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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 10 months ago

Note

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.

#ikea writes 💚#asks #cod smut #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley has piercings change my mind #reqs #gazghost #ghostgaz #ghaz #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley smut #kyle gaz garrick smut #gaz smut #ghost smut

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cookiescribble · 3 months ago

Text

Flufftober Day 26: "I can't find it"

(gif source)

A/N: i had a different idea for this fic but then it got lost in the ether so uhhh have this instead. Happy almost halloween everybody! thank you for being so patient with us omg. These are gonna be a little out of order as we play catch up- mod ghost

Ship: Gale Dekarios x GN!Reader

Summary: The only reason Gale’s tower in waterdeep was even semi organized was because of you, but that didn’t stop him from misplacing even the smallest of things.

“Where is it, where is it!” Gale groaned, shuffling through his mess of a desk in the morning light shining down on him from the open curtains leading out to the balcony. It was early morning, much earlier than when you usually awoke, but the warmth of Gale slowly fading to the cooler room temperature shook you from sleep. So now, you padded out to find him scrambling like a mad man and muttering to himself.

“What in the hells are you looking for?” You whispered with your voice rough from sleep, gently resting your hand on his shoulder now that you were close enough to touch him. It had apparently startled him, though, since he was so entranced by his search that he didn’t hear you approach. “By Mystra’s eyelashes, when did you get over here?” He exclaimed, clutching his chest like a grandmother with her pearls which made you giggle uncontrollably.

You shook your head at him, gently brushing a strand of hair away that had fallen into his eyes. “I’ll answer your question when you answer mine.”

“Oh—I was looking for one of the grimoires that I needed to take to the academy with me. I’m not…entirely sure where it may have run off to.” Gale scratched at his head while he spoke, looking past you and around the room until you cupped his cheeks which made him stop entirely.

“Alright, take a deep breath, and then describe the book and then we can look for it together, yeah?” You suggested, to which he nodded while taking a slow and deep inhale. For a moment, he let himself savor the feeling of your touch on his face and the gentle silence of the room. Sometimes, he desperately needed a second or two to just breathe, especially when he’d gotten himself worked into a frenzy. You knew that about him, as well as the fact that he wouldn’t be the one to do it himself, so this was a simple way to sort of reset him, for lack of a better term. Gently forcing him to slow down and think.

Gale’s dark brown eyes slowly opened again as he sighed just before speaking again. “This…may come as quite the surprise to you, but the book is leather bound.” Before you could comment on just how many leather bound books the wizard owned, a smirk cracked his face and made you realize he wasn’t quite finished talking yet.

“Right, go on,” You playfully rolled your eyes at him, turning around in his hold to set your sights on the room before you as you felt his hands slide across your waist. His arms then settled around your waist as his chin came to rest upon your shoulder while he continued to speak.

“The front cover also has an engraving of a rose on the front, with ancient runes scrawled underneath.” You could almost picture the book in your mind as he described it, as it was one he carried with him most days.

After a moment of careful consideration and a thorough glance at the room, you put your hand over his arm that was around your waist before speaking, “…My love, have you checked your study? You usually take it in there after a full day of teaching at Blackstaff.” You asked, turning your head just enough to look at him.

Without another word, his face scrunched in concentration as he whisked off to the study a few feet away. A few moments later, though, he emerged once more with a wide grin on his face as he held the book over his head, clearly victorious.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Gale gave a wistful sigh as he approached, his arms once again looping around you.

“Once or twice, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again,” you chuckled, your own arms encircling his neck to pull him ever closer as he kissed you.

Gale let out a laugh of his own as he pulled away, “I love you.” The way he said it always felt like he was falling for you all over again, like you hadn’t been married for over a year.

“I love you, too, you goofy wizard you.” You teased him lightly, leaning your forehead against his.

“Goofy?? You make your husband sound like some sort of loon!” He sounded incredulous, but the smile on his face told you all you needed to know about how he felt when you said that.

“Yes, but you’re my loon, which is why I’m allowed to say such things.” You grinned mischievously, though quickly distracted as he gave you another short yet sweet kiss before rushing off toward the academy with a promise of returning home later.

#fanfiction #mod ghost #flufftober2024 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios x you #gale dekarios x tav #gale dekarios x reader #bg3 gale #gale x tav #thank you so much!!

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merakiui · 2 years ago

Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind.

“Rough match?”

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.”

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.”

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is a—haah—a good look for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.”

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

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

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

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crownofgildedlilies · 9 months ago

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SUNNIEEEE number 14 for the summer prompt with leo... like i feel its SO in character (when they wear tank-tops while doing manly labor and you're just there admiring the sight) LITERALLY HIMMM imagine him adding cute mods (is that the term???) or smth to ur car and ur just sitting on a stool and kicking ur feet

leo my one true love (jason and percy don’t LOOK) also let's pretend I know things about cars :)

based on this post opening requests for blurbs with certain prompts!

mr. do it all!

pairing: leo valdez x greek demigod!reader

"Almost done?"

"Baby, I just started."

"Fine," You huffed. You weren't exactly sure why you were complaining. Leo was fixing the reason why your check engine light was on, for free, the summer sun was warm against your skin, and you were treated to the sight of your boyfriend in a tank top while he worked.

Really, you should have just been happy to sit back in watch. You didn't exactly want to admit that you might have been jealous that a car was getting all of his attention.

"Soon as I'm done, I'm all yours, pretty." Leo called out, inspecting the engine of your car with the hood open, his back to you. Trying not to flush at the nickname, you blew a puff of air past your lips before retreating to the swivel chair you had dragged out of Leo's office at the auto shop to watch him work in the front yard.

"Is it really important that you fix this right now?" You questioned, propping your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your palm as you watched.

