#brainrot thots

[mergers-and-executions]

I keep thinking about At The Opera Tonight and “Pavi gets laid” 🤔🤔

The idea of Pavi crying over a pile of coke, post Opera—

“And then—“ *sniff* “And then!! Papa called Pavi disgusting!” *rubs his gums*

“He say Pavi is-ah *unzips his pants* ah- creature!!”

“And worthless.” Bambi reminds him, lying naked on a bed scrolling through tweets.

He climbs on top of her, glittery mascara trailing his cheeks. “Ah~! Say it again, La mia dea~!”

[genocidalfetus]

V has unique people skills. He learns their quirks and their behaviors, making dealing with them much more manageable, whether they be clients or lovers. So when he and Kerry get into an argument, he knows how to handle the situation to make it the least stressful for the both of them. He learned that Kerry needs to get whatever is on his mind out of his system. So he lets Kerry scream, rant, rave, and throw things if necessary(a rare thing that happens, and he's never thrown things AT V). Once he's done, via exhaustion or the need to get himself a drink, then V is able to explain his side of the situation, choosing his words carefully to calm him. Nine times out of ten he is successful, and Kerry ends up conceding that he overreacted and apologizes. In the rare instance that he is not successful, V chooses to leave Kerry be and let him calm down.

[mergers-and-executions]

Bambi having to get an actual like- support rod implanted into her neck/spine just to accommodate all the added weight of HER hAIR??

Posture collars constantly just to keep her neck reinforced 😮‍💨😮‍💨

[mergers-and-executions]

Evelyn running into Nicoll at some erotic art exhibit and assuming she’s an artist. Nicoll never correcting her.

“My boyfriend Patrick would hate this sort of thing,” she laughs. “He’s so conservative about art.”

Nicoll doesn’t know for certain that this is her Patrick but why pass up the opportunity if it is? So she lets Evelyn be charmed. Lets her extend the invitation to dinner.

And when Patrick finally steps into the brownstone and sees Nicoll sprawled across the couch. Comfortable, unbothered, like some fucked up latex clad cat that’s always belonged there. The look of sheer panic blooming across his face confirms it.

Undoubtedly worth the gamble.

🪓📼⛓️🔐

[mergers-and-executions]

Something I wrote up for roleplay so yall are missing context (long story short, Bambi just cock blocked interrupted Graves and Amber) but I felt like the Bambi/Amber relationship thoughts were worth sharing 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ This situation would apply more to BEFORE Bambi and Pavi are a couple.

I imagine their relationship morphing into more of a mutual rivalry/obsession with one another once Bambi gets closer to Pavi and subsequently the whole Largo family 🤔

Imagine high school mean girls who are secretly obsessed/hate stalk each other and lack the emotional tools to navigate the fact that they actually just wanna suck face.

Pavi like “My wife and sister should fuck~🎶”

Bambi’s neat brow twitched, accompanied by a pang to her heart she’d never confess to possessing, let alone acknowledge. “Familiar—” she’d scoff under her breath before giving a flip to her purple mane.

Bambi’s feelings toward Amber were… complicated. Bambi would refer to Amber as “overrated” between sips of fizzing champagne.

“No. I didn’t see that—” She rolled her eyes, swirling the half-empty glass in her hand. “Must have missed it—” The lie came easy and rehearsed, voice trailing off. The adrenaline rush she got when her burner account pinged was almost as dizzying as that first hit of glow, only more shameful.

“Oh Em Gee! Bambi~! Everyone is talking about it!! Amber is so—“

“I don’t want to talk about Amber.” Bambi would cut her off before finishing the drink.

Two white-hot supernovas sharing one sky, trapped in each other’s orbit yet never colliding for more than a fleeting moment. Working under the same roof, you’d assume they’d have more to show for it than a few forced, empty smiles flashed in passing at sponsored galas and the occasional avoided eye contact during company meetings.

It took only two encounters during her soft launch to GeneCo for Bambi to realize that every time she met Amber, was “the first” time. The Amber she idolized through a screen now flesh and bone and within reach after clawing her way up the social ladder. Bambi spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to earn her acknowledgement. But no matter how many times the two were compared in tabloids and no matter the following Bambi amassed, Amber never seemed particularly interested in knowing who she was.

Idolization spoiled quickly, curdling into resentment. Being ignored was worse than being disliked—at least people who hated her kept tabs. And Bambi, whose ego was just as big as her hair, would never allow her theories to be challenged, convinced it was deliberate.

Bambi played the part of a spoiled bimbo with ease, but she always told herself she’d put in the real work to get there. Every frivolous augmentation she underwent, every cock sucked, she did with enthusiasm if it meant getting closer to her goal.

Amber was granted her luxury status by blood and name alone, and no amount of sponsorships or leaked videos could ever buy Bambi the same effortless legitimacy.

She shifted her weight to one leg, popping a hip out. All those repressed feelings turned scalpel-sharp at the forefront of her grey matter. The hot pink phone weighed heavy in her hand like a sword poised for battle as she took in the full extent of the private scene she’d stumbled into. The far-off look in Amber’s eyes, the way her frame crumpled into the strange man’s grip—even in her disheveled state, the heiress was effortlessly breathtaking. Another pang. She grit veneers. One tagged photo was all she needed.

