#best table game or whatever its called

[dainedablo]

fucking love checkers and uno. could play it all day if i had friends i swear

#wish someone would play checkers with me #or uno #best table game or whatever its called #uno #checkers #reversi #othello

[frogchiro]

So hear me out: it’s dark and very dingy in simons apartment, even more so when he’s go his equally as sleazy friends over. They sit around a rounded table with bottles of whiskey and beer (they are all very large they can drink plenty without feeling it) playing a card game and smoking. Only to hear frantic tapping on the door and a soft voice calling for Simon.

It’s you of course when he opens the door, scared and anxious and practically shaking, and it’s then that he sees what’s gotten you so frightened. There’s a strange man swaggering through the hallway after you slurring your name with a broken bottle in hand.

Simon tugs you into his apartment with a tank and closes the door behind you. He’s going to take care of the mean man who scared you so, but first, meet his old military buddies. They’ve been dying to meet you ;)

Oh my god yes :((

Simon's apartament is...just as dark, bleak and dingy as its owner and probably just like the rest of the building. Not all lights work, it's walls are chipping from the cheap plaster, the wallpaper is peeling off at the top, yellowing with age and cigarette smoke, the floor is creaky too; a very unpleasant, dark and cold place with few things intact and yes it becomes somehow even more dodgy when his ex-military friends arrive for poker and cheap alcohol.

He boasted a while ago that a cute girl moved in next door that's not a druggie or one that looks like a train wreck; it's clear that you don't belong here but you have few options and this is your best one. Tragic, really but that gives Simon an opportunity to stare and (discreetly) feel the pretty lady up. Since that time Gaz, Price and Johnny can't give up on you, often slurring after a few beers how they want to meet you and squeeze all the soft places.

Unknowingly to them, the opportunity to meet you came sooner than later when one cold night they were as usual gathered in Simon's dingy flat, playing poker and throwing around crude jokes when suddenly there came a soft knocking on the door with a voice calling out to Simon if he could please open up.

They shot up like bloodhounds even in their intoxicated states and they watched as the blonde walked to the door. There stood you, clad in those pretty pastel pink pajamas and a zip-up hoodie, trembling with tears in your eyes making the hairs on the back of Simon's neck stand up.

Before you could say anything there was a loud crash coming from the floor below and a loud, slurring voice calling out your name whoch made you jump and flinch in fright and without even asking what's going on, he pulled you roughly inside and closed the door with a bang.

You were clearly shaken up, stumbling over your words but he managed to put together something about this one pushy guy from the ground floor whom you helped out once and now he doesn't want to let you be.

Oh sweet girl how could he ever say no to you, especially in circumstances like this? Of course you can stay here, in fact he insists that you stay the rest of the night. It's Saturday tomorrow, you have off so one one will care if you sleep in a bit. Not to mention that his friends are here too! And they are so excited to meet you, you wouldn't say no to them right? Especially since they are all big, burly military men, they will surely protect you better than anyone!

You can hear various deep voices jeering and whooping, calling out to Simon to show them the little lost lamb and while you're still shaken from the events from outside, you feel like whatever haplens here isn't that much better, especially with the huge, scarred man's hand placed dangerously low on your back :((

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #sleazy neighbour!ghost #cod x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #141 x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley

[heavenlyhischier]

‘𝐌𝐲 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝’ - 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐫

word count: 0.8k

summary: you do the ‘call your boyfriend your husband and get his reaction’ trend.

warnings: none! short and sweet. mostly dialogue. it's just cute!

You were scrolling through Tiktok as Nico watched whatever film he needed to for their upcoming game when you got the idea. The trend had appeared a few times on your for you page already, and the thought popped into your head each time, but you were always at work and by the time you got home, you’d forgotten about it. It was harmless and simple, but it was also cute and fun.

You turned your phone off and left it on the coffee table as you approached Nico from behind, wrapping your arms around his front as you leaned on him. He lifted one of his hands to rub the skin of your arm as he turned towards you and gave you a lazy smile. You delicately pressed your lips to his own for a fleeting moment before you pulled away.

“Can we go to that coffee shop down the street,” You ask, your lips turning upwards, “They got a few new drinks I want to try with you!”

Nico couldn’t help but chuckle as he watched your face light up with excitement, but he was quick to agree. The two of you are on your way to the local shop down the road after Nico had paused his game and the both of you slipped on your shoes. He always let you pick the music when you were riding in the car with him, but you always slipped in songs you noticed he’d been listening to recently and it always made him smile. When you had gotten the drinks, one for each of you, you sat back in the car and tried to set your phone up to film.

“What are you doing,” Nico shakes his head as your phone falls for the third time. He picks it up from his floor board and manages to balance it on his dashboard with the help of a half-drunk water bottle. 

“Videoing,” You playfully roll your eyes, “I’m going to post it for this trend that I saw!”

“Okay, schatzi,” He laughs before he relaxes in his seat, watching as you reach for your phone to press the red record button.

“Okay, so my husband and I are going to be trying these new drinks from a little coffee shop in the city,” You begin, doing your best to keep your focus on the screen and your face neutral, but the way the word flows so naturally off your tongue makes you blush.

The use of the word ‘husband’ catches Nico off guard, but he quickly recovers and he can’t stop the smile from forming on his face. He’s only looking at you as you continue talking for a little bit, his eyes wide and adoration. He doesn’t care if it was a simple slip of the tongue, it makes warmth spread in his chest all the same when the word tumbled from your lips.

“First we have the cinnamon bun frappe, so my husband is going to try it and let us know what he thinks,” You grin as you take the cup from its holder and turn to Nico, “It’s not what he usually gets because he thinks it’s too sweet, but he’s going to try it for us right?”

He has a flustered look on his face, his cheeks red and eyes crinkled as he takes the drink from your hands, “Yeah, of course I am.”

He glances away from you and takes a small drink from the straw, his features slightly scrunching from the sweetness of the drink. He lets his gaze flicker over to you and he does his best to look like he enjoyed the sugary drink you mistook for a coffee, but he failed miserably. You giggled as you watched him forcefully swallow the small sip he had taken before looking back at your phone.

“Okay, so that one is not husband approved,” You point out as you let out a small laugh, listening to the way Nico shuffles in his seat so his body is angled towards you.

“Are you saying that on purpose,” He asks, raising his brows when you catch his eye.

“Saying what,” You feign confusion, slightly tilting your head as you bite back a smile of your own.

“Husband,” He smugly smiles as he leans over the center console, “I’m not complaining. I love it actually.”

You watch as he gets closer to you, your body instinctively leaning towards his own like he was your own gravitational pull. His eyes briefly flicker down to your lips as the two of you wait for the other to diminish the small distance between you. You let out a sigh as he reaches a hand over to cup the back of your head, his thumb massaging your scalp.

“Do you really,” You whisper, nudging his nose with your own as you ghost your lips over his.

“Yeah, I really do. Can’t wait until it’s reality one day.”

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #nico hischier blurb #new jersey devils

[star-girl69]

Music To Watch Girls To

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

sypnosis: is it wrong to be obsessed with clarisse? obviously not!!

a/n: i cant just write a drabble what is wrong w me it’s always gotta be a full fledged fic damn anyways i don’t like this one that much so don’t crucify me, but i hope you all enjoy!!

Music To Watch Boys To - Lana Del Rey

warnings: FRIENDS TO LOVERS GOOD LORD, all clarisse know is be mean to her friends, like girls, and lie, reader is a little insane this time…., it’s not watching clarisse train bc i got struck with inspo but you all will like it dw, there’s still muscles and watching clarisse fight, swearing, violence, mentions of weapons, reader is an honorary ares cabin member bc i think it’s cute and i do what i want, y/n gets hurt like 20 times ITS FOR THE PLOT OK, kissing!!!!, like angst for half a sec not rly tho, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

The only word you think of when you think of Clarisse is fuck.

It describes your feelings about her so accurately. The first time you saw her, you knew you had to have this girl. And the first time you heard her talk, she was calling some Hephaestus kid a dumbass for not fixing a dent in her armor correctly.

She was an asshole, a bully, whatever, and she was also the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. But, thank the Gods you became close friends with her brother Matty, and then Carrie, and then you practically knew everyone in the Ares cabin like your own siblings.

Even just friendship with Ares kids is an intense rollercoaster.

They admired your for your deadly skill with a bow, a few of them even openly claiming you were probably the best at camp. They were loyal and fierce, protective, funny and everything you could want in a replacement family. Your mortal parent went down a dark road after your godly parent went back to Olympus, and you had never felt that love that everyone craved.

Clarisse hated you at first, like she does everyone, until one day at the bonfire you were sitting with her and a few of her siblings, the fire was hot and it was never the same. You still remember her eyes on you, feeling intoxicated under the moon. Besides, the nights are made for secrets.

And it became a tradition.

You would look at each other next to the fire, and never speak of it again.

The rest of the time, she was like any friend. That same loyalty, focus, but sometimes you could swear she seemed to look a little longer.

After the arrival of Percy Jackson, Clarisse was especially on edge. She was supposed to be training, but she was instead sulking and ranting to Matty and Carrie.

“And he really thinks he killed that Minotaur? Doesn’t matter. That’s what everyone else thinks.”

“Talking about the new kid?” you ask, sitting on top of the picnic table next to their cabin.

“Oh, yeah,” Carrie mumbles. “Talking all about the new kid.”

Clarisse stops her angry pacing to send her a harsh glare.

“He’s just a baby, Clarisse.”

She slams her hand down on the table next to you, pointing her finger in your face.

“He’s a liar,” she hisses. “I’m gonna make him admit it.”

“Hm, okay,” you say, pressing her foot against her stomach and pushing her back. “And that’s totally logical. But have you considered that he actually killed the Minotaur?”

“I’ll punch you.”

“Oh, you love me, Clarisse,” you smile, sweeping your arms out in a big circle. “I’m the brightest part of your day.”

She glares at you.

Matty coughs to hide a laugh.

“Just ignore him!” you say. “I don’t get why you’re so obsessed over him anyways.”

“I’m not explaining myself to you,” she huffs, stubborn as ever.

“Okay, Clarisse,” you say, drawing out the words.

You miss Carrie and Matty shooting each other looks.

—-

Chiron announces the next capture the flag game later that day, and the next morning you’re heading off to the Ares cabin with your bow and armor in tow.

You walk in. They’re all adjusting their armor, polishing their weapons. A few smile at you and wave, but you head straight towards the back. Clarisse is there, helping some of her younger siblings pick out weapons from the secret weapons stash the Ares kids have curated over the years.

It’s Danny’s first game. He’s only twelve.

She looks up at you for a moment, which is about as much acknowledgment as you’re gonna get. You sit at the end of someone’s empty bed, right next to Danny.

“How you feelin’?” you ask. His face is twisted into a stone cold mask.

“Excited,” he says, like he practiced it in the mirror.

“Well, I’m scared.”

He looks at you and frowns.

“You’re the best archer in camp. Matty says so.”

You shrug. “I may be the best archer, but I’m nowhere near the best fighter.”

He nods, thinking hard like the whole world is suddenly starting to make sense.

“Hey, if I promise to keep a look out for you from the trees- will you watch out for me on the ground?”

He doesn’t need your assurance. He’s a child of Ares, they’re prebuilt with the lust for battle. But you know how to play all of them like a fiddle. They like feeling important, and he’s only twelve. It doesn’t hurt you to give this to him.

You stick out your hand and he grabs it.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

“Y/N,” Clarisse says. You realize she’s been standing there for a while. “Are you here to distract everyone or for a reason?”

“You know, I would welcome you into my cabin warmly.”

Her face remains stone cold. Danny runs off. Clarisse can be some sort of halfway nice, but rarely, and most of the time everyone just knows her cruel words, her ruthless tactics in battle, and her misleading words and smiles.

“You’re no fun,” you pout.

“You’re the one who sticks around. No one’s holding you hostage- you can leave.”

“I need a dagger.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Wow, you actually came here for something? What happened to yours?”

“Broke,” you shrug. “The handle fell off. Weird, whatever.”

She hums, looking through the daggers hung on the wall. “This one.”

She hands it to you. It’s similar to your old dagger, except a lot sharper and a lot more sturdy. But it’s the same style you’re used to. You wonder if she knows that or not- Ares kids do notice everything.

But for Clarisse to actually do something like that with intention is rare.

“I like it,” you say. “Thanks!”

She hesitates for a second.

“Keep it.”

You look at her. “I can give it back.”

“I already told you to keep it. Don’t be pathetic and make me reassure you.”

“Okay, Clarisse,” you roll your eyes.

—-

Your position on capture the flag is always the same.

Carrie, Matty and Clarisse hunt in the woods on the ground, and you get thrown up into some random tree to shoot arrows at anyone you see.

The idea is, they see the arrow coming from up above and look to the trees, only for Clarisse, Matty and Carrie to ambush them on the ground.

It’s only the third game you’ve employed this tactic, so the blue team is starting to catch on.

After Chiron gives his speech you could probably say yourself, you head over to the three of them, holding your arm out to Matty and the red bandana. He ties it around without saying a word, Carrie reaches over and scolds you for not tying your armor tight enough.

“Blah, blah, blah,” you say. “I’ll live.”

“Yeah,” Carrie snorts. “Because I fixed it.”

“Shush,” Clarisse hisses. She finishes talking to a few more of her siblings, and they take their companies off into the woods. She turns back around. “I have a different plan today.”

Carrie and Matty grin dangerously.

There’s something in between the three of them, some sort of matching glint in their eyes.

“Okay, did I miss something? Why are you guys being so… scary?”

“You’ll see,” Clarisse says, her eyes dark.

Gods, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

—-

The great thing about being up in the trees is you get to see everything.

You get to see the way Clarisse grins while she fights, the way she whips her spear around like it weights nothing, the way sweat forms at her brow- and the way her muscles flex. That’s the best part.

Her arms, her legs, her stomach, every part of Clarisse is just lean and toned muscle.

It makes you want to betray yourself in a way that would permanently embarrass you.

You follow them, of course, even though you have no idea what the hell is happening or what the plan is. There’s a reason she’s not telling you the plan. Why?

When you walk past the woods where you normally hunt, you start getting fidgety.

“Ok, guys, seriously. Tell me what’s going on.”

You realize you’re heading towards the side of the big hill, starting the climb up through the trees and rocks.

Clarisse turns around.

“Stop. Worrying.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m not worried. I’m just confused.”

She sighs, signaling to Carrie and Matty.

“You know,” she mutters. And they leave, so it’s just the two of you.

They spit up, making their way on the farthest two ends, all leading to the same ledge.

She grabs your wrists. “Stop cracking your fingers. It’s annoying, and you’ll hurt ‘em.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

She lets go of one of your wrists, but keeps her tight grip on the other, forcing you to keep pace behind her.

“I’m not gonna tell you again, Y/N. Don’t worry. I’m not going to put you in danger, obviously.” She laughs, as if the idea is ridiculous. “You’re a damn good archer.”

“Oh, my Gods. Did you just compliment me?”

She tenses up, finally realizing she did it.

“D-don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, I won’t. It will just be our little secret, won’t it?”

You bite your lip as you smile so you don’t burst out laughing.

“Sure,” she mutters, and you don’t miss the way she stares at your lips. She clears her throat, finally letting go of your wrist. “Percy Jackson-”

“Who’s a baby.”

“-attacked us last night.”

You raise an eyebrow, walking next to her. “Did you attack him first?”

She doesn’t answer that.

“I doubted you would join us. I just didn’t want you to be alone in the woods.”

“Why?”

“Hm, I saw Annabeth as we left the bathrooms. She knows, she knows we’re gonna get revenge so Luke’s gonna go straight for the flag because we’re not in the woods.”

“So you’re just sacrificing the entire game for revenge? Against a 12-year-old?”

“Revenge,” she mutters, thinking over it. “That’s a fun word.”

She smiles, looking at you.

“Oh, Gods,” you mutter.

—-

The rest of the walk continues in silence, until you can see Carrie and Matty in the distance, both waiting for Clarisse’s signal. She grins.

“Now, why don’t you just stay behind me and draw an arrow, and tell me if anyone’s coming. And when he’s distracted, you’ll sneak around behind him and block him from escaping, hm?”

You look around the forest. “Okay. But, Clarisse-”

She smacks her hand over your face. “I don’t need your morality right now. I just need you to keep those pretty eyes open and be our lookout.”

“Fine,” you hiss as you throw your hand off her mouth.

“Thank you,” she smiles, sarcastically. “Was that so hard?”

You mock her under your breath, but she signals to Carrie and Matty. They all start walking forward, trying for stealth, but your feet make sink into the gravel. He hears them. He sits up.

You don’t know anything about Percy Jackson, except for the fact he supposedly attacked the three musketeers you call your friends and possibly killed a Minotaur.

True to your word, you stay behind Clarisse, watching as she lifts her helmet off, throwing it to the ground.

Her spear sinks into the dirt.

“Flag’s that way,” Percy says. “It’s not here.”

“We know.”

You start walking out from behind her. His eyes flick between all four of you.

“Yeah, glory’s fine.” You can feel her eyes on you. “Revenge is more fun.”

She looks up at her spear, slamming it down, and you hear the familiar crackle as it lights up. Red hot electricity.

She laughs a bit.

He scrambles for his sword and spear, forgoing his helmet. They close him in. You walk around Carrie and behind him. His eyes move between you and Clarisse, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the four of you from surrounding him.

“No maiming. It’s like the one rule.”

His stance isn’t even close to correct.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll lose dessert privileges for a while,” she fake frets, looking up at her spear. She smiles and looks back at him. “I’ll live.”

Her face twists into a mask of focus and she swings out at him. He manages to dodge her first hit, and block the second with his shield.

She looks at Carrie and Matty. They lunge forward, attacking him together, and he certainly is a demigod- he has a natural talent.

But you can only really focus on the way she lifts her spear back over her head.

She grunts and spins, shocking him, before jabbing forward at his armor, making him fall back over the log he used to be laying on, right at your feet.

“I’m actually not interested in maiming or killing you, believe it or not,” she says, standing over him. “I just want you to admit you’re a fraud. It’d make me feel better. Are you feeling up to that yet?”

The way she holds her spear, the way she says it’ll make her feel better- you miss the way he swings out with his shield, hitting you in the shins.

“Fuck,” you hiss, leaning down to touch your burning leg. “Oh, fuck, that hurt.”

Percy grunts and takes off running.

“Y/N,” Matty says, a silent question in his concerned voice.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, shaking your leg out.

Clarisse glares at his retreating figure.

“I guess he has a fucking death wish,” she whispers, voice full of a deadly promise.

She grunts and launches herself over the log, Carrie and Matty following. You straighten yourself and take off running after them. You leg does burn, but you still manage to keep pace. Besides, Matty is already far ahead, surprising him and knocking him down from the path, making him tumble through the woods and land on the beach.

Matty and Carrie wave their swords at him from the right. He pants and breathes heavily, backing up, but when he turns around to run- Clarisse is there.

You draw your bow again, out of habit.

The arrows you use aren’t actual arrows of course, but filed down to little circle rocks at the end. They won’t kill you, but they fucking hurt.

You can’t help but giggle as he falls onto his back, scared just by Clarisse being there.

She laughs too, before all three of them launch into an attack.

They push him back, towards you, and you step back with them, waiting for the perfect moment.

But your eyes drift up to Clarisse. She’s hanging back for just a second while Matty and Carrie jab at him. She looks… proud. She looks really fucking proud that you’re laughing at this 12-year-olds misery.