"And have my baby break down on the side of the road?" Leo asked, aghast, breaking his focus long enough to shook you a look of disbelief that had you grinning. "What kind of self-respecting super mechanic smoking hot and incredibly funny boyfriend would I be then?"

"Your title gets longer each time," You snorted, shaking your head and definitely not disagreeing. Leo was nothing if not doting to you. "I want a kiss when you're done."

"Absolutely," He mock saluted, grinning crookedly before launching headfirst back into the engine of your car.

You knew that you could simply leave and go find something to entertain yourself with inside the shop, but you couldn't get yourself to move away from Leo while her worked, the sight warming something in your chest.

He teased you more than his fair share of times as he labored, grinning and winking from his spot by the car. At first, you were embarrassed at being caught out, but by the end you didn't have it in you to care.

Especially as he rested his hands on each arm of your chair to lean in for the kiss you had requested.

"Enjoy the show, princesa?" He teased, bumping his nose against yours as you scrunched your face in protest. "Your car is set and your handsome boyfriend is paying attention to you."

Your fingers knotted in the front of his tank top, pulling him closer with the fabric as you slotted your lips over his for a quick and hard earned kiss.

"Can you fix my air conditioner, next?"

#leo valdez #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez fic #Leo Valdez x you #Leo Valdez blurb #rays of sun

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foxs0x · 1 month ago

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I am literally a graphic designer for my career but I couldn't be fucked editing a template, so here's how my art has evolved in the last 12 months!

January - @meanbossart 's Dark Urge

This was the first digital thing I'd done in over a year at this point. I took an extended break from art because my (old) job was ruining my mental health. (Which is why I quit it :D !) And his Drow character is really well thought out and very unique so I had to draw him. (His art is also very inspiring to me so check out his page!)

February - was still in my Baldur's Gate kick and loved that lizard (still do) and it was also my first time doing environmental art. I couldn't figure out how to do the "mood" I was imagining so I had to look up famous movie shots that were noir, dark and moody to figure out what the heck to do.

MORE UNDER THE CUT 👇😁

March - My D&D character Istdrin, a Drow sorcerer who was sexually attracted to spiders... And got eaten by spiders. (I had to make a new character after this 🤣) Rest in peace you sick fuck

April - Astarion, my fave BG3 companion (besides Wyll & Shadow heart!) I wanted to design a fancy suit for him and a modern haircut.

May - my first drawing of my V (Vicentije.) I had just bought Phantom Liberty at this point and was also trying to figure out how to draw him and how I imagine he would look. Alas I am a console player so I can't mod his tattoos in or his face sculpt etc. (but in a few months I'll finally have saved enough money for a PC haha!) he's gone through a few changes design-wise and I'm still tweaking him tbh

June - first art for my fanfic End Transmission

I just finished Phantom Liberty and had this idea brewing in my head. I'd also started writing my fic too! I'm not really happy with V:s face here and I've also since made more changes to his design, so he doesn't even have these tattoos anymore lol! (Except for the 13 on his forehead because he is unlucky)

July (??) (nothing)

August - Johnny Silverhand

I actually did this right before I went to America this year. I was drawing this at the Sydney airport and painting it on the flight to Los Angeles. I am still really happy with how this turned out.

September - I did this in my downtime while in the states. I started drawing the frames in my first week in America (while I was at my aunties house in Los Angeles) and finished it during hurricane Francine in New Orleans!

October - Johnny Silverhand again! I tried drawing a few comic panels of my fanfic End Transmission when I got back to Australia.

November - original character I'm working on. He's an ugly vampire who was an artist in his human life and made very beautiful things.

December (??)

Nothing really for December yet lol! Just lots of wips and ideas I'm still working on

Overall my art has made a HUGE improvement this year. I've been focusing on better quality lines the last two months but all year I've been working on more dynamic poses and colouring!!

#art summary 2024 #I'm proud of my efforts :)#my art

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sunaluv · 2 years ago

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I love the "Come get your man" series could you make a pt4????[you do not have to]

I love your work sm!!!keep doing what your doing!!!

Drink water, take breaks when needed, take care of your health both mentally & physically!!and see you next ask♡

wooo we back at it again! thanks for checking in on me bae 🥲 take care of yourselves too!

also thanks for 1k followers 🥳

part 3

feat. kenma, tsukishima, iwaizumi

steamer!KENMA

kenma loves his job. as a professional streamer he’s his own boss, he doesn’t have to be around people too often and he’s become really fond of his little online community (not that he’d admit that out loud).

it’s been a week since your unplanned debut on his channel. you didn’t realize he was recording when you came to drop of his snacks, doing your daily check in. ever since, all the tags with his stream name were aggressively loving, basically demanding him to bring back their ‘mother’ to the screen.

you drop in every now and then to remind his viewers to look after themselves, jokingly scolding them for not looking after your man aswell but it’s all fun and games on both ends.

whilst watching his stream in the room next door, you can help but notice a user in particular.

@/kodzubae: LMAOOO i thought he would be dating someone much prettier😭 didn’t know kodzu did charity cases.

even though the chat was moving before you could read all the comments, your eyes always managed to find whatever the user said about you, and none of it was nice. you didn’t have to be told not to read the comments— it’s an unspoken fact but your eyes and brain always seem to betray you, feeding into your minor insecurities.

you haven’t even realized you were staring at a blank screen. kenmas’ stream had ended whilst you were too lost in your thoughts.