Bambi was vain and morally grey but Bambi wasn’t dumb. She worked too damn hard to lose it all. She was damn good at her job and felt secure enough to bend a lot of rules at GeneCo. but one rule was as good as gospel.

Amber was off limits.

Her grip on the phone tightened as she tore her eyes away from the wilted woman. She exhaled, mentally resetting, tucking it away into her top before swaying closer to the pair. The fucked-up girlish crush she’d warped into a one-sided rivalry simmered as she remembered what she’d come here for.

Up close and in better lighting the man is less grimly than she originally decided. Amber does have good taste…

“Mm- supporting—“ her eyes flick to the second man as he approaches, her wings twitch. She’s suddenly aware of the crowd she’s a part of and wrinkles her nose. Jesus.

“And you’re like- what?—“ she shifts hips again and flicks her hand. “Saint fucking Nick? Handing out ‘gifts’ to good girls and boys?”

She looks to Amber and then back to him. Something shifts behind her eyes.

“Is she right? Are you sold out?” She crosses her arms. “Like for real?”

She gives the tall, tattooed man a judgmental look, zero effort to hide her disdain before looking back to the man she dubbed Santa.

“I was here first okay, so like— I get dibs.” She nods her head quickly, agreeing with herself. “What do we gotta do, sit in your lap or something?” She flashes a wicked grin.

[mergers-and-executions]

Patrick stumbling across a discarded fetish magazine at 19. He flips through it, performatively rolling his eyes. His stomach lurches. His ears go hot. He lingers too long on a glossy, high-contrast full-page spread: a masked woman in latex, a man on a leash, kneeling at her feet.

He swallows hard. Then snatches his hand back like he’s been burned.

Tsk.

Disgusting. Deranged. Probably European.

Immediately after convincing himself it was repulsive, he forces himself to forget about it entirely. Bury it.

He doesn’t think about it again. Not for eight years. Not until he sees her. Her makeup is dark, latex tight and deliberate. She is a presence, commanding. Almost intoxicating.

And suddenly, the memory isn’t buried anymore. It’s standing in 6 inch heels across the lounge, looking the other way.

[mergers-and-executions]

Pavi is a switch, bottom leaning OBVIOUSLY. That man loves to be ruined and reduced to a whimpering mess, it’s his default. But there ARE instances where he loves to put on a show.

Eager pleading kisses give way to possessive ones that threaten to devour you whole. Desperately gripping hands start to guide and set the tempo. Pavi bottoming is your prize winning pet, obedient and eager to please. Pavi topping is a flashy show pony, demanding your full attention while you try to keep hold on the bedazzled reins.

Either way, he is seeking approval and applause. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[mergers-and-executions]

The door to her apartment was already unlocked but because this had unfortunately become apart of the routine these past few weeks she doesn’t pause. Pushing the door open the smell hits her before anything else. Metallic and warm. Unmistakably Dior.

He’s standing with his back to her in front of the vinyl shelf. Jacket folded precisely over the arm of the chair. Shirt soaked a dark crimson. His manicured fingers move methodically through the records, tilting each sleeve forward just enough to inspect the spine before sliding it back into place.

She exhales through her nose and drops her keys into the porcelain bowl by the door. The sharp clatter of metal against ceramic carries across the room.

He glances over his shoulder.

“The Smiths?” His mouth tightens faintly. “Morrissey’s entire persona hinges on performative vulnerability—” He draws the record halfway out, examining the cover. “It’s efficient branding, if nothing else.” He slides it back in before turning.

Blood streaks along his jawline. A darker smear arcs across his throat. Most of it has oxidized. He’s been here a while.

“I’m tempted to change my locks,” she says lightly, letting her fur coat slip from her shoulders. “But there’s something about coming home to an eager dog that makes the mess almost worth it.” She chuckles.

He watches her approach.

“Perhaps I should invest in a kennel,” she continues, her gaze moving slowly over him. Assessing. “Something reinforced.”

His hair remains immaculate and she can’t help but smile. He must have washed his hands in her sink. Smoothed himself in her mirror. He’ll leave a widening stain on her hardwood but god forbid a misplaced strand.

He straightens slightly. “I’m not eager. I’m—”

“Shirt. Off.”

There is no hesitation. He strips it over his head hastily, buttons straining under the sudden force. The fabric lands in a damp heap on the floor.

A drawer slides open. Metal chimes softly.

He lowers himself to his knees in one smooth, practiced motion. Back straight. Eyes lifted. Waiting for further instruction.

“Eager,” she repeats, stepping behind him.

“Changing the locks wouldn’t change anything.”

His voice is low — too low to tell whether it’s meant for her or for himself. He tilts his head back, exposing the column of his stained throat to her. The words settle in the space between them. Her grip on the leather tightens.

Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, a familiar siren begins to rise.

The collar circles his neck with a soft, deliberate click. He exhales. His body relaxes.

The siren fades as she adjusts the collar, settling the metal flush against his pulse.

She decides to let the silence swallow his statement whole. Lets the siren bleed into their soundtrack. Some outcomes are inevitable.

That doesn’t mean they aren’t enjoyable.

🪓📼⛓️🔐