But Clarisse was right. Revenge is fun. And you hate it, but you can’t stop it.

You smile back at her, and it’s like those nights at the bonfire, you know you’ll never speak of it again. It doesn’t matter. Right now, there’s angelic music playing in your head, and you’re watching her. You’re watching her, the sweat on her brow, the way her hands clasp her spear.

Her face twists into something else.

“Y/N!” she shouts, but Carrie and Matty pushed him too far, you didn’t move back enough- distracted by her- and you slam into each other, a tangle of limbs and metal.

He does this awkward sort of flip over you, landing a few feet behind you. You drop your bow in favor of catching yourself, and it gets caught on his shield and dragged along with him.

It’s a blur, you yelp as you go down, Percy groans.

They’re all standing there, tense and watching the way Percy stands up with your bow in his hands. His stance is nowhere near correct, it actually makes you cringe more than your bruised side after the fall.

Why the hell are you the one who keeps getting hurt?

Percy let’s out a breath. “Why don’t we all just walk away and forget this happened?”

“You just made that impossible,” Clarisse hisses.

You just want to get an ice pack on your leg and sit down. You’re tired. You want to boss Clarisse around as payment for bringing you here.

“Okay, okay, just stop. This is stupid, all of you. He’s, like, 12. He didn’t do it on purpose, you’re just attacking him for no reason.” Carrie and Matty look at the ground. Clarisse glares at you.

You turn around and face Percy. “Just go, okay.”

He looks between you and Clarisse.

“O-okay,” he breathes.

You can feel her move, hear her footsteps in the sand, her spear cutting through the wind. She comes around you, and Percy gets scared, so he raises up the bow and let’s it go- pointed straight at her face.

But it never hits her. It hits you, of course, because you have the worst luck in the world.

It hits you right in the chest, and it doesn’t kill you, but Percy is strong and it knocks the wind out of you.

Clarisse throws her spear to the ground and catches you, screaming your name at the top of her lungs.

Gods, this was so stupid. All of it. He didn’t mean to hurt you, he meant to stop her from attacking him. Because Clarisse is bloodthirsty. She cares about no one else but herself.

You were stupid to think she ever did.

But even through all of this, everyone treating you like a rag doll, you stare into Clarisse’s eyes. She’s frozen. She’s watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, she’s watching the way you press your hand into your chest, trying to breathe, she’s looking at the fear in your eyes.

You’re terrified. And Clarisse looks the exact same way you feel.

You mouth her name.

Carrie and Matty are gathered around you, telling you to just breathe, take a breath in, but you can’t.

Clarisse let’s go of you and ignores your hands trying to hold her back, ignores Carrie warning her.

Oh, Gods, you’re in love with her and she’s just your friend, but it all hurts and you just need her right now.

Percy tries to scramble away from what he’s done, but Clarisse grabs him by his shirt and holds him up.

You think she’s actually going to kill him- then the conch sounds.

You all turn around.

The blue team runs to the beach, sticking the red flag into the ground. They all cheer loudly, Luke and Chris at the center of it.

Clarisse throws Percy back down on the ground.

She picks up your bow. Matty helps you stand up, you can breathe now, and you’re really fine. You just couldn’t for a minute. You don’t look at Clarisse, even though you want to.

—-

The four of you end up at the sword practice field, sitting on picnic tables like you did that one day.

Matty touches a few scratches on his arms from where he burst through the woods, scraping himself on something thorny.

Clarisse walks towards a dummy and starts attacking it. She lets all her anger out on it. They didn’t win, and her revenge is incomplete so, its not even worth it. You could have told her that from the beginning, but whatever.

Clarisse can do whatever she wants. She doesn’t listen to you, she doesn’t care about you- not as much as you want her too. Not as much as you care about her.

She’s so wonderfully in her element it makes you want her more. This is where she belongs, in the field in the sun, with her spear in her hands. She belongs here, where she feels closest to her father and farthest away from her responsibilities, from the constant battle it is for her to keep her emotions in check.

Even after a minute of her obliterating the dummy, she seems better. Finally, after another minute, she slows down until she stops.

You don’t stop looking at her until she turns around and looks at you. She breathes out.

“Are you okay?” she asks, sitting down on the opposite end of the bench.

“Fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

She hums.

“C’mon, Matty,” Carrie says. “Let’s go back to the cabin, I’m thirsty.”

You’re not ready to get up yet, you’re too comfortable here on the bench, it’s too easy to breathe in the valley.

Clarisse flexes, stretching her spear over her head, and you watch her. Of course you watch her. You don’t think you’ll ever just be able to look at her in passing- you’ll always have to focused, you’ve always have to have your eyes totally and completely on her.

Like she’s some book you have to study. Like she’s all you’ve ever wanted to look at.

“Stop staring at me, weirdo,” she mumbles.

You sit up straighter. “I’m not. You’re just flexing dramatically all over the place, of course I’m gonna take notice of it.”

“Okay, sure,” she taunts, and you remember what happened, you remember how you felt when she walked away from you to continue with her revenge.

“I-I’m gonna go back to my cabin.” You don’t wanna be around her, not right now at least. “See you later, Clarisse.”

She stands up immediately. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, thanks, it’s fine.”

“Y/N, you got hurt because of me.” She crouches down and tugs up your pant leg. “How’s your leg? Your side?”

Matty, Carrie and Clarisse too, sometimes, are always touching you and doing things for you. It’s sweet. They aren’t good with the words, but they show you they love you, and that means more than anything else.

If she hadn’t done what she did, if she really cared about you, then you wouldn’t mind her touching you like this. You would love it.

“Clarisse- get off of me,” you shake your leg out, which hurts a bit, but she lets go and stands up.

Her face twists into one of anger, her fists clenched.

“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry you got hurt. I feel really bad about it, so just let me do this for you.”

“It’s not about that,” you mumble, cursing yourself and hoping she doesn’t hear you. Of course she does.

“Then what’s it about?”

You try to turn away, but she clamps her around your wrist and tugs you back towards her.

“What’s it about, Y/N?”

She holds your hand to her chest.

You both know what it’s about.

“Just stop, Clarisse,” but your body betrays you and you make no move to push her away. She notices, of course she notices, and she pulls you closer. “We’ve been dancing around each other for months.”

She blinks and her grip on your wrist loosens.

“And it was fun. It was a fun game, okay, Clarisse. But you can stop playing it now. You showed me today that your care more about yourself then you ever could me. I’m sick of it.” You tug your hand away. “I’m so sick of it, Clarisse.”

She grips you tighter again.

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m running around looking like a fool, and you think I care about myself? You think I don’t care about you?”

Your breath is a little shaky again.

“You could have helped me and you chose revenge.”

“For you.”

“What?”

“He slammed his shield into your leg, knocked you over, and then shot you in the chest. Of course I wanted revenge. Not for me, it was about that at first, but then, Gods, did you do something to him?”

You laugh. She smiles, staring at your face like she’s seeing you for the first time.

“Like, he just kept coming after you, I don’t get it. But I… I like you. Like, like you. And I don’t know what that means, but I don’t really care. I just… want you. I want to be near you all the time. And I go crazy when you’re with someone else. I want to touch you all the time, hug you, hold you… I want to kiss you so bad I think I’m gonna fucking explode.”

Fuck is always the first word you think of when you think of her. It used to be because she made you so angry with the secrets, but now it’s just the things the says make you wonder how much more you can fall in love with her.

“Well, I don’t really want you to explode,” you roll your eyes. “That’d be too messy. Besides, I-”

“You’re always such a fucking worrier.”

She plants her hands on your face and presses her lips to yours. You can feel the slight desperateness she won’t say, but she’ll tell you with her body. You can feel everything she won’t show, won’t say. How beautiful you are. How scared she was. How much she wanted you and for how long.

You feel it all just by her lips, and you can’t help but wonder what more she can tell you.

She pulls back and smiles.

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll deny it.”

“I’m the light of your life, Clarisse.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, grabbing you tighter and kissing you again. You grab onto her arms, smiling. You always wondered what he muscles would feel like against you.

There’s only one word to describe the way it feels.

Fuck.

—-

clarisse when she accidentally told y/n she has pretty eyes: PLEASE DONT NOTICE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

y/n my ladybug not noticing: 🧍‍♀️

—-

y/n and clarisse just being insane together WDYM YOURE LAUGHING WHEN A KID FALLS OVER STOP

—-

clarisse: bitch stop WORRYING

y/n: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME SHUT UP

—-

clarisse and y/n both pretending that clarisse giving her a dagger wasnt literally a declaration of love and also clarisse throwing her spear down to catch y/n???? bitch she’s in LOVE

—-

taglist:

@jazhandzzz

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x you #pjo tv show #pjo x reader

[beiasluv]

ice creams? | cl16 + al12

a/n: Idk this is so random, lmk if you guys found it cute or weird 💀

Being a Monegasque resident had its perks – being the Leclercs’ neighbor also had its perks.

Like getting a bowl of Bouillabaisse when they heard you were sick, getting invited to Charles’s karting race – and he won, or babysitting the little devils. One of them was Charles, a seven-year-old, or what he likes to say that he is ‘thee years older than arth’; and Arthur, the four-year-old.

Okay, maybe that last one wasn’t much of a perk.

—

Fridays called for an extra long time in bed, snuggling into your air-conditioned room and, definitely, without a blasting ringing down your hallway – your cream-colored house phone, hanging by the bronzed framed mirror.

Groaning as you threw the pink duvet off your body, slipping into your slippers – not so sure whether your parents leaving for a business trip was so good after all.

“Hello?” You said, rubbing your eyes clear to make out the dimmed outlines of your hallway. Approaching midnight if your mental clock worked properly.

“Hi, chérie,” came the reply, the caller not sounding not so much better than you. “I’m sorry for calling in so late, is it possible for you to look after the boys–”

“Yes– yes, I’ll be over.” It slipped off your mouth, not sure whether where that urgency came from. Or was it the growing worry for the two little boys.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you, chérie.” She sighed. “Lorenzo got himself in trouble, we’re going to the ER–”

“Maman, don’t worry. I got them,” you cut her off, shaking your head unconsciously. Perhaps biting your smile that how one of them managed to get in trouble again this week.

“Thank you so much, dear.”

Mumbling the last ‘see you’ to the speaker, you hung the handset back to its hook on the wall. Not that it was the end of the world babysitting the younger Leclercs, they were sweethearts – what’s the worst that could happen, right?

—

Everything came in a blur: knocking at their front door, Pascale and Harvé rushing to greet you while whisking Lorenzo out the door, and then seeing Charles and Arthur coloring with their crayons on the carpet in the middle of the living room.

The one that you were so sure was filled with tears a couple of hours ago while ‘whatever happened’ happened.

Now, the three of you found yourselves on the sofa, watching the television, and the boys stuffing their faces with popcorn just to make them a little bit fuller and slower.

Which, you were sure, was not happening any soon. They were restless. A giggling mess, if you will.

“Aren’t you guys a little tired?” You asked, trying to see if they were hinting just a little bit of a yearning for bed, that you were sure to whisk them away if they were. Yawning and rubbing your eyes were not helping.

Arthur got his little legs propped up in a ‘M-shaped’ way, while Charles snuggled next to your arms on the other side. They blinked their brown eyes from stimulating cartoons on the television to your eyes – still big and bright as ever.

"Nooo..." both Charles and Arthur replied almost at the same time, shaking their little heads left to right. The older one said with his mouth full of popcorn and the younger one continued to find his arms in an interesting position.

“Alright…what do you guys wanna do?” You appealed to in defeat, rubbing your eyes.

"Let's play hide and seek!" Arthur yelled, looking at his brother for a support. As if seeing the little gears turning in little Charles’s head, his little eyes litting up in the process.

"Yes! Please? Yn? Please?" Charles replied, leaving the popcorn bucket and candy bag on the table. Jumping up and down while giving you the best puppy eyes.

Sighing, there was no other choice. You either play the game or get dragged into some new invented game – that would definitely took more time to explain than to participate.

“Yes…yes,” your eyes turned upside down at their enthusiasm, wiping the popcorn from Arthur’s mouth corner. Booping Arthur’s nose softly, “You are the seeker.”

“Awe,” the younger one slumped on the couch. Dramatically lifting his arms as high as he could.

“Ha! What about me?” Charles interjected, intertwining between your arms – between you and Arthur.

“Charlie–”

“Start counting Arth!” Charles said with a change of mind as he run away with his little legs from Arthur – you doing the same. With the only goal of finding a good spot, maybe you’ll get a little nap while Arthur tries to navigate the house.

—

Long enough, you finally heard a higher-pitched laughter followed by a slightly lower-pitched groan: letting you know that they got back together. Besides, the stumbling sounds enlightened you that they started looking through the kitchen, they opened the refrigerator, the pantry, the cabinets...

They ran everywhere, yelling and laughing. Sometimes just to hear the other one laughing too.

“Yn!” “Where are you!”

Little hands grabbing all the places they could grab, climbing on top of each other if they wanted – still looking around and getting into weird positions to look under the furniture.

Charles and Arthur started to get a little frustrated at not finding you, and this little bit of stress made them nervous, making all kind of noises.

"Where is she? Where is she?" Charles yelled, looking at his younger brother – his head getting a little redder from looking upside down under the cabinets.

"Maybe she is in the bathroom! Or maybe she ran out of the house?" Arthur replied, in a loud voice, getting into weird positions too.

"Maybe she went to papa’s room!" Charles replied, and both he and his younger brother ran their little ways up the stairs to check the adults' bedroom.

The room stood still as they pushed the door open. There was maman’s perfume on her side table, papa’s reading glasses on the other side, and something on the dresser – too tall for them to see. The two little boys searched every corner, they even checked under the bed, but there was no trace of your jeans hem or khaki sweater.

At that moment, they were starting to get hopeless, and they did what hopeless children do best: sniffling.

Little sniffles turned into hiccups, hiccups turned into cries. Arthur seeing his brother wiping his little eyes dry, he found himself slumping on the floor, mimicking Charles’s teary eyes.

“Oh, no– I’m here– awe, guys–”

Without wasting another minute, the boys ran to hug you – clinging and wiping their faces onto your sweater. You welcomed them with open arms, and little kiss for each one.

“We couldn’t find you!” Charles hiccuped out, faltered-heartily, while Arthur just nodded and mumbled something. Now, they were like a pair of puppies, begging for your attention.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you chuckled at the sight, rubbing and patting their backs.

“No funny!” Arthur hid is face in your chest.

The little boys remained in your arms, hugging tightly, like two pieces of dough. Tears resided into just stains and hiccups returned into sniffles.

“Alright– I’m sorry,” you nodded, making zipping motion while continuing rubbing their arms. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

Just maybe the fact that Charles slowly tear his face away from comfort, showing cheeky smiles…

“Can we have some ice cream?”

“Please? Please?" Arthur replied, with his head still down, hugging her with all his might.

“But you guys already had…” knowing they are a little faltered hearted at the incident – maybe using it to their little advantages. “fine. But no more–”

"Yay!!" they replied in excitement, jumping out of your arms, but keeping you close by. “Thank you Yn!”

Now more hopeful and happy, the little boys ran towards the kitchen without saying another word. They were now a duo in a mission for food, and to cause as much trouble as possible on their route…

I have a mark fic incoming…lmk if you guys are interested??😘😘

interact if y’all liked it, do what ever you want. Imma start writing fics again 💀

today’s a good day to take care of yourself!!

#formula 1 #f1 imagines #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 fanfic #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc angst #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc au #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #ferrari #arthur leclerc imagine

[sommerbueckers]

My Brother's Best Friend Pt4

I immediately disregarded my homework at the sound of my phone ringing. I had been expecting a call from Paige ever since her game against Xavier went off, Uconn coming out with an unsurprising win.

Her smug face appeared on the screen, she had changed into her pajamas and the camera was propped up on what I assumed to be a desk or table.

"Summer Collymor."

"Paige Bueckers."

"Did you watch the game?" she asked.

"Nope," I said, "tv was unplugged as promised."

She leaned back in her chair and laughed, shaking her head. "Whatever you say."

I laughed as well, nervously toying around with the pen I had previously tossed aside with my notebook. This was the first time ever that Paige and I had facetimed, and despite our track record of never having a dry conversation, I couldn't help but worry that I'd run out of things to talk about.

"So..." she said with a smile.

"So...?" I repeated.

"How was your day?" she asked softly.

"Hmm it was okay. Practice was really great though, we got a few new girls who tried out for the second season and they're really good. I'm hoping they'll tryout again for the comp squad in the spring."

"That's good. You're pacing yourself right?"

"What do you mean?" I frowned.

"With putting the routines together and studying for midterms and all, I just want to make sure you aren't stressing yourself out" she shrugged shyly.

"Aww, are you worried about me?" I smiled.

"Definitely not, who am I gonna make fun of if you're all busy and stressed?" she raised an eyebrow.

"Girl bye, look in the mirror and you'll find all the jokes you need" I laughed.

"Ohh you thought that was good huh? You weren't saying all that when I was all over you the other day" she replied cockily, crossing her arms and staring at the camera.

"So you admit that you were all over me?"

"We were all over each other."

"Mhm. If I remember correctly, it was you who made the first move," I reminded her, "so shut all that shit up."

She playfully rolled her eyes and grabbed the phone, moving to lay down on her bed. A moment of silence washed over us as I watched her watch me, both of our smiles slowly growing at the eye contact. I didn't want to be the first to back down but I could feel the tension becoming too much for me to bear. I pretended to read over a paragraph in my chem textbook, not wanting her to notice the blush that had crept onto my face. It'd go straight to her head.

"What're you wearing?" her voice was low and suggestive through the phone, but her face displayed an expression of innocence.

"A t-shirt" I said, tilting the camera up as I displayed my 2019 cheer championship shirt.

She smirked, "What else?"

"Just my underwear" I said innocently.

"Oh yeah?" she raised her eyebrows. When I nodded my head she continued, "Can I see?"

I thought about it for a moment, lifting up to make sure my door was closed before making my decision. I pulled my covers down and raised the camera, showing off the bright pink thong that I had on.

"Mm mm mm!" Paige exclaimed dramatically, shaking her head with her fist to her mouth.

"Oh God shut up!" I laughed, putting the camera back down.

"What? You look good" she complimented simply.

"Thanks, wish you were here to prove it though" I said lowly.

I didn't know where my sudden boldness came from, maybe it was because I knew Paige wasn't actually here and I had no reason to be nervous. Anything I said or did right now would surely be forgotten by the time she returned for Christmas break.

"Just touch yourself and pretend its me" she laughed, but her eyes carefully scanned my face for my reaction.

"You would say something like that" I shook my head.

"Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures" she defended with her hand up. She went quiet for a moment when I didn't say anything. "Are you doing it?" she asked with high eyebrows, surprise laced in her voice.

"No! You're so dirty," I laughed, "I was getting comfortable."

"Mhm" she nodded.

"...Did you really want me to?"

She shrugged her shoulders, not looking at the phone. She definitely wanted me to. I bit my lip as I considered it. Paige was staring at me quizzically through the phone with one of her eyebrows cocked. I was getting turned on at the thought of pleasing myself, the thought of Paige's voice in my ear as she told me what to do and how to do it.

"Okay" I said, letting out a breath.

"Huh?"

"I'll do it" I elaborated.

"You don't have to, I was just-"

"I want to" I interuppted, rubbing my legs together under the covers.