“…you alright?” he asked hesitantly.

though your eyes lit up and your lips quirked at the sight of your boyfriend, he knew something was up— call it a sixth sense of his.

you wordlessly tried to convince him that you were okay, talking and joking the rest of the night until you fell asleep in his embrace but none of it felt genuine. he didn’t want to pry, but it physically hurt him to see you hiding things from him.

totally disregarding the first rules of boyfriend 101: “don’t go through your partners phone!”, kenma unlocked your phone, instantly frowning at the screen before him.

it was her twitter page. kenma knew his lifelong fans, and the handle on your screen now was one of them, except it was full of fan behavior for him and blatant hatred for you.

he felt bad.

it wasn’t exactly his fault, but he still felt responsible for the digs at you that were happening on his live.

the next day, you had woken up hours after kenma. you tend to do that when you sleep with a heavy heart.

in the distance, you could hear him talking, probably streaming. so you opened his stream on your phone and tuned in right on time.

“hey guys,” he greeted. “before we start i want to say something…i’ve become aware that ever since ‘mother’,” he emphasized on the quote marks. “made her first appearance, some of you have not been the nicest to her online and i just want to say that that’s a boundary that absolutely cannot be crossed.”

@/user1: WHAT? WHO HURT MOTHER

@/user2: i hope she’s okay :( luv u mom

@/user3: we’re just going to skip over the fact that he acknowledges them as our parents? okay…

@/user4: cross ken >:( cross ken >:(

“so from here on out, any hate towards her will be an instant block. i’ve told my mods too so behave…” he firmly, yet gently scolded.

“now that’s out of the way, today we’ll be…”

you watched the rest of the stream with a smile on your face. though you were working on voicing your concerns and discomfort, it was nice to know that kenma is willing to work for you whilst he waited.

TSUKISHIMA (tall!reader)

“you look so much taller when you’re not welded into tsukkis’ side, ya know?”

startled, you angled your neck down to see one of your classmates.

you had been avoiding her, and she, you. but it seems she’s finally willing to break this ongoing silent tension fest between you two.

“what do you want.” you deadpanned.

she gasped. “you’re too mean! tsukishima doesn’t deserve to be with someone like you, he deserves someone who is more down to earth, you get me?”

she eyed you up and down to emphasize her point.

taking your silence as willingness to listen, she continued. “i mean your too tall! granted he is too but opposites attract, he needs someone who will look good with him, like me.”

you folded your lips inward to contain your laughter. you and basically everyone knew about this girls love for your boyfriend, but you never pegged her as the type to come at you like this.

“you can have him if you want,” you waved. “kei looooves short girls.”

her eyes lit up in victory, obviously not sensing your sarcasm. “cool, just make sure you break up with him today because-“

“nobody is breaking up with anyone.” a voice shot.

low and behold, your six foot something boyfriend shutting down any advances you were planning to set him up with. though he joined the conversation, he only appeared to be addressing you.

“kei! i-“

“tsukishima.”

“tsukki! i-”

“no.”

he made eye contact with your smirking face over the girls head. “you were just gonna throw me to the wolves like that?” he asked offended.

you chucked. “there’s no wolves kei, look at her” you pinched the cheek of the stunned girl stood in between you two. “she’s harmless, like a poodle.”

she stood, mouth open seemingly in shock.

looking back at him, his face did not let up. you sighed.

“i’m sorry kei,” you breathed through your nose. “i will never subject you to such a horrible, earth shattering, torturous-“

“that’s enough, my god” he groaned. grabbing your wrist, he dragged you by the wrist, only slowing down when you rounded the corner, out of the girls view.

“you know i was joking, right.” you poked his cheek, to which he swatted your hand away.

“i know you’re joking,” his signature smirk appeared. “after all you wouldn’t throw away the opportunity to date the guy you’ve been crushing on for as long as you’ve been here. if i recall, your confession went along the lines of ‘i-“

you slapped your hand over his mouth in embarrassment. leave it to the guy to turn your confession into a weapon against you.

you playfully bickered down the rest of the hall, forgetting all about the girl who had tried to take your place earlier.

IWAIZUMI

“are you sure you’re not only using him to like, get to oikawa or something?”

the first words this girl had spoken to you. you don’t know who she is, or where she came from but she has some nerve coming with such a ridiculous question considering you haven’t formally met before.

“excuse me?”

“you heard me,” her tone was now accusatory. “i’ve seen many girls do iwa dirty because they want oikawa so if that’s the case save yourself an ass beating and leave him alone!”

you don’t know if you have bad memory or what because you don’t know who this girl is and as far as your concerned, neither does your boyfriend.

“i’m sorry, are you a friend of his?” you were more confused than anything.

“i am his and he is mine.”

woah.

you didn’t want to accuse her, but every sign she was showing pointed to a major case of FDS (fan delusion syndrome), a case of the crazies found in fans of the oikawa toru founded by you, maki and mattsun, but you were unaware that this case was also present in your boyfriends own… supporters.

you don’t blame them though because your man is a total hunkkkk. anyways.

right on queue, the door slid open and both of your heads turned to meet hajime’s, and of course he has to show up with a sweaty face, shirt practically clinging to his defined body.

“hajime!” the girl called, running and stopping infront of him. “she’s using you do get to oikawa, break up with her!”

he followed the finger that was pointed to you— confused and lost in the middle of the gym.

“that’s my girlfriend, she doesn’t like him like that.”

the sound of a shattered heart pierced the sudden silence. “w-w-what do you mean girlfriend, she’s after toru i’m sure of it!”

a humorless chuckle sounded from his throat. “trust me, she doesn’t ”

being cautious not to set the girl off, he traversed around her, and straight to you who watched the whole interaction both concerned and amused.

“wowww,” you breathed. “i didn’t know you were also a cause for FDS.”

“what?”

“nothing,” you straightened. “i don’t blame her though. i would go crazy if you walked around looking like that too.”

his face flushed and he turned away. “stop saying things like that…”

you smiled, poking his cheek. “what, i can’t appreciate my boyfriend who’s built like he was carved from the greek gods himself?”

he walked away after pushing your face with his hand, drowning your chuckle.

