Kinky Nikki

Kinky Nikki
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использует защитную технологию, которая является устаревшей и уязвимой для атаки. Злоумышленник может легко выявить информацию, которая, как вы думали, находится в безопасности.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning :

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Helluva Boss (Web Series)

Relationship:

Asmodeus | Ozzie/FizzaRolli

Characters:

Asmodeus | Ozzie FizzaRolli (Helluva Boss)

Additional Tags:

Emotional Hurt/Comfort Depression Implied/Referenced Drug Use Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism Cuddling & Snuggling Fluff POV Second Person Mood Swings One Day One Shot Short & Sweet Emotionally Repressed Fizz Stream of Consciousness character study???? idk what this is

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2022-02-28 Words: 1345 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 4 Kudos: 66 Bookmarks: 11 Hits: 763

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tip: lex m/m (mature OR explicit)

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Another cathartic, highly experimental one-shot (this time in Ozzie's POV), trying to understand Fizz's grappling with depression and masking the inevitable crash behind self-destructive habits. Spoiler alert: he is supportive AF, who knew?
i didn't want to spend any longer than a day on this. it needed to get out ASAP.
(See the end of the work for more notes .)
It has been six whole hours. It is 7 p.m— two remain until it's time to be on set. Sometimes Fizz, after a night of hard drinking and even harder drugs— needs the extra several hours to sleep off the wicked hangover and cataclysmic crash of a bender. It's just another part of existence as far as you're concerned, business and performance and a revolving carousel of oversexed VIP party nights, galas, and red carpet events. You let him regain his mortal constitution with no questions asked— at your disposal are many millennia of practiced patience, the hands of several servants, and an endless supply of pedialyte, cold towels, Tylenol, and trash can liners.
However, it has been six hours without a stir, a stiff whine or choleric grumble, and the stillness in which Fizz lay is highly disconcerting. You unearth the denial of your suspicions and let them rest at the forefront of your old brain— you know better, but you still don't want it to be what you think it is.
You open the door, quiet as a whisper, and sit on the soft satin, sex-worn royal blue sheets next to your sweet partner— usually a ball of spitfire, wisecracks and chaos— still curled up in that same damn ball he'd been in for the past six hours since you've been awake.
The weight of your impression on the bed is the only sign of your entry. "Hey, honey..." you murmur, sugar-drop sweet, running your intuitive fingertips along his tiny, coiled shoulder. "You doin' okay? Two hours 'til call..."
You can't help but loom over and get a glimpse of his face. He is awake, pink irises staring listlessly into the drawn, velvet blackout curtains. He doesn't shift, and his only response is an apathetic grunt.
Your heart sinks, and you damn it for doing so. His eyes confirm your suspicions, and you know what comes next.
"I'm just hung over," he bites back. "I'll get up eventually. Get me some morphine or leave me the fuck alone."
"I ain't doin' neither," you respond almost instantly with the same song and dance you've rehearsed over the past decade— and have known intimately over the course of the past five years.
He exhales an embittered breath, still as water.
It hasn't gotten any easier over these past several years. Masking is an intrinsic part of his nature— a well-constructed defense mechanism arisen from child stardom, theater lessons, and years of heavy public scrutiny. You know his burdens are nonexistent to the public eye, and any crack in your right hand's effortless composure was neatly mopped up by the PR team you helped him assemble. What better a scapegoat than one too many lines of blow, oversexed all nighters, and too much hard liquor?
You have seen through the mask since day one, yet you do not draw attention to it. You do not make suggestions, you do not try and strip him of it, you only offer support and a safe place to unwind. You understand that, after all these years, he carries a burden far heavier than the after effects of drug binges, and there are weeks where he buckles beneath their oppressive weight.
Every single time you question your approach, but at least you've found things that make him melt.
Your fingers continue, and you feel his coiled muscles unwittingly submit. Trying to reel back the final dregs of his resistance, clinging to the mask, he regards you with less venom than the first time.
"I'll get up eventually. Please. Only takes me a half hour to get ready."
"I ain't forcin' you to," you reason, and lower yourself onto an elbow.
You curl your arm beneath the pillows and tug him into your chest, his favorite spot to find sanctuary. He is listless and featherweight, and shows no sign of resistance. You take that as your cue to roll him over and tuck him in, face-first.
You should've seen this coming from miles away, but in the back of your mind, there's hope that every crash will be the last. These past three weeks of observing your pet's cheeky, coked-up antics, reckless spending, lack of sleep and unappeasable sex drive was like witnessing a train derailing at breakneck speeds— you're left mopping up the casualties after it plummets tragically off of the fucking cliff in a way you don't anticipate.
You don't know how to help him cope, save for your offering of warm affirmations and tender touches. You tuck your beak into the little valley of his hat, and he exhales like his chest is caving in beneath the weight of the world.
You feel totally helpless in a different way, but perhaps all you can do is offer solace. You brace your hand against his back, ready to still him in case he crumbles once the mask comes off.
He doesn't, but the black cloud that hangs heavy over you both might as well be literal.
Your brain works overtime, trying to use logic to piece together his burden— you've spent long days attempting to assuage his doubts and fears, namely around the portrayal of your cryptic relationship. You've honored his wishes, never once overstepping your shared boundaries, and you push the blame onto yourself for the societal stigma you helped create of your own bitterness. Perhaps maintaining an unblemished public image is his greatest anxiety, cemented into his very core from his time as one of Mammon's starlets, coupled with the perfectionism you can't fault him for. He never misses a beat onstage, and while the crowd is oblivious, you are astute to a near fault.
You see it in his eyes when he performs during these hard weeks— he scans the crowds with little effort to capture gazes. When he smiles, it is toothy and artificial. When he laughs, it is gritty and hollow. His quips and jokes never lose steam, but they carry a biting edge of self-deprecation, and the audience laughs at his expense.
He presses up against your beak, and you lift up to meet his suggestion. He is laid bare before you, nebulous pink orbs searching for the source of your kindness like a child trying to measure infinity in the spaces between stars. You warm him with a smile of your own, and instead of reciprocating like he usually would, he tucks his unguarded disposition away like it's too much for him to expose.
You've long since relented to the idea that you do, in fact, love him, so perhaps in that way you can relate. The outcome is enough to torment you and keep you up at night, so you prefer to live in the moment—
—like right now, when you peel open your satin robe and tuck him into it, and a little kitten purr begins to rumble through his chest and against yours. While you may never be able to relieve him of his burdens, you can at least offer him sanctuary and do your best— save for the performances he won't let you cancel— to restrict his exposure to the public eye, like installing parental controls on the TV and supplying him with extra bodyguards, sunglasses and heavy coats to drown in while he makes the short jaunt from the club to the limo.
During these hard weeks you supply him with private moments in your dressing room, a soft couch to nap on, clean blankets and comfort foods. You sit back, let him rest, and let time heal the wounds.
As long as the cloud lifts, you allow him the privilege of procrastinating right down to the wire— up until it's thirty minutes before you both need to leave for the club, and you're in a scramble for his espresso and a quick, nocturnal breakfast.
Despite it all, you take pride in his strength. He picks himself back up unfailingly, every single time. He is devoted, he is punctual, he is your equal, and he never lets anything get in the way of his craft.
this is literally the first and probably the only time i will ever write in second person lol thanks mio for inspiring me to try it this was hard as shit jesus christ

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