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the-lonelybarricade · 3 months ago
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Queen of Thieves - Chapter 11
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Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.
We're back bitches!
Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter
-
If Feyre was being forced to live with the High Lord, she could begrudge that at least her room was a dream.
After scouring it for every hidden sign of danger—learning every entrance, exit, and hiding place—she paused in the center to marvel at the room she'd be staying in for… eternity, quite possibly.
At least it was big. Her bed was enormous, laden with ivory pillows and blankets of such divine quality she thought if she buried herself in them, she might very well sleep for a century. It was framed by four posters, with a canopy draped above them she could pull for privacy. The size of the bed alone would be more living space than she'd been accustomed to while living in the tavern, but then there was the hearth with its surrounding fur rugs and settees and the connecting chamber to the bathing room, where everything was made of porcelain and marble and the bath was large enough for an entire family.
It was luxury to the highest degree. Befitting of an empress, not a prisoner—or "servant", if they wanted to dress up the reality of her bargain. But all of the silks and velvet and elegant golden trim couldn't disguise the markings on her arm, and what they signified.
You're mine now.
Feyre burned when she stared at those markings. Rhysand lied to her. Manipulated her for his own gain. She'd done the same to him, admittedly, so why did it sting so much that he returned the favor? And more importantly, what did he want from her badly enough to trap her in this bargain?
She paced the room endlessly trying to answer that question. Rhys didn't return to taunt her about it—he'd been more riled than she'd ever seen him, and she suspected he probably retreated to brood in some dark crevice. She imagined he'd spend the night ripping the wings off butterflies, or some equally vile pastime, and would return in the morning to further her torment.
But he left the room unlocked. She'd tested it the second he was gone. There was nothing preventing her from wandering the House of Wind to find where he was and demand answers. There also wasn't anything stopping her from trying another hand at the stairs—apart from the bargain that would force her to return at his beck and call.
Feyre considered trying, anyway, just to irritate him. But her aching body begged otherwise. She was too worn out to do much else than eat the meal that the twins delivered to her room at dusk, then crawl into the big, fluffy bed and sink into the pillows until she was ensconced in darkness.
-
The world was swirling again. Around and around and around, like she was back in the stairwell, climbing up or climbing down—it didn't matter because it would never end.
"Seriously?" Asked an indignant voice. "You threatened her sisters?"
"I—" A deep voice tumbled out, then paused. The swirling continued, red liquid in a glass, a cyclone of contemplation. "I fucked up."
Someone snorted out of a sight. A female. "Majorly."
"It was the only way I knew for certain she would agree."
"Well, congratulations. She agreed, and now she hates you."
"It's… It's better for her to be here and hate me then to be somewhere I can't reach her."
There was a moment of stretched silence. Then, "You sound like your Father."
The swirling stopped. The change in motion was so abrupt, the liquid collided against the edge of the glass, nearly spilling over.
"Don't say that to me, Mor."
"Then stop acting like him. And stop taking your anger out on Az, while you're at it."
She was answered by a dark, rumbling growl. Like a storm rolling over the sea. "He's the reason I'm in this mess. If he'd minded his business—"
"You'd be in exactly the same place you were two weeks ago."
The glass clattered as it was set against the table. Feyre stared and stared into its depths, as if willing some answer to float to the surface.
"How do I fix this?"
She felt a hand on her back, sucking her awareness into a body that was larger and firmer than her own. There was a heavy, unbearable tightness in her chest.
"You'll figure it out," the female said with a consoling pat. "You always do."
"Provided she doesn't kill me first."
Her laughter was light and tinkling. "I know where I'd place my money."
-
A knock at her door hurled Feyre awake the next morning.
It was her second time waking up in the House of Wind, and yet its unfamiliarity still startled her. She wondered why her bed was so soft, why fog was floating through the open doors to the balcony, and why any of her sisters would wake her up before dawn.
And then she remembered where she was, and who that voice belonged to, crooning on the other side of the door, "I hope you're indecent, Feyre darling."
"Go away," she grumbled.
Rhysand opened the door despite her protest. "Ah, there's that perky morning attitude I adore from you."
She groaned, refusing to lift her head from the pillow. "Why are you here so early, Rhysand?"
"Would you believe I missed you?"
"More like you got bored drafting all your evil plans and decided to put one of them into action."
Rhysand chuckled. "Close enough."
He came to her bedside, balancing a steaming cup that he held out to her in offer. Feyre was grateful she decided to wear one of the more modest nightgowns from the selection in her armoire.
"What's this?" she said, holding it to her nose to sniff.
Its scent was earthier than the tea he'd served her last night, though not unfamiliar.
"Contraceptive brew," he said, a little too casually. "You don't have to take it, of course. The chances are slim that anything took. And if it did… Well, you might be less trouble if you were off your feet for 10 months."
Feyre's finger tightened around the cup. The warmth scalded her fingers, but the sting distracted her from the impulse to fling the drink into his smug face. It would be a waste, considering she had no interest in bearing his children. She was already far too entangled with him for her liking.
An enthusiastic swallow would send along that message, she hoped. The heat seared her throat, too hot for drinking, but she didn't dare lower the cup. Not when she could see Rhysand in the corner of her eye, observing her closely, ensuring she drank the contraceptive despite his proclaimed indifference.
Once she finished, she dared to ask, "Is that why you spared me, then? At the risk I was carrying your next heir?"
Rhysand shook his head. Satisfied the brew was consumed, he stalked to her armoire on the far wall. "I never had any intention of killing you, Feyre." He flung the doors open, retrieving a pair of fighting leathers from the selection of well made clothes that were all suspiciously in her size. "Nor your sisters, though I trust you've already determined that much."
The leathers slapped against the foot of the bed as Rhys tossed them over his shoulder. The reminder of her sisters made her feel as though they slapped her face, instead.
"Am I supposed to forgive you because the threat was empty?" Feyre demanded. Her throat closed a bit as she croaked, "I don't know even know where they are. Or if they're safe."
He said, without turning to her, "I have my spymaster looking for them."
Feyre snapped her head up from the empty cup. "Really?" She caught herself in her excitement, reeling it in quickly as she rationalized that Rhysand would only be looking for Nesta and Elain if he decided he had use for them, after all. She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"So that you can know if they're safe," he said with a shrug. "They can live here, if you want. Or somewhere else. The point is, I'll take care of them until your debt is paid."
"Until you decide it's paid," she corrected, not caring that she sounded bitter. "And how do I know that this isn't another lie to manipulate me?"
"Fine," he breathed, his back still turned. "I dug that grave for myself. You'll just have to wait until my spymaster finds them, and then you can see what happens."
She faked another sip of the contraceptive brew to avoid responding. He glanced at her over his shoulder, and there was something so searching about his expression that set her nerves on edge. So different from the furious, snarling High Lord from the day before.
Desperate to evade the weight of that gaze, she took to studying the leathers at the foot of the bed. They were similar in style to the clothes he was wearing, though cut for a smaller, more feminine frame. She didn't want to venture the question of how he knew her size or when he'd had all the clothes in the armoire made—she dreaded thinking about how long he'd been planning all of this.
Instead, she said, "I assume you didn't just come here to deliver my morning tea."
"Deductive as always." He grinned as he fished out a pair of lacy undergarments, then flung those onto the bed, as well. "Today we're starting your training."
"Training for what?"
"Ah," he said, "If I told you now, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"
She sent him a withering glare. "How do you train if you don't even know what you're training for?"
"By trusting me," he answered. Feyre snorted, but he continued, "There are baseline skills that every person in my Court possess—knowledge, power, strength. If you're going to be living with us, it's important you have foundations of each."
"Why?"
"Because they'll keep you alive," he said, with a note of warning that prickled the hairs on her arms. She swore the shadow he cast on the floor doubled in size, as if consuming the light around it. "There are people who would seek to harm you purely out of your association to me, unwilling as it may be."
Feyre ground her teeth together, fighting the urge to scream. "Then why choose me?" She flung at him. "Why not choose someone more qualified, someone who actually wants to be here? There must be dozens of people in the city—"
"Maybe so." Darkness swirled over his shoulders, solidifying into a pair of large, sweeping wings. He stretched them slightly, and with it, she thought she could map the change in him—how the wings functioned as an anchor, calming something restless she couldn't see, but could feel gnarled deep in her chest, dissipating as he took a deep breath. "But you're the only one I trust."
"Trust?" Her laugh was a weak, hysterical gasp more than anything else. "After I stole from you? After you tricked me into this bargain? Tell me how we're ever supposed to trust each other, Rhysand."
He just looked at her in the way that she hated. Like his eyes were talons clawing straight through to the core of her, mental shields be damned. She was reminded of the moment when their magics combined, when she'd been able to see and sense and feel every fiber of his being perfectly entwined in hers.
It was the most vulnerable moment of her life, and she was willing to bet there were very few people he'd allowed into his mind that way.
Trust. That was what they'd granted each other, and the hours that followed were testament to how well that turned out.
If Rhys was thinking the same, he only gestured to the clothes, as composed as ever. "Start with getting dressed, Feyre. We'll go from there."
She glanced again at the leathers at the foot of the bed. She suspected they were Illyrian make. The scale-like plates of leather were of fine, hardy material, and the fleece lining looked designed to weather harsh conditions. These were clothes designed for warriors. She didn't have the slightest idea why she was meant to be wearing them.
"And which of those foundational skills, exactly, are we refining today?"
Rhys shut the wardrobe, a pair of boots dangling in one hand, her socks clutched in the other. When he turned to face her fully, she was able to fully appreciate the way he was dressed.
Before today, she'd only seen him in fine clothes, the kind befitting the grandeur of his title. The contrast of seeing him in fighting leathers was startling. They suited him better, somehow. As if the politics, the finery, was all a veneer to distract from the warrior beneath.
There was nothing distracting her from it now. Her mouth felt a bit dry as she examined the tight, dark leather sculpted to his legs. They revealed every inch of corded muscle gracing his calves and thighs—muscles that she recalled, with alarming clarity, were pressed between her legs not two days ago.
It was so tedious to hate him at the same time her body craved him. Even now, she could feel an ache of longing to peel those leathers off and admire his raw beauty.
Feyre took a deep breath, pulling her mind from the fog by trying to focus on other details. Like how, unlike her new leathers, his were worn. Scratches littered the leather plating over his chest, and the pieces of armor clipped to his shoulder and forearms were equally scarred.
He fought in the War, she recalled, thinking of the papers that hailed him a hero. Those tales were always reduced to triumphs of good against evil. The Prince of Night, vanquishing the enemies of Prythian with ease. The scars in his armor didn't necessarily contradict those tales—the gory details of battle weren't nearly as palatable to the public as heralds of victory and righteousness—but she wondered how much of it was embellished.
Curiosity nudged at her. She was filled with questions that she wouldn't dare voice. Not at the risk of sounding interested in his life. And not when he'd likely request something in exchange for the answers.
Still, when he flashed her an impish smile, she could see the glimpse of the cocky, fledgling Prince who'd fought in those battles. And she decided she'd like him better than the present day High Lord, who tossed her the boots and said,
"I figured if one of these days I finally make you snap, I should at least make sure you're throwing your punches right."
-
If Feyre thought it would be satisfying to practice throwing her fists at Rhysand, the novelty wore out by the time the sun was up.
Even with the brisk temperature from the altitude, she was covered in sweat. Her throat was ravaged and her breathing was too quick, not filling her lungs the way she craved. Worst of all, her arms were trembling so badly that her punches fizzled into light kitten taps.
Rhysand lowered the sparring pad. "I think it's time for a break."
She felt pathetic. They'd only been going for a few hours, walking through the basic steps of hand-to-hand combat, and Feyre was quickly realizing she was no where near as fit and coordinated as he was.
Her knees wobbled as she strode towards the stool where Rhys had summoned a pitcher of water.
"It will start feeling easier once you build up strength," Rhysand said, filling up a glass and handing it to her. "We'll keep practicing each morning, until you can go for an hour without breaking a sweat."
"Like you?" She said dryly. It gave her an excuse to run her eyes over his muscled form. She swore Rhys straightened under her appraisal.
"I've barely been moving," he pointed out. "It doesn't take much effort to hold up a sparing pad."
"It's not as fun, either," she said, only half joking. "You should put them down and let me practice on the real thing."
Rhys grinned at the challenge. "How about a little incentive, then?" Dread tightened her gut as he reached into his pocket, and she blew out a breath when all he retrieved was a crumpled note. "Remember this?"
She snatched it from his hand when he held it out to her, unfolding the paper to neatly scrawled words she couldn't begin to decipher. But she recognized the Night Court emblem stamped at the bottom of the page, and frowned.
"This is the letter you sent me." She looked up to him, a question in her gaze.
"You left it in my town house," he explained. "Do you want to know what it says?"
Feyre stared at him, waiting.
"Land a hit on me," he said, eyes glinting. "Then I'll tell you."
"Another bargain?"
"You know I can't resist."
"And if I don't hit you? What do you get?"
His eyes flickered to her mouth. She thought she knew what he would ask for when he licked his lips. But he surprised her by saying, "You'll let me teach you how to read."
A familiar sensation of inadequacy crept up her throat like bile. She crossed her arms, snapping, "Why does it matter if I can or can't read?"
"It may come in handy later on," he mused.
"It sounds like you're going to make me learn anyway, then."
"Not if you win."
Feyre scoffed. "An excuse to hit you and avoid reading? Count me in."
She gulped down the water, relishing in the sweet relief of the cold against her raw throat. Then she set down her empty glass and followed Rhys back into the center of the ring.
Just one hit. It didn't need to be hard, or good. She just needed to land it. Should be easy enough.
Rhys slid his hands into his pockets—the arrogant prick—and said nothing as Feyre readier her stance in front of him.
"Ready?" she asked.
He grinned. "Give me your worst, Feyre Archeron."
Without wasting a second, she jabbed her right fist forward, aiming for his chest. Her knuckles were met with open air as he swayed out of the way. She pivoted, trying for two this time—left, right. One-two, just like he'd been teaching her.
As before, Rhys swerved and weaved out of the way, his body moving as if it was fluid, all while keeping his hands in those damn pockets.
"You're keeping too much weight on your back foot," he said in her ear, gliding out of the way of yet another futile strike. He tapped his toe against her heel, urging, "Try to stay on your toes. It will allow you to shift and react faster. You're going to be smaller than most of your opponents, so you'll need to rely on your agility."
Feyre lifted her heels, adjusting her weight to the balls of her feet. She did notice the difference as she turned to strike at him, smoother this time, like a bolt of lightening.
But still not fast enough.
"Is that all you got?" He crooned. "I thought you were supposed to be angry with me."
"I am," she gritted.
"Then hit me, Feyre."
She snarled as she lunged her fist where his face had been only seconds prior. He appeared behind her, so close she could feel his laughter tickle her neck. She whirled to face him, but he was already gone.
"Winnowing is cheating."
"Is it?" He asked in her ear. "Funny how that's never been a problem for my brothers."
Brothers? She could guess who he was referring to, but she hadn't heard him use that word. Didn't realize that's what he considered them.
"Your brothers," she huffed between uneven breaths, "are trained warriors."
"So you're saying I should go easy on you? Your opponents wouldn't." Dodging another blow, he lunged forward and slipped a hand from his pocket to tap her in the center of the chest. "And you'd be dead."
She lashed at his hand, grunting in frustration when he danced out of reach.
"Who's trying to kill me in the first place?" she demanded.
"You tell me. There was someone trying to kill you when we first met."
"That's because I stole from him."
"Yes, it seems you have a habit of doing that." She swore the was warmth in his voice as he crooned, "Little thief."
Again, again, again she struck her fists into empty air until she wanted to scream.
"What do you want from me?"
He appeared right in front of her face, lips inches from her own. She could taste every word as he growled, "I want you to hit me Feyre."
By the time she was grappling for him, he'd already rippled and vanished into smoke. She never wished she could winnow as badly as she did in that moment, desperate to follow after him and tear her claws into his flesh.
