#I’M HIS TWITCH MOD HE HAS RIGHTS

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

One of your "It's a Match" chapters gave me an idea. LOVE that series btw!

What if Gaz is a virgin so Simon let's him lose his virginity with his gf? Simon is there to guide Gaz and make sure he does it right so you get as much pleasure out of it as needed. Then you give Gaz the ride of his life while Simon controls when and where he gets to cum. The poor man whimpering beneath you from the edging and denial until he finally gets permission to cum.

Sub!Gaz x Dom!Simon x Switch!Reader

(Feel free to ignore this as well.)

Took some creative liberties with the prompt and made Switch!Reader a mean/brat tamer domme even if Gaz isn’t necessarily a brat (just felt more practical for me to do it). Sue me.

Sharing is caring. || Gaz x F!Reader x Ghost

Rating: E Words: 4.7K (this one got away from me sorry) Pairing: virgin!Gaz x gf!Reader x bf!Simon CW: smut, voyeurism, hotwifing, domination/submission, oral sex (m! and f! receiving), unprotected piv, fairly rough/forceful sex (BUT CONSENSUAL), praise, slight verbal degradation?, body mods (piercings). other tags: pre-established couple, loss of virginity, pre-agreed upon conditions, consent checks, no beta we die like soap. a/n: no thoughts, just vibes. NOT PROOFREAD

Simon first brought it up one sleepy Sunday evening, when you two were lying side by side in bed, his arms snaked around you as you read an e-book, his eyes glued to the TV on an episode of some crime show.

“You know,” He had said, Roman nose rubbing the top of your head affectionately. “I’d like to run something by you.”

“Hm?” You cooed as you rolled your head back on his chest to look up at him.

“So Kyle has this problem,” Simon began to explain as he looked down at you, brown eyes peering through his blonde lashes.

That got your senses tingling and you immediately set aside the tablet to dedicate your attention to the topic at hand, turning your body to properly face him, your arm coming to rest on his shoulder.

“What kind of problem?” You questioned, an eyebrow raising in intrigue.

Simon’s eyebrows twitched lightly, a tell-tale sign he was about to bring up something ‘embarrassing’, some good gossip. “Go on!” You immediately insisted, catching the little microexpressions on his face.

“He’s a virgin.” Simon revealed, causing you to gasp, pulling your head back and shaking it in confusion.

“NO?!” You said in shock. “With that pretty face of his?” You blinked.

“I know.” Simon says and then cocks a brow upward. “So what do you say?”

You didn’t need clarification, you simply smirked and shot him a look.

-

That’s how you ended up here.

Simon made all the arrangements, established rules with Kyle, and finally brought him over the that following Friday.

“You sure about this, sir?” Kyle asks, ever respectfully, sat on your living room couch, with you by his side, Simon sitting across from you on the arm chair by the chandelier.

“As sure as anyt’in’.” Your boyfriend replies and casts a glance at you. “You sure, da’lin’?”

“100% sure.” You answer, before glancing at Kyle. “Are you sure about it?”

“I… I am. But… It’s… It’s your relationship, I don’t want to cause an issue.” Kyle tells you, looking at you sheepishly, dark lashes fluttering anxiously over those stunning brown eyes of his.

“It’s not our first time doing this, I’m sure Simon’s told you all about it.” You reply in a reassuring tone.

“I know but…” Kyle says as he looks at you, your hand on his knee, finger drawing light circles on the denim of his pants.

“We’ll start off slow, at your pace. If ever there’s anything you don’t like, we’ll stop.” You assure him. “Simon’s here for that, after all… Not just for my sake, but yours too.” You add.

Kyle nods and gulps down a deep breath, casting one last glance at the form of his lieutenant, sat imposingly on the arm chair, legs spread open, lounging without a car in the world. One of his legs is bent near the seat, the other stretched across, foot resting on the edge of the coffee table, and arms resting comfortably on the rests, one of his hands holding a tumbler of Bourbon. His head is cocked to the side with interest.

The young sergeant nods again and slowly leans toward you. One of his hand tentatively wraps around your hip, fingers grazing the expanse of your ass in the shorts you’re wearing, while the other grabs you around the back of the neck, his lips connecting to yours.

Your warm, wet tongue swirling with his, soft breaths and gasps coming from your mouth as you let him take the lead for a moment... it’s all making his confidence grow. Sure, he’ll need guidance eventually, but for now he’s got this.

His hand slides to cup your ass, grabbing it with a greedy grasp, squeezing his fingers into the thickness, the other sinking into your hair, fingers gently clutching your scalp as they tug into the hairs.

He’s kissed plenty of people before, this isn’t new for him, and yet, it still feels completely different, in the way you’re not ‘his’ to kiss. But, somehow, that makes it all the better.

Slowly, your lips separate and you glance up at him a single look to check on his state and he nods imperceptibly, which causes your hands to slide down his chest and begin feeling him up.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you atop of him, hands sliding under the fabric of your top to feel up your back as your own find the hem of his t-shirt and tug it up to expose his chest.

Your fingers trace his pecs, his abs, nails softly drawing down atop him, making him shiver. He’s younger than Simon, his skin infinitely smoother, his body fat percentage definitely lower, not a trace of hair on him. It’s so different from your boyfriend… And you welcome the change.

You help him take off his t-shirt, throwing it haphazardly to the side and then lower your mouth onto his jaw, neck, shoulders, collarbones… You’ve barely started and the poor kid looks like he’s already seeing the universe and all its stars, his cock having sprung to attention so quickly that the bulge in his pants keeps rubbing against your inner thigh.

Slowly, you slip down from atop of him, your hands sliding down his body as you kneel before him on the floor, hands tracing over his thighs in the jeans he’s wearing, fingers squeezing his strong muscles through the fabric.

“You’ve never gotten a bj before, have you?” You ask him, eyebrows cocked and eyes locked onto his face. He shakes his head immediately, muttering something about ‘getting a handy’ back in secondary but that was the extent of it.

“Poor thing.” You coo at him. “Never got to feel a pretty mouth wrapped around that cock, hm?” Yo teased him playfully, watching how his eyes widened, eyebrows scrunching pitifully, as you undid his belt and tugged down his jeans.

“You’re in good hands, Garrick. She’ll take good care of you. Has a very talented throat.” Simon pipes up behind you. You don’t even have to look behind you to spot the smirk on his lips, the way the dulcet of his voice comes just short of a boast and a brag of how lucky he himself is, and how lucky Kyle is that Simon was willing to share you.

You help Kyle out of his sneakers and jeans before beginnin to palm him through the black cotton of his boxer briefs, his cock already peeking up from behind the waistband, leaking precum in anticipation. “Someone’s eager, hm? Are you excited, Kyle?” You quip to him.

“Mhm. Very. Very!” Kyle nods, his eyes glued to every single movement of yours, from the way your hands palm at his bulge, to how your fingers caress his smooth skin, to how they hook onto the waistband and roll down his underwear, peeling it off his body.

He’s big, bigger than Simon, even, though not as thick… He’s circumcised and he’s perfectly shaven. You wonder if he did that for your sake, or his own preference. There’s a thick vein running down the underside of him, one you can’t wait to feel pulse against your tongue.

Taking his cock in your hand, you stroke it slowly before allowing your tongue to run atop of it, base to tip, your tongue gently grazing the leaky tip, spreading the precum over the head before slowly parting your lips and guiding him inside.

The moan that escapes the boy in front of you makes you smirk, he twitches below you, fingers clenching on either side of his thighs, as if resisting squeezing into tight fists as you slowly allow his cock to slide deeper into your mouth. Then, you start bobbing it, up and down, cheeks hollowed out and lips grazing the warm skin leaving a mess of saliva around him.

Kyle’s quick to react this time, his hand grabbing you by your hair, legs trembling on either side of you. Your eyes shoot up to find his, only to find that his head is falling back onto the back of the couch, eyes screwed closed, mouth hanging open like he’s experiencing an out of body experience.

“He’s certainly enjoying himself, isn’t he?” Simon remarks behind you, receiving a finger signal from you, a sign of agreement, a preestablished way of communicating, since your mouth was busy. “That feel good, Kyle?”

“Y-Yeah… Yeah… I-It… God…” Kyle groans in between swallowed breaths. Poor thing, you want to coo at him, already too lost in the pleasure to even speak… Oh, how beautiful he’ll look soon, fucked out under you, drunk on your pussy…

You don’t notice Simon coming up from behind you until you feel his hand grip your head, atop of Kyle’s, calloused fingers digging into your scalp. His other hand shoots out to grab Kyle’s head from the back, pulling it forward so he’s forced to stare at you.

Then, your head is shoved forward, Kyle’s cock sliding down your throat with no warning Simon’s hand holding you in place, while Kyle’s eyes widen and an obscene moan escapes his mouth. Simon controls your head, pulling and pushing you onto Kyle’s hip. 

It’s no wonder that Kyle’s whole body starts to tremble, eyes widened and having trouble staying focused, or open, mouth left wide open as Simon makes him fuck the back of your throat, experienced eyes keeping watch of your reactions and signals and of Kyle’s…

He’s controlling the speed at which you go, how deep you take his cock down his throat, how much of a mess you make with your spit, and how long you get to breathe whenever he pulls you off before pushing you back on. A reminder. He’s always in control.

“Come down her pretty throat, go on, Garrick.” Simon demands. Kyle, poor thing, has already been holding on with teeth and nails to keep himself from climaxing too soon, wanting to prove himself as more than just inexperienced… But Simon’s order is so severe, he can’t keep it up… And he lets go, twitching in your mouth and shooting his come down your throat.

Simon lets go of you both, giving you a moment to catch your breaths, brown eyes staring at the result of what you just did, you, out of breath, a mess of drool down your chin, and eyes welled up with tears, and Kyle, out of breath, a mess of drool around the base of his cock, and eyes glazed over.

“Good job, da’lin’...” Simon tells you, pulling you up ever so slightly, kissing you sweetly, his tongue piercing flicking across your tongue, as if he’s looking for a taste of Kyle in your throat. 

After a moment, he pulls back and looks at Kyle. “Now, you’re gonna thank her for the favour she made ya, hm?” He warns. “Let’s take this to the bed. C’mon.” He demands, taking you by the hand and leading you to the bedroom, leaving Kyle to have to keep up.

Simon, unlike you, is a practical man. He doesn’t waste time. By the time Kyle has made it to the bedroom after barely 20 seconds, he’s already got you naked and splayed atop the mattress, a pillow placed under your hips.

He’s on his knees in front of you and beckons Kyle closer with two fingers, before he uses those same two fingers to rub over your folds and spread them open, revealing just how wet you’ve gotten from merely giving Kyle head. “You see that?” Simon coos at him while you stare at them both, holding yourself up on your elbows.

“Y-Yes, sir.” Kyle replies with a nod, his own hand reaching to touch you, carefully sliding between your puffy lips, gliding across easily through the slick. 

Simon grabs Kyle’s wrist and carefully guides it across to your clit, finding it with the speed of a man that’s been fucking you often since you two started dating. He knows your body, knows you better than anyone, and he’s about to show Kyle exactly how to touch you to get you to fall apart like he does…

You immediately stiffen up when you feel the pads of Kyle’s fingers against your clit, the pressure behind them coming from Simon’s hand as he rolls his fingers in light circles. It’s familiar and it immediately causes you to hum in pleasure and hiss, lying yourself back on the mattress.

“Ideally, you always keep something touch that needy little clit there.” Simon explains, more like he’s giving an anatomy lesson than having a threesome. “Be it a tongue, a finger, what have you.”

Simon’s hand then slides Kyle’s fingers away, making you whimper from the loss of contact. “Be patient, da’lin’, you’ll get more soon.” He quips. “Needy girl… Thought you were going to be all bossy with Kyle, now look at you…” He coos. 

Simon turns Kyle’s hand over and, using his own hand, parts your puffy cunny before helping Kyle push two digits into your slick warmth. Kyle’s fingers are no biggy, not thick and calloused like Simon’s, and they’re surprisingly easy to take on. You moan softly at them, before becoming just a bit more vocal when Kyle’s fingers pad over your G-spot when Simon curls them just so.

“Right there, you see that?” Simon beckons, Kyle responding with mild agreement that you don’t even register because, soon, his fingers start moving, fucking in and out you per Simon’s instruction, while your boyfriend’s tongue quickly finds your clit, the cold piercing rubbing and flicking at your most sensitive spot, causing your back to arch on the bed.

“Oh, fuck, Simon…” You whine, legs already shaking, more so per the stimulation, which causes your boyfriend to use both of his free hands to keep your knees spread open as far as he could comfortably get them, tongue still lapping up at you with purposeful strokes.

The shaggy blond hair of your boyfriend vanishes for a moment, as does the experienced tongue touching you, before it gets replaced with Kyle’s slightly messier and uncoordinated attempts, Simon observing Kyle and noting your reactions and how much weaker they are, upset at the lack of proper stimulation.

“C’mon, Garrick…” Simon croons. “Your tongue’s sharp enough to roast Johnny, but you get here and it gets shy?” He taunts, before using his hand on the back of the sergeant’s neck to guide him a bit.

“I’m trying…” Kyle remarks, his face feeling warm against your skin, showing he’s likely blushing despite his darker complexion hiding it, his fingers still moving in the way Simon taught him, his only saving grace.

“Scoot.” Simon remarks and pushes his head aside, ever so slightly, causing him to rest against your thigh. Simon’s head pushes in near Kyle’s, resting against your other thigh, and his tongue catches your clit again, though the angle at he’s at now, slightly at an angle, allows Kyle to spot the way Simon moves his tongue: soft circles, zigzagging side to side, lips also rubbing against you.

