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[billioneera]

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[azure-cherie]

PAC : Who of the nine Greek muses do you embody ? A message from the muse

➪Pile : 1-2-3 ☟︎︎︎ 4-5-6 ☟︎︎︎ 7-8-9

Hii loves how have you been , I'm back again with a reading, I hope you enjoy this please choose with your intuition and take what resonates , Reblogs, comments feedbacks everything is highly appreciated ❤️

If you liked this and would like to book or would want a bigger reading on the same topic :

Masterlist , paid readings , paid readings 2

Pile 1 :

Muse of music and lyric poetry

Channelled messages: " let go of societal restraints " , " paint the canvas of your life , write a poem about a wall " , " often see yourself as an ancient women of honour " , " feed the doves "

She comes forth to tell you about your potential how you're a very meditative being , you are so good at chanelling and you should do it more often , ask her to be your guide and write down all that comes through to you flow in your thinking and the ideas that come forth

Lean more into the devotional aspect of your life , see everything with the vibration of love. The trees the humans the animals , devote more into self love and worship the gods you already do .

Learn the right way to connect to the moon , you're in your journey and this is one of the crucial times , you're almost at the end of a karmic cycle stay stiff and strong

Don't get into arguments , if you do have mishaps with someone , lean into releasing the anger through creating music or producing tunes .

Take practical approaches to life , if someone says no to you do the thing on your own , your guides are always taking care of you .

Pile 2 :

Muse of dance and choral poetry .

Channelled messages : " learn about the folk music and dances where you stay " , " when in the blues play the beats " , " give more to the society in forms of art " , " start the YouTube channel"

Your devotion towards your deity or your guides is really admirable and that is something that's one of your best qualities people online or in person admire your liking towards a deity you inspire them .

The calmness of mind that can be attained through yoga is something she wants you to do , imagine a blue beam of light when you meditate , she tells you to connect to your primordial life form your soul .

Know about the necessary sacrifices one has to do in their life , your sacrifices now will bring you rewards later , don't fall for instant gratification

Abundance is soon to come in your life but work on cultivating a sense of detachment towards money , obsession ruins everything.

There might me a rock bottom moment in your life soon , she asks you to remain in your path as a human and as a soul take the lessons and move on soon you will alchemize your pain into passion and glory . You transform everything you're a becon of light .

Pile 3 :

Muse of hymns and sacred poetry

Channelled messages : " Levitate " , " dream big " , " nice downtown tshirt " , " the life that one has is a sum and minus of that they do "

If you're interested in writing do it , there might be an opportunity approaching you soon in this sector , though there's a warning about a setback if you don't take the opportunity at the right time don't worry you'll do great believe in the power of wishes.

You might rekindle a childhood bond on the basis of liking of movies or songs .

Business sector might have new opportunities your fortune is about to change you're gonna have the power to do what you want in your life because you're the creator of it , your destiny is now on hold make the best use of free will.

Connect more to the oceans and moon , fireflies etc , be in nature more and stay grounded .

Honour your soul by serving the temple you're in your own body , take care of your body give it ample rest and food .

Pile 4 :

Muse of tragedy

Channelled messages : " Dwelling on past has no rewards " , " crazy is as good as the sane" , " time flowes and glows and you grow "

Don't choose a hard life away from your desires because you're scared of disappointing people your path is enlightened more as you connect more to yourself .

Give into dark feminine energy and live in your truth , if you remain often confused or scared work on your root chakra .

Connect more to your guides through paintings and leave offerings of metal , feathers , corn etc

It's time to finally shine you're going from the hermit to an influencer you're gonna be famous it might start small but it will build up .

Keep away from external influences that stop your growth drop bad friends and family .

Pile 5 :

Muse of love poetry

Channelled messages: eat healthy and enriching foods , read about the love you already behold , the depths of see are beautiful and so is your heart of depth.

Abundance in the sector of love is coming soon you're gonna make the haters jealous , might even win a pagent or competition.

You might have felt Beauty is your curse but life's gonna show you how it's not you're gonna be so hight so uplifted I see you shining like a star

One has to prepare for glory start by saying affirmations and working on your third eye and root chakra .

Read more about lovers from mythology like Persephone Hades , Aphrodite ares , Radha Krishna etc

The boons served by the goddess are yours to keep and no one can question that , you're being divinely blessed and you'll be happy and dancing soon .

Pile 6 :

Muse of comedy and Idyllic poetry

Chanelled messages: Search for the small joys, poppies , these boots are meant for walking , spring equinox fairy

There's a confirmation in case you wanna go for the acting sector , this sector will require a lot of hardwork .

There's also a warning regarding someone in your job your boss or your guru they might take credit for some assignment you did beware and if possible say no because that thing might get your superior a promotion

You are to search bliss in satisfaction about what you already have the moon is to be admired by you the power to be soked it , are you ready for the full moon .

You're intelligent and people really admire you for that , gemini energy.

Move in your life in your true path of light don't be afraid or dim your light , your aura might have hints of white colour .

Pile 7:

Muse of epic poetry

Chanelled messages: Blow the bubbles up , get into kitchen witchery, Artemis , cry me a river

Don't give people the benefit of the doubt if you don't like someone let them go .

Fame is eminent in your energy, life coaches might help you , your aunt is giving you good guidence follow her .

Do your school projects and specially eat tangerine and other fruits that make you feel happy

Serve the world and create peace each small step is a long one in the collective , small things create big impact do your part and be sure of the effects .

Moon water energy and full moon is great for you to invite luxuries in your life , ground your root chakra and connect to your third eye your ancestors will be sending you messages.

Pile 8 :

Muse of astronomy

Chanelled messages: Fly me to the moon , peals and sandbox , honesty is the best policy , go go cheerleader

The first message for you is to balance all your chakras it's crazy my oracle deck pulled all chakra cards omg I feel like there soon will be a kundalini awakening for you

You're almost in your last stage of awakening get into the cosmic dance of life your life is about to change , abundance is coming

Hard message to get through but someone in your relationship might be cheating or there might be someone who has an eye on your partner and might try to frame them . Only for some people

Listen to your higher self write a letter to them

Your path from now on is of the hermit it might be lonely but it's worth it discoveries are on your way in fields of history, psychology, quantum mechanics etc.

Pile 9 :

Muse of history

Chanelled messages: 13 missed calls , glow up is loading , search in the Egyptian archives , glow and peach coloured cheeks

The number six is significant, also specifically for someone there's this person who is delaying your glow up by doing some nasty as spell , might be a close friend

You are ignoring some signs from the universe , they're coming again and again and you're ignoring it look into it closely , you're elevating in your consciousness.

Your energy levels are high and you're matching ahead in your journey setbacks are never the end the sheer power of desire iss enough to keep going .

You're slowly climbing the stairs of life to become confident and assertive you might even call upon a partner soon who is very sure about themselves.

You should plant more trees and learn about them about their origination etc , i specifically get about Tulsi and the lore behind it . Some others would be eucalyptus, basil and marigold.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this

Have a great day/ night ♥️🌹

#pacreading #pac tarot #pac readings #pac #pick a card tarot #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a card reading #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot card reading #tarot reading #tarot deck #tarot cards #tarot community #tarotblr

[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

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

WYD💬2

Part 1 |

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: A fan makes an offer your can’t refuse.

(based on suggestion he’s been overworking himself for weeks if not months. He knows he needs a break but his work is too important. Maybe what he needs is someone to take care of him so he can focus more on work. from @thezombieprostitute)

Characters: Bucky Barnes

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your stomach writhes like worms in the dirt. You sit in the back of the uber, uneager to be at your destination. The driver asks if it’s a special occasion and you just sort of mutter. You look down at yourself; you’re sure dressed for something special.

It’s plain enough. A classic little black dress. Thick straps and a simple silhouette. Still, it’s tighter than you’re used to. You dressed it up with a slender silver chain that holds a heart charm and a velvet clutch. Your usual cotton and wool pale in comparison.

You watch on the GPS as the car moves closer and closer to the endpoint. You take out your phone and check the messages. You can barely read any of it as your hands jitter.

You’re being stupid. This is dangerous and stupid. You can’t meet a stranger. Even if he did pay you to do so. Even if you really need the money. You should just send it back.

‘Reservation for Barnes. The hostess will seat you.’

He sent that about an hour ago. His anticipation has only been met by your silent dread and dulcet agreement. It’s one thing to post photos online, faceless at that, but to meet a man like this. This is more than just posing and primping for a camera.

You thank the driver as he pulls up to the restaurant. You get out reluctantly and linger along the curb, tipping the uber as an excuse to take your time. You look up at the dusky facade and gulp. The cursive moniker assures you of your displacement. 

You take a breath and cross the broad sidewalk. You dodge out of the way of another couple entering the restaurant. You don’t follow them as you hover outside. There were at least a few decades between the pair; what is this place?

You hug your wrap tight and teeter on your heels as you try to see through the tinted windows. You need to scare yourself out of this. You get one look at this guy and you’re gone. You’re running the other direction. Only then will it really be real. Only then will you get a bit of sense in you. 

“Just in time, doll,” a deep voice crawls up your spine and you gasp as you twist around to face the speaker. 

Your ankle bends dangerously as your heel catches in the pavement. You bat your lashes up at the stranger; it’s him. He’s even more handsome in person. It almost takes your breath away.

“Uh, hi,” you murmur. Your escape is foiled. Your second doubts are crushed in that instant. You don’t have the courage to walk away. If he’d never seen you, you could've easily scurried back to your hole and deleted everything. “Mr. Barnes?”

He laughs. His smile is deadly. He puts his hand on your arm, bold but casual.

“Bucky,” he offers, “come on,” he checks the watch on his other wrist, “we’re late.”