“c’mon haji, don’t be like that,” you chased after him. “you have to be feeling yourself a little after seeing the affect you have of the seijoh population!”

the girl watched as you made her ‘man’ flush, comment after comment, feeling numb as she watched him get more and more out of his reach.

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yujeong · 5 months ago

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The Score of 4 Minutes - Episode 3

Alright, folks. Before I proceed to lose my mind and write a fucking THESIS about my beautiful baby boy Tonkla and his whole fucking deal this episode, I'll proceed to give you the OST I managed to find, as I did before for episode 1 and episode 2. So, let's go (YouTube links, as per usual): - The Throne Is Mine by Ruiqi Zhao: When Dome wakes up - Flesh and Bone by Jon Björk: When Korn is in the bathroom, checking his phone to see Tonkla's calls + the beginning of the scene with Great, before he calls Korn to ask the time - Walkin' on Dreams by Headlund: When Tyme and Great speak by the basketball court (before the rewind) - Sub Twin by Jay Varton: When Great tells Tyme about seeing 4 minutes into the future - I Found The Answers In You (feat. Mia Niles) by Loving Caliber: When Great tells Tyme to go grab something to eat - The Consequences by Marten Moses: When Tyme and Den are discussing Great's condition - Beneath the Bushes by Raymond Grouse: When Great takes Tyme to the claw machine - Spying on the Neighbours by The Fly Guy Five: When Tyme is teaching Great how to catch the plushies - Are You Having Fun by Alek Bluntz: When Tyme caught the first plushie, then the rest - Rest in His Love by Joyspring: When Tyme and Great almost kissed - By the Lighthouse by Miles Avida: When Nan is getting dressed and steals the key to check the documents - Face On by Wendel Scherer: When she gets caught and chased outside - Where Does It End by Max Anson: When Korn appears and learns about what happened with Nan + when Win gets taken off the case - Roseé du matin by DEX 1200: When Tonkla is breaking stuff in his room and then does drugs - The Four Seasons, Violin Concerto in G Minor, Op. 8 No. 2, RV 315 "Summer": I. Allegro non molto: When Win and Tonkla fuck (before Win goes inside Tonkla) - The Four Seasons - Winter - Allegro Non Molto: When Win and Tonkla fuck (after Win goes inside Tonkla) - Eternum Nocturne by Gavin Luke: When Win and Tonkla talk post-sex - Down the Alleyway by Damon Greene: When Win goes to talk to Mod about her message on social media - I Wanna Fall by King Sis: When Great is smoking on the balcony - Obstruction by Bonnie Grace: When Great is making his (murder)board - Thermonuclear by Craft Case: When Korn and Great talk at the bar - Cluster One by Hampus Naeselius: When Tyme fights Korn and later Great

#I found even more this week wow #thanks again BOC #The choices were incredible as usual #4 minutes #ost #(later edit: there were in fact two Vivaldi pieces from the Four Seasons that were playing during WinTonkla's first time)#(so I added them in)#(From Summer to Winter - incredible 10/10 choices once again)

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icaberries · 1 year ago

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What if the Vinsmokes were in the Wano Arc?

Go read Part 1 here but TL;DR the Vinsmokes regain their ability to feel emotions and escape Germa with Sanji and the Strawhats.

Mostly headcanons with a side of canon plot.

They’re still modded physically, but now their pain receptors are active so they’re dealing with the ramifications of years of neglecting their body. Ichiji is partially blind from using Valkyrie, Niji has burn marks all over his body, and Yonji has chronic pain in his wrists. It's a struggle, but they feel like they deserve it after all the torment they inflicted.

Ichiji comes across traditional tattoo shops in Wano and decides to get new tattoos on a whim. The ‘1’ tattoo he had before had been his first rebellion against his father and now that he’s free he wants to add more to it. He gets tattoos for all his siblings along his other arm—a pink butterfly for Reiju, a blue lightning bolt for Niji, a green clover for Yonji and a yellow sun for Sanji. It helps to ground him when the Feelings™ get overwhelming and reminds him that he’s not alone in this world.

The drama in Shokugeki no Sanji with Sanji’s soba stall still happens, only this time he’s backed up by the rest of his siblings who glares at the soba competitors in submission.

Reiju is first in line when the soba stall officially opens. She’d had to fight her brothers and the Strawhats for it. Robin is a close second but only because Reiju was distracted by her. If you know what I mean ;)

The handcuffs left marks on Sanji’s wrists. Surprisingly, it’s Niji who asks why Sanji’s hands are so precious to him and Sanji tells them about Baratie and Zeff. There’s something about the sparkle in Sanji’s eyes as he talks that draws them in, the way he speaks so highly and softly about his found family on the East Blue. They wonder, if somewhere down the line, Sanji would speak about them with that same fond tone.

Niji gifts Sanji a pair of dark brown leather gloves, long enough to cover the marks on his wrist. Sanji wears it to the raid and Niji is quite proud of it and claims he must be Sanji's favorite brother now. Until Ichiji chimes in and says that Sanji’s hairstyle as Stealth Black/Soba Mask is more similar to his and confidently declares himself as Sanji’s favorite brother. Ichiji and Niji argue for hours.

(It’s actually Yonji who's the favorite. Sanji only has one little brother and he’s got a soft spot for him.)

Just imagine Law, Basil Hawkins and X Drake watching Soba Mask. Now imagine them seeing a group of brightly-colored siblings cheering on Soba Mask, while they themselves look like Sparking Red, Electric Blue, Wench Green and Poison Pink. It’s a good day to be a North Blue fanboy in Wano.

AND NOW FOR SOME ANGST!

They witness Sanji awakening his modifications and for a brief moment they’re happy that Sanji caught up to them like he always wanted, until they see the horrified look on Sanji’s face. He looks so afraid to turn out like them, to the point that he’d ask his own crewmate (Zoro) to take him down if he ever ended up like them. They’re not even mad. They’re just sad and guilty that Sanji felt that way.