Kyle watches closely, eyes widened, pupils blown with lust at the sight of Simon’s face so close and going down on you so eagerly, his eyes glued to your face up top, as if checking every single reaction you have to your boyfriend’s mouth. And react you do. Your moans are louder, jumpy, desperate, your hands grabbing the bed covers and squeezing tight, your cunt seeking Simon’s mouth as you fuck yourself onto it.

Kyle wasn’t the type to watch porn often, having little time and little interest in it, more so because he knew it wasn’t a good habit or realistic to expect it to be realistic… But the sight of Simon’s lips sucking and rubbing into your slick like it was the most delicious meal he’s ever gotten to eat was better than any of the porn he’s actually seen.

Simon’s able to make you come undone in a matter of minutes, the whimpers and needy moans, the shallow breaths, the way your head was left spinning, lolling to the side as Simon eased you down from your peak and then dropped a chaste kiss to your thigh before standing up again. 

“You saw that?” He teases Kyle, who nods eagerly, no words coming to his lips after the display he just got. “You’ll get there eventually. With practise.” He assures him before patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Up you go.”

“How are you doing, da’lin’?” Simon asks, checking on you as you nod and show him a thumbs up, causing a chuckle to come from his chest before he takes a seat in another armchair in the corner, a spot he usually uses when having insomnia, right by the windows, to work on his laptop while you sleep near him… Except this time being used for something else.

“Go on, then, continue.” He demands as he sprawls out on the armchair, legs spread and already undoing his belt and fly, seeking relief from the tight feeling in his own jeans.

You nod eagerly and quickly shift to be sat on the bed, pulling Kyle toward you. “You still want this?” You ask him as you look him in the eyes… As if Kyle, needy the way he is now, after the sight of you coming undone on Simon’s tongue, would ever be able to answer anything other than a resounding ‘YES!’.

“Mhm… I do.” Kyle assures you with another nod… So, you kiss again, hands sliding over each other’s bodies just like they had on the couch before, exploring the free skin, allowing Kyle to grope you more easily. He seems fixated on your ass and thighs, fingers kneading the extra meat in them and holding you close.

His cock has long recovered from his first orgasm, now rubbing against your tummy as he kneels in front of you on the mattress. But not for long. Soon, you’ve laid Kyle on his back, and you’re straddling him, one leg on either side, slowly rubbing your folds over the length of his veiny cock.

“You’re gonna take ‘im for a right, da’lin’?” Simon asks, your eyes seeking him out in his armchair. The way you’re positioned, he can see all of you. Your pretty tits, the way your lips spread to rub against Kyle’s shaft, your legs parted open and knees digging into the mattress.

“Mhm…” You reply, your expression having shifted once again from the needy, submissive mess he had made of you, to a more dominant, playful one as you look down at the sergeant below you, looking up at you like he knows he’s in for a wild one.

“Go on then… But try not to break him, yeah?” Simon teases and winks at you, his hand already palming his cock through his own black boxer briefs.

“No promises…” You quip in return and wink back, before, carefully reaching a hand forward to lift Kyle’s cock from its resting spot against his hip.

Slowly, you sink yourself into it, his narrower build a lot easier to accommodate than Simon’s girth… But you soon regret how eagerly you did it, when you feel Kyle’s sheer size slip inside easily, his tip striking your cervix forcefully with that one swft motion.

“Bloody hell…” You grunt and bounce back a bit to relieve the pressure. “You’re big, aren’t you?” You tease Kyle who’s already unresponsive, poor little thing, eyes twice as wide as they had been when you gave him head, barely nodding in response.

Shifting your weight around, you plant your feet on either side of Kyle’s hip. “I’m gonna move, okay?” You warn him, setting your open palms on his thighs, behind your back, earning another nod from Kyle.

Slowly, you start to ride him, each bounce of your hips drawing the most delicious moans out of Kyle, his head lolling back over the foot of the bed, eyelids fluttering and his back arching.

“Gah- Fuck-” Kyle grunts, his breath already ragged before you’ve had time to do anything, just slowly moving, feeling his lengthy size rub against your walls as you force him to bottom out every time.

Kyle’s voice gets higher, whinier, his forehead dribbling with sweat with each thrust you force his cock to deliver into your slick cunny. “Feels… so… sososo so good…” He whimpers, his tone almost pathetic.

“Yeah… does it feel good?” You croon at him, a mischievous smirk on your lips, his cock drawing soft moans off your mouth as well.

“Yeah… yeah… yeah…” Kyle nods needily, his breath staggered and swallowing excess saliva.

“Yeah? Was it all you were expecting, pretty boy?” You tease him some more, earning another handful of needy ‘Yeah’s, his mind too overwhelmed with pleasure to consider saying anything else. “You don’t want me to go faster then, do you?”

“No… no… faster…” He replies, his head shooting forward, clearly eager to experience what ‘faster’ would feel like.

“Oh? Then you were lying? It doesn’t feel good, you need it faster?” You croon at him as if he was behaving like a brat and not like the good boy he really was.

“No… nO… it’s- it’s-!” Kyle tries to reply, desperate to clear the misunderstanding. Not that you give him time for it, as you speed up the speed of your bouncing, taking him in harder with each strike of your hips coming down onto his.

“GOD- YES!” Kyle shouts, eyes shot open and back curling upward, his head snapping forward to look at you and watch the way your pussy swallows every inch of his veiny cock, before letting out a huff and falling back on the bed again, desperate for more.

His hands grab onto your thighs and hips, fingers digging in hard, as you ride him, sweat beginning to slide down your forehead, down your cheeks and neck. Your eyes flitter over to Simon in the corner.

The smug fucker is watching everything with a nasty little half-grin on his lips, brown eyes darkened with lust as he watches you play with Kyle, making him squirm and whimper below you.

“Play with your clit for me, da’lin’.” His voice rings out amidst the frequent and whiney moans coming from Kyle. One of your hands slips away from Kyle’s thigh behind you, finding your clit and rubbing it slowly as you keep bouncing atop of Kyle, hips stuttering lightly as the pleasure becomes more intense.

“That’s it…” Simon says with a chuckle from his armchair, fisting his cock leisurely, as if the sight in front of him wasn’t worth any more from him. “How’s his cock feel, da’lin’?” Your boyfriend asks you.

He’s playing with your head, much like you’re playing with Kyle’s… making you go back and forth between a submissive and dominant mind frame, deriving pleasure from the mind games he’s forcing you to take on.

“It’s big…” You whimper in reply. “So big…” You murmur, your eyes soft and needy as you look at your boyfriend, watching the wicked look in his face..

“Don’t look at me, look at him…” Simon tells you. “Fuck ‘im right, he deserves it.” Simon adds. “Poor lad, been so long without experiencing a pussy…” He teases. “ow’s it feel, Garrick?” He turns his attention, and yours, to the sergeant below you.

Kyle nods pathetically. “Y-Yeah… It’s- Ah-” He whimpers, eyes glazed over with pleasure, too far gone in it, too overwhelmed with the feeling of a warm, wet pussy sheathing his virgin cock.

He’s too fucked out to think… And you’re bound to join him soon enough, with the way he looks below you, your fingers playing with your clit, and his cock swiftly hitting a spot inside you that no man’s ever reached before…

Your hips stutter atop of Kyle’s, your legs straining and tired, sore from the rhythm and position. You shift positions, leaning forward, hands coming to rest on his hard pecs, your head hanging atop of Kyle’s, facing him better.

You grind back and forth, trying to regain strength to continue, feeling Kyle’s tip rubbing deep inside of you, so deep and hard… You can’t help but whine.

“She’s getting tired, Kyle. Go on, it’s your turn.” Your boyfriend quips, his voice dripping with power and command over the two of you.

Kyle didn’t need to be told twice, his arms wrapped around your lower back and he bucked up like a bull, tossing you both aside, the bed creaking with the movement. Whatever insecurity he had is gone.

He pushes your thighs apart with his hip and starts pistoning into you with barely any regard for rhythm or how deep he’s going, his face buried into your neck as he plows into you, grunting and whining like an animal in rut. Not that you mind.

You’re used to Simon (and sometimes a few other mutual ‘friends’ of yours), men who are experienced, who know what to do, how to do it, who aren’t sloppy or erratic, who’s hips don’t jerk with each plunge into your warm cunny… It’s completely different with a bloke like Kyle. Inexperienced, green, but eager and desperate and…

You’re moaning loud and often, nails clawing at his smooth scarless back, eyes rolling as each snap of his hips claps against you like a whip, his cock burying into you to the hilt and back out before plunging back in.

Once more, Simon’s quick to come to your side, quick to crouch by the side of the bed, eyes admiring the way you both act and move, to keep a keen eye on your reactions and his, ready to pull him off you like a mutt that’ll hurt his mate if the owner doesn’t make him dismount…

But he doesn’t intervene. Not when you’re moaning like a whore, with Kyle sweating and grunting atop you, his eyes screwed shut and looking like he’ll lose every and any ounce of restraint he has in the next 3 seconds, somehow pulling the will to go on from sheer fucking air.

“You gonna flood ‘er little cunt with your come, aren’t you, Kyle?” Simon coos as he rests his forearms on the mattress, a perch to watch better.

“Y-Yeah! Yeah!” Kyle replies with an eager nod, eyes opening for a moment to look at Simon who’s so close to him.

“Yeah? Are you?” Simon continues egging him on. “You gonna fill my girl with your load?” He adds, his voice dropping to a more authoritative tone.

“Y-YEAH!” Kyle raises his voice, a bit more determined, but still deep in his natural state… obedient, ready to die for his superior, for his lieutenant.

“Go on, then,” Simon demands. “I wanna see. I wanna see you fill ‘er up.” He adds. “Tell ‘er you’re gonna do it.”

Kyle’s head turns a bit to look at you, his warm brown eyes blown wide with lust and desperation, his skin slick with sweat, his plump lips parted to let in desperate gulps of air.

“‘m gonna…” Kyle grunts as he shifts his weight lightly, his nose leaning against yours. “Gonna put my come so… deep inside you…” He warns you.

The look in his eyes, the desperation in his tone, the warning tone of his that does not at all fit his personality… Somehow it all comes together to rip the filthiest orgasm out of you, your head rolling back, eyes squeezing shut and a loud whine slipping from your parted lips as you squeeze and contract around Kyle’s cock.

Kyle can’t last not even a second longer the moment you start to come around him. His eyes fall shut, his back arches and he digs his fingers into the bed, toes curling and legs shaking as he fucks his come inside of you, drool slipping down his parted mouth.

“Good job.” Simon’s voice remarks next to you, satisfied and almost… proud, while you’re both too lost in the high of pleasure to even recognize his existence in the room or that you’re… alive, really.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Thanks for the Raid!

Fandom: Stranger Things (Gamer/Streamer/Modern AU)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Your collab stream with Eddie was a success! You thought afterwards, communication between you two would dwindle, but it didn't. You kept inviting each other to play games on stream, you two were constantly messaging each other off screen. You two became great friends so quickly. But both of your communities definitely think you two should be more than just friends. Based off my imagine here.

A/N: Eddie calls reader Cat because her username is CyberCat

Pog Champ

Eddie Munson Masterlist

"'Sup, losers!" Eddie exclaims when he Starting Soon screen transitions to his camera.

He's wearing his old high school club shirt, his hair is slightly damp from the shower he just took.

"Ready for some Fortnite?" he asks chat.

PreciousBlorboBoy: who’re you playing games with today?

Eddie perks up and smiles, “Cat invited me to a Fortnite lobby so I’m playing with whoever she invited.”

TearStainedGuitar: the way your eyes sparkled when you said Y/N’s name….

“MY EYES DON'T SPARKLE!”

Chat floods with "Yes they do" and "Lying is bad!"

He frowns, "All right you fuckers, listen here-"

He pauses when he sees your username in the chat,

CyberCat: JOIN THE DISCORD CALL YOU LOSER. WE'RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU.

"Okay, okay! Sorry! Yeesh, Nagging Nancy over here."

CyberCat: I won't res you when you die.

"When? Psh. Honey, I'm not gonna be res-ing you when you die 'cause I'm gonna live the most!"

Eddie joins the Discord call, "Sorry, I'm late!"

"Finally!" you cry out.

Eddie playfully rolls his eyes, "Impatient much, Cat?"

"Yes, but I wasn't the only one!"

"Anywaaaay," another voice cuts in, "Hi, I'm Bella!"

"I'm Jorge."

"They're my normie friends," you say.

Eddie feigns surprise, "You actually have friends?"

Bella and Jorge chuckle while you sneer out, "Fuck you, Munson."

"Just say when, baby, and I'll meet you halfway!"

Shocked, Bella just says, "Wow."

Jorge cackles, "Y/N, where did you find this guy?"

"In the depths of the internet and now he won't leave me alone."

"You invited me!" Eddie exclaims.

____________________

EchoKnight: You invited Eddie to your lobby?

You nod, “I did!" you straighten up, your voice goes up an octave, "Eddie said he doesn’t really like the game a lot but he said he’s down to try it out again!”

PuckYouLol: probably bc he just wants to hang with you more

You shake your head with a chuckle, “I mean Eddie and I are friends. He’s…cool.”

PuckYouLol: just cool! 😏mmmmhhhmmmmm

You snort, “Stop it! You guys know we’re just friends! Anyway, this loser is late! Is he streaming already?"

You open twitch on another tab and pull up his profile. He just started streaming and he's talking to his chat.

You smirk and type into his chat:

CyberCat: JOIN THE DISCORD CALL YOU LOSER. WE'RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU.

Eddie reads your message aloud and then holds his hands up, "Okay, okay! Sorry! Yeesh, Nagging Nancy over here."

You narrow your eyes at your screen and type in chat again:

CyberCat: I won't res you when you die.