He nudges you towards the door, bringing his hand down to hover along your lower back. You walk forward numbly. You don’t know what else to do but go with it.

He opens the door and ushers you ahead of him. The hostess greets him as ‘Mr. Barnes’ and is prompt to lead you through the dim lounge. A round booth awaits you near the back of the restaurant.

The hostess takes your wrap and you place your clutch on the seat as you settle onto the curved cushion. Bucky sits and orders a bottle of Shiraz. You fight to keep your shoulders up, trying to wilt in the luxury of the place. You’re an assistant librarian, what are you doing here?

He slides to the back of the booth, reaching over to wrap his hand lightly around your wrist. He tugs until you reticently shimmy closer. You keep your eyes on the table, fumbling with the wrapped silverware.

“Nervous,” he says. You nod and still the cutlery. “Me too.”

You’re surprised by his confession. He must do this all the time. He’s rich and handsome and oh, how stupid you really are. Of course you’re just another in the long line. 

You look up at him, flinching as you find him watching you. You wonder if your lipstick is patchy or if you smeared your eye liner again. You bring your hands back into your lap and wring them.

You notice the gray patch among the short stubble along his jaw, a few more strands of silver laced around his temples. His hair is smoothed back but the longer strands threaten to fall forward. He lifts his arm coolly and rests it on the seat behind you. He smells amazing.

“I…” you begin. “I think I made a mistake.”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly but otherwise, he does not react.

“How do you know? You haven’t even made the mistake yet,” his hand drifts down to tickle your shoulder, “one glass of wine. How about that? You have one glass before we order, then you can decide.”

“I… I’m not what you think I am,” you utter.

“Doll, you’re exactly what I want,” he winks just before he turns away, another dashing smile sent to the waitress as she arrives with the wine.

One drink. You can do that.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #series #au #WYD #marvel #mcu #winter soldier #captain america

[bethanydelleman]

Sometimes you just don't communicate well online and what you said is taken very negatively. I would delete this but it was re-blogged too much and I don't want it to have zero context, so I'll edit instead. All the original text remains.

I love you Fanny Price (Mansfield Park) for wanting to look the best in your ballgown.

Explanation: Fanny really cares about looking good for a ball. This is never mocked, it's taken as a real and sympathetic concern. So often I feel like women are dismissed for even caring about their appearance.

I love you Elle Woods (Legally Blonde) for going to court in a pink dress.

Pink often is seen as girly and infantile. Also, I love that we actually see the effort that Elle puts into being pretty. She cares about it and it's an investment. What we seem to get now is instant make-up and fashion from characters who don't actually care about it. Like you have to look the best at all times but it should also be effortless.

I love you Beth Harmon (The Queen's Gambit) for using your winnings to buy nice clothes.

I thought they would throw Beth Harmon into the frump category (ie: A woman only has brain cells to be smart OR pretty, not both, think Amy from The Big Bang Theory). Also she's not shamed for spending her money on clothing and not more important stuff.

I love you Joan Harris (Mad Men) for showing a woman can be both sexy and very good at her job.

This one has probably been taken the worst. Joan's character is fascinating to me because she falls into a bunch of "sleep your way to the top" stereotypes but they subverted those expectations. She is sexy, she does use it or attempt to use it to her advantage (it mostly ends up hurting her), but she is also very smart and very good at her job. It makes me so angry that most characters, even Peggy at first, dismiss her as just trading on her looks. I loved how complex a character she was and that she wasn't just a "bimbo"

I wish there were more of you, instead of an endless trope of Strong Women TM acting and dressing like men.

Edit: This post was taken as an insult by people I did not intend to offend. I would be more than happy to see women of all types in media. What makes me sad is that it's still rare to see a woman enjoying being feminine without being portrayed as stupid.

#I know there are more but they are rare #legally blonde was probably the first time I saw a woman in pink be a boss #Other than Power Rangers #legally blonde #mansfield park #the queens gambit #mad men #Strong Women TM #Like honestly Beth dressing like a queen in Queens Gambit made me so happy because it had been so long since I'd seen a smart woman do that #fanny price #elle woods #beth harmon #feminine and strong

[joshslater]

Manhood Exchange

The premise is based on a story I read a while back and forgot to bookmark. Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I was in a shopping mall when I got the notification on my phone. Out of habit I just tapped the icon and suddenly I got a large, erect cock filling the phone screen. I immediately became aware of where I was and had a few seconds of panic before reassuring myself that no one else saw it. I moved a few steps to somewhere less open, where no one could walk behind me, and had a look again.

It was beautiful. Massive and uncut, with the skin pulled back to expose the pink, gleaming head. Actually the entire cock glistened like he had made a few strokes with precum on his hand and then positioned himself with just the right lighting to make the veins pop a little extra. The truly remarkable part was however the overlay at the bottom of the screen. "$400, quick trade"

I'd been on the Manhood Exchange app long enough to know a cock like this is usually hundred times that price, if not more. Whatever impression you've got from watching porn, people are on a bell curve with cock sizes, and the ones on the higher end of the scale aren't selling. All the people who used to compensate with a big truck suddenly ended up in the same market, competing for the same cocks, and they make a hell of a lot more big trucks than big cocks. Oddly enough there was a market for really small cocks as well, not quite as high prices, but just as small supply. Normal people like me in the middle of the bell curve with no cash to buy and no cock to sell just had to make do.

It's not enough for a cock to just enter the market either, which itself is a thread to needle with the 18-35 eligible age span and clean health declaration. For you to find one it has to be bio-compatible for science reasons and roughly the same race for ethics reasons, though the latter is just a matter of money. Obviously I tapped the "Deal!" button in the app before I even checked out his profile. With that kind of cock everyone would know you either had a shit ton of money, or you could get it by selling. The profile didn't add much though. Just more good-looking images of him and his cock. A text message function as well, but was there really anything to talk about?

You'd think I'd be a bit more careful swapping cock with another man, especially since you can't swap again until all the cells have been replaced because of some quantum spin entanglement bullshit. Ten years with bad meat is a long wait, but I already knew he was a bio-match and healthy, so it was more Fear Of Missing Out. I had some shit I hope I could fence, so I took an instant online loan and had the whole deal closed before I'd passed Baskin Robbins on the way out. Both I and my normal size cock were excited.

Just ten minutes later the phone chimed again with a proposed time for the swap at 7:20 pm, almost three hours away. Though I didn't know anything about this less than an hour ago, any delay felt too long, like I hadn't realized how much I wanted this. What it would mean for my position in the crew. Every minute of waiting was a minute where something could derail everything. My phone could be stolen. The exchange could cancel it for some reason. I tapped "Accept" and headed home with the phone in a secure grip in my pocket.

The instructions after I had accepted were straightforward. Be seated with a naked crotch and open the app ten minutes before the scheduled time for exchange. I decided to be pantsless until then just to be safe, and I set three alarms on the phone. One at 6:50 to sit down, if I wasn't already sitting, one at 7:05 to be ready, and one at 7:09 to open the app. I sent a text to Shawn and told him I wouldn't be joining the crew until later, if at all. No details of why.

Then I just sat down in the comfy chair. Three hours to go. I was only wearing my hat, socks, and T-shirt. And my bling of course. The sweatpants and my trunks were in a pile on the floor, and the phone was charging next to me. My cock was pointing almost straight up.

I realized that it would only be my cock for another few hours or so, and I should say goodbye properly. Normally I would jerk off in the shower or in front of the computer, but since I was already perfectly seated and with an erect cock in front of me I just grabbed it and started to remember all the highlights we'd had. When my neighbor Jamar excited came over and wanted to show me something. He was a few years older, but still occasionally spent some time with me. He showed me into the bathroom, lowered his pants, and told me to do the same. Then he showed me that by pulling on his cock he could get it to "bend" in his words. I remembered waking up one early morning with my boxers wet and worried I'd peed my bed. To my surprise they were filled with slime, but just to be safe I put them under the bed to dry so my mother wouldn't know. I remembered that time I got an erection during a movie screening, and slowly wanked but desperately trying to avoid cumming or anyone else noticing what I did.

I remembered the first time I had sex, the first porn I jerked off to, the first time a date ended in sex, the first time I had sex in a car, the first time I jerked off to a porn video on my mobile. All while doing this I tried to go as slow as I could, like at the movie. Flashing before me were dates, partners, and porn stars, while the top of my cock had some frothy pre-cum. I was shocked when the alarm went off. How the fuck could time have moved that fast. I scrambled to get hold of an old T-shirt within reach, and pretty quickly came into it with a few pumps of cum. Not really the satisfying climax I had envisioned.

Suddenly time was moving slowly again, and I was stuck watching dried off, limp cock in front of me. I became self-conscious about how it looked, worried about if the seller would cancel the trade last minute seeing what a lousy deal it was for him. He'd seen my photos already though, but they were taken erect and with good lighting. What was the cancellation policy anyway? The next alarm went off. Why did I even set that one? I was getting nervous. What if it hurt? There was a lot of news about misteleportations some years ago, and this was way more complicated. I didn't even understand how it worked. I knew the basics of standard teleportation from school. Every particle is a probability wave that exists everywhere, but the probability of it actually being at a specific point is overwhelming. By manipulating the quantum state you can poke the probability so that it is more likely to be somewhere else. Just a change in probability, so it can move instantaneously anywhere in the universe, given enough math. Swapping body parts between people was way harder, so it was bound to have lots of issues that could happen.

The last alarm interrupted my train of thought. I kind of felt not ready. Rich people did this, so it should be safe to do I reasoned, and tapped the activation button on the phone.

"This will start a legally binding contract with Manhood Exchange Incorporated adjudicated in the state of Delaware. Please identify yourself." the phone voice said. I pressed the white circle on the screen with my identification finger, the middle one of course.

