presses his hands harder against his face. "I'm just filling up the silence so I don't have to think about how empty I feel. I'm trying so hard to make life feel like it's worth living."

He looks up, and god, his face is so red and wet and messy that it hurts to look at.

"But to me... it's nothing."

Your chest aches.

You don't think. You just move.

You wrap your arms around him, and somehow, somehow, for the first time, he can feel you.

His body stiffens in shock for half a second. Then he breaks even more, grabbing onto you like he's drowning.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be a ghost.

He doesn't care that you're supposed to be scary.

He just needs to be held.

"Let me," he whispers, voice totally wrecked. "Let me join you."

You shake your head hard. You pull back just enough to cup his tear streaked face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"No," you whisper. "Please. Don't waste your life."

He shudders.

"I know it's hard," you say, your voice shaking. "I know it feels like there's no point sometimes. But you're still here. You're still breathing. You're still fighting, even when it sucks."

You swipe your thumb under his eyes, wiping a tear.

"…and that's brave, Wooyoung. Braver than anything I ever did."

He frowns, confused through the tears. "What do you mean?"

You exhale slowly.

"I became a ghost," you say, "because I gave up."

His eyes widen.

"I thought… if I stopped trying, the pain would stop too. And it did. Kind of? But now I'm stuck."

You glance around the living room, the cracked walls, the flickering lightbulb.

"I'm stuck here, watching life go on without me. Watching people laugh and cry and live—even when it's messy, painful and unfair and I can't be a part of it anymore."

You look back at him, and your voice cracks.

"I would give anything to have another chance. To eat bad noodles, to get yelled at by annoying customers. To walk down a street and feel the sun."

You grip his shoulders tighter.

"And no matter how bad I want to have another chance, I can't. But you still can."

He stares at you, breathing hard, hands still clutching your sleeves like he's scared if you'll disappear if he lets go.

"Please," you whisper. "Don't throw it away. Not like I did."

You don't know how long you stay like that, holding him. But slowly, Wooyoung's breathing starts to even out. He blinks up at you with swollen eyes and puffy cheeks and somehow still manages a tiny, tired laugh.

"You're kinda… a terrible ghost," he croaks. "Aren't you supposed to scare me away or something?"

You smile a little, brushing his messy hair off his forehead. "Maybe," you whisper. "But I think you're scarier."

He snorts. "Fair."

You squeeze his hand, gentle but firm.

"Wooyoung," you say softly. "You're not alone."

He swallows thickly.

"I'm here," you say. "I'll be here. As long as you need me."

You press your forehead lightly against his. Your voice drops to a whisper.

"Let's heal together."

He squeezes his eyes shut, tears leaking out again—but this time, they feel lighter.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Let's do that."

He pulls you into a hug again. Tight, real, so full of feeling you almost forget you're supposed to be a ghost. You hug him back just as hard.

After a long moment, he mumbles into your shoulder. "You gotta promise me, though. Promise me you won’t leave me."

You smile.

"I promise," you say.

Life doesn't magically fix itself overnight.

Wooyoung still comes home with bags under his eyes. He still has days where he slams the door and mutters about rude customers.

But he doesn't cry alone anymore, because you're there.

You're there when he drags himself into bed and mumbles goodnight to the ceiling. You're there when he rants about dumb professors and overpriced cafeterias food. You're there when he laughs too loud at memes on his phone and shows you even though you can't actually hold his phone yourself.

But slowly, you see the light coming back into him.

He even starts bringing back little cheap snacks from the convenience store. He leaves them on the counter with a little sticky note that says, "For ghostie" even though you physically can't eat them.

It makes you smile anyway.

Tonight is movie night.

You're curled up on the couch, or well, floating while cross legged slightly above the couch. While Wooyoung got three blankets wrapped around himself like a burrito, clutching a giant bowl of popcorn.

"Okay," he says, eyes shining. "We're watching a horror movie. A real one. None of that jumpscare baby stuff."

You raise an eyebrow at him. "You sure about that?"

He scoffs. "Pft. Yeah! I live with a ghost so I'm built different."