You watch as Eddie smirks, "When? Psh. Honey, I'm not gonna be res-ing you when you die 'cause I'm gonna live the most!"

You then hear the familiar ding when Eddie joins the Discord call, "Sorry, I'm late!"

___________

ZeniPenny: mom and dad are fightiiiiing!

EchoKnight: i'd choose dad's side in the divorce

You mute yourself while Bella and Jorge get to know Eddie a little more.

"We're not your parents! Also, Echo, you fucking traitor! I was going to ask you to be a mod!"

EchoKnight: i'm sorry! i take it back!

"Nope. Too late. Perish, bitch!"

You unmute and settle in, "Alright, guys. Are we all ready?"

"Wait! I'm buying this skin!" Eddie cries out.

"The Metallica skins?"

"Yes! Why didn't you tell me there's Metallica skins?!"

"I didn't know!"

ZeniPenny: the banter has been bantering a lot lately. i love this for them.

PuckYouLol: honestly, i think they'd make a great couple

ZeniPenny: please don't make it weird for them. they're just friends!

PuckYouLol: you literally called them mom and dad...

________________________

"Thanks for the games!" Bella exclaims.

"Yeah, thanks for playing with us, Eddie."

"No problem, man! It was nice meeting you guys! Hopefully, we can play again soon!"

"For sure!"

"That'd be nice!"

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

Bella and Jorge left the Discord call, leaving you and Eddie.

He clears his throat, "So what are your plans now?"

"Hmmmm. I think I'll play Animal Crossing to bring the energy to more chill since we started off with high energy. What about you?"

"Think I'll end stream and work on some music."

You raise your brows, "How's that going? You said you were having a writer's block."

"I'm slowly coming out of it. My current song is halfway finished now."

"Will you let me listen to it some time?"

"Maybe...I'm not sure you'll like it. Metal Rock isn't really your thing."

You shrug even though he can't see you, "I still want to listen to it, Eddie."

"Oh. Well, we'll see. It depends how I feel about the finished product."

"I'll hold you to it." A silence falls upon you two as you switch games. Suddenly, you get the notification that EddieTheBanished raided with 1,732 viewers.

"Oh! Thanks for the raid, Eddie! Hi, raiders! For those who don't know me, I'm CyberCat. You can call me Cat or Y/N. I'm a variety streamer. Uuuhh, just finished playing Fornite with Eddie and my normie friends. Now I'm gonna play some Animal Crossing and chill for the rest of the night. So feel free to get cozy, get some snacks, and hang with me!"

You look at Eddie and see he's still in the call with you, "Eddie, are you just gonna hang out here?"

"Um, yeah? Unless you want me to leave?"

"No no! It's fine! Just wanted to make sure. I'll make sure to talk to you and stuff."

He chuckles, "You don't have to, Cat. I'll just be here. Don't mind me."

"Okaaaay."

Eddie mutes himself and you start playing your game.

____________________

Eddie kept your stream up while he worked on his music. Occasionally he'd pause and watch as your Animal Crossing character ran around the island trying to catch a bug or go fishing. He didn't want to admit it but he definitely had a crush on you. There was just something about you that made him feel all fuzzy inside. You were beautiful, funny, sweet, and your banter with him made him feel alive. But you wouldn't feel the same. You couldn't. Sure, you two would talk every day, play games together and whatnot, but you've never met in person. He couldn't-shouldn't have these feelings for you.

_____________________

CyberCat: tickets for Twitch Con went on sale! you going?

EddieTheBanished: plan to! you?

CyberCat: yes! I'm having a table there for meet and greet! so we're definitely going to meet in person riiiight?

EddieTheBanished: wooow. miss big shot over here! and if you wanna meet my ugly mug, then sure.

CyberCat: shut up! don't talk about yourself like that!

CyberCat: and honestly, my team set it all up for me. I'm just scared no one will show up.

EddieTheBanished: People will definitely show up, Cat. And if anything, I'll be there to take up your time if no one shows up...but people will definitely want to meet you.

CyberCat: like you right?

EddieTheBanished: yeah like me.

You giggle at your phone, staring at the message Eddie sent. He wants to meet you. You get to meet Eddie. Oh boy, can Twitch Con come any sooner?!

[merakiui]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

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

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

[tatteredtoby]

Okay, first actual writing for somebody on this blog! (Had this idea from basically Aliamors entire page)

Case is asked on stream at one point, “Case you should play Genshin Impact”

He slams his palms on the desk and clasps them together, sighing heavily. “Chat. I will NEVER play Genshin impact.” And doesn’t elaborate the rest of the stream.

Later in you and hims relationship, you start streaming Genshin Impact in these extremely high quality cosplays you made yourself, your set up basically right next to his. You RAGE at one of the elemental cube boss’, yelling, “OH COME ON!!!! YOURE A CUBE!!!!! DISSIPATE ALREADY!!!”

He snickers, turning to his chat.

“See Chat, this is why I don’t play Genshin Impact.” He glances over at you, who was staring at him dead in the eye with a “are you serious right now?” Look on your face. “Chat, doesn’t he respond the same way I do to this as to Fall Guys?” You remark, leaning towards your mic, making direct eye contact with Case.

His chat is CACKLING, so is yours.

“AY WHATCHU MEAN BY THAT?!” He yells, spinning his chair to face you.

“You know exactly what I mean by that.” You joke back, looking at your nails in a sassy manner.

————————————————————————————

• I have a feeling he’d like, hang over your chair/lean on it, trying to tell you how to play the game that you’ve been playing for years, and he hasn’t played the game ever.

•He’d totally see something at like a store or something that wasn’t Genshin and go “Is this one of your genshin impacts?” along with a picture of a Hatsune Miku figurine or shirt. (He knows about every character and what it looks like because of you, he just likes to see the messages being like “NOO!!!! THATS HATSUNE MIKU!!!”)

•he totally has videos of genshin impact on his fyp and likes to inch over and show them to you, and he often asks what’s happening in the clip, and you excitedly tell him.

•literally the entire game is spoiled for him. Not like he plans to play it, but he loves listening to you yap about your favorite game.

•actually bans anyone who comments on how your cosplay looks in a sexual way. Doesn’t get a mod to do it, he finds the dude himself and BANS him.

•has to be extra careful near your setup, because if he like does his hand slam thing too hard one of your figures falls and you stare at him like “:c”

•You usually are closer to Kitty, so you and him have clips together of both of you saying “KITTYUH!!!!!” When she walks into the room.

•Off topic from this direct prompt but you force him to watch My Little Pony, but it’s not really forcing, he’s happy to watch it with you.

•He can hear the game through your headphones and a lot of the time, whips around because he heard the Lumine/Aether stretch audio, or a Venti Voiceline, or a Kaeya one.

•“HOW IS TWITCH ALLOWING THIS?!!??!?”

• “chat. Say another word about the cosplay, and I will end stream.”

Literally two seconds later.

“Alright. That’s the end of the stream. See you tomorrow.”

————————————————————————————

CaseOh silly, I love this guy!! I’m getting back into writing, so this might not be the best :)! Have a nice day or night!

[fountainpenguin]

"She's gonna cut my head off... but I don't caaare! They say, 'You clean up nice... Just like a dead man! Like a dead man!'" (x)

---

New Dog's Life chapter today! ~ 3rd Life series fan-season

Chapter 42 - “Raider Reunion (Martyn, Etho, Impulse, BigB)”

❤️ Read on AO3

💛 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

---

“Hey, everybody! Welcome back. My name is Josh, and we’re glad to see you here. Pleasure to meet you. Mumbo; it’s been a while. Etho! I just saw your twin and niece. He’s good with kids. She’s… not.” You both know this guy? BigB tries to sneak a glance at either one of them, but the only response he gets is Mumbo’s shrug. “I’m BigB,” he tells the enderman, still focused on the man’s neck area more than on his face. “I don’t shake. I’m an illusioner underneath the moth mods; from knox ZnHeITtk HTvkH IkItn. What are you guys doing out here?” If his terse refusal to touch hands bothers Josh, he doesn’t show it. He does, however, break into a wider smile. “Well, thanks for joining us today. We’re setting up for one of my favorite games: Is There a Limit? Specifically… Is there a limit to how many people we can have waterskiing behind a dragon at the same time?” “… What’s waterskiing?”

Scott gave BigB until sunset to talk to his old raider friends. BigB didn't bring a clock.

Meanwhile, Impulse seeks help for his goo problem and Martyn breaks into Cleo's house. Just a typical day in New Star Station...

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

---

InTheLittleWood

Location: Approaching wool farm, North New Star Station

🖤  🌕  🖤

Are you sure you can handle this? Every twitch in Martyn’s form screams at him to voice the question. Spikes and feathers twist inside his hearts. Nostrils flare. Maybe that’s why Bdubs blurts out his words without thinking them through: because keeping a shut jaw fills a guy with alligator wriggles. Technically, the proper way to sort out this lack of faith would be to take it to the sparring ring, but Martyn can’t do that either… Not with Rosejoy’s rippling muscles a hand’s breadth from his own. Hey, she has claim on the Fox Dragon’s turf. That can’t be an accident. And if it was, then it’d be just my luck that lightning strikes her twice.

“You did all right out there,” Martyn tells her, which is less direct than asking why she challenged Impulse in the first place. You think she knew she’d lose upfront? Huh. Maybe she gets drunk on the way people talk. They’ll have gossip and clip compilations for days.

Chunky fingers tighten around his own. Martyn looks down to the wobbly eyes of a much lower-XP phantom hybrid clinging to his hand. “What about me?”

“Aww, you too, slugger. You really showed Baker what-for. All tuckered out now, are we? Yeah…”

Lucky rubs a fist across his eye. It hides a yawn, but Martyn’s hearts spring forward like rabbits when the arrows come a’flyin’. The foxes he hatched would’ve liked to eat rabbit, actually. Martyn pats Lucky behind the shoulder, but throws a glance to Rosejoy to see if she caught what just happened there. And the stare she returns, uh… answers that question pretty dang well.

Sleepy kid. His energy’s dropping fast. The portals are still down, so there’s no dodging this by jumping AFK. We need more food. If Bdubs will listen long enough to follow orders-

“Aw, Lucky’s gonna love hanging with me,” Rosejoy butts in, thwapping him with the end of her tail. She caught Martyn on the way, which was probably the point.

And you’re sure? he wants to ask again. Lucky’s a member of the New Star flock; he’s never been alone with Rosejoy before. Mental ping after mental ping fires down Martyn’s spine. Rival captain bad. Rival captain take or kill. Brrr. That’ll wake you up in the morning. That’ll give you shivers all the way ‘til bed.

“So, what’s the big guy’s story?” Rosejoy asks, moving a few steps away. The shift of her wings and the grimace of his lips paint a picture Martyn only dares to imagine from the outside looking in: Two flock captains testing one another’s boundaries; they maintain a truce ‘cuz someone outside told them so. It sure ain’t instinct keeping the rules intact. She continues, bouncing every step. “Who would mod out of being a phantom with a wingspan like that? I bet wind resistance runs from him!”

Oh, it does. The glitter in her eye ripples Martyn to his core. The swing in her tail’s a little too lax for a guest who’s got everything to lose with raiders in her home. The soft smirk’s a little too wide. She doesn’t want to lead him aboveground… Does she? Will the Lone Spruce refugees even be allowed aboveground when the coast is clear? Unsure. And Martyn wonders then, with a quickening through his hearts… whether Impulse - if offered the chance to rejoin a flock - would actually say ‘Yes.’

I mean, I don’t see any reason Scott could refuse him, right? Impulse can fly. He’s got the wings, the strength, the speed… If the phantoms get to go, why wouldn’t he?

“Ah, just medical reasons,” he says anyway, clinging tighter to Lucky’s hand. “Nice guy. Just super pent-up, if you know what I mean. I just feel sorry for his wife. He can’t target anymore, y’know? There go the love hearts.”

“He can’t hunt?”

“Lost his soul teeth. We keep him fed.” We have a system. He’s with us. So back off. He can’t ascertain from her silence whether the implication came across, printed in his tone, but at least Rosejoy doesn’t press the topic harder. Seriously, she hovered around Impulse enough back there at the squall- Did you hear the stuff she asked him?

There should be enough souls left in storage to keep Lucky going. Martyn looked through the mess with Bdubs last night. Bdubs still has a few in his soul pouch, but whether he shares is anyone’s guess. Like Hels he will, Martyn gripes, because Bdubs already made his position quite clear when he caught Cleo offering a feed: That’s the captain’s job. And he’s not the captain.

Really, though? To refuse a kid? Technically Bdubs didn’t refuse Lucky, but Martyn’s not about to ask him to share. Not before exhausting all his options. And maybe not even then.

We prep the nest. I feed the kid. Simple, simple two-step plan. And if it comes to it, there will be no asking. It’ll be a demand straight from his mouth to Bdubs’ ears. And the boss better listen up if he knows what’s good for him.

Their first stop is for more blankets from the wool farm. Last night everyone was restless, off and on the roosting platform for hours. Martyn brought out the board games and Bdubs did a little improv show - a little open mic night - but the fewer souls they’ve got on hand, the more exhausted everyone will get. What’s wrong with a little cuddle pile? Aw, roosting’s such an effort. Nobody says that, but they could! And you don’t grow up to be Martyn InTheLittleWood unless you’ve learned to be prepared.

Mumbo used to compliment me on random stuff in my inventory. Cleo too, but this is Sad Times About Mumbo right now. Martyn is trying very, very hard not to think about Cleo. Just check the moon and her AFK status if you wanna take a crack at why.

“Lucky, keep your hands behind your back. You’ll spook the villagers, remember? They’ll run.”

“Okay.”