"Really?"

"Yes, what do I do?" I asked.

"Wait, have you never done it before?" she sounded surprised.

"No...is that bad?"

Paige laughed and sat up a little straighter in her bed, "No Summer it's not bad it's just...surprising?" she corrected.

"Why is it surprising?"

"I don't know, I don't know."

"Alright whatever," I smiled, "you ready to do this?"

"Are you ready?" she redirected the question.

"Yeah go, go" I encouraged.

Paige laughed lowly, shaking her head. I moved to switch off my lamp and then laid back down. Paige had gotten comfortable as well; her head rested back against her pillow and her wrist was draped over her forehead.

"Okay now...run your hands up and down your thighs" she instructed after thinking for a moment. "Just your fingertips, slow" she added quickly.

I did as I was told, softly trailing my fingertips up to the edge of my underwear and then trailing them back down to my knees. It felt like electricity coursing through my fingers and leaving burn marks on my skin where they touched. I imagined it was Paige's hands, touching me with utmost delicacy as she always did.

"You like the way that feels?" she asked.

"Yeah" I answered.

I couldn't help but feel embarrassed at what I was doing. Not only was I masturbating for the first time in my life, but I was doing it on the phone with Paige. She couldn't see me, my phone sat next to my head facing toward the ceiling, close enough to where she could hear any noise that I made.

"I want you to move your hands up and down your cunt...be gentle" she said.

I bit back a laugh at the bluntness of her words and moved my fingers over my clothed clit. I was gentle like she told me to be, hardly pressing into myself at all.

"Do it three more times, and then I want you to stop."

I could feel myself growing wetter, hotter, needier. I bit down hard on my lip, preventing shaky breaths from leaving my mouth. My clit was becoming swollen, my entire pussy throbbing with the desire to be touched by me...by Paige.

She had fucked me so good before she left and I was aching for her to do it again. I wanted to feel every inch of her, her sweaty body on mine as we went round after round.

"Take two fingers and rub in that circular motion that I know you like" she said, I could practically see the smile on her face as she spoke. "Think about me when you do it, think about my fingers touching and teasing you."

I was even more turned on at the thought of Paige hovering over me, her long blonde hair falling like a curtain over me and tickling my face.

"How wet are you Summer?" she asked lowly.

I could feel my wetness grow and begin to drip out of me, if I told her how wet I was right now she'd never let me hear the end of it. A small whimper slipped past my lips, a cry of desperation.

"So wet" I breathed out.

"Yeah...good."

"Let's get those pretty panties out the way then" she smirked.

I pushed my hand down into my underwear all too quickly, dying to feel a more intense friction.

"You're rushing, I can hear you. Slow down or I'm gonna stop" she warned, her voice serious.

I stilled my motions.

"That's a good girl" she cooed condescendingly.

I was going to come quick, I knew I was. Paige talking me through this had to be the hottest thing ever. After a good game tonight I knew she deserved to unravel me the way she was, to listen to me crumble to pieces from instructions she was giving me.

"Slowly...put your fingers in. I want it so slow it almost hurts to do, you hear me?" she said.

"Mhm..."

"Words."

"Yes, yes I hear you" I whined.

I didn't waste anymore time inserting my ring and middle fingers, a dragged out gasp filling the room. I tightly pressed my lips together, that gasp turning into a moan.

All I could think about was Paige's proud face smirking down at me as her finger repeatedly pushed in and out of me, hitting all the right spots. I imagined her lips as they connected with mine, and then they moved to my jaw, and then to my neck, and down my chest...

"Go faster for me."

I ignored the slight stinging pain I felt as I pumped my fingers faster, it was enough for me to clench my jaw, but not enough to stop.

"Fuck you sound so good" Paige grunted, running her hands through her hair. "God I miss you."

I didn't bother to stop the smile that pulled at my lips, there were so many feelings running through me that I didn't know what to do with myself.

I ran my hand up my side to my chest, using it to squeeze my tits. I could hear my fingers going in and out, my juices running down my hand.

"Do you wanna come?" she asked.

"Uh huh" I moaned out desperately.

"I want to see you" Paige said, staring at the phone.

I didn't make a move for my phone, I could feel my walls tightening around my fingers. I would come any second.

"Summer," she called out, "be a good girl and let me see you."

I snatched the phone off the bed and held it in my hand, sitting up to lean on my elbow so she could see my face.

Her eyes were dark when they met mine through the screen, she licked her lips and smiled. "Come for me pretty baby"

That'll do it.

My mouth fell open as I released all over my fingers. It was almost as if my entire existence was slipping away, like everything I had accomplished was becoming undone. My body shook for a moment, and it felt like I was lying on clouds taking shots of Pink Whitney with Jesus Christ. Nothing was real.

If that's what giving myself an orgasm felt like, I was upset that I hadn't done it sooner. I laid there for a moment, coming back to my sense as I came down from my high.

"You okay over there?" Paige asked, her voice laced with amusement.

I laughed and brought the phone closer to my face, playfully narrowing my eyes. I got up from the bed and headed into the bathroom, setting up the phone to wash my hands.

"I've actually never done that before...like, talked someone through it like that I mean" Paige confessed.

"Aw, I took your phone sex virginity" I teased, rubbing the soap into my hands.

She snorted, "You're a cornball."

"Yes, yes, so I've been told."

IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO FKN RUSHED LIKEEEEE

but at least i tried yk

i haven't been in the smut mood ??????🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨

but like I told yall I need a little more practice, I just can't tell what's too much and what isn't enough WHERES THE LINE ????

but okay like any suggestions like...what do yall want to see next🙄?

#paige bueckers x reader #brother's best friend #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #wlw post #smut #ilovepaigebueckers

[wispythreads]

I did catch on to that part of it with him bouncing between jobs so frequently, and some of the other things like the fridge freezer, but they were still included in the jumbled up thoughts I listed out partly because I was thinking about them before coming to an answer, and partly because I'm not fully sure if those answers are all there is to it.

Cause, yeah, there’s the newspaper clipping rebuking him for being “unprofessional and brash” (which damn that’s also just rotating in my head because Vince was clearly reading this specific clipping earlier and blatantly lied saying Rody hadn’t been mentioned at all, later scribbling out the section talking about the waiter), he’s very clearly messy and unkempt in pretty much every aspect of his life, and even if he gets the to-go question right in the tutorial, Vince appends the "Good work." with "keep tone in mind."

But, the thing is, he does know a lot of the basics. Much of the tutorial is really just for the benefit of the player to know how the mechanics of the game works, Rody meanwhile nods along and does whatever task is needed without comment, only getting tripped up when Vince mentions the way the menu for his bistro works, and when the aforementioned customer asked if he could get boxes to go or call in his order ahead of time. Which I think are reasonable things to get tripped up on! Those seem like things that would vary depending on the establishment he was working for.

I keep thinking about his reaction when Vince pivoted the conversation of "do you actually like your job" onto Rody. His awkward response that it paid him money. Vince voicing specifically “I doubt you wanted to wait tables for a living-”, and that being met with how there was “something” Rody went to school for, that he was too hesitant to tell Vince, feeling he’d get made fun of. The impression that its some passion he had that just didn't work out. The revelation later that the “something” in question was him majoring in hospitality.

He was afraid he'd be made fun of for actively going to school and choosing to study for skills that, either ironically or purposefully, would've been useful for his current job of waiting tables. A goal that he flunked out of. He has had 28 jobs in the service industry over the course of 7 years. He keeps losing his job, but he also keeps getting hired.

I keep thinking of the post-credits scene of the Best Served Hot, whisky lemon cake ending. "I can't keep watching you ruin any semblance of progress you make with yourself while trying to make me happy, it's exhausting-"

He's only 4 days into this job when he approaches Vince for a raise. He already figures he'll have enough to do something nice for Manon, his "girlfriend," by the end of the week, but he wants more to make it really special. He is very clearly told 'no.'

On the 5th day, when his shift is finally over and done, we don't next see him as we usually do, back at his apartment. He's still at the bistro, all the lights turned out. The only other person presumably being Vince hacking away at the meat in the freezer that'll be used for the meals in the morning. The first time I went through that night, I presumed Rody had just been selected to stay late and help clean up for the night, with whatever Vince was doing in the background ominous horror ambience to be unsettled by.

But we can't really do anything while there that would support this initial assumption. There are only two things you can do. Snoop around in Vince's office, and... steal from the cash register. Whether you avoid doing the latter as I did or not, it has no bearing on whatever ending you get, but just the fact that it's even an option to Rody...

How many other times did he allow his love for Manon to rule over his decisions, making choices in the pursuit of what he believed would make her happy, no matter the cost, before finally facing a price for his obsession beyond the scope of his worst nightmares?

...

And after all that I do want to defend the rollerskates a bit because

Rollerskates in restaurants are kinda a thing, in the 1960s (the year this game is set) they were a pretty popular gimmick/tool for diners in the U.S. at least, not sure about elsewhere in the world unfortunately

Yeah he canonically brought and proceeded to wear rollerskates to work at a fancy bistro. But that also means Vince watched him show up to work one day, wearing rollerskates, and just let him do it. Just watched Rody roll around his fancy bistro attending to customers that expect the highest of professionalism, and said nothing.

#dead plate #dead plate spoilers #rody #bit of play experience #sort of #hopefully this makes sense for others reading this my thoughts still feel very jumbled up

[prettyrenjunn]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫

haechan x f!reader

themes- best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff & crack

summary- haechan gets unnecessarily jealous a lot considering you’re just little ole’ best friends and it takes renjun pointing it out for him to realise.

it’s my first time writing like this i wanted to try it out but damn it’s hard. also if there’s mistakes… my bad

he’s ridiculous.

you think he might need a smack to the back of his head to finally come to his senses but you keep your hands to yourself, no matter how infuriating he is. “hyuck there’s nothing to be upset over.”

he’s going to deny it. he always does. “i’m not upset!” he grumbled back. “i just don’t understand why you and jeno were partners when we’re always partners.”

you can’t even fathom why he’s so upset you had a different partner for your friend groups game night but for some reason he always gets like this. you know donghyuck’s a clinger and he loves to be by your side with your attention on him as much as possible but god you were sick of this. “i’m not seeing the problem? i can partner up with whoever i want its not like we took a blood oath to always partner with eachother.”

it always goes like this until he gets frustrated and eventually..

“okay it’s fine let’s just talk about something else.”

renjun claims hyuck is in love with you and that’s why he always acts like a possessive idiot but you’re quick to shut him up as you notice the boy himself strutting over to the table. “i’m heartbroken. hanging out without me is evil, are you replacing me now?”

you and renjun both roll your eyes at his dramatics. “i wouldn’t dare take your placing knowing you’d never stop whining.” renjun quips back. donghyuck pulls a face until he’s swallowed the big chunk of a sandwich he just bit into.

“i don’t whine.”

renjun bursts out laughing pointing his fingers at the boy. “sure you do. you whined when i called shotgun in yn’s car. you whined when yn went on a date instead of going to sit in your room to watch you game- which sounds like a horrible time by the way. the most recent case of whining was you getting pissy about yn and jeno being partners for game night.”

sheesh renjun had a whole speech. hyuck pursed his lips for a minute before nodding his head. “okay well maybe i do whine a little. i feel like it makes me charming, it’s not always a guy wants to be next to his witch of a best friend all the time..OUCH”

the kick to the shin was well deserved.

donghyuck has become conscious of his problem of always wanting to be your number one. has he seriously always been like this? he wonders.

he notices when a random guy stares at you for a little too long or when jaemins hands linger on your waist for longer then they should- scratch that they should never be there in the first place. he knows jaemin’s a touchy guy but come on! everybody knows yn is his girl.

wait.

my girl??? oh my fucking god.

at this very moment donghyuck realises he’s been an oblivious idiot this entire time. how didn’t he notice sooner? he doesn’t remember ever being this dense but this explains everything. he’s not exactly sure what he has to do right now but one things for sure, he needs to tell renjun.

it takes 3 missed calls and a load of spam texting for renjun to stop doing whatever he was doing and meet up with him. donghyuck calls him a bad friend for not picking up on the first ring and renjun tells him if this isn’t something serious he’s gonna whoop his ass.

“seriously why the hell did you make me come here?” renjun questions suspiciously. “why aren’t you talking? lee donghyuck i swear to-“

“i like yn.” donghyuck whispers quietly in response as he stares down and fiddles with his hands nervously. “you made me realise the whole jealously problem and then i realised it’s because i like her.”

renjun wants to laugh at his friend but he doesn’t because he looks like he’s about to cry or piss his pants…or do both simultaneously. “yeah? and what are you going to do about these feelings?”

“cry probably.”

renjun laughs in his face and donghyuck stares at him appalled. “why are you laughing? this is serious renjun! she’s my best friend.”

renjun only tuts in response, how can two people be so blissfully oblivious. even from his and everyone else’s perspectives it’s obvious there’s something more going on than just a pair of best friends. “i think you have a 90% succession rate if you just grow some balls and confess.”

“90%” donghyuck cries out. “that’s not nearly enough! and i have balls already thank you very much. i felt them drop when i was 13.”

“if you’re not gonna listen to my advise why did i even come.” renjun glares.

“oh renjun aren’t you just so so sweet.”

he’s acting weird and he knows you’ve noticed with the weird looks you keep giving him. in his defence, he’s in shock and you look really pretty and HE LIKES YOU!

“are you sure you’re alright?” you reach up to place the back of your hand on his head. “hm you don’t feel that warm but your cheeks are on fire hyuck.”

his mouth dries up at the close proximity but he needs to get himself together. “i think i just need some water.” he clears his throat. “can i have some of yours?”

you don’t hesitate to pass your bottle of water over and he realises he’s made a mistake.

an indirect kiss.

he’s going to faint.

“maybe you should go home just incase you’re getting sick or something.” you bring him back to reality once again. “come on, i’ll make sure you get home safe.”

donghyuck shakes his head frantically. “i swear i’m okay.” he bursts out. “and the others are already on their way.” he adds.

you nod and the next 5 minutes waiting for your friends to arrive is spent with you yapping and him listening along despite the breakdown he’s having in his head.

when your friends arrive they all notice donghyuck is acting differently too but they drop it after he says he’s okay, it’s only renjun that has an idea of what’s going on with him.

“yn i heard some guy in your lecture asked you on a date.” jaemin wiggles his brows as he starts a new conversation. “what did you say? is he taking you out or what?”

your friends heads turn to you straight away waiting on your answer. you can particularly feels donghyucks stare burning through your skull. “you’re all so nosy.” you chortle “but i told him i’ll think about it.”

donghyuck releases the breath he’d been holding at your answer and then he’s grabbing your hand in a hurry and rushing you out of the diner. “hyuck! what the hell? what are you doing?” you pull your arm back and he lets you, but he continues storming towards your car and waits for you to unlock it. “i’m sorry. can we go home please.”

you’re unsure if he wants you to go into his apartment with him but when he turns back to look at you with glistening eyes you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt.

he drops himself down on the couch and you sit next to him, turning so you’re facing him. “talk to me hyuck? what’s going on?” you murmur but he stays silent. “it’s okay. you don’t have to talk about it. shall we watch something?��

he stays silent for another minute and then he turns to look at you as he speaks. “can you say no to him?”

“say no to who hyuck?”

“the guy that asked you on a date. can you say no?” you’re confused but you nod anyway. “thanks.”

“did he do something?” you speak up. you’re worried he’s some horrible guy but donghyuck shakes his head at your words. “oh then why-“

“i realised something.” he cuts you off and you let him without protesting. you’d rather he talk than bottle up whatever’s going on. “i get jealous and petty because i like you, and i think i get scared and insecure because you’re not mine.”

your heart starts beating faster, so does his. you’re about to talk again but he beats you to it. “you don’t have to say anything i know i’ve thrown this all on you out of the blue. i want you to know that it’s okay if you don’t like me the same way, we can move past this but please don’t leave me.”

he’s rambling and your smile gradually grows. “lee donghyuck.”

“yeah?”

“i’ve always liked you.”

later that day he gets a text.

renjun: how is everthing?

he doesn’t answer yet but he thinks this is the best day of his life.

#nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct dream imagine #nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #lee donghyuck #donghyuck x reader #bestfriendhaechan #nct dream fic

[radioisodoped]

The sun had just barely come up when you started packing up your things, a couple rays of light streaming into the room and warming your back as you stuff whatever you can manage into your bag. The next settlement is a two-day hike away, but you’ve got plenty of supplies. You’ll manage. Once the spoils of yesterday’s scavenge are safely put away, you make your way to the stairs. The wooden steps creak as you make your way down, idly considering which road out of town would be best.

Stepping down onto the landing, you see his boots first. One leg casually crossed over the other on the dust-covered table. He’s already got his hand cannon pointed right at you, gloved finger steady on the trigger.

“Come chat, sugar. I didn’t come all this way for nothin’.” he drawls, smoke billowing out from under his tipped hat. A bloom of anger grows in your stomach when you see he’s gone through at least half the pack of cigarettes you had stashed away. Half your whiskey too, you knew you were missing something. Bastard. All of that was worth at least a small handful of caps.

You glance to the front door, your barricade still in place. A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.

“Where’s your hospitality? C’mon now, come and say hello.”

He punctuates it by motioning to the table with his gun. Bastard. You walk over, dropping your bag at his feet. Casual house calls aren’t something you associate with him. Before you can ask what he needs, he interrupts you. “Sit down, sweetheart. You’re makin’ me nervous.”

You doubt it. His hand couldn’t be steadier as you pull out a chair for yourself.

You get halfway through asking what he’s doing here before he interrupts again. “I’m still waitin’ on a ‘hello, how are ya’. Where are your manners?”

The games are getting old. You ignore his question and level your best unimpressed look at him.

“Are you here to kill me?”

He huffs out a laugh but doesn’t offer a response. You try not to let it phase you, reaching across his legs to grab the bottle of whiskey before you speak again. “If you are, I’d appreciate a heads up. Maybe even some last words, if you’re feeling particularly generous.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You and me both know I ain’t the generous sort. Though, that has nothin’ to do with whether you’ll die today.”

You take a swig from the bottle, watching out of the corner of your eye as he sets his gun down on the table. You’d never let him know it, but you’re a little relieved.

Another swig for courage and his gun out of hand, you feel yourself loosening up. The pretty little .44 holstered on your thigh could take the leg off a brahmin. You flirt with the notion of wrapping your hand around it and shooting him right through the ribs. Oh, you’d die. That’s an absolute certainty. He'd have bits of your head sprayed all over the room before you could get a second shot in. It’d almost be worth it to fuck up his day, though.

You watch him take a drag off of one of your cigarettes and a different thought forces its way to the front. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve earned your way out of a sticky situation

It won't be the last, either. You'll make sure of it. With death still on the table, you loosen your grip on the bottle and let it hang loosely from your fingers so the rim is just barely brushing over your bottom lip.

He tips his Stetson up and you can finally see his eyes, watch the slow drag of his gaze from your fingers to your mouth. You part your lips just enough that the tip of your tongue can pick up a drop of booze that's settled in the mouth of the bottle.

He smiles, half amused. You'll take it. With a small shake of his head, he speaks again. "I'm not here to kill ya, sweetheart, but I am here on business."

"Color me shocked." you mumble, "And here I thought you just missed my pretty face."

"Why can't it be both?"

You make a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh, setting down the bottle. "Careful, Casanova. Keep that up and I might start thinking you like me."