You smirk. "Right."

He picks some indie horror movie that looks grimy and messed up. Lots of dark woods, and creepy faces in mirror. Within fifteen minutes, Wooyoung is already sitting suspiciously closer to you. Within thirty minutes, he's gripping the popcorn bowl like his life depends on it.

You nudge him in the side.

He yelps so loud he throws a handful of popcorn straight into the air.

"Oh my god—!" he gasps, clutching his chest.

You stare at him.

"You," you say, pointing at him, "are scared of this?"

He scowls, cheeks turning red. "It's spooky, okay?!"

You float a little closer, crossing your arms.

"You literally live with a whole ass ghost. A real one." You jab a thumb at yourself. "Me. Hi. Real ghost."

He huffs. "Yeah, but you're not scary! You're—" he waves his arms vaguely. "You're you!"

You stare. He stares back, defensive.

Then you burst out laughing.

"Unbelievable," you snicker. "Wooyoung, living with a real life ghost, defeated by a low-budget horror film."

He grins, wide and stupid and alive.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you both feel it. Hope.

Real, stubborn, stupid, wonderful hope.

And maybe that's what living is, you think. Even if you're technically not breathing anymore. Just being here, together.

It’s messy and imperfect.

It's life.

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leonstoenailunderhisbed · 1 year ago

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American Psycho Killer

Summary: Leon S. Kennedy, a man who’s taken his duty of protection very seriously. He’ll do anything to ensure the safety of people, especially the safety of one particular girl.

Warning: stalking, murdering, mentions of planned murder, mentions of drugs and drug abuse, gore (kinda), death, masturbation (m receiving), smut, creampie, yan!leon, not proofread lol, fem reader, psychopathic.

A/N: I did my research for this as I wanted this to sound a little spooky teehee :3

[part two]

“I got you under my skin” - Mirotic, TVXQ!

Psychopath vs. Sociopath. The popular argument in between psychologists.

Leon never really cared enough to get himself checked out but there were signs. He didn’t feel empathy for others, his moves were calculated and he’s highly educated. He has a well paying career, he pretends to be this normal guy when in reality, he’s psychopathic.

What defines a psychopath apart from a sociopath? Psychopaths, at least in Leon’s case, cannot form established bonds with others. He doesn’t feel guilt or sad when he sees a person die by his hands.

His job already requires him to kill so this was an easy feat. He doesn’t care. He can’t feel anything.

He couldn’t feel anything until you came along.

Leon lived in this apartment complex just downtown of a city in the state. The apartment was big and had security cameras all around. It was well guarded and the people were kind.

When he saw the new neighbor move in, he felt weird. He narrowed his eyes as he watched you from the window of his apartment loft. He was growing suspicious at his behavior. Why did his chest feel warm? Why is his heart beating fast? Why are his hands sweating?

He didn’t know. Up to this point he didn’t feel anything but you brought something to him and it made him uneasy. So he decided to keep an eye on you.

Days passed after you moved in and you settled just fine. The old lady at the end of the hall brought you cookies, a sweet old lady. She talked to Leon a few times and he didn’t think much of her other than just as his neighbor. Nothing more.

But if you were to ask him what he thought of you? Oh boy, he thought a lot of things. Both good and bad.

Being a psychopath isn’t praised in society. Only 1% of the population is considered one and no one knew he belonged to that percentage. And he’d like to keep it that way; his excuse for his behavior was his job. He always left early in the morning and came back late at night. A manipulator and a liar is what he was, and a very good one.

He’s seen you leave your apartment from time to time. You’d take out the trash, went out with your friends- he’s seen everything you do.

Leon isn’t stupid, he’s attentive and observant. He leaves no trace behind of the murder he just committed. The male neighbor across from your door saw you one day when you walked out of your door with a short dress.

The man eye-fucked you so much he literally almost started drooling. Leon cringed and found him repulsive. How dare he look at you like you were some meat on the market?

He felt anger and disgust. No one should look at you like that. No one.