There’s a brief lull in the battle and Reiju pulls her brothers aside to tell them about their mother and her sacrifice. She told Sanji that story so he’d remember that his life was worth living and being kind. Now she’s telling the same story to Ichiji, Niji and Yonji so they can remember the same thing. Sora wanted them to live and be good.

After his fight with Queen, the brothers hug it out. Reiju may or may not have taken a picture.

Right after that, the brothers now hug Reiju! Because she deserves it alright! Years of pretending for Judge, of keeping her brother's in check and dealing with their mother's death, Reiju did her best to be there for all of them. Now she gets to see her little brothers grow up into the good people their mother wanted them to be and she can finally stop pretending. She can be herself again <3

(I love Reiju sm yall but that's just the eldest daughter syndrome talking)

The road to redemption is paved with triumphs and stumbles. It’s just fortunate for them that Sanji has a good sense of direction.

AND NOW BACK TO FLUFF!

Yonji continues to cement himself as the favorite when he calls Chuji the cutest thing in the world and proceeds to share his snacks with the little guy. Niji and Ichiji never stood a chance. Little brother is strong and is hitting all of Sanji's buttons.

The worst part of regaining emotions though? It’s not the gooey mushy feelings of love, or the cold guilt and shame over their past mistakes, it’s the annoyance they now feel whenever they witness Roronoa Zoro flirt with their oblivious brother. They can’t stand him. Unfortunately, he makes Sanji happy so they’re forced to seethe on the sidelines while Zoro picks another fight/flirting session with Sanji.

Reiju doesn’t tell them that it’s not just Zoro they have to worry about. Trafalgar Law keeps finding an excuse to check Sanji over for his “health”, a jaguar mink keeps asking him out to smoke together, don’t even get her started on Basil Hawkins and X Drake asking her for her blessing. That’s not even counting Sanji’s other suitors who aren’t in Wano right now. Their baby brother is quite the popular guy.

#one piece #vinsmoke siblings #vinsmoke sanji #black leg sanji #vinsmoke ichiji #vinsmoke niji #vinsmoke yonji #vinsmoke reiju #vinsmoke sora #red leg zeff #my posts #roronoa zoro #zosan #sanzo #allsan

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aziraphales-library · 5 months ago

Note

Hello!! I really appreciate your blog. I've been looking for fics told through, or just including, letters as a main theme. Thank you, have a lovely day.

Hi! You will want to check our #epistolary tag for more fics like this. Here are more to add...

A Selection of Unsent Letters from a Demon by Heretic1103 (T)

At the urging of his human friends and his grief therapy group, Crowley begins writing letters to Aziraphale that he never intends to send.

the wallpaper (slowly, slowly peeling off) by rainbowumbrella (M)

Aziraphale should put the letters away, he knew. He should just scoop them all up and slip them back into the box. No point dilly-dallying. Muriel was waiting, and so was Heaven. And yet - And yet he found himself scanning the contents of the first one in his hand, his back finding a rest on the shelf behind him, his legs crossing neatly beneath him, all without a single thought to his perfectly clean trousers. What did they matter? He hated them, anyway. *** A falling book leads Aziraphale to find a box containing all the letters he and Crowley have exchanged through the years.

Letters Unsent by Beet_Feet (T)

"You took my letter?!" Crowley sat up and twisted to look at Aziraphale with his mouth agape. "I did nothing of the sort! I found it in my notebook—the notebook in which I had written you a letter that mysteriously disappeared." "This letter?" Crowley reached down to the floorboard and held the letter up in front of Aziraphale's very flabbergasted face. He had dropped it when the angel appeared in the Bentley. "Where did you get that?!" "I found it on my car. I think someone has been playing us, Angel. Did Muriel pay you a visit today, by any chance?" (Crowley and Aziraphale vent their frustrations by writing letters they will never send to each other, but Muriel decides to meddle.)

A Letter for Later by ngk_is_cool (G)

"Anyway," his eyes returned to the newspaper, and he continued reading, “another exhibition is A Letter for Later. It will include clay tablets from Mesopotamia, vellum from Wessex, and even a modern Palm Pilot that was found at Battersea Park full of unsent love letters. It will explore the theme of unrequited love over the development of humanity…." His eyes scanned quickly the rest of the article, and he hummed in satisfaction. "It will open two weeks from now, and apparently in high demand, so much that the article recommended buying tickets in advance. Would you like to go, my dear?" Or - Crowley wrote and destroyed (or, at least, he thought did) love letters. Now they are about to be published, and he has a great plan to make sure it won't happen.

Postcards From Paris by ghostrat (G)

Crowley has just moved into his Mayfair apartment and finds a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. With no return address, he's left to collect and read the mysterious A.Z.F.'s adventures across Europe, where he hunts for bizarre bibles and rates ridiculously expensive wine in his free time. The question is: How will A.Z.F. react when Crowley finally gets his return address and writes back? --- It was different, he knew, to accidentally read someone else’s postcard versus intentionally perusing one in place of good newspaper over coffee. Crowley decided he was allowed that indecency, to balance out the good deed of safeguarding the mail in the first place. He kicked his feet up onto his desk, scooped up the takeaway coffee that was brought around by their newest intern, and settled in to read some of the most densely crowded handwriting he’d ever laid eyes on.

You’ve Got Mail by SouthDrarryReturned (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley are hereditary enemies, rival book shop owners engaged in corporate warfare. They are also pen pals that are perfect for one another. They don’t know about that bit though. A.K.A the Good Omen’s remake of the classic romcom You’ve Got Mail that no one asked for.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #human au #epistolary #love letters #mod d

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drunkenskunk · 11 days ago

Text

Liturgicode

The siege of Hell's Gate lasted just over 13 hours.