Burnt lips split into a sleazy grin, cigarette hanging loosely between his teeth. He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "'Course I like you. Don't you remember when we first met?"

Your face heats. That memory had kept you warm on plenty of lonely nights. You'd guess with the way he's looking at you, he's just as fond of it. A little teasing wouldn't hurt, and you're not in the mood to inflate his ego any more than it already is.

"Which time was that?" you ask, leaning back and pulling your eyebrows together to mock a thoughtful look. "The one where you left me on my knees without returning the favor, or the second time you left without getting me off?"

His smile doesn't drop, but you see a muscle in his burned cheek twitch. You hit a nerve. Good. You haven't forgotten how he neglected all of yours.

"Last time wasn't my fault. You knew better than to get handsy somewhere we might get caught." he drawls, most of the humor gone from his tone. He had a point- that was a mess. And mostly your fault. You still had the scar to remember it. He tilts his head, continuing on. "That first time, though? I didn't owe you shit. Besides, with the way you're still running your mouth... Well, clearly I didn't use it hard enough for you to learn anything. Seems to me you got the better deal out of that bargain."

Not one to be outdone, you stand. His eyes follow your every move, watching as you walk over. He barely has time to drop his boots back onto the ground before you straddle his lap, his spurs clinking as he settles. He's already hard when you grind down against him, steadying yourself by gripping his jacket. He does nothing to help, just leans back and reaches for your leg. You arch your back, welcoming the touch, but he just unbuckles your thigh holster, throwing your .44 on the table beside his own gun.

You roll your eyes, rocking your hips again. "Paranoid old man. If I was going to shoot you, I'd have done it while you were eyefucking me."

He laughs, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and stubbing it out on the table while he responds. "You should've. Would've made me want you even more."

"Do you get this hard for everyone you're going to kill?"

He spreads his thighs beneath you, his hands landing on your hips to keep you flush with his bulge as he readjusts. "'Course not, darling. Just brats like you.”

You’ve never wanted someone inside you more in your life. You ache with it. You reach down to fight with his belt buckle and he snickers. “Slow down and enjoy it, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re the kind of person who’d complain if you were bein’ hung with a gold rope.”

“Yeah, well, at least I know the rope can get the job done.”

You don’t have time to bask in the jab before you're sliding off his lap, surprised to find him suddenly standing. His hand wraps around your throat before he wrestles you down onto the rickety table. The whole thing shakes under your back, threatening to break under the strain of your struggle.

“You got a big fuckin’ mouth on you.” He sneers, leaning down close and narrowing his eyes. “I oughta not let you get off again just to prove a point.”

“All that would do is prove me right. You aren’t good for shit outside of killing-“

The slap shocks you. You’re suddenly looking at the wall, the taste of blood coating your tongue. A beat. Then another. You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him close until his cock is pressed right up against where you need him. He laughs under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “You crazy, insatiable bitch.”

He pulls his hand back, unbuckling his belt with a practiced motion that stokes the fire in your stomach. He slips his cock out unceremoniously, glove dragging over ridged skin. “You better be ready, sweetheart. I ain’t wastin’ any more time gettin’ you worked up. I told you I didn’t come for fun.”

Clothes are ripped and forced out of the way, his cock head pressing against your hole. He finally pushes in and you bite your lip, throwing your head back to stare at the stained ceiling as you moan out. “Yeah, but you’ll come for me, right?”

He hums, grabbing at your hips to pull you the rest of the way down his cock. “I always do.”

You choke on a moan, nails digging into the wood beneath you when he bottoms out. The whole table rocks as he thrusts into you, slow at first but gaining momentum quickly. This house was one of the safer places to be, but he wouldn’t afford you the luxury of a gentle fuck.

You know he could, if he wanted to. The grip on your hips isn’t painful, despite the punishing pace he’s set. There's something soft, reverent, in the way his hands drift over your clothes. Not like the way he touched you every other time you've had the privilege of his hands on you.

You're starting to think he really does like you.

The revelation unsettles you a bit. Not in a bad way, necessarily. You just didn't think he was capable of it. You watch the muscles in his neck tense as he holds back noises. You've bitten your lip raw for the same reason.

It's been a while for you. You'd had people since him, sure... but it wasn't the same. Never as satisfying as this. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but you think he might agree. He grunts and leans on one arm beside your head, chasing his own release. You want to make some smart quip, reminding him to slow down and enjoy it, sweetheart, but you think better of it. Your jaw still aches from the slap.

It's not long before he's unloading inside you with a groan, his eyes fluttering shut as his hips twitch against you. An unnatural heat reminds you to look for some radaway once he's gone, but you're distracted by his hand slipping between your bodies. Embarrassingly, it doesn't take much. Rusty or not, he knows how to use his fingers. The fabric of his glove drags along just right and you keen, back arching as you come around his cock.

He lets you ride the high, only pulling away when you go limp and start to pant. He pulls out, leaving you looking like a mess as he readjusts himself. He could still kill you. He might, honestly. You couldn't give less of a fuck if you tried. He holsters his gun as your eyes shut, enjoying the afterglow. Of course, he doesn't let you rest long.

“That was an awful nice treat, but we got things to do. Up and at ‘em, darlin'." He slaps the side of your thigh with a smile, jolting you out of your reverie. "We’re goin’ on a field trip.”

#.the ghoul #.fallout #notsfw #.bitter #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader

[merakiui]

YOUR DISCORD MOD SCARA...I am thinking about him so hard. I've never even considered becoming someone's discord kitten before but I'd do it for him (even if he's terrible). SO... could I get a layered cake and sweet lollipops (him and his kitten not long post-abduction) from the miscellaneous menu, along with lemon squares and sea salt caramels from the midnight menu, all with my babygirl discord mod scara?

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, modern au, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, restraints, drugging, obsession, loss of virginity, alcohol/intoxication, force-feeding, brief use & threat of knife, coercion, scaramouche calls you kitten a few times, implied stockholm syndrome note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

There’s a warm meal waiting for you on the foldable table, its delectable aroma enticing you to eat despite your apprehensions. You lift your head from where it once rested on your knees, staring at it from where you remain huddled in the corner on a certain someone’s bed. A metal cuff clings to your ankle, and from it a chain extends to connect to one of the metal bed frame poles, only going far enough to let you walk into the adjacent bathroom. You’ve tried to squeeze your foot out, but doing so has only succeeded in chafing and tearing your skin; and so now you sit against the wall and sulk in defeat. 

Scaramouche—at least that’s his Teyvatcord alias; he’s yet to tell you his real name—plops down in his gaming chair, running his hand through his hair and exhaling a slow, measured breath. His kitchen apron matches the color scheme in his room, making him seem like a chameleon in a space composed of reds and violets. His three monitors are alight behind him, framing his face in a halo of light. One of them is open to Teyvatcord, displaying the chat log of a server you were once part of—and still are if you haven’t yet been kicked for prolonged inactivity. You think it’s been a few weeks since your kidnapping, but at this point time doesn’t serve any purpose here. It’s all the same within this room, blending together like pastel watercolors on canvas. 

“I didn’t know you could cook. You’ve only ever served me the bare minimum, so this is new. Feels fancy.”

“Shocker, right? Be grateful I’ve gone to the trouble.” You peer at the meal that sits before you, brows furrowed. Scaramouche rolls his eyes, scoffing noisily. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I eat all that gross instant shit.”

You shrug. “Dunno. It suits you. Shitty diet for a shitty person.”

“You…” His eye twitches and his hands curl into fists. “Whatever. Either eat or starve.” He swivels around in his chair with a huff. “Not like I care either way.”

But you do, you think, looking back towards the food, steam rising in wispy curls. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have spent so much money on me. You wouldn’t have told me to go to sleep early, to eat three meals every day, to drink enough water, to continue living.

“This isn’t going to kill me if I eat it, right?”

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

Scaramouche whirls to face you, his pierced features twisted in a nasty scowl. Your eyes are drawn to the snake bite piercing on his bottom lip, and for a minute it stuns you that such a pretty face could be so vile both online and offline. Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t talk at all. Maybe then you could appreciate him from afar, never having to confront all of the bitter hatred he seems to harbor. 

“You’re even more unbearable in person. I can’t believe I let someone like you kick my ass one-hundred-something times during every game we’ve ever played.”

“One-hundred and sixty-eight to be exact,” you correct, scooting closer towards the tray to inspect the rice dish one final time. “Someone had to humble you. For a mod, you’re awfully full of yourself. They don’t pay you to collect kittens and police VCs, you know.”

“Well, they should.”

You fail to contain your laughter. “That was…actually kind of funny.”

A thought flutters into your head: I’m losing my mind. Since when was he ever funny?

His stare is fixated on you when you gather a bite on your spoon and bring it to your lips. As criminal as he is, he’s been surprisingly tame in the time following your captivity. You suppose you just haven’t seen the worst of him yet and that these civil moments are merely the result of his desire to connect with you. Before you found yourself on the sixth floor, tucked away in his apartment, you spent most weekends talking to him through games. You’d chat about your character builds, swap tips on strategies for certain FPS games, spend hours constructing towns in creative open-world games, and even laugh about the placements in the tier lists you’d compile.

You could call what the two of you had a competitive companionship (or if you wanted to get technical: a Teyvatcord mod who was spoiling his kitten outside of the competitions), where both of you were constantly trying to best the other. If it was a matter of money, Scaramouche always had you beat; he’d emptied plenty of that into his favorite games to amass a vast collection of rare gear and resources so that he could claw his way to the top of the weekly leaderboards.

If anything, you admired his determination. Beyond games, you only knew that he lived alone and had a few piercings and liked to wear chains and rings. He’d talked about it before when the both of you had strayed from gaming and had discussed fashion styles and aesthetics late into the night. He appeared normal beyond the bratty attitude he often displayed during rematches. You even found yourself wanting to know more when he’d divulge little facts about himself on occasion. 

But now that you’re sitting in front of him, entirely against your will, you realize this relationship should have remained in Teyvatcord. 

Underneath your artfully crafted bravado and sarcasm, you’re absolutely horrified that he had found your address so easily and had been able to pull off such a clean kidnapping. He’d pulled you into the darkness of his car while you were on your way home, pressing a knife to your throat and insisting you stay perfectly quiet otherwise your neck would be mired in red. At the time you were too overwhelmed with raw panic to even consider the familiar intonation of the man who had so suddenly stolen you from your peaceful life. But it became clear when he’d forced you into his apartment after a long drive, and you’d finally gotten a look at him in the light when he shed his disguise. 

An introduction wasn’t necessary; you recognized him, and he seemed to know everything about you.

Now it’s almost humorous to consider that a Teyvatcord mod actually went outside, touched grass, and collected a captive all in one night. And you never suspected a thing, completely oblivious to his mounting obsession. Although how could you have ever noticed it when he was so intent on masking infatuation with hatred?

You wonder if things would have transpired differently if you hadn’t been living within the same city. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted to take you away from your life and confine you to a single room where the sun never breaks through the curtains and you’re constantly bathed in the sensual hues from the LED lights that border the room. Maybe he would have lost interest and you could have continued your one-sided rivalry without any unhealthy attachments. 

Those what-ifs don’t quite matter anymore, though, do they?

Flavor explodes on your tongue when you sample his cooking, and you hastily gather a second bite and then a third. Scaramouche watches from his chair, looking quite satisfied with your submission. Foregoing etiquette altogether, you eat as if this is the last meal you’ll ever have the pleasure of enjoying, so fulfilled by the fluffy rice and bitter tea that tears gather in your eyes. You stop halfway to wipe at your glassy eyes, sniffling pitifully. 

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

“It’s okay,” you mutter around another mouthful. “Better than convenience store snacks.”

Scaramouche chuckles. “For something that was just ‘okay,’ you had no problem getting your tears in the bowl.”

You bark out a laugh, but it comes out strained and sad. “Lay off, will you? I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in forever. It was a little nostalgic, even if it’s coming from you.”

Scaramouche stares at you, his cheeks tinged the softest shade of pink, before he turns in his chair. “Whatever. Don’t get used to it.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

You set the now empty bowl back on the tray and retreat to your corner, observing Scaramouche as he clicks through various tabs before he returns to Teyvatcord. His fingers, adorned with sterling silver rings, fly across the keyboard to respond to some user you can’t quite see from where you sit. Noisy click-clacks fill the air, and it’s a sound that pulls you closer towards sleep. By the time Scaramouche has swapped to his second monitor to play a game—the very game that got you into this nightmare to begin with—you’re already falling into the void of unconsciousness, tugged under by drowsy tendrils. 

It’s the soft thump that alerts Scaramouche, who turns slowly in his chair to see you slumped over on his bed. He rises to his feet, crossing the distance to gather the bowl and accompanying utensils. Before he departs from his bedroom, he leans over to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Dummy,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. “Never eating proper meals… Honestly, what would you do without me?”

Though he told you not to get accustomed to homemade meals, Scaramouche has presented you with breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day, all prepared by his generous hand. It’s a luxury to be served food that has been assembled out of some form of crooked love—Scaramouche claims he’s only keeping you well-fed so you won’t die and rot away on his bed; the smell would be horrendous, so he claims. There’s one meal that always manages to put you to sleep. Whether it’s just the result of a satisfied stomach or your own frazzled nerves in desperate need of sleep, you always slip away shortly after finishing it. As childish as it sounds, you often wonder if he’s put a spell on it. 

Or maybe you’re just always hungry, craving his cooking because he’s the only one capable of feeding you when you’re stuck in chains. And luckily for you he’s memorized all of your gastronomic preferences. 

You’re not sure if you’ve surpassed a month’s time, but when you wake up one morning to Scaramouche slamming his cat ear headphones down on his desk, which is followed by a foul tirade of grumbled curses, you feel as if it’s already been a year spent in his room. To think that you’re starting to find it normal, as if waking up to him is to be expected in this situation. 

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

Okay, you’re really losing your mind if you can be so casual with your kidnapper. 

Scaramouche deflates in his seat, groaning at the ceiling. “More like a rough team. None of these idiots know how to play! I’d have better luck digging through the dirt and assembling a team of worms than continuing to rely on these guys.” 

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

“‘Just leave and join a new lobby,’” he mocks in a high voice. “I can’t. These teams are locked in for the upcoming tournament. I’m stuck playing with a bunch of losers.” 

I’m more stuck than you, you almost blurt, but you hold your tongue. 

“Like?”

“Like Tartaglia, Dottore, Signora… They suck. I hate them. And they expect me to tolerate them for a bunch of rounds? That’s not even a good joke. We’ll just look like fools trying to force teamwork.”

You peer at his monitor. He’s muted himself, so they have no idea of the complaints he’s launching at you as if you’re a suitable outlet. 

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

“Oh my—” You flop back onto his bed with a groan. “It’s not that serious!”

“It is when it’s a competition. You think I want to look stupid in front of the other teams? We’re up against some lame group that calls themselves the Knights of Favonius. I am not about to lose to them.”

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

He turns in his chair to glare at you. Before he can retort, he’s fit his headphones back over his ears and unmuted himself to address the VC. “Can you stop spamming the chat for five seconds, Tartaglia? Damn!” There’s a brief silence and then he adds, in a low hiss, “I’m not running away! I muted for one minute! Come off it, Signora.”

Absorbed in the conversation, which sounds more like an argument that’s quickly boiling over, Scaramouche exhales slowly and resolves to try again through grit teeth. You can’t hear his teammates, but you think they all reach a mutual agreement because within the next few seconds you’re watching another practice match on his monitor. Your gaze slides away from him and centers on the posters and tapestries that adorn his walls. Some days, if you ignore the metal cuff on your ankle, you forget you’re a prisoner and he’s your warden. Some days, if you really force optimism, you picture him as a friend and a roommate. 

Most days you wonder if you’ll ever get outside. You miss the sun and the wind, lively aspects of nature that are nonexistent in this stifling cave of a bedroom. And, as odd as it may seem, you miss your old life, struggles and all. You miss ranting to your friends about finances or an empty refrigerator. You miss staying up late into the night playing games, laughing about casual enjoyments, and indulging in a freedom you took for granted. When you were struggling, you could be comforted knowing that there would be better days, even if those days only consisted of small joys—like feeding a stray cat or feeling the sun’s rays smile upon you with bright warmth. Now you live your days in a loop, waking and eating and sleeping, and this sort of cyclical madness is more entrapping than Scaramouche’s infatuation with you. 

Although perhaps it isn’t right to call it an infatuation when it feels so far from one. Aside from meal times, he hardly acknowledges you during the day, too swept up in a game to pay you any attention, and when he does speak to you you’ve already submitted to your dreams. He never touches you (at least not when you’re awake). In fact, he treats you more like an annoying pest rather than the person he supposedly loved enough to kidnap. Perhaps, instead of an infatuation, it is an obsession driven by greed and the twisted desire to control every inch of you, down to the very foods you ingest.

You know one thing is certain: He is the kidnapper and you are the kidnapped. 

You’ve sorted through all possible means of rebellion. You’d refused to eat anything the first week, which was why he chose to feed you cheap convenience store snacks out of pettiness, and by the end of the second week you were beyond starved. You’ve thought about destroying his monitors out of spiteful anger, but that wouldn’t accomplish much aside from satiating your hunger for revenge. You would remain shackled no matter how many things you trashed, which makes destruction a useless venture. All you can really do is feign friendship, if only to keep your current predicament peaceful. 

But lately you’ve wondered if there are other ways to get Scaramouche to trust you. It’s obvious he still has some level of distrust for you, evidenced by the terrible cuff attached to your ankle and the fact that he never leaves you alone in his room for more than five minutes. Perhaps there’s an easier way to shatter his defenses. 

After all, the reason you’re here is because he likes you so much. And if it really is a hidden infatuation, you plan to poke at it until it’s no longer his little secret veiled within manufactured hatred. 

Scaramouche is scolding Tartaglia for his “stupid, shitty aim” when you slither off of his bed, standing behind him with an expression so pensive it’s as if you’re considering life or death. Although perhaps this idea of yours really is akin to that. 

Briefly, while eyeing the headphones that rest on top of a head of midnight-hued hair, you wonder if you’d have the confidence to attack him while he’s distracted. Your arms reach out, readying to tear his headphones off and coil around his neck in a chokehold, but then it occurs to you that if you really do hurt him no one will be around to feed you. You’ll shrivel in his room, alone, cuffed, and cold. 

You decide, with mounting unease, that your original plan is much better (and safer) than murder. And so you lower your hands with a muted sigh. Even if he’s the worst person you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting—even if he’s taken you from your life and forced you into his—you still couldn’t bring yourself to fatally injure him. 

But you can bring yourself to your knees, swallowing shame in order to survive. 

If Scaramouche realizes you’ve slipped under his desk, he doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, his eyes tracking his screen as he shouts into his mic for Dottore to cover him. You peer up at him from where you sit, studying his facial features as they morph into various expressions, all centered on frustration, impatience, and the occasional glare-frown. It’s your hand on his thigh that momentarily strays his focus, his eyes flitting down to you for a mere second, glazing over with an emotion you can’t quite place. Your lips quirk up in the beginnings of a sly smile, and he huffs, nudges your side with his foot, and returns to shouting orders at his teammates. 

Slowly, as if moving with weights attached to your wrist, you reach out to palm his flaccid cock through the fabric of his sweatpants. Scaramouche nearly flinches out of his chair, his head snapping down to look at you.