So, one summer day, he made up an excuse to visit him. Something about a water pipe connecting to his sink that didn’t make it work. Like I said, Leon is a good manipulator and a good liar. He always gets what he wants.

The male neighbor invited him in and closed the door behind him. He offered Leon a beer, to which he refused. He found liquor and other substances repulsive. He walked over to the man’s kitchen sink and began to inspect it.

He noticed the man’s sink had a garbage disposal unit. That’s pretty dangerous, he thought to himself.

He walked over to where the man was sitting. The male neighbor was sitting on his reclining couch as he watched a game with a cup of beer on the stand next to him. The neighbor was so engrossed on the football game that he didn’t notice Leon slipping something into his drink.

Leon was smart. Dangerously smart. He knew everything when it came to death- he worked in the DSO, of course he knew some things. He knew the effects of alprazolam and what it does to the brain.

So when he lied to a psychiatrist about his insomnia and got prescribed some Xanax, he crushed a high dosage into fine powder and slipped it into the man’s beer.

Stupid bastard, Leon thought to himself.

He watched as the male neighbor took a sip of his drink and Leon waited. Xanax is a powerful drug, can cause hallucinations and make your brain become a little too calm. You’re bound to fall asleep at some point. And with the amount Leon dropped into his drink, he knew he’d knock out sooner than later.

After a few minutes of “tinkering” with the man’s sink. He got up and went to check on the man again.

And sure as hell did the man find himself in a profound slumber. His snores layering with the sound of the TV.

Too easy, Leon smirked to himself. He put on some elastic gloves and made sure he wore shoes that wouldn’t leave footprints. In case things would get messy, of course.

He poured the man’s drink down the sink to get rid of the evidence. He then thought hard about how he should go about this.

There’s many different ways one can commit murder but Leon wanted the cleanest one. So he came up with one.

He brought pans to the stove and made it seem like the man was cooking something for himself. He partially cooked a stupid egg and left it there. Leon went back to where the man was sitting and dragged him out of his couch and towards the kitchen. Since this man’s place was small, the kitchen and dining area were joined together. He sat there man down on the dining table, which happened to be near the stove. He took out the man’s phone and put it in the man’s hand to make it seem like he was using it.

Leon went back to the kitchen and continued to prepare the scene. He took out bottles of alcohol the man had and poured them down the drain to make it look like he’d had a few drinks. He took a single cup from the cup rack and filled it up halfway. With the cup and bottle of whiskey in both hands, he walked back to the table where the man was sitting and laid them on the table. He took the half empty cup and smeared the man’s lip on the rim. You must cover every single detail.

He even poured a little alcohol into the man’s already parted lips. Leon walked back to the stoved and kept the gas on. Now all he needed to do was wait and let nature do its thing.

Leon walked out of his apartment, pretending to still be talking to the man since there was a camera on the corner of the hall. As the door opened, the camera couldn’t record that Leon had been talking to himself. It made the act believable.

With a smile, Leon walked back to his place and stayed there.

A few hours passed and it started to get dark outside, each resident was inside their unit and ready to go to sleep when the fire alarm began to sound. Everyone was forced to evacuate the premises as the firefighters came to the scene.

You saw as the ambulance brought out a stretcher into the building. Someone was still inside, you thought to yourself as your eyes widened and your heart rate increased. You tried to move but felt someone’s hand on your arm, it was Leon.

“Don’t. It’s too dangerous,” he replied in a serious tone as he stared at you with those cold blue eyes. You pinched your brows together. He was right. If you were to try and save the person, you’d die in the process. You nodded defeatedly and he let go of your arm. He stood there watching you- analyzing you.

You had a good heart, he thought. Too good for his liking. That made you an easy target for people and he loathed the idea of people exploiting your kindness. He vowed to protect you, to mark his hands dirty for you.

As the EMT brought back the stretcher, you could see a person lying there lifeless. All the other residents immediately started to mutter amongst themselves, some started to cry and others gasped in shock. You simply stood there, wide eyed and jaw slack. Leon’s expression remained unchanged as he watched you react to the man’s death. The man deserved it, he thought to himself.

