#ankle monitor AU

[dysco-lymonade]

Ankle monitor clexa for kissing prompt 2 please 😊

“You taste like my new addiction.” Lexa feels more than hears Clarke murmur into the crook of her neck.

Lexa barely holds back a snort. “Oh, come on. You can do better than that.”

Clarke continues peppering kisses up Lexa’s neck, across her jaw, and finally latches back onto her lips. “I’m a thief, and I’m here to steal your heart.”

Lexa chuckles into the kiss. It’s the perfect kind of kiss, grins knocking against each other, more tasting smiles than tongues. “Clarke, you’re so sweet you’re giving me a toothache.”

“Did you just drink a Coke? You’re soda-licious.” This one earns Clarke a full blown giggle while Lexa pulls her down fully onto the bed.

“I’ll show you delicious.”

[abovesn4kes]

More 1999 AU Content

[appallinnballin]

au where Sarv is the new president of the homeowners association and she personally makes a visit to longtime homeowner Ruv who breaks all the rules and finds out hes on house arrest

[cloudysarts]

hi hi I LOVE GLASSES BILL

Mabel and Soos would totally help him pick out frames if he wasn’t locked up in the theraprism. WELL. If he isn’t out to kill them I mean 😭 Silly powerless guy sent back to Gravity Falls and is taken in like a sad mangy feral cat AUs my beloveds

HI THANK YOU!!!!! 🫶🫶 ALSO AUGH SO TRUE

mabel would absolutely be down for helping him pick frammess not that it matters bc she is covering all the not-glass parts of it with encouraging stickers immediately. bill does not like them <3

[endrimer]

hes such a loser (i love hihm)

i hc that!!! every demon has quirky horns ala homestuck. some of them have different colors though.

jodie's horns r blue probably

i think its more of a personality thing than a genetic thing, but also taylor with blue horns is funny i should do that. he thinks theyre gonna be red but they arent which is LAME!!!!! so he paints over them to look cooler

glenn's horns are red. idk about morgan honestly

nick's horns are blue but if you cut into them theyre red. idk i think that woud be cool

hermie's are purple. scam likely genes. i think his horns would be a swirly shape.

all the horns start out as little nubs!!!! they only get bigger and quirkier when demon puberty hits. your personality and self is basically more developed by then so the shape and color r like. more defined. do you get me. it’s like a cutie mark but for demons which is very funny to me. im unsruer if hermie 2 would have the same horns but i think it would be funny if they were slightly different. or the same. who knowzs.

[dontthinkwedontnoticeyou]

I have 0 writing skills, but my brain keeps tossing concepts at me. Sometimes these ideas get pretty complex, but they’re never quite complete. So, I guess I’ll just throw this out there as the lamest form of fanfiction ever created? (If anyone wants to adopt this concept—go for it, you have my blessing, for I will never expand it further!)

~*~

Concept:

This is a The Raven Cycle/Dreamer Trilogy Alternate Universe (AU) with no magic. The characters are aged up, and while they all knew each other in school and were once close (in many different ways), life has drifted them apart. The story takes place mostly in Washington, D.C.

Characters & Plot(holes):

Adam Parrish works in the District Attorney's office, involved in a high-profile case against Colin Greenmantle, a notorious criminal mastermind. Greenmantle’s been involved in drug trafficking, forgery, blackmail, and more, but Adam can’t nail him—there’s no solid proof. It’s driving him mad until he begins receiving anonymous tips. Skeptical at first, Adam soon realizes they’re legit, and with this help, he’s able to land the first serious blow against Greenmantle.

Richard Gansey III is now a young, popular senator, considered a political prodigy. While admired by many, he’s also made powerful enemies in the political arena. Over the years, he’s distanced himself from his old friends, although he crosses paths with Adam occasionally, usually at official events. He also runs into Declan Lynch, the personal assistant to Senator Seondeok Cheng, though their interactions remain distant and formal—there’s an unspoken tension between them, and, additionally, Gansey and Senator Cheng often clash.

Joseph Kavinsky works for Greenmantle, managing drug operations. Because of reasons [Plot Hole #1], he decides that if he wants to survive, he needs to escape Greenmantle’s grasp. But no one leaves Greenmantle’s web in one piece. To get out, Kavinsky starts feeding information to Adam—yes, he’s the anonymous tipster! Once Adam discovers Kavinsky’s identity, they have a heated confrontation, and Adam nearly shuts him down. But Kavinsky drops a bombshell: he has proof that Greenmantle orchestrated the murders of Niall and Aurora Lynch, Ronan’s parents, all those years ago. This tips the scales, and Adam decides to continue working with him. First, however, he needs to check with Ronan.

Ronan Lynch has made some bad decisions in life and is estranged from everyone—Adam, Gansey, even Declan. When Adam visits him at his home, back in Virginia, he’s slightly surprised to find Ronan under house arrest, an ankle monitor keeping him confined to the Barns. There’s tension between them from the start, a mix of unresolved feelings, hurt, and something more difficult to name. Ronan, being direct as ever, quickly gets Adam to admit why he’s really there. When Adam reveals that Kavinsky claims to have proof about his parents’ murder, Ronan snarls, "You want my blessing or what, Parrish?" and takes a swig from his beer.

When Adam returns to Washington, he finds Kavinsky waiting for him in his apartment with Hennessy, who works for Greenmantle in the art forgery department. Hennessy has somehow discovered that Kavinsky plans to betray Greenmantle [Plot Hole #2] and decides to join him in taking Greenmantle down. Her motivation? She’s tired of Greenmantle threatening her sister Jordan, who’s trying to live a normal, legal life—Jordan has recently started seeing a guy she met at a fundraiser at the art gallery where she works, a fundraiser organized by Senator Cheng (or rather, her assistant, Declan—yes, that guy Jordan's seeing).