"Please sign that you are aware that concluding this transaction will replace your penis, testicles, prostate, and relevant connecting tissue, glands, and other structures with a third party as preliminary agreed." I pressed the circle again, wondering what would happen if I didn't. The $400 would certainly be gone.

"Please sign that you are aware that this is a one-time transfer option with Manhood Exchange Incorporated that cannot be reversed through quantum transplantation." I pressed the circle a third time.

"Please sign that you are aware that both set of testicles will be made infertile through this swap." I pressed the circle a fourth time, not so nervous I barely registered what I had signed. The screen of the phone changed to showing a live video from my selfie camera, showing me half-naked in my lounge chair. "Tap to connect" it said on the screen. I did.

The image quickly changed to show the man from the photos lying down in a white, far more upscale couch than I was sitting in. "Yo, man. You ready to do this?" he asked. His erect cock was just as big as it had looked on the photos, almost looking bigger as it was swaying with his breathing. The instructions on the screen said "Verify the other party is the selected exchange party and that he is seated with exposed crotch."

"Yeah, let's do it." I said, and tapped the Verified button on the screen. I could see from his motions that he did the same, and a timer started on the screen, counting down to 7:20. "So, will it fit in speedos?" I blurted out, still feeling nervous and with several minutes to kill. He chuckled. "Shorts are better for swimming, but you want some tight trunks to keep it in place when you're wearing normal clothes. I use compression shorts a lot."

"Well, you can use whatever with mine."

The last 40 seconds we just stared at the countdown in silence. The actual swap was instant, almost silent, though I wouldn't be able to describe the sound, and without any shimmers of light as you can sometimes see when teleporting. It felt like someone spilled warm water over my crotch, though that quickly went away, but it was replaced with the most amazing, intense horny hardon I've ever felt. It was like the cock was buzzing, craving attention. "Enjoy the wank" the other guy said. "What? Oh. Thanks!" I said and the video was closed from his side.

I grabbed the cock with my hand and instantly felt the difference in size. It was almost the size of my wrist. I just moved my hand up and a trickle of precum oozed out and trickled down over my fingers. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and continued where I had left off, thinking about the most recent porn videos, and in not too long I could feel the buildup of a climax, only this time I was unable to force it back. It just kept building and building, and I think I actually moaned out loud as the first rope of cum erupted. Then another one, and another one. Then I had to open my eyes to look at the mess, and it wasn't any small squirts of cum either. It looked almost comical how my T-shirt was completely soaked in cum, and I was still pumping out a few more ropes.

To my amazement the cock was still semi-erect. I got up and hurried to the bathroom and threw the cum-wet T-shirt. After a quick look at my sticky chest I decided to have a shower. I stripped out of the few remaining items I had on and proceeded to have another wank in the shower. This one lasted a bit longer and produced slightly less cum, but it was still a shocking amount.

I had barely dried and put on my underwear before the new cock started to firm up again. I grabbed the phone and sent a text to the seller in the app. "What the hell is happening with my cock? Were you always hard?"

The app sat silent for a few minutes until a response chimed. "It's called hyperspermia. It's a genetic condition, so not a disease in Manhood Exchange's definition. You'll learn to cope several hours between wanks. It was the precum that bothered me the most. Just drink a lot of water, always wear a condom, and compression shorts really help, as I said. Good luck!"

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

hello readers. AITA for visiting a friend in another country before visiting a different friend in a different (neighboring, but still a good 7-10hr trip) country?

some context: friend 1 and i have been online friends for over a decade. by reasons of circumstance- they're a few years older than me so they could travel easier, their family is more affluent whereas mine couldn't shell out ~1k for an overseas flight until i was able to make that money myself as an adult, they had already graduated college and could travel easier than when i was still in college and could not (summer was technically an option but friend 1 hates hot weather and getting sweaty, so they always wanted to meet up in colder months, which limited my schedule)- the four times we've been able to hang out in person, they came to visit me instead of vice versa. the 4th time was a couple years ago, and they purchased tickets at the start of that year (2022). however, at the same start of that year, i got involved in a new community and met a lot of amazing people, especially friend 2, who quickly became one of my best friends in a short amount of time. it was just one of those instant connections, y'know?

anyway. fast forward about six months. since friend 1 was already coming here towards the end of 2022, and there was no refunding those tickets, friend 2 and i wound up making plans to see each other. but they couldn't easily afford the plane fare, so i decided to go visit them in their home country instead. part of the reason i never had done so with friend 1 before was bc i just wasn't mentally ready to be so far from family, in a different country, by myself - i had a lot of anxiety about such a long trip. i still had some now, but after going through covid and such, i changed a decent amount as a person, and wasn't quite as anxious anymore. i had also moved out, so i was more used to being away from family by then.

the trip with friend 2 wasn't going to happen until 2023. when friend 1 came to visit, however, they found out about the trip (by apparently looking through my likes on twitter, where friend 2 had made a post about it) and completely broke down. i had been trying to figure out a way to tell them, but had a feeling that any method would result in this exact reaction, so i had put it off, until i was unfortunately proven correct.

further context: friend 1 and i have never been great at honest communication. this is a fault of both of ours, but i feel like i am able to admit it more honestly, apologize/own up to it, and try and make changes. we met young and immature, and the majority of our talk over the years has been superficial, solely about fantasy characters. when i got too busy in college, and my time/interest in characters declined, i felt more and more like our relationship wasn't as fulfilling. i was afraid to bring this up because on two separate occasions in the past, when i mentioned hanging out with other friends (and in one if the situations, which was an online game, i invited friend 1 to join us) i was immediately ghosted by friend 1 for a few days. so i stopped feeling able to bring up any plans with friends going forward, for fear they wouldn't take it well. i made up excuses and lies when i DID hang out with other people to explain away my absence (we were used to talking daily, but it felt like an obligation after a time, as they'd always ask why i wasn't online for a day). obvs, none of this is healthy, but it led to how i (mis)handled the current situation.

friend 1 found out, we had a lot of difficult talks on a trip that was supposed to be fun, and throughout the remainder of the trip i basically felt watched for whenever i was on my phone - lots of passive aggressive comments dropped about how "they wouldn't use social media on a trip like this, bc they could just do that at home". i was accused of being in love with friend 2, bc why else would i wanna go visit them so soon into a friendship, of not wanting friend 1 to even be here, of "holding something that happened years ago" over them (the ghosting) when i tried to explain why i didn't tell them. (i don't hold the situations themselves against them anymore, but it's had a profound interaction on how i conduct myself in relationships now). they said that they wanted to be my first international experience, which i get, but in my mind, it's two completely different countries, and they were already coming to visit before these plans were even made. they also made it clear they didn't care about the circumstances, friend 1 just wanted to be "my first" no matter what i said. i felt/still feel like that's too controlling, basically asking me not to go hang out with friend 2 bc i didn't adhere to their timetable for it first.

i had an amazing time with friend 2, and it was just an overall more comfortable experience. i still feel like i owe friend 1 a visit, even though i don't see a long future for our dying friendship (and even, if i'm being very honest with myself, i don't want to go visit them). personally, i'm fine with this - we've just grown into different people imo. but they don't have many friends, and had a couple rough ghostings from previous friends of their own, so i feel guilty about wanting to call it quits on ours, which again i know they won't take well. i just don't think we're compatible anymore, but even so, this whole situation has continued to eat at me even though it's been nearly a year now. i keep wondering if i really am in the wrong here, if i wasn't as considerate as i should have been, if i shouldn't be so blase about ending a decade+ friendship.

so, AITA for visiting friend 2 in their country before friend 1?

#aita #am i the asshole

[hypnogogyc]

hi i was wondering if you had any terminal velocity hcs (also I **love** your art, the way you colour is just [unintelligible noise] /vpos)

Blam triple threat TY FOR THE KIND COMPLIMENT!!! I really love the coloring part the best so im so glad you took to that alot!!

I have a couple scattered around my terminal velocity tag. Here’s some more!

- Oliver doesn’t sleep sometimes (his sleeping schedule is less a schedule and more some online wheel spinner) and likes to lay his hand on Mike’’s chest as he falls asleep so Oliver can watch and feel his pulse get ever slower and slower and he revels in both the undeniable pulse and the thin line he equates sleep to.

- Mike likes to travel. In fact he will actually go ballistic if in one place too long. Sometimes he says he just doesn’t know how to sit still. Oliver is content to follow 5am travel whims. Mike senses coming storms and chases them. His nighttime melts to his patron too, and when a storm approaches, the rumbles enter the background of his dreams. His eyes snap open in the middle of the night and shakes Oliver awake, who nods as they both dress quickly and pack for a drive.

- Mike fucking loves his car. Its kind of embarrassing how much money has gone into the old vintage machine but it’s a nice clean design minus the rainbow led lights under the rims. He didnt name the car but he commonly calls it “her” and “my baby”

- Oliver is veeerrrry very patient which leads to Mike naturally losing alot of their bits that dont end and become about endurance. Mike has switchups between instant gratification and the ability to pursue one thing uninterrupted.

- Mike has poor circulation which is a shame since Oliver is very much not making body heat. They sleep with several blankets and sometimes a heating pad.

- Oliver is on friendly terms with Simon, who knows Oliver as “my basically-kid’s VERY polite and vast aligned boyfriend” and Oliver picks up some painting from him, much to Mike’s chagrin.

- Mikes favorite music genres are rock, house, and sappy songs. Oliver likes psychedelic, edm, and anything that sounds like a halloween song.