“W-What the hell are you—” He’s silenced when you squeeze just slightly, gazing up at him through your lashes. “N-Nothing. Just…talking to my cat. Shut up and focus on the match, losers,” he grumbles, not to you but to his teammates. 

You intend to draw away, thoroughly pleased after having gauged such an amusing reaction, but his fingers pursue your wrist, pinning your hand in place. He’s not looking at you, but his cheeks are warming considerably. 

“I’ll kill you if we lose,” he mutters, and this time you know the threat is meant for you. 

But, as you’ve come to learn, this is his own version of acceptance, however frigid it may have sounded. Scaramouche likes a good competition; that much is apparent from how engrossed he becomes when playing any type of game. Most importantly, you think he just enjoys the prideful satisfaction that comes with being labeled a winner. If you look at it from a gaming perspective, this is just another challenge—another rematch the both of you have agreed upon in order to determine who’s the best. 

And, like always, you’re certain victory will be yours. 

His hand slides away from yours, returning to its rightful place on his desktop, and it gives you the opportunity to continue your teasing touches. His stare hardens into something deadly when he attempts to retain his focus, his fingers mashing the keys in a loud cacophony of clacks, but within just a few minutes of experimental squeezes his cock is straining against his pants. You admire the outline for a brief moment, considering an approximation of his size just from the bulge alone. He’s definitely larger than any of the beginner dildos you’ve browsed online out of sheer boredom and curiosity, and the idea that you’re about to willingly subject yourself to this is enough to cow you into premature defeat. 

I won’t make any progress if he doesn’t trust me, you tell yourself, steeling your electrified nerves and reaching out to slide the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers down to free his cock. It springs out, pre-cum beading at the tip, and your eyes follow the curvature. For such an aggressively high-strung moderator, he’s surprisingly well-groomed. You wonder if he’s always lived a life so nicely assembled. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him entirely and he’s never been the stereotypical gross, smelly, hermit of a Teyvatcord mod everyone likes to think he is. Maybe it’s just his personality that’s so foul. 

You were confident before, but then he’s passing you a bottle of lube and now what little courage you could muster is beginning to ebb away, squeezed out of you much like the dollop of lubricant pushed from the tube. Your eyes flick to his. He holds your gaze for a minute before a sly smirk crawls across his face. 

Hope you like swallowing, he mouths, indigo irises flashing with arousal, because if you get a single drop on the floor I’ll end you.

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

You roll your eyes and wrap your slick fingers around the length of his cock. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, chewing his bottom lip bloody to muffle any suspicious sounds that are eager to slip out. You’ve only ever viewed handjobs in erotic films, and you’ve never given one to another person before. So you slide your fist up and down, mirroring the movements from memory, in hopes that the experimental pace you’ve set isn’t too awkwardly inexperienced. Scaramouche seems to pay it no mind, for his shoulders shudder with every exhalation, and he’s bent forwards, his elbows resting on his desk. 

There’s no way he’s this easy, but that thought quickly evaporates when you squeeze just a little tighter, and he whines through grit teeth. Your eyes snap up to find his foggy hues, which are clouded with lust and peering right through you rather than at you, and it becomes abundantly clear that perhaps he truly is simple to seduce. Or, at the very least, it’s only easy because he’s stressed and needs release; or maybe it’s because this is the first time you’re touching him of your own volition, stringing him along with every graceful pump of your hand. 

I’ll never understand him, you think, halting your movements once he’s been brought to the very edge, his cock flushed pink and leaking. 

The vicious, disapproving scowl he sends you is such a sight to behold! When you’re viewing him from below, it’s almost as if he’s a vindictive deity sitting pretty and untouchable on his throne and you’re the mere mortal granted permission to kneel before him, an amusing comparison considering he has, in a way, proven to be your saving grace on many occasions. Even riddled with impatience, he’s pleasant on the eyes. If only the same could be said for when he opens his mouth. 

“Did I give you permission to stop?” he hisses, humping into your hand to force friction. 

Your gaze strays to the cat ears on his headphones; you wonder if his teammates can pick up either of your hushed whispers. “What happened to your oh-so-important practice match?” 

He narrows his eyes at you and reaches to seize your chin in a vise-like hold, forcing you in close proximity with his cock. “You can do much better things than sit there and run your mouth, so finish what you started.”

“Anything for His Royal Highness,” you mutter and close your mouth around his tip. 

Scaramouche inhales sharply, his fingers ghosting over your head as if he intends to grip your hair and force you to take more of his size, but then you hear obnoxious keyboard clacks. He’s back to berating his teammates, albeit in a louder, higher voice than before, leaving you to your own pace. You pull away, tasting flavorless lubricant and pre-cum all at once, and lick a stripe up the underside, which has him humming through a clenched jaw. With your confidence restored, you lean in once more and, fingers wrapping around his length, slowly fit him in your mouth, only stopping at where your hand rests halfway.

Despite your initial unease, you manage to settle into the rhythm as naturally as you possibly can, bobbing your head back and forth in slow, even motions. Your other hand slithers up his leg, fingers creeping like spiders, and rests between his legs to fondle his balls, squeezing ever so slightly while your mouth works him towards the edge of ecstasy. It prompts a guttural groan from him, and your lips twitch around him, as if attempting to rise in an amused smile. He’s falling apart in his chair, shivering through every salacious sigh and curse, all produced in barely restrained hisses. He mutters something to his teammates, but the words hardly reach your ears when you’re so hyper-focused on pleasing him. 

You continue your careful ministrations, hollowing your cheeks in the same manner you’ve witnessed actors in films do, and at some point you’ve shut your eyes and have resigned yourself to the moment, relishing in every lewd sound. His reactions bolster your pride, feeding it as though it’s a ravenous monster, and you muster enough bravery, courtesy of your inflated ego, to peek at him through lidded eyes. 

Scaramouche is peering down at you once more, but this time his headphones are off and he seems to have ceased playing altogether. You attempt to pull off of him to ask, but his hand rests atop your head, mapping lazy patterns in your scalp in a way that’s almost reminiscent of petting, and that’s enough of a response for you. 

“I thought you’d be terrible at this, but it looks like you’re good at something after all,” he remarks with a mean smirk. “Or maybe...” He moans lowly. “Maybe you’ve had practice.” 

Or maybe your standards are low because no one’s ever touched your dick before, you think, closing your hand in a tight fist just to draw another pathetically desperate whimper from him. 

His fingers curl into your hair and he tugs you up to meet his haughty countenance. The head of his cock prods impatiently at the inside of your cheek and you narrow your eyes at him, drool running down your chin. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, running over the piercings that reside there like twinkling stars. With a breathy chuckle, his other hand traces the bulge in your cheek and his lips only seem to widen with exhilaration. There’s a near-manic glint in his eyes now—an unhinged sort of sparkle that could only shine so brightly in the midst of pleasure. He’s a frightening sight, but then of course he’d be when he had so callously held you at knifepoint all those weeks—or has it been months?—ago. 

Now it makes sense—all of the mean jeers and insults. Scaramouche likes to see just how small he can make others when they’re caught in his shadow like vulnerable butterflies in a spider’s wicked web. And aren’t you just the most unlucky butterfly?

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.” 

You’d bite him if you were feeling particularly masochistic, but there’s no telling what he would do in retaliation. So instead you continue your pace, idly stroking him in time with the movements of your hollowed mouth, holding eye contact for the entirety of it. He keeps his hands on you the entire time, locking you in place between his legs, and your warm, wet mouth and tongue send delectable bolts of pleasure racing through him. It causes more delicious sounds to spill in plentiful amounts from his parted lips, enticing you to work more vigorously. He gasps through backhanded praises, each one meant to chisel you into something weak and self-conscious, but all it does is prove your previous observations. 

“Hey.” His knuckle is on your cheek again, and you blink tears away to look at him more clearly. “You haven’t done this with anyone else before, have you?”

You know it’s a trick question. No matter what answer you give, it’s going to prompt a visceral reaction either way. Rather than a clear, concise response—not that you could possibly give one when he’s stuffing your mouth full—you hum lowly, and the vibration has him twitching on your tongue. 

Scaramouche scoffs and attempts a glower, but it crumbles when he arches in his chair. “What… Whatever,” he manages through grit teeth, swallowing yet another sweet love cry. “Consider yourself lucky I’m here, otherwise—hah… Otherwise you’d have no one to practice your lousy, little technique on.”

This time, you’re afforded the chance to detach yourself and your mouth comes off of him with a wet smack, strands of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock. He peers at you, studying your face for a moment, and if it weren’t for the dim lighting in his room you’re certain his blush would be brighter than the sun. 

“You seem to enjoy my lousy, little technique,” you purr, leaning in to press your puckered lips to his tip. Your hand slows its once quick pace, and you watch miserable frustration stretch across his features. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll just stop and—”

But the rest of that sentence is shoved down your throat when he catches your head in resolute hands and forces you to take all of him in a rough thrust. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat, and you choke on it with a gagging cough. Your hands grasp his wrists in an attempt to steady yourself, but he pays it no mind as he continues to pound into your mouth, a string of filth falling from his parted lips like torrential rain. Tears prick your eyes, obscuring your vision and blurring reds and purples into a haze. 

It only takes a minute, but it feels like many when he eventually halts his erratic pace, his cock lodged in your mouth, and shoots his load down your throat. You have no choice but to force yourself to swallow, your eyes squeezed shut as you choke through the deed. Scaramouche laughs at you, a short, sudden sort of sound that’s more grating than nails on a chalkboard. And only after he’s shuddered through the aftermath of his ecstasy, heaving soft breaths as he settles from his orgasmic high, does he finally release you. 

You pull away with the residue of his spend sitting heavy on your tastebuds, sticky and bitter, and you’re only allowed a moment to catch your breath before he’s gripping your face with one strong hand, the cool metals of his rings digging into your cheeks. You stare at his sickly sweet smile and narrowed eyes, two indigo pools reflecting haughty victory, and your heart sinks with his next words. 

“Oh, and nice try.” His finger flicks your forehead, and a taunting smile darkens his features. “But I’m not taking the chains off, kitten.” 

It was worth a try, you think, swallowing a scoff and resolving to try again next time. You are nothing if not stubbornly resilient.

It’s a dangerous game, waiting and watching, hoping for a moment in which you can execute your plan. When Scaramouche isn’t glued to his monitors, when he isn’t feeding you meals that immediately send you to sleep, and when you aren’t on your knees satisfying him in the most carnal of ways, you’re wrapped in your thoughts like a mummy perfectly preserved. For a while you weren’t sure if it was worth the risk, nor were you sure if he could even come to trust you, if only slightly, but by some miracle you’ve sacrificed so much time tending to him and it has paid off handsomely.

Though the cuff remains, he’s grown to exercise some leniency, allowing you to sit on his lap while he browses online, his chin resting comfortably on your shoulder. Sometimes the two of you watch a movie; other times you play a game, gambling your dignity in exchange for a chance at victory. Lately Scaramouche has been on a winning streak—though you’re certain he’s just cheating, even if he claims it’s pure skill—and more than once have you found yourself at his mercy, submitting to wandering hands and lips, dutifully playing the role of his obedient prize. He always gloats, flashing his teeth at you in a cruel taunt, and you have no choice but to accept it. Everything you do is for the sake of survival; you’ve reminded yourself of this fact when you wrap your arms around him at night, pressing yourself against him and slowly slipping into sleep just as he cautiously returns your embrace. 

You usually fall unconscious after you’ve had lunch, condemned to sudden sleepy spells that are beginning to seem more drug-induced than natural, and this unfortunate happening leaves you completely gone for many hours into the afternoon and early evening. You’ve narrowed your options down after observing Scaramouche for so long, committing his cyclical ways to memory. Either you force yourself to wake at the crack of dawn and hope he isn’t still gaming, or you wait until he’s left the room to prepare your lunch. You’ve deliberated over both, almost acting on one when the opportunity presents itself, but you’re always stopped by the uncertainty. Will this work? Will you be fast enough? 

And if you aren’t successful, what will happen to you? Will he truly kill you like he claimed he would all those months ago when you first started living with him? You suppose there’s only one way to find out.

There’s a specific person you have in mind while you lie curled and comfortable in Scaramouche’s bed, feigning sleep to ward off the jittery sensation in your nerves. If he still exists within the server—and you’re hoping he does because your escape plan hinges on his presence within it—he will be your ticket to freedom. 

You almost flinch out of your skin when Scaramouche’s hand rests atop your head, stroking your skull so fondly. “I’ll wake you up for lunch,” he whispers to you, pressing his lips to your cheek. And then his hand is drawing away, and your pulse settles once more. You can feel his eyes pinned on you, and you picture him standing at the bedside, casting a terrifying shadow over your slumbering form.

“It’s too quiet when you sleep so many hours,” he mutters, and you strain to hear the rest of his complaint. You think he might be in the doorway because you can’t sense him near you anymore, and his voice is distant and soft, a strange contrast to the harshness in his usual intonation. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re here.” 

He says something else that doesn’t quite reach your ears, and you listen to his footsteps as he retreats to the hall and then the kitchen. You wait until you hear movement before slowly sitting up. Even though you’re alone and he’s a good distance from you, you fear he might hear your quick heartbeat. It pounds inside your rib cage, on and on like the loudest war drum, and you clutch at your chest with trembling hands. 

Without wasting another second, you slide off of the bed as carefully as possible, mindful of the noisy chain at your feet, and creep over to his desk. All of his monitors are on, each luminescent screen displaying something highly contrasting from the previous one. The screen on your left showcases an online shopping site (the page he’s currently on is new microphones, each more high-quality and expensive than the last). The screen on your right blinks back at you, and you spy a photo album of pictures screencapped from every social media connected to you. 

You’re not surprised, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t disgusted. Gross, you think, biting back a shiver. If he touched me with the same hand he used to—

But then your attention is stolen by the middle monitor and before you know it your fingers are gingerly tapping out keys one at a time, so agonizingly slow that you think your rapid pulse might give you away before the clacks do.

Alatus, you’re thinking, eyes skimming the member list. Alatus. Come on, Alatus. Where are you?

Miraculously, you spot his profile picture before his name—a cute, mint-colored bird with fluffy plumage and narrowed eyes. For such an adorable image, the one behind it is so silent and intimidating. You wonder how you even managed to befriend him when he’d been so terse in the early stages of your online friendship, but you’re glad to have this connection. 

Relief floods through your system when you notice the tell-tale green circle near his profile. He’s online! And with that, you pull up a private chat and begin to write to him, your heart skipping a beat with every word added to your desperate SOS message. 

this is gonna sound crazy but this is (name) from server need u to help me out ive been kidnapped by scaramouche call the authorities or someone just let them know i’m missing please believe me

You don’t have time to proofread it, nor can you even consider adding anything else in your frenzied panic, and so you hasten to send it. Your finger just brushes the Enter key when two arms coil around your waist, yanking you away from the desk with so much force that the horrified gasp sticks in your throat. Before you can register the danger, you’re on the floor, the chain rattling with the movement, as if foretelling of the threat that’s about to descend upon you like the Grim Reaper coming to capture a wayward soul, and Scaramouche stands over you, a kitchen knife held in a trembling fist. There is a foul tempest raging within those ominous eyes of his, each dilated pupil darkened with thick, syrupy betrayal. 

You attempt to sit up on your elbows, readying yourself to reason with him before he can slice your throat to ribbons, but then he’s pointing the knife directly at you, his face contorted into a glower so monstrous it has you flinching away. 

“You’re a special kind of stupid,” he snaps, and you press yourself into the floor as if you intend to melt into it. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I was so foolish that I wouldn’t suspect the motive behind your little game?”

You open your mouth to profess faux innocence, but the words won’t come. They’ve dried up on your tongue, leaving you to wallow in silence. You’ve never been so obviously, painfully guilty before, and the evidence of your disobedience is printed blindingly bright on a screen for his perusal. Scaramouche gazes at his monitor, cold, cruel eyes taking in every word. Ice crackles through your veins, crystallizing your blood, and for a brief second you consider what might happen if you seize the knife while he’s distracted. Perhaps it works in your head and your attempt to force him to his knees with the threat of death is successful. But realistically you know it wouldn’t be that easy and he certainly wouldn’t give you the chance to one-up him like this, especially not when so much is at stake. 

For once, this has nothing to do with the childish concept of pride. 

“Alatus, huh?” he muses with a monosyllabic hum. “Is that your friend? Well, it’s not like it matters. You don’t need friends.” 

With a sunken heart, you watch as he deletes the message you mustered the courage to draft. Within seconds the faulty plan you’ve considered for months crumbles before your despairing stare. 

“I hate you,” you whisper. Brimming tears are on the verge of overflowing and you will them away with quick blinks. 

“Yeah? Not the first time someone’s told me that.” He turns to face you, and you follow the knife as it’s set delicately on his desktop. It’s an obvious trap, but even so your hand still tenses as if you intend to lunge for it. He bends down to where you remain on the floor, his elbows propped on his knees. “I should commend you for your bravery. Were you working yourself up to this? Were you counting down the days until the moment for rebellion arrived? I’m not sure I should even call it a rebellion. You’re not very smart. I mean, you had access to the internet! You had so many resources at your disposal and yet you chose to message some loser on Teyvatcord! Just how moronic can you possibly be?”

What irks you more than the degradation is the fact that, unfortunately, he’s right. 

He clicks his tongue at you, laughter in his tone. “I would’ve been in trouble if you actually used a sliver of your puny brain. Lucky me, huh?” His fingers cling to your chin, pulling your face closer to his. “I have the cutest, stupidest kitten.”

You narrow your eyes at him and, gathering your mounting revulsion, spit at him. It spatters on his cheek and he seems to pause momentarily, a tense beat stretching taut between the both of you, before he releases you with a huff. The next thing you feel is the harsh sting of his slap as it comes down upon your cheek. It’s more so the shock that has your head turning in time with the impact rather than the dull ache, and you lift your hand to feel raw skin beneath burning fingertips. The tears are now falling in silent streaks. 

It’s hopeless. You’re stuck here forever. 

Scaramouche swipes his thumb along his cheek and scrutinizes the saliva coating his finger with a frown. “Not fond of ‘kitten,’ huh?” 

“Of course not, you freak.” 

“Ouch. That smarts.” Feigning offense, he dries his thumb on his kitchen apron. “A shame. ‘Kitten’ suits you. They’re soft and clumsy and weak. Just like you.”

He retrieves the knife and, after admiring the red-and-purple lights that reflect off the silver blade, offers you a smile so sweet it contrasts his sour threats.

“But as cute as you are on the ground, looking oh-so-terrified, it’s not going to save you from your punishment.”

You watch him carefully, awaiting a catastrophic change in temperament. Despite how cheerily nonchalant he appears, you’re certain there is anger swelling within. It’s clear in his eyes; his glee stems from sadism.

“Should I even ask what your idea of a punishment is?” you venture. You intend to sound bold with your inquiry, but your heart is still stuttering with the aftermath of your failure and it causes you to trip over your tongue. “L-Living with you is punishment enough…”

Scaramouche hums, unfazed. “If you were in my position, what punishment would be most fitting?” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not answering that. You just want me to list the worst possible things.” 

“Perhaps,” he drawls, tapping a fingernail along the blade. His gaze strays to his desk drawer and he opens it and withdraws something you can’t yet see. The jarring jangle of handcuffs alerts your keen ears, and your expression must have twisted into something akin to potent odium because he chuckles. “Wandering hands ought to be properly restrained, don’t you think?”