Senator Cheng, although powerful, finds herself caught in Greenmantle’s web. He’s blackmailing her, forcing her to vote his way in the Senate, something that frustrates her deeply. Declan notices her odd behavior, which threatens her political career. When he confronts her, she makes a vague comment about someone pulling the strings behind the scenes, leaving Declan to piece it together. Declan eventually reaches out to Gansey, who reveals that Adam might be on the verge of exposing something big.

Kavinsky tells Adam about a major upcoming drug deal that could be Greenmantle’s undoing. The two of them, occassionally joined by Hennessy, work late into the night at Adam’s penthouse, preparing their plan. And sure, Kavinsky is a pain in the ass in many ways, but he’s also pretty smart and cunning, and quite good looking, Adam reckons. He can be quite funny, too.

Things escalate when Greenmantle discovers Kavinsky’s betrayal [Plot Hole #3]. There’s a dramatic car chase through the streets of Washington, with Kavinsky on the phone with Adam, telling him to get Hennessy to safety. Prokopenko, one of Greenmantle’s thugs, shoots out the tires of Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi, leading to a spectacular crash. The Mitsu is totalled. By some miracle, Kavinsky survives, but he’s injured and unconscious. With a crowd gathering, Prokopenko can’t finish the job, and Kavinsky is taken to the hospital. Adam and Hennessy quickly sneak him out through the back door once he’s stable enough and drive him out of town. ("Make sure he’s asleep. Or better, tie him up." "Why?" "Because if he knows where we’re heading, he might try to jump ouf of the car.")

They’re going to the Barns.

Adam stashes Kavinsky at Ronan’s house, despite Ronan’s fury at the idea. ("I know what happened between you two back then, but I don’t have a choice, Ronan. All the information about your parents... it’s from him.") Ronan’s pissed but restrained by his ankle monitor, so he’s stuck with them. Hennessy calls her sister Jordan, warning her to lay low, and Ronan overhears their strained conversation. He notices how similar Hennessy and Jordan’s relationship is to his with Declan—complicated and distant.

Adam stays at the Barns until Kavinsky is better. They’re forced to wait and adjust their original plan. Adam is on the phone with Gansey constantly, and Gansey’s political connections become crucial to the new strategy [Plot Hole #4].

As Adam, Ronan, and Kavinsky are forced into close proximity, their complicated pasts and unresolved feelings rise to the surface. What starts as antagonism and old attraction gradually turns into an exploration of a polyamorous relationship, surprising all three. The emotional depth, tension, and vulnerability between them add complexity to their interactions.

Meanwhile, Greenmantle, desperate to find Hennessy, manipulates Jordan into luring her sister out. However, this backfires—Declan storms into the art auction John Wick-style to rescue Jordan. During the escape, Declan is shot, but he still manages to get her to safety. His bravery and injury end up deepening his relationship with Jordan (also, he’s undeniably sexy while bleeding, so I can't leave it out).

[Something something something, action, drama, romance, gay porn, etc]

Greenmantle’s empire begins to collapse. Senator Cheng uses her political maneuvering, Gansey applies his influence, and Adam, with Kavinsky’s help, provides the legal expertise to tighten the net around Greenmantle. In the end, Greenmantle is brought down, but the characters are left to deal with the aftermath.

Declan and Jordan’s relationship becomes serious, while Ronan and Declan begin to rebuild their brotherly bond, slowly healing old wounds. Adam, Ronan, and Kavinsky navigate their new, unconventional relationship as they embrace the possibility of polyamory.

Happily ever after.

Curtain.

[dreamieparadise]

Gonna (try) sleep(ing), but I'll finish this tomorrow for sure...!!

Jojo and I coming up with a brand new au again...

[coldslaws]

n being on house arrest was hard in the beginning

[batfamdannyphantomsstuff]

Danny "I am Momther Now." Fenton in Gotham where his Baby/sister/cousin has been living with Uncle Waylon visiting. These are The Terrors formerly named The Terror Tots by Waylon Jones, named such cause Dani was caught teaching Grundy and some of the littles Nursery rhymes and was learning how to read with some of the other kids.

Danny is desperately running away. Not from a robber, they’re not much of a threat to him anyways, but from a really intense Batman.

“Oh my ancients,” he muttered as he sprinted away from the dude swinging above him. “Can you please go away?! I already paid you back, dude!” Danny raised his voice at the swooping figure above him. He wished he could go ghost, but that would break his cover so fast as a “meta” or whatever.

“Stop running,” Batman landed in front of him, growl reverberating around them.

“Stop chasing me then! It’s bad manners!” And Danny’s from the midwest, so that’s an actual concern.

“How did you find Two-Face?” Batman loomed before stepping back when Danny’s shoulders curled inwards.

“Oh. Is that what this is all about?” Danny huffed. “It was self defense! And… the pun was too good to not, you know? Yeah, no, I had to. Prime opportunity.”

The cowl might hide it but Danny always knew when people are doing that nose pinch of exasperation. It’s a talent he carefully cultivated through shenanigans and puns.

Batman? Definitely inwardly pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How did you find him? Harvey Dent is a dangerous criminal.”

“In my defense,” Danny started, like a teenager caught guiltily shoving the entire cookie jar into his room instead of leaving some for the rest of the family. “He found me first. Well, no, he found the kids first. He started it!”

Batman somehow raised an eyebrow. How the hell does he do that?? The cowl covered the entire upper half of his face! Danny squinted at him. Is Batman a meta?

“Listen, I didn’t start it, but my sister sure as heck taught me how to end it. It’s not my fault Dent couldn’t handle a beat down. And I told you I was gonna pay you back for that one (1) Big Dent! If you wanted cash, you should have said so!”

“Hrm.”

Maybe it was the fancy gear. Maybe it was the pointy head thing. Batman reminded Danny way too much of Vlad and he got the ick.

“Okay, well, good talk, bye!” Danny ducked and ran, faster than he had before.