Couldn’t you see that he was protecting you? You’ll come around eventually, he thought.

As the ambulance left the area, the firefighters started to clear the smoke as the police arrived. The police began to do their investigation as the firefighters checked the unit and deemed it good after clearing out the fire and the smoke. One police officer began to make her way to the apartment as the other stayed behind with the residents to ask questions.

Leon was a smooth talker. A trait most psychopaths had. He could get himself out of any situation and he could lie. So when the police asked him what had happened, Leon simply replied with, “I’m not sure. I went to his apartment to check his water supply as my sink stopped working and he lived next to me. I noticed he was making himself some food but I was too busy checking our pipes. He reeked of alcohol and barely spoke to me,” Leon’s tone was different. He sounded likey he spoke the truth.

You couldn’t help but listen to his words. To you, they are true. You saw him walk out of the man’s apartment.

The investigation was deemed as self-manslaughter. The police believed that the man suffered from deliberate alcohol poisoning which caused him to pass out in the process of cooking himself some food.

This made news headlines. Everyone believed the story but they thought the man was stupid enough to cook while he was drunk. Many of the residents believed it, he was a known alcoholic. Leon was never caught.

He was watching you from the window, months after the incident occurred. You had just come back from your college lecture. Leon knew. He stalked you, he followed you.

He knew your weekly routine. Monday through Thursday you had lectures. On Friday, you did work study. And the weekends were reserved for your personal time. He felt proud of you for balancing your life. You lived healthily and he couldn’t help but feel proud at your decisions. He knew you were smart enough to take care of yourself.

He knew the campus you went to, he knew the classes you were taking, he knew your major- he knew everything. But he pretended like he didn’t.

So when he saw you in the parking lot, right next to his car and you had trouble with your groceries, he couldn’t help but feel like your knight in shining armor. With his hardened expression, he asked you in his stern and serious voice, “Need some help?”

You smiled sheepishly and nodded, “Yeah… you don’t mind helping me?” You scratched your head awkwardly. On the inside, he found it adorable. But on the outside, he maintained his cool. He nodded and walked over to your car to retrieve the bags of groceries you bought. He was so strong he carried all the bags to your apartment door. You thanked him graciously and invited him inside.

“You can put them on the table, I’ll assort them,” you said as you took of your jacket and hanged it on the rack right next to the door. He nodded and walked over to the dining table, where he put all the bags with food. He took this opportunity to look around your place.

You kept it simple. It was nice, colorful, but nice. You had tons of books on your shelves, he took a mental note that you probably liked to stay indoors. He noticed the way your laptop and a few papers were scattered on the couch and coffee table, you were studious and dedicated to your education. He silently applauded you in his head. He liked that about you. You had goals and ambitions.

“Thank you, again. I owe you one,” you walked up to him and gave him a warm, genuine smile. He looked down at you and nodded again. Pretty smile, he thought to himself.

“It’s no problem, let me know if you need help with anything. I’m a couple doors away,” he replied with his usual serious tone. He remained unchanged, at least to you. To him, he felt like he about to combust into pieces. You were perfect, absolutely perfect.

Days went by and you found yourself talking to Leon more often. Or at least on the days you could. Leon was gone most of the day, he told you about his hectic work schedule and you couldn’t help but feel bad about him. So you decided to make him a small dinner with a note.

You left it on the front door of his apartment and walked back to yours. When Leon came back from work, it was 2:27 a.m. As he climbed up the steps of the stairs, he noticed something on his front door and felt slightly confused. He hasn’t ordered anything. He grew cautious and slowly approached his door. But then he saw your name on a sticky note. He quickly picked up the lunch box and walked inside his apartment.

Walking to his dining table, he read the note you left. Even your handwriting was perfect. The little swirls of the letters, almost writing in cursive made him want to keep you all to himself. He brought the piece of paper to his nose and sniffed it roughly, the paper crumbling in his hands as he could smell your scent on it. He groaned in pleasure as he could imagine your soft and small hands picking up a pen and write something just for him.