You hold his gaze for a long minute. “Why? What’re you going to do?” When he doesn’t reply, merely continuing to watch you with that deceptive smile of his, fear sizzles within your electrified nerves. He takes a step towards you and you scoot away instinctively. “Seriously, what is it? Don’t you dare put those cuffs on me.”

“And allow you to misbehave again? As if.” He stands over you, peering down at you with a mixture of disgust and distrust. His foot is pressing on your stomach before you can even think to grab at his ankles and force him to the floor. “In case you’ve forgotten, kitten, you’re mine from now on. So unless you’d like me to tear you a few extra holes with this knife, you’d better shut your mouth and let me put these cuffs on you.”

He seizes your forearm, yanking you up with surprising strength, and you squirm in his unyielding hold, kicking out uselessly. It does nothing to deter him, but it does spark a wrestling match between the both of you, in which you fight desperately to grab hold of the cuffs or the knife before either can find themselves on your person.

“Let go of me! You can’t put those on me!” You elbow him in his ribs and he responds by shoving you down onto his bed, slotting his knee between your legs. His fingers dig into your arms with a harshness that has you wincing. 

“Should’ve thought twice before you decided to act like a brat!” he hisses, squeezing tightly. 

The discomfort soon becomes the least of your worries when he pins your wrist to one of the metal bed frame posts, readying it for one of the cuffs.

“No! Let go of—”

The knife is at your throat next, promptly silencing your terrified protests, and you don’t dare open your mouth. 

“Try again.” 

It’s spoken like a demand or a particularly harsh dare, the ice in his voice a perfect match for his scary expression. For however long his eyes bore into yours, you return his ogling with the same amount of ferocity, challenging his overbearing aura despite the blade poised at your jugular. You’re not sure how sharp it is, but you aren’t intending to find out with misplaced disobedience. 

Eventually, the first cuff clicks around your wrist, and you watch warily as the next cuff attaches to the bedpost. Your arm hangs limply from where it’s been restrained, and the other receives the same attention shortly after he’s retrieved the second handcuff pair. While he’s fumbling one-handed with it, the knife is held in place in his white-knuckled grip. The cool metal kisses feverish skin; you can already smell the river of iron that will drool from a precise slice. After it’s closed around your wrist and the bedpost like its predecessor, you yank arms to test the resistance. Your wrists have been secured tightly, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it’s the uncertainty that settles under your skin, lighting your senses with raw anxiety. 

“Please don’t kill me,” you whisper, gazing at the handle of the knife. It’s close—too close. 

You think he lives to torment. He must, otherwise there would be no plausible explanation for why he presses the sharpened edge deeper into your neck, applying just enough pressure to break skin.

“I’ll make one thing clear, so listen and listen well.” His voice drops a few octaves, a perilous murmur. “Don’t ever touch things that aren’t yours again.”

You think he says something else along the lines of, “And don’t ever think you’ve earned a shred of leniency just because we’ve been intimate,” but the words sound far-off and muffled like they’ve been processed through a jar of cotton or an unfathomable depth of sea. Registering them doesn’t seem so important, though, not when the sting in your throat worsens and a thin rivulet of something slick trails its way down your neck, staining your T-shirt—Scaramouche’s shirt (but you refuse to dwell on that distinction). And this time you don’t need any laced meals to slip away. This time it’s the stressful threat of near-death that puts you to sleep.

With the world having slithered away, narrowed down to a singular point devoid of terror, you fall into a familiar darkness. 

At first you think you’ve woken enshrouded in muddy earth, buried alive in some forsaken place, but then the haze of LEDs is piercing through your eyelids and you know you’re not resting amongst soil. With an exhausted groan, you peel your eyes open, searching the room for a figure who is oddly absent. Intending to sit up, you’re stopped short when your wrists catch on the cuffs, the metal digging into sensitive skin, and there is a spreading stiffness in your outstretched arms that’s becoming more unbearable with every passing second.

Something soft and scratchy is wrapped snugly around your throat. A bandage, you think, and it brings forth the not-so-distant memory of the knife and the blood and the dazed look in Scaramouche’s stare. As if he was not entirely there when he was pushing, pushing, pushing the blade into your jugular

As if he intended to carefully saw through sinew as if cutting slices from a block of cheese. 

Inhaling a steadying breath, you consider your options. Escape has become a daunting challenge—an impossibility if you’ve ever known one—and with the way you’re so tightly restrained you’re certain you won’t get close to freedom anytime soon. After all you’ve endured, you’re not sure you want to fly close to that sun again. 

Is it even worth it? you catch yourself pondering. I’m under a roof. I’m fed. I’m washed. This isn’t any different from my usual routine, only I have a housemate now and I’m living here permanently. Right. He’s a housemate. A housemate. A housemate. 

He’s not a housemate. He’s a horror wound into human anatomy—a perfect shell for what you assumed was a normal person. But does the distinction truly matter now? Kidnapper. Housemate. The latter sounds much nicer, but then the latter is also a lie sweeter than caramel and it’s easier to swallow a delusion than confront the looming truth. 

You sigh, your gaze sliding towards the monitors. They’re off this time, three dark voids silenced in the corner in which they’re kept. You tug at your restraints even though you’re aware they won’t come off no matter how much you struggle. For however long it takes Scaramouche to return, you lie on your back, watching the ceiling and counting the tiny bulbs in the strand of LEDs. Finally, there’s movement beyond the room. He pushes the door open with his foot, carrying a tray of food and bringing with him all manner of kitchen scents.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,” he teases, and you muster your meanest scowl. He laughs. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Scaramouche sets the tray on his desk, picks up the bowl of ochazuke, and gathers a bite between wooden chopsticks. “Don’t drag this out just to be a pain in the ass. Sit up and eat.”

Slowly, you manage to sit up, your wrists still confined. “I’m not eating unless you remove these cuffs.”

“Hm. Let me think about that.” Scaramouche drums his fingers along the ceramic bowl, considering. “Not a chance.”

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

“You are so insufferable. You had no trouble eating yesterday.” He narrows his eyes. “Licked the bowl clean and everything.”

“That was before you decided to nearly kill me!”

“But I didn’t.” 

“You say that as if you’re proud! Eat your own food. I don’t want it.”

“Alas, I made it just for you,” he says with a dramatic sort of flair that does not fit the smug pride that drapes itself over him like a linen shroud. “With love and everything.” 

Your lip curls into a hostile sneer. “Let me think about that. Yeah, no. Not a chance.” 

“You do realize you’ll starve if not for me.” 

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

Scaramouche covers the distance with graceful strides. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and, much to your dismay, you can’t reach it with the position you’re stuck in, unable to swipe or kick at it. After pulling his gaming chair up to the bed, he lowers into it and takes the bowl in his hands, chopsticks poised. You turn your head away when he tries to feed you and the bite he’s gathered misses its mark, poking your cheek instead. Grains of sticky rice adhere to your skin like glitter. Despite your obvious refusal, Scaramouche persists, pushing another bite of ochazuke at your lips. He’s calm for all of three seconds before the thread of restraint snaps and he grabs your chin, yanking your head in his direction. 

“If you don’t want me to shove these chopsticks so far down your throat, then stop being difficult and open your mouth.”

Still, your lips remain sealed and he huffs indignantly, digging his nails into your skin in hopes of eliciting a reaction. You swallow the wince and frown instead. The next bite prods against your lips and you narrow your eyes, silently daring him to try again. And he does, his fingers tracing along your jaw to find your cheek. He pinches—ruthlessly, unforgivingly rough—and you open your mouth to snap at him. Knock it off, you intend to say, but the words never leave your mouth because the next thing you know you’re tasting a mouthful of fluffy rice flavored with bitter tea, strips of nori, and salmon flakes. 

You almost spit it out, but you’re already chewing, relieved to taste gastronomical goodness. Scaramouche smirks at you, his thumb rubbing circles against your cheek.

“I win.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, turning away, mouth ajar for another bite.

He feeds you with a hum. “That wasn't so hard, was it? It’s almost as if acting like an annoying baby made this entire thing more unbearable than it should be.” 

You scoff around a mouthful. “You’re the unbearable one.”

“And yet here we are.”

You don’t protest at that. What else can possibly be said? Instead, you resign yourself to the meal, finishing every bite he offers and clearing out the leftovers in the bowl. And, as usual, it’s delicious.

Scaramouche pats your head when you’ve finished, a smile sharpening on his lips. “Good job.”

You roll your eyes. “You could’ve been nicer about it.”

“I was very nice,” he says, his tone clipped, as he sets the bowl down and lifts a glass from the table. “See? I even brought you a drink. Aren’t I a portrait of magnanimity?”

He’s a pain in the ass, you conclude, but you allow him to bring the glass to your lips so you can drink. You expect a mouthful of water; what you don’t expect is the sheer burn that comes with swallowing, and your noise of surprise comes out as a cough. Scaramouche sits back in his seat while you stare at him, searching for any indication that he’s joking. 

“Scaramouche—”

“You’ll be a good kitten and drink it all, won’t you? I’d hate to waste something special I picked just for you.”

Your lip curls in abhorrence at his utterance of that dreadful name. “Maybe if you stop calling me ‘kitten.’”

“Not a chance.” 

He takes a sip from the glass and leans in until his face is centimeters from yours. Your eyes find his, and for a moment you’re connected only by this contact. But then, within the next second, he’s closing what little distance remains, pressing his lips to yours in a sloppy, sake-tinged kiss. His hand cradles the back of your head so that you’re pinned on his mouth as it molds against yours. His snake bite piercing pushes against your lips and when he licks into your mouth to savor the alcoholic notes on your tongue you think you taste the cold sterling silver of his tongue piercing. With mounting unease, you realize it’s not a terrible sensation. And though saliva and sake drip down your chin in a thin, sticky rivulet, it’s not the worst kiss you’ve ever had. 

It’s over before you can even think of reciprocating. Thankfully—otherwise you’re certain doing so would have been more sickening than a simple teasing nickname. 

He pulls away to observe your dazed expression, his dark eyes alight with manic glee. His laugh comes out breathless, almost like a gasp, and he touches two fingers to his lips. “Your lips are softer than I thought…” he mumbles, curling his fingers against his chin. 

Before you can retort, the glass is poised at your mouth again, enticing you to drink, and you struggle to swallow the amount that’s tipped onto your tongue. You taste tropical citrus this time, flavors reminiscent of sunny days and palm trees and sparkling seas, each one so out of reach in your current predicament. Things you might never see again. Scaramouche climbs onto the bed and sits between your legs, preventing you from shutting them. With your back pressed against the bed, wrists still bound, you have no choice but to remain where you are, entirely at his mercy. 

“That’s a good expression,” he purrs, reaching out to pet your cheek. You turn your head away with a scoff. “To think you could be so cute when you’re terrified of the unknown.”

“Not funny. Take off these cuffs and get me some water. My wrists hurt.”

“Oh, boo-hoo. Cry me an ocean.” His free hand splays across your stomach, applying just enough pressure to your pelvic bone, and a devious smirk twists his lips. “That’s not the only place that’ll hurt.”

The reality of his intentions—of why he has you restrained—dawns on you like a sun risen from the grave, blindingly, searingly hot. 

“You can’t be serious.”

You intend to squirm, to kick out at him with your legs, and push him as far from you as possible, but your legs just won’t move. It’s as if you’re attempting to tug yourself free from a pit of molasses, crushed under a new weight. You manage to lift your foot a mere centimeter from the bed before Scaramouche gingerly lowers it back onto the mattress, all the while clicking his tongue at you.

“No need to panic. I’ll take good care of you.” He glances at you, spidery digits tracing tantalizing lines along the length of your leg. “I always have.”

The grogginess spreads throughout the rest of your body like the thorny tendrils of vindictive vines, stifling all possible movements and replacing your usual taut, alert muscles with a sleepiness that's awfully familiar. It doesn’t take long for you to reach a harrowing conclusion: He’s drugged you. Again. You blink rapidly to gain your bearings, and it takes you a moment to recognize the glass that’s at your lips. Foolishly, you drink because he’s already tilting it and you’re not sure how many more sips you take, but by the end of it the glass is empty and your head is spinning, nerves buzzing with static. 

Scaramouche slips off the bed with graceful steps, practically floating about his room, to retrieve a bottle of lube and a pair of scissors. Your thoughts are a tangled mess, coming to you in nonsensical clumps as the alcohol thins your rationality, numbing you to the encroaching unease that so desperately wishes to fill your veins. Rather, you’re overwhelmed with a very pleasant, dizzying warmth. You peer at him from where you’re slumped against the headboard, and the red-and-purple lighting in his room paints him in hues so alluring you find yourself at a momentary loss, staring blankly at him like he’s a fascination you’ve only just fallen for. And then you’re reflecting on the way his lips fit against yours, soft and sweet and metallic…

The scissors run up the fabric of your shirt in a flawless snip. When the tattered material is pulled from you and you feel the rush of cold air upon bare skin, prickly realization manages to sober you.

“W-Wait…” You shake your head slowly, tongue heavy and clumsy just like the rest of your limbs. “I’ve never… N-Never done this before…”

He gazes at you, searching for a lie. Finding no such thing, he chuckles and leans in until you’re practically breathing him in. “I would’ve thought otherwise.”

“And I…” You try to narrow your eyes at him, but he’s placed his hands on your hips and so your gaze is inevitably drawn downwards. “And I would’ve thought you were letting me win all those times.”

“Not this time,” he promises, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. “If it means having you all to myself like this, I’ll gladly indulge in the pity prize.”

If your wrists weren’t bound to the bed, you may have pushed him away. Or perhaps you would have embraced him, tugging him closer against your chest so that you could feel his heartbeat, taste it on your lips, allow it to thrum between the both of you. The sake muddles your mind, aiding the muscle relaxant in soothing pre-sex jitters. As Scaramouche’s hands wander, fingers tracking up and down your waist, sliding across your bare stomach, climbing further upwards to pinch your nipples between dexterous digits, someone starts to whine, each faint gasp just barely slipping past lips that have been chewed bloody. 

You realize, when he pulls away to grab at the waistband of your sweatpants, that you’re the one producing such sinful sounds. 

“Wait,” you whisper when he’s yanked it down to your knees. He peers at you with glazed eyes, and you’re certain you’re looking back with the same amount of lustful ferocity. “S-Scara, I don’t know if… Don’t know if we should…”

You shake your head, utter a frustrated curse, and squeeze your eyes shut. What do you truly wish to tell him? You wonder if it even matters anymore. He has you right where he wants you and, frighteningly enough, this is exactly where you’d like to stay. You have to remind yourself it’s the alcohol and the drugs and the sensual lighting that twist your reasonable senses. Even so, your fear trumps any lust that might have been simmering under heated skin.

But before you can verbalize these anxieties, he’s tugged your sweatpants down with ease. Your underwear goes next, leaving you utterly, humanly bare. Scaramouche stares for a moment, taking in the sight of you, and his licentious ogling is enough to send a bolt of embarrassment rushing through you. Avoiding his eyes, you manage to shut your legs, which earns you a breathy chuckle from him. Scaramouche lifts his shirt over his head next, casting it aside without hesitation. You’re treated to the view of his chest, porcelain-pale, creamy skin aglow under the dimmed lights, and upon noting your wide-eyed stare an easy smirk sprawls across his pierced lips. When he cocks his head to the side, you follow the way the tiny chains on his ear cuffs tilt with the movement, star and moon charms jingling faintly. He’s touched by the very cosmos above, shaded in light so beauteous he’s seraphic. 

“There’s no need to be so nervous,” he whispers, drumming his fingers along your knees. “You’re in good hands.”

You open your mouth to object—I don’t want this; I’ve never done this before—but his hands part your legs, spreading them agonizingly slowly as if the universe has benevolently graced him with all the hours in the world. You watch him consider your nude form splayed before him, and the temporary stillness is interrupted when he reaches for the bottle of lube sitting so patiently on his bedside table. 

It’s a chore to follow his hands as they uncap the bottle and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. Everything spins and blurs into a messy portrait of colors and shapes. You taste the raw acidity of bile in your throat and promptly swallow it and the rest of your apprehensions, forcing yourself to turn off what’s left of logical thinking and submit to the moment—to allow yourself to be fondled by such good hands.

The slick index prodding curiously at your unrelenting hole tightens the tangle of nerves in your stomach and has you squirming once more. 

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

“It’s only my finger, scaredy-cat.” He laughs and lies beside you, one hand between your legs and the other curled under your chin. He moves your head until you’re looking right at him, and he’s already moving in, lips ghosting over yours. “Unless you’d rather take it raw without any prep. That can be arranged…”

With a half-lidded stare, you spy his lips rather than his eyes as they capture yours in a sloppy smooch. He chases after your breath, swallowing reedy, needy gasps, and traces a circle along your hole before sinking his finger inside. You choke on a whine and wriggle your hips in discomfort. He pulls away only for a brief respite, soon reclaiming your mouth in his greedy pursuit, experimentally curling the lone finger inside you. You’re on fire, burning up with sheer desire and shame and a dizzying intoxication, and everything tangles into a mess fueled only by mounting lust. Fears shrugged away like worthless fabrics, you melt into the mattress’s cushiony embrace, lashes fluttering against your cheeks, as Scaramouche draws little gasps and groans from you, each one spilling out in between kisses. 

The hand on your chin falls away to grasp your nipple between cold fingers, and the chill slithers through your flushed form. You whine a pitiful sound. 

“Look at you, falling apart on one measly finger.” His voice, hushed and husky, wraps around your head like the softest scarf. “Am I the first to touch you down here?”

Foolishly, you try to nod and shake your head all at once, but he seems to catch the truth veiled in your response, for he hums into your mouth again. You kiss back with more desperation this time, chasing his tongue with a delightful fervor. He pushes a second finger in, slick enough as to not cause discomfort, and it soon finds residence with the other digit curled within. 

“No wonder why you’re so easy. It’s almost cute.” Scaramouche lazily works you open with the two digits thrust up inside you. Lewd squelching permeates the otherwise quiet room, and it spurs you into submission. Instinctively, you arch your back when he pinches your nipple harder than before, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “See? Isn’t it better when you’re enjoying yourself? And all it takes is a little reciprocation.” 

“I… I’d never—mmh—never reciprocate,” you mumble, but the words are spoken in a gasp.

“It’s a little too late for delusions and denial, kitten,” he says, practically singing the sardonically spoken pet name. 

You grit your teeth in an effort to stifle your sounds, turning your head away when he tries to steal a quick kiss. “Hate you,” you mutter, jaw clenched. 

Scaramouche barks out a disbelieving laugh. The finger that had been toying with your puffy nipple traces an invisible pattern along the expanse of your chest, sliding further down under he’s gracing your privates with feather-light touches. A moan hums low in your throat, betraying your poor attempt at defiance. 

“That’s not what your body’s telling me.”

He scissors his fingers, stretching you wide enough so he can slide a third in. You hardly feel the pain when you dig your nails into your palms. It’s so fierce you think you might break skin, and if you do the muscle relaxant prevents you from truly feeling it. You peer at his sly smirk, but the disgust melts away when, combined with the fingers working you open and the hand petting your sex, you find yourself shuddering through a sudden climax. Scaramouche marvels at the way you clench around his fingers, and before you can even try to avoid him he’s pressing a fleeting kiss to your temple. 