Batman grappled up and forward, trying to grab him. Danny, with years of dodge training under his belt and impeccable teenage instincts of gtfo, managed to dodge Batman’s reaching hands with a hollered “OPE!”

“Bye! See you never!” Danny ducked behind an alley and turned invisible as Batman swooped past.

When he was sure the vigilante was gone, he slowly faded into the visible spectrum.

“Jeez. Better warn Amy about this. Maybe I should hide in Crime Alley until this blows past.”

——

Gotham’s underbelly had a new tale to sling around their bars that week and a new demographic to be wary of.

The Terrors, the kiddie gang that ran perpendicular to Crime alley, was preyed on by Harvey Dent.

“What do you think you’re doing to them?!”

“Ahhhhhh!!!” Harvey screamed, flailing as a creature of shadows and claws- god damn those sharp ass claws- descended upon him, scarring it just one side but both sides of his very vulnerable face!

“Back the hell off of my kids, you fashion reject!”

As for Harvey… well, he’s developed an aversion to the smell of peanut butter and small children.

——

Batman, hunting down Danny because he’s worried about the endangered meta kid: you left me a Dent.

Danny, because he sees a vigilante bum rushing him: I have no cash! That’s the only way I can pay you back rn!

——

Batman, trying to lecture Danny about safety because he’s a worried batdad:

Danny: ew a rich stalker trying to be my dad!

@tricksterwitchkat can you tell I’ve been thinking about your pun for days? This is for you, thank you so much for that pun, it made my entire week.

[roiistarr]

Wir Au where After King Candy died in that volcano he respawned as Turbo because Vanellope reseted the game and he was kicked out of every single game. Then he was sent to Surge Protector who put an ankle monitor on that keep hims in Game Central Station and he's forced to work as a janitor.

Guys I'm failing all my classes somebody help

[luveline]

i love dad au’s! what about kbd!steve feeling a little overwhelmed and accidentally snapping and it startles one of the girls? like dove walking in their bedroom when you’re trying to calm him down. love your work❤️

thank u for requesting!! mom!reader, 1.1k

A hard knock on the door startles you. You don’t think one of the girls could emit so much force, so you assume it to be your husband. “Yeah, babe, I’m getting dressed.” 

“I need to talk to you.” 

“Okay,” you say, not worried, but not not worried. Nobody ever likes hearing that phrase without a quick follow up. You pull your pants over damp legs and leave the towel around your shoulders to catch any run off, opening the door for Steve where he waits on the other side. He looks strange; he’s not smiling. You go to touch his face and he ducks away from your touch.

“Steve, what?” you ask, confused. 

He peels away into the bedroom. You follow quickly. You want to close the door but think better of it —Dove is in her room with a faulty baby monitor.  

“I need more help,” he says tightly. 

“Okay. With what?” 

“No, that’s the problem. I can’t keep telling you everything.”

He sounds so angry so suddenly, it isn’t like him. You fight the urge to be defensive, and then the want to cry, holding out one of your hands to him in the universal gesture for calm down. “Okay. I’m sorry. Just give me some leeway, okay? Because the thing that you’re mad about right now has been stewing with you for ages, but this is the first I’ve heard about it.” 

He sits down hard on the end of the bed. You stand there for a few seconds, tense, but you really, really love him. You get down onto your knees and look up into his face, clasping your hand loosely around his ankle. “I’m sorry, H. Please don’t be angry with me yet.” 

“I’m not angry with you, I just need more help this week and you haven’t noticed, and that pissed me off.” 

“You think maybe I didn’t notice ‘cos I had all that stupid work stuff to do?” you ask gently. It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to be calm right now, but you’re trying because it’s you and Steve. He deserves your effort more than anyone else in the world, especially now that he’s telling you he needs it. “What do you want my help with, honey? I’ll only make you tell me once.” 

“But why do I have to tell you once?” he asks. 

“Because I’m busy too.” 

He shakes his head. “That pisses me off, though. We’re both busy, we’re both struggling, but I’m the one who ends up picking up the slack.”

“I’m sure it feels that way for you,” you say, trying to be patient, pretty close to losing it, “but I’ve been doing a lot this week. I have.”

He looks disgusted for a moment, just a split second, and you’re so worried he’s aiming that disgust at you that you duck your chin, eyes clouding with hurt. 

“Sorry,” he says. He covers his eyes with the back of his hand, pitch rising with emotion. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Honey,” you murmur, rubbing his thigh. He curls into himself, and you might not see it often but you know what he looks like when he’s going to cry. “Sweetheart, please don’t be upset.”

“I’m being mean,” he says. 

“No you’re not! You’re not being mean at all, you’re asking for help, and you’re telling me how you feel, that’s not mean, that’s the right thing to do, even if you’re angry.” You try to catch his gaze. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I know how much you do. I should’ve noticed, even if I’m busy. That’s not okay of me. I promise I’ll do better now you’ve told me. Won’t make you tell me again.”

He sighs as the first awful tear breaks from his lashes. “I think I’m really tired,” he says, half laugh and half sob. 

You encourage him into a bendy hug. He’s boiling hot under your hands, sniffling as you rub a line up and down his back. “I’m sorry. It’s not fair that you feel like this. I’m supposed to look after you,” you murmur. 

“I don’t even care that you’re not helping as much as I need you to,” he admits, “I’m just so tired.” 

“Why don’t you lie down? You don’t have to suffer in silence, baby. You told me how you feel and now I’m gonna pull my socks up and take care of you.” He shudders with tears. 

“Dad?” Dove asks worriedly. 

She’s standing in the doorway with her empty bottle in her hand, which she drops. 

Steve immediately wipes his face but it’s no use, she’s seen he’s upset already, and she doesn’t like the look of it. Her eyes fill with tears, staring at him in shock. 

“Oh, Dove, don’t cry,” he says. His own surprise prompts another tear to roll down his cheek. 

“Daddy,” she says, looking at you like you can fix it. 