- Mike likes any competitive or open-world game and dislikes games that time cap you daily in progression or get too grind-y. Oliver likes all things horror (he can still spook easy) and dislikes games that have over complicated lore and bad lighting

- Mike got a place with a balcony for easy smoke access, which ends up also being where he leaves and comes back often. He only ever caught Oliver there a handful of times smoking, was scandalized to know Oliver had smoked when he was younger. Then realized his lungs don’t work anymore so free immunity. His Balcony was different in all the places he stayed. Sometimes a backyard. Sometimes a front yard. Often a car. Having someone else there was one of the large invisible steps into intimacy he’d have to wrestle with.

- Oliver is an avid spender of Fairchild money. He was incredibly reluctant to at first but eventually the silks and threadcounts got to him

#fave headcanons… hmm mostly i rlly love interactions that r small #tma hcs #tma hc #tma #interrogation #terminal velocity #Oliver banks #mike crew

[billioneera]

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Day 21-23: Use Pictory AI to create engaging videos from your blog posts, articles, or other content related to your niche.

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Remember, consistency and quality are key to success on YouTube. Keep creating engaging videos using Pictory AI and promoting them on social media

#fastest way to make money online #make money fast #make money from home #affiliate marketing for beginners #instant way to make money online #earn extra money #make money on youtube #earn extra cash #earn real money #youtube #how to earn money #earn money #how to make money on facebook #how to make money fast #how to make money online #how to make money with nfts

[hermajestyimher]

The Trap of Materialism: Why the Endless Rat-Race to the Top Will Only Make You Miserable:

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Part of the reason why I'm so vocal against the wave of New Money extravagance and excessive material boasting stems from how much it is ruining our perception of what a truly successful person looks like, and how success is actually measured. Social media is inundated with content that encourages us and makes us believe that the only path to true success, happiness, and a levelled-up life is through the constant, never-ending pursuit of material wealth, oftentimes at the cost of our own integrity, morals, and well-being. Material wealth that is not based on quality and tasteful inclinations, but on the excessive consumerism and tacky, insecure-driven flexing of expensive items for the sake of the brand and price tag solely.

We are being told by the algorithm that our lives are insufficient if they do not measure up to the curated standards that influencers portray on their social media accounts. We are constantly being bombarded with an onslaught of stimuli from flex-culture that makes us feel inadequate if we happen to not compare in our real lives, creating a need in us to want to achieve that same level of material wealth in an attempt to gain a sense of validation we would otherwise not be able to receive from the masses.

This rat race to the top of the consumerism and materialistic pyramid is killing us. It's making us feel anxious, depressed, and unappreciative of the things we have in life, making us lose sight of the things that are actually important, making us fall for online scams, skewing our live perspectives and goal settings, and making us worship people based on their perceived status and online persona. This is not a healthy way to live, and most people in our society are trapped in this cycle without even realizing it.

We are being told that pursuing a meaningful career and building wealth the correct way through secure long-term investments and education is not worthy, instead, we are being sold a fantasy of instant gratification and get-rich-quick schemes that appeal to the most immature and easily impressionable of our society: the youth. Chasing after things like fame, money by any means necessary, and hedonism will only leave you depressed. Living a life that has no real, tangible fulfillment or peace, where the opinions and perceptions of others towards you keep you in a constant state of worry is not a life worth living.

As a society and generation, we need to learn to break free from this insidious and toxic cycle of worshipping material wealth, online personas, and fast pleasures that don't deliver any lasting fulfillment. What truly matters in this world are our connections to people, how much good we can impart to others, and our accomplishments through hard work and dedication (e.g. achieving an education, building long-term financial stability, creating a name for yourself).

Take some time to reassess your life and ask yourself if the goals that you have set forward are truly yours, or if you have been influenced by the society around you to want to achieve something just to be perceived in a certain kind of way. Ask yourself, are the activities I engage in truly satisfying me as a person, or am I simply complying with the world around me to fit in, despite making me unhappy? The quicker you are able to assess the things that are and aren't helping you live a good life, the less time you will waste chasing after things that will only keep you from it.

#blog piece #things ive learned #materialism #consumerism #capitalism

[justimajin]

The Profit & Love Statement » Pt. 17

↠ Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

↠ Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Angst

↳ 5k / CEO AU

↠ Summary: Through hours of endless training and hard work, Kim Seokjin is finally the CEO of Kim Electronics. He has everything at his hands - status, money, power. He owes it all to you, his rigid and sarcastic mentor who overseed his entire training. But as he steps into the shoes of becoming the CEO, he can only wonder what it means for your relationship now.

↠ Warnings: Chaotic antics and the feels :')

↠ Next Update: Tuesday, October 24 (series masterpost here)

Jungkook’s expression sours. 

You watch as he recoils, mouth puckering up and eyes squeezing shut. 

It takes him about a solid minute to recover. 

“It’s–...” He attempts to grasp onto any conclusive words, “It’s not bad.”

“Jungkook, you look like you’re going to throw up.” You muse, setting aside the pasta you made last night. It was your billionth attempt at trying to make the dish, throwing in different ingredients and praying that it would taste better. 

“I think it’s the seasoning.” – another voice chimes in. 

You stare as Taehyung leans over, scooping a mouthful before chewing it with curious eyes. He immediately grimaces, not being as good as Jungkook when it came down to hiding his expression. 

“Yeah sorry,” He chokes out, sliding it closer to you. “That’s just terrible.” 

You let out a long sigh, staring down at your failure. 

A low mumble leaves your lips, “No wonder Yuna didn’t eat more.” 

“Is there too much salt?” Jimin naively ponders, glancing at Jungkook and Taehyung. “Sometimes over seasoning can be a problem.” 

“No, it’s almost like there’s something else in there.” Jungkook surveys you, “Did you add some spice into it?” 

“Five different kinds.” You state, only for Taehyung to choke on air.

“Five kinds?!” He exclaims. Jungkook covers his face and Jimin stares at you with wide eyes. 

You’re about to defend yourself, proclaiming that you were simply trying to experiment after reading online that spices could sometimes save a dish – until the door to the room widens. 

“Hi guys!” Hoseok chirps, finding all four of you huddled together around a container of suspiciously looking pasta. 

His brows furrow as he glances around, “Yoongi’s not here?” 

“He took his lunch break earlier.” Jungkook explains, leaning back in his chair. 

Hoseok hums, holding the door open. “Well, as long as no one makes a ruckus, I ran into someone on my way here.” 

You quirk a brow at that, but then Hoseok pushes the door further open and Jin pokes his head through. 

“Oh my god.” Taehyung exclaims immediately, “If it isn’t our amazing CEO!” 

Within an instant, Hoseok presses a finger to his lips and Jin hurriedly shushes him. He hastily peers over his shoulder, luckily recognizing that no one passing by had heard Taehyung’s voice. 

Swiveling around, the two of them join your table. Hoseok settles down to Taehyung while Jin slips in next to you, but you notice from the corner of your eyes how he seems to maintain some distance away from you. 

He crosses his arms, eyes surveying. “I know you, you, and you.” He refers to you, Taehyung and Hoseok specifically, but then his finger lands on Jungkook, “You.” 

The man in question has a smug smile, “It’s nice seeing you again, too.” There’s a playful glint in his eyes, “And my name isn’t you, it’s Jungkook.” 

Both Hoseok and you exchange a look of bewilderment. 

Hoseok speaks up. “Wait, how do you two know each other?” 

“I got lost on the day of my interview,” Jungkook explains, “Only to run into him.”

Jin smirks, “You make it sound like it was my pleasure to meet you that day.” 

“And yet, you still helped me.” Jungkook cheekily points out, to which Jin scoffs. 

“You’re still annoying.” 

“Same goes for you.” 

Hoseok loudly clears his voice, throwing an expression of puzzlement in your direction. Jimin moves forward, a bit taken aback with how Jungkook was speaking so casually with the CEO of their company. 

He politely bows in his seat, “H-Hello, Mr. CEO! Nice to meet you!” 

“No need to be formal,” Jin smiles lop-sidley, “Just call me Seokjin or Jin, everyone sitting here does.” 

Jimin blinks, not quite expecting the man’s laid back demeanour. He slowly nods, acknowledging Jin’s words. 

“And you are?” 

“Park Jimin!” He replies in an instant, “I-I work down in Customer Service with Jungkook.” 

Jin hums in response and you let out a long sigh. His eyes snap over to your form right away, noticing your stare being directed on the container before you. 

“I’m just going to throw it out.” You mention with a grimace. Jungkook gives you a sympathetic look, nodding in agreement.

“Is that your lunch?” Jin ponders and you hum, rising up to your feet. The contents all get dumped down into a trash can. 

“It didn’t come out so great.” You explain, returning to your seat. 

“It wasn’t so bad.” Jungkook chides, but then Taehyung interjects, touching his stomach. 

“I think I might get food poisoning.” 

Jungkook simply stares at Taehyung in disbelief. You want to laugh at how he was trying to be considerate of your feelings, all the while Taehyung could be too honest at times. 

“Wait, so you don’t have anything to eat?” The conversation between the two runs over Jin’s head completely, eyes focused on the empty container. 

You shrug, “I’m still a bit hungry, but it was the only thing I brought.” A glance is sent towards your watch, “Plus my break is going to end soon anyway.” 

“How can you say that?” He rebuttals, “You hardly got the chance to eat.” 

“It’s fine, I managed to get some bites in.” You nonchalantly wave off, but he’s persistent. 

“It’s not fine, you need energy for all the work you’re going to be doing.” 

You blink wide-eyed at his response, but then you look like you’re about to rebuttal and he can’t take it anymore. 

He’s digging into his own bag, pulling out what you assume to be a lunch bag and presenting its contents before you. 

“Take it.” He simply states. 

“What?” You find it completely absurd, “No– Jin, I can’t just take your lunch.” 

“Take it, I made extra today and you know my cooking is good.” 