“Look at you, cumming from three fingers.” He removes each finger one by one just to watch you writhe bonelessly beneath him. He presses two slick fingers against your lips, tilting his head as if you’re a morbid curiosity he spies through the bars of an invisible cage. “My cute, pathetic, virgin kitten. I quite like that dazed look in your eyes. Perhaps you should look at me like that more often…”

You manage to roll your eyes, unamused. “You had your fun. Now take the cuffs off.” You fix him with a pout. “Please?”

“I couldn’t possibly when we’re just getting started.”

There’s a playful lilt in his voice, and your eyes follow his hands as they grasp the waistband of his boxers. It’s only then when you realize he’s painfully hard in his underwear, his cock outlined so starkly against the constrictive material, and your heart plummets into your stomach. 

“Hold on. Wait. H-Hold on…” You try to shut your legs, but the sedative in your system has you reacting as if you’re pulling your limbs through unforgiving tar. Every inch of you craves the comforting release of a long slumber, but the alcohol keeps your nerves sparking with a fiery need that greatly outweighs any languor. “N-Not inside…”

“Why not? We’ll be closer this way.” He wipes the cold sweat from your forehead before placing a gentle kiss upon it. The look in his indigo hues is lionizing, and when he cradles your cheek in a warm hand he is uncharacteristically fond. But then of course he’d be; he likes you, after all. For all of the cruelty, you forget he does this out of love. “Don’t you want to be closer—to find all of the right spots together? We’ll fit together so perfectly…”

He’s already squirted lube onto his hand, and he runs it up the length of his erection, all the while holding smoldering eye contact with you. You swallow dread so thick it almost lodges itself in your throat, mumbling a slew of slurred protests that fall upon deaf ears. 

Scaramouche forces you to look at him next, his hand still on your face, and you lean into it out of emotional instinct. He smiles—it’s tender this time, almost welcoming—and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “You’re okay,” he whispers, sincerity weaved into the promise. You blink tears away and your breath hitches when the soft, fleshy head of his cock kisses your puckered hole. His fingers trail along the bandage secured around your throat, and his eyes glaze over with an unknown emotion. “You’ll be okay.”

And hearing it twice has you believing it with a mindless nod of your head. 

If your hands were free, you’d reach out to touch him, run your fingers along his porcelain chest, loop your arms around his neck to pull him into you so that your puzzle could be complete. Instead, you look up at him with pleading eyes as he cages you between his arms. 

“Please be gentle.”

He noses the crook of your neck. “We’ll see.” 

But his words are warm and inviting. And—oh. Oh, he cares for you! Scaramouche, the one who’d ensure you were always fed, who’d go out of his way to check in at night after a long day, who’d entertain you with an argumentative back-and-forth regarding his favorite games, who’d let you win every single match just to be able to spend more quality time with you...

Who loves you more than he loves himself, relying entirely on you in order to fill the cavernous void in his heart with sugar and sincerity and serenity. 

He cares for you, and no one has ever quite cared for you in the way he does, as sickly obsessive as he may be. Knowing that someone likes you enough to look after you is more saccharine than honey.

Illuminated in red-and-purple luminosities, you shimmer beneath him, a lone star plucked from a dark, desolate sky. His hand falls from your face, finding your hip instead, and he rubs soothing circles into it as he presses in, the head of his cock pushing past rings of tight, lubricated muscle. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you thought it would, but then the relaxant and the alcohol have you at ease. His brows are knit in concentration, breath hot and wet on your bare skin, as he slots himself inside inch by inch. 

A shaky groan spills from his lips. “(Name)...” Your name is candied ambrosia in his mouth, the sweetest song. “(Name), (Name), (Name)...”

He exhales slowly, tears glimmering in glassy eyes, and locates your lips in the gloom, drawn in like a fool blinded by the deceptive light of an anglerfish. You kiss back as if this is the last time you’ll ever have the chance to do so, pursuing his whimpers in the same fashion he seeks your keening cries. And when he snaps his hips forwards to fill you completely, joining your bodies in unholy communion, you throw your head back and sob like you’ve never sobbed before. It’s a wonderful fit, snug and tight, and he rocks in experimentally. You shiver under him, crying out a string of incoherent phrases. 

“Scara… Scaraaa,” you sigh dreamily, and his hands brace themselves on either side of you so that he won’t crumple when he thrusts in, settling into the rhythm, following the thrum of your conjoined heartbeats. “Aah… Don’t stop. Please, Scara, I want it deeper… Haah… Please don’t stop.”

“Kuni,” he corrects, breathing it into you in an open-mouthed kiss. “My name. Kunikuzushi.”

It’s lovely. It’s everything. It’s your own heavenly delicacy. 

“Kuni. Kuni. Oh, Kuni…” you parrot, voice thick with need.

He’s moving in and out gradually, savoring each time he thrusts up into you and your bodies meet in a perfect connection, slowly rolling his hips into you as if he’s too fearful to destroy something so fragile. Or perhaps he wishes to keep himself intact—to prevent himself from crumbling into a love-drunk mess. When he kisses you, it’s flavorful passion, and the both of you exchange saliva and breath as if you’re each other’s lifelines. You’re not sure what you’re saying anymore, or whether any of it makes sense, but then he’s murmuring all manner of things into your skin as if every admission will tattoo itself upon your very being, engraved into your soul. 

Though it’s spoken in a voice barely above a whisper, you catch it. Faintly, like flickering candlelight, admitted like prayer, he says, “I love you.” 

And with that you fall, vision whiting out as your orgasm seizes you, and you whine your relief when he fucks you through the highs and lows of it. Your chest is heaving when you return, and you bury your face in his shoulder, wanting to feel all of him, to have his warmth affixed to you.

In that moment, there is no such thing as hatred or revulsion. There are no drug- and alcohol-induced feelings. No handcuffs or shackles. There is only love. Lots of it—all of it—filling you to the brim entirely. 

The shadowed space you’ve been confined to is slightly brighter now that you’ve found a star for yourself, and he is a celestial comfort crafted by the threads of fate—for it’s handcrafted destiny that brought the two of you together in a virtual world. Regardless of what awaits you when you’re shaken from this inebriated fantasy, you hope it is just as bewitchingly dazzling as the puzzle you make with Scaramouche. 

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

He’s crying then, tears falling in twin rivulets, and in response he drives his cock in so deeply it has you arching your back, the motions coaxing precious love cries from the depths of your very heart. Sealing what’s left unsaid in a final kiss—every other emotion, all of the twisted obsession and the horrors of the past month—he empties his load inside, moaning into your mouth. Like a lotus at midnight, you open so obediently for him, your legs wrapped around his waist to pin his body to yours like butterflies spread on an entomologist’s board. 

Of course you love him. After all, there’s no one else for you to adore in this vast, lonesome outer space.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere scaramouche x reader #lunar love hotel 2023 #tw: drugging #tw: dubcon #n/sfw

[theswordwizard]

ai art: both sides

I think a lot of non-artists are also just really and truly not understanding the big picture. I personally could not care less about that cat image, it was fun, whatever, but you are only producing those kinds of images in the sense that an art director "produces" whatever art they are in charge of. They are telling another artist what to do, even guiding them, but they are not considered the artist themselves. Artists who are creating their own art, who are trying to survive off of their work (many of whom have some form of disability, as art is easy to do while sitting down, etc), who are already in the middle of fighting to not just be tossed aside for a product which doesn't even produce the results it claims, are reacting negatively because they are seeing that in parallel with tabling spaces taken up with people presenting generated art as their own illustration, and game devs/producers using it as a way to explicitly avoid paying people for work, while using something that was trained on their work.

"Why do people react so strongly to things possibly being AI art?" If you want to keep it out of the courts, then public opinion matters all the more. It's about a party line that is easily communicable. Most artists are going to be strongly anti-AI because that's the best way to protect themselves than trying to "open a discussion" about it. It's like nurse scabs. We can argue back and forth all day about the intricacies of scabbing for important jobs, but at the end of the day the party line will generally be "scabbing is bad," "we don't like scabs," "scabbing harms workers."

People are trying to compare people getting mad about it to people getting mad about Duchamp's fountain, which just lets me know about their level of art education, and the level of which they like to talk out their ass.

Duchamp's fountain isn't a major point in art history because of the object itself, its because of the STATEMENT. It is because of the placement of the object IN THE GALLERY. It is the equivalent of a political pamphlet, but summed up in a single object that incites discussion around his political statement. It isn't about the object it is about the CONCEPT. We can literally call anything we want "art" if we dedicate ourselves to reframing it and treating it as such, it's just that most non-artists don't even care. They want the label of being an artist without even putting in an effort to. It's like if I wanted to be called a photographer and I wanted people to treat me as such, and so I just made a portfolio of pictures I took off of Pinterest or even a stock photo site, because I've decided that it's the photos I would WANT to take, and thus I can just act like they have anything to do with me.

There have been arguments over much more "similar" things for a long time too. Since the 90s Richard Prince has been taking people's instagram photos, making slight tweaks to avoid copyright, and then printing them large scale and selling them for tens of thousands of dollars. Technically legal, kinda shitty, as he does it without even contacting the (plenty of times, women) original posters. And that's just with selfies people have taken! But I don't see people mentioning that because a lot of people don't like him, and most people arguing to legitimize AI art to be uncontested don't actually care that much about contemporary art. They have zero real interest in being an artist and talking about art to that degree, to have those discussions in a way that isn't validating themselves. Duchamp's fountain in a gallery incites discussion because galleries are places of art discussion. If someone brought a crate of mechanically woven baskets (that they bought from amazon) to a craft fair, people are going to be rightly pissed off. It's about context.

It's also, in my opinion, a similar discussion to the one that was big on twitter not too long ago, where people argued that artists weren't obligated to be able to draw non-white and/or disabled people. Which, sure, but you probably aren't that good of an artist if you don't know how to. And someone going through a portfolio of exclusively white people might go "huh, only white people. interesting." (I even want to include a gotcha here! If an artist has a portfolio of white people, and they have a section talking about their focus being painting their family tree in like, northern Ireland, it's gonna be a totally different story. why, you ask? because there is an underlying concept other than "wow this artist really only likes white people." this is part of the reading comprehension test that will follow.)

And you know what, I'm going to be honest - and this is likely a result of me not being a photographer - but I'm not even really talking all that much about AI photo edits, outside of the large scale implications of what it means that anyone can create a highly realistic image of anything they want (including political figures, female celebrities, you see my pattern here) with zero effort, on a mass scale we've never seen previously. I think they should only be used with stock, and I even think that photographers who upload their works should get additional payments from it. I actually had used a generator back in 2019 for a project, well before this even became a discussion, and it was even featured in a gallery show for a bit! The overall theme was "fake news," so it was a conceptual piece with fake landscape photography that I made with some beta tool. The point was the tool in combination with the tool's result, not how pretty the fake pictures were. I also want to say it was trained a lot more ethically than a lot of the generators that are so popular today.

And this isn't to say that you have to have a gallery or be so fully integrated in a physical art scene or whatever to be able to make conceptual art or talk about it - honestly I think zines that could actually combine whatever your concept is with having room to talk about it, and they're easy to create both physically and digitally and share. maybe just don't have it be around "look at all these pretty pictures that I made with AI." similar to how people at the art book fair aren't going to be impressed with me being like "look at all these pretty pictures I found on Unsplash."

Sure, AI art is "real art," but it's not illustration or photography or whatever, it's conceptual art. Which means it's main goal is to incite thought and discussion about it. Like the D&D book's release that suddenly turned to being about the AI art they used. So if you want to be an artist using primarily AI, go ahead, no one can stop you, but the topic is culturally significant with the current fight between the entertainment unions to protect their livelihoods, so the discussion will be heated.

#ai art #honestly unimpressed with how transparent a lot of the arguments ive seen here are

[hippolotamus]

Happy (incredibly belated) Birthday to mi amor, @disasterbuckdiaz 💙 thank you for your patience

honey, when you call my name | 12.6k | E (Buddie)

“I was at the bar, Buck.” Eddie’s voice is quieter now, dripping with uncertainty. “I walked in- and I saw the team. Then I saw you. At the pool table. Kissing someone.” Eddie inhales sharply and it feels like the air is being ripped directly from Buck. “And when I saw that I- I had to leave.”

The words play back in Buck’s mind in slow motion as he tries to piece them together. None of it makes any kind of rational sense. Eddie was there? He saw Buck and then had to–

“Did you have sex with her?” Eddie blurts out. 

That is not at all what Buck was expecting. Ever since Shannon died there’s been an unspoken rule between them. A silent pact to never inquire about or interfere with the other’s romantic life. And sure, Buck broke that with Ana, but only because Eddie was having panic attacks. What else was he supposed to do? This is completely different in every way. Because his best friend, man he’s hopelessly in love with, and star of every filthy fantasy, wants to know if anything more happened with a stranger at a bar.

The implication clicks, allowing something bright and hopeful to flicker to life in his chest. A wish Buck never dared let himself believe would be fulfilled. “Would it matter if I did?” 

Buck doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s nostrils flare slightly before he attempts to cover it with a mask of indifference. How he seems to be struggling not to look away again. 

“It’s not like it’s really my business anyway.” Eddie shrugs and begins picking at the label on his drink with his thumbnail. 

The flickering ember of hope draws from Eddie’s reaction, daring to glow the tiniest bit brighter. “I didn’t, you know. Do anything with her, I mean.”

Eddie pauses his fidgeting, just long enough for Buck to notice before starting again. The casual silence that had been there before is anything but now. It feels weightier, the ease replaced with tension and doubt, and Buck starts to wonder if he’s completely misinterpreted the situation.

“Did you want to?”

“No!” If this is going where Buck hopes it’s going he wants to be as clear as he can. He quickly adds, “Not with her.”  

Eddie jerks his head up, staring at Buck with equal parts curiosity and disbelief. It pins him in place, leaving him helpless to do anything but stare back. He doesn’t risk moving, his breathing rapid and shallow, too afraid of severing this potential new thread weaving its way into their well established connection. Another anchor point in their root system, twining them together.

“And if it had been someone else?” Eddie asks.

Not that Buck is the most effective communicator, but he kinda wishes Eddie would just say what he means already. However, he supposes, two can play at that game. “I guess it would depend on who’s asking.”

Eddie hums, shifting to set his bottle down on the counter. It lands with a semi-hollow clink and a gentle slosh as he maintains his hold, tapping one finger on the neck. As if he’s contemplating, trying to sort out a complicated equation. He briefly squeezes his eyelids shut tight, pinching his lips together, something warring within him. With a loud exhale through his nose, his body finally relaxes again and releases his grip, letting both hands rest at his sides. 

There’s something else, too, when Eddie faces forward again. A new aura of confidence rolling off of him in waves. It’s vaguely reminiscent of a different night in this kitchen when their roles were reversed and Eddie stood down, unyielding to whatever the fuck Buck thought he was doing. 

Not now though. 

Now he looks intently at Buck. He sees him. He sees him in a way that makes Buck feel stripped down and exposed. A raw vulnerability that intensifies as Eddie steps towards him, his boots echoing with each heel strike. Another and another until he’s standing in Buck’s space, effectively caging him in. 

Eddie takes the beer from his hand, placing it off to the side. It seems like a hallucination, some sort of wild fever dream. But then Eddie’s fingers are tucked under Buck’s chin, his thumb sweeping across Buck’s bottom lip and making him shiver. Christ it feels so fucking real. Please let it be.  

This close, Buck can make out flecks of green interspersed with warm golden browns. He can smell the oud and lavender cologne Sophia gave him two Christmases ago. Eddie swears up and down it’s not really his style, but Buck knows better. He only had to be tortured by it every time Eddie came home from a date. Maybe it can be his now. A scent from his person. A type of claim letting everyone know he belongs to Eddie. Even if it’s just this one time. 

“And what if I’m asking?” Eddie inquires, low and husky in a way Buck’s never heard from his best friend before.

“Are you?” Buck responds, barely above a whisper.

read the whole thing here

#hippo writes #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie fic #fic: honey when you call my name #well look what finally arrived #it's only almost a year later...

[mangosrar]

Him first.

chris sturniolo x fem reader

part 3 of middle game!!!

part 1 here, part 2 here , part 4 here.

mentions of sex

A fortnight, 2 weeks, 14 days. A whole 336 hours had passed since you last saw Chris Sturniolos face. You had been avoiding him at all costs. However, this also resulted in you ignoring Matt and Nick too. You hadn't answered any of their texts or calls, despite their relentless efforts. Chris had even gone as far as showing up to your house, he spent at least half an hour banging on your front door telling you "I know you're in there just hear me out" resulting in you telling him to take his boom box and get fucked.

Within these 2 weeks, a lot had changed. The day after the party you and Jasper had broken up for obvious reasons, he was angry and hurt, but considering he was a complete and total ass, and so full of himself, he could use the hit to his ego to take him down a few pegs. You had completely isolated yourself from the outside world, not leaving your apartment other than to take out the trash. Your phone had been neglected, going days without charge. Truth was, being lonely was dangerous. Its addicting and once you see how peaceful it is, it becomes a desperate need.

Well all good things must come to an end eventually, and here you were, outside their house, trying to work up the courage to knock. You were absolutely fine with never seeing any of them again, purely for the fact you weren't sure you could face them without throwing up, especially Chris. But Nick at least deserved an explanation. Do it Rue. Just knock pussy. DO IT. But he had you beat.

"Rue hey" His face was one of shock and a little bit of confusion but he was pleasant none the less.

"Hey Matt... um i just came by to see Nick, sorry its un announced, i just....." you trailed off not really knowing how to explain but he nodded his head in understanding.

"Chris and Nick are out right now but they should be home soon, you're more than welcome to come in and wait?" he opened the door further, urging you to come in.

There was a moment of hesitation. The fear of having to actually see Chris fore fronting your mind.

"Sure" now or never Rue.

You sat awkwardly on the couch. It has never been like this. usually you were sprawled out, legs resting on the coffee table or one of the boys, smile on your face. But now you were scared to sit too far back, a heavy feeling hanging in the air. Matt had curtly followed you to the living room, not wanting to be rude, but it was obvious he could too feel the awkwardness.

He cleared his throat and hesitated before speaking.

"I think you should hear him out Victoria, he has been beating himself up ever since that night and i don't know how much longer i can watch my brother hate himself over this whole thing" he spoke with his hands, furthering his point.

"He should be beating himself up Matt. What he did was wrong and he's not the only one suffering. Jasper and i broke up." you were annoyed. Usually you saw Matt as the level headed one but right now you wanted to scream. How was he defending Chris.

"Sophie and Chris broke up too. But you both did this Rue. You both cheated. You both lied. You're both in the wrong. You cannot put all the blame on Chris when its just as much your fault as it is his. Sure the way he went about it wasn't the best but he meant well, he never wanted to hurt you." And before you could even reply, you heard the front door open and lazy footsteps stomping up the stairs. You were sure you could see your heart beating in your chest. Your hands were sweating and you felt sort of dizzy.

The first face to appear round the corner was Nicks. He stopped in his tracks when he saw you. His face was unreadable. You couldn't tell if he was angry at you or happy to see you. You heard a faint and confused 'what' from Chris, after seeing Nicks reaction to whatever mystery the living room held.

His face was next to appear, that gorgeous, chiselled, beautiful face you loved. You watched it fall and the colour drain from it. He was definitely not expecting you.

"Rue" his voice was so quiet you barely heard it. It seemed like it was more of a justification for himself that you were actually there Infront of him.

Your eyes were locked on his, you couldn't bring yourself to look away. You just wanted to jump into his arms and tell him everything was going to be okay, but you reminded yourself of why you came here and made your way over to Nick.