“Come here, dad,” you say showfully, pulling at his face as you reach up from your kneeling to kiss his damp cheeks. “Don’t be upset! Let me kiss it better.” 

He cups the back of your neck and lets you kiss him all over. “Thank you, angel. Thank you, I feel better already.” 

Your kisses are sincere, if a little for show. You wipe his cheeks dry with your thumbs as you go, and take a hand through his hair as you lean back. He gives you a sorry smile. 

“Do you want to come and give him a kiss?” you ask from over your shoulder. 

Dove walks into the arm you hold out for her and climbs into your lap, then Steve’s. He sniffles and holds her, misery in his frame but the relief of having your kid to squeeze clear. “Sorry, Dove, did dad worry you?”  he asks in a murmur, lips near the top of her ear as he hugs her close. She’s small enough that his arm covers near the entirety of her back. 

You pat his thigh. He reaches for your hand to hold. 

“Crying,” she mumbles. 

“Sorry. I was just tired.”

“You okay?” she asks, like he’d ask her. 

“Yeah.” He threads your fingers together and leans away, smiling affectionately at Dove. She looks a lot like him when she smiles back, though you have to skew your head to see it. Same eyes, same dip in their top lip. “Mom kissed it better. Well, mostly. I just need, like, one more kiss, and then I will be perfect. Do you think so?” 

She knows what he’s doing, laughing warmly as she leans in to kiss his cheek. 

His eyes close as she ducks in, a small smile on his lips. 

Man, you think. If Steve’s out of commission, I have so much laundry to do. 

[dysco-lymonade]

"…to distract" for ankle monitor au ✨

This got dirtier than I intended.

Lexa wandered into the corner store later than usual, and it happened to be just a few minutes before Clarke was getting off work. After Clarke had declined Lexa’s invitation to the Polis U Law Department fundraiser, the blonde had been making an effort to try to get closer to Lexa. 

“I want to take you out.” Clarke had said to Lexa as she walked into Sky Mart.

“I would love that, Clarke. But you and I both know that can’t happen.” Lexa replied dejectedly. 

“You lack imagination, Lex.” Clarke raised an eyebrow. Lexa knew she was in trouble. “Just trust me. What are you doing tonight?”

“It’s midnight, I’m going home.” Lexa laughed, “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, but there is, counselor.” And there’s that wink again. “I’m about to clock out. Come with me?”

Who is Lexa to deny this girl? Even if it ends up in a run-in with the law, due to the tracker securely attached to Clarke’s ankle. 

-

And so Lexa finds herself inside of Clarke’s apartment. It’s not the first time she’s been here. But it looks vastly different. The living room is spotless, as is the kitchen. 

“I was thinking maybe I could draw you. Show you that I’m more than just a vandal.” Clarke jokes, “If that's something you’d be into?”

Lexa pauses in the living room. 

“Draw me?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying, at work, in my down-time. But I can’t seem to get your jaw right.” Clarke takes a gentle grasp of Lexa’s chin. Turning it just slightly to the left, “Your bone structure is immaculate, and when you smile, your eyes crinkle just a bit. It drives me crazy.”

Lexa feels the flush coming up her neck.

“And you’re just so beautiful when you blush.” The artist smirks, seeing the effect she has on Lexa.

“Oh- okay. Yes.” Lexa looks around the room. “Here?”

“Maybe. Let’s have a drink first. I promised to take you out.”

Lexa eye’s the blonde, confused. She watches Clarke wander over to the kitchen, hears her pouring something into glasses. She reappears with two rocks glasses half-filled with amber liquid on ice. “You strike me as a whiskey kind of girl.” 

She’s right.

Clarke wanders over to the living room stereo. She plugs her phone into the aux cord. Lexa hears a familiar riff. “Dance with me first? We are out, afterall.”

Clarke offers her hand and Lexa takes it willingly.

They sway together to the music, drinks in one hand, and their other hands holding the other’s hips. 

Clarke moves closer to Lexa, pressing their thighs together. “We’re on a dance floor, at Grounders.” Clarke says, eyes closing, Lexa closes hers too. “There are a few others out here with us, but I can only see you.” Their eyes remain closed. “I’ve been watching you all night. You were with some classmates, maybe close friends, but you haven’t looked up from your textbook. I knew I had to drag you away. I had to help you loosen up.” Lexa feels Clarke squeezing her hip, pulling her just a little bit closer.

Clarke rests her chin on Lexa’s shoulder as the song changes to something a little more upbeat. “What are you doing out here, when I know you would rather be at home?”

Lexa plays along, opening her eyes and seeing that the lights in Clarke’s living room seem to have dimmed. “I was supposed to meet someone here, but she couldn’t make it.”

“Too bad for her.” Clarke hums into Lexa’s ear. Lexa feels herself loosening up, possibly from the whiskey, more likely from Clarke’s presence.

“Good thing for you.” Lexa angles her head just a bit towards Clarke’s. The blonde takes this as her go-ahead, and takes Lexa’s lips between hers, just barely.

It can hardly be called a kiss. Lexa feels the barely there touch of Clarke’s tongue as the blonde begins to speak, “Absolutely. But I still really want to draw you.” She pulls back slightly, looking into Lexa’s eyes. “Can I? Please? You drive me crazy. I need to get you down on paper.”

Lexa feels herself melting from the inside out. She’s not used to this kind of attention. But she likes it. Oh, she likes it.

“Where do you want me?”

Clarke smirks, “Everywhere,” She murmurs against Lexa’s pulse point. “But first, in the kitchen.” The burn rages within Lexa’s stomach. “Can you just sit on a bar stool for me?” Clarke trails her hand up Lexa’s side, slowly, all the way to her neck. “I want to draw you like I imagined, reading amongst a crowd of people, in your own element. I feel like that's how we could have met, if things weren’t the way they are.” She looks down at her foot, nudging it against Lexa’s.