Feyre swiveled in the center of the training ring, trying to anticipate where he would appear next, trying to guess his next move because if she waited to react she knew it was going to be too slow.
She could picture his smug, stupid face, laughing at her as he ran through pockets of shadow she couldn't discern. But she could feel him. Through the tether of their bargain, which felt stronger now that they were bound indefinitely.
If she cast her net across the chord connecting them, she could reach the antechamber of his mind. Feel it smooth and solid beneath her talons. She scraped a claw down its exterior, to say hello, to gauge where he was.
She could sense his intrigue when a small crack opened for her.
What tricks are you up to? He purred.
Feyre lunged. Not physically, but mentally, lashing her power down the line between them.
And yelped as he closed that small opening just in time for Feyre to slam hard against his inner shield. The reverberations echoed through her as surely as if she'd rammed head-first into a physical wall.
Nice try, he said, appearing on the other side of the ring, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Sloppy, but still an admirable attempt.
He didn't move as she strode towards him, not until the last second, angling his head to the side as if it took no effort to dodge her punches.
Feyre was so tired of him always having the upper hand. Always laughing at her.
She dropped her mental shields and thought of the one thing that might actually distract him—the fantasy of dropping to her knees and taking him into her mouth.
Rhys faltered, just for a second. It was all she needed to slam her fist into the center of his chest. The blow wasn't as hard as she would have liked—not nearly as hard as he deserved—but she was still flooded with satisfaction from the sight of him stumbling back a step, before vanishing.
Unconventional, he praised. But effective.
He was on the other side of the ring, now, and in their minds, that scene was still playing out. How she'd start at the tip of his cock, licking at the arousal beading there, before mouthing her way to the bottom of his shaft. She'd start with long, broad strokes of her tongue—the same way he'd licked her. And only once he was squirming, his fingers turning to fists in her hair, would she swallow him as deep as she could—
Feyre gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as pressure mounted there, like a string going taut. Only, it wasn't her chest. And it wasn't her hand. Just like in those strange, recurring dreams, she was peering out of a stranger's eyes.
And she was staring at herself.
Flush cheeked and narrow eyed, she saw her own face glaring back, as if looking in an inverted mirror. It was startling in a way she couldn't describe. There was her father's mouth, its bow shape tighter than usual, pulled back into snarl. And there were her mother's eyes, burning as bright and cold as the stars over Ramiel.
Look at you, Rhysand said. Fierce and wicked and beautiful. Do you see now why I can't resist you?
As quickly as it had happened, Feyre was slung back into her own body, her soul left trembling from the journey.
She watched Rhys lift his head from his chest to his forehead, rubbing as if he could feel the absence of her. "How did you you get past my shields?"
"That wasn't a trick?" She demanded.
"No."
A one word answer. Evidence that he was as stunned as she was for a change.
He angled his head to the side, like she was some curiosity he wanted to study. "Has that happened before?"
"No," she said, answering too quickly.
"It has, hasn't it?"
"Only in dreams—"
He looked to be putting something together. "Ah. I had my suspicions, but—"
The wings. The hands. The voice.
"It's you," she whispered, horrified by the revelation. "All this time, it's been…" she stumbled back, recalling the last few dreams she'd had of that stranger. Of course it was him. She should have put it together sooner.
But… she'd been having those dreams long before their first bargain.
"I forfeit," she said mechanically. "You win."
"Feyre," he said, gently, moving as if he might reach towards her.
But she was already fleeing towards the door. It didn't matter where she was going as long as it was somewhere he wasn't. Somewhere she could think.
- At some point, Feyre's aimless stalking through the House of Wind was thwarted by a bone deep exhaustion.
It started in her calves, still aching from the endless climbing she'd subjected them to yesterday. The longer she paced, the more the ache spread as her adrenaline faded and the training this morning finally caught up with her.
Her knuckles throbbed from the hours she spent hammering them against the training pads. She'd kept them locked into fists at her sides, but now they were growing stiff, and she was beginning to worry they'd be stuck in that position if she didn't release some of the tension in her body.
She retreated to her room, in the end. Rhys would find her no matter where she hid in the house, she reasoned. At least she could lick her wounds somewhere comfortable until he sought her out.
It didn't take very long. By the time she'd changed out of the stifling, sweaty leathers and shrugged on a pair of billowing high-waisted pants and a matching top of a soft, peachy color, a knock sounded at the door.
Feyre stole a moment to glance at her reflection, frowning at what she saw.
Out of all of them, Elain would look the least out of place in the High Lord's palace. She had an understated elegance that would thrive beneath all these silks and frills, and they always teased that she could marry a prince, if she'd liked.
As for Feyre, she thought she just looked like a feral street cat who'd been shoved into a fancy collar.
"Feyre?" Rhys called.
Her gaze snuck around the room, searching for somewhere to hide on instinct. There was no where to go. She did briefly consider the balcony—was there another ledge close by that she could jump to?
The thought was quickly dashed when she looked down at her hands, angry and swollen. She didn't trust she would have the strength to pull herself up and even if she did, it would only delay the inevitable.
Rhysand was a persistent son of a bitch.
"I don't want to talk about it," she called.
He seemed to accept that as an invitation to enter. She whirled, anxiety spiking at the sight of him, and she knew she looked like a cornered animal when she scowled in his direction.
Those violet eyes assessed her, sweeping from head to toe. He frowned when she backed up a step.
"How are you feeling after training?"
"Sore," she groused, raising her hands to her chest defensively.
A mistake. His gaze zeroed in on her puffy knuckles, and then he was in front of her, prying them from her protective stance. Or trying to—he let go when she hissed a sharp breath between her teeth. He assumed it was from pain, and they did sting, but it was the scent of him that panicked her. She struggled to think clearly when he was that close.
"I'm fine," she snapped, scuttling backward another step. "They'll be healed in a few hours."
He stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Perhaps," he said blandly. "It's up to you."
Feyre's eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you mean it's up to me?"
"I came by to give you this," he said, producing a vial from his pocket.
She regarded it with the weariness anything that came from him was owed. "What is it?"
"A tincture," he supplied. "Illyrians take it during training to slow their healing. We need calluses to grow stronger. If those abrasion are healed good as new, then you'll just get them again tomorrow. This way, you can build up a tolerance."
Feyre blinked at him. She recalled the scrape of his calluses against her thighs—she'd been distracted at the time, but now it occurred to her how odd it was for High Fae to have anything other than smooth, flawless skin. Scarring tissue was typically only left from significant wounds, but a simple abrasion? They should be able to heal those in seconds.
"Illyrians take this?" She studied the black liquid, so unassuming in the glass vial and yet… an unnatural sense of wrong clawed at her gut the longer she stared at it. "But… what happens if someone gets seriously injured during training? They wouldn't be able to heal."
It sounded completely illogical to Feyre, but Rhysand only shrugged. "Most war camps have a healer to treat the worst of the injuries. But otherwise, it's incentive not to fuck up."
She shifted, agitated at just the thought. If she took the tincture, her knuckles would still hurt tomorrow, and it would be agony to go through the same drills again.
"I'm not an Illyrian," she said. "I don't need the calluses of a warrior. The only person I've ever wanted to punch is you."
"And you landed a pretty decent hit," he said, rubbing his chest, though she doubted he felt any pain there. "Left a few dozen scratches on my back, too, if you're taking stock of your inflicted injuries." He smirked. "Not many of my sparring partners can brag the same."
Feyre had only a vague memory of scrabbling her nails along his back during that night, but she didn't think he was lying. That made the humiliation worse. With an exasperated huff, she stalked away from him, heading toward the bathing chamber.
Her hand curled over the golden handle, but Rhys stretched his hand over her shoulder, sealing the door shut with the force of his outstretched palm. He was so gods-damned closed she could feel the heat emanating off him, trapping her between the door and his much larger body.
She refused to turn around, but that seemed to work just fine for Rhysand. He ducked his head lower, his breath tickling her ear.
"I won't force you to take it, Feyre. But it will help you get stronger."
Feyre ignored him, glaring at the hand he kept braced against the door. That stupid fucking hand, which she always saw in her dreams, clutched around drinking glasses and pushing dark hair out of his face.
Why was it him?
"I owe you something else," he said. She heard a crackling noise at her back, and then his other hand ventured into view, the tincture replaced with a worn letter. "A deal is a deal. Filthy tactics aside, you landed a hit on me."
"Why are you giving it to me?" She asked, refusing to take the letter. "I still can't read it."
"Just look at it, Feyre."
With an indignant huff, she snapped the letter from his grip and unfolded its familiar creases. As she did, she felt a talon scrape across her mental barrier. Reluctance sparred with her curiosity. Feyre didn't want him anywhere near her mind again, but she was dying to know what the damn thing said.
Against her better judgment, she created a small opening for him, and regretted it as soon as his triumph oozed through the gap.
Go on, he crooned, curling around her mind like a plump, satisfied house-cat.
Gritting her teeth, Feyre ran her eyes across the page and was met with the usual surge of frustration at all of those meaningless loops and curves. Until he tugged, like plucking a string, and the words began taking shape in her mind, reading out clearly in his voice:
Feyre Darling,
Imagine the scandalous letters we could exchange if only you allowed me to teach you how to read.
Hopefully this letter will tempt you. I know it will infuriate you not to know what I've written. I suspect you will be too proud, and too stubborn, to ask your sisters what it says.
Maybe you're worried I've written something inappropriate. After all, you wouldn't want your sisters to know just how desperate you were to feel my tongue between your legs, would you?
I trust you'll keep this to yourself, and it will drive you to such madness you'll either teach yourself how to read, or seek me out for explanation.
I'm not certain which would delight me more.
Yours everlasting,
Rhysand
"That's it?" she demanded, crumpling the note in her tender fists. "That's all it was? A taunt to lure me back to you?"
He was still standing behind her, but she could feel the smirk tugging across his lips, if the smug presence in her mind was any indication.
"It worked, didn't it?"
Feyre's cheeks burned. Once again, she was being played the fool. This wasn't a reward, it was a chance for further mockery. And it was stupid, so stupid, to let his games wound her, but in the back of her mind she could hear all those dreadful things they used to spit at her in the tavern.
Uneducated, ignorant, half-breed, whore.
She clenched her jaw, shoving him out of her mind as she stared hard at the wall, holding back the sting behind her eyes. She dug craters into her palm, sharp enough to draw blood, as fought not to lose composure in front of him.
In the corner of her eyes, she saw his body, still hunched around her, go stiff.
"Feyre…"
"What do you want with me, High Lord?" She didn't recognize that voice, so small, so nearing defeat. "What's the point in all of this?"
He didn't say anything for several heartbeats, but she could feel him watching her, keeping her caged against that door with nowhere to escape.
"Maybe that would be a better prize, then, hm?"
Feyre refused to bite. Whatever it was, he would only use it as another way to poke and prod at her. She was beginning to think that was all Rhysand was capable of doing.
"A goal," he continued. "A way out of the bargain. That's what you want?"
And that… that was probably the only thing he could have said to convince her to look in his direction. He grinned, playing the spider who just discovered a fly in its web. His eyes were distant, though.
"I was thinking about this tedious little debt you owe me, and how best I should use your services to have it repaid." He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with her. "As fate would have it, I've been invited to attend a card tournament with the other High Lords. The prize is a magical artifact I'd like to ensure the others won't get their hands on. If you help me win it, I'll release you from our bargain."
That's it? A card tournament?
She felt anticipation twitching in her fingertips. She didn't realize her freedom would be so attainable. It felt like a trick.
"The prize," she said, licking moisture back into her lips. "What is it?"
"All you need to know is that once you help me win, you and I can go our separate ways."
"What do you even need me for?" She knew she was putting her foot in her mouth, but couldn't resist asking. "You're a better daemati than me. It's not like I can do anything you can't already."
"The difference is, everyone there knows I'm a daemati. There will be precautions in place to keep my participation fair. But you're a rogue element. They'll be so focused guarding against me, they won't even think to protect themselves from you."
Feyre drummed her fingertips along the door at her back, thinking. "Okay," she said. "When's the tournament?"
Rhys drew up, and she hadn't realized how suffocated she'd felt until she swallowed that first gulp of cold air.
"In three months," he said, regarding her through his lower lashes. "Plenty of time for us to prepare. Which is fortunate, because I think your skills still require some… refinement."
Asshole.
"What, for cheating at cards?" She balked. "I can do that in my sleep."
"Oh? And do you know how to blend yourself into High Fae society? How to address the royalty of other courts? How to navigate the laws if you get caught?"
He already knew the answers, so Feyre crossed her arms and spared herself the embarrassment of responding.
Rhysand clicked his tongue. "This isn't going to be some meager gamble with a drunk, Feyre. We're going to be competing against the most powerful players in Prythian, and many of them will have trained to protect themselves against daemati. There will be severe consequences if you or I get caught. So we need to be clever and discrete. Understood?"
Oh, she understood perfectly.
"So I get to con a bunch of arrogant High Lords and I'll never have to see your face again?" His nostrils flared. If anything, that made her grin wider. "Count me in."
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saysflora · 7 months ago
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If you ask Mush, winter is one of the best times of the year, but it seems he's one of the only people in the lodgings that feels that way. What starts as a way to take Blink's mind off of the now cold, dark months ends up being a bigger scheme than even he was imagining, and he's more than happy to take the opportunity to plan a celebration that'll have everyone raring with holiday spirit. With help, of course.
OR: Mush throws a Christmas Party.
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shkwing · 5 months ago
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has it been six hours yet i am DYING of boredom over here
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wetcatspellcaster · 1 year ago
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In which a late night discussion is conducted, and a letter is received.
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femme fatale (marylily)
a/n: it’s actually been three hundred years since i’ve last put anything up here 😭 cruel thing is i’ve literally had this finished for ages i just couldn’t be arsed to post it xoxo anyways here have sapphics!! titled with the intent of referencing the tvu song <3
The redheaded regular is back. Mary’s eyes flick to her instinctively as she walks in, drawn to her before she can even register what she’s doing. She looks gorgeous, as always. The dress she’s wearing is slim fitting and green, the contrast between the colour of the fabric and the deep scarlet of her hair sharp in a way that almost forbids you from directing your attention elsewhere. Mary follows her with her gaze as she walks to the bar and shrugs off her jacket.
Later on, during a brief and precious moment of downtime, Mary finds her again. She’s sat at a table now, alone, her book lying discarded to the side as she sips her margarita. She’s on the hunt. Mary’s got her M.O figured out completely by now. She enters, sits down, reads for twenty minutes or so, then starts searching. Her eyes scan the room analytically, all business, flicking acutely from face to face. Mary leans back against the wall where she’s stood behind the bar and follows suit. Recently she’s taken to playing a little game - figure out which one the pretty redhead’s going to go for before she makes her move. It’s something of a race between them. Maybe him, she thinks, catching sight of a man sat a few tables away. He’s her type, Mary reckons. Good dress sense. Nice smile. Dark hair. I’ve got dark hair, she muses to herself. Not that that’s relevant or anything.
The redhead proves her right about two minutes after she makes the guess. She starts her game. Mary’s noticed her play it. It begins tame enough. She’ll shoot a few glances over at his general direction, not even at him to start with, just his way. After a while he’ll notice it, feel her eyes on him, and turn his head to look for them. Then he’ll see her - see her freckled shoulders, see how the fallout from her glitzy eye makeup shimmers delicately on her cheeks, see her careful fingers lift her glass to her glossy lips. By then, most men are hooked. For the rest of the evening she’ll flirt with her eyes. Direct her gaze at him like a doe until he goes to meet it, at which point she’ll divert her attention back to the swirl of her drink with a coy smile before he can catch her looking at him. After a few rounds of that, she’ll let him have a win. Just one, to keep him playing. He’ll try to ambush her and she’ll let him have a few seconds of direct eye contact, pretend as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. She’ll act a little embarrassed. Giggle even. Then, if she’s feeling bold, wink at him before she looks away. After that it’s right back to the chase from before.