Just for him.

That thought alone almost set him off. He couldn’t eat dinner, not with the growing erection in his pants. He put the dinner you made in his freezer and quickly walked to his bedroom. He sat down on his bed and unbuckled his belt, throwing it somewhere on the floor. He pulled down his pants and boxers and watched as his cocked sprung freely, hitting his abdomen with a thwack.

His left hand held the piece of water with your handwriting and your scent while his right hand traveled to his cock. He brought the piece of paper to his nose again and closed his eyes in pure delight. Your scent was intoxicating- sweet vanilla with a hint of coffee. He grunted and moaned at the thought of your hands picking writing this note. He could picture your small hands wrapping his big cock, rubbing his base up and down as your scent infiltrated his airway.

His muscles tensed up as the thought of having you in between his legs made his cock throb. His stomach coiled as he felt himself nearing his orgasm. He could imagine your mouth sucking on his cock as he rammed his hips deeper down your throat, making you gag on him. He’d grab your hair and pull you closer to his pelvic area, having his blonde pubic hair rub against your face as you took his cock like a good girl.

He growled your name as he came in himself. White ropes shooting down at his palm as he tried to collect his cum and prevent it from staining any of his furniture. He sighed softly and laid his back on the mattress as he thought of you.

You drive him wild, he’d do anything for you. If it meant having you as his.

And that’s what drove him to kill more people. One day, he overheard you while both of you “coincidentally” went to get the mail from the lobby. You were speaking on the phone to a friend and he tried to make it seem like he wasn’t listening. But he was.

He heard you talk about how your ex is pestering you and giving you a hard time. That you cried last night because you two had an argument while he tried to get back together. His blood ran through his veins as you mentioned you cried.

He’d kill anyone who made this sweet and perfect angel cry. And that’s what his next murder was going to be. He went back to his apartment and began to stalk you again. As a government agent, he had privileges the common folk didn’t have. He was able to run a background check on you and found out your ex. To his surprise, he was your first and only relationship so far. He knew this guy probably broke your heart as your first relationship will always be your worst one.

He narrowed his eyes in anger as he found the man who broke your heart. And jotted down the information he had on him- his address, his workplace, his contact information, etc. Leon found everything thanks to his job.

When you heard news about your ex dying, you were shocked to see that he died from overdose. You’ve never known he was a drug addict, or at least that’s what Leon made it seem to be.

Leon drove all the way this man’s house and observed his routine. Your ex went to work, came back home, and went to the bar. An alcoholic, this made it easier for him.

Leon walked into the bar with his casual clothes, he spotted the man sitting on the bar counter with a drink already in his hand. He walked over and sat next to him as he ordered himself whiskey.

Your ex was already stupidly drunk, flirting up some poor girl who was just trying to talk to her friend. So he’s a creep too, he thought to himself as he took a sip his drink.

Why do you always find yourself around creepy and perverted men?

Leon looked around and made sure no one was watching him as slipped some stuff into his drink. Leon then continued to sip his drink and even chatted up the bartender.

The more your ex drank, the closer he got to an overdose. Turns out if you mix alcohol with prednisone, the effects could be fatal. Your ex would develop a liver damage that could potentially end his life if he kept drinking like he was right now.

It was getting late and Leon paid his tab. It was 11 PM and he decided he should go home. He wasn’t drunk, not yet at least. So he was perfectly capable of driving back to his apartment. But not your ex.

It was nearing closing time for the bar and the poor bartender saw your ex passed out on the counter. She didn’t know what to do but she tried waking him up.

Unresponsive. Her eyes widened slightly as she over to his side and checked for a pulse.

Flat line. She called the police and reported the death.

The police declared it suicide. They believed he voluntarily took drugs and alcohol at the same time.

In your mind, you were in denial but then you slowly began to think to yourself. He’s been acting weird and out of the ordinary when he’d talk about getting back together. It all made sense now. His aggressive behavior, his short temper… he was a drug addict and an alcoholic.