-

Lexa finds herself sprawled on Clarke’s couch, she’s unsure exactly how she got to this state of undress, but it’s a rush.

She lost her top somewhere in the kitchen.

Her jeans are unbuttoned, and slightly pushed down, just enough to expose the top of her underwear. She really wished she knew she’d be in this position when she left her apartment this morning. But the plain gray cotton briefs would just have to do.

She also wishes she had taken Clarke up on her offer of a second drink. Her shoulders are tense, she knows this. Clarke knows it too, if her soft smile of encouragement is any inclination.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. Seriously.” Clarke sets her pencil down onto the sketch pad resting in her lap.

“No, no. I’m fine. I just- I guess I don’t know what to do with my hands.” She laughs awkwardly, holding her hands up in defeat.

With a light chuckle, Clarke stands up and walks- nope, definitely saunters over to Lexa on the couch.

She kneels down beside her, pulls Lexa’s hair around one shoulder, and takes both of her hands into her own.

“Just do whatever is comfortable. This can take as long, or be as quick, as you want.” The words are loaded. Clarke pulls Lexa’s hands down and rests them gently onto her own waist.

“This is comfortable.” It’s so quiet, Lexa is certain Clarke could barely hear her.

“Good girl.” It’s meant to be a subtle joke. There’s no authority behind the words. But Lexa sees Clarke’s pupils dilate as her grip tightens on the blonde’s waist. “I’ve got you.” 

Clarke leans down and takes Lexa’s top lip between her own. It’s meant to be a gentle assurance. A way to distract Lexa from feeling so vulnerable laying splayed out under Clarke’s gaze. But as Lexa takes Clarke’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugs, well, their new plans for the evening definitely don’t include a sketchbook. 

-

They kiss lazily. There’s no rush. They have all night. And they make use of it.

“Seems like you know exactly what to do with your hands.” Clarke murmurs against Lexa’s neck, where there’s sure to be a nice reminder of their night together in the morning. Lexa’s grip on Clarke’s ass softens, an apology on her lips. “S’good.” Clarke reaches back and presses Lexa’s hands back down, and proceeds to grind down harder into Lexa as she trails kisses down her collar bone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. I can’t get enough of you.” Her kisses trail down to the swell of Lexa’s breast, just above the cup of her bra. Clarke’s hands glide up Lexa’s sides with ease, “This okay?” She glances at Lexa and if her slack jawed panting isn’t answer enough, she nods a few enthusiastic jerks of her head. Her hands continue their journey, Fingers wrapping around the sides of Lexa’s chest, and thumbs just barely slipping beneath her bra, grazing her nipples slightly. The hitch of Lexa’s breath and the quiet whimper as she pushes up into Clarke’s hands is the greenlight.

Arching her back higher off the couch, Clarke’s hands make their way around Lexa’s back. Holding eye contact, Clarke sees no sign of hesitancy, and undoes the clasp. Before she removes Lexa’s bra completely, she evens the playing field, sitting up quickly and pulling her own shirt over her head in a way that has no business being as attractive as Lexa finds it. Clarke’s bra follows as Lexa slides hers down her shoulders. 

As Clarke presses their chests together Lexa can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. “Shit, Clarke.”

“You feel incredible, Lex.” Clarke kisses her. It tastes like a promise.

“I want you.” Lexa all but begs as she lifts her hips up to press into Clarke’s, leaving no room for debate. “Please.”

“You have me.” Clarke assures, and makes her way down Lexa’s stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses in her wake. Lexa threads her fingers through Clarke’s hair, pushing it out of her face. Clarke’s eyes are electric. It spurs Lexa on even more. “What do you like?”

“God. Anything. Everything.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Clarke slides Lexa’s jeans off, dragging her panties down with them. Lexa helps her kick them off. They land in a heap on the floor as Clarke drags her lips from Lexa’s knee to her mid thigh, where her hands join in. 

Stop? Yeah, right. Lexa’s in way too deep and she feels like putty beneath Clarke.

Clarke drags one finger along Lexa’s folds, feeling and seeing the effect she’s already had on her. “All of this for me?” She shoots Lexa a cocky smirk, paired with her signature raised eyebrow as she leans down for a taste. 

Lexa both loves and hates what that does to her. She doesn’t know the last time she’s felt so wanted. She knows Clarke can feel how much it turns her on.

Clarke doesn’t ease in. She takes Lexa into her mouth with a filthy, opened mouthed kiss. Lexa can’t hear Clarke’s moan over the sound of her own, but she feels it reverberating through her whole body.

It’s all-consuming, feeling Clarke’s mouth devouring her with a skill Lexa didn’t know existed. She feels the blonde pressing her tongue just barely inside, before she feels the pressure of her fingers instead. She didn’t realize her head had been thrown back so far, until she had to readjust to look down at Clarke when she didn't feel her pressing further inside. “Yes. Fuck. Please.” She whines out, not able to take a single second more of not being filled by Clarke.

Starting with just one finger, Clarke quickly realizes Lexa needs another. She adds a second, and with one final suck to Lexa’s clit, makes her way back up to be face to face with Lexa. “You taste so good. So fucking good.” Clarke exhales heavily before allowing Lexa to taste herself on her lips. It’s dirty, and everything Lexa needs as Clarke slowly pumps her fingers. 

Lexa finds herself thanking every God she can think of that Clarke’s roommate isn’t home. She has no control over the filthy sounds coming from deep within her lungs. 

Feeling Lexa clenching around her fingers, asking for more, Clarke prepares to add another finger, pulling back from the kiss for assurance. 

“Need you. Need more.” Is about as coherent of a sentence Lexa can provide.

Clarke is not one to deny. She slowly pulls her fingers back, curling them as she goes. Before she completely removes them, Clarke adds a third finger as she pushes back in. She can feel that it’ll be Lexa’s limit. “God you’re so tight, feel so good wrapped around my fingers.” She feels Lexa’s walls pulsing at her words.