The game tonight is going well, Mary thinks. The bloke’s clearly interested in her and she seems to fancy the look of him well enough for now. Any moment now then. Mary’s right again, for it’s at that moment that the pretty redhead pulls out a pen and a notebook from her tote. She uncaps the former, rips a page out of the latter, then sets them both down whilst she goes about rummaging for her lipstick. Once she’s found it, she reapplies it thickly, using her phone as a mirror, then brings the loose piece of paper up to her lips to kiss. When she pulls it away the memory of her pout is captured sweetly in the middle of the page. The red of her kiss stands out salaciously from the white. Picking up her pen, she quickly scribbles her number below it in neat, deft strokes, before signing it with two self-assured x’s for good measure. Mary watches her fold the note up and pack away the rest of her stuff and feels a strange and unreasonable twinge of disappointment unspool in her chest. He’s a very lucky man, she thinks.
She really should be getting back to work by now, but she’s been spying practically since the pretty redhead walked in and she decides she’s going to see the interaction through. She follows her as she gets up from her table and slings her bag over her shoulder. Watches as she walks towards the man’s table. Sees her nod to him, reach out to pat his cheek, and… walk right past him.
‘Hello.’ Huh.
‘Hi. Did you want to… order anything?
‘No, thank you,’ the pretty redhead says, leaning over to smile at Mary brightly. ‘I’m Lily. This is my number.’ She sets the piece of paper she’d folded up down on the bar and pushes it across to her.
‘Mary,’ says Mary, still doing the maths in her head to make the facts of her current situation compute.
‘Mary. I like it. Contact me, then.’
‘Hm?’
‘Well, I’ve made you wait long enough, haven’t I?’ Lily says. ‘Unless I misread the situation and you’re not into me, after all.’
‘I’m into you,’ Mary replies immediately. ‘Very into you. I’ll call.’
Lily smiles again, a gorgeous thing, pleased and earnest and true. The faintest hint of a blush has risen in her cheeks. For a fleeting moment Mary rather thinks she’d like to make her smile like that everyday for the rest of her life.
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youregonnabeokay-kid · 1 year ago
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ADHD information for fanfic writers:
Diagnostic Process:
the diagnostic process is different in every country, but this is a basic overview
- an ADHD referral can come from any type of doctor, unlike referrals for other neurodivergences
- the wait list depends on where you live and how old you are. typically the younger you are, the shorter the wait
- ADHD has to be diagnosed by a psychiatrist or by a doctor who has taken a specialized course to be certified in diagnosing and handling ADHD
- most doctors will make you fill out a questionnaire about your mental health. these questionnaires involves sections about family history, personal history, and statements that you have to agree or disagree with
- a good psychiatrist won’t diagnose you with ADHD during your first visit. they will instead spend the first few visits getting to know you and the state of your mental health
- most people are assessed for depression when being assessed for ADHD. this is because depression can present itself in similar ways. if diagnosed with depression and open to medication, the psychiatrist will first prescribe antidepressants and see how those affect you before moving on with the ADHD assessment
Meds:
- most ADHD meds are taken in the morning since they normally wear off after 8-12 hours
- when meds wear off we go through what’s known as a “crash” or “medication rebound”
- ADHD crashes are pure hell which is why some people with ADHD choose to only take meds during the week or they do nothing on the weekend as a reset of sorts
- basically, when our meds wear off all of our symptoms come back at the same time and we get overstimulated to the point of exhaustion
- some people have smaller doses of their meds that they take at the beginning of the crash. this means they can prolong the crash by a couple hours
- for some people, the first time taking meds is hell. the change is very noticeable and abrupt. i wouldn’t stop talking because it was “too quiet” (it being my mind)
- your dosage is not based on body type or weight and just because you take a high dose in one drug doesn’t mean you take a high dose in all others (my ADHD meds are 10mg higher than the highest prescribed amount but my antipsychotics are .5mg lower than the lowest prescribed dose)
- vyvanse is most often prescribed to people with combo ADHD, ritalin to those with hyperactive ADHD (especially those with impulsivity issues), and adderall for inattentive (no, this is not something that is typically disclosed or well-known but if you’ve talked to enough people w/ ADHD you begin to see a pattern) other ADHD meds are available but less likely to be prescribed
- other meds are also taken into account when getting a prescription for ADHD. vyvanse is the most versatile and is usually the one prescribed if you’re on other medications
- ADHD meds are stimulants which means doctors will never give you refills (if they do, they could lose their license)
- since they’re stimulants, for the first year you have to go to the psychiatrist’s bi-weekly for the first few months, then monthly after that so they can see how you are doing
- ADHD meds are known for lowering sex drives and increasing hunger (sometimes the opposite may happen, as with most drugs, but these are most common)
- it takes about 1/2 hour to an hour for meds to kick in and many of us are able to tell the exact moment they start working
Other Substances:
- the neurons and chemicals in the body of an ADHD person are fucked. this means that many substances and medications have either no effect on us, or the opposite effect of what they are intended for
speaking from personal experience:
- caffeine makes me tired
- melatonin and other sleeping aids like dextromethorphan, which can be found in many cough syrups, make me hyper
- weed makes me feel lighter, but it never affects me more than that. i never get a “proper high” like other people (ie; i find no more joy or fascination in bright colours or moving objects than i usually do)
- while “sugar highs” in general are a myth, they’re real for people with ADHD! they stimulate our dopamine and opioid receptors which gives us a burst of energy
- additionally, people with ADHD are more likely to be addicted to illegal stimulants like cocaine because it calms them down (yup, you read that right. when someone with ADHD does cocaine their mind quiets and they mellow down instead of the usual hyper-active high that neurotypicals get)
Additional Information:
- we’re lacking some of the neurotransmitters in our brains so it takes us longer to process information, and we have “more” thoughts than neurotypicals since our additional thoughts aren’t processed out
- we get what’s called “executive dysfunction” or “ADHD paralysis” where we are physically unable to do things despite no real physical limitations (for non-ADHD folks: try putting your hand in fire. you’ll notice that you are either physically unable to or that your body somewhat restrains you from doing it. this is what executive dysfunction is like. for ADHD folks: do not try this since we’re also less likely to have self-preservation instincts)
- basically, i can sit for hours thinking about doing the dishes, screaming at myself in my head to just do them, but i’m still unable to
- we leave trails! we have so many thoughts going through our head that we forget them all the time, so when we get a thought like “i think the printer is low on paper, i should check” we abandon all tasks in favour of the new thought. however, the remains of those tasks stay where we left them, and thus, an ADHD trail is made
- we have both the worst and best memory of anyone you will ever meet. i might be able to tell you the exact outfit you wore on a specific day five years ago but i won’t remember what i ate for breakfast
- when we get bored, we get depressed. like, life is meaningless and i want to curl up in a ball and die depressed. sometimes we need someone to physically force us out of bed to get us out of our funk (and sometimes all it takes to get out of the funk is doing something fun which makes us feel ridiculous when we think about how depressed we were prior)
- since boredom is detrimental to us, we have to constantly be having fun which, in and of itself, is not fun. this is also why a lot of us end up doing shift work or working dangerous jobs
- we’re adrenaline junkies. this isn’t even a “most of us” situation, it’s all of us. the only difference is how we get that adrenaline. (some get it by jumping out of a plane, others get it by working on assignments in a time crunch)
- we’re social beings. even if we’re introverts, we thrive on social interactions. without them our dopamine plummets and we, once again, get depressed
- all silences are awkward to us. it doesn’t matter if you’re the person we’re most comfortable with in the world, silence is always awkward. or, more specifically, we feel like we need to fill it which is why we often ramble
obviously there’s far more to ADHD than just this and everything can change person by person but i hope this helps to gain a bit more of a general understanding on ADHD
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catsarehumanstoo · 7 months ago
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what is this Mars thing
this Mars thing is also a timkon fic! it is set in the late 1920s and features kon as a former silent film child star trying to make the jump to both adult movie roles and talking pictures while also trying to work out who he is and where he comes from! also featuring tim as a surveyor for a map company (read: spy), who has a plane and a 35mm camera! i do have documents detailing exactly what camera and plane he has because i spent way too much time researching what was available then to lose that information!
it is not a no capes au but it is a low capes au - superman is very much around and kicking, but batman is not a thing bc bruce is busy doing other things (running a spy ring).
also featuring the various archaeological discoveries happening in the middle east and egypt bc tim's parents are archaeologists and i wanted to write about ur. sue me.
this one is on the backburner mainly bc as i worked out the plot i realised i needed to know more about contemporary middle eastern politics, and the more i looked into the history and politics of the region the more i realised there was more i needed to know. so it's on the backburner until i get a degree in 1920s middle eastern history and politics ig ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
snippet for you anyway!
"You'll be safe, won't you?" his mother said, stretching her hand up to clasp his, reaching out of the cockpit. "I've seen the terrible things that can happen when these airplanes crash." "Most of those crashes happened when there were other planes shooting at them, Mom," Tim said, smiling at her. "I'm just doing triangulation. No guns on this civilian craft." He patted the Redbird fondly. "How much does this job pay you, anyway?" Jack asked. "I can't say it's a career I expected you to go into." "It pays enough, Dad. And I get to keep the plane after five years' service." "Well, if you're sure. You know, it's not too late for me to write to Marin, see if he can get you a job in the company." "I don't want a job pushing paper for Drake Industries, Dad. I'm happy doing this." Jack nodded and shrugged. "Have a safe flight, kiddo."
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piningpercussionist · 1 year ago
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*a DING is heard on Kims phone* Stephen: Kim I heard what happened are you alright?
.
.
.
.
Kim's eyes shoot open as she jolts up from her bed in a cold sweat, hand flying to her mouth just in time to muffle a scream. She pants wildly for a moment, curled in on herself as her pulse pounds in her ears and her vision swims.
Eventually, her pulse slows just slightly, leaving her just a little dizzy as her vision begins to clear.
(What... just happened to me?) She wondered, moving her hand from her mouth to her chest. (... When did I go to sleep?)
She frowns in confusion, looking around the room. Without a window, she'll need to check her phone to tell the time, but things look... well, the same, but different? She didn't quite remember most of these things being placed the way they were... or this room looking quite as lived in. The dissonance is begining to make her uncomfortable, heart rate picking up once again; she tries to take a deep breath as she feels around for her phone.
Thankfully, it's resting on the bed beside her, helpfully announcing itself with a buzz. (Well, that's fortunate,) she thinks idly, flipping it open with a practiced flick of her wrist.
She blinds herself with the brightness of the sceen for a moment, reeling back; blinking out the spots, she rubs at her eyes with her other hand as she settles back into the pillows.
(What's got me taking a nap or something at... oh, it's kind of late, actually. Assuming... do I have an early shift tomorrow or something...?)
She frowns, confused- until her eyes land on the date, and she shoots back up again, one hand flying up to her hair to pull at it.
(IT'S FEBRUARY?! Did someone- did someone mess with my phone?! What the hell-)
She quickly navigates to her messages, checking her new one first. She looks it over with intense scrutiny, trying as hard as she can to figure out what happened.
(What the hell is he talking about? What do I-)
Kim taps her index finger against the side of her phone for a long while, biting her lip. She feels nauseous; something seems very, very wrong here.
I don't know what you're talking about, so I don't know?
I feel like that's not a good sign.
I just woke up; did I go on a bender or something?
After she sends the messages, and stops herself from sending any more, she backs out of their texts to check her others.
They're fairly dead, for the most part, usually; large gaps of time between them, save for her texts with Scott, Ramona, and Hollie, typically. But trying to check them, she frowns, finding a rather curious irregularity. While her texts with Hollie seemed fine, for the most part, a couple were garbled- and when she looked at her conversations with Scott, they seemed to have stagnated for a time, and then also became filled with similar, uncomprehensible symbols and spam. Worst yet was her messages with Ramona- strings of broken text climbing up the screen and blotting out the whole of it, nearly. Something in her chest twinged at that, though she wasn't entirely sure why...
(How did this even... what...)
The only "recent" message Kim can find that sparks a similar feeling is one from Julie- a reminder about a party. Curiously, the message IS partly garbled- notably, where it would be telling her what the party is for- but the date remains visible.
(New Years... has passed....?)
She sets her phone down, putting her hands over her face as she lets her thoughts swirl around. She tries desperately to get herself to remember.
(What the fuck is wrong with me? What happened? Why can't I REMEMBER?!)
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gingersssnap · 9 months ago
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Ok i saw a goodreads comment today for a book i havent read that put into context a book i DID just read, and it said "it was written like a never ending internal monologue." Yes!!
Sometimes there's books where character A asks "what were you thinking about for dinner tonight?"
And character B thinks for 4-7 paragraphs about how their mother cooked ratatouille. They miss the freedom of childhood, but they've been living in the past for 14 years, since their second cousin moved to Antarctica for an internship. Maybe it's time to try something new. Enough living in the past, it's time to live in the present. The future, even, if they manage to scale the forbidden mountain and learn kung fu from Master Panda before Earth collapses and transforms into ParaEarth. Impossible. But with their friend by their side, it's worth it to at least try. Keep calm and carry on.
"maybe chicken?" Character B answers, and you have to scroll back up to remember what the question even was
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lost-technology · 2 years ago
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So, I was scouring my back-files and old fanfiction . net for some of my old Trigun fic. It wasn't all terrible, I swear! Okay, so I find a lot of stuff I did 20 or more years ago cringe, but there are a few pieces that are worth it. I was specifically looking for an old fic I did featuring an original character who had chosen to try to follow the "Vash" hero-lifestyle and found himself failing at it. Finally found the thing. Found a story I wrote about Vash having a pet cat, too, mostly comedy, but definitely one you don't want to read if you scour the "Does the Dog Die?" website before you watch a movie. Yes, I used that horrible old trope in the end. And then I found some fic I wrote waaaaaay back around 20 years ago (2004, actually) that was a Rem Lives AU for anime!Rem and the anime!story of Trigun and I didn't read it all the way through, but I skimmed it, having COMPLETELY forgotten about it! I seriously forgot this thing existed, forgot the entire plotline... I remember some of my old fics, obviously, but did not remember this one. And skimming... comparing to my current Stampede-and-Trimax based Rem Lives AU WIP... What is my brain's obsession with making Rem lose a leg? Seriously, it happened twice. It was a different leg (her left in the old fic as opposed to her right in the current and unlike in the current, she gets to keep both eyes) - but... I did this thing? Twice? Huh? I skimmed to the end and apparently rehabbing Knives has started to fall in a weird love with her, too. I used to write some weird shit. Actually, considering that once when I was sick with the flu a few years ago I wrote a crossover between Super Smash Bros and the Star Wars Holiday Special because my brain was on way too much cold medicine... and I spent a good portion of 2021 writing a series of fanfics about original characters that were Galactic Horde-clones from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power being undertakers for their fallen people post-canon...um, I still write weird things. *Sigh* at least that one fanfic I do remember co-writing with an ex-online-friend turned vicious online enemy (whom I could have probably forgiven if they hadn't attacked my SO) is absolutely gone now. There was a person I used to be friends with in Trigun fandom whose fandom name initials read "MF" so I will therefore refer to them as "Motherfucker" when I refer to them... well, Motherfucker and I once wrote out an idea that they had which was a Rem Lives AU but one where Vash and Rem fell in love with each other and Vash was overtaken by a fungal infection that made him violent enough to actually kill people sometimes - it was BAD. Probably the worst fanfic I ever (co) wrote. I hope that no one ever saved that to any hard drive or media. It deserves to be lost. Please.