“That’s why I wear the hoodie,” Rosejoy says, keeping back. When Martyn shoots a glance at her, debating whether to shoo her even farther off (Because let’s be real, three approaching phantoms would get anyone’s hackles up, even if they’re on foot), she just smiles. “You go on and do your thing. I’m barracking for you.”

The villagers regard Rosejoy with way too much apprehension to approach the fence. Martyn can read it in their shoulders; not even Meriwo will get close, and it’s the village headman. Martyn pulls his hoodie sleeves over his hands and hops the fence the old-fashioned way. He can’t speak the villager language and New Star’s mobs sure as hell aren’t sparked, but he’ll find a way. He’ll use bold gestures with his arms.

“Oh, this’d be so much easier if they didn’t scramble off when they see sign language.” Or if I had BigB and Cleo out here.

❤️ Read on AO3

[anonymous-rendezvous]

You Comfort Him - ❤️ Vox

Vox Akuma x GN!Reader

✦ — Written by Mod I ✨. Beta Read and Edited by Mod S 👿. ⏌

✧ — Comfort & Care Masterlist | He comforts you ❤️

✦ — Contains: Established Relationship, fluff, & comfort

✧ — Word count: 985 | Ao3

Snippets of time showing how you and your partner care for each other.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It has been a while since you’d last heard from your boyfriend, Vox. That is really saying something, considering you literally live together. The only times you've seen him these last few days have been when he’s left his office to eat or shower, and even that was becoming rare. This could only mean one thing: he was trying to ward off the burnout that had taken over him the past few days. You tried to warn him; you saw the telltale signs pretty early, but your boyfriend – being the ever-enthusiastic people pleaser he is – wanted to keep working.

With a huff, you get up from your spot on the couch. “Time to initiate, plan: be an annoying and sweet significant other till he stops working!” You let that sink in before shrugging your shoulders, “We’ll workshop that title…” With a nod to yourself, you steal your nerves and march towards his office. The only sound you can hear from inside is a mixture of angry mouse and keyboard clicks. Raising a hand, you knock on the wood. The clicking doesn’t stop. You knock again, calling out this time. “Vox.” A few moments pass and you still don’t receive a response. Taking a deep breath, you knock again, a bit more force behind your movement - calling his name louder. “Vox.”

The clicking finally stops, Vox calling from within the room, “What?” Opening the door, you're greeted by the sight of your boyfriend hunched over his desk. The demon looks more disheveled and exhausted since you’d last glimpsed him; hair was messy and eyes strained. When you continue to stand there in silence, he cocks a brown at you. “Do you need something? I’m in the middle of working right now, love.”

Pursing your lips, you move further into his room. “Babe, you need to take a break.” You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch over his keyboard. “Why don’t you come and eat? I can make one of your favorites. And then we could throw something on the T.V., or maybe we could play a game?” He’d already returned his attention to the computer in front of him, picking up wherever he’d left off, seemingly ignoring your proposal. “Vox.”

There’s a bit of an edge to his tone when he responds again, “Darling, I’ll take a break when I actually get some of this done. Now, can you please stop interrupting me?”

“I’m not leaving until you agree to leave this room.” He’s ignoring you entirely at this point. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you contemplate your next move. It will no doubt make him mad, but really, it was time for drastic measures. Moving to his side, you reach over and turn his monitor off.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” He reaches up to turn it back on, except you quickly switch it off again. This back and forth continues for a few moments before he attempts to swat your hand away, growing increasingly frustrated. “Stop it! Fuck! I have important work that needs to get done.”

“I’m serious. You need to step away from all of this and take an actual break.”

“Well, if I got all this work done, then I could, but you had to interrupt me. I can’t coddle you right now, so just go away!” Biting back a bitter response, you feel like you have no other choice, forcing his desk chair back and standing firmly in front of his computer. Golden eyes glare up at you, his fists clenched atop the desk on either side of your body. You can tell at least a small part of him wants to push you aside, yet he refrains from it; more than likely not wanting to risk hurting you by accident. “Fine.” He eventually spits out before standing up and walking out of the room.

Following behind, you watch as he collapses onto the couch with a frustrated huff. It’s a small step, but at least you’ve gotten him out of the room. Shuffling into the kitchen, you quietly prepare him a cup of tea and a light snack. Once done, you set them on the coffee table in front of him before sitting on the other end of the couch, flipping the T.V. onto a show the two of you have already seen.

It takes a while, but eventually, he starts to relax into the couch cushions; frustration slowly fading from his knitted eyebrows. It remains silent for a while before you hear him let out a deep sigh. Eyes drifting to the demon next to you, you see his eyes already looking at you apologetically. “...I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth to say more, but pauses, swallowing hard as he thinks over his next words. “I shouldn't have lashed out at you the way I did.”

“It’s alright, I know you were frustrated.” You give him a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry for breaching your space. Honestly, I didn’t know what else to do.” Your eyes drift from him to the coffee table before you continue, “I was worried, love. You haven’t given yourself a proper break in weeks. I don’t remember the last time we shared a meal, or went to bed together…”

He lets out a deep sigh, shifting across the couch to be closer to you. “I’m sorry, sweet thing. I–” He cuts himself off before shifting to rest his head against your shoulder. “I’m trying to get better at it… clearly, I need to try a little harder.”

“It’s a work in progress and that’s okay. I just hate watching you work yourself into the ground.” One of your hands raises to gently pat his head. “I care about you, Vox.”

“I care about you too, darling.” He presses a kiss against your shoulder, and you return it by pressing one against his hair. “Thank you.”

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Likes are nice and we do appreciate them. However, comments/feedback is what really motivates us to continue writing. Even just a keyboard smash or emojis are a joy to see!

We do not allow our stories to be translated or reposted/shared anywhere. The only places our stories should be found are on Ao3 or Tumblr. Nowhere else.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Rated: Teen and Up

Pairing: General, hint of Dean/OFC

Tags: Witchcraft, Animal Transformations, Angst, Fluff (and Fur)

Word Count: 5500

Hello, and welcome to my very first foray into a big bang! Of course, if I’m going to give one a try, Dean Winchester will be the focus. This particular one was also much less intimidating as it was the 2023 Dean Winchester Big Bang: Mini Edition. So, the word count wasn’t high, and we had a couple of months to work on the project with our artists. My artist is TwinOne. I had such a fun time sending over suggestions and watching their artwork come to life through the process.

I hope you enjoy and please let TwinOne know how sweet and lovely the artwork is. I’m over the moon with the results, and it was so satisfying to see someone’s interpretation of my story! It scratched that itch (wink, wink).

Thank you to the mods @deanwbigbang for hosting and running such a fun challenge! Your time and effort is appreciated!

Summary - Set pre-series, Stanford Era: Dean has been sent on a solo hunt in New Orleans. He meets up with an ingenue witch, Selina, who needs his help to save her mentor from a voodoo priestess. The plan doesn’t go as expected; when does it ever? Dean, though, gets a little breather in the aftermath, and it turns out to be just the thing to scratch that itch.

Prequel to "Oh, I'll Be Anything You Want"

Tendrils of smoke. It swirls, radiating bright white, pulsing with life in an empty void. Growls. Incessant barks. Distant at first. With every passing second, the panic rises as the sound pounds closer. Suddenly, hot and foul breath chases out the smoke.

Dean’s lids popped open from the nightmare. His head tilted from side to side, inspecting the area.

He’d hoped the entire thing had been a self-constructed comedy of errors in his mind. A bad dream from which he’d blessedly awakened.

Unfortunately, the current situation he found himself in was very, very real.

There was no way Dean Winchester would ever tell his dad about this.

If he somehow managed to escape this debacle, he might die of humiliation if someone found out.

New Orleans had been a disappointment in so many ways. No booze. No beads. No boobs.

He whined at the unexpected stab of pain emanating from his shoulder. He’d been lucky to win the fight in one piece. The sparring partner’s fangs had sunk into Dean’s flesh like malleable clay.

But before the ambush, he’d at least accomplished what he’d set out to do. The hex bag had been buried in the priestess’s backyard. Selina had provided specific instructions. Dean’s sense of direction easily found the northernmost corner of the parcel lot. The muslin-wrapped ingredients he’d been charged with rested beneath a half foot of dirt. All his tasks were completed well before midnight under the brightest full moon he’d seen in ages. He hoped Selina had gone ahead with the spellwork even if he hadn’t gotten back to her in time.

He stared out between the steel bars into the pitch-black. The absence of light left him bereft of shadows to discern as friend or foe.

An itch tap-danced over his neck. Skin rippled at the sensation while he fought the temptation to scratch. Discomfort from the wounded limb took priority for a short spell. 

He hadn’t thought things could get worse but turned out jail time was the worst thing that could have happened on top of everything else. Getting caught, literally, in this condition left him vulnerable.

Dean’s nostrils flared and twitched at the overpowering stench of pungent piss and stale shit. He got a whiff of cat dander and sneezed.

The cell block buddy to his right barked to keep it down. It was lights out, after all. Just because he’d been brought in late last night, he was told with a fierce growl, didn’t mean he couldn’t acclimate himself to the way things ran around here right quick. Dean rose only to circle the middle of the floor again. He eventually flopped back down, forced by the pulsing throb of his barely treated and badly bandaged wound. He curled like a ball atop the hard surface. The bone-cold of the place sent a shiver through his body. He closed his eyes again and prayed for sleep.

A fluorescent electric buzz hummed into his ear canal. The flicker of light flashed over closed lids. Tapping into all his senses, something alien swept left to right along the surface of his eyeballs, lazy and slow, as his sight focused.

A languid yawn escaped. The clink-clack of a door unlocking bolted him upright. He scampered to the front of the cell closest to the hallway floor. Nose stuck between bars, Dean tilted his head in vain to glimpse who entered.

Whines. Barks. They echoed off the walls. The instinctual urge to join in added his voice to the chorus.

“I found one that fits the bill a few hours ago.” A raspy elderly voice mixed in with all the noise. Dean recognized it. It belonged to the dog catcher that had entangled him in what looked like a big ass butterfly net. He was the reason Dean was here. He’d done the bare minimum caring for the Pitbull bite. Dean transferred most of the front weight to his left paw. The ache of his right shoulder thrummed in sync with the beating of his little heart. Dean had to be the one to fit the bill.

All Dean could view in his line of sight were soiled, grass-stained tan pants from the knees down and dirty brown combat boots. Pride filled his lungs. The tug of war he’d put up in the net brought the dog catcher to the ground. Their scrap amidst dirt and weeds and a flounce in a mud puddle had left his mark on the human.

Human. Christ, it has to be her coming to claim me. Please.

Hope soared in Dean’s chest when his gaze clamped on the blue (which would be violet if he was looking through his human eyes) leather of a familiar pair of high-heeled ankle boots. A crepe skirt rivaling Joseph’s technicolor dreamcoat covered the boot tops and swished in time with the steps.

“I hope it’s him.” A barely audible female voice floated above, drowned out by the pound puppies’ cacophony.

Selina! Thank Christ! A tinny, high-pitched bark erupted from his throat. Down here! Down here!

Both pairs of boots stopped in front of him. “That’s him there,” the catcher added. A wrinkled finger pointed in his direction.

Selina’s figure descended. Hands gathered the skirt up as she settled into a squat.

Her big almond-shaped eyes, a tad oversized for the heart-shaped face, blinked in relief. Dean halted his bark in mid-yip. Instead of her usual deep purple irises - a breathtaking sight in and of themselves on any given day - he was met with equally captivating dark blue saucers, swirled with golden flecks. The sight of her large frame stirred up amazement.

She grinned. “Yep, that’s him!” 

The dog catcher huffed and fumbled with the key into the padlock. “You should take better care of the mutt. No collar or chip. He’s lucky I found him.”

Lucky, my ass!

“He’s not a mutt,” Selina responded in her typical curt fashion. “Purebred beagle.”

“Aint never seen a beagle with green eyes ‘fore,” the dog catcher mumbled. He fished the padlock from out of the loop. “Or one with paws that damn big.” The cage door squeaked with Dean’s nose nudging it open. Dean bounced off his hind legs into Selina’s lap. 

Selina slammed a hand on the concrete to remain upright. “Oh, thank God! Scooby!” She wrapped her free arm around Dean. 

“Scooby, huh?” The old man removed his cap to smooth down the ten wiry hairs on his head.

Dean’s pulse began to slow, nestled tight and secure in Selina’s embrace. The scent he’d connected with her, spicy incense and pink bubblegum, enveloped his now small and furrier frame.

One back paw reared up and swatted repeatedly at one of his floppy ears.

“What happened to him?” Selina’s tender touch caressed the gauze bandage.

“Got ‘imself in some trouble. Looked to be an animal bite.”

Dean’s lids clamped tight. He cocked his head and continued to flick and dig his paw into the spot behind his ears. Maybe if he used his claws.

“Does he… have fleas?” Selina asked in a tone that regrettably already knew the answer.

Fleas? Dean whined, still scratching. Why the fuck not? On top of everything else.

“We’re gonna take care of this, Dean. Promise.” Selina white-knuckled the steering wheel, hands at ten and two. Her lithe, petite frame perched on the edge of the bench. It was the only way she could reach the Impala’s gas pedal.

Dean languished on the passenger side and sunk into the center of the seat. It was still dark out. Street lamps popped overhead in a rhythmic pattern and spilled light through the windshield. Cobblestone-paved streets jostled the chassis. His baby usually drove like a tank with barely a hiccup; all smooth sailing. He wondered how much the bumpy ride had to do with the road condition under the tires or the person driving his car. 

He sighed, closed his eyes, and shivered at the pinprick, itchy tingle of his skin. 

Apparently, the spell Selina had cast didn’t include telepathy. No matter how much he wished for her to reach under the seat, feel for the damn bar to pull the bench forward to close the distance between her and the wheel, she wasn’t tuned into his mental signals.