“You’re taking me so well. That’s it.” Lexa is close. She doesn’t want it to end yet. Clarke isn’t letting up though.

“Clarke. Shit. I’m close.” Her leg all but wraps around Clarke’s back. She feels like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin in the best way.

“I know. I’ve got you.” Clarke presses her thumb to Lexa’s clit, making quick work of bringing her closer to the edge. “Come, Lexa. I can feel you, you’re so close. That’s it.” Her leg tightens fully around Clarke. “Good girl.”

And with that, Lexa is a goner.

[k0yaz]

engraving.

Pairings: ei x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, goddess au, devoted reader, blood, wlw, uh idk ei being angy, reader fucking dies, because she’s a simp, READER IS FUCKING WEIRD LOWKEY, can be angst??mild horror, weird power dynamic / difference idk, wrote this at 12 I have school in the morning god pls help, ei lowkey insane ngl maybe even ooc a bit but it’s ok her character is…something! (Fuck you for that hoyo) greasy places ew, obsessive reader, not proofread.

A/N: part of @edgeray ‘s Halloween event! 🕯️

Chilling shivers vibrate along your spine in a surge of pure fear embedded within you, complimenting the cool shocks of steel sparking against the bottom of your chin, flat against the sharpened blade. You meekly looked down at your knees folded back and knelt onto the hard wooden floor, hunching your shoulders to avoid eye contact with a goddess present before you while you groveled like a dog at her ankles.

Ei clicked her tongue in disapproval at your lowered face of shame, making the rush of trepidation racking you far more mortifying as your subtle shivers brushed along her blade’s sharp edge ever so slowly, along a sudden push of pain teasing your throat. You swallowed back the burning sensation of electric volts gliding along your exposed throat while her blade traced along your accommodative skin, dangerously lining the sharp edge to a point in which blood would be drawn.

“Speak, human.” She snapped, eyes fixated on your every move as she maintained her position above you, blade pointed directly at you to monitor your actions. Slowly, your chin carefully tilted upward to lock eyes with the goddess currently on the verge of slashing you open, deep purple gaze boring into yours as your thighs pressed inward to maintain your balance before the shogun. Yet, you were quickly spun out of your trance as Ei pushed the blade rougher against the prominent nerves of your throat, her patience wearing thin as your breath caught in your throat, an involuntary gasp barely escaping your lips.

The gentle trickle of blood seeping down the crimson wound oddly soothed you in this moment, even in witness of the goddess’s fury burned your devotion to her further, stomach churning with satisfaction—perhaps something more as you had the privilege of even standing before Ei herself. The minuscule slash engraved onto your throat like a tattoo was something you would proudly wear after you departed from the divine being, planning to always expose your throat whenever you went out, modifying clothing that covered your neck as a symbol of your fateful encounter with her.

Day and night. Day and night you would pray to her before the carved stone statue situated in your home dedicated to Ei. Eyes closed and hands clasped together, you would kneel down before her stone form, presenting her with her wings outstretched from her back and hands extended in a cusp as she carried whatever offerings you had placed into the statue. Burning smells of incense circled the room intensely, stinging your nostrils as well as the molten end of the sticks neatly poked out of a small bowl rested by the table at the edge of the statue. “I pray that I can give you my all, Lady Ei. If I ever stumble upon you, I don’t want you to show me mercy. If you do, I will be forever in your debt.”

Clearly, summoning deities had merely been an ongoing rumor, perhaps even a silly tale meant to frighten others around you. There was no way you had throught such a prayer could descend a celestial being from the heavens, right?

The cool winds had fluttered along your cheek upon trudging through the trudging hill grounded before you, hands occasionally dragging along the road for support. Flaps of paper resounded in your ears as the howling wind whistled across the clearing, a large wooden pole with a tattered paper plastered onto it coming into view. Squinting your eyes, you shifted closer, catching sight of the paper stuck to the post. A single red character was embedded onto it, likely written in dried blood. You exhaled deeply, recognizing the symbol to pertain to Ei herself, and that the shrine you sought should be up ahead.

As you quietly made your way forward, a small yet intricate wooden gate structure greeted you. The shrines and temples constructed before you clearly displayed signs of decay and buildup, thickets of moss bundling up along every crevice of the stone and wood erected buildings. Upon venturing into the worn down and chipped area, you couldn’t help but sense the ominous atmosphere emitting from your surroundings closing in around you, heart beating in your chest as caution began to scream at you internally. Rationally, your self within you urged you to go back. It was obvious that this abandoned temple wasn’t set to be a lively and peaceful—yet that strong urge of pure devotion to atleast try, to atleast prove your worth to the almighty goddess has sharpened further than your rational self, urging you to push forward.

A bitter stench plagued your nostrils as you ventured further into the ruins of the shrine, likely from the accumulation of grime over the years it was left to rot. The winds now blew tenfold in swift gusts, nearly knocking the air out of your own lungs as it slammed against your chest like a hurricane rather than a simple strong wind; as if a warning sign had manifested before you, pleading for you to turn back. Carefully stepping before the small, well crafted shrine primarily containing stone and wood along with various offerings and a portrait of Ei herself, you knelt down before the oddly clean structure. While everything had been shrouded in moss over the past few centuries—even millennia or so, the shrine remained well painted and clean, even the area around it seemingly glowing in contrast to the gloomy greatness of the surrounding structures.

Now looking back, you truly wished that you had heeded the warnings. However, you don’t regret it one bit. Not when the very woman you had yearned to preside before had you knelt before her, divine sword dangerously positioned below your chin as her piercing gaze shot through to the bone.

You briefly paused, choking on your breath once more as the tip of her blade grazed the already open wound along your neck. “I said, state your purpose for summoning me, (Name).”