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tide-locked · 8 months ago
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i feel like people forget that sometimes characters in fic are written like that because it's a reflection of real life.
people have sex without setting boundaries. people have unprotected sex without talking about their sexual histories or producing recent sti tests. people play with kink without discussing it ahead of time or establishing a safeword. they have anal without 'enough' prep or lube—they may even prefer it like that.
and none of this is really a fantasy. it's all pretty normal. you can feel that it's inappropriately normalised, and you'd probably be right! but it is normalised: one study found that 58% of female undergraduate students on the campus studied had been choked during sex. 20% of those students said that they'd never been asked if it was ok; another 30% said they'd only sometimes been asked if they consented. fully half! (non-paywalled journal article on choking during sex here, including these numbers.) despite a rise in stis of all sorts, condom use is declining. (pdf link to the full text of this study about declining condom use in the us; aidsmap article about an australian study with similar results.)
even when people do talk about things—sex or anything else—they communicate imperfectly. 'yeah, but don't go too far' is consenting and setting a boundary, and also relying that the person you're talking to has the same metric for 'too far' that you do. for some people, 'the trash needs to go out' is a neutral, factual observation; for others, it's a request that the person they're speaking to take out the trash.
even when people understand each other perfectly, people react unpredictably to things sometimes! we behave irrationally! people laugh uncontrollably at funerals, or get angry at the straw that broke their back rather than the enormous load they were already carrying. they get scared and lash out at people trying to help them. when hurt, most people do not instinctively reach for therapy-approved grounding exercises and 'i feel' statements.
pretty much any bad choice that characters could conceivably make is a choice that people make in real life, on purpose, all the time. people do things that can have catastrophic, life-changing effects because it felt like a good idea at the time, or they're leaning into the vibe, or they just didn't think about it all that much, or an infinite number of other reasons.
fiction isn't intended as a guide on the best, safest, and most responsible ways to live your life, and fanfic isn't any different. it's not a narrative flaw to let characters do things that are messy or harmful or downright stupid—it's a reflection of what people are actually like, and not something that authors should feel they have to apologise for.
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futurefind · 1 year ago
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//lays on the floor thinking abt ferdiereabert. thinking about how rea represents the worst of their failures/mistakes. thinking about how they represent the cause rea -gestures vaguely- for. thinking about how their respective pursuits (hubert and ferdie aiming to murder for and nurture for the sake of protecting rea, respectively; rea aiming to... essentially be left alone to self destruct and be forgotten bc its easier) are mutually exclusive even though their wants are the same (being together)
also thinks about the raw crack / humor angles of edelgard checking in on how the rea-mance is doing to ever exasperated, deadpan, and/or teacup breaking responses
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georgies-ftts · 3 months ago
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My absolute favourite trope in Merlin fanfic is when they all find out about Merlin’s magic and Arthur is brooding or feigning annoyance but truly doesn’t care, Elyan and Gwaine are asking so many questions because they’re so intrigued and need to know absolutely everything and somehow aren’t surprised in the slightest, Leon is weary but slowly indulges in the conversation, eyeing Arthur every so often because he’s nervous to display such behaviours about magic in front of his King but he still knows Arthur would never touch Merlin even if he was afraid and Percival is just so confused because he thought everyone already knew and just refused to speak about it
Merlin: It’s not that big of a deal. we don’t have to speak about it.
Elyan: Oh, no we absolutely do!
Gwaine: Yeah, c’mon Merlin, show us something cool, like money falling from the sky, or a pint in my hand, right now, come on.
Elyan: Can you really do that?
Merlin: *Sarcastically* If it’ll get Gwaine to shut up.
Arthur: Oh, so you can pour Gwaine a pint in the middle of the woods but you can’t clean my chambers?
It goes silent for a few moments, Merlin wonders if now is the right time for a joke but Arthur’s brow is furrowed and through the light of the fire he can see the firm press of lips on his face, he decides now is not the time. Gwaine rolls his eyes from across the flame before them.
Gwaine: He’s just saved all our arses, can you be grateful for two minutes?
Leon: Gwaine-
Merlin: He has every right to be upset-
Arthur: Do not address me as if i’m not even here, you owe me that at least.
There’s a tense silence as Merlin’s hand stills where it pokes at the fire with a stick, Leon eyes the King cautiously and Percival fiddles, wide eyed, with the frayed edges of his tunic. Merlin sighs and focuses again on the fire, it’s the only heat he can find.
Gwaine: What kind of things can you do?
Merlin is hesitant to answer but Elyan looks at him expectantly and even Leon has turned his attention to him now, seemingly awaiting either an answer from the servant or an order from his King.
Merlin: I- I can do small things like move stuff around, tell a broom to sweep or a rag to clean.
He thinks that’s enough but by the excited look in Gwaine and Elyan’s eyes it isn’t.
Merlin: I can light fires, fell trees, sense a nearby threat, anything… really.
Gwaine: That’s so cool
Arthur: So you could’ve been useful this entire time and you chose not to be.
There’s another lull as Arthur picks apart leaves and tosses them into the fire but as Leon speaks up even Arthur turns his gaze.
Leon: How long have you been able to do all this?
It’s hardly an innocent question but Leon’s tone is honest and Merlin cannot feel cornered by his words.
Merlin: Since birth.
Arthur: Lies.
Elyan: Is that possible?
Gwaine: What?
Leon: Is that all you can do? Move things? Will them to your command?
Now that question is loaded even if Leon means no ill will. Merlin swallows, he nods.
Merlin: Yes
Leon: What else can you command?
Merlin: The seas
Arthur: A mermaid are you, now?
Merlin: The trees and the ground.
Arthur: A nymph perhaps?
Merlin: The skies
Arthur: Now you’re just being absurd-
Merlin: Lighting.
Merlin cuts in quickly. He was never proud of it, bringing the bolt down so harshly and eradicating the sorceress to nothing but a pile of smouldering ash but Arthur will find out one way or another. Banishment or pyre he will make sure Arthur hears of his crimes before he goes.
Merlin: Nimue. I killed her. A bolt straight through her body. There was nothing left.
The group maintains their silence for a few moments and Arthur finally turns to look at Merlin for the first time since they’d stopped to make camp
Arthur: Prove it.
Merlin: Sire-
Arthur: Don’t call me that and prove it.
Merlin: Why? Hoping i’ll mess it all up and strike myself down? Save you the trouble of building the pyre?
Arthur: If I wanted you dead you wouldn’t be speaking so stop moping, get off your arse and prove. It.
Merlin doesn’t need to get up because the second Arthur stops talking Merlin’s eyes are sparking gold and the sky erupts in a violent flash of colour. tendrils of brilliant white crack the darkness apart, coating the forest in a momentary burst of day before the light fades and in its wake leaves behind the fading outline of the Pendragon crest in the forks of dying white.
The group remains still, staring upwards at the now pitch black sky before Elyan is laughing out loud and Gwaine is excitedly smacking Leon beside him.
Gwaine: Oh my god, we could do so much. We could strike Lord Harold down and he wouldn’t even know what hit him-
Arthur: shut up, Gwaine
Arthur is still staring at the sky and Leon speaks from beside him.
Leon: Forgive me for asking, ignore me next time
The Knight is almost blushing in his place and Merlin manages a small huff of laughter at that before he resumes poking at the fire but his moment of silence is inturpeted
Arthur: Sir Percival, you’ve been unusually quiet. Please, what are your opinions on all of this.
Arthur seems pissed off, but not in an angry way, more of an i’ve been outvoted and i’m not happy about it way. Percival shrugs, picking away at the skin of nails like he has no idea what this conversation could possibly be about.
Arthur: Percival?
Percy: Mhh hmm.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. Percival stares back at him.
Percy: Yes, Sire?
Arthur: Don’t play dumb with me.
Percy: I don’t know what you mean, sire.
There’s a moment , a beat, barely a second.
Gwaine: You knew?!?!!!?!???!?
Elyan: You sly bastard!
Leon: oh lord-
Percy: I didn’t, I swear-
Arthur: Percival-
Merlin: How-
Percy: I THOUGHT WE ALL KNEW-
Gwaine: WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT-
Elyan: HOW WOULD WE HAVE KNOWN-
Leon: Kill me.
Percy: IT WAS SO OBVIOUS-
Merlin: HANG ON-
GWAINE: WHY WOULD’NT YOU TELL ME?
Elyan: Gwen’s going to be so pissed off she missed this
Gwaine: I THOUGHT WE WE’RE FRIENDS-
Merlin: HOW WAS IT OBVIOUS-
Percy: WE ARE, I JUST THOUGHT WE WEREN’T ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT IT
Leon: please lord,
ELYAN: WHY WOULD’NT WE BE ALLOWED TO- Oh, no, wait, yeah got it, continue.
Percy: I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALL AWARE AND JUST NEVER MENTIONED IT CAUSE IT WAS SUCH A CASUAL THING THATS WHY I WOULD ALWAYS GIVE YOU A CLAP ON THE BACK AFTER AN AMBUSH OR-
Merlin: I THOUGH IT WAS CAUSE I DIDN’T DIE
Leon: Finish me off
Percy: YEAH, CAUSE YOU SAVED US. WITH MAGIC
Leon: I beg of you
ELyan: Holy shit-
Gwaine: Have we really been that blind?
Percival shrugs and Merlin still looks at him like he’s just betrayed his entire blood line.
Leon: Please, it would be the kind thing to do
Elyan: What?
Leon: What?
Gwaine: Did you tell him?
Merlin: Why would i tell him?
Percy: ouch.
Arthur: Percival.
Everyone pauses, Leon stops praying to a deity he does not believe in and Merlin stops looking so offended but Gwaine and Elyan still hold that child like wonder in their eyes.
Arthur: I’m not entirely sure what to threaten you with right now but I will think of something and trust me you’re going to wish you were never born.
Gwaine: Fair do’s, that
Percy: So Merlin gets away scot free but not me?
Merlin: OI-
Arthur: Oh, i’m not even started with you.
Gwaine: Oh, c’mon princess, don’t act like you didn’t have even the slightest hunch.
Arthur’s head spins at a pace that’s frankly alarming to look over at Gwaine. He narrow his eyes like he was lining up his next arrow for loosening. There’s another beat before Gwaine’s eyes widen
Gwaine: OH MY GOD YOU DID-
Then Arthur is launching forward, over the fire and it takes the four others an hour to get Arthur to release the impossible grip he has on Gwaine’s hair and another two to get Gwaine to apologise for the black eye now blooming on the King’s face.
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wakebymoonsleepbysun · 1 month ago
Text
My TV (Working Title) (Tenna x Reader) Chapter 1
I knooooooooooowwwwwwwwww I really shouldn't start another fanfic but uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....ummmmmmmmm......teebeeman cute TwT
I do plan on continuing this but we'll see what LIFE has planned for ME. Secret of the Mimic comes out Friday and I'm sure that'll launch at least 2 new fics for me because I have no impulse control, and I plan on ArtFight in July sooooo don't be surprised if this isn't updated til August. (It'll be on ao3 once it is tho)
Word count: ~4600
Your task: Find a TV. An old one. CRT, ideally. The bigger, the bulkier, the better. Doesn’t need to work, just needs to be big.
Big enough to explode dramatically when hit with a sledgehammer.
You can’t say you fully understand the vision of your friend Jodie’s short film, but she’s paying you to edit it…which means you have a vested interest in helping her film it, which means an interest in helping her get ready to film it… even if she’s not directly paying you for that part of the process. If a day of running around checking thrift stores and pawn shops meant your payday might come a bit sooner, then so be it. You’re technically not strapped for cash just yet, but contract work isn’t exactly steady--one slow month could have you running up a balance on your card that’ll take the rest of the year to pay off.
At least Jodie’s paying for your gas and will pay you back for the TV, so all you’re losing is time…though you hope Jodie will still stick to the agreement when she sees just how many stores you had to hit up.
You can’t remember if this is the fifth stop on your “tour” or the sixth, but you must look tired, for the cashier, a middle-aged woman with her greying hair in a messy bun, winces visibly when you ask about a CRT TV.
“Sorry, hun. Nobody’s donated a working CRT in…probably a decade.”
Yet you perk up, catching something in her wording. “Working? It doesn’t have to work. Just has to be a big, boxy old TV.”
She hums sympathetically. “Well we don’t tend to keep--” She stops suddenly, her face lighting up as she snaps her fingers. “Oh! You know what, I think there is one out back! Or at least there was last night…I assume it’s still there?”
“Can I take a look?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’ll show you,” she says. She grabs her keys from beside the register, walking you through the store and out the back employee entrance to a small alleyway.
The dumpster behind the store is overflowing with donations that had been deemed in too poor of shape to sell, all in various combinations of torn, stained, dirty, and broken. You see a sofa that’s so torn to shreds that most people couldn’t be paid to take it…and yet someone had donated it expecting it to be sold.
“Someone came by with a truckload yesterday. Emptying out an abandoned storage unit, I think,” she says. “Some of it was sellable, this wasn’t,” she explains, nudging the TV with her boot. “Is it about what you’re lookin’ for?”
“Oh yeah, this looks great!” you say, crouching down to look at the TV. It’s pretty dirty--covered in so much dust some of it has actually become caked on. The antennae are folded in, at least mostly--one antenna has a bit of tape on it that prevents it from being fully tucked in. The power cord is so frayed that you think plugging it in might be a fire hazard. But the TV can be cleaned up and made to at least look like it’s in good shape even if it doesn’t actually work.
“Exactly what I need,” you add, picking at a clump of dirt with your nail. You rest a hand atop the TV, leaning on it briefly as you pull yourself to your feet. “How much?”
She laughs. “It’s not sellable. So I can’t ‘sell’ it. But if you wanna bring your car around you can load it up.”
“Free? Really?” you say, surprised.
She shrugs, waving a hand. “The paperwork isn’t worth what I’d end up charging for it.”
“Heh…well, thanks!” you say. Maybe if you tell Jodie the TV ended up being free, she won’t balk at the gas bill so much.
One cordial handshake later, the TV is officially yours. You bring your car around and load up the TV into the trunk and finally head home. When you arrive in your apartment’s parking lot, the sky is tinged yellow from the pending sunset and the shadows stretch long across the pavement.
Getting the clunky CRT into your apartment is a hell of a task. Park close to the door, carry the TV to the elevator, then push it down the long hall to your apartment. It’s too heavy to lift for more than a few seconds at the time, and even the brief walk to the elevator has you setting it down a couple times to rest for a couple seconds before continuing. 
But, you’re able to get it up to your third floor apartment at last, and you shove it into a corner of your mostly empty room.
The apartment itself is a two bedroom, though really you probably should have just gone for the one bedroom. You use the second bedroom as an office, and the living room had, at one point, been intended as a place to host guests, but you’ve ended up doing far less of that than you’d anticipated. You’ve even moved your flatscreen into the office, leaving behind an empty TV stand and a living room even less equipped to hosting anyone.
Once the TV’s in place--next to an empty TV stand that definitely isn’t strong enough to hold an old CRT--you glance down at yourself, wincing at the dust and dirt from the TV that’s now all over your T-shirt.
You debate with yourself a moment before deciding to just clean up the old thing a bit. Moving it is difficult enough without also getting streaks of dirt all over your clothes every time you lift it. Besides, Jodie will probably want it somewhat clean for the shot she’s planning.
You grab the kit you usually use for cleaning up your computer--some compressed air, alcohol wipes, and a handful of Q-tips. Probably a bit more thorough than you need for an old TV that doesn’t even work and is going to be destroyed soon anyway….but you figure if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right.
You’re surprised at how much dust and dirt come away with the wipes, given how much has already come off onto your shirt, but that only solidifies your decision to give it a thorough cleaning. You at least have the sense to cover your nose and mouth with your shirt before getting to work with the compressed air, though once you see the size of the dust cloud that rises from the TV’s vents you wonder if you should have dug around in your closet to see if you still have any N95 masks left.
You use a damp Q-tip to clean around the dials and the edges of the screen. By the time you’re done, the TV looks…well, not new, but at least like it’s been kept in a house and taken care of for the past few decades.
As you’re putting away your cleaning supplies, you wince when you notice how dark it’s gotten outside. There’s still a hint of sun on the horizon, but it won’t be there much longer.