Dean straightened his front legs and stiffened his elbows at the sudden screech of tires. His paws dug into the leather. He lurched forward with the momentum, watching Selina do the same from the driver’s seat. Once they settled to a stop, she stared over at him with a regretful frown. “Sorry. I haven’t driven in a while.”

Dean slitted his lids and yipped.

“It’s not much farther to the shop.” The pointy toe of her boot met the gas pedal and the car sputtered along again. “Once I got a lock on your location and saw how far away you were, I didn’t have a choice but to take your car. But don’t worry, we’re gonna take care of this, Dean.”

You already said that. Dean’s little barks echoed in the Impala’s interior.

“I know you’re trying to tell me something. But I can’t read your mind.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Man, you’ve got a powerful set of puppy lungs. Want some good news? I was able to lift the hoodoo trance off Esme. All thanks to you.”

Well, at least something good came out of this mess.

It was very good news. He was in New Orleans because his father sent him on a case to help out an old friend. The old friend happened to be a witch doctor named Esmerelda. Esme for short. 

Dean’s boots had hit Danneel Street and crossed the threshold of “Step on a Crack” Magical Notions Shop, which Esme owned, one day too late to prevent the inevitable escalation. Esme had been cursed and was unsure when the fallout would take full effect. She hadn’t stepped on a crack but the toes of a powerful voodoo priestess in the French Quarter. That’s why he and Selina had partnered up. To save her teacher, who’d been rendered catatonic. Esme was currently being watched and cared for by the coven, whose members were taking shifts at her bedside.  

Glad your mentor is on the mend. That’s even better for me. She can probably zap me back quicker than you. Why aren’t we heading there?

“She’s still pretty weak, though, from what Harold told me over the phone.”

Dean huffed.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I know you wanted to turn into a German Shepherd. But I did say I couldn’t guarantee what kind of dog breed the spell would transform you into. That’s not in my control.” Selina tangled her hands one over the other along the steering wheel column in a clumsy fashion. Dean swayed to the right with Selina’s left turn. “I’m pretty sure, though, the shop’s got some things that will take care of your fleas while we wait out the magic.”

It was true. Selina hadn’t guaranteed much about the spell. And it had been his idea to try it when they rifled through the pages of an ancient grimoire. The voodoo priestess had stitched some warding around her property, only permitting certain humans to cross. An animal transformation made perfect sense. 

Dean groaned and rubbed the side of his head into the backrest to ease the itch. Fleas better not have been part of Selina’s witchcraft.

Dean scrabbled paws along the slippery marble floor, trying in vain to sit upright. Every time he thought he’d achieved a precarious balance, his body toppled. He’d starfished, even done a few Bambi-on-ice skating maneuvers waiting for Selina in the tiny bathroom. Claustrophobia settled in, though it’d only been a few minutes since she promised to return and closed the door behind her.

How old was this puppy skin he inhabited? All of Dean - his mind, sensibilities, and humanity - wrapped up tight in this fur burrito felt like him, except when it didn’t. Curious instinct made its presence known. Once he relented on the sitting still attempt, his nose glued to the floor and led the inspecting. He tried to zone in on something interesting to escape the fear. And the endless itching he’d been ordered not to scratch. When Dean thought about it, it wasn’t that different from any given human day. 

Overhead, water poured out of the claw foot tub’s red copper faucet. Steam plumed over the deep basin. The impending bath temperature also drew concern. Being a beagle was terrible enough. A boiled beagle? Hell no!

Flared nostrils filled with the overwhelming scent of Selina. A sense of calm broke through the nagging flight response. He’d been in the small apartment only once since arriving in Louisiana. Perched over the magic shop, his first step into her home had flooded his sight. It was a treasure trove of textiles and trinkets blazing with gemstone brilliance. Shelves stuffed with books. Glass jars of unidentifiable powders. Vials of transparent or opaque liquids. Everything a young witch needed to learn the craft.

She smelled nice before. He’d caught whiffs of her here and there when he passed her frame on his human feet. But his canine senses were picking up every atomized particle now. He spotted a forgotten hairbrush hiding in the corner and catapulted forward to claim it. His speed and the slick marble took away any ability to stop in a semblance of elegance. He face-palmed into the rubber tines of the brush. Tangled hair in the brush tickled his nose, and rapid inhales took more of her into his lungs. Yeah. This was nice. It felt good. Safe. He debated chewing.  

The door creaked. Dean spun in a flash and let out a pathetic growl of defense, having painted himself into a corner with no way out. Selina stepped inside, paying him no attention. The giantess silenced him with only her presence. 

“Apple cider vinegar.” She held up a bottle in victory, clutching a few small droppers in the other hand. They clattered from her grip into the pedestal sink. Sitting on the tub edge, she uncapped the vinegar and emptied the contents with a rhythmic glug into the water. 

Drops splattered up and out of the tub, landing near Dean. He flinched. Doggie brain told him this was not going to be pleasant. 

“Okay.” Fingers twisted first one faucet knob, then the other, shutting off the flow. Her arm dipped into the water. Dean’s ear perked up at the sloshes. “Not too bad.”

Says you.

“Come on, Dean.” Her wet hand gestured with a come hither.

You know, I might be able to hang on until the spell wears off. I’m good.

Selina sighed. “You’re gonna make me come over there, aren’t you?” She slinked on the floor, knees stretching the fabric of her skirt as she crawled towards him on all fours.

Seriously, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with worse.

His insistence fell on deaf ears. She snatched him up in a second. The next, he dangled above the water. Her hands cupped him under whatever a dog’s version of armpits were. He kicked and wriggled. Whined and whimpered.

“It’s okay.” She submerged his hind quarters like a tea bag in and out three times until he gave in and went limp in her arms to steep. “Not gonna hurt you, no matter what you think of witches.” She leaned him forward with care. “Good boy.” When she let him go, he stood in warm water that rose up to just meet his back.  

He shivered, puppy heartbeat racing. His nose twitched at the acidity of the vinegar additive. The sound of skin rubbing together crept up behind him. “Next ingredient we need is peppermint.” A soap bar popped into his peripheral vision. It smelled of candy mints left atop a restaurant check, then absentmindedly stuffed in a jacket pocket. “Okay?” she asked.

You gonna stop if I say no? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Okay, so Dean had to admit to himself - even if he’d never cop to Selina - the bath hadn’t been that bad. Selina had a gentle but firm touch. She’d sudsed all of his coat, lifting him first from the front and then the back end. She apologized for getting a little more intimate than Dean had expected with his little puppy prick and ass. The fleas could be anywhere, she reminded him. As the tub drained, she sprayed water from the shower wand and rinsed him clean. 

Once he was taken out of the tub and laid atop one towel, another enveloped and rubbed until his fur was damp and not dripping. She communicated all of her actions beforehand. The dropper bottles contained various oils to help rid Dean of the dreaded fleas. With fabric under his paws, he sat tall and tilted his head to study Selina while she worked. She smiled at him, patiently naming each essential or botanical oil she squeezed into a water bottle: Almond, Cedar, Eucalyptus, Lavender. 

The concoction soothed immediately on contact. The mix of smells dispelled the last remnants of his anxiety. Delicate, soft fingers caressed his coat and threaded through the fur to find the skin. The blissful massage helped chase away the panic. Yet another thing he’d never admit to Selina. If he ever got the chance to admit anything to her with his human voice again. Weirdly, he seemed perfectly willing to accept such a fate. Maybe things could be much, much worse after all. 

After tidying some of the bathroom mess, Selina opened the door and ushered him forth. Dean’s legs scampered toward the makeshift doggie water bowl beside the bank of kitchen cabinets. One would have thought he’d never want to dip his snout in water again. But he gobbled and slurped with his tongue like he hadn’t drank a drop in days. He didn’t know how much time had passed before a plate of cut-up deli ham had been deposited alongside the bowl. He was greedy for that as well. Fangs hooked into the meat. He hitched his head upwards to encourage the food down his throat.

“I know human food isn’t the best for you… like this. But let’s hope we don’t have to experience the results and the spell wears off before then.” Selina commented, leaning against the countertop. “Do you need to go outside and do some business?”

Again, without any say in the matter, Dean’s head sprung upright to lock his gaze on the sweet human caretaker at the words “go outside.” He mulled it over. He’d pissed in the nearest grass as soon as they’d left the pound. An impressively long and satisfying leak. He wanted to shake his head “No” but couldn’t do it. Instead, his eyes tracked a small rug by a chair. His claws clicked along the hardwood - thank god the entire floor wasn’t marble - to what he decided would make a perfect resting spot. He corkscrewed his frame into a compact fur ball atop the cushy velvet and let out a deep, well-earned sigh.

“Good idea. I’m beat, too.” She pointed somewhere behind Dean. “Can get a few hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be able to find out how long the spell will last with a clearer head in the morning.” She shrugged. The motion appeared to loosen a yawn from her throat. “But, maybe you’ll wake up all back to normal.”

Dean yawned in return, finishing it with a high-pitched squeak.

Selina giggled. “You are adorable, Dean Winchester. Night.”

Too exhausted to be any more humiliated, Dean’s tail thumped softly in response. He closed his eyes. Clean. Warm. Cozy. Well fed. Watched over.

He drifted off, hard-pressed to recall the last time he’d ever been all those things.   

Dean’s running. His puppy paws gallop atop the soft, giving earth of a field. He’s darting through the wheat. His snout cuts through the crops, scraped by wispy stalks. 

He can hear how heavy he’s panting. The exertion and speed has his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

But he’s not running from something.

Dean’s just running. Because he can.

He breaks through and into a clearing. The sun’s rays warm his furry coat. He spots a quintessential farmhouse in the distance. He can see the large wrap-around porch. A pair of rocking chairs. Off to one side is a laundry line studded with freshly washed clothes, flapping in the breeze. An oak tree, taller than the two-story home, stands guard along the other side. A tire swing dangles from one of its sturdy branches. A few white cotton candy clouds rest above it all in the bluest of skies. 

He feels the farmhouse calling to him. He just knows. It’s home.

All the colors of the rainbow that his human eyes normally detect fill his vision. He zig zags between a row of apple trees, closing the distance. A fallen apple halts him. He sniffs; the sweetness is too good to pass up. He gnashes into the mealy flesh, attacking it from all angles. He tongues the juices into his welcoming throat.

“Deeaaan!”

His head snaps up. That voice beckons him home. He resumes his sprint. That voice. He hasn’t heard it in ages.

He cuts through a tall patch of sunflowers to find the voice's owner waiting for him, seated on the porch steps.

“There you are!” Sam calls out. He tosses a tennis ball a few feet in the air above his head, catching it without having to glance at his palm. This Sam is young. Thirteen or so. He’s spindly, a toothpick with knobby joints, and a smile that takes up half his face.

Just like he remembers.

“Mom said we’ve got time before dinner.” Sam juggles the ball from one hand to the other.

Mom. Mom’s here.

“Ready?” Sam asks, winding his arm back for a killer pitch.

Dean yips.

Dean yipped himself awake. 

It’s morning. 

He’s still a beagle.

Selina watched as Dean did his business in the backyard of the Magic Shop. Unlucky, she had to experience the results of feeding puppy Dean human food. But she didn’t complain, picking up after him. “All done? How about some breakfast? Eggs and bacon sound good?”

That sounds amazing to Dean. But he’s beginning to think Selina is a glutton for punishment.

The bacon sizzled in the cast iron pan. Selina explained why Dean was still walking on four legs instead of two. “So, even though the magic worked and Esme’s on the mend, I should probably have bound your reversal spell in with that enchantment to speed things along. You would have been human by the time the full moon set this morning.” She fished a couple pieces of bacon out of the pan with a fork and laid them atop some paper towels. “I’m pretty sure it’ll wear off by tomorrow. If it doesn’t, Harold said he’ll come by and see what he can do. He doesn’t want to leave Esme yet. I’ll ask one of the other witches if you can’t wait, though.”

Dean knew that Selina trusted Harold almost as much as Esme. The other witches in the group were fickle and not the kindest to Selina, from what Dean saw firsthand. Witches, man. Dean trotted over and sat by one of Selina’s legs. He rubbed his face along her smooth calf. She looked even younger in her sleep shorts and t-shirt. Still massive, though.

“I will, Dean. I’ll eat crow for my mistake. You’ve done more than anyone would’ve for someone they don’t even know.”

A friend of Dad’s doesn’t get left behind. It’s cool, Selina. How about some bacon to smooth things over?

“What does that whine mean?”

He raised up onto his haunches and leaned front paws on the oven door.

“Oh, bacon. Right.”

The rest of the day is easy, lazy. A day he hasn’t felt in a while. Not since Sammy left him.

The days without his brother have brought out more of the hard lines and jagged points in John’s countenance. Deep down, Dean wants to hope it’s not him bringing that out in their father. That it’s the void, the empty spot that used to contain Sam that no longer filters out the hate and hurt; that used to misdirect all that drill sergeant behavior. His little shit of a sibling was all of John’s fervent focus of protection for so long. Dean sees it plain as day. John doesn’t know what to do with all his feelings. So he bottles them up. Drinks them away. Or spats them out at Dean, chipping away at him.

Dean has been coping with his feelings as best as John. Realizing he’s handling the broken compass in his core the same way. Nose down. Find a job. Work the case. Kill the monster. Fill the despair with a win. Fill the despair with booze. Inflict rage on any other to empty out the despair. Stoke passion in any other to empty out the despair.

Anything and everything to kick the can down the line. Because he’s realized - Sam was his hope and lifeline as much as he was dad’s. And, without him, well, he doesn’t really know what’s left.