You attended the funeral, of course. And when you came back, Leon had been unlocking his door. He saw your puffy eyes as you had your heels in your hands. You looked like you’ve been crying- which you probably were. Leon paused as he stared at you, he nodded once at you, acknowledging your presence. He then spoke up in a tired voice, “Rough day?”

You nodded as you blinked slowly, “You could say that.”

He hummed in response and looked back down at his doorknob. Then he looked back to you, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Leon himself was tired as he just came back from a tough mission, but he would never be too tired for you. He pushed his exhaustion to the side and would rather take care of your needs for you.

You sighed and nodded slowly, “I could use a drink.”

He invited you over to his apartment and let you sit down on his couch as he took two glasses and one bottle of Jack. He walked over to the couch and set down the glasses and the bottle on the coffee table as he sat down next to you.

He began to pour for the both of you, not wanting you to work any more than you’ve already had.

“Cheers,” you muttered under your breath as you clanked your glass with his and chugged the liquid down your throat. The burning sensation almost making you forget about the mental strain you had.

He watched you as you set down the glass back down on the coffee table. Even in this state, you looked absolutely beautiful. He couldn’t wait to have you for himself. To prove to you that what you needed was a real man.

One thing let to another and you found yourself pinned under him on his bed. Your legs spread open as your knees rested on his shoulders. The head of his cock abusing your cervix, bruising it with brute force as he pulled out and pushed back in harshly. His balls smacking against your ass as his arms caged you under him. Your hands were on his shoulders, nails clawing deep into his flesh as the bed creaked from him pounding into you. The headboard hitting the wall behind the bed as he pulled out and forced his cock back into your tight walls. Your cunt clenching around his member as his hands gripped on your hair, forcing your head up so he could hear your stupid blabber.

He pulled out and rolled you over to your stomach. His left hand gripped on your waist as his right hand gripped the back of your neck and pushed your face down the sheets of his bed as he rammed his cock from behind you. Your ass jiggling as pounded harsher and harsher. Making sure you knew who you belonged to. He’d fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

You kept moaning his name against his pillow. Drool falling down your lips as tears rolled down your cheeks from the pleasure. You felt him even deeper from this position. His left hand gripped on your waist as it then traveled down to your ass and smacked, almost immediately seeing his hand print show in a pink and red hue on your skin. The burning sensation of the slap only made you more needy for his touch. His left hand found your hip and forced your body to clash against his as he fucked you straight to bliss.

Stars clouded your eyes as you whimpered and moaned. He cock throbbed and twitched inside of you as it stretched you. It hurt but it hurt good. His right hand gently squeezed the back of your throat, causing you to moan.

“Fuck- Leon- ‘mma cum-“ you spoke breathlessly in between moans and whimpers. He leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Cum for me,” he pressed a kiss on your shoulder blade as he felt you squirm under him. Your body convulsing as your orgasm took the best of you.

Your pussy clamped and clenched around him, wedging him with your juices. He didn’t stop, however. He kept pounding into you as the squelching sound echoed through his room.

He grunted and growled as he felt himself about to cum. He began to speed up and he let go of your neck. Now that both of his hands were on your hips, he gripped the fat of them and forced your body in and out of his cock. Bruising your cervix as your ass hit his hips. The sweat making your skin glisten under the shitty light of his room. You looked even more beautiful when he was fucking you like this.

His hot and sticky cum spurted out of his cock, coating your walls with a part of himself. In his sick and twisted mind, he branded you. He branded you with his essence and he didn’t regret it. He pulled out and heard you moan dumbly as he watched his cum slowly drip down the lips of your cunt to his bedsheet. He’d have to clean them but he didn’t care. He gave your ass a gentle squeeze as he patted your back for you to lay down. He knew you enjoyed it so much since you were on the brink of passing out.

You closed your eyes and felt as Leon cleaned you up. He took your hand and placed a gentle kiss on you knuckles. He was grateful to have you.

He wouldn’t mind killing again. Now that you were his in his mind, he’d go as far as killing every man who’s ever laid eyes on you.

For you, he’d become the world’s best serial killer.

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