You quickly gather up the trash from your kitchen and head downstairs to the dumpster. You’ve already put off taking out the trash for about two days longer than you should have. You hate taking it out at night, especially since building maintenance has been pretty slow to replace some of the bulbs in the parking lot’s lights. But, you manage to toss the bags away just as the sun slips below the treeline.
Finally, after a day of driving from store to store, hauling a huge TV, then cleaning said TV, you can relax for the night.
Or so you think.
You lock the door behind yourself and step into the living room, where you immediately notice that something is amiss.
Something is very amiss.
Comedically amiss, even.
Where the CRT had once sat, now sits a man. An impossibly tall man with a TV--with the perplexing addition of a cartoonishly long nose--as his head. He’s too tall to even stand up in your apartment--instead he’s seated on the floor, his knees tucked against his chest. 
“There you are!” he cries happily in a staticy, showman-y voice. He crawls towards you with a big grin on his face. “My new favoritest Lightner! Thank you ever so much for taking me home and fixing me up and--” He cuts himself off, canting his head. “What’s the matter?” he asks.
Your back is pressed against the wall, your eyes wide and your shoulders tense. Your hands are held up, your fingers curled like claws as your body instinctively prepares to defend itself from the massive creature shuffling towards you.
And he asks “what’s the matter?” as if you’re reacting strangely to a giant TV-headed man in your apartment!
Before you can recover your wits enough to answer, he frowns, tilting his head in the opposite direction.
“Wait…you’re not a Lightner!” he says, his antennae straightening in surprise.
He lowers his head, leaning forward until his nose is nearly poking you in the chest. You close your eyes, covering your face with your hands. You’d probably fall to the floor in a heap if doing so wouldn’t mean colliding with his nose on the way down.
“Hmm…but you’re certainly no Darkner…” he says, his gloved hand rubbing his “chin” in thought. He shifts his gaze to your face and he flinches when he sees how frightened you are.
“O-Oh! ‘Scuse me! Shouldn’t sit too close to the screen! Especially in the dark!” he laughs apologetically as he shuffles backwards, still on his hands and knees. His antennae are almost bumping against the low ceiling of your apartment as it is.
Your knees give out and you slide down the wall, your trembling hands still covering your face.
This can’t be real. It just can’t. What the hell kind of hallucinogens had you inhaled when cleaning that old TV? You’ve clearly lost your damn mind!
The TV man pulls back even further when he sees your distress. “A-Ah!” he says, nervous beads of sweat appearing in the staticy white image that makes up his “face”. “I-I suppose this is…shocking! Me being…like this…outside the Dark World!”
Don’t indulge the delusion. Wait for it to pass. Whatever you inhaled will wear off. Surely you just need to wait it out? You’ll recover or sober up or…whatever…and it’ll all go back to normal!
But you can’t help yourself.
“I-I…have no idea what you’re talking about!” you admit, cringing internally at how meek and timid your voice sounds.
“Aha, right! Proper introductions are in order!” He clears his throat, then raises one hand to his face to push in his nose, flattening his face. The screen goes dark for a half second before loud, triumphant music begins to play, accompanied by some kind of low-resolution video. 
“It is now time…for our feature presentation!! (Feacher…!!) Coming straight from YOUR house…coming straight from your house!! COMING! He’s the 1!! COMING!! The KING of ONLY!! He’s groovy! And NEVER glooby! You can’t get this from an egg!! The sensation of your screen! The show that makes you SCREAM!! Say it with him folks!!
Mr. (Ant) Tenna’s T~V~TIIIIMMMMME~!!!”
Once it’s done, the screen returns to the white static that is his “face”, his nose reappearing with a cartoony “pop!”.
The whole sequence does little to ease your confusion…though the fear is at least fading. You lower your hands, adjusting your position so you’re sitting with your back against the wall rather than cowering against it.
“Um…”
“And who do we have the honor of speaking with tonight?” he asks, a microphone appearing in his hand, which he holds out to you.
“E-Erm…” you squeak awkwardly.
“Hmmmm?” he hums in an almost playful tone as he holds the mic just a bit closer. The cartoony smile on his screen is huge but…there’s also a gentleness there. As if he’s trying to coax you out of your shell.
Finally, you manage to speak your name, albeit a bit haltingly.
His grin widens. “I shoulda guessed! A perfect name for a perfect sorta-Lightner!” he crows.
You laugh weakly, your cheeks warming at the bit of flattery despite the situation. “A-And…you said you’re…um, Mr. Ant Tenna?”
He nods. “Tenna to my friends, my friend!” The slight head tilt and the cartoony “pling!” noise that accompanies it suggest he would be winking if he had eyes.
Again it’s hard not to smile at the quip…and the fact that, intentional or not, he’d answered your question before you’d even had a chance to ask it. “A-Alright…Tenna…” you say, slowly starting to relax. You’re not entirely convinced this is real, but…it seems to be at least…not dangerous? “M-Mind…explaining…what’s going on?” you ask tentatively.
Tenna laughs. “Well, it’s quite simple!” he says, holding up one finger and waving it slightly, poised like a man about to explain a complicated topic in three or less easily digestible sentences. “You see--” He freezes suddenly, his mouth fixed in his usual big grin.
Your brows drift slightly upwards.
“...I simply don’t know!” he says, his grin turning mildly apologetic as a laugh track echoes around you.
Your shoulders slump. Maybe this is just a dream…one you’re not creative enough to fill in fully. Still… “Wh-What were you saying before? Something about…Lightners? Darkners? And…a-a…Dark World?”
“Ah! Right!” he says. “I can get you up to speed on that, no problem! Y’see, there’s the Dark World and the Light World, Darkners and Lightners.” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m a Darkner, and you…well, seem to be mostly a Lightner.”
You shake your head. “Um, I’m a human, actually…” you say hesitantly.
Tenna nods patiently, unsurprised by your comment. “Which is a type of Lightner!” he says. It’s almost as if he’d anticipated such a response.
“I…see…” you say uncertainly. “But I’ve never…heard of that. Or Darkners, or the Dark World…”
Another nod. “Most Lightners haven’t! And, since they don’t know about the Dark World or Darkners, they have no reason to think of their world as the Light World nor themselves as Lightners! To them, it’s just the world! And they’re just--” He pauses, his smile looking a bit more like a wince before his bright grin returns. “--NERS!” he declares proudly.
You give a weak laugh, sensing that last bit was a joke. “Right…So then…what’s a Darkner?”
“Residents of the Dark World! The place where light doesn’t reach. Darker than dark, where imagination takes hold and is made real!”
“Imagination…?”
“Imagination made REAL!” he says pointedly, emphasizing the last word. Blue flashing text appears on his screen spelling out the word “REAL!” in bold letters.
“And…I’m now imagining a TV as…a giant TV-headed man?” you ask skeptically.
Tenna’s expression falters and his antennae seem to drop. “...A-A TV?” You can barely process the remark before his bright grin reappears. “I-I mean! Yes! Er, no! Not…you’re not imagining anything! This is how I am in the Dark World! I’m quite real!”
You frown, glancing around despite knowing full well you’re in your apartment. “But we’re not in the Dark World…are we?”
He mimics your thoughtful frown, finally adjusting himself to sit crosslegged, propping his elbow on his knee and resting the bottom of his TV-head on his palm. He has to hunch over to an almost comedic degree to keep his antennae from hitting the ceiling. “No, definitely not! But I’m not so sure it’s the Light World, either…”
“Why not?” you ask.
“Well, aside from all this,” he says, gesturing at himself with both hands, “It just…doesn’t feel like the Light World…” The showmanship fades from his tone, his voice becoming quiet, almost somber.
“How so?” you ask curiously.
Tenna laughs awkwardly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you! It’s just a feeling.”
“What’s the Light World like?” you ask, getting to your feet and taking a step towards him.
“Almost exactly like this one,” he says thoughtfully. “In fact…I’m…not even sure how long I’ve been in this world…I was thrown away at some point,” he says with a frown, his shoulders tensing. “Then I…” His frown deepens. “I…I don’t know what happened next. I don’t…even remember how I ended up in that storage unit…” His tone makes it sound like it’s just as much a revelation to him as it is to you. His frown grows more melancholy and his antennae droop.
You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. What could you possibly say? What do you say to a living TV that seems to be lamenting being thrown away?
Before you can summon an answer to that question, Tenna’s mood turns on a dime and he brightens. His antennae perk back up and he leans forward towards you. “But I’m sure glad I did!” He touches his index fingers together shyly, red circles appearing on his screen as he glances away with a bashful smile. “If it meant being found by a nice Light--er, human who’d clean me up and take care of me!”
The awkward, almost pained laugh you let out barely sounds like a laugh to you, but Tenna doesn’t seem to notice. Dream or no, you really don’t want to tell him the true reason you’d been on the hunt for a CRT.
“Now! I’ll bet you’re excited to watch all your favorite shows on your brand new TV!” he says in a playfully smug tone. “So, why don’t you whip up some popcorn and I’ll find us something good!” he says. His face begins flickering as if flipping through channels…though all the channels are the same white static.
“I don’t have any--” you start in a faint protest. You pause, frowning up at him in confusion. “Can we even watch TV on you when your cord’s broken?”
“Oh sure! Don’t need electricity in this form, I run on good ol’ Tenna-Watts!” he says cheerfully. His smile fades a bit as he continues flipping through channels. “Although…I can’t seem to find a signal…”
“You’re an analogue TV, aren’t you? They uh…kinda moved to digital like…ten years ago?” you say hesitantly.
Tenna pauses, staring at you. His screen goes blank, which causes his nose to disappear as well. His head slumps forward and he turns away, his antennae drooping. “O-Oh. S-So I. I can’t…I can’t really…I wouldn’t be…very useful…as a TV…would I?”
He’s so dejected that he actually seems a bit smaller as he slumps forward miserably, but you quickly rush over to him.
“H-Hey, don’t say that!” you say quickly, the words spilling out of your mouth before you really think about what you’re saying. “We could buy an adapter--”
His gaze snaps to you so abruptly you have to duck to avoid being beamed by his nose as it reappears. He grins brightly, red circles appearing on his cheeks as he leans forward. “An adapter? You’d buy an adapter? For me?” he asks giddily, cupping his screen in his hands.
You falter a moment. Despite your phrasing, you’d meant the remark as a hypothetical, not a plan…certainly not a promise. You’re still not completely sure this is even real…maybe it is a dream and whatever promises you make actually don’t matter. But…even if it’s not…how expensive can an adapter be?
If Tenna thinks anything of your slight pause--or even notices it--he gives no indication, continuing to beam down at you eagerly.
“Uhm, s-sure…Yeah, I can do that…”
“Oh thank you!” he cries eagerly, clapping his hands while the sound of applause plays. “And in the meantime, if you want to hook up a VCR or DVD player or game console…?”
You stare at him a moment before letting out an awkward laugh.
Tenna’s antennae twitch in confusion. “Oh? Did you have something else in mind?”
You shake your head, smiling weakly up at him. “Not…as such, but…you’re…a…a giant TV-man from another world…a-and this is all so…impossible…”
He scoffs playfully, waving a hand. “Can’t be that impossible if it’s happening!”
You sputter a moment, trying to come up with a counterpoint, but none presents itself. “I…suppose you’re right,” you admit. “But…still…just sitting down to watch TV after all that seems…so mundane…”
“Takes a bit of mundanity to wind down the day, doesn’t it?” he says. “Besides, why go to all that trouble of cleaning me up if you don’t wanna watch TV?” he adds in a smug, cheeky tone.
You manage to stop yourself from flinching too visibly at that question, but you’re sure a brief look of nausea still passed over your face. 
“I--I s-suppose…”
“Then it’s settled!” he declares with a clap of his hands. “You go pick out your games or movies or whatever you want and I’ll do the rest!”
“Heh…” you chuckle thinly. “S-Sure, Tenna…” You consider a moment…as tempting as it is to dig out your old SNES and see if the rumors of old games looking better on CRTs is true, you don’t think your brain can handle anything resembling thinking and strategy right now. Certainly not anything involving reflexes either. So perhaps best to stick with a movie. You glance up at him. “What kind of movies are you into?”
“A--!” He stops, his mouth open in surprise and subtle pink blush lines appearing on his cheeks. “M-Me?” He lets out a hearty laugh, waving his hand and shaking his head. “Oh, silly! I’m the TV!”
You pause, regarding him thoughtfully. You…suppose it’s not that weird that he’d truly have no opinion--or that his opinion would be that you should pick the movie--but he’s clearly flattered that you’d asked.
So for tonight, you’ll oblige and make the pick yourself. Tomorrow--
--Would he even be here tomorrow? Suddenly you find yourself hoping he will be.
“...Right,” you say, trying not to seem too deflated as you give him a bracing smile.
You sidestep around him, crouching in front of your empty TV stand and opening one of the drawers. You pull out your PS3 and its wires, setting them atop the TV stand. Your newer consoles are in the office with your TV, but you doubt Tenna has an HDMI port. So, older console it is, even if you’re just using it as a DVD player.
Tenna scoops up the console and its wires and you glance over at him, watching as he plugs the wires into the back of his head and holds the PS3 in his hands. 
As for the movie, you grab a couple DVDs of lighthearted cartoons. You close the drawer and get to your feet, and are surprised to see the PS3 already powered on, the menu screen displayed on Tenna’s (once again noseless) face.
“Wh--How’s it on? It’s not plugged in…?” you ask.
“Tenna-Watts!” he chirps proudly.
“Right…” you say again, a bemused smile on your face. You put one of the movies in, then take a seat on the couch, lazily tossing a fuzzy throw blanket over your legs.
Once the disc is in, Tenna sets the PS3 on the floor beside him, then tucks his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his screen on his knees…more or less acting as his own TV stand, albeit a very tall one.
You find yourself watching him more than the movie, barely paying attention to the plot as you try to process everything he’s said. You suppose “another world” is as plausible an explanation for a twenty-foot tall TV man as any. An old TV turning into a guy is already so far beyond the realm of possibility…how can you say anything except “Sure, why not?” to whatever explanations are given?
“Can you…actually see the movie?” you ask eventually.
He doesn’t move, keeping his screen angled towards you, but you see the lines of his mouth appear over the movie as he speaks. “No, but I feel it.”
“Feel it?” you repeat. “What…what does it feel like?” you ask, intrigued.
He pauses the movie, though his face doesn’t fully reappear. “Hmmm…interesting question! I suppose…it feels like colors. Sounds. Music…it feels like a story!”
You stare at him a moment before giving a soft chuckle. What sort of answer had you expected? “Well…a-as long as you’re not sitting there bored, I guess…”
“Bored? Not at all!” He frowns slightly. “Are you? We can put in something else--you don’t have to finish it for my sake!”
“Oh, no, I’m fine!” you reassure him quickly. “I just…wanted to make sure you were doing alright…”
His antennae perk slightly in surprise and the pink circles that appear on his cheeks stand out starkly against the paused movie. “Oho, you! Of course I’m just peachy! I’m a brand new TV all cleaned and polished and set up for movie night! I couldn’t be better!” he says in a chipper tone.
Your cheeks warm at his enthusiasm and his smile is infectious. “Heh…well, that’s…good…” you say, awkwardness making you feel a bit shy.
Tenna’s grin widens before disappearing, and he resumes the movie, sensing the conversation is over.
Before the movie’s over, you adjust yourself to be laying on the couch, your head resting on the pillowed armrest. Tenna’s height actually makes the position more comfortable--you don’t have to lay on your side or with your head turned ninety degrees to see the TV. You can lay on your back with your head angled only slightly towards him.
As the credits roll, you almost tell Tenna you’re too tired for a second movie, but he switches out the DVD before you can even think about sitting up. So you stay put, letting your eyelids get heavy as the second movie plays.