It was quite difficult to even utter a word in her presence. Her enchanting figure absolutely hypnotizing as she was looking down at you, polished black armor with her wings unsheathed, and a cracked halo crowning the top of her head as it hovered over her. Clearing your throat, you eagerly tilted your head up at her, joy boiling up within you as she had addressed you by your name. Most of the time, you had overheard ancient stories transmitted from older time periods, where this goddess wouldn’t even acknowledge, much less care about the identities of her followers even.

“Ah..Lady Ei. Am I so important you must use my name?” You breathed out, cocking your head as you were still on your hands and knees before her. She merely scoffed, a light chuckle finding its way from her throat.

“For once. I’ve never once encountered a mortal so willing to put their all into me.”

“Would you despise me if I said that I only summoned you to come face to face with my goddess?”

“Not at all.”

Withdrawing her sword from your neck, Ei beckoned you to stand up, which you did so albeit a bit weakly due to the wound you had nearly forgotten about. The moon centered between the two of you like a medium of division, pale rays outlining each of your figures in the shadows of the dark crowding the two of you as your sillouhettes burned into the the night sky. Ei hummed in satisfaction upon seeing the pure devotion fired up within you, knowing that you would serve her as anything she wanted. Any cruel punishment, any position as her right hand or so, any battle, absolutely anything.

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, presiding like a huge stone weighing down your belly before speaking up. A neat maniac smile stretched your lips as you brought your palm flush against the nerves of your neck, expression crazed you proudly showed off the engraved cut along your throat despite the blood smearing across your palm.

“Lady Ei, I should be greatful that you had even laid your blade or gaze upon me! I shall forever be in your debt. Show me no mercy as I am nothing in your presence”

Any sane person would say you were insane.

Yet, you didn’t care. You didn’t care when you were face to face with the goddess you had devoted everything for you. You were absolutely wiling to fall under her lack of mercy.

Her palm suddenly glided along your cheek, cupping the side of your face tenderly. Your body froze up at the closeness of the gesture, eyes widening in utter confusion as Ei began to caress your face as a lover would, not a superior to her subordinate.

“Lady Ei what-?“

—

…

Your words were abruptly cut off as a searing pain shot through your body, abdomen tightening as you gasped for air. Her blade had speared through your torso, deeply lodged into your body as her hand remained unmoving on your face, deep purple eyes locked onto yours.

“Humans are quite foolish. They say everything they will do, and promise it. Swear it on their life even. Yet plead and beg when it truly occurs, never following through with their promise.”

She paused, twisting the blade like a crank deeper into your stomach as the crimson liquid pooled out along your skin, staining your clothing and decorating her hand grasping the hilt as it formed a small puddle onto the ground. She smiled as she observed your features, clearly in pain yet still keeping your eyes locked onto her.

“So how come you’re different? You’re so devoted you don’t beg or cry when I go through with refraining from bestowing mercy upon you, (Name).”

The sweet smile on your face was one that would remain with her for eternity as your knees buckled inward, balance near impossible to remain as you grew more and more lightheaded. Chest heaving as blood was beautifully patterned along your body like a piece of abstract art hung in a museum, eyes lowering as you collapsed over into Ei’s arms. She kept the sword buried into your chest, as if you were the stone to Excalibur.

As your eyes slowly lowered themselves feeling your end closely trailing up to you, you squeezed them shut in bliss as her lips gently pecked your bloodied temple, heaving chest slowly calming down as you grew limp into her arms. Reaching up one last time, hand brushing along your throat…

No pulse.

She heaved a sigh, carefully setting you down in the blood steeled grass as she kept the sword embedded in your chest. Looming over your corpse, Ei gently whispered out, the first time her voice had grown soft when speaking of someone below her.

“A shame I had doubted you, (Name). I promise your afterlife will be with me as you will gain all you desire. Either that, or I shall bless you in your next life for as long as you live. I swear it.”

Drops of scarlet blood ran down her fingertips situated at her sides, her eyes fixated on your exposed throat coldly. She wasn’t saddened by your death. However, she was more..empty knowing she hadn’t gotten to speak with you any longer. It was all fine.

The mark she had slashed onto your neck which she would brighten in the near future.

The engraving of your devotion.

A/N: GUYS I AM WAY TOO SLEEPY TO ADD A/N’S TO THESE PLS BEAR WITH ME

[noxiousmelody]

Assisting shapes! Au

Currently in the process of working on an au called Assisting Shapes.

This au takes place two years after weirdmageddon

Bills henchmaniacs stuck around in gravity falls after weirdmageddon

Bill spent two years in the theraprism before the axolotl released him into Fords care

Ford acts as his supervisor and therapist as he adjusts to living with others

His ankle monitor restricts his powers to just shape shifting between his triangle and human forms

He and ford still share feelings for each other but it is a very complicated relationship

Amorphous shape works as a lab assistant to ford and he and mabel can see and understand her while most everyone else cannot. Bill can see her but cannot understand her. (This will change)

[izvmimi]

cw: streamer au! you and hawks have a popular channel and you have some special guests! fluff! reader and hawks are married. 'dove' as a nickname. written for @pastelle-rabbit.

“Did you finish setting up the microphones, dove?” Keigo asks, while you’re just about to adjust your PC setup. The stream begins in five minutes, and while it’s not the first time you’ve gone live with your love, it’s the first time that you’ve had guests on your streaming site, and this is highly anticipated enough that you expect a higher turnout for today, and commensurately likely more trolls. You’re used to Keigo’s trolls as a top-ranking hero, but Izuku’s trolls are a whole different beast.

“Yes!” you sing out to him. After the final adjustment, you shoot a glance to Izuku and his wife who are poised very politely on gaming chairs you got just for them; his hand is holding hers, the thumb caressing the back of her hand while she crosses her legs at the ankle. She looks distressed and you stifle a giggle. Horror and gore are the themes for your stream today and from what Izuku has told you, she’s a screamer, but so is Keigo, so the two will be squawking like birds for the remainder of the night. 