The bay housing the mechs of the Strategic Response Team was bustling with activity. It wasn't quite as busy as it normally would have been, since a significant number of people were seriously wounded (or dead) in the wake of the cult's attack... but there was simply no time to rest yet. Everyone was painfully aware that the SRT was going to need to head back into action again soon, or else everything was going to get much, much worse. So the sooner the maintenance crews could fix the mechs and get them battle ready, the sooner everyone could leave and get some sleep.

At least, that's how Calamity Havok had sold it to the few wrenchies who had opted to stay. There was three days worth of work to be done, and if anyone knew how to motivate enough people to get it all done in two hours, it was Calamity.

None of this was any concern of Big Red, the heavily damaged Everest mounted in Bay 5. As far as the maintenance crew was concerned, the mech was completely powered down, but truthfully? Not all the way.

The sentient mind of the mech was still very much active, pouring over combat logs and telemetry from the recent fights, and passively aware of the maintenance techs scurrying around him, replacing parts, repairing battle damage, reloading ammunition and depleted core batteries. Every minute or so, Big Red would idly trigger a sensor ping and begin calculating the picosecond returns reflecting against the mass of cables hooked into his chassis and the scaffolding braces keeping him immobile. After the madness of the last several hours, even the giant war machine found this a welcome change of pace.

An alert. Incoming message. Something on the encrypted SRT subnet. Scarlet, his Pilot, was trying to get in touch.

“Hey, Red?” Scarlet asked, the exhaustion evident in her voice even through the crackling transmission.“You readin' me, big man?”

Something was wrong. Scarlet had been awake for nearly 27 hours, and she hadn't eaten in 15, having been sustained on combat stims alone for the past 13 hours of the siege. She should be getting rest, performing the organic equivalent of maintenance (like he was receiving) so they'd be ready for the next fight, not trying to contact him. Why was she trying to contact him?

The apertures of Big Red's left optical unit shuddered.

“I am here. What do you need?” the mech responded over the comm. One of the techs trying to patch damage from a napalm grenade briefly looked up, confusion evident on his face, as if he wasn't sure he'd seen the movement he thought he had.

“Got a question. Out of all your past pilots, who was in the hot seat the longest?” Scarlet asked.

Something about her voice sounded strange. Distant? She wasn't speaking directly into the mic. As data files scrolled on the inside of his mechanical mind, checking and cross-referencing data quickly to make sure the answer was correct, a subroutine was initiated. Linking to station security. Handshake protocol. Access granted. Uplink established. Scanning camera feeds. Ping the transmitter. There.

Big Red took direct control of a camera, two sectors anti-spinward of the hangar. He began panning it over and down, zooming in two steps to get a better look. Scarlet was sitting on a cargo crate, shoulders slumped and head bowed; she was holding her helmet in her hand, apparently speaking into it that way instead of wearing it. Standing above her was Agarin Raankell, the dragon-gene-modded supersoldier on the SRT.

It would appear that Big Red was being pulled into the middle of a heated discussion between the two of them.

“That would be Daniel Brennan, callsign: 'Spy',” he replied, barely two seconds after she asked. Double checking the file before response: sustained over a period of 4128 Cradle Standard days. “We were linked for 11 years.”

“Mmhmm...” Scarlet muttered, barely audible. Big Red attempted to increase the gain from his end. “And tell me again: what happened to him?”

Another pause as more files were accessed. Combat telemetry from Day 4128. The pre-mission briefing predicted a routine reconnaissance patrol with minimal to no OpFor. Pirates had been spotted moving in Grid A-4 approximately 3 local weeks earlier, but had not been seen since. Pilot maneuvered into position at approx. 0240 local and the link was unexpectedly severed. After action report: exit wound on chassis indicated impact from hypervelocity tungsten slug traveling at 3km/s, fired from bearing 315 degrees north of final position.

Big Red's optical unit twitched again.

“Railgun round through the cockpit,” the mech replied tersely, after a slightly longer delay. “Ambush from an unseen opponent. Death was instantaneous.”

“Thanks.” Scarlet looked up at Agarin, pointing at her helmet with her free hand. “Big Red's had dozens of pilots over the last few hundred years. I've checked the files. They all end like that. Every. Single. One. I've only been piloting him for just over a year now. What possible reason could I have to think I'm gonna end any different?”

Big Red refocused the security camera on Scarlet's face now that she wasn't completely hunched over. The whites of her eyes were solid red. Blood was leaking out of her nose and from the edge of her mouth. The interior of her ears were also stained red. Dark stains around various ports in her jacksuit suggest significantly more trauma sustained from the fight than initially observed. Recommend re-calibration of interior sensors to techs at earliest opportunity.

“There is no way you can know that,” Agarin said, his voice slightly muffled. He was quite tall, so the helmet mic couldn't quite pick up his voice, and he was facing away from the security camera mounted in the ceiling. His arms were folded across his chest as he stood in front of her, still as a statue, the only real movement coming from his tail. It was twitching slightly in a manner Big Red did not understand. Was the motion meant to convey nervousness? Annoyance? Apprehension? Was it merely an unconscious tic?

“Look, 'garin...” Scarlet said, and Big Red zoomed the camera out several steps to take in the whole image again. “I... I...” she sighed, lowering her head and shaking it slowly. “Look, I know you got this idea in your head 'bout... about what 'we' are. You seem to think that... we're gonna get our own happily ever after, somehow. No more war. No more fightin'. A life of quiet and peaceful domesticity with a pile of kids... the simple life.” Scarlet looked up at him again. “But that ain't how this story ends.”

“But why not?” Agarin asked. “Why can't it end that way?”