“But–”

It only takes a couple of seconds for it to go flying open, the full contents being pushed in front of you and utensils getting placed into your hands. All you can do is merely stare in disbelief, oddly feeling like you had just been scolded. 

Your four coworkers watch with enlarged eyes as you slowly take a handful of bites. A small smile curls on Jin’s lips, but then you lift up your hand and a low yawn slips out. 

He turns to face you closely, eyes scanning your features. “Are you feeling tired?” 

Your shoulders hitch up, his reaction nearly having your heart jump out of your chest. 

��U-Uh a bit,” You let out a sharp cough, the food getting stuck within your windpipe. “I was working a shift at my other job late last night.” 

His jaw drops, “You have another job?” 

You hum nonchalantly, “Yeah, I work here during the day and there during the evening.” You gesture to Jungkook, “We used to work there together.” 

His field of vision focuses on Jungkook, who simply nods with a smile. His brows furrow, not having known you knew each other outside of the workplace. 

He shakes his head, “Wait, does that mean you work more than seven hours a day?” 

“Seven hours here and five hours there on weekdays.” You correct, “But that doesn’t include any of the days I work overtime or when I work weekends.” 

In that single moment, all Jin can do is just stare. 

To be fair, he knew about you to a certain degree. He was aware that you had bit of a horrible obsession with work, and it did tend to come above anything else.

But knowing the background that he does now – about your family, about Yuna and about you, he just can’t take it anymore. 

He can only draw one simple conclusion. 

You’re absolutely terrible at taking care of yourself. 

And of course, he had to fall for someone as stubborn and hard-headed as you. 

“You really shouldn’t overwork yourself so much.” His words are firm, gaze darkening. “You also need to be eating regularly and getting enough sleep.” 

You whirl around, a deep crease forming in between your brows. 

There is nothing, but utter confusion written on you as you stare at him. It’s not only you for that matter, as your four coworkers who were previously silent and observing the conversation, are very closely mimicking your expression. 

You set your fork down. 

“Is everything okay with you, Jin?” You blurt out – his behaviour throwing you off completely.

Where was the playful banter you were so used to? The boastful remarks? 

Heck, the minutes had flown by and he hadn't even complimented himself somehow. 

He wants to let out the biggest sigh ever. Here he was communicating that you need to look after yourself more and of course you had to ask if he’s okay. 

He really just had to fall in love with you. 

“I’m completely fine,” He states, “You, on the other hand, don’t have that much time before your break ends.” 

Your gaze is still on him, like you were trying to decipher a mystery of a puzzle. But then he gestures towards the lunch he shared with you and you exhale, foregoing it all together and continuing to eat. 

Glancing up, you make eye contact with Jungkook who seems like he has no clue what to say. Hoseok appears the same, eyes darting between the two of you constantly. Taehyung and Jimin side-eye each other, deciding to remain quiet as well. 

You’re about to remark something about how they should probably continue on eating as well – but then your breath hitches. 

Jin tucks a strand of hair that had fallen to your forehead, carefully slipping it behind your ear. He does it in such a casual manner, form still leaning against his chair as a hue of scarlet scatters on your features. 

There is sheer shock written all over everyone’s expression and when you turn to face him with a questioning look, your eyes have doubled in nature. 

He’s still looking at you, but there’s something in his gaze, something that’s just different. 

You wonder how long it had been since he had started looking at you like that. 

***

It isn’t long before you’re finishing up the food on your lunch break. Jungkook and Jimin are long gone, having to go back to their department once they are finished as well. Taehyung had soon departed after them, complaining about how he had a meeting to attend that he wasn’t looking forward to. Hoseok reprimands him to go, gesturing to you to leave alongside him. 

Jin left before everyone else did – eventually realizing that he was gone too long for someone that was CEO of the company, and knew that Secretary Moon would be waiting for him. 

Hoseok follows behind you, his lips pursued. 

“So…” He draws out, looking at you intently. “What was that?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know, Jin fussing all over you in the break room.” He brings up, “Did something happen between the two of you?” 

“No.” You reminisce, having just seen him as usual. 

“Interesting.” Hoseok tilts his head to the side, “You know, he was talking to me about you.” 

“What did he say?” 

“That he thinks you’re really kind and funny.” He says, watching your reaction. 

You make it to your cubicle, sitting down. However, your brows are furrowed, arms crossed. 

“I guess...that’s not too surprising.” 

He was just complimenting you, after all. 

“Uh, huh.” Hoseok mutters, like he knew something you didn’t. Yoongi leans over, glancing over at you two. 

“Did any of you happen to bring coffee?” He’s got eyebags lining his eyes. 

“Oh my god, hyung.” Hoseok exclaims, “What happened?” 

“Haru’s been having trouble sleeping again.” He lets out a long sigh, deflating back into his seat. “Hana and I have been trying our best, but she still won’t sleep on time.” 

“Which means you haven’t been sleeping either.” You note. 

“Right.” He nods, planting a hand on his temples. 

“Let us know if you ever need any help.” You bring up, knowing his kids were very young. “You two deserve a break too.” 

Yoongi hums and Hoseok turns with a smile, “I’ll go grab you that coffee.” 

“Thanks.” Yoongi mumbles, eyes drooping down. 

As he shuts his eyes for some much needed rest, you resume your attention back to your work, logging into your computer and pulling up your emails. To be completely honest, you had almost forgotten how good of a cook Jin truly was, feeling grateful that you were able to eat something decent instead of your own disastrous home cooking. 

Hoseok ends up returning with coffee for the three of you, something that awakens life back into Yoongi. Both you and Hoseok let out a chuckle at that, watching Yoongi have a surge of energy to the point where he’s speeding through his work alongside you. 

The hours churn away at a rapid pace and soon enough, 5pm is rolling around on the clock. You slump back into your seat, exhausted beyond belief as your eyes flutter shut for a moment. 

“Are you asleep?” 

The voice draws you out of your thoughts, your eyes snapping wide open. 

Jin stares down at you, arms crossed and gaze surveying your face. 

“You scared me.” You harshly whisper, placing a hand on your heaving chest. 

He completely ignores you. “You look tired, how much sleep have you been really getting?” 

“Trust me, I’ve been getting enough.” You explain in defense, getting up from your seat. “It’s just the end of the day, you know what that’s like.” 

He watches you pack your belongings, acknowledging that you were right on that part. However, there’s still a hint of doubt in his features, something you notice right away. 

You wonder if it’s because you haven’t heard any quips or remarks from him all day, or if it’s because he’s more withdrawn and quieter than usual. But then you decide it didn’t matter and you really needed to convey your reassurance to him. 

“Jin, I’m fine, I swear.” You press forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I really appreciate that you’re looking out for me and you’re a great friend for doing that, but I’m seriously okay.” 

You give him a soft smile before resuming packing your belongings, hoping it would be enough to set his mind to ease about the whole matter. 

But you don’t know see the flash of hurt that comes across his features. 

His heart sinks, a tightening sensation twisting in his chest. He chuckles underneath his breath, gaze downcasted. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” His laughter becomes more pained by the second, “I am such a great friend…”

“Hyung, let me give you a ride.” 

Yoongi turns to see Hoseok jogging up behind him, car keys in hand. 

“I’m okay, I’ll just take the bus.” 

“It’s raining.” Hoseok protests. He knows that despite everything, Yoongi was the type to literally stand by the stop and continue to get soaked just for the promise of transportation. 

“Fine.” Yoongi mumbles, giving in as Hoseok grins. He follows the man to his car, waiting for him to unlock the door. 

A loud sigh catches their attention. 

Jin is by himself, leaning against his own vehicle. Except his head is resting against the hood of the car, eyes squeezed shut and form completely slumped down. 

Another sigh leaves his lips, alongside the murmurs of what sounds like, ‘what on earth do I do now?’. 

Hoseok raises a brow, making eye contact with Yoongi from across the car who holds a similar perplexed expression. Letting go of the door handle, he strolls past his own car and heads down the parking lot with Yoongi silently trailing behind him. 

“Everything okay?” He ponders, concern spreading over his features. 

Jin raises his head from the hood, blinking a couple of times before the two men are visible in his field of vision. He seems startled, like he wasn’t quite expecting someone to notice him, much less speak. 

“O-Oh, Hoseok.” He greets him, eyes flickering, “and Yoongi.” 

He quickly clears his throat, “Yeah– I’m okay, n-nothing to worry about.” 

Hoseok deeply exhales, staring at him empathetically. 

“It’s Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?!” Jin loudly exclaims, “No! Of course not!” 

Hoseok fondly smiles, “You like her.” 

Yoongi shrugs behind him, “It’s kind of obvious.” 

“Oh my god,” Jin covers his face, ears tinting red, “How is it that both of you know, but somehow she doesn’t?” 

“What happened?” Hoseok presses on, encouraging him to talk to them. 

“Okay, I’ll admit it. I like Y/N, but–” He shakes his head, “She doesn’t see me in that way at all. She just sees me as a friend.”

He says it sharply, frustrated that in the midst of him experiencing all these feelings, you’re no way near to reciprocating them, instead viewing him more as a comrade than someone you could be with. 

He’s left clueless on what to do now, knowing that at this point there was no way for him to actually know if you would ever feel the same way. 

He deeply sighs, “I think I’ll just need to confess to her.” 

“Don’t.” Yoongi interjects right away, much to Hoseok’s and Jin’s surprise. “Y/N’s stubborn and too logical at times. She won’t give herself a chance to realize her feelings.” 

Hoseok hums, amused by Yoongi’s keen observation. “As much as I love her, I’m afraid Yoongi’s right.” 

“Then what do I do?” Jin ponders, “Just leave my feelings unreciprocated?” 

“No, you can’t do that–” Hoseok presses a finger to his lips, falling deep into thought. 