You can’t wait.

“Are you guys comfortable?” you ask. The chair arrangement is a little more complex to make sure everyone stays huddled around your huge monitor, but you’ve figured it out.

She nods slowly, and Izuku grins. “We’re doing perfect!”

There are now two minutes until the stream starts, and Keigo slips into the chair right beside you and kisses your cheek, his other hand deep in a bag of chicken chips which he brings to your mouth.

You indulge him with a bite, and he grins, then whispers if you want him to be your chair this time, and while Izuku grins politely at the two of you, you can sense yourself warming in the face.

“We have guests,” you remind him. Keigo throws a glance at Izuku who immediately waves his hands.

“Pretend we’re not here.”

“What do you mean we’re not here, we were in-”

You start the stream and Izuku’s wife falls silent, immediately switching to camera ready mode. “Welcome guys and thanks for coming back to our channel! As promised, we have special guests today! -” Deku and his wife wave politely to the camera in million-watt smiles, “- and we’ll be continuing with our horror themed stream!”

Keigo chews loudly and waves at the camera. “I’ll be here!” he motions a salute to the screen. As expected, you can already see the influx of his fans filling the chat, painfully polite in their thirst since the last time he reminded them on screen he was happily married.

“Ooh can we have streamer nicknames?” Izuku’s wife asks.

“Sure, what would you like to be called?” you offer. She looks around, then up at the ceiling, then her eyes light up.

“Hm… BLOODCRUSH.” She says with dramatic glee. The rest of the three of you blink rapidly, but no one argues. 

“Bloodcrush it is!” you announce as she kicks her feet. Izuku gives her a mildly concerned look, but then rubs her shoulder affectionately. The chat starts to rile up with comments in support of new nickname Bloodcrush (bloodcrush x deku otp, bloodcrush fighting!) to her delight while the less savory ones are promptly ignored.

“I think the rest of us will just go by our hero or streamer names, is that okay?” Keigo says, stretching out in his chair and resting his arm around the shoulder of your gaming chair, pose relaxed.

“So what game are we playing?” Deku starts per your loosely prepared script. 

“RAID AND EXECUTION,” Hawks announces, excitedly. You laugh as the story intro video begins, and Hawks claps his hands dimming the lights while Bloodcrush looks stunned to her husband then to you.

“Raid and what?”

“Oh, that sounds awesome! I’ve heard of this one!” Deku chirps, and immediately his info-dumping begins. “So from what I’ve read, this game is set in the early 1400s in the Caribbean where a group of pirates are lost at sea and encounter a group of enchanted beings, most likely zombies, and you’re meant to survive as long as possible when they’re active at night, and raid the villagers during the daytime or else you’ll run out of resources and die, not to mention the game mechanics heavily rely on you using context clues of the environment in order to determine if a settlement is nearby and-”

Hawks and Bloodcrush both scream as the first zombie shows up on screen armed with a machete and cleanly slices the head off of your avatar.

‘Ooh, that was fast,” you say, frowning as the “Game Over” screen shows up on the monitor. The chat explodes with comments telling Deku to shut the hell up which makes him frown.

“Just trying to provide context,” he grumbles. You start up the game again and instead of jumping right off the ship and walking right onto the island, you pause and look for clues. Hawks encourages you to explore the bottom of the ruins first, which has you find a rusty machete of your own as well as some 14th century hardtack, and Bloodcrush leans in and asks you if there’s any way you can find a musket or other gun.

“Baby, I think muskets weren’t invented till the 15th century,” Deku says, and she pats his cheek gently, whispering only mildly threatening, “I didn’t ask you for historical accuracy, honey.”

“Here, I think we found one!” you exclaim and Hawks gives you a high five while Bloodcrush raises her eyebrow at him. 

While you begin arranging your inventory, Hawks repeats some questions in the chat for their guests.

“So, herofootfetish69 has a question for you, Deku.”

Izuku pales while you and his wife unintentionally bursts out laughing from how nonchalantly Hawks reads the username, then your avatar inadvertently falls off a cliff and dies.

“Man!” you exclaim as you restart. Bloodcrush laughs even harder as she points to new resources that you can pick up while you’re repacking your knapsack.

“They ask, do you have time to play video games when you’re supposed to be protecting the city?” Hawks asks, then giggles.

“Why am I being heckled?” he frowns. “Yes, heroes have time off too.” He pauses. “Hawks is literally on this stream!”

“Hey, I think if you alternate the musket and the dagger, you might have a chance with those zombies,” Bloodcrush murmurs. Someone in the chat tells her that she has a better chance with the dagger alone. “Never mind, just do that.” 

“Next question for LoveDove!” Keigo presses a kiss to your forehead, then reads off, “gains4fame asks, how long have you and Bloodcrush known each other?”

“Not long!” you say, “but I think we’ve become fast friends!”

Bloodcrush’s eyes light up and she playfully bops you on the shoulder. Hawks offers an affectionate awwww, and hugs you while Deku rubs his wife’s back. 

In the process of your husband hugging you, you’re shot by an arrow.

“NO!” you and Bloodcrush scream in unison, then look at each other and giggle.

“Next question from chickenchipenthusiast-” Izuku pauses, then reaches for the extra bag Hawks has brought, “not sponsored by the way,” he reminds everyone, “for Hawks - how do you choose your guests on the show?”

Hawks shrugs. “When I called, you picked up.”

Izuku sighs in defeat.

“We’ll move on to the next question. For LoveDove again - do you think you’ll get better at these games?”

Hawks bristles but you laugh. “I’m having fun and so are you, aren’t you?”

chickenchipenthusiast writes: exactly!

You get your first kill of a zombie on the island and you and Bloodcrush share double high fives in delight. 

The chat fills with overwhelming support and the stream continues late into the night, the chatter amongst you guys never ending and the subscribers ticking higher and higher all night.

[merakiui]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

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

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