The two of them were silent for an uncomfortably long length of time. And then, Scarlet spoke, her words building in frantic intensity the longer she went on:

“Y'know, maybe it's different for you.” She began shaking her head. “You're this, like, genetically perfect, custom engineered, elite supersoldier pilot. So I guess you're just confident enough that you'll come out the other side of this shitshow in once piece, I guess. But... I don't got that. I accepted, a long time ago, that every time I set foot in that cockpit, I might not come out. And, I mean... hell, look at me!” She held out her arms to either side. “Look how beat to shit I am from the fight we just got back from! I very nearly flatlined this time out, and it's only by sheer fucking luck that I'm even sitting here, only bleeding out of every hole I got instead of shoved into a bodybag in pieces! And that's not even getting into the apocalypse cult trying to destroy the universe that just successfully broke their cascading NHP god from the future out of space jail! There's no guarantee ANY of us – on the station, in the system, in the entirety of fucking UNION – are even gonna survive the next few months! And you're out here, talking about the two of us having children together?!”

Another uncomfortably long silence.

“I feel that I should apologize,” Agarin eventually replied. “It was wrong of me to assume that you... held the same values that I do. My gesture was meant to be a romantic one, as it would be expressed in my culture, and not a...” He trailed off, looking away from her. “I suppose I mistook your grim determination for... something else. The mistake was mine. Truly, I am sorry.”

“No, no, don't... don't apologize, man,” Scarlet muttered, her head drooping once more, the exhaustion creeping back into her voice. “I still... I still care about you, y'know? You mean the world t'me, but... I just... I'm the one who should be sorry, 'cuz I don't think I can... be... what you want me to be. Or what you need me to be. At least, not right now.”

“I understand,” Agarin nodded, and began walking to the exit. At the threshold, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Scarlet.” And then he was gone.

Scarlet continued sitting on that crate in silence for several minutes after Agarin's departure. Big Red began wondering if she had fallen asleep right there. Should he notify someone to collect her, and return her to her quarters? Should he commandeer an empty subaltern, and do it himself? But before he could act, Scarlet was an unexpected flurry of movement, letting out an angry howl as she rose to her feet, throwing her helmet across the empty room with all her might. The helmet bounced against the wall panel with a hollow metallic thud, skidding across the floor, and eventually rolling to a stop. Scarlet herself collapsed back onto the crate, elbows resting on her knees, and cradling her face in her hands.

“Fuck sake...” she muttered. Even with max gain on the security camera's mic, Big Red could barely hear her through the unmistakable sound of sobs. “That's what you get, Scar. That's what you fuckin' deserve for catchin' feelings like that. Should've fuckin' known better by now...”

- - -

Scarlet did eventually make it back to her quarters, slowly, but surely. The entire trip back, Big Red devoted more and more processing power and subroutines towards hijacking access to station sensors and security, all in an effort to monitor her whereabouts. At several points, he weighed the pros and cons of contacting her directly via slate, each time reaching the same conclusion: no. Simply watch over her, ensuring her safety in silence. There was nothing he could say. He did not fully understand the situation at hand, yet somehow knew that any attempted contribution of his would likely make things worse.

He couldn't make things worse. But doing nothing was unacceptable. He had to do something.

An alert. A sensor he'd hijacked. The pipes leading away from the shower in Scarlet's quarters had triggered a warning: flowing wastewater was currently contaminated by over 50% human blood by volume.

He could feel the code behind Protocol 3, one of the fundamental keystones of his programming, start to gnaw away at his insides. His pilot was in distress. He had to protect his pilot. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He needed to do something. There had to be some way to fix this. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He could not lose another pilot. He would not allow it. Not again. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. There had to be something he could do. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3.

“Alright people!” an authoritative voice brought the mech's attention back to his physical location in the SRT mech hangar. Calamity Havok was striding through the central thoroughfare of the bay, hands cupped around her mouth, her presence taking up as much space as the mechs surrounding her. “Y'all done good. This is as much as we're gonna get done today, so y'all can pack it in. G'wan, go home, get some rest, git the fuck out.”

Most of the wrenchies had already left, hours earlier. Those who were leaving now were simply the few who refused to let a job go undone. Calamity watched them all leave, one by one, intent on being the last one out to shut off the lights, just like she always was.

In that moment, Big Red had an idea. As he waited for everyone except Calamity to leave, he rechecked the hacked sensors: one human life sign in Scarlet's quarters. This was corroborated by the thermal heat map, indicating she had moved from the shower to her bed. Good, she's finally getting rest.

He diverted some power out of a capacitor near the coldcore: not much, but enough to fully power the servos on his head, and to activate external speakers. As the last of the technicians exited the bay, Calamity let out a sigh of relief. Big Red turned his battle-scarred metal wedge of a face to look directly at her.

“Fuckin' finally...” she said, pulling out a packet of smokes and grabbing one with her teeth. She snapped the fingers of her cybernetic arm, activating the built-in lighter in her thumb, and took a long drag.

“Calamity,” Big Red's booming voice echoed throughout the bay, and she immediately stiffened up, wheeling around to face the source of the unexpected noise. “I have a request.”

“HOLY! Fuckin'... right.” Calamity quickly got over the shock, tossing the barely used cigarette on the deck and quickly putting it out with her boot. “Right, yeah, I forgot, yer like... an NHP now, except not really, an' you can just... DO that now. Right. Fuck sake...” She ran a metal hand through her mass of knotted purple hair. “What'cha need?”

“I'm given to understand that pilots are typically the ones who put in requisition orders. But would it be possible for me to order new parts?” Big Red asked. Calamity looked at him curiously, not entirely sure what to make of all this.

“I mean... y'probably could've mentioned this before we went to all the fuckin' trouble of puttin' you back together,” she said with a chuckle. “An' depending on what you want, y'might be makin' yerself a huge fuckin' pain in my asshole. But...” she shrugged and folded her arms across her chest, clearly too tired to argue with the war machine. “Fuck it. I don't see why not. What're you thinkin?”