There’s a twinkle in his eyes, one that sparks up immediately. 

He snaps his fingers together. 

“I have an idea,” He states, a giant grin spreading on his features, “But I’m not too sure how you would feel about it.”

Your hands flicker through the documents, inspecting them carefully. 

“I think everything looks good. The contents are all organized and there seems to be no errors.” Your eyes flicker up, coming into contact with your Manager’s, “The program can run efficiently.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Soyou hums, crossing her arms, “How long do you estimate it taking?” 

Your lips pursue, acknowledging all the factors she was briefing you about the training program. 

“Considering training has usually averaged between a couple of weeks to two months in the past,” Jin’s training flashes within your mind, “I would say about one month.” 

Soyou nods, satisfied with your assessment. You put the file contents back together, handing them back to her. 

She raises her hand, “That’s yours to keep, Y/N. Not mine.” 

Your hands slightly retract back, staring at her a bit confused. When she had originally approached you to carefully draft out a training program for overseas employment underneath the company, you had assumed that you were in a position where training the future CEO was in your favour and Soyou simply wanted you to start the program. 

But you weren’t informed of the long-term eligibility of this opportunity. 

“I have to say Y/N, it’s been incredible watching you work.” She gets up from her seat, reaching her hand out, “I want to see you be the one leading this program.” 

Your heart thrums against your chest, “I-I’m sorry?” 

“You, Y/N.” Soyou states again, a small smile curling on her lips, “You’re going to be leading this program.” 

Joy spreads through you, chest swelling with immense pride. 

It takes every fibre of your body not to break down right then and there. 

You take Soyou’s hand securely, holding back the water that attempts to well in your eyes and willing your voice to sound stable and professional. 

“T-Thank you, Soyou. This is a great honor.” 

She warmly nods and the sheer amount of happiness is hard to contain. 

You had finally been seen by her, after being so invisible within the workplace. 

Being dismissed and with the paperwork in your arms, you’re about to turn on your heels when she speaks again. 

Her next words have all the air leaving your lungs. 

“When you have a moment Y/N, maybe we could also look into negotiating your salary?” 

A negotiation. 

Meaning you can aim for a higher salary. 

And could finally quit your second job. 

There’s a bright grin on your lips, “Of course.” 

***

Your Manager departs from her office and nothing else matters. You walk back to your cubicle in confidence, holding back the sheer amount of joy and pride that is bursting out from you. 

However, it seems like it’s rather difficult to contain your expression. 

“Good news?” Hoseok beckons brightly, standing next to Yoongi’s cubicle. Yoongi seems expectant as well, watching your expression carefully. 

“Really, really good news.” You eye Yoongi, “Let’s just say I don’t think I’ll be looking for another job anytime soon and won’t need to work at a restaurant anymore.” 

He smiles, “I knew you could do it.” 

“Congrats!” Hoseok exclaims, giving you a high-five that you take. 

“Thanks, guys.” You grin, feeling like you were on Cloud 9. Your day has gotten ten times better and you’re considering taking Yuna out tonight to celebrate, finally being able to treat your dear sister to food that isn’t as poisonous as your own cooking. 

That’s when you catch sight of a man’s backside, broad shoulders hunched over as he leans while discussing something with the head of Marketing. Your grin spreads, knowing exactly who you wanted to share the good news with next. 

Your heels clank against the ground, hand eagerly tapping against his shoulder. 

But there’s a handful of things you don’t notice. 

You don’t notice that Jin has actually been purposely lingering in your department, having donned a completely different suit. You don’t notice that he’s been rehearsing, practicing on how to encounter you. You don’t notice Yoongi and Hoseok are watching you from afar, carefully inspecting your reaction. 

Your smile drops the moment he swivels around, breath hitching. 

He looks different – well, really different. Instead of his usual suit, he wears a white one that’s been paired with a flashy gold dress shirt, combined with several gold necklaces and expensive cuffs on his sleeves. His hair’s been pushed back to expose his forehead and there’s a giant pair of dimmed sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

You’re at a loss for words. 

“Y/N,” He charmingly smiles, pushing his glasses up in the middle. You notice he has a set of gold rings on, all glittering from the light. “What brings you over?” 

“Oh, I–...” You furrow your brows as he continues to smile at you. 

What did you need to tell him again?

“Oh, right.” You shake your head, ignoring his appearance and focusing on your news, “I finally got my promotion.”

“What?! That’s amazing!” He exclaims, holding onto your shoulders.

“I have you to thank.” You reminisce, “Soyou gave it to me on the premise of me training you.” 

“Well, you’ve done a great job at that.” He pretends to brush dust off his shoulders and you chuckle. 

“They're so cute together.” Hoseok whispers, causing Yoongi to grin. 

“Reminds me a lot of me and Hana, we used to fight everyday until she admitted she had feelings for me.” 

“That would have worked, but it’s Y/N we’re talking about.” 

Yoongi hums, observing Taehyung from the corner. “He’s here.” 

Hoseok sighs, “I don’t know about this.” 

“Let’s just trust him.” 

“This is coming from you?” Hoseok perks up a brow, only for Yoongi to wave him off. 

Taehyung approaches him, looking awe-stricken. 

“My, my, if it isn’t the CEO!” He loudly proclaims, swinging an arm around Jin. “Doesn’t he look so dashing, Y/N?”

You blink, a bit surprised from Taehyung abruptly emerging. “Um, well yeah, he is the CEO.” 

“Ouch.” Hoseok winces. 

“Real smooth, Y/N.” Yoongi reminisces. 

Taehyung panics. “Uh, but look!” He raises Jin’s hands, showcasing his rings and cuffs. “He’s expensive too!” 

Hoseok covers his face and Yoongi chuckles. 

“Right…” You warily eye Taehyung, “Probably because he’s the CEO.” 

Taehyung looks at you with exasperation, clutching onto your shoulders and staring at you with all seriousness. 

“He’s a fantastic man.” 

“Good for him?” You are utterly clueless as to where this is going, glancing at Jin for help on whatever is conspiring in Taehyung's head. But he seems preoccupied in standing to the side, showcasing his good side to you. 

“You know, I never realized how much of a brick of ice Y/N is.” Hoseok mutters in defeat. 

Yoongi sighs. “Well, Taehyung tried.” 

“I’m just going to get back to work.” You inch away from them, gyrating back to your cubicle. Yoongi instantly looks back to his monitor and Hoseok looks down at the coffee in his hands. 

You direct a small smile to Yoongi, who can only overhear Taehyung and Jin bickering in the far corner. 

“What do I do now?!” 

“Go after her!” Taehyung proclaims, “You’ve seen Y/N, but has Y/N seen you?!” 

Jin nearly stumbles, taking his advice quickly as he makes his way over. He hurriedly leans against your cubicle, throwing on his most handsome expression ever and turning it up a couple of notches. 

“Y/N, darling, sweetheart,” He smoothly pronounces, “Lovely weather we’re having, hm?” 

Hoseok chokes on his coffee. Yoongi’s head whips around. 

You stare at Jin with the widest eyes ever. 

“Uh, I suppose…?” You awkwardly chuckle and Jin grows uneasy. 

It’s starting to create the opposite effect. Instead of you being madly in love with him, you’re just finding it downright bizarre. 

He holds your hands, eyes twinkling, “Has anyone told you that you’re incredibly lucky to be in the presence of a handsome man?” 

You quirk a playful brow up, “When he reminds you constantly of it, then yeah.” 

Before he can say anything else, you tiredly smile. “Listen, I’m not too sure what’s going on,” You tilt your head, eyeing Taehyung who looks incredibly guilty, “–but I really should get back to work.” 

Jin stares at you for a moment before letting out a low sigh. 

He for one, knows when to give up and call it a quits, the look in your eyes nowhere near mimicking the tender one he holds. Instead, it's the same one he’s used to seeing, and it doesn’t seem to be changing anytime soon. 

He backs away altogether, noticing the sympathetic looks Yoongi and Hoseok hold. He softly smiles in their direction, before spinning around and heading back to his office.

The end of the day draws near and you prepare yourself to pack up your belongings. 

Your day today has been nothing short of completely odd. From Jin and Taehyung’s abrupt conversation with you, to Hoseok pestering you on not being so hard-headed, to even Yoongi bringing Jin up, saying that he’s a good guy and you should consider that. 

You’re simply confused on their opinions, wondering if there was something they were trying to tell you but were just being extremely indirect on it. You’ve dwelled on it longer than you would like, attempting to decipher they’re words like they were some type of code. 

Getting up with a sigh, you wonder if you should have a word with Jin about it before leaving. 

Once everything is packed, you spin on your heels, heading into the direction of his office. Secretary Moon greets you as always, insisting you take a seat and wait outside of the office before the CEO is done with his duties. 

“What do you mean the budget isn’t sufficient?” 

Your ears perk up, surprised to hear Jin’s voice. “It matches up with the revenue being produced and it’s the best way we can analyze gross profit.” 

“With all due to respect CEO Kim, it seems a bit unnecessary.” 

“It’s not unnecessary if your entire department has come across that conclusion.” 

You're shocked with the manner he was speaking in. You’ve seen him since his training periods, his attitude being way too laid back and playful at times. 

But he sounds angry now, like he was ready to tear apart the person in front of him. 

Leaning back, you catch a glimpse of him and another individual through the window – assuming the second person to be the head of Research and Development. 

“Look, this matter has been investigated and the Sales and Finance department has finalized it as well.” He plants his hands on his hips, speaking in a more sincere voice, “The well-being of the company should be the top priority right now and I believe it’s worth the risk.” 

The man before him deeply sighs before nodding – ultimately acknowledging that the CEO had the final say on these types of manners and had made up his mind. He quickly bows, before exiting the room. 