"No" Nicks sharp tone took you back. He held up a hand in front of you, preventing you from coming any closer.

"Nick just hear me out okay?" Your voice was shaking and tears were threatening to fill your water line.

"Him first". He pointed to Chris, his gaze never leaving yours. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Chris raise his eyebrows in surprise, he obviously was not expecting that either. Nicks voice was stern and you knew there was no way you were getting out of this. You looked at him with pleading eyes but he was already motioning matt to follow him away, ushering him out the room.

There was no getting out of this, he looked so weary of you, like he was waiting for you to make your escape. Even if you tried to run he would catch you, there was no way you weren't hearing this. The fact that you were so close he could reach out and touch you was tortuous, the only thing stopping him was the wedge he had plunged between the two of you. He wanted to scream, to go back in time and yell in the face of his past self, to tell him that was the stupidest decision he would ever make. He took a step closer to you testing the waters, stopping in his tracks when you moved away. He hung his head and shoved his hands in his pockets before speaking.

"I know there's nothing i can say or do to make this okay Rue but you have to listen to me. I have been going crazy these past two weeks, and honestly before that, i don't know why i haven't acted on it before but i guess i was scared or insecure or... i don't even know but," he paused, staring deep into your eyes, trying to make you realise how honest he was being. "i know that i love you. I know that every time we hung out or hooked up i was dreading you leaving, i know that i hated seeing you with Jasper, i know that every time i kissed Sophie i wished it was you, i know that i cannot let you go as easily as i did before and i know that if i do i will never forgive myself for it. So please Rue, forgive me, show me how i can love you, show me how i can be enough for you".

You were speechless, the tears that threatened to spill were now full fledge running down your face and neck. You had never seen him like this. In all the times you had had sex, spent days together, late night drives, pillow talk, you had never seen him in such a venerable state. He had ripped his heart out of his body and put it on display for you to examine, with no shame at all. He took your silence as an indication to carry on speaking.

"I don't know if this will change anything or if you will continue to hate me for the rest of my life but god Rue, it hurts, i love you so much it hurts, i love you so much i don't think you understand, you're all i think about, i find you everywhere, everything reminds me of you, my sheets smell like you, my home smells like you, there are pieces of you everywhere Victoria, i can't escape it and i don't want to, i want to be with you every second of every day for the rest of my life, so please try not to hate me Rue". How sweet his voice came out, how his lips had caressed every word like he knew exactly which place in your chest they fit into, taking that space in your heart you had made for him and making it bigger and bigger. His eyes were full of honesty. No matter how hard you tried to find even a fraction of uncertainty, it was a losing battle. His gaze gained a fraction of hope the longer you stared at him, absolutely bewildered with his words, he could see your walls slowly crumbling. This was it.

"How could i hate you" that was all you could muster up. The only words that would even form in your mind. His face lit up. The corners of his mouth lifted and his eyes glowed in your presence.

He wasted no time leaping forward and grabbing your face, almost knocking you over in the process, and kissing you like he would never get the chance again, it was full of passion and love, lungs so deprived of air, you were sure that if it lasted just a second longer you would die.

You both pulled back, foreheads resting together, catching your breath.

"I cant believe I actually just said all that sloppy corny shit" Chris's words were hushed, but his face never changed from that of adoration and love.

You couldn't help but throw your head back to let out a laugh and if Chris could've bottled the sound and got drunk on it, he would have.

literally posting this as i’m boarding my flight 😛😛😛😛

1 more part after this y’all enjoy 🙏🙏🙏🙏

@christinarowie332 @sturniolostvrs @kitaysworld @urmyslxt @biimpanicking @soursturniolo @sturnphilia @cupidtoast @lividnity @freshlovehacker @deatthmatch @daddyslilchickenfingers

#mango talks #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x you #christopher owen sturniolo #chris sturniolo blurb #chris sturniolo oneshot #chris sturniolo imagine #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo x reader

[starzshopoflove]

But did he ever make you cry? (Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x Reader)

Notes: fem reader! sfw, literally just me projecting onto reader, best friend Soap! Pining!! Hurt/comfort! I'll make this a series if you guys like it (WC: 1.7)

(Pov first person in italics) 

God when is this gonna be fucking over 

I’ve been here for what? 4 hours? He just keeps going on and on and on about his ex and “How crazy she was”. When was the last time he asked me something, feels like I'm sitting here for decoration. If he wanted to talk about another girl he could have found a therapist or something, Jesus.

This might be up there in the top 10 worst dates, maybe after that freak who got up in my ear after coffee asking if I wanted to go back to his place. Am I cursed?? What is it about me and attracting these absolute losers? 

Its been a while since you’ve gone out a bit rough around the edges since your last breakup. Sure the relationship wasn't that serious but it still bothered you that he left because “You weren't putting out enough” after he said it was fine that you wanted to take things slow. You got your hopes up a bit too high after this guy (absolute fuckin DWEEB) in your lecture asked if you could grab dinner together. You just wasted a solid 2 hours picking out a cute little skirt and doing your makeup checking twice to make sure you looked nothing less then too the 9’s. 

And then he shows up in a baggy pair of khaki joggers and hoodie, y'know after he said “Get pretty I’ll take you somewhere nice”. Oh but of course he just “accidentally” forgot the reservations but that's fine he knows a great place nearby. The great place being a diner in the middle of a highway rest with fluorescent lights that flickered too often with a weird smell in the air. 

His table manners were practically non-existent smacking his lips when he chewed, sucking on his fingers and getting ketchup on his face. That sight alone made you put down your fork that barely poked at your clearly reheat mush they insisted was a pasta dish. Oh and he wouldn’t stop fucking talking, honestly you were starting to question how it was possible he hadnt choked on his food when he spoke. 

You need to get out now. Any Longer at this table and your dignity might start slipping away. He yapped on about whatever as you tuned it out, nodding your head like you cared slowly tucking your phone back into your purse and pulling it onto your shoulder. You were already drawing up a game plan in your head, bathroom, call your roommate, tell her to come get you and block his number. Perfectly full proof. 

“You mind if I slip out for a moment? I gotta head to the bathroom, won't be long promise.” 

You slapped on a fake smile as he shot you a nod with a sleezy grin, all your senses pulled you back into reality as you felt disgust pool in your gut at the sight of him noticing more off putting things about the longer you looked. You platforms clicked as you pattered off into the one stall bathroom, you stood up straight inside not wanting to lean on the wall when you noticed the dried piss stains and mysterious gunk smeared on it.

It was suffocating, every second of it. The smell, The lights, the noise and of course him. You felt insulted, was this really the kind of place you deserved to be taken out too? You don't get to be wined and dined every now and then do you? Even after you spend days in class or at work and heaving your bones to the campus library to study for the hundreds of tests your professors insist on giving you. 

You let out a sigh of contempt digging through your purse shoving the ugly rearing head of disappointment back as you pulled out your phone. Scrolling through the contact list to find your roommates number chewing on your thumbnail as you brought your phone up to your ear letting it ring, feeling your heart pound further the longer the phone rang. You but down hard once you heard the automated message trill, a heavy sigh leaving your chest as you slumped against the wall of your stall running a hand through your hair. 

What the fuck am I gonna do, I can’t stay here any longer or i’m not gonna be held responsible for whatever happens to him if he brings up how much he loves blondes again.

You swallowed your pride unlocking your phone again scrolling up your contact list hoping he wouldn’t be too mad at having to save you from this god awful excuse for a date as you eyes settled on his number 

“Johnny 🧼” 

You thumb pressed down on the number bringing your shakey hand back up to your ear, the pressure that was just annoying you got heavier on your chest the longer you thought about having to stay here with him. You might burst into tears if you had to stay another hour and listen to this loser describe how much he likes girls that are the exact opposite of you basically holding you hostage to listen on this “date” 

The ringing stopped when a sigh on the other end of the line broke the silence 

“Ello?” 

You felt the pressure on your chest bubble and pop once you heard his voice, your own cracking a little as you spoke up. Yeah it was embarrassing to cry over the phone but it would be more embarrassing to sit there and finish the date with red eyes. 

“Johnny,, please tell me your not busy right now” 

“Can’t be busy when yer asleep” 

Your voice was shaky which chilled his nerves with worry, you don’t call him at night unless it was an emergency and with the way you sounded all he could do was think the worst 

“What’s wrong bonnie”

It was more of a hushed gentle voice than any annoyance you anticipated, he couldn’t see it but you were already bleary eyed and pouting over the line. 

You sat down closing the toilet lid as another shakey sigh let you while the seat creaked under you. You felt you words choke up in your throat pressing heavy on your sternum. You wanted to explain yourself, tell him how horrible your date went, how you felt stupid for going out with him, and how sorry you are for bothering him at night knowing he just got back from a mission only a few days ago.

“Talk to me bonnie, can’t help if you dinnae tell me” 

“Can you come get me, ‘m sorry” 

Barely a whisper over the phone, Johnny was already imagining the worst when you asked him that. You could hear him shuffling around the room already pressing his phone between his shoulder and ear. In his head you were already kidnapped locked away in some cellar ready to be shipped away, when you were just sniffling and tearing up in a shitty diner bathroom. 

“You ok? nbody hurtin you?” 

You could hear him tugging his heavy boots on, finally letting out a breath you were suffocating to hold knowing you’d finally get out of here 

“No ‘m just not having a good time please, i’ll tell you when your here.” 

Johnny looked down hearing his phone ping with the location hushing your sniffling through the line as he opened up the map shutting his front door and quickly sliding into his pick up. 

__________________________________

The wait felt like forever, it wasn’t of course you watched the clock religiously. 8 minutes, Johnny sped across town in 8 minutes for you, probably breaking a few laws he’d wave away once he got here. 

He walked into the diner seeing it empty, your date no where to be seen while he took in the atmosphere. It was disgusting, and all he could think about was how you got here and why you would ever be here heavily sighing as he paced over knocking on the bathroom door leaning slightly against the door as he waited for your response or even just a sound. 

“Steamin Jesus,, lovie you in here?” 

He could hear shuffling on the other side as you opened the door up looking up at him with a pouted face and flushed face trying to hold back any noise or tears not wanting to cry in front of him. His hand slowly went to the small of your back gently rubbing and guiding you away from the loo. 

“What you doin out ‘ere alone bunny?” 

His voice was low as he mumbled down to you softly, face screwed and eyebrows furrowed while he peered down at you spinning your head around the small dinner seeing your abandoned table and spotting a napkin with writing on it. 

You moved over to the table reading the napkins silently 

“Tif called, had a good time with you, sorry this didn’t work out!”

He left. He asked you out and left you abandoned in the middle of a dinner after trying to feed you shitty food. He asked you out and thought it was fine to treat you like this. This was the straw that broke your back crumpling the napkin under your hand as you pressed your palms on the table hanging your head, you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough what’s the worst some crying can do. 

Johnny watching you crumble felt like a punch to his gut knocking all the air out of his lungs, He moves your hand off the napkin reading it and turning his head to you. Your hands already found your face hiding your shame as you stifled your sobs and swallowed thickly at the fat tears pouring down your face. He could be angry later when he finally got his hands on who ever hurt you 

He pulled your hands off your face, wrapping you in his arms one hand on the small of your back, another petting at your hair, hushing you softly as you slid your hands up to cling at his shirt burying your face into his chest shaking and heaving as you tried not to be loud. He petted at your hair, rocking you gently holding you close tucking your head under his chin as he slowly turned back to sit down in the booth tugging you down to his lap letting you curl up in on him again letting you cry to him as he coo’d to you 

“Shh poor darling girl, talk to me bonnie, breath ts ok ‘m here for ye” 

#cod mw x reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod simon riley #ghost call of duty #john price #x reader #cod mw2 x reade #cod #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #call of duty x you #cod mw22 #mw2 #mw2 2022 #cod konig #soap x reader #soap x you #soap x y/n #john soap mctavish x you #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2 #codmw2 #mwii

[beeeeandpuppycat]

Imma knew writer on tumblrr☆ perhaps I'll write smut perhaps I won't. Jk I will !! this is silent hill smut for pyramid head ^^♡♡

♡♡FADED LOVE♡♡

Pyramid is just so obsessed with reader :(( he doesn't understand why their so scared of him.. he thinks you just like playing tag when you run from him?? .. but. He does prefer rewards after catching you..

Silent hill x fem reader?? ♡♡

Lil warnings!!♡♡

Blood kink-??☆☆

Pain kink??☆☆

A relationship built purely of fear☆☆

Toxic relationship ☆☆?? Or reader is scared of pyramids head

Reader refered to as angel(sometimes)☆☆

Nipple play!☆☆

(All I can think of really)☆☆

you can't quite remember how you came here, only thing you did remember was to escape. Was to run. Even if you can't remember if the outside world is just as bad.. but anything is worse than this. Then right now

..While the only things you can hear is the loud creaking of the floor beneath you as you so desperately try to run. Run faster than whatever beast was behind you. Making low grumbles of irration from your many attempts to escape it. Escape.. the only thing that hadn't tried to kill you? That's been doing its best to comfort you.Pyramid head simply doesn't understand.

????

Why you of all people would try and escape him, when all he's being doing is "comfort" you . And just like before . Before you could react. His strong muscular arms wrap from, behind you hugging from under your breast . Letting out a low snarl as if amused from your game of cat and mouse . His long slimy tongue coming out from under his helmet to softly wrap at your chin. Leaving his own saliva dribbling down your face. As you gag at the awful stench of your so called lover..

Oh! But the way he softly groaned.. you know damm well what he wants. He had been chasing you for the past 4 hours.. and now? He wants a reward.. a reward from his lovely angel!! From angel.. the lovely body..

Of angel... *of y/n*..

You soon flinch back at the feeling of his long slimy tongue slipping past the collar of your shirt reaching for your breast. Before softy Rubbing at the lily nubs of your breast starting to use his tongue to suck . Leaving cold saliva making your sensitive skin shiver in delight.. his hands quickly making there way to rip the thin layer of clothing off your now freezing body. Skim getting goosebumps from both the cold and slimy feeling..♡

Hands working as quickly as possible to push you up against any thing around you guys. Table . Desk. Anything worked. Pushing your cheek against the dirty material.. your nose is being abused at this point..

Your lower garments quick to be ripped to shreds . With his harsh. Roughly-skinned hands grabbing at your lower hips .. whats prep? He doesn't know. You should probably teach him it..

But not now. When he just knocked his cock straight into your organs. What felt like electricity shooting through your own veins and blood -at the feeling of getting pounded by this absolute beast that stood behind you. Making sure his tip would hit ever right . *Tight* spot inside your own lil stomach--leaving a rather big bulge for the eye to catch.

Each time thrusting into your poor abused pussy to the point your eyes saw stars. While pyramids saw blood. Red crimson blood dripping from your sweet cunt. Only making it easier to thrust into your ever g- spot. Letting out aggressive growls and roars as he continues. His lil long slimy tongue making its way down from your breast to start pushing at the bulge in your womb. Causing small squeaks . Mewls to escape your sore swollen lips . . His free hand making sure as to caress under your chin. Keeping you up so you could pass out in the hands of your lil lover.. who was still constantly pounding into your sweet tight cunt ♡ pounding after pounding till you could feel strings of cum shooting up <3 . Obviously made pyramid happy angel could make him feel so content ..

At least before you straight up passed out. Nose nuzzling into his palm as he dropped you down to the floor.. just before you could have fully passed out. You swear. You must have heard let out a small low raspy growl coming you from underneath the mask of your lover ..as if mocking you for being so slow earlier..

Unlike his hips lol

#pyramid head smut #silent hill #pyramid head #Spotify

[brerosee]

Dinner with the parents//Alyssa Thompson

Authors notes:this was a request I’m not good at writing actual fics so I’m sorry I’ll try my best to get to your requests bare with me thank youu😊

To say Alyssa was terrified was an understatment. Today was the day she would be meeting your parents for the first time, and she was so scared of what they would think of her.

Your and Alyssa's relationship is still fairly new having only been dating for 4 months as of last week,but who's counting? So here you are getting ready in your shared bathroom of your apartment and you hear alyssa call out your name.

"Y/N, please come here" alyssa called out in a shaky voice. you set down your makeup you were applying and walk over to her, "Is this too much,should i change?" She asks franticaly. You smile softly walking over to her and grab her face "you look perfect." You say in a reassuring tone.

you knew she was nervous but you already knew your parents would love her, I mean who wouldnt? "what if they hate me." Alyssa says once again in a frantic tone. "what if they dont want me to see you anymore." She says.

"Alyssa honey they already do love you,they know how good you treat me and they basically already like you more than me." you say with a soft laugh.

Alyssa looks into your eyes "i love you." she whispers, 'I love you too, but we really need to get a move on or we will be late and then they really wont like you." you say walking away laughing.

Once you arrive at your parents house you can feel Ayssa's hand sweating it was the whole way here as she made you drive because she quite frankly could not stop shaking.

You walk into your parents house without knocking and yell out "Mom,Dad?" you walk into the living room and having to pull alyssa with you. You see your dad sitting with your older brother who was visiting from college, he is only 2 years older than you. they look up from the football game they were watching "Hey there they are" your dad says walking over to you pulling you into a hug.

Your dad lets you go and you pull your brother into a hug while your dad looks over to Alyssa, and your poor girlfriend looks scared to death she steps out from behind you and sticks her hand out to shake your dads hand, but instead he pulls her into a hug.

your mom walks out from the kitchen from hearing the comotion and sees Alyssa and walks straight past you to pull her into a bone crushing hug "Im so happy to finally meet you, Just call me mom your family now." she holds onto her shoulders.

"Goodness were are my manners are you hungry? im making pasta i hope thats ok?" your mom says still not even looking at you. "that sounds perfect thank you." Alyssa says still shocked by the warm welcome.

"Oh Y/n im so sorry come here." your mom says and grabbing you and hugging you. "y/n you help me cook, Alyssa you can sit down and relax." your mom says pulling you into the kitchen.

Alyssa stands there looking at you not knowing what to do, you jsut send her a sympathetic look knowing how worried she still is.

She walks into the living room taking a seat next to your brother on the couch. "So alyssa what do you do?" your dad asks curiosly. "oh i um play soccer for Angel City FC and also play for the national team."she says

"oh wow so you play professional, you know back in my day i played i little, might have to teach you some tricks." your dad says jokinly. Alyssa laughs and then hears your mom call out saying dinner was ready.

You all sit the dinner table and you hold alyssa's hand under the table. "So alyssa Y/n has told us so much about you,says you play soccer?" your mom says breaking the silence.

"Yeah i do we have a game next week actually if yall would like to come i could get you tickets." alyssa says looking around at them. "We would love to come!" your dad says smiling at her

After dinner you guys decide to play a few board games you losing and end up pouting but its whatever. Alyssa seemed to be having a great time and your parents and brother get along great with her and you couldnt be happier.

So when you and alyssa finally are home in your shared bed getting ready to go to sleep she looks over at you "Thank you." she says "for what?" you ask confused.

"For letting me meet them i reall hope i made a good impression."she says moving closer to you putting her arms around you holding you close to her.

'They loved you." you say pushing your face into her neck cuddling into her. "i love you.' Alyssa says holding you tighter. When you dont answer she looks down at you sleeping peacfully. she jsut smiles and kisses your forhead drifting off to sleep aswell.

#alyssa thompson x reader #woso x reader #alyssa thompson #uswnt x reader #uswnt #woso community #woso fanfics #woso soccer #request