Maybe hauling the CRT up the stairs and then having your sense of reality severely questioned has taken more out of you than you’d realized. Or maybe it’s just time for the dream to end. Either way, you find yourself drifting off far more readily than you’d thought you ever could under such unusual circumstances…it’s not even a third of the way through the second movie when your eyes fall shut.
*
Tenna can immediately tell when you’ve fallen asleep. Lightners dozing off in front of the TV is a very familiar sight to him, after all. Still, he waits for the movie to play out and for the credits to roll before turning off the PS3. He unplugs the cords from the back of his head and quietly tucks the PS3 and the DVDs back into the drawer on the TV stand.
He leans forward, shuffling towards you slightly, careful not to bump the coffee table. He picks up the blanket from the floor and carefully spreads it over you as you sleep. You stir slightly, snuggling into the blanket and it’s all he can do not to let out a delighted little squeak.
Blankets knocked askew had always been a sad sight for him. He likes doing what he can to give anyone who falls asleep in front of him a good night’s rest, though those abilities had been highly limited until now. In the Light World, he could only dim his screen slightly and lower the volume just a touch. Sometimes if he really focused he could switch off the screen and let the Lightners think they’d done it themselves at some point in the night.
But the simple act of adjusting some blankets? Absolutely out of the question.
What a wonderful world this must be to let him finally do that small gesture for his dear Lightner! Well, almost Lightner. Basically a Lightner. A Lightner to him.
Tenna smiles softly, leaning back against the wall and watching you sleep. He’s loved all the Lightners who’ve had him, but…there’s something different about you. About this world.
He thinks…He thinks he’ll like it here!
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nereidprinc3ss · 9 months ago
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i keep you clean; you surrounded me
in which husband!spencer reid spirals after realizing he can't be your daughter's hero forever.
angst, fluff warnings/tags: this fic is about spencer's past addiction, and how he's afraid it will impact his relationship with his daughter, conversation about alcohol, this is a fix-it fic for my life, ends on a hopeful/positive note, lots of self-loathing from Spencer, uses the phrase "shooting up", PLEASE do not read if this is going to upset you!! PLEASE!! fem!reader a/n: this felt healing in a way for me but that might not be your experience reading if you also have issues with a parent with addiction so please tread lightly and make the right choices for you. CHOOSE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH OVER MY DUMB FANFIC I CAN'T STRESS THAT ENOUGH!! and ily
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“Daddy?”
Ada’s not asking for you, but you look to her anyway. She’s squeezed between you and Spencer on Rossi’s swing, and her cheeks are still feverish—remnants of a recent and rather hysterical fit of giggles. She has a glass of lemonade between her little hands (you’re trusting her with a big girl cup, if only because it’s not your glass or your house) and she peers into it intently. Her little grass-stained feet kick. Spencer pushes the swing back ever so slightly, for her entertainment. 
“Huh?”
She holds her glass up for him. 
“Our drinks are the same color.”
“They are,” he nods. “Do you like yellow?”
Ada shrugs. It’s exaggerated—one of her favorite moves as of late. “It’s okay.”
Spencer glances at you like he always does when he sees glimpses of you in your child, eyes sparkling as if her opinionated and bluntly honest nature is in any way reminiscent of you. 
“Yeah, I agree. Yellow is just okay.”
She leans against him and he’s quick to accommodate her, affectionately brushing his knuckles over your bare shoulder as he slings his arm across the back of the swing. 
“Daddy?”
“What, lovebug?”
You smile, letting your head fall back and your eyes close. The sun is warm on your face. 
“Mommy’s drink is red.”
Nothing gets past her. Rossi had pushed the drink into your hand almost the second you stepped through the door, insisting it would go well with lunch. It sits otherwise untouched on the glass table. 
Spencer hums. The swing rocks gently. 
“That’s because she’s not having lemonade like us. She’s having a grownup drink.”
“Oh.”
You think that’s the end of it, that she’s satisfied with the answer, until another moment passes, and her voice, sweet as the tinkle of little fairy bells, is posing a very loaded question. 
“Why don’t you ever have grownup drinks? Me and you always have the same.”
Spencer’s already looking at you, brows drawn as you sit up. Your eyes, open now, go wide, and you shake your head slightly to signal you have no idea how he’s supposed to respond either. 
His hand goes to Ada’s hair, gently scratching her scalp as his eyes dart over your face. You can see the gears turning in his head. This is one of very few things he clearly didn’t read about in any of the literature on raising kids when you were pregnant. 
“I… some people don’t like grownup drinks.”
It’s an inadequate answer, especially coming from Spencer—just this morning he explained to Ada why the sky is blue. Rayleigh scattering. Blue light scatters more than any other kind of light. Which then led to an impromptu lesson on oxygen molecules and other basic chemistry in the car on the way here. 
So there are standards. 
“Why not?”
You interrupt, unable to watch Spencer flounder any longer. “Ada, why don’t you go see what Henry and JJ and Uncle Dave are doing? That looks fun, right?”
You gesture down the yard to where JJ and Rossi are teaching Henry to play cornhole. 
She looks at you with big brown eyes—the set of them, the color—those are all Spencer.
“Can you and daddy come?”
You straighten out her dress and take the half-full glass from her little hands, setting it next to your own on the table. 
“In a minute. Go ahead.”
Spencer’s hand slips from her hair as she pushes off the swing and bounds down the yard. You make sure she arrives to her destination without incident, before scooting closer to your husband and taking his vacant hand. 
“Spence?” You ask quietly, leaning in to try and insert yourself into his eye line. He doesn’t look away from Ada. 
“That was bad.”
“It wasn’t. She doesn’t understand. It’s fine.”
“I didn’t—”
He looks down, lips pressed together, and your heart twists and drops like overripe fruit from the vine as you realize his eyes have glossed over. 
“Baby,” you whisper, relinquishing his hand only so you can rub his back. Your other finds his knee, drawing as close as you possibly can. “It’s okay.”
“How am I supposed to explain it to her?”
A tear falls, making a dark splotch on the fabric of his pants. 
“You don’t have to. She’s only five. I guarantee she’s already forgotten all about it.”
“I will. I’ll have to tell her one day. She thinks I’m perfect, how am I supposed to—”
He stops himself, voice tightening to a halt. You watch him hold back a cry like you haven’t seen in years. It’s an old, familiar ache for you. You can’t imagine how it feels for him. 
“Spencer,” you coo. “She adores you. She loves you so much. That’s never going to change.”
His nose twitches. 
“I’m going to disappoint her.”
“How? How are you going to disappoint her?”
“I think it’s pretty disappointing to find out your dad is a junkie.”
His tone isn’t particularly harsh but the words are like a slap anyway. 
“Spencer…” For a moment you don’t know what else to say. It’s not a secret that he’s ashamed of that chapter in his life, but you had no idea he was contending with this much self-loathing over it, even after all this time. It seems like such a distant point in the rearview mirror that the two of you almost never need to talk about it anymore. “You are not a junkie. It’s been, what—a decade?”
“I don’t want to have to tell her what drugs are, let alone that I... she thinks I’m the smartest guy in the world, and one day I’ll have to tell her that drugs are extremely dangerous, and I was shooting up for four months anyway. No matter how I try to explain it to her the ultimate takeaway is going to be that I’m weak and I wasn’t smart enough and she’s never, ever going to forget that. How am I supposed to—I can’t be a role model for her. I fucked up so badly.”
Your chest aches, somewhere deep and hollow, as he leans forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, only for a moment—before Ada shrieks and his head snaps back up. Henry is chasing her with a worm. Spencer watches on, tears still leaking from his eyes and expression otherwise neutral. It’s bittersweet to hear him express such deep insecurity about the thing he’s best at in the world, even as those parental instincts kick in and he’s setting aside his own feelings to keep an eye on her. He’s never trusted himself. He’s never seen himself the way you do. 
“Baby, you are her dad and she loves you. Her love for you is not contingent on your past. You are so, so good to her. That’s all she knows, okay? She doesn’t care what you were doing when you were 25. She cares about whether you’ll be home for dinner, and if you’ll play dolls with her, and if you’ll tuck her in. That’s all she needs to love you.”
JJ wrangles the kids and after a moment Spencer looks down again, brow furrowed deeply as drops like rain dot his lap, but he hardly makes a sound. You lay your cheek on his shoulder. “And until she’s old enough for the whole story, which involves a lot more violence than I am comfortable with her being subjected to right now, you don’t need to explain it to her. You have time.”
“She wants to know now.”
“She also wants icecream for every meal. But I can’t make her understand why that’s a bad idea. What she wants and what she needs and what she is capable of understanding are all different categories. I know you love answering all her questions, and you’re a really good teacher, but you can’t make her understand something as complex as addiction.”
Spencer sniffs. 
“Developmentally she’s only really capable of understanding the world as it exists in relation to herself.”
“Exactly. So give her some time, and give yourself some time.”
“What if she asks again?”
“Then… you say you don’t like how it makes you feel. And tell her to clean up her toys. Condition her to stop asking.”
Spencer stumbles over a teary laugh he hadn’t been expecting. You sit up straight, holding his face between your hands and encouraging him to look at you. His cheeks shine with tears, but you wipe them away tenderly. 
“You’re perfect to her,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to one cheek, “and you’re perfect to me.” He cups your elbow as you kiss the other and looks at you with so much sheer adoration you could get all choked up, too.
“Wow,” he sniffles, and takes a deep breath, pulling you into him, “I don’t deserve you.”
“Of course you do,” you mumble into his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as he presses three kisses to the curve of your neck where he’s buried his face. 
“I could be canonized as a saint and not deserve you.”
Sainthood. You ponder that. 
Saints have to live virtuously. They also have to be dead. 
You hold him a little tighter. You like him exactly how he is: technically imperfect. Probably not getting into heaven. Still venerable. Very much heroic. Alive, and with you.
“I’m really glad you’re not a saint.”
He chuckles. His hand slides up your back, and then side to side—a path it’s made time and time again which has only ever led you to wonderful, perfect places.
“Me too.”
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mazeeelabyrinth · 3 months ago
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♡♡♡ Project Bunny ♡♡♡
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Chapter I: Live - PixelBunny.exe
“Y-you all are so mean… I’m shy, y’know. I’m not just here to be your toy…” You purred, same curated high-pitched tone matched with a sickly sweet giggle. “But thank you, Daddies.”
♡■♡■♡ Pairing: LADS MLIs x afab camgirl!reader
♡■♡■♡ Plot Summary:
By day, you're just a broke barista with a caffeine addiction, with a useless degree and a student loan nightmare, and a customer service smile stitched over your burnout. By night, you're Pixel Bunny—a bratty, cosplay-clad camgirl with a shy voice, a pastel aesthetic, and a growing fanbase that keeps your lights on and your legs open.
Except… your five most generous patrons are a little too devoted. Each a stranger with a username and a hard-on for control, slowly bleeding into your real life.
♡■♡■♡ Tags: 18+, multichapters, second pov, eventual poly, eventual orgy, dark romance, reverse harem, shameless smut, porn with plot, explicit, gradual shift into darker themes, voyeurism, praise kink, porn, ooc, canon divergence au, sex toys, clothing fetish, cosplay, breeding kink, ddlg (daddy dom/little girl), pet names, live masturbation, power play, strip tease, sex work, camgirl au, streaming culture, orgasm denial, parasocial relationship, obsessive parasocial behavior, dirty talk, stalking tendencies, reader is not mc, reader has a day job, reader is addressed as "Bunny" or "PixelBunny" on stream, masked identities
♡■♡■♡ Word Count: 7.2K
A/N: Finally dug up an old idea and use it for another LADS fanfic. I was debating whether I use an oc or just follow my usual "x reader", guess what I did? Please take this "you" persona impersonally.
A/N2: holy shit, I thought I saved it up as a draft 😂 I wasn't done editing it lmfao
MASTERLIST | AO3 | FOR TAG LIST, INTERACT HERE. | NAVIGATION
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Your screen flickered to life with the soft, ambient glow of neon pinks and cool lilacs. Lo-fi beats hummed low through your headset, a curated loop of calming bass and synthetic purrs you’ve fine-tuned to make every viewer feel like they were lounging right in bed with you.
The room behind you was an aesthetic fever dream: plushies, pastel LEDs, posters of vintage anime girls with glassy eyes and lollipops too large for their mouths.
You're perched on the center of your bed, legs curled just right, clad in a baby-pink cropped cardigan that technically covers your nipples—but just barely, plaid skirt strategically rumpled that showed off your panties you’d pretend were modest if they weren’t riding a dangerous line between “cute” and “cam site terms of service violation.”
The bunny-eared headset—your signature look—bobbed slightly as you adjusted, lips glossed to a cherry sheen and parted with practiced nervousness.
A delectable morsel wrapped in pastel and lust. That’s you, PixelBunny. A camgirl rising on the other side of the internet.
Just shy. Just bratty enough.
Innocent. Dumb. Deceiving.
Click. You're live.
The chat was already rioting. A thousand hearts bloomed in the corner of your screen. Familiar names lit up the chat like a twisted bouquet of usernames you knew better than your actual friends.
Syl.Draconia 💎 has joined the stream 🐇
R.tist!c tipped 1000 credits: angel, that lipstick shade is killing me
X-Devoted upgraded to SUGAR DADDY - ULTRA VIP 💎
Mr. WhiteCoat tipped 500 credits: Don’t overwork yourself.
C.Pilot: you're late. I've been waiting Bunny. ;)
3009 more viewers have joined 🐇
You smiled sweetly. Blushed. Looked away. A beat too long, just to make them ache for it. And then, your voice—high, breathy, a porcelain teacup too full of heat—spilled into the mic.
“H-hi, everyone. Welcome back to my... super cozy Friday stream. I—I missed you all so much... I was sooo lonely today…”
A flurry of small donations exploded with the flood of emotes. Bunnies. Eggplants. Hearts. Claws. One name after another. Each one hit your account like a loaded promise. A private ping dinged—five times, exactly. Direct messages, encrypted, VIP access only.
You ignored them. For now.
The camera zoomed slightly—auto-focus tracing your thighs as they shifted. Your skin was glossed, powdered, glowing under artificial moonlight. You stretched your arms overhead, the croptop sliding just enough to show the soft curve of underboobs, a calculated ‘oopsie’ perfected by months of practice.
C.Pilot: you know you missed yesterday right?
X-Devoted: Uve been a veeery naughty bunny…
Mr. WhiteCoat: I’m monitoring your dopamine spikes in real time. They’re inconsistent.
R.tist!c: is that the cardigan i sent you? unbutton it slowly
Syl.Draconia: Shes hiding something tonight. Increased blink rate. Deviated gaze.
“Y-you all are so mean… I’m shy, y’know. I’m not just here to be your toy…” You purred, same curated high-pitched tone matched with a sickly sweet giggle. “But thank you, Daddies.”
You giggled, again, hiding your face in your hands. A perfect little bunny. Tempting fate like it was a game. Innocence so carefully curated it could only be filthy. Just a girl in your safe little pastel den, alone in your apartment, with predatory men watching you burn.
You shifted, thighs parting slightly, your voice rising just a note.
“I m-might’ve been a little mean… I didn’t respond to some DMs. I went live without private previews tonight... I guess I was just feeling bold.”
X-Devoted: U will learn sweetheart
Syl.Draconia: Already running your own script. Dangerous.
Mr. WhiteCoat: This requires corrective conditioning.
C.Pilot: youre gonna make me break my keyboard Bun.
R.tist!c: keep talking, your shame is muse enough
The camera light pulsed. You leaned forward, intentionally framing your cleavage with your forearms as you pouted at the lens.
“You’re all so strict with me lately,” you murmured, voice full of mock-pout and something that wasn’t so mock. “But I know how much you missed me…”
You reached for a small heart-shaped plastic on the nightstand.
“A-and I think I’m ready to be your good bunny again.”
Then—click.
You pressed the first tip-button. The sex toy that was already inserted before the stream purred to life inside you, humming quiet and wicked.