He’s been tossed a lifeline here and there when he’s built up the nerve to call Sam at Stanford—only a handful of times over the past couple of years. The knots and twists in his stomach unfurled when Sam picked up the phone. Accepted and acknowledged his presence. That he’s still here, he remembers he has a brother. Even when that brother had to risk the wrath of John if he ever found out a connection was made.

But this day, wrapped in fur, small, and defenseless, he’s reminded of what could be left for him. Selina softened around him in his puppy form. Her smiles widened. She shined sweet and gentle. 

They holed up in the apartment for safety. Scampered out to the backyard for potty breaks and played fetched with a tennis ball. It’s the sunniest day he’s felt in years. Warm. Light. Clear. Fresh.

It’s the snuggles at the end of that day that he loved the best. Allowed entry into Selina’s bedroom. Allowed to hop onto the mattress and curl atop the crushed velvet comforter. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, Dean. No one gets to spend the night in my bed.”

He pushed in close, nuzzled into the layers that separated their bodies. Her energy - different, charged, holding what he thinks is potential magic - gives him comfort.

He slept like a baby.

“Oh! Dean!” Selina screamed. 

Dean eyes popped open. 

He’s chilly. 

Bigger.

He’s back.

He’s naked.

“Shit!” Dean barked out in his human voice. He glanced at Selina's side of the bed. An upheld hand shielded her view. A racing heart matched the speed of his legs swinging off the bed, standing up.

But he doesn’t have a fucking clue where his clothes are.

Selina pointed to the bedroom door, still not daring to look at him. “Living room. Side table, by the chair.” She squeaked.

He fled the scene, spotted his folded clothes. Faster than a cowboy caught fooling around with a farmer’s daughter, he donned his underwear, t-shirt, and jeans. He called out, “All clear. Nothing more to see here!” His cheeks blazed with humiliation under his attempt at nonchalance.

Selina crept through the doorway. Cheeks red and flamed. Excited, amused, and happy. Remnants of the smiles bestowed upon him yesterday in his canine form. “You’re back,” she sighed.

Dean outstretched his arms for display purposes. “I’m back.”

“How do you feel? Any different? Weird?”

He stopped to actually think, taking a moment to process. “Um, kind of hungover.”

Selina nodded, exhaled. “Okay. That’s normal, from what I’ve been told.”

Dean chuckled. “Nothing normal about this.”

“For us, it is.” Selina corrected.

Selina doesn’t skimp on the bacon for breakfast.

The celebratory feast tasted sublime, well-earned. He was starving.

Sat around the small bistro table, they talked as they ate. Their conversations before the spell had been curt, filled with sass. Selina had snapped at him with every one of her responses. He’d understood, of course. Even if he hadn’t given her an inch of understanding in his smart-ass attitude. She’d been under immense pressure. The stakes were high, and the outcome relied heavily on her ability not to screw up.

Man, did he understand.

Now, they’d both mellowed with the shared experience. Relief. Success. Dean cataloged every inch of her. Human eyes took in all the vibrant colors hidden from his doggie view. Her purple eyes and porcelain skin held an ethereal quality. A tad punk with violet highlights and a nose ring. She was beautiful.

“What was it like?” Selina dolloped more scrambled eggs on his plate. She leaned in, hanging on his every morsel of information.

“Man,” Dean snorted. “Trapped in a funhouse mirror, with none of the fun.”

“But, you still felt like you?”

“Yep.” He chomped away on a strip of bacon.

“You understood me,” she stated. “I could tell.”

He tilted his head in question.

Selina giggled. “Yeah, you’d give me one of those expressions like you were thinking things over. Wanting to communicate.”

“Hmmm,” Dean nodded. Lips smacked. He wanted to ask in a way that didn’t make it seem like he was overly concerned about the answer. “I know you said there wasn’t any telepathic stuff going on… you couldn’t read any of my thoughts?”

Her head shook, matter of fact. “Not a one. Which would have been super helpful if I could’ve. You typically can’t get that kind of bond or connection at my level. And, more often than not, that’s pretty rare. A familiar type situation.”

He chewed his thoughts down.

“I wouldn’t have pulled off the reversal spell that cured Esme if it hadn’t been for your plan.” Selina sipped her coffee.

Dean cocked his head, emphasizing the ridiculousness of that statement. “You would’ve figured something out.”

“Not as quick as I needed to.” Selina shook her head. “Not without your help. Making it so that the reversal spell had to be performed by the greenest of Esme’s students and without any coven assistance… the priestess wanted it to be next to impossible.”

“Well, I’m glad I could help.”

Selina grinned. “Even with fleas?”

Dean shivered. “Yeah, that I could’ve done without.”

“I’m glad you came back all in one piece. I was really worried there would be some pet residue. Like a tail or floppy ears.”

“I don’t know,” Dean contemplated. “A tail might come in handy.”

The thought had them both laughing.

“So,” Selina began, “any chance that brother you mentioned, Sam, is gonna find out about any of this?”

“No way. Not ever.” Dean shook his head.

“Well, I hope you get to see him soon. The way you talk about him. He seems like a pretty great guy. I don’t think he’d tease you too much about being a beagle.”

“You don’t know, Sam.” Dean almost added he probably didn’t know him anymore, either, but pursed his lips shut. 

“I owe you, big time.” Selina offered.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, you do.”

“Well, I should get dressed and we should go out. Let me take you on a proper tour of New-or-lins.” Selina drawled, “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”

Dean swallowed hard and locked eyes with her. “I don’t know. We could probably just stay in and find some ways to let the good times roll.”

Selina side-eyed him, but Dean sensed the interest brewing underneath the show. “Didn’t you say you’d rather roll around in the mud with a pig than ingratiate yourself with a witch when we first met?”

He shrugged. “I think I can make an exception for you.”

Selina held a hand to her chest. “I’m honored.”

He grinned. “You should be.”

The moment was perfect for Dean to lean over and kiss her.

Of course, that’s when John called.

John needed him. There was no time for a tour of the French Quarter or even a half hour of good times in Selina’s apartment.

Dean stood at the door and waited as Selina packed him a breakfast sandwich for the road. “Don’t you think you’ve fed me enough?”

She waved a hand in the air, walking towards him. “Hard to tell. You never stop eating.”

He grabbed the bag she presented. “Thanks.”

“It’s the very least I could do. Thank you again, Dean.”

Instinctively, he wrapped her up in a hug. “Anytime.”

She whispered in his ear. “Next time you swing by, look me up.”

He breathed in the scent of her - wanting something else to remember her by - and placed a kiss atop her forehead. Anything more and he knew he’d never leave. “Absolutely.”

It wasn’t until he descended the stairs and was out the back door, away from Selina’s view, that he gave into the urge to paw at his ear like a dog.

Yeah, the next time he called Sam - which he felt would be soon - there was no way he was telling him about any of this.

Well, he might mention the beautiful witch he met in New Orleans with the purple eyes. And how she had been just the thing he needed to scratch that itch.

[iamshay]

Kick and parti | kick lives Rent-Free in some people head. Reality of Staying Loyal as OG of platform and Exposing Snakes 🐍

That townhall space glazing directed at kick Andrew didn’t age well, huh? Only for them to lose their kcip 🤣🤣. Karma is a bitch. Kick removes any streamer who speaks out of pocket or attacks  over two years  a bunch of viewbotters

Disconnecting myself from those snakes feels amazing. People were right about them and their involvement in my harassment of how they were in staff ears.

I will forever warn and tell people to stay away from Parti because of who runs it. Now Kick is losing toxic troublemakers, ungrateful people who only care about themselves. It’s becoming peaceful.

Imagine talking about Kick on another platform. Feeling butthurt, huh? Kick lives rent-free in some people’s heads. Stick to Twitch or Kick, stick to where you’ve built your community and made it solid. Those top three on the StreamChart leaderboard are on a relevant platform for a reason. I will always defend Kick. Your content doesn’t deserve attention from Kick, and you only have yourself to thank for that because of how much you’ve talked badly about staff members and the owner.

I’m not defending someone like thejoker or joker_Rl or any people around their circle. joker_rl has xenophobia whom put another woman againt other because he was coward do the job himself making death treats he busy sucking thecreator dick off get his signing he got 81 following and zero following on IG and botting his following. even his wife hate him enough give him only 3 nugget because that her way telling he is fat fuck. because these clown shown their true colors, and people were 100% right about them all. Livespace was run by another clown, and it only lasted two months, because viewbotter will tear down a platform. Watch these weirdos slide back to Kick when their new platform falls apart. Nobody wants anything to do with a crypto scam. By the way, I haven’t gotten a single payout. Take my experience as a good example of why all streamers out there should stay away. I post with proof on my pinned tweet also the payout tip I do not receive single shit.

*Look at this picture *

This is why, regardless of how much criticism a platform like twitch get about their ads situations or kick get about Degen streamer or troublemaker , these top three are the most relevant. People still always try to farm off their communities. Not even Rumble streamers are fully pro-Rumble; they know the real audience is with the big players. YouTube, Twitch, and Kick are very tough to beat. Rumble can’t even beat Nimo TV, even with all the bots they’re using. The Asian community is massive.

These delusional people who got kicked to the curb think they carried the platform. Bitch, bye. You’re a nobody and never have been. The platform doesn’t need you, and no matter the criticism it gets, it’s not going to fall apart just because it loses viewbotters like you and other troublemakers. In fact, it’s gaining more now with less toxicity and no drama. People from Twitch will choose Kick because:

-They have great features for chat and mod tools and live support responds quickly. 

They also permanently ban people who make death threats because, as a business, it’s a bad look to allow such individuals on their platform especially since it’s criminal activity. No investors or ads will touch companies who Condon what behavior and platform reward them with features.  Those who are actually misrepresenting the platform.  One month old platform already getting bad light because they give staff to viewbotter and fraud and recruits the worst people whom kick got rid off. You think you win people over. The moment streamers find out they got rid of those people they come back to kick. People don't mess with people constantly chasing drama and constantly harassing people and trying to go after someone else's bag.  I apologize to anyone whom I didn't listen to when they try to tell me these people I give benefits to are the actual people behind my back talking smack about me when I was direct. Mf fraud and fake. Anyways I had to let this out.  These clowns are unfollowed for the reason  they fake people whose own actions showed how fake a person they have been since 2022 we meet on kick. We kick everything they do to them. I will help them for now whoever tries the fraud kick. I do my power help them with get rid of these people whom break terms of service.  Now new law enforcement coming viewbotters try fraud get sponsorship. They will get report from me too.

Stay far away from Parti.com a scam platform. Check my pinned tweet to see why. They condone criminal behavior and don’t permanently ban anyone who harasses others or sends death threats. Additionally, I never received my tip payments. The owner lives in Dubai, which is already a huge red flag since many crypto scammers operate from there. Their affiliates are always trying to redirect you to click their links to profit from referral commissions. And i was remove from their affiliate when i was outspoken and was not messing with their shitty narrative they play the victim when you are actual victim of their shady business. Stick to your Youtube, Twitch,kick or tiktok where you at. This crypto streaming platform is scam. Its run by viewbotters and fraudsters.

If people like LauraThaExplora on X and other streamers are telling you to stay away, it’s for a reason don’t jump on a broken ship bound to sink. LOOK at the stats I just posted. Those top three platforms are where you should focus your energy when it comes to streaming.

We streamers are trying to warn people who have little to no knowledge about scammers and viewbotters on Parti, where questionable individuals have been given staff positions and random nobodies are being signed. We’re speaking out because we want to protect you from falling into their trap. These people when they follow and viewbotting that because they have zero principles and morals. Why make you think they will have morals for you not scam you. let that sink in for min.

The top three platforms on the leaderboard earned their spots for a reason. They have proper security, hold people accountable, and permanently ban those involved in criminal activity when you provide proof. In contrast, when I reported similar issues to Parti, their response was to give the person a “warning” while still featuring them on the platform. This shows why Parti is not worth your time or trust. Rumble is shit platform too. They cant even beat nimotv with all their viewbotting they do. But between rumble and parti? i say rumble second worst.

[membermentmania]

August 3rd, 1:14-2:23am 

This time when they walked up to the abandoned red house on the end of the block, no one even batted an eye. Wendy took the lead and walked inside. The chatter in the basement ceased completely as they stepped inside. “Our phones are off,” she said immediately rather than a proper greeting.  

“Straight to business, huh?” Kenny teased. 

“What do you know about our contract lengths?” 

Tweek’s nose twitched. They made direct eye contact and he nodded towards the table. The girls filed in and sat down. “So our contracts our dependent on a lot of things,” he explained, seemingly not sure of how to word it. He folded his hands together, looking at Wendy specifically. “As you guys know, everything in regards to our contracts are based on our souls. So like, everything that is us. Right?” Wendy nodded. He gave her a small nod in response before continuing. “Um, every time I checked mine, nothing ever added up, so I stopped looking. Honestly, I don’t even know where it’s at right now,” he said sheepishly. “But, like, if there is a really important time or amount of time to you, that seems to affect it.”  

“How do you know that?” 

“My mod.” 

Wendy tilted her head. “But She can’t be trusted, no?” 

“For most things, no. I’m just giving you the information I have.” 

“I don’t know how I feel about-”

“Holy shit,” Marj breathed out. Everyone looked at her. It was written all over her face that she had just pieced something together in her mind. “Bebe and I’s contract was four years. We were together almost four years around when we got it.” 

“Wait, seriously?” Stan responded. 

“How long are your contracts?” Tammy interjected. There was silence among the boys. Tammy narrowed her eyes on them. “Is this, like, some super secret we’re not allowed to know?” 

“We never looked,” Kyle said hesitantly. 

“WHY?!” A laugh bubbled out of Tweek at her outburst. 

“When we first joined, our contract length just said ‘varied.’ And we never thought to look at our terms of service. We all read it together. Then we met Tweek and pulled the plug completely. None of us have touched Trinitarianism since,” Kenny explained. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Tammy muttered. She looked at Tweek. “You didn’t make them look before they decided to do this?!” 