He whizzes by you and Jin follows out, form still tense and gaze serious as he watches the man leave. It’s only when his eyes find your form that he blanks for a moment, surprised to find you waiting for him. 

“Y-Y/N?” 

You blink wide-eyed, the transition taking you out a bit as you realize you’re gawking at him. A hue of pink scatters over your features and you awkwardly clear your throat. 

He walks up to you, kneeling down. 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

Before you can respond, Secretary Moon cuts you off. 

“Mr. Kim, you need to–”

“I know I need to discuss this with the Board of Directors.” Jin chides a tad annoyed, before redirecting his attention back to you. 

You wonder if his eyes always held a tender look to him. “Sorry, I've got a lot going on here. If it’s important, do you mind waiting for me?” 

You immediately check your watch, “Oh, I was supposed to take Yuna out tonig–”

“Don’t worry about it then, I’ll find you tomorrow.” He warmly smiles, “Go spend some time with your sister.” 

You nod and he swivels around, talking back to Secretary Moon. It’s almost like a switch, his playful smile and sweet gaze gone within an instant as he gets back to talking about business. 

You wonder what happened to the person that waltzed into the office, being completely clueless and not bothering wanting to learn. You wonder when did he develop such a side to him, one that effortlessly slips into the shoes of being the CEO of the company. 

For once, your eyes attach onto his form. 

You can’t help but linger before leaving. 

#jin fanfic #bts jin ceo au #bts jin office au #bts jin fanfic #bts jin fluff #jin fluff #seokjin fluff #seokjin fanfic #kim seokjin fanfic #kim seokjin fluff #bts office au #bts ceo au #bts jin angst #jin angst #jin ceo au #bts fanfic #bts fluff #bts angst #bts imagines #bts scenarios #jin x reader #hmmm is she feeling something?? #maybe she is~ #this whole chapter was basically: #jin being like can you love me pls #and y/n being like ??? #with the rest of the crew trying to be nice and help him #in a very chaotic way #i could not hold a serious face while writing this chapter

[dreamylittlesugarcube]

Clickbait

Genre: EXO AU

Characters: Kyungsoo x Female Reader

Warnings: Kind of some swearing? 

Word Count: 1000

Summary: You meet your long-term pen pal and it’s SURPRISE, Kyungsoo. 

A/N: This was a request and a fun one at that! I hope you enjoy it. Don’t forget to like and re-blog if you do. How would you react if this happened to you? Leave me a GIF in the comments!

Also note: This is my own original work, if you’d like to share, please re-blog. Do not re-post. Image used is not mine, credit goes to Soompi. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crouched behind a hip-height brick wall, you carefully checked your phone, watching as the seconds ticked by, second by second closer to the appointed meeting time. 

55…56…57…58…59…60

7:00 AM

Behind you, the giant hands on the clock tower advanced and the bells chimed, each dong seeming to say MOVE YOUR BUTT, COWARD! You peeked around the corner, careful to stay hidden as you scanned the mostly-deserted park, wondering if any of the strangers walking by happened to be your stranger. Though perhaps ‘stranger’ wasn’t the right word. More like ‘person-I’ve-told-all-my-inner-thoughts-to-but-actually-never-met-and-might-

be-a-scammer’. 

Not for the first time, you wondered if you were foolish. Foolish to have joined a cooking community on Reddit. Foolish to have responded to a post from soogoodmykimchispaghetti. Foolish to have spent over a year messaging a person you only knew online. Day by day, falling for the kind, witty man you exchanged food porn photos with. 

If you’d learned anything from MTV’s Catfish, it was to be skeptical of young, seemingly attractive, well-spoken men online. Especially ones who avoided video chatting and changed the topic every time you asked for a picture. You’d sent him one of yours, hoping he’d respond with one in kind. But he hadn't. And yet somehow he’d still talked you into flying to meet him in Seoul. Which was precisely how you found yourself in your current position, hiding within sight of the meeting place, unsure of whether you actually wanted him to show up or not. 

From your point of view there were three options ahead of you: 

Option 1: He ghosts you and you can quietly pretend this never happened

Option 2: He’s nothing like you imagined

Option 3: He’s everything you thought he’d be and more

Option 4: He tries to extort you for money or join his MLM scheme.

Honestly, 75% of those options sucked. 

“Um…puffypancakegirl29?”

You startled at the sound of a voice behind you, losing your balance and falling flat on your butt in the process. On the ground, you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath before you looked up. You had time to register dark brown eyes, fluffy black hair, and full-looking lips before instant recognition hit.

Your ult bias, EXO’s Do Kyungsoo, extended his hand to you.

“Puffypancakegirl29?” he tried again. 

Your throat felt tight as you nodded mechanically, managing to grasp his hand and allow him to pull you up from the dirt. You made a show of dusting off your pants as you thought about what to say.

Hello Soo, nice to meet you, by the way I love you and your voice makes me melt? Or Nice to meet you Soo, by the way I really enjoyed that low-cut white pirate shirt you wore on Music Bank the other week?

Both of those options sounded like excellent ways to freak out the K-Pop idol who was apparently your long-term penpal. 

“Are you okay?” Kyungsoo asked, dark brows knitted together in concern. 

You swallowed hard. “Yeah, yep, totally fine, all good,” you sputtered. “Just waiting for you.”

“Behind a wall?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. 

You shrugged, murmuring something unintelligible. Fighting the urge to run, you made a beeline past Kyungsoo for a bench you spotted just down the path. 

“Wait,” Kyungsoo called after you, stooping down to pick up the phone you hadn’t realized you’d dropped. “Your phone…”

Now in front of you, he stood, staring at your lock screen with an expression you couldn’t quite read. In horror, you realized what he was seeing: a close-up of him wearing that god-damned pirate shirt, looking sexy as hell during his “Cream Soda” promotions. 

You quickly snatched the phone out of his hands, hiding it behind your back to try and bury the evidence, though you knew it was already too late. 

Kyungsoo sat down beside you, hands folded calmly in his lap. 

“So…I take it, you know who I am then?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Yeah, I know who you are. But only now, I swear I didn’t know before.”

“How would you?” he asked gamely. “I never sent you a picture…which I’m sorry about, by the way, I just–”

“No, I get it, Kyungsoo. I do. With your job, you have to be careful…and sending pictures to some random girl you met online–”

“You’re not some random girl–”

You laughed. “I’m the definition of ‘some random girl’, Kyungsoo. I mean, we met on a cooking subreddit thread, for pete’s sake.” 

“True,” Kyungsoo chuckled. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way.” He extended his hand for you to take. “You know, once we decided to meet, I’d been thinking about how to reveal my identity to you, but I guess now I don’t have to.”

You took his hand, pumping it up and down. “I swear, I’m not a weirdo. I just really like your voice, that’s all.”

“And my chest, apparently.” 

You felt your face get red. “I would love it if you would forget about that,” you said, wondering if there might be a sinkhole nearby for you to fall into. 

“Not a chance,” he responded, sporting a grin that said this would definitely come up again in the future. 

“Um…so…what should we do now,” you asked dumbly, trying to shift the conversation to literally anything else. 

“I was thinking maybe breakfast? Get to know each other a little more?” Kyungsoo replied. “I know a great place near here that serves those fluffy, souffle pancakes and I assumed maybe you–”

“Is that why we had to meet at the crack of dawn?” you blurted. 

Kyungsoo laughed, his eyes squinching in a delightfully cute way. “Well, partially. That…and I’m…well, me, so–”

You smiled at his words, holding up a hand to cut him off. “Breakfast sounds good.” 

Kyungsoo got up, putting on a black baseball cap and face mask. His “on the down-low” gear, you assumed. You walked together through the park in companionable silence and once on streets, let him guide you down some surprisingly quiet alleyways towards your destination. A bright yellow awning greeted you, along with the sweet smell of baked goods and maple syrup. 

“Kyungsoo?” you said, stopping him just outside the restaurant. 

He turned to smile back at you and your heart thumped loudly in your chest. 

“Thanks for being Option #3.”

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading Clickbait! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Don’t forget to leave me a meme or GIF in the comments. How would you react if this were you? Inquiring minds must know!

XOXO,

Emmy

#kyungsoo fanfic #kyungsoo exo #do kyungsoo #exo fanfic #exo #kyungsoo #exo fic #exo fiction #exo scenario #exo fanfiction #exo scenarios #kyungsoo fluff #exo kyungsoo #kyungsoo scenarios #exo request #cream soda #exo imagines #kyungsoo x reader #kyungsoo x you

[foster-the-world]

Good timing

Yesterday the girls were bickering and I thought about how they could use some alone time with us. Then one of Rebel's classmates asked if she could join them on a trip to the Science Museum. Perfect. Bee was so excited to have her Dad to herself. At 7am she had already told myself, baby boy and Bee we'd all need to leave soon. She chose to pick out some recipes to cook herself. She's been really eager to cook but its difficult to do without some supervision. She was so happy. We are working on giving her some things she can do alone. Right now she can make pancakes (with some help on the grill but I think soon she'll be 100% alone soon) and mac n cheese. Which feels like a good start for a seven year old. I think we can start doing the meal kits together. She's pretty good reading/following a recipe.

I took baby boy to the Children's museum to meet one of his sweet little friends. Her mom is really nice and loves baby boy. He was up an hour and a half earlier then normal and it showed. We went to the same place last week and he was great. Not so much today. It was much more crowded. He pounds into everything when he's unregulated. He had an accident which is out of the norm for him nowadays. The other Mom wasn't too bothered. Honestly, I don't really like hanging out with other people with him around. He requires too much attention so I end up feeling bad instead of having fun. I would like to hang out with the Mom alone. She's really nice.

Bee had a really great time. The Mom said she was super well behaved.

Ubereats gave us 50% off that we need to use by the 16th - so ordering something we probably don't need right now.

Our first foster daughter's mom texted yesterday to say she only has six dollars and nothing to feed the three kids. She's in a shelter so in theory they do feed them but I don't know how it works. She asked for money or to send something. I did an instant cart. She doesn't have a fridge or oven. Only a shared microwave. She offered to cash app me the $6 but of course I didn't take that. The receptionist at the homeless shelter got rude with the instant cart person- who called in a complaint about her. Which made the receptionist scream at the foster daughters mom. She forgot to ask for dip so said she could get it herself. The only allowed $10 minimum online order. So instead she went to Walgreens to pick some dip up. I acknowledge its not my business to judge anyones spending habits and also can't help but think spending your last six dollars is not a good idea. Admittedly I don't know how you could spend six dollars in a helpful way but its not chip dip. She hopes her food stamps will come on Tuesday. I sent enough for a a few days - but its limited what she can actually make. I sent sandwich deli meat but that can't last without a fridge. Some can soups, spaghettio's, etc. Snacks. She said she had been getting Mcdonalds, chickfila, etc. No idea where she would get money for that. Her youngest recently turned one. I hope he's still getting formula. I can't imagine sitting in a hotel room with three young kids all day. They are in Times Square - which is no place for children to live. They can walk to a playground but its not particularly close. I offered for her to come here for a hot shower and laundry. I'll try to go with them to the Children's museum as we have free admission. Anyway, its hard to not want to help and also I don't want to be overly involved. Our former foster daughter is living with her Grandmother.

[itsclydebitches]

Apparently people a few very loud people are going around saying that hhbomberguy's RWBY vid are responsible for RWBY needing to be asked to get greenlit.

It's funny, but also kinda disturbing how much people are treating this as a personal attack on Monty and his friends.

Yeah, I’ve seen some of those posts as well as RWDE reactions to the posts. As you say, it’s important to keep in mind that this is a small subset of the fandom that is not only vocal in-and-of-itself but, more significantly, is saying stuff that gets traction. The more wild the take, the more individual blogs want to react to it (myself included right now!), the more you see it, the more prevalent it seems... but in reality it’s just a couple individuals saying it. I’d also hazard a guess that 99% of their support is just that: supporting someone you follow, whose views you generally like, and the vague anti-RWDE stance that the fandom enjoys indulging in. If you took each person out of the Internet Social Pressure Machine of Instant Gratification (aka I press one heart button and instantly I’ve got some social clout. No reason to think about what precisely I’m agreeing with) and asked them if they really believe one video by one guy online has decimated a series sitting within Warner Bros... I’d hope they’d say “No.”

For anyone who does truly believe that, yeah, it’s ridiculous. What amuses me though is how thoroughly the argument disses RWBY. I mean, we know a YouTube video isn’t responsible for #greenlightvol10, but if someone thinks it is that’s probably a popularity perspective. Meaning, the presumed logic is that someone said RWBY is bad, people believed him, stopped watching, and now the show struggles. That’s a chain of events that implies either:

a) RWBY is bad in a number of ways and people have decided they don’t want to give the show their time/money as a result. b) Hbomberguy is lying (the argument most of these posts make) and so many fans took him at his word, with RWBY unable to persuade them otherwise. The show they originally loved wasn’t good enough for them to stick with once an internet stranger said, ‘Thing you like bad.’ The accolades and praise of friends wasn’t enough to convince new viewers to give it a try because one (1) voice said otherwise. The combined total of RWBY - six seasons worth at the time - couldn’t withstand two and a half hours of criticism; it’s combined worth couldn’t weather one guy’s opinion lasting the length of a film.

So if you believe he’s responsible for RWBY’s current struggles then, sorry, but RWBY doesn’t come out looking too good. Either Hbomberguy merely revealed what’s always been there and RWBY is now reaping its writing + production problems, or Hbomberguy lied for two hours and RWBY wasn’t a good enough show to recover from that staggeringly low hurdle.

Or, you know, the greenlighting of new seasons has nothing to do with someone posting one critical video in an age where every fandom of significant size has more critical videos than you can shake a stick at. Engagement shouldn’t be overlooked as a factor, but it’s far from the only factor and, even if it was, one fan does not have the power to sway an entire community like that. Especially if the show is good enough that fans have no reason to question its quality in the first place.

#rwde #rwby #mymetas

[maya-chirps]

[ID: a screenshot of a reblog by @/fleurtygurl. It reads: "Omg instant follow! I need more Philippines facts in my life!!! 😭😭😭

If you have any facts about filipino myths? That would be amazing. But also I will literally eat up everything you post!

I'm in desperate need of reconnecting with my roots, but I've been so busy that I haven't had any time to do any extensive research...."

/End ID]

@fleurtygurl Decided to make a whole post based on this because I loooove talking about Filipino mythology and researching more about different mythologies within the country and I also hadn't gone around to looking through the things I want to learn about.

Filipino mythology is a pretty huge umbrella term considering that there are hundreds of cultures in the archipelago that have different beliefs, practices, and traditions and especially before the Spanish colonial period. I won't get too deep into it, but basically if you want to learn about some grander pantheon or some general overarching compendium of beliefs that all precolonial Filipinos believe in, you won't be getting that sine historically, Filipinos were not a unified people, but a bunch of different countries and communities that were placed under one governing body for easy management for the Spanish crown.

With so many Filipino cultures and, by extension, mythologies, the best way with trying to reconnect with your heritage, it might be best to figure out which ethnic group you may have connections too and start researching from there. In my case, for example, I would look up both Tagalog mythology, Bikolano mythology, and Ilokano mythology in order to get a good grasp of the mythology of my roots since I'm mixed Tagalog, Bikolano, and Ilokano, and those three have widely different beliefs and especially with folk religion.

I guess the main issue with this is a lot of sources related to Filipino myths are often difficult to find, are unreliable, or plainly just non-existent. Lots of books are often out of circulation and print, or if they are still in print, they are often only sold by specific retailers and often cost a lot of money. Research papers are locked behind a paywall or are only available through specific e-libraries you can only access if you have an affiliation with a university. Online articles may be unreliable and source places that are hard to fact check. Blogs, honestly including mine to be frank, may parrot wrong information from other websites and articles, with their best feature being the possibility that they may have come from oral sources but those are also very few.

Honestly, I was about to go on a long tangent about discussing at least the Tagalog pantheon and mythology because it had a lot of sources I've seen online, but after hours of research, I've found out that there was also a lot of unreliable sources in terms of information about that so I've decided against rambling on further about it for now.

(I am still going to write about my findings on the Tagalog pantheon later but after what I've found out, I might take some time to look through a lot more primary sources which means colonial era texts and harder to find archived works.)

I will say that a good way to connect with more general Filipino folklore outside of mythology itself is probably consuming media that explores folklore and traditional beliefs. I recommend Trese, a Filipino comic turned series on Netflix if you want to see Filipino cryptids being used in a modern-day story made by Filipinos. There are also other comics that focus on Filipino mythology like The Mythology Class and its sequel The Children of Bathala by Arnold Arre.

There's also series and movies that take inspiration from Filipino folklore and mythology with Dayo: Sa Mundo ng Elementalya (English name Niko: The Journey to Magika) as my go-to suggestion. I had also heard good reviews for Amaya, a series created by GMA 7, but honestly I don't think the series clicked with me.

#mayaposts #mayapino #fleurtygurl #filipino #philippines #filipino mythology #might make posts about specific filipino myths some other time because it's such a big umbrella of stories and legends #outside of the precolonial religion #sorry to make this post so long i'm a give me an inch i'll go a mile kinda person #long post

[letrune]

"ai"s, another rant

Consider: what is the product? Most of these "ais" (large language models) are "free", but you get only a few rounds for free. It's like a casino, you ask a thing, get images, and you can roll again if you liked it enough.

There are many of these LLMs that say in their TOS that they may save, sell and base their new generations on the images you produced. That they will access your computer data, save it, may even sell it. Some even proposed to use your own computing power, CPU and GPU for these.

But the money comes from somewhere - namely, bitcoin, nft sales and now, premium generation with ai, and lending them out for rent to companies. This is where the LLM companies get their money. The way they can replace artists, and get whatever they want, even if it breaks the law or worse.

Many articles rely on fake news dreamt up by a LLM textparser. Fake images circulate. Many dictators love to doctor images, and now thry got it even faster. Truth is being harder to find when it is easier to fake.

The product is you. Your gambling addiction. Your artistic efforts. Your truth. Everything the internet was meant for. All of it is now for rent, for sale, and to be reimagined by techbros who don't understand the systems they want to ruin as long as it makes them money.

Consider again: bitcoin ruin the economy of the little people and make a few rich. Nfts ruin online markets and videogames, and make a few rich. "Ai" ruin art and text and news, and make a few rich.

There is nothing to be gained in it. It is a toy for a bunch of gambling addicts in the 5% who want to be the 1%, and now, thanks to many big companies taking these, the tool for megacorps to get even richer by spending even less.

Imagine, Warner Brothers gets their own. They can start producing a movie, announce it, then can it, delete it and start anew. No spending beyond paying the energy and water bill and the server costs, but there are no people involved. They can produce for anyone, remove any piece, use any bodies, living and dead, for anything, from selling slop to playing the big bad. They have to spend less and you got to pay the same or more. Why would they even finish any movie? Just produce a slop, toss on a streaming service, then remove and make more, half of them go for tax refunds anyway.

It is a tool for instant gratification for you, and then more cash for the top? Yes. It is.

#ai art is art theft #ai generated slop #ai art debate #ai generated #ai is theft #Ai is awful #ai art debate? Hah! No debate here