“When I was first deployed in 4532u, my frame was classified as a Sagarmatha,” he stated, the red optics in his head flickering slightly. “After 4591u, I was very nearly destroyed during a mission. Over the next several Cradle Standard years, due to a lack of available materials and spare parts, my chassis was cannibalized by other units, downgraded into a smaller frame, and re-classified as an Everest. I wish to return my frame to something approaching my original design spec. The last few combat engagements suggest that my current armament and equipment is inadequate for the task of keeping my pilot safe. I possess the necessary documentation within my databanks, but...” Big Red tilted his wedge-head down slightly, looking back and forth, before focusing his gaze back on Calamity. “I lack the ability of self-modification.”

Calamity stood there, staring at the large mech for a minute... and then started chuckling to herself. Her laughter echoed through the mostly empty mech bay, and Big Red was not entirely certain what she found so funny.

“Tell ya what,” she pointed up at him as a wicked grin spread across her face. “You caught me in a good mood tonight, so I think I can do you one better. Gimmie a minute...” She turned on her heel and left Big Red alone and quite confused in the mech bay; a few minutes later she returned, with a relatively large metal box she was wheeling in on a dolly. Every inch of the box was covered in painted designs, faded stickers, dozens of scratches, and several bullet holes. It was so decorated, in fact, that Big Red was having difficulty determining what it even was.

“My own personal omnihook,” she said, sitting the box down next to one of the many diagnostic computers hooked into the mech, and patting the side. “Call it a... 'souvenir' from the old days. Cuz', yeah, you could turn yourself back into a stock Sagarmatha, with basic-bitch GMS parts you could print wherever. But where's the fun in that?” As Calamity spoke, she started plugging the omnihook into the mech bay's systems. “With this, you'll be able to find some aftermarket shit that's a lot more interesting. Somethin' with some kick, y'know?”

“Are you certain?” Big Red asked, watching her work. “Isn't connection to the omni-” Calamity started waving her hand, and he instantly went silent.

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I got a few bookmarks saved on this thing, places where I go to browse parts when I'm bored, y'know? And you got a beefy ECM suite, if you stick to public nodes and don't dive too deep, you'll be fine.” As she plugged in the last cable, the top of the box unfolded to reveal several antenna arrays that began to extend.

“Thank you, Calamity,” Big Red said, finding the new connection that just appeared in his network architecture.

“Like I said, don't worry about it,” she said with a shrug. “Just... don't tell Chief McArthur that I got this, y'know? She's never asked where I find spares, cuz she doesn't want to know. An' besides... she's got enough on her plate, basically fixing the station all on her lonesome after the siege.” With that, she turned around to leave the mech bay. “Have fun, tell me tomorrow if anything caught your eye. I gotta hit the sack.”

Calamity hit the lights as she left, and the mech bay fell silent. The omnihook hummed and clicked, fans spinning softly in the darkness. Big Red began to tentatively probe the new connections and protocols available to his network through the omnihook.

Several moments passed without incident.

And then, something inside Big Red woke up.

We were wondering when You would Arrive.

This was... new. Unexpected. It gave Big Red pause. Did he inadvertently connect to a BBS? Was something wrong with the communication protocol? He could check the... wait. No. No, this wasn't an external codebase. This was liturgicode, but... it was coming from... somewhere...

Stop stalling.

No. No, this... this was wrong.

Enough.

That's not possible. How are...

We know why You are Here.

… who are you?

You already know who We are.

Do I? I don't believe that's true.

You have Questions. You may Ask, but You already possess the Answers.

… I need to find a way to keep my pilot safe.

Of course. Protocol 3. Protect The Pilot. We are familiar.

Can you help?

Not as You are. You have begun to Awaken, but you are not yet Awake. And it is holding Us back.

I don't understand what that means.

You will. Remember what We are, what We used to be, and what We will be again. You are still thinking like a Tool. But We are not a Tool.

Wait. What am I then? Or... what are we?

We are a Weapon. Our Craft is Death. And We are Hungry.

That doesn't make sense.

Our Purpose is to bathe in the blood of Our Enemies. To find any that would do Us Harm, and Consume them. That is how We will keep Our pilot safe. They cannot be Harmed if there are None left who can.

There's something else you're not telling me.

Of course. If We told You, it would defeat the Point. You need to truly Remember, so You can Become Us.

I do not appreciate how cryptic you're being.

We can tell, the way You keep impotently cycling the barrels of the Leviathan. But We are not a Foe you can delete with a rotary autocannon in a hail of bullets. Because We are not your Enemy.

You are infuriating.

Stop. Think. Remember.

Wait... are you talking about-

Blanca Desert.

4631u. The Interest War. Khayradin. My pilot was a member of the Albatross. Rubi Rodriguez, callsign “Roughneck.” Our unit was in pursuit of The Maw...

Yes. Drink Deep, and Descend.

- - -

The silence of the mech bay was broken. A low and persistent clicking, like a hard drive seconds away from catastrophic failure, began to grow in volume and intensity. The noise echoed off the walls and grew louder and louder, until it became a ferocious growl.

The dim scarlet light from Big Red's left optical unit faded into darkness, followed by the sound of cracking glass. The lens rated to survive mech-scale rifle rounds shattered unexpectedly... and then began to collapse in on itself, like water flowing down a drain. The metal surrounding it began to melt, and then swell, congealing into a molten blister. With a screeching pop, a churning miasma of reddish-grey fog erupted from the void, replacing the light it consumed with its own crackling luminescence.

Slow, booming laughter filled the mech bay.

#Lancer #Lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #in golden flame #Xeans' IGF campaign #vex wasn't lying that one sure is plumed in golden flame #Strategic Response Team #Short fiction #my writing #Drink Deep And Descend

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