He frowned. “I honestly didn’t think to. I’m sorry.”

Her face softened. “Okay wait, no. Don’t do that.” 

“We all made a choice. It’s not his fault,” Clyde interjected. 

“You guys should look,” Heidi said simply. A wave of uneasiness visibly passed through the boys. “Our contracts literally range from seven months to seven years left. You really should check. Then you can just go dark again.” 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” Clyde muttered to Kenny. Kenny just nodded before looking at the other boys. 

“Okay. Before we turn on our phones, I’m just gonna say it. Obviously, things are a lot darker than we thought they were. I propose we team up. Or at least, y’know. Ally with each other. I don’t wanna see anything happen to anyone here,” Tammy said, practically commanding attention to herself. 

“I can agree with that,” Kyle chimed in. There was a small round of agreement from both parties. Wendy felt a lot less closed off to this than she originally had. So she was fine agreeing with this, despite not knowing exactly what it entailed. 

“Alrighy then. Phones on. Pull your contracts up. Phones go on the table. I want transparency here.” 

Kenny sputtered a laugh. “I didn’t take you to be the leader. Are you serious?” 

“Oh fuck no. I’m not the leader, I just can be smart sometimes.” 

“Wait… So then who is your leader?” 

A  laugh bubbled out of Wendy as she looked at her friends. “Um…” Marjorine said awkwardly. “We don’t really have a leader? I’m kinda, like, the recruiter, Wendy’s the strategy guy, and Bebe’s like… I mean, I guess Bebe’s our leader.” 

“Don’t you dare try to pin that on me!” she responded with a laugh. “We all have our roles that we fill. Everyone has their own thing. We function as a unit.” 

“God, I love how girls work,” Clyde muttered. Wendy shot him a warning glare and he immediately raised his hands up in surrender. “No! No! Not like that! Your heads are just so cool, I mean! Like, it took us weeks to get some semblance of order!” 

“So what I’m hearing is, you guys suck?” Tammy teased. 

“Oh my god, Tam. Fuck off,” he responded. 

The two started laughing at each other for a moment before Tammy remembered what she was trying to make happen. “Wait. Fuck you, stop distracting me. Phones. Table. Now.” 

“Yes, mom,” Craig drawled with an eyeroll. 

Wendy pulled up her own terms of service before setting her phone on the table. “Tammy,” Heidi said evenly. 

“Yes?” 

“Is that not your birthday?” Wendy whipped her head towards the two at the end of the table. 

“Wait.” Tammy looked at her phone. “ “Holy shit,” she muttered. 

“You really didn’t put that together?” 

“No! When I first got my contract it was, like, one year, two months, and three days or whatever. I didn’t think about it. And the only other time I checked it was recently!” 

Phones started to clatter around the table. “I’m seven years out,” Kenny noted. “No, this doesn’t have any significance to me.” 

“I’m just under six,” Clyde responded. He frowned. “My mom’s death was around the six year mark when we made our contacts.” 

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” Marj immediately responded. 

He waved a hand. “I’m at seven months and fifteen days plus a few hours.” He made a face. “Yup, that’s my birthday. Eighteen.” Wendy noticed Kyle lean into him slightly and her heart panged. She knew exactly why that was significant to him. He didn’t think he would make it that long. 

A quiet laugh bubbled out of Kyle, distracting the group. “Four months and change.” 

“Don’t tell me,” Kenny said with exasperation. 

“Our graduation date.” 

“Mine doesn’t make any sense,” Craig interjected. 

Tweek leaned over with a furrowed brow. The room paused completely when his phone clattered against the table and his eyes went wide. Wendy caught a glimpse of what was sitting across his screen. 

Contract Length: 71 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 32 MINUTES. 

Everyone looked back and forth between the two, but Craig seemed to stop fully, eyes glued to Tweek’s phone. “Can one of you explain what you’re freaking out about?” Tammy asked nervously. 

Craig turned his phone around. 

Contract Length: 71 DAYS, 14 HOURS, 31 MINUTES. 

Wendy’s eyes shot back towards Tweek’s phone. The number had changed since she first looked at it. They were the same down to the minute. “Guys, that’s like really fucking creepy,” Clyde breathed out. 

“Um,” Tweek finally said. “Do you know what that’s about?” Craig made a face and shook his head. Tweek took a deep breath. “Okay. Doesn’t change anything. It’s fine.” 

“But what if that means something?” Heidi cut in. 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know! That’s just really weird.” 

“Marj and I’s are the same,” Bebe chimed in. 

“Yeah, but you made your contracts together. They didn’t even know each other.” 

Kyle made a face. “Coincidences do exist.” 

Wendy would love to sit there and debate that argument with Kyle. He was fun to debate with. But for her own peace of mind, she was willing to let that be the answer. 

Craig and Tweek exchanged a look. “Turn your phones off,” Tweek said, face devoid of all emotion. Everyone exchanged a small nod and turned their phones back off. “Speculating isn’t gonna get us anywhere,” he muttered. He looked at the girls and offered an uneasy smile. “You guys should keep your mic and camera access off. Even if you’re not cutting contact.” 

“Yeah,” Heidi breathed out. 

“Okay. Do you guys have any questions for me specifically?” 

Wendy could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. It almost felt like she was looking at an angel. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of the thought. She was over-exhausted and overwhelmed. “No, Tweek. You’re fine.” 

He smiled softly and Wendy felt the genuine urge to reach out when she saw how much pain was in his eyes. He looked like he was a second away from losing it. Gentle sage that gleamed when she first met him looked cloudy and almost dead. “Alright. I’m gonna head out. It was nice seeing you guys. Get my number from one of them, okay? Feel free to get in touch if you need anything.” He stood up and Craig stood up with him. “You don’t have to come with,” he muttered. 

Craig shook his head. “Alright. Nice chat guys, I’m out too.” 

Silence settled upon the group for another minute after they’d heard the two leave. “I really am not trying to be a dick here. Are they like?” Tammy waggled her brows, looking at Kenny and Clyde. 

“Oh my god we literally had this conversation earlier yesterday,” Clyde breathed out. 

A laugh bubbled out of Marjorine. “Craig’s awfully cute with him.” 

“RIGHT?!” Clyde responded. 

“Wait, they’re a thing?” Stan asked with bewilderment. 

“SPECULATING!” Kenny interjected. “And no one’s allowed to say anything to either of them about it.” Tammy and Kenny exchanged a look. “I’m serious, Tam. Not a word unless one of them brings it up.” 

Tammy raised her hands in mock surrender. “I’m not gonna do anything!” 

“Okay, circling back,” Bebe interjected. She looked at her team. “I don’t know if I want to cut contact with Dovakien. Not until we have more information about him specifically.” 

“You really are attached to him,” Kyle noted. There was no rudeness or passive-aggressiveness in it. It was just a curious observation. 

“He helps us. He tells us where angels are. And he’s always been helpful to us.” 

“Shit, seriously?” Stan responded. 

“Yes.

[wordsofapanda]

I got a new tattoo weeks ago and it was an experience. I went to the same artist that updated one of my old tattoos; he was recommended because he loves anime and my tattoo was teccchhnically considered anime. My tattoo artist had his other fellow artist hang out with us the entire time. It ended up being incredibly fun because we were shooting the shit the entire time. The conversation just kept flowing and it felt natural. We joked about the new Batman movies, our favorite music, a bunch of nerdy shit and more. About an hour in, I started to be in unbearable pain. The fucking shading and coloring was starting and thank god I reminded my artist to use numbing spray. It was weirdly efficient and inefficient? The area I got tattooed is apparently a higher pain area; the numbing spray worked on most areas except the edges where it was more honey. I thought I couldn’t get through the pain, but I did it and I’m proud of myself. It’s not my first tattoo but I was scared my body was going to twitch. I took it all like a champ and everything went perfect. My tattoo healed beautifully after obsessing over accidentally peeling it. The colors are vibrant and it’s super fucking cute. I mean a joyful Psyduck in a floaty? How is that not adorable af? My tattoo artist was helpful with questions about the healing process and it didn’t help that he was super excited to tattoo a Pokémon on me. Now that it’s almost fully healed, I realized something. I perfectly placed all water themed tattoos on my left leg and on my right leg I have small black monsters/animals. Each leg has an anime tattoo or an animal tattoo. I didn’t intend for everything to look like this so it was a delight when I noticed. I’m hoping to get another nerdy tattoo soon. I feel like I’m freaking addicted to body mods - tattoos and piercings.

[mc-slowwalker]

okay I want to talk about my anger with qsmp but I want to start by saying that I don’t think qsmp is doing bad number-wise right now. Qsmp has a pretty good following & does fine on twitch but I’m more lamenting on what it could have been

I genuinely think qsmp & usmp could have existed as multilingual smps without being tied to each other. When learning a different language there are two important components: the understanding of words and the understanding of how to use the words. This probably isn’t the right terminology but I’m going to refer to this as communication and culture. Qsmp was pitched to be communication with a heavy & important concentration on culture. The people speaking both the languages had the chance to learn how to use them properly in context. Usmp was pitched to be focused on communication. While I’m sure there will be a cultural exchange, it won’t be anywhere as near the extent that qsmp could have

And this was on purpose! Dream is monolingual and doesn’t have the background experience of two cultures like quackity does, so his goal isn’t to teach language, it’s purely to make communication between languages easier and to show off technological advancements. His goal isn’t for the players to be able to speak and understand other languages, it’s to have something else do the work for people as a necessary measure in a world where it is near impossible for most people to learn every single language. For this commodity, culture is overlooked in order for fast and simple communication

Given all this, quackity had the upper hand. He had a niche that dream couldn’t compare with and covers the side of language that dream can’t. By adding the translation mod he all but got rid of the upper hand he had over dream. He sacrificed culture for connivence and I think this is a huge mistake that is going to be very costly. By making qsmp and usmp more similar not only has he tied their fates together, he gave himself competition that was entirely unnecessary. The smart choice would have been to capitalize on this difference and I don’t understand why q didn’t. Was he afraid that qsmp wouldn’t be able to stand alone with a focus on culture? Did the convenience and clout of the translation mod outweigh the cost of culture?

[thrpr0phetuseek]

ooc: for anyone following along with this rp, which I’m not sure how many of you that is, but still — these videos are very helpful to understanding Tir’s latest prophecy.

See, right now in the time of the Iliad - Odyssey, we’re still in the era of Mycenaean Greece, aka. Ancient Greece before it was Ancient Greece. Eventually, historically, Mycenae (yeaaahh those of you who read the Odyssey/Iliad will recognize *that* kingdom name) is conquered through what we can assume to be Piracy. That’s what it seemed to be, anyway.

So ancient-ancient Greece falls and there’s dark ages and golden age Greece pops up! This is the Greece where Pan and Hermes are separate deities, Dionysus is a lot more toned down, Aphrodite is less of a war goddess but still very confusing, Poseidon gives his cthonic powers to his new randomly generated brother Hades, and Zeus gets to be important! (OSP has videos for Poseidon, Hermes, Dionysus and Aphrodite, so if you’re curious about them in Mycenaean Greece or their history/mythology, I highly recommend those videos. Also their Hades & Persephone one! It’s really good, too)

Basically what I’m saying is Tir’s latest prophecy is the downfall of Greece, but he hasn’t exactly seen that it rises up yet. Only flashes, not a complete prophecy. So if anyone was like- “new prophecy??” this is the prophecy that he’ll eventually give.

The Moirai (aka. also the mod) are plotting something =]

. . . and now, back to our regular program *bleep!*

—

[ they stiffen, muscles twitching, then they relax again. The process happens for a few more times before they start to talk again ]

“I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know—!”

[ they begin to shake again, more violently now, and their voice falls down to a whisper, cracking with guilt and fear ]

“Do something? Do— I don’t know what to do. It’s— but I— I’m sorry. I don’t know, I don’t know, I— . . . ”

Can I help take over the world, then? I need something to do that isn't bothering Icey or their girlfriend. -🪷

“If you want to help, go right ahead. I’m sure Alexander won’t mind, though perhaps I’ll ask to check.”

[ they move to stand, but once barely off the ground their legs crumble and they fall to the floor, knocking their staff out of their hand. Then, as though caused by some mysterious force, they begin to shake ]

“F—”

[funky-trainbois]

Never meet your heroes, smh

[blissfullyapillow]

Heizou as your streamer boyfriend

Heizou as your streamer boyfriend

Genshin Impact

Shikanoin Heizou x gn reader

wc: 1,799

Notes: I will pay to see Heizou raging at a backseat gamer. Overall cuteness sprinkled with some spice because I’m a horny bastard ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

Back to Masterlist C

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*   ♡　*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You were surprised when he told you he’s a streamer. How does he have time to fit that in with his busy job??

Well he manages, and you followed him embarrassingly fast once he told you his name on Twitch.

Tuning into his streams brings you so much joy. His community is really chill albeit super horny and you’ve found that you fit right in.

His Twitch name is Cyclone and he calls his  chat ‘His detectives.’

You eagerly open up Twitch once you get the notification that Heizou has gone live. “Hello, my little detectives. Have any new leads for me today?”

The way you clutched your chest as your heart skipped a beat.

Swoon.

One time he told chat when he’ll go live just to go live an hour earlier. What was he doing that whole hour? Just chatting. Chat asked Heizou any question they wanted and he answered. Too bad for the majority that only a handful of chatters showed up, including yourself.

Once more people started flooding in, Heizou ended the stream to delete the Vod before he began a new stream at his usual time.

To say chat was flabbergasted is an understatement.

What was discussed has surprisingly been kept under wraps to this day. It’s a secret kept between you and the other chatters present that day, and as a result the few of you that were present became closer.