“A-ah—mm! T-that’s... oopsie.” Well, at least the moan that slipped from your glossy lips was real.
X-Devoted: Dont play shy. U wore that choker for me.
Syl.Draconia: Zoom. 140%. Enhance the thighs.
R.tist!c: such soft curves, let me paint you like this
Mr. WhiteCoat: Keep still. I’m running diagnostics.
C.Pilot : bet she soaked the sheets already.
mr.unknown: oh yes, moan for us more 😩
zeronut: show pussy plz… 💦
"Oh... Oh Daddy..." You murmured into the mic, your eyes glazed over as the vibrations from the toy X-Devoted had chosen for you resonated through your body. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a blush that surely painted your face in a way that made the camera love you more. The chat was a whirlwind of lewd comments and generous tips. Each one of your patrons had a piece of you, and you knew it. You reveled in it.
You leaned back into the plush pillows, your hands sneaked under the cardigan, fingers dancing over your chest, tracing the edges of the pasties you knew R.tist!c had picked out from the last set of gifts he'd sent. His taste was always so... exquisite. You could feel your heart racing, the decorative adhesive tickling against your skin with each breath.
"Thank you for the tips, Daddy..." You breathed into the mic, a soft smile playing on your lips as you scanned the chat for X-Devoted's name. His tip had triggered the toy, and the pleasure was already pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill over. "You're all so generous tonight."
The screen was a blur of usernames and donation amounts. You bit your bottom lip, letting the anticipation build as you slowly unbuttoned the cardigan. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you shivered dramatically for the camera, knowing it would drive them wild. The room was a symphony of virtual praise, each note hitting a different chord of your arousal.
X-Devoted: Good girl. Thats what I like to see
C.Pilot: let’s see how much you’ve been taking care of yourself Bunny.
R.tist!c: more little bun, show us everything
With a devilish smirk, you leaned forward, giving them the show they were dying to see. The cardigan fell away, revealing the purple, starfish-shaped pasties that covered your areola—nipples already peaked out and were begging for attention beneath the adhesive silicone.
The cold lens of the camera was the only thing touching them as you whispered, "Look at what you do to me, Daddy." You gave your torso a gentle shake, watching your breasts jiggle before the eyes of your devoted audience.
The chat exploded with emojis and messages. The numbers on the side of your screen spun upwards like a slot machine hitting a jackpot. You felt a thrill of power, a heady rush of adrenaline, knowing that these men were all watching you, all wanting you, all willing to give you anything to satisfy their desires. You were the puppeteer, and they were your marionettes, dancing to the tune of your siren's song.
"Would you like to taste my tits, Daddy?" You whispered into the void, watching the screen as your words sent a shockwave through the chat. The vibrator in your panties buzzed in time with your racing heart every time someone tipped, a symphony of need and greed. You cupped your breasts, your thumbs flicking over the covered areola, teasing the silicone away from your sensitive skin.
X-Devoted: Yes baby. Take off the starfish. Let us all admire ur pretty nipples
Mr.WhiteCoat: Use the adhesive fabric next time if the silicone irritates your nipples.
R.tist!c: i wish those pasties were my mouth
R.tist!c: soon you will be mine
C.Pilot: make it quick, I can feel my cock pulsing already.
Syl.Draconia: Watch yourself Bunny. Watch how beautiful you are.
You bit back a giggle, feeling a thrill of excitement at their commands. You knew they were all watching, all waiting with bated breath for the moment you'd give in. Your fingers danced along the edge of the silicone, the tension building as you paused, just for a second, to let them beg for more.
Syl.Draconia tipped 1000 credits: Take it off let the breeze kiss those pretty nipples of yours.
Your heart skipped a beat as you read the message from Syl.Draconia. His requests always sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement. But you had a show to run. You had to keep them all on the edge of their seats. So, with a flick of your wrist, the pasties came off, revealing your bare breasts to the camera. The coolness of the room kissed your skin, making your nipples peak even further. You leaned closer to the camera, letting them get a good look at the prize.
But amidst the flurry of tips and messages, one stood out. C.Pilot’s text was simple, but the implication was clear. "you know I wanna fuck those tits Bunny." The chat went wild, a mix of excitement and anticipation. This wasn't the first time he'd made such a bold statement.
You looked into the camera, eyes wide with feigned shock, "Oh my... Daddy's being extra naughty tonight." You giggled, playing coy. But inside, you felt a thrill of danger. It was all part of the game, but you knew it was one you couldn't ignore for much longer.
The tips continued to flood in as you played with the strings of your skirt, tugging it down just enough to reveal the sheer lace of your panties. The camera zoomed in, capturing the wetness that had already begun to soak through. You could feel the fabric sticking to your skin as you teased them, the anticipation building. Each user's kink reflected in their words, a silent bidding war for your attention.
X-Devoted: Spread ur legs for us baby. Show us ur sweet little cunt
Mr.WhiteCoat: I can see your heart rate increasing. Keep going.
R.tist!c: imagine its my tongue licking you clean
C.Pilot: you know I’d shower those tits with my cum.
Syl.Draconia: Take off the skirt. Give us a show.
You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of their eyes—or rather, the screens—on you. It was all a game, a dance of power and desire played out in pixels. But you were good at this dance, weren't you? You'd been doing it for some months. You leaned back, letting your legs fall open just enough to hint at the lacy treasure beneath. The toy in your panties buzzed louder, the intensity of the vibrations making you gasp.
"M-maybe later, Daddy. I-I’m getting shy now…" you whispered, batting your eyelashes at the camera in practiced timidity. The chat erupted again, the sound of keys smacking screens echoing in your mind. The thrill of control was intoxicating. You were the queen of this digital realm, and they were all just pawns in your game.
The vibrations grew more intense, and you couldn’t help but squirm. You reached down and slipped your hand into your skirt, your fingers sliding over the drenched fabric of your panties. The toy buzzed against your clit, and you let out a soft moan, the sound echoing through the quiet apartment. The room grew hot, the air thick with lust.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Your pulse is racing faster now. Tell us how it feels.
X-Devoted: Ure mine tonight bunny
R.tist!c: i can almost taste you through the screen
C.Pilot: give us a better look.
Syl.Draconia: Yes show us how much you want it.
Your cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, and your breathing grew heavier as you read the messages, feeling their eyes on you—or rather, the screens that served as their windows into your private world. The vibrations grew stronger, and you could feel yourself getting closer to the edge. But you weren’t ready to give in just yet. You had to keep them wanting more.
"But not yet, Daddy," you murmured into the microphone, your voice a sultry whisper. "I want to save the best for later." You pulled your hand away from your panties, leaving them wet and exposed. The camera zoomed in, and you watched the chat light up with excitement. You had them hooked, and you were the master angler reeling them in, inch by inch.
With a practiced brattiness, you stood from the bed.
"Oh... so cold!~" You gasp, hugging yourself in a manner dramatic enough to tease your audience.
You turned to face the camera fully, your eyes scanning the chat for any signs of the five high-rollers you knew were out there. You strutted over to the clothing rack, the soft thud of your feet echoing through the quiet room. The outfit was a surprise, something you'd picked out just for them. A devilish smirk played on your lips as you pulled out the hanger, the fabric gliding over your fingertips like silk.
"Alright, everyone," you announced, the sound of you unraveling the garment garnering a slew of eager messages. "It's time for the main event!" The anticipation in your voice was palpable as you held the outfit against your body, obscuring your nakedness with the screen of fabric. "Tonight, I've got something extra special for you. Who's ready for a surprise?"
The chat exploded with excitement, a barrage of suggestive emojis and filthy messages.
C.Pilot: can't wait Bunny.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Your secrets are the best part of the show.
R.tist!c: show us little muse
You took a deep breath, the anticipation building in your chest as you held up the lingerie set. "I've got something that's gonna knock your socks off, Daddies!" You giggled, feeling the excitement of your digital audience pulse through the air. The pastel colors shimmered under the soft light, a perfect blend of innocence and desire.
You turned around, giving them a glimpse of your bare back, the tension building as you slowly untied the strings of your skirt. The skirt softly rustled as it slid down your thighs like silk, leaving only your sheer panties that barely covered your dripping cunt and the vibrator thrumming inside you.
"Oopsie daisy!" You exclaimed, feigning clumsiness, making sure the camera captured every inch of your exposed skin. "Looks like I need to get changed!"
The chatter in the chat grew louder as you began to peel off your panties, the fabric sticking to your wetness before finally sliding away. The toy remained in place, a silent sentinel of your pleasure.
You stepped into the new set, a pair of lace g-strings that barely covered your curves, and a matching sheer bralette that left nothing to the imagination. Each movement sent waves of pleasure through your body, the vibrations syncing with your heartbeat.
"How does this look?" You asked, spinning around for them, giving a full view of the new ensemble. The chat went wild, a cacophony of lewd comments and tips. You could feel the power surging through you, a heady rush that only grew as you watched the numbers climb.
X-Devoted: Perfect. Just like I knew it would be
Mr.WhiteCoat: Your obedience is... commendable, PixelBunny.
R.tist!c: a masterpiece worthy of my canvas
C.Pilot: fuck baby. you're driving me wild.
You leaned closer to the camera, your breath hot against the lens. "Does Daddy like it?" You whispered, your eyes sparkling with mischief. The chat was a blur of eager responses, each one more eager than the last.
Syl.Draconia: Youre a vision, my sweet bunny. I could rip that in one flick of my fingers.
You winked at the camera, the toy inside you buzzing in response to the thrill of their words. "Good, because I got something extra special for you all." Your breasts bounced slightly as you turned, giving them the show they craved. "Who wants to see what I've got planned?"
The tips—smaller amounts this time—poured in faster than you could read, the screen lighting up like a Christmas tree. Your heart raced as you felt the eyes of your devoted fans, the vibrations inside you reaching a crescendo. "Alright, Daddies. Let's get this party started!"
You slid the toy out of you with a wet pop, ensuring the camera caught everything, the chat exploding in a symphony of virtual pleasure. The toy was replaced with something new, something they hadn't seen before. It was a custom-made dildo, the girthy shaft covered in bumpy, tiny lights that matched the color scheme of your room.
"This little guy is gonna light up the night," you said with a wink, turning it on. The lights flickered in time with your racing pulse, a silent promise of what was to come.
Strutting closer to your desktop, you straddled the fuschia pink-white gaming chair, posing your back against the lens. You took a moment to appreciate the view on the screen—the way the lights played off your curves, highlighting the view of your asscheeks in the air, your drenched cunt peeking through the scant g-string. Turning you into a living work of art.
Then, with a sultry smile, you placed the tip of the dildo against your entrance, the coolness sending a shiver down your spine.
"Ready for the main event, Daddies?" You teased, tapping the toy playfully against your asscheeks. The chat was a sea of anticipation, a mix of eagerness and greed. You spread your legs wider, giving them a perfect view of your glistening pussy, the fabric of your g-string the only barrier between you and their hungry eyes.
You leaned further into the chair, the cold leather against your skin a stark contrast to the heat building within you. The lights from the dildo reflected off the chrome of your gaming chair, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the room. The plastic frames bit into your knees as you settled into the position, a slight discomfort that only served to heighten the thrill of the moment.
The chat was a blur of excitement, a cacophony of usernames and tips flying by as they watched you, rapt and eager for your next move.
X-Devoted: Slowly baby. Make it last
Mr.WhiteCoat: I’m taking notes of how many pumps you’re going to do tonight.
R.tist!c: oh i wanna sketch this
C.Pilot: fuck bunny. you're so wet, I could almost feel it.
Syl.Draconia: Use the lube I sent.
With a seductive smile, you took the lube, never breaking eye contact with the camera’s lens as you lathered it around the girthy artificial phallus. The squelching echoed to the mic as your hands pumped in a tantalizing rhythm, giving your audience the fantasy of you touching their cocks instead.
You began to rub the tip against your swollen clit, the lights flickering in time with your movements. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt through your body that made your eyes roll back in your head.
"Mm, Daddy likes it slow?" You murmured, your voice a breathless purr. "Alright, let's see if I can be a good girl." You slid the toy down, teasing the folds of your pussy. The chat was a flurry of commands and compliments, each one feeding the fire of your desire.
With a deliberate slowness that was as much for show as it was for their benefit, you brushed the string of your panties aside and pushed the dildo inside your cunt. The lights flickered in time with the strokes, creating a mesmerizing pattern across your skin. You moaned, the sound carrying through the quiet apartment, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo back at you from the screens of your devoted fans.
"Oh, yes... just like that," you whispered into the microphone, the vibrations from the dildo making your voice shake slightly. "Daddy's got me feeling so good."
Your eyes remained locked on the camera, watching as the tips continued to roll in. Each one a little victory, each one a validation of your power. You began to move the toy in and out, the lights casting a rainbow of shadows across your vaginal walls. "Tell me, Daddies," you gasped, "How does it look when I'm being such a good girl for you?"
Mr.WhiteCoat: Your pussy looks so tight around that new toy, PixelBunny. You’re taking it well.
C.Pilot: oh fuck. that's so hot. like you're begging for the real thing.
R.tist!c: like a painting baby, a masterpiece
Syl.Draconia: Tell me you wish it was my cock Bunny.
X-Devoted: Ure mine Bunny. Remember that
Their reactions varied, a symphony of desire played out in digital text. Some praised your obedience, others painted vivid pictures of what they’d do to you, while another whispered dark promises of possession. Yet, none of them knew the truth behind your shy demeanor, the cynical smirk that tugged at your lips as you read their words.
With each stroke, the lights of the dildo grew more intense, painting your face with a rainbow of pleasure. Your body began to respond, your hips moving in a gentle rhythm that grew more urgent with each passing moment. You knew the act well, the dance of a siren luring sailors to their doom. You were their obsession, their escape from the mundane.
The sound of your wetness filled the room, mingling with your soft moans. It was a symphony of lust, each note a declaration of your power. You watched the chat, eyes flickering from one message to the next. Their words were a drug, a sweet poison that made you feel alive.
You began to rock your hips, the toy sliding in and out with increasing speed. "Is Daddy proud of me?" You whimpered, your voice a siren's call. The chat exploded, each tip a declaration of their adoration. You felt their desire, a palpable force that seemed to tighten around you, squeezing out every last drop of your inhibition.
"Oh, Daddy," you moaned, the pleasure building, the lights from the dildo casting a glow across your face. "You make me feel so... dirty." The words were like honey, sweet and thick with meaning. You watched the chat, the screen a blur of tips and messages, each one more desperate than the last.
The toy slammed into you now, the plastic thud echoing through the room. Your hands were a blur, moving in a rhythm that was almost violent. The sensation was overwhelming, the lights pulsing with your heartbeat. You could feel yourself getting closer, the orgasm a tidal wave just beyond the horizon.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, PixelBunny, take it another inch deeper.
C.Pilot: so good baby. take it all for me.
R.tist!c: like youre riding my cock baby
Syl.Draconia: Mines bigger than that silly toy Bunny.
X-Devoted: Make sure u wont hurt urself
Their commands fueled you, pushing you closer to the edge. You took the toy out and licked it clean, the taste of yourself making your eyes roll back.
"Daddy, I need more," you whimpered, dropping the dildo to the floor. Slowly, you turned around to face the camera and present yourself on the chair. Your hand snaked into your g-string, your fingers finding your clit. "Is Daddy going to make me cum?"
Mr.WhiteCoat: Play with yourself more, BunnyPixel. Show us how much you want it.
C.Pilot: spread those legs wider, let me see everything.
R.tist!c: i want to see that pretty pussy swollen with desire for me
Syl.Draconia: You know you want it bunny. Take it all.
X-Devoted: Ure so greedy, arent you, Bunny? But Daddy loves that about you
Their words were a siren's song that you couldn't ignore. You spread your legs wider, the fabric of your g-string stretching tightly over your swollen clit. You watched the chat as your fingers began to dance across your folds, the wetness of your pussy glistening in the soft glow of the lights.
"Look at how wet I am for you, Daddies," you breathed into the microphone, the sound of your voice sending a shiver through your body. Your thumb circled your clit, the sensation making your toes curl. "Do you like watching me play?"
The chat erupted in a symphony of affirmations, their digital applause filling your ears. You felt a strange sense of belonging, a thrill that came from being the object of their desire. It was a power trip, one that you were all too eager to indulge in.
With a wicked grin, you picked up the dildo again, the lights pulsing to the beat of the music that played in the background. "Alright, Daddies," you said, your voice a mix of sweetness and seductive challenge. "Who wants to see how fast I can make this little toy disappear?"
The chat went wild as you positioned the dildo at your entrance, the coldness a stark contrast to the heat that had built up within you. You pushed it in, the lights dancing on your skin as you took it all in one go, the tip brushing against your cervix. You gasped, the sensation intense and overwhelming. The chat exploded in a flurry of tips and messages, each one more eager than the last to claim a piece of you.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Bravo, PixelBunny. You’re so good at taking what you’re given.
C.Pilot: fuck yes. just like that. you're mine baby.
R.tist!c: a true masterpiece in motion
Syl.Draconia tipped 1000 credits: If its my cock filling you up, youd scream louder than that.
X-Devoted: So obedient. So perfect
You watched the tips climb, feeling a thrill at their desperation. "Is Daddy proud?" You asked, your voice a needy whine as you began to pump the dildo in and out of yourself. The lights reflected off the sweat that had begun to form on your skin, casting a glow around your body.
The chat was a blur of usernames and dollar signs, a testament to your power over these men. You felt a twinge of guilt, a tiny voice that whispered they didn't know the real you, that you were playing a role. But the rush of power was too great, the thrill of their desire too potent to resist.
You began to moan, the sound echoing through your headphones. The camera captured every inch of you, every bead of sweat, every gasp of pleasure. It was a dance of seduction, a performance honed over countless nights in front of the lens.
The chat was a furor of commands, each one more demanding than the last. But you were in control. You knew just how to play them, how to keep them on the edge of their seats. With each stroke, you felt their eyes on you, their thoughts wrapped around your body like a second skin.
"Oh, Daddy," you whimpered, the dildo moving faster now, the lights blurring together into a rainbow of ecstasy. "I'm so close." The chat exploded in a frenzy of tips once more, each one a declaration of war for your pleasure.
You felt yourself getting closer, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Your hand moved faster, the dildo a blur as it plunged into your pussy. Your other hand gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles white with the effort of holding back. Its creak was a silent protest against the relentless pace of the dildo, creating a lewd harmony along with the squelching of your pussy around the glowing, bumpy, glass phallus.
"I'm... I'm gonna cum," you whispered, your voice shaking with need. The chat was a sea of fire emojis, a digital inferno of desire. You could almost feel their eyes on you, their hands moving in time with yours, imagining it was their cocks that filled you so completely.
The lights grew brighter, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. It was as if the room was alive, a living entity that feasted on your pleasure. Your walls tightened around the dildo, a silent plea for more, for harder, for deeper. The glass felt like fire in your hand, a tool of your own making that you wielded with expert precision.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, baby, keep going. You’re on the 496th pump and counting.
C.Pilot: that’s it slut. give it to me.
R.tist!c tipped 1500 credits: youd be more beautiful painted with my cum
Syl.Draconia tipped 300 credits: Youre so pretty when youre full of me.
X-Devoted tipped 500 credits: Ure perfect… my little whore
You threw your head back, your mouth open in a silent scream. The chat was a blur of lewd comments and demands, a symphony of desire that seemed to crescendo with every stroke. You felt their eyes on you, their hunger a palpable force that pushed you closer to the edge. The room was spinning, the lights a kaleidoscope of pleasure that painted the walls of your reality.
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing over you with the force of a thousand suns. You screamed into the microphone, the sound echoing through the room. The camera captured every twitch of your body, every spasm of pleasure that racked your frame. The chat exploded in a cacophony of tips and messages, each one a declaration of victory.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Beautiful, PixelBunny. Drink water to hydrate.
C.Pilot: I’d breed that little cunt like the bunny you are.
R.tist!c: fuck youre an artwork
Syl.Draconia: Good girl.
X-Devoted tipped 750 credits: Look how swollen your clit is
As the wave of pleasure receded, you slumped in the chair, panting heavily. Your body was a wreck, a plaything used and discarded. But there was no regret, only satisfaction. You had done your job, played your role to perfection. The tips kept rolling in, a testament to your power, to your ability to manipulate and control.
Mr.WhiteCoat: That was exquisite, PixelBunny. You pumped twenty-three times more tonight than the last stream.
C.Pilot tipped 2000 credits: you're so fucking perfect, you’re gonna make me cum on my keyboard.
R.tist!c: i want to capture that moment forever
Syl.Draconia: You never disappoint pet.
X-Devoted: Such a good little bunny letting us watch
You took a moment to catch your breath, the sweat cooling on your skin as you surveyed the chat. The room was bathed in the glow of the pastel lights, a soft symphony of colors that seemed to pulse with the aftermath of your climax. The usernames swirled like a kaleidoscope, each one a reminder of the men who had claimed a piece of you.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Take off the g-string. Let us see you completely bare.
C.Pilot: you’re so responsive baby. I bet you’d scream if I was the one fucking you.
R.tist!c: i wish i could paint the way you look right now because your pussy is an art form
Syl.Draconia: Youre so open, so inviting. It makes me want to take you right here, right now.
X-Devoted: Good girl. Show me whats mine
With trembling hands, you slowly pulled the g-string to the side, fingers gliding to spread your swollen labia—exposing your clit to the cool air. The chat erupted in a symphony of desire, a crescendo of tips that sang your praises. You felt a thrill, a dark pleasure in knowing you had them all at your mercy.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Perfect. Just like that.
C.Pilot: so wet, so needy. who’s going to fill you up next?
R.tist!c: thats the look of a well-fucked muse
Syl.Draconia: Your pussy is begging for it.
X-Devoted: Remember, ure mine
You began to toy with yourself again, the dildo forgotten on the floor. Your hand moved with a newfound confidence, a silent challenge to the men watching you. You knew they were all thinking of themselves, of how they'd make you scream if they had the chance. But you were the one in control here, the one pulling the strings of their desires.
Mr.WhiteCoat: I want to see those breasts bounce, PixelBunny.
C.Pilot: play with those perfect tits.
R.tist!c: the way your titties jiggle is like watching a masterpiece come to life
Syl.Draconia: Show us your tits slut.
X-Devoted: Only for me my greedy little bunny
You leaned forward, your tits spilling out of the lingerie. Your nipples were hard peaks, begging for attention. You pinched them lightly, watching the chat for their reactions. The messages grew more frantic, a silent battle for your focus.
Mr.WhiteCoat tipped 300 credits: You’re shaking, PixelBunny. Just relax.
C.Pilot: pinch them harder, make them beg for mercy.
R.tist!c: oh baby thats the picture id sell for a fortune
Syl.Draconia: I want to feel those nipples between my teeth.
X-Devoted: Ure such a good slut for me
The room was a whirlwind of lewdness, a tornado of desire that you were at the center of. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement, knowing that any of these men could be watching you from the shadows of your real life, and could be closer than you ever imagined.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Make yourself come again, PixelBunny. Show us how many times you can come tonight.
C.Pilot: I want to see you squirt for me baby.
R.tist!c: youre like a living, breathing fantasy
Syl.Draconia: Imagine its my tongue on you licking you clean while you squirt.
X-Devoted: Ure going to come for me arent you?
With a shiver, you focused on the task at hand. You began to rub your clit in slow circles, the sensation sending shockwaves through your overstimulated body. Your nipples tightened further as you pinched and twisted them, the pain adding a delicious edge to the pleasure.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Faster, Bunny. Make it count.
C.Pilot: so pretty when you're desperate.
R.tist!c: i want your juices mixed with paint
Syl.Draconia: So close bunny. Give us what we want.
X-Devoted: Be careful not to fall on the floor
The second orgasm built slowly, a crescendo of pleasure that you couldn't ignore. Each touch of your fingers was a declaration of war, a battle for dominance that you were determined to win. The chat was a blur of praises and commands, but you were in control. This was your show, your performance, your moment of power.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Yes, baby. Just like that.
C.Pilot: I can almost taste you Bunny.
R.tist!c: your body is a masterpiece
Syl.Draconia: Soon youll be screaming for me.
X-Devoted: Ure mine to use little slut
With a final, desperate push, you came, your body arching off the chair as your juices arced in the air—subsequently soiling your chair and the floor. The camera captured every twitch, every shiver of pleasure. The chat exploded in a flurry of tips, each one a declaration of victory. You panted, your chest heaving as you watched the numbers climb, the power of your own sexuality laid bare before you.
Mr.WhiteCoat: Beautiful, baby. Simply breathtaking.
C.Pilot: that was so fucking hot. you're incredible
R.tist!c: the way you come is like watching the universe unfold
Syl.Draconia tipped 1500 credits: Thats my slut. Ill give you a taste of my cock soon.
X-Devoted: Good girl
As the waves of pleasure receded, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. These men didn't just want to watch you; they wanted to own you. The thought sent a thrill down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement that you couldn't quite place.
You knew you had to keep them at bay, keep your real life separate from this digital playground. But as the tips continued to flow and the chat demanded more, you couldn't help but wonder if the line had already been crossed.
If they had already claimed a part of you that you couldn't take back.
— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —
You overslept.
The kind of oversleep that left mascara smudged in the corner of your eyes and thigh-high sock marks ghosting along your skin. Your alarm had gone off four times—each one silenced by a sleepy, swollen hand that still smells faintly of coconut oil and shame.
You’re not sore exactly. You're ruined.
Tender. Overfilled. Buzzing like your favorite toy never turned off. Your vibrator still under the pillow—taunting you like the whore you were last night. Your apartment smelled like artificial strawberries, lube, and desperation.
And your phone? Oh, bunny.
47 unread messages.
Syl.Draconia: Your audio peaked at 2:14:37. I liked that sound.
Mr. WhiteCoat: You should ice your thighs today. Hydration report pending.
X-Devoted: Still think about how u moaned my name last. Be good today
C.Pilot: saved the vod. watching it again before my morning meeting.
R.tist!c: i want to paint you mid-climax ill need the raw footage
You deleted none of them.
Your thighs stuck together as you rolled onto your side, squinting at the soft morning light bleeding through cheap blinds.
7:48 AM. Your café shift started at 7:00.
You groaned, dragging yourself out of bed. Your bunny headset laid discarded on the floor like a casualty, tangled with the cord of the bullet toy that made you scream so loud you had to bite the pillow. The heart-shaped toy from last night was still blinking faintly on the nightstand—taunting you. Judging you.
You’re still wearing the cropped cardigan. Nothing underneath. Just a smear of dried gloss on the collar and a suspicious hickey where your neck met the webcam’s frame.
— ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ —
You yanked on your barista apron with the grace of a drunken octopus, hair still smelling like body spray and cum-adjacent perfume, cheeks flushed with residual shame. The “CUP O' SUNSHINE!” logo stared at you like a passive-aggressive middle finger. A wrinkled pair of jeans hugged your thighs fine—inside out. No time to fix it. No bra.
Your thighs sticked slightly as you walked, the aftermath of being toyed open for hours, edged to oblivion and backed by faceless men who knew the sound of your moans better than your coworkers knew your name.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket with unread messages. The same five names.
X-Devoted: Did u eat yet baby?
Mr. WhiteCoat: You should’ve hydrated more. You lost a lot of fluids.
C.Pilot: when’s your break? I’ll call you.
R.tist!c: sketching the way your thighs shook
Syl.Draconia: You looked perfect on your knees.
You groaned and shoved it in your boring, beige, canvas tote bag.
Outside, the bus screeched past your stop without a single care for your state of existential hangover. You missed it by six goddamn seconds.
"Fuck you, rush hour,” you panted, trying to speed-walk without waddling. Your thighs screamed. Your lower back protested. You're ninety percent sure there was still some faux hickey ink blooming under your collarbone in the shape of a painted thumbprint.
Then the subway ride was hell. You shifted on the plastic seat with a soft hiss, cursing your post-stream sensitivity. The train lurched and your sore cunt clenched involuntarily. You could only bite your lip and pray no one noticed your discomfort.
When you clocked in, the coffee shop was already packed. You're over an hour late and reeking of vanilla lotion and unsanctioned orgasms.
Your workplace was aggressively normal. Neutral-toned hell. A cozy café chain squashed between a vape shop and a dentist’s office. The fluorescent lights buzzed like judging aunts. The espresso machine wheezed like a dying horse.
“Nice of you to join us,” your manager—Lysander—muttered, tossing you a stained dish towel and a name tag that read PIXEL. You didn’t bother to correct him. You were too busy hiding the fact that you forgot underwear.
You forced a smile. The same one you used on camera. “Sorry! Long night.”
As you staggered toward the counter, last night kept crashing back in wet waves.
After the ‘normal stream’—you on all fours, bouncing on a glass dildo while holding a printed-out chatlog to your chest like a script from hell.
“I-I’m gonna come again if you keep saying that, please—please don’t make me—!”
And them—ULTRA VIP chat exploding, all five usernames watching you fall apart like a perfectly wound toy snapping loose.
Syl.Draconia: Youre not allowed to finish until I say so.
X-Devoted: Slower. Hold eye contact. Now beg
Mr. WhiteCoat: Apply pressure to your clit. Precisely three fingers. That’s right.
C.Pilot: fuck, you’re gonna make me blow in my headset.
R.tist!c: cry for me, let me paint it from memory
You had collapsed into a moaning mess while the private chat was filled with tips, voice notes and possessive claims. You came so hard you nearly dislocated your mic stand.
And now here you were—Pixel Bunny’s shadow, stripped of pastel lights, lace, and fake moans. Fresh graduate, still buried in student debts, living alone, half-fucked out, and working the register for caffeine-deprived Karens and stoners.
Taking someone’s half-skim oat milk latte with a fake smile and shaky hands, your body still twitching with phantom overstimulation, your panties still sitting in a tipped-over laundry basket, and your cunt still slick from ghosts of last night’s sins.
You slapped a paper cup onto the counter like a half-dead soldier. Your bones ached. Your legs felt like overcooked noodles. You were seconds away from collapsing into the espresso grounds when you heard it:
“Medium latte. One pump vanilla.”
You didn’t look up at first. You were too busy auto-piloting through your camgirl trauma, but something about the voice made you pause.
It’s… calm and smooth. Measured.
You glanced up and your breath caught mid-exhale.
He was tall. Easily six feet. Fair-skinned and silver-haired, the kind of anime-protagonist-just-transferred-to-your-school handsome that would normally make you roll your eyes. His white sweater looked soft, expensive, the kind of thing someone would wear just to make you think about how good it would feel brushing against your thighs. His pants were dark, tailored. Hands tucked casually into the pockets.
And his eyes. Blue. Not icy—glacial.
Like he sees straight through you, and hasn’t decided if you’re prey… or his.
You swallowed. “N-name for the order?”
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a second, gaze lingering for a beat on the upside-down nametag stuck above your chest.
“…Xavier.”
Your hand trembled around the Sharpie. You barely managed to scrawl the name on the cup, your brain already conjuring the worst possibilities.
X-Devoted. No. No. It’s just a common name. It’s fine. You’re fine, you’re just sleep-deprived and overstimulated.
You slid the cup toward the espresso machine and forced your voice steady. “It’ll be right up. Um. X-Xavier.”
His lips twitched. Not a smile. Just a flicker—barely there.
“Thank you,” he said, quietly.
Xavier turned to wait at the other end of the counter, hands still in his pockets. Posture straight. Like he was listening.
You sneaked one more glance as you started the order. He was staring at the pastries now. Or the board. Or maybe the reflection in the glass. You couldn’t tell.
But the prickle on the back of your neck said: be careful.
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