You guys love to tease the detectives about it sometimes.

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

After Heizou told you about his stream he made you a mod and introduced you to the community. Chat welcomed you with open arms but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing for you.

One thing you pick up on pretty quick is how much he HATES backseat gaming. He has explicitly given you instructions to ban people who backseat game after one warning. He has even gone out of his way mid game to pull up chat and ban backseat gamers.

One time he got so mad he was visibly raging on stream which resulted in you crying tears of laughter, but you don’t tell him that.

You’re surprised when you find out you’re only one of three mods on his channel. Who are the other two?

One goes by ‘TheOneAndOnikabuto’ and they’re a bit… chaotic. You two have executed  numerous pranks and trolls on Heizou, but he lets you two get away with it.

The other mod isn’t there as often but they’re super chill and dependable. They ban with a swiftness so sometimes you don’t even finish reading the problematic message before the person’s banned. They go by ‘TheGuidingStars.’ Apparently two people use the account.

Off Stream Heizou will sometimes reminisce on funny stream moments with you. 

Heizou tells you that he’s told chat he’s already taken, but if you’re comfortable and you want to, he’ll tell chat that you’re his partner. He’s content either way if you wish to reveal yourself or keep that between the two of you.

The mods know of course, and surprisingly TheOneAndOnikabuto hasn’t spilled the beans already. Although he apparently hates beans so that works in your favor.

‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵

One day Heizou arranged a fun outing so all the mods could meet up irl. You were apprehensive at first but knowing not only Heizou but TheOneAndOnikabuto would be there put your mind at ease.

Apparently the ‘TheOneAndOnikabuto’ goes by Itto and he’s, well, very chaotic irl. Which was expected.

Meeting ‘TheGuidingStars’ wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. They’re twins who go by Aether & Lumine, and you hit it off pretty well with them.

Heizou likes to play RPGS, especially one’s where there’s a mystery going on with unanswered questions. After you recommended he play Persona 4 Golden, Heizou went CRAZY. He adores the cast and has fun trying to determine who the killer is.

Funny enough, when he told you his suspicions off stream he was 100% on the money but you didn’t tell him that lest he turn his backseat gaming rage on you.

It became a bit of an inside joke with the frequent chatters, but one time a particular person was being a bit TOO open about their admiration for your pretty boyfriend. After another horny comment from said person you didn’t even think twice before banning them.

Immediately you felt a bit ashamed at how fast you acted, but the feeling of relief overrode your other emotions. That is, until Heizou pointed out that the comments were no longer appearing. After he checked and saw that they were banned, he KNEW it was you but he decided to act innocent.

“I wonder which mod banned them? Shall we try and solve this case my little detectives?” Heizou had the audacity to pull up a poll for chat to vote. After the poll ended Heizou burst into laughter when your name was at the top of the list. Funny enough, Itto was second and close in votes to you.

Heizou decided to “take a hydration break” after the poll and it only took a few moments before he made his way over to you. You tried to hide from him but he was quick to remove the device you were using to watch his stream from your view.

“Is someone jealous of a horny stranger in my chat? Hmm?“ His smug words only served to irritate you, so your reply was “No. It just irritated me how they were having such lewd thoughts about you. I mean, I don’t blame them, but at the end of the day only I can have those thoughts about you.” Your confident reply only makes his grin grow wider and the distance between the two of you close.

“Well, if that’s how you feel I have no qualms with the ban. Although… why don’t you put those thoughts of yours into action?” Heizou’s breathy whisper brushes against your cheek, and you’re the one who eagerly closes the miniscule distance between your lips and his inviting ones. 

As much as Heizou physically ached to continue making out with you, he only indulged you for a few moments more like 5 minutes before he returned to stream to tell his detectives that he’ll return at a later date.

Chat was more than suspicious for the sudden end to the livestream since he seemed a little out of breath and his hair was a bit disheveled, but overall they found the whole situation funny.

As soon as the stream ended Heizou’s lips became glued to yours once again. You can’t help but feel a bit smug since you know you’re the only one who can make him feel this way.

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

After you feel comfortable in his community he invites you, Itto, Lumine, & Aether to play games with him on stream.

The first time you talked on stream you were so nervous that your palms were sweaty, but when you saw the positive feedback from chat about how “Attractive” and “Cute” your voice sounds your nerves vanished into thin air.

Itto made the first joint gaming session more chaotic than it needed to be, but otherwise everyone had a good time and the detectives took a liking to Heizou playing with his mods.Soon it became more of a regular thing. Sometimes Heizou even invited chat to join in on the games.

One time Heizou was openly flirting with you in game, and before you two knew it, chat was actively shipping you two. Off stream, Itto and Lumine love to tease you two about it. Aether’s more chill but he tends to catch you off guard with his blunt comments. “The sexual tension between the two of you was so intense that I felt it through the screen. Next time you two should just get off stream and go make out already.” The way your jaw dropped-

If you ever show interest in streaming on your own channel, Heizou is all for whatever you decide to do. If you DO make your own channel, he’s literally always in your stream. Always. Even if he’s currently streaming he’ll pull up your stream on something else to watch.

One time he literally watched your stream with his chat while he ate.

He’s your first and most trustworthy mod. You hardly see toxicity in your chat, and that’s hard to achieve.

Although, you have noticed how fast he’ll time out others who write thirsty comments about you. You start dying of laughter on stream when a long message from Heizou pops up in chat @‘ing an extremely down bad chatter before he bans them.

Your communities have a FIELD DAY with that clip.

『••✎••』

Heizou’s chatters aren’t called his “little detectives” for nothing. In his discord server, the one he made for his community, you read all the evidence they have for their theory that you & Heizou are dating.

You sit down and scroll through the evidence with Heizou as you two laugh together. It’s almost scary how spot on his detective's intuition is. If you decide it’s time to tell the detectives that you two are dating, Heizou is elated. He devises the perfect way to tell them. However, if you choose not to say anything he’s content with that as well.

Heizou waits for his next livestream to tell his detectives that they cracked the case. 

When he finally breaks the news he does it in such a subtle way that even YOU almost didn’t catch it. Chat blows up with messages of “WE ALREADY KNEW” and “omg I told you so !!”

Your favorite comment is from Itto himself, who says “What!? They’re dating?” with such an incredulous tone in his voice that you would’ve believed he never knew if you didn’t know any better. You hear Heizou’s raucous laughter from the other room and your laughter soon joins him to create a wonderful harmony of love.

You hop on his stream for a moment to say hi to chat, and they start gushing at how cute you two are together. 

Thankfully, his chat is very supportive of you two.

They were already making cute ship stuff with you & Heizou, with his permission mind you, but now they make cute couple compilations of you two that you guys watch together during cozy nights.

Overall, Heizou as your streamer boyfriend? Top tier.

P.S: He ups his flirting game with you tenfold on stream. Sometimes even Itto has to tell him to tone it down or go offline to handle his “horny business.” Everyone is both equally flabbergasted and amused when Heizou actually ends the stream with a brief “See you next time, my little detectives.” 

When you look up to see him making quick strides towards you, you're more than ready to accept whatever he has to offer.

[dourpeep]

im not gonna @ you I’m gonna join you >< .!! imagine him streaming with you in his lap, you’re facing away from his facecam and just sort of draped over him and the lower half of what’s going on is hidden from chat’s view. everyone just assumes it’s a sweet moment - you sleeping on xiao’s lap while he plays his game for his viewers but the reality of it all is much much more lewd and just thinking about it , what would happen if his chat figured out why his voice wavered every time you shift on top of him syhsifjdhsjsb **drools (●・∀)ゞ

- kreide 🪶

Luckily, Xiao is a pretty nice dom. Soft service top Xiao, I mean. So he'll whisper little words of praise, telling you how well you're doing, that you feel so good around him and that you're controlling your whimpers just like you promised-

That being said...

Risky Play

Contains: ((NSFW 18+)) Xiao x gn!Reader, cockwarming, caught

You've been sitting perched in his lap with him buried completely in you for the better part of two and a half hours. With your legs tiring and your arousal starting to drip, you can't help but shift in his lap. He sucks in a breath, luckily right as he's caught off guard during the match and lets out a curse.

His eyes flick from the screen to you, your hair brushing against his cheek.

Another sound draws his attention back to the game, but he presses his lips to the side of your head right as he gets another kill in. On the scrolling text set on his offhand monitor, there's a few comments on his affectionate gesture, as usual.

After all, it's not often that a big streamer is joined by their significant other for a quick rest.

But chat has no idea of what's really happening, instead commenting on how sweet it is that he's letting you take a nap laying against him despite the intensity of the game. You shift again, your warm breath brushing over his neck and sending chills down his spine and he moans, low, raspy...right into the mic.

The effects are immediate.

First, chat stops entirely. Xiao's usual aloof expression betrays the embarrassment he feels and his ears turn red. You bury your face further into his neck. The warmth of your cheeks only makes him more aware of his own.

Next, he coughs and takes his hands off the keyboard and mouse, pressing them to his face. There's a sudden burst of activity in chat.

---- t_t_tglia: lmao what

---- np_sea: OMGGGG :KEKW::KEKW:

---- venven(mod):NotLikeThis::NotLikeThis::NotLikeThis:

---- venven(mod): XIAO

---- valberr: what did I miss???

---- np_sea: ur gonna get banned :KEKW:

---- kazoo_h(mod): Please tell me that's not what I think

---- t_t_tglia: he MOANED

---- hyp.o: was it hot tho

---- comment deleted

---- comment deleted

---- t_t_tglia: I SAW THAT :LUL:

Xiao's hands run down over his face. He had a good run, no? Several million followers on his Twitch, affiliation, a checkmark next to his name, a few sponsors, and not to mention the few cons that he's invited to each year to play or be a part of a q-and-a. Overall, pretty popular in the gaming community for his blunt quips, quick reflexes...and now this. Yeah.

He doesn't even bother saying anything, gold eyes flicking over the comments quickly scrolling and the frantic work of his mods to try to wrangle chat. He feels bad.

Finally, Xiao presses his finger to the 'power off' button that glows on his console, foregoing any sort of precaution he'd normally take and looking away as the screen turns black and the fans whirr to a stop.

It's then that you look up at him.

"I'm sorry-" You mumble, and he presses one of his hands to his lips as he thinks.

He knew the consequences that could come with what started out as his idea. A passing thought of what it'd be like considering he enjoys the slight thrill of the risk when the chances of getting caught are low. And, really, they were--or at least they should've.

You move again and he's made aware of how sensitive he's become.

Adrenaline rushes through his blood. Surprisingly, even with what just happened, he can't seem to bring himself to care.

"It can't be helped now."

Settling against the back of his chair, his hands rest on your waist and slide down to your hips, fingertips pressing into them.

Might as well make the most of it.

[philza-updates]

I posted 1,868 times in 2022

That's 159 more posts than 2021!

1,649 posts created (88%)

219 posts reblogged (12%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@philza-updates

@benchtrioupdates

@wilbursoot-updates

@technoblade-updates

@wolfythewitch

I tagged 1,852 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#mcyt - 1,669 posts

#philza - 1,581 posts

#ph1lza - 1,579 posts

#image id - 1,152 posts

#no id in alt text - 1,135 posts

#mod luna - 310 posts

#misstrixtin - 226 posts

#trixtin - 226 posts

#mumza - 226 posts

#kristin - 225 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#i think he mistook the fact that they tweeted about wanting people to send them ideas for things to add as them doing the announcement again

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Aimsey tweeted about Phil on xyr priv!

[Image ID:

A cropped screenshot of a tweet by aimZ @/aimsey4k. It reads “nobody understands how genuinely full my heart was when phil and kristin both sat with me after the panel, reminding me that twitch getting my pronouns wrong WAS a huge deal and not in my own head, and them both saying they’ll help anyway they can :’)

i’m gonna be 100% honest i was basically with phil and kristin the entire convention and wouldn’t have traded it for anything, some of my favourite humans ever”.

End ID]

2,093 notes - Posted October 15, 2022

#4

Phil replied to Tommy on twitter!

[Image ID:

A cropped screenshot of a tweet by TommyInnit @/tommyinnit with a reply by Ph1LzA @/Ph1LzA.

Tommy’s tweet reads “@/Ph1LzA explain”. Attached is a cropped screenshot of the most recent PhilzaCLIPS video, titled “Philza can throw it back 😈”.

Phil’s reply reads “Kristin controls that channel, ask her :)”.

End ID]

2,630 notes - Posted January 9, 2022

#3

Phil made some changes to his regular skin!

[Image ID:

2 images of Phil’s Minecraft skin taken from namemc.

The first shows his skin from the front and the second shows it from behind.

The changes from his previous skin are:

- The cancer awareness ribbon has been changed from lavender to yellow, to represent specifically sarcoma cancer, which is the kind Techno fought.

- On his right hand he has a lavender wristband to represent the Techno cancer support wristband Phil wears irl.

- Under his hat he has a little emerald charm.

- His cleavage has been covered up by a black undershirt with a small hardcore heart.

End ID]

3,480 notes - Posted July 22, 2022

#2

Philza posted on twitter!

[Image ID:

A cropped screenshot of a tweet by Philza Minecraft @/Ph1LzA. It reads “Happy Halloween!!! 🎃”. Attached is an edited together photo of Phil and Kristin in Hallowe’en costumes in a video game mansion, presumably from Resident Evil. Kristin, who is wearing a Lady Dimitrescu costume with a somewhat condescending smile on her lips, is edited to be significantly taller than Phil, who is dressed as Ethan Winters and looking up at Kristin towering over him.

End ID]

4,470 notes - Posted October 28, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Here are all 4/4 emotes!

See the full post

5,868 notes - Posted October 3, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →