#genshin impact n/sfw

[cravingsfromatwistedone]

master kink with batman- i mean diluc??? i know everyones heard about this but..

imagine… you teasing diluc at the tavern, its nightime and close to closing time. people are filing out the door until it’s just you left. you are still sitting in front of him, teasing him about how he likes grape juice. and in your drunk haze you don’t have control over what your saying, you end up asking him if he has a master kink. diluc doesn’t know what’s gotten over him but he quickly replies with, “wanna find out?” and regrets it until he sees you looking away. the night ends with you bent over the table.

no one knows what happened to you that night, or why you exited the tavern with a perverted smirk on your face while looking so disheveled.

rip donna, also i sincerely apologize this sucks

-🌧️ anon

DRUNK DAZED [ DRABBLE / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OH, IT'S ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL MY DARLING!~ I JUST LOVE THE BUILD UP OF THE SCENES AND DON'T APOLOGIZE OVER IT! HOPEFULLY, MY WRITING SATIATES YOUR DESIRE AND ANY FEEDBACK IS MUCH APPRECIATED! TW: DUBCON (READER IS HALF DRUNK), USAGE OF PETNAMES (MEINE LIEBE), IMPROPER USE OF FOREIGN LANGUAGE (THIS IS NOT AN EXCUSE FOR ME TO INCORPERATE GERMAN I SWEAR!!) DILUC RAGNIVINDR X FEM!READER

"Master♡!" You cried out

Never in a million years would you have thought that while being a drunken state, you were getting yourself fucked silly by the sole owner of the Dawn Winery, Diluc Ragnivindr himself as he bent your half exposed figure over one of the tables of his tavern; his cock repeatedly pumping in and out of your sopping wet cunt. The red-haired male let out a low hiss of pleasure as he feels the walls of your insides clenching on him, his gloved hands gripping your hips in bruising grip before opting to lift one of your legs up which gave him a much needed space to snap his hips back into yours with even more ferocity.

"God, you're all spread out prettily on my cock…Who's your master, meine Liebe?" Diluc whispers huskily into your ear, his lips pressing hard against the shell of your ear. "Y-You-Ah♡!-You're my Master♡!" You moaned, your words coming out all slurred from the intensifying pleasure that had taken root in your brain. You could hear an audible groan coming from Diluc's throat as his pace quickened, your answer being the source of his hastiness of reaching his release "Genau das, was ich hören wollte, meine Liebe…" He whispers gently before continuing to fuck you senseless

TRANSLATION NOTES:

1. 'Meine Liebe' - my love

2. 'Genau das, was ich hören wollte, meine Liebe…' - Just what I wanted to hear, my love...

[krillkrunchz]

Gₑₙₛₕᵢₙ cₕₐᵣₐcₜₑᵣₛ ₐₛ yₒᵤᵣ bfₛ!·.𖥔 ݁

(I didn’t expect for anyone 2 genuinly like my writing but yipee so more stupid stuff but hcs now also I figured out how 2 decorate yipeeeee)

╰┈➤Sfw,occasional comedic cursing,possible ooc(out of char)

—·.𖥔 ݁Kinich₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

—Hugs from behind when cuddling

—Big spoon :3

—Suffers from PTSD of his past

—Puts Ajaw in a glass soundproof box when he’s in timeout

—He’s the one that usually cooks

—Plans ahead a lot

—The listener of the relationship

—Dislikes but open to PDA

— · 𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖Wanderer☽˚｡

—Hugs from behind

—100% the little spoon

—There is a curse word between every 3-4th sentence of this lil bitch

—DO NOT LET HIM COOK HES GONNA BURN THE FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!1!1!1!1!

—Outright HATES PDA

—THE gossip girl(Boy)

—Most likely won’t celebrate holidays unless you force him to

—Yapper 1 of relationship

—₊˚.⋆Lyney⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊⁺⋆

—Big spoon but likes being little spoon at times

—LOVES PDA!he wants everyone 2 know your his <3

—Sometimes brings you onstage to show off how much he won the lottery to have such an amazing partner

—Brings you TONS of roses

—Taking cooking classes from “Father”(Arlechinno) at the moment

—Loves Talking!definitely a yapper

—Rarely curses but if he does it’s when he’s mad

—100% switches to French when he curses lmfao

— ₊⁺⊹Bennett⁺˚.ᯓ

—Somtimes worries you’ll leave him because of his bad luck

—Absolutely adores PDA to show the one thing of good luck he has <3

—ONCE AGAIN….THIS DUDES BAD LUCK MEANS HES GONNA BURN DOWN THE HOUSE IF HE COOKS

—At first he was anxious and scared that his bad luck would hurt you

—Small spooner heh

—Carries unnecessary amounts of first aid stuff

—Overthinks ALOT when it comes to trips

—Doesn’t curse at all(4kids censoring ahh)

—Listener!loves hearing your voice

|dividers on this post is by CafeKitsune go check em out :D

[pinkxpantha]

Harbingers being domestic

part 1/3 (Scaramouche, Childe, Signora)

#: synopsis- scaramouche contemplates physical intimacy like its the trolley problem

#: cw- 560~ words Scaramouche) × GN!reader, scaramouche kind of watches you sleep(not meant to be creepy I SWEAR) reader is assumed to be human, you/they pronouns, drabble, sfw

Scaramouche isn't the type to be super intimate or domestic with his partner for a while, especially if they're human. Of course he would be more pleasant with you, but ultimately these loving actions feel strange to him. (ugh emotions)

Scaramouche would walk in on you asleep for whatever reason. Maybe you exerted yourself again in your work. Nonetheless your constant nagging about him getting a good night's rest ;which he doesn't need, led him to lay you on your bed. If you preach it then you should follow it.

He would notice how you'd almost sag with some form of relief that he could only describe as a need for comfort. He'd be foolish to think he could provide that for you. Hah, no way.

But he stands there, watching over your sleeping form. The deep inhale you take as you drift into a dream, and the shallower exhales as you look so much lighter.

For a moment he wonders if he could dream like you.

After that day, you'd barely be able to go to sleep alone. The skeptic looks you shot Scaramouche as he drawled "Sleep is for the weak and naive." seldom repeated.

It wasn't long before you invited him to sleep with you. You even offered to put a pillow in between the both of you so he could feel more comfortable. (You didn't say the last part aloud.)

To which he refused. It was somewhat expected, but you promised the offer was always open.

Scaramouche had quickly fallen into temptation though, a few days later you might've felt a sudden weight in the bed as you lay asleep. You might've turned around to see Scaramouche laid next to you. and you might've seen how his eyelids grew heavy with each breath you took until he fell asleep as well.

Normally he'd be sure to wake up before you, and slink out of your bed like a clever thief.

If only he knew of how sporadic sleep could be. Without a way to measure time in the abyss of rest, it was only expected you'd wake up to him sleeping beside you at some point.

It wasn't a shock to you to see your partner next to you, deep in slumber. Truth was, having the weight of another person suddenly next to you didn't keep you asleep for long.

You smiled seeing his peaceful form right next to you, his lips parted slightly, acting mimick of breathing.

You wrapped your arms around him, you might've noticed how he woke up, jolting at the sudden warmth of your arms. You might've noticed how he didn't say anything, but accept your radiated heat.

After that, it was basically set in stone. Soft moments of quietness where Scaramouche would allow himself to experience what you felt at night. There wasn't a day when you both were in the same place and hadn't fallen asleep together.

Even after arguments of any scale, you would always feel him indulge in your humanity. Your dormancy also became his.

[it-happened-one-fic]

Bridal Visions: Photoshoot #5 - Fontaine Bridal - Your Groom

Summary: Chiori teasing you when your stand-in groom for the modeling photoshoot of her Fontaine inspired bridal line was Wriothesley was to be expected. And she wasn’t being entirely subtle either. But you also couldn’t deny that Wriothesley did make a charming groom and that today was going to be a memory you treasured for years to come.

Type: Female reader/ 800 Followers Event/ series/ sfw/ fluff/ teasing/Chiori is shipping again/

Bridal Visions Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1906

I stared at myself in the mirror, my gaze sweeping over the pristine white dress that was accented with delicate lace. But I had genuinely wondered what sort of gown I’d be wearing when I’d agreed to be a model for Chiori’s new wedding line. I really didn’t think I could have been wholly prepared for what greeted me, though, and I stared at my reflection with slightly widened eyes.

“Like it?” I blinked and turned, immediately making eye contact with Chiori before I felt a smile cross over my face.

“It’s beautiful, Chiori,” She smiled at my words. Nodding her head like she’d already known that was what I was going to say as she walked over and casually began adjusting little things that I hadn’t even noticed about the dress.

Smoothing wrinkles that were in the lace that coated both my arms and shoulders, tweaking folds in the wrists of the sleeves where they flared as she spoke, “I made some adjustments when the Traveler told me you were going to be the model.”

I blinked, feeling myself smile amusedly as my eyes followed her, “Oh?” 

I couldn’t keep the humor out of my tone, and her gaze flickered over to meet mine, a slight sparkle of amusement in the red depths of her eyes as she spoke, “That’s why it’s backless. It’ll be fun seeing how your groom reacts.” 

I snorted at her words, dry even despite their teasing nature, and I shook my head even as I chuckled, “Wriothesley isn’t going to react.”

“Don’t all grooms look forward to seeing how their bride looks?” Her tone was perfectly blasé in a way that could only be described as very Chiori, and I rolled my eyes.

“Maybe, but Wriothesley’s not my groom. He’s just modeling the clothes alongside me,” Chiori stepped back as I spoke, her gaze meeting mine.

Her eyebrows arched slightly before she lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, “Well, we’ll see. And you look marvelous anyway.”

I laughed but followed her out, lightly lifting the fitted, lacy skirt of the dress as I went and ignoring the way it dragged behind me in a short train that only added to its rather grandiose look. 

I blinked into the sunlight as we emerged from the dressing area and watched as Wriothesley turned to look back at me with a ready smile on his face that automatically had me smiling back at him.

His outfit wasn’t that drastically different from what he usually wore. It was a suit in his usual shades of grey with flashes of maroon. But his choker, gloves, and fluffy coat were gone so that he looked a bit more cleaned up, and his boots were replaced with dress shoes.

And I honestly figured Chiori might be the one woman on earth that could force Wriothesley to actually clean up his appearance, even if it was just for some photos. 

But then, who knows. Perhaps he would look exactly this way if it were his wedding day.

Chiori shifted so that she was no longer blocking his view of me, and I got to watch as his pale eyes widened in surprise before he schooled his expression back to a more easygoing smile. Though I didn’t miss the knowing look Chiori gave me as she walked over to the photographer that almost had me making a face at her before I joined Wriothesley.

“What was that look about? Some sort of girl talk that I’m not allowed to know about?” He was grinning at me as I stopped in front of him, and I shook my head fondly.

“No, Chiori’s just been teasing me,” I waved away his question with a smile, but it did little to dim the glimmer in his eyes.

“Ah, about what a lovely bride you make, I’m assuming,” It was almost impressive how quickly he caught onto at least a portion of what Chiori had just been picking on me about as he crossed his arms.

I rolled my eyes slightly at his words before nodding, smiling all the while. But there was no way I was about to let him know the specifics of her teasing or that fact that it was genuinely nice to be complimented. Even if I weren’t a real bride.

But I also wasn’t going to take his teasing lying down, and I grinned at him, “Shouldn’t you worry about yourself? Many folks see you looking like that, and you might just become the most sought-after man in Fontaine.”

He snorted at my words, nodding his head with a devil-may-care grin as he responded with characteristic sarcasm, “Oh yeah, that’s totally me. Wanted dead or alive.”

I shook my head at his words, crossing my arms as I eyed him, “While I’m sure you’d make a very cute zombie, I imagine most would prefer for their groom to be alive for the wedding.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug before grinning at me once more, “Eh, details.”

“Alright, lovebirds,” At Chiori’s voice, we both turned to see her walking over. And it was beyond obvious that she’d long since abandoned her teasing in favor of a more businesslike position. Even if she was still picking on both of us lightly with her choice of words.

She pointed at Wriothesley, and I watched as he straightened like he was at attention, doing my best not to laugh at him as Chiori spoke, “You’re a big boy, so here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to scoop up Y/n bridal style, and we’ll go from there.”

I blinked at her words, briefly surprised, before I glanced over at Wriothesley, who merely shrugged, apparently unbothered by the plan, “I suppose bridal style is fitting.”

Chiori ignored him as she continued, turning to face me, “Here, this’ll be your bouquet.”

I accepted the flowers hastily, a small arrangement of rainbow roses, before I glanced back over at her in time to see her turn on her heel and start walking off. Her exit from the space our signal to get into position.

I glanced over at Wriothesley, who was eyeing me expectantly, before I stepped closer and shifted my bouquet to one hand as I reached up to rest a hand lightly on his broad shoulder. 

He hesitated only briefly, glancing with slightly raised eyebrows at my exposed back that he could now see before he shook his head with an amused smile. Almost like he somehow knew about Chiori’s plot.

But then, as quickly and easily as could be, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing at all. One of his arms wrapping around my back while the other hooked itself under my knees so that I was cradled against him as he straightened.

I felt my eyes widen as I hastily wrapped my arm around his shoulders so that my hand rested against his neck while my other arm flailed slightly with the bouquet. And I could feel him chuckling at my startled reaction.

I frowned at him slightly as he adjusted his hold, bouncing me slightly in a move that I was positive was intended to get yet another reaction from me.

“I didn’t expect to go up that fast,” Even as I scolded him while simultaneously defending my reaction, I could feel myself steadily relaxing and trusting him to hold me up as he grinned at me.

“Apologies,” Despite his words, I was almost certain that he didn’t feel bad in the slightest. His tone certainly didn’t make him sound that way, and the mischievous glimmer to his eyes wasn’t convincing either.

I frowned at him for just a moment longer before I looked towards where Chiori stood beside the camera, her expression thoughtful as I called out to her, “What now?”

Silence stretched as she frowned at us thoughtfully, and the photographer leaned around her camera to look at the two of us after briefly glancing at the designer, “How about you two improvise something? Anything romantic should do.”

“Improvise…” I trailed off and looked over at Wriothesley, whose eyebrows had arched at our instructions.

He shook his head slightly, half-glancing my way. And I could almost see the cogs in his head turning as he muttered to himself, “Something romantic, huh?”

I tilted my head, adjusting my grip on him slightly so that I wasn’t quite so stiff as I felt a teasing smile slip onto my face, “I guess you could always sing or do something equally cheesy like they do in the movies?”

He snorted, automatically shaking his head as he shot down my playful suggestion, “Yeah, no.”

He paused, looking over at me with a grin that was steadily spreading across his face and had my eyebrows arching at him, “I might have an idea, though.”

“Oh?” I questioned him before nodding slightly, because at least he had an idea. I couldn’t say the same for myself, “Well, what do you need me to do then?”

He was grinning fully now in a way that promised that either a snarky line or some form of shenanigans was coming. But he only said one word, with amusement already coating his tone: “Relax.”

Barely even had time to frown at him in confusion before he spun, causing my eyes to widen before I abruptly started laughing in surprise at his antics as my skirt swung out in response to his motions.

I curled forward and towards him as laughter bubbled out of me, and I could feel both my skirt and veil fanning out around us as we spun with him holding me tightly to him.

Distantly, I could hear the camera snapping pictures at the speed of light, catching every moment of our interaction until he slowed to a stop. Laughing along with me, now with our foreheads pressed together from where he’d leaned down slightly.

And after a brief moment he let out a sigh as our laughter trailed off, and he set me down, still grinning from ear to ear, “Alright. Down you go.”

I was only briefly wobbly as I found my footing while I leaned against Wriothesley, and Chiori walked over with a slight smile on her face as she watched the two of us with crossed arms and a far too smug expression, “That should be perfect.”

She paused, glancing at Wriothesley thoughtfully as she gestured towards me, “What did you think of the exposed back?”

I whirled to look at her, her name slipping from my mouth in a shocked, half-betrayed exhale as he nodded. And, calm as could be, he gave a shrug paired with a slight, “I thought it was a nice touch.”

She looked at me with a smug smile, her eyes glimmering, “See? I told you.”

I all but scowled at her as she turned to walk away, abandoning me as Wriothesley turned to look at me with arched brows. Leaning forward slightly as if he were sharing a secret as he half-whispered his question, “Is that what the girl talk was about?”

I glanced his way, briefly meeting his gaze before looking away again as I thought of Chiori’s teasing. Because I knew exactly what she was getting at with all of her remarks about me being his bride and him being my groom, but I wasn’t about to mention all of that to him as I trailed off, “Amongst other things……”

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[merakiui]

Helloooo! I’d like to order a flower bouquet + strawberry ice cream from the misc. menu as well as some lemon squares + custard donuts from the midnight menu for Scaramouche <3

yandere!scaramouche x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, dub-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, friends with benefits, forced pregnancy/baby-trapping (no pronouns; reader has a pussy), modern college au note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

You’re writing a paper.

Sitting at your desk, scrolling through clothes online, you wonder if your meager paycheck will cover the shipping costs. This is all research. Research that is very necessary in the paper-drafting process, of course! You click on an outfit just as Scaramouche looks up from his phone.

Correction. You’re trying to write a paper.

“Great progress. I can really see the thought you put into this.”

“I’m envisioning it as we speak.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem to be getting you anywhere.” He sets his phone down and leans closer. “Last I checked you’re not writing about clothes.”

“Last I checked,” you say, mocking him, “I didn’t ask for commentary. Don’t you have anything better to do?” 

A smug smile sharpens on his face. “I can think of a few things.”

Groaning, you shove him away. “No way. Not today.”

“Why not? It didn’t seem to bother you that last time when we did it before your lecture. You were so out of it you didn’t want me to leave you alone. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Not my fault I was tired! Don’t tell me you’ve never said and done stupid things when you’re running on three hours of sleep.”

“Not once,” he declares, looking quite proud. As if it’s some grand achievement. Does he want an award? “And even if I was, I wouldn’t be reduced to sugary, sappy putty.”

“I called you ‘sweetheart’ once by mistake. Get over it.”

Scaramouche rests his elbow on the desk, his cheek in his hand. “I don’t think I want to.”

Shutting your laptop, you turn in your chair to face him. “And I don’t think I want to fuck you today.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Oh, you’re gonna do all the work?”

“That’s the plan. Be grateful I’m so good to you,” he teases, leaning closer and closer until—

You block your lips before he can capture them. “I really can’t today. Paper aside, I don’t have any protection and I’m not on birth control right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be inside.” He sits back in his chair, exuding casual confidence. “Unless you want to risk it.”

You try to put enough ice in your glare, but it melts quickly. You really shouldn’t. It’s not a safe day. You really, really shouldn’t…

Scaramouche raises a brow, waiting for your reply.

Despite everything, you’re wheedled into it anyway. You’re not even sure what you want. Is it yes or no? It’s been months since you fell into this arrangement with him—the campus’s infamous lone wolf who goes out of his way to make himself unapproachable. Or, according to your friends, he’s more of a lonely stray cat in need of a friend. Scaramouche had scoffed when you told him that.

Your friends are idiots, he said with a scowl. It only made him look even more like a grumpy cat in need of companionship. Not that you’d ever tell him that. It would only serve to stoke the flames of his ire.

But right now, looking up at him while he ruts into you, sweat sticking in all the right places, his hair falling over his eyes, you’re inclined to agree with that observation. There’s a depth to his gaze that draws you in, a sad glimmer hiding behind the ardor. There’s never been any attachment outside of the bedroom. You’re not even sure if he considers you a friend.

Still, you wonder…

“Scara, do you—” You cut yourself off with a startled gasp, your nails curling into his shoulders. He’s holding you down by your hips, fucking into you like the world’s about to end. “S-Slow down. Wait, I—aah—oh!”

He sucks in a staggered breath through grit teeth, his jaw set firmly. “You’re never going to leave me.”

Your brain stalls out, and suddenly you’re not sure how to respond. He doesn’t lessen the brutal pace at which he thrusts, so you’re forced to piece together a half-coherent answer amidst your groans.

“N-Not anytime soon—mmh… Why? What’s up?”

Scaramouche lifts his head from your neck. A strange smile turns the corners of his lips up. “It’s not a question. I wasn’t giving you a choice.”

You blink back at him, lust-drunk and dazed. The horror edges in, slow and steady like invasive rot. It isn’t until he’s pinning your legs up by your ears to force you into another position that the implication finally catches up to you. You claw at his back with weak strokes, babbling futile protests against his mouth. In response, his cock throbs inside of you, pressed so deep in this position you fear the repercussions. He kisses you with much the same force, insistent on driving you into the mattress—on pinning you here until you finally submit. Until the last of your resolve withers away, stamped out and replaced with something agreeable.

“Even if you wanted to,” he says around a shaky laugh, seeming positively deranged, “you couldn’t.”

You think you should be worried, but you’re so stunned with this development that your brain can’t keep up. Embarrassingly, you cum with a strangled sort of cry, your pussy clenching tight. He hisses through his teeth, fucks you through the high of your orgasm, and then falls with you, his own climax fast like a flash.

You’re panting in the aftermath. What just happened?

Scaramouche keeps you plugged with his cock for as long as he possibly can before he’s sliding out, flaccid and spent. For now, you suspect, for there will certainly be more later if your wits aren’t about you by then.

“Pill,” you mumble, voice hoarse from crying. You shake him, hoping he’ll climb off of you and get to it. “Scaraaa…”

Oddly, for someone who never shows any vulnerability, he clings. “We’ve got time. I’ll get it. Don’t worry.”

You don’t believe him. Not when his hand strays to your stomach. His palm brushes over the area once. He sighs, wholly satisfied.

“We’ve got time…”

Nine months of it, in fact. But that goes unspoken. If not today, there’s always tomorrow. You know he won’t rest until then. Neither will you. Your heart is too big, too soft, for that lonely stray cat, and part of you wonders if he knows that.

[glassrowboat]

As The Sun Rises. Baizhu.

Summary: A morning with Baizhu never fails to be peaceful, even if there's a mishap or two to start the day

Word count: 1.1k

Even before the first rays of light start to peek through the blinds, Baizhu is already pushing the sheets covering him aside. The bed creaks, and for a moment, he stops, head turning back to look at you still hugging a pillow to your chest you had managed to steal from him earlier to assure you were still asleep.

A small laugh leaves him when he realizes you're still in dream land, dozing away even as your nose scrunches when his hair accidentally tickles your face as he stands up.

He shushes you as quietly as he can, hand going to run up and down your back before he pulls away. For a moment, Baizhu's fingers could still feel the heat of your skin lingering on him until it was replaced by the cold wood of his favorite comb he brushed through his hair. Every little knot that came from the occasional toss and turn during the night was removed from his emerald green hair until it fell against his back once again. It was a slow, methodical practice that let him occasionally flick his gaze back to the reflection of a lump with their legs caught between the sheets in the mirror before him.

“Still knocked out like a light. I see they aren't the type to care about getting stuff done early in the day.”

“Hush now, Changsheng.” Baizhu chided, his hand going to place the comb down so he could run a finger over her head. “We don't need to deal with their grumpiness just yet. Let's at least wait until the morning sun rises.”

“That just sounds like an excuse to let them sleep in.”

“Rest is important, no matter the hour it's acquired.” With one more scratch to Changsheng’s head, Baizhu said “Now, if you want to wake someone up, I'm sure Qiqi is still in bed.”

The snake grumbled for a moment, asking why that duty was put on her non-existent shoulders before she slithered her way down from the vanity Baizhu was sitting at, across the room, and through the hole cut at the bottom of the door cut out specifically for her.

Behind him he heard a groan.

In the end, his attempts were null.

“Good morning, my love.”

All he got back in response was another groan.

“You're usually awake by now. Don't tell me you were up all night reading again.”

The playful tone in his voice was enough to stir you awake all for the sake of glaring at him over the mountain of pillows you had somehow collected. “I don't want to hear that from you.”

“Is this when you call me a dirty hypocrite?”

“I'm not awake enough to remember that word exists, let alone use it.”

Baizhu shook his head to hide the smile he knew you would scold him for. He didn't need to hear he was being cheeky on top of it all. “What are you feeling like for breakfast today?”

The bed creaked as you shifted, doing your best to climb out of it even when you were essentially cuffed to it with a blanket wrapped around your ankle that had you stumbling down to the floor. The small “ah, that doesn't look good” Baizhu let out before he started to get up didn't help your pride much either.

“I'm fine!” You quickly popped back up, scrambling up to your feet so you could place your hands on his shoulders to keep Baizhu sitting. “Peachy, even.”

His eyes met yours in the mirror, deep bags under his and yours from your shared habit of staying up late at night to bury your nose away in a book or two, even if he wouldn't admit it. You had heard him scold Keqing before for wearing herself thin by burning the midnight oil, but the bluish skin you could make out on him was more than enough proof he was just as bad as she is. If not worse.

Always so stubborn, you wanted to say, but instead you reached past him to pick the two hair sticks Baizhu always had pinned into his hair to hold them between your teeth as you started to gather his hair. That was the only reason you couldn't snap back with a retort as he repeated the way you said peachy with a chuckle in his tone.

Hair was gathered.

You could feel him relax under you, fall further into your touch with each passing second until his head was tilted back and eyes closed as you secured the ornaments in his new bun before going down to work on his regular braid.

The first time you had tried doing this for his it had ended in a mess of knots, a forgotten hair tie left in the bathroom, and Changsheng scolding you a she claimed Qiqi could have done a better job, but now it was second nature to run your fingers through his hair to ease each little strand into the next section. At this point, you might even be able to do this without even being conscious, but half asleep would do, too. It just meant his usual style would be a bit messier than usual.

When you were finally done, you slid the braid over his shoulder, eyes meeting his own in the mirror once again after he put his glasses on to share a soft smile.

“You never said what you wanted for breakfast, my dear.”

“I didn't, did I?” A hum left you, prolonging the moment before you finally decided on one thing. “Let's not worry about that now, I still have your makeup to do.”

He pushed aside a lock of his hair, one that would usually be secure in his regular bun if Baizhu had done it himself. “I'm not sure you can handle that without a cup of coffee first.”

“Nonsense. Unless you're afraid I'll poke out your eye?”

With a sigh, Baizhu pulled off his glasses, placing them back down with a jingle of the crystals that hang off of them.

“And you're awake enough to do my rouge?” Baizhu asked.

“We’ll see, won't we?”

A squeeze to his shoulders was all it took for Baizhu to pick up his makeup brush and hold it up to you.

“And then we'll have breakfast.”

“Congee.” You said.

It was when the tip of your brush met the pad of red makeup that you heard Baizhu agree. “Congee. With fruit on the side. You could use some more natural vitamins in your diet.”

“And coffee?” You insisted, bristles just barely a hair's breadth away from Baizhu's now closed eyes as light from the morning sun started to stream pure gold in through the blinds.

“And coffee, my love.”

[m-mink4]

maybe next year? xmas special

warnings:: overall angst, no comfort-- || word count:: #401 || divider credits:: @cafekitsune. @mikeykuns .. || ((oneshot,,)) ||

december 4, wednesday ..

y/n looked beautiful today. oh, .. what am i doing? the fuck? might as well end this meaningless journal.

december 23, monday ..

today, y/n was speaking to kaveh.. if only she spoke to me.

pay no mind to the earlier entry. i was obviously joking. i also heard that christmas is coming soon. isn't it a holiday when people share gifts? i truly wonder what gift i should give to y/n..

she is always smiling, i always wonder how i could make her smile too,, without that insolent kaveh interfering.

i talked with her . she's a cheerful person, her smile brighter than the stars above. i wish we could always be together.. how much mora would i pay?

kaveh is such a bother. seriously . always trying to talk to her.. i can't tell if that fool is desperate or just hungry for attention.. what a stupid roommate.

december 24, tuesday ..

i think y/n would enjoy a book.. i hope she'll appreciate it.

i hope that kaveh will go on doing his business so that i can at least spend the afternoon with y/n. never in hell would i forget to purchase her a gift. i'll make sure i give her the best suited one.

tomorrow is the christmas day. y/n seems very excited about it, i'll ask her what she enjoys most about it.

she likes the gifts most? oh, guess i will have to ask that kaveh on what he'll give her. i'll make sure y/n wants my present more.

december 25, wednesday .. christmas day...

..

i do not want to mention today.

i am happy y/n spared me a card.. and i am happy that she liked my present. kaveh. couldn't even spare her a gift! no wonder he's so known for being poor.

but who the shit is kaveh.... to deserve a gift? from her?!

ah. what a shame. next year's still coming.. i have a second chance. maybe the following christmas will give me a chance of a gift.

am i not good enough?

should i try harder?

y/n, please notice me.

a/n:: haha, this fic sucks.

[opultea]

Where's My Kiss?

Genshin men see you kiss something, and can't help but want one for themselves... ft. Dottore, Zhongli

Fluff - Romantic - SFW - GN Reader (No Pronouns) - Drabbles

Warning: Very slight swearing in Dottore’s part

Part 2 - ft. Gorou, Wanderer

Dottore

Your husband had been on his official trip to Sumeru for some time now, and before his departure, he naturally left you and the segments to continue the work in the lab. Although you had been working with Dottore for years in his experimentation and lab work, it still filled you with pride to know he trusted you enough to leave the work in your hands for a time, especially with how commanding he liked to be.

Dottore was due to return today, and as thrilled as you were at the thought of seeing him again, you thought it best to throw yourself into your work until his homecoming. After all, the more you could complete before his inevitable inspection of your progress, the better.

You called on one of the younger segments today, many of the older versions of your husband away in meetings or on official business. You knew that some of them were not as happy as you to know Prime was returning, so you let them take their time away. The younger segment, Theta, looked just like your dear lover when he was straight out of being expelled from the Akademiya on account of manslaughter and the propagation of unethical sciences. Ah, what cherished memories.

The two of you set to work, yourself constantly and eagerly glancing at the clock, anxious about Dottore's return. Theta sees this but makes no comment, that is until about another five of your time-checks.

"Ugh, will you stop that! I can't imagine why you'd even be so eager for him to come back, it's not as if he cares about us!" The outburst felt rather sudden, making you step away from the machinery in front of you for a moment.

"Whatever do you mean, Theta?"

"It's not as if you of all people would understand, he wouldn't say a thing against you if you decided never to pick up a beaker again! But we just get all his tasks that he can't bother with, and then a scrutinous comment about how it should have been done! He never cares to acknowledge that we are just as intelligent as he is, that bloody-"

Theta saunters around the lab, raising his arms and yelling in frustration. Before he went too bold with his exclamations, you decided to step in and calm him down. Theta’s situation with Prime would only worsen if he came back in to find him insulting his name.

You stepped around Theta's tense form, gently placing your hands on his shoulders to ease them, moving slowly as you smoothed his coat down.

"Come now, Theta. He's not so bad, and I'm sure he understands exactly how much you are truly worth, he was you, at one time, you know," Theta melts a touch at your soft voice and caress, but holds his grimace.

"Hm. As if the ancient bastard remembers,"

"Hey, that's enough of that," You pout, causing the segment to tense his jaw and look away, crossing his arms with a huff. "Theta?"

"I... apologise," he hisses, but you smile even despite the delivery. You cup Theta's face and press a kiss on his cheek, the clone's face reddening and his body tensing back up.

"What in Teyvat are you doing?"

The two of you turn to the door, where a bitter-faced Zandik stood, apparently just having entered, and just having returned to Snezhnaya.

You immediately separate from the segment to greet your husband happily, although his gaze did not leave Theta's unmoving form.

"You. Leave. Now." Theta huffed at the order from the Doctor, yet obeyed all the same.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Dottore turned to stand over you, his intimidating frame not quite so for you. How could you be frightened when the object of your affection was finally here?

"What was that?" he questioned harshly.

"He looked like he needed it."

A silence overtook you, neither of you needing to move nor speak for the conversation to continue across your minds.

"Do you need one too?"

"I do not need anything. Although I fully intend on taking what I want."

You hardly had a moment to process before the doctors hand firmly clasped the back of your neck, bringing your lips to his. You blinked, but eventually relaxed, allowing you and your husband to indulge in reuniting.

The two of you parted, and you smiled as you brushed his bangs away from his mask.

“Welcome home, Zandik,”

Zhongli

After leaving the Funeral Parlor for the evening, locking up and leaving behind a hard day's work, Zhongli's immediate first thought was to find you. His beloved partner, who loved him enough to step down from godhood alongside him, who had been loving him for centuries, and promised with a gold band never to stop.

There were only a few places you would be at this time of day, but Zhongli knew that with the bright sunset and cool breeze, you'd likely be gazing over the world at the height of Jueyun Karst. An old habit of yours that never died was to watch the world from above, especially as it turned dark and the stars took watch. As the god of clouds, it was natural that you had an affinity for the spires of rock that Zhongli had created in his youth.

You laughed bashfully when he told you many centuries after he’d made them that one of his motivations for doing so had been to impress you, and the other to have an excuse to be closer to your domain.

The memory made the former god smile as he walked through the plains of Liyue, admiring the scenery and the image of you in his mind. It wasn't long before Zhongli was stepping up the slope of Qingyun Peak, looking around expectantly, waiting for you to come into his view. And when you finally did, he couldn't help but stop to stare.

Zhongli let a sighing breath out through his smile, watching as you gracefully kneeled to inspect the bud of a qingxin flower. It seemed that the others around it were in full bloom, but this particular flower was falling a little behind. Zhongli watched with interest as your brow furrowed in worry before you leaned your head down, and gave the bud the lightest peck.

Even with your stepping down from heavenly grace you still held a great deal of power, and from your simple touch, the flower grew taller, its stem widening and leaves unfurling with its petals. Soon, the small bud had become a fully bloomed qingxin, shining pure white under the moon. Zhongli felt his heart expand in his chest at your action. It seemed that no amount of time spent with you could prepare him for how much he loved and admired you. His gaze was particularly attached to your lips, teasing him with the softness they portrayed when you blessed the flower with their touch.

It was at this time that you raised your head and spotted your husband, chuckling at his awed smile. You approached silently, head bowed but smile apparent.

"Hello good sir, what pray tell might you be hoping to gain by ascending the sacred stones of Jueyun Karst?" You tease, stopping just short of leaning against the man.

"Why, I had no intention of offending the kind, bewitching deity that resides in these mountaintops, although I simply had to affirm the legend of the god's beauty myself."

You hummed, taking Zhongli's face in your hands and caressing his cheek gently.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed," the former archon affirmed, bringing his arms around your back to pull you to him. "You are ever the most enchanting creature to have walked the skies, my love,"

You broke the flirtatious atmosphere with a snort, followed by a series of giggles, leaning against Zhongli's chest as he raised his eyebrow with a smile.

"Is there something you find funny, dearest?"

"I wasn't exactly expecting a pun, that's all."

"Ah, I had not intended..." Zhongli coughed into his hand to alleviate the embarrassed crackle in his voice. "Although it is forever true that you enchant me. Fully and truly. In fact, I would be honoured if you bestowed a blessing on me, perhaps the same one you have placed upon the lucky bloom?"

Your face warmed at the implication that he'd seen you kiss the flower. Somehow there were still moments of shyness in your relationship, despite its infinite length. However, you didn’t so much mind that your heart still fluttered around Zhongli. If anything, you found it quite comforting.

You placed your hands gently across Zhongli’s chest, leaning into him. In turn, the geo-wielder brought his hand to your chin to guide you into a sweet kiss.

Zhongli sighed into your touch, enjoying you thoroughly, yet smiling in the knowledge that neither of you would be satisfied with just one kiss.

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ Genshin Impact Agere ໒ ˚⁎

Hi ! Can you do a Caregiver Tighnari headcanon please?

•Tighnari would quickly recognize age regression as a way for you to feel safe and manage stress. He’d be curious about it at first, but once he understood its purpose, he’d be fully supportive and make sure you have the space to be little whenever you need. He'd have no problem adapting his routines and approach to support you during these moments !

•Tighnari’s experience as a forest ranger has sharpened his observation skills, making him exceptionally attentive. He can tell if you’re feeling a little off even before you say anything, just by noticing subtle cues in your behavior. If he sees you’re feeling overwhelmed or needing comfort, he’ll immediately adapt his approach—whether that’s offering extra care or just being there quietly

•Tighnari would use nature as his toolkit for helping you relax. He’ll plan gentle, hands-on activities like planting small flowers, gathering interesting leaves, or even helping him sort and catalog his findings from the forest. These activities aren’t only engaging but also calming, and he’ll explain each plant or insect you find in an accessible way that brings out wonder without overwhelming you with information

•Structure and predictability are important to him, and he believes it’s grounding for you, too. So, Tighnari would set up a loose daily routine based on your needs and energy levels. He’d help you wake up with the sunrise and guide you to bed when the stars come out, ensuring you get plenty of rest and time to enjoy the natural rhythm of the forest

•Tighnari would go to great lengths to create a cozy, safe space for you in Gandharva Ville. He’d gather comfortable pillows, blankets, and a mix of forest elements—soft leaves, dried flowers, small crystals, and gentle herbs—that smell like home and relaxation. He’d probably place this little nest near the window, so you can look out and enjoy the view whenever you need to feel calm

•As an experienced botanist, Tighnari knows tons of natural remedies for calming down. If he senses you’re feeling anxious or need help winding down, he’ll prepare a tea with herbs that have gentle, soothing effects. He’s also incredibly patient with explaining which plants are helpful and why they work, making sure you feel safe and confident in using his remedies

•On quiet days, Tighnari would take you on calm walks in the forest, sharing stories and legends about the creatures and plants around. Sometimes he’ll even make up fantastical tales of tiny forest sprites or wise old trees with personalities. His soft, calm voice is perfect for creating a safe, magical world, and he enjoys seeing you engage with these stories

•Knowing how comforting the sounds of nature can be, Tighnari encourages you to focus on the ambient sounds in the forest. He’ll guide you to listen for birdsong, the rustling leaves, or the trickling water. Sometimes, he’ll just sit quietly beside you, letting the sounds of the forest calm both of you. He might even set up a small stream of water or a pot of chirping crickets near your space to keep the forest’s ambiance close

•Tighnari understands the importance of having clear, gentle boundaries, but he approaches them in a way that encourages growth and security. He’ll set expectations around self-care (like drinking enough water or resting when needed) but always gently encourages you, never forcing you. His approach is to give nudges rather than pushes, and he’s incredibly understanding if you need time

•He believes that understanding and recognizing emotions is essential to well-being, so he’d patiently help you learn to identify your feelings. Tighnari has a knack for using natural metaphors to help you understand emotions better—like saying feelings are like weather patterns, and they’ll pass like rain. He’s always open to talking through anything that’s bothering you

•Tighnari would encourage you to express yourself creatively, often bringing out materials like leaves, flower petals, and charcoal from burned branches for art projects. He might even press leaves and flowers with you, creating a collection you can look back on or use to decorate your space. To him, expressing yourself is an important way to feel connected and grounded, so he’d make sure you have access to these outlets

•Tighnari’s relationship with the forest animals is strong, and he’d use this to bring some gentle play into your day. If you’re comfortable, he’ll introduce you to friendly creatures like the shroomboars or some of the smaller, gentler wildlife in the forest. Watching the animals interact or just quietly sitting with them could be soothing, and Tighnari would guide the interactions so they’re safe and respectful

•Nighttime is important to Tighnari, as it’s when the forest quiets down. He’d likely create a special bedtime ritual for you, like sharing a calming tea, brushing your hair, or even letting you watch the stars together. He’s incredibly knowledgeable about constellations, so he’d share fun stories and facts about them if it helps you relax. The time he spends with you under the stars becomes a grounding ritual that reassures you before sleep

•Tighnari knows the importance of patience. He’d be endlessly supportive, cheering on your small accomplishments, and offering quiet encouragement when you’re feeling down. He’d constantly remind you that progress doesn’t have to be fast to be meaningful, giving you the freedom to move at your own pace

•Tighnari isn’t overly affectionate in public, but in a caregiving role, he’d show his support through subtle, comforting touches—a pat on the head, a gentle hand on your shoulder, or a quick side hug. He may not say much, but he always finds a way to show he’s there for you, making you feel safe, supported, and valued

•Tighnari would go out of his way to make a comfortable little corner just for you in Gandharva Ville. He’d fill it with soft blankets, cozy pillows, and maybe even some nature-themed toys. He might also keep stuffed animals made by his ranger friends or little charms shaped like forest animals nearby. This space would be dedicated just for you to feel secure and safe whenever you’re in littlespace

•Knowing that sensory play can be both fun and grounding, Tighnari would often bring you things like smooth stones, dried flowers, and pinecones to explore textures and smells. He might set up little “nature sensory bins” with safe leaves, flowers, or small water play setups (like a tiny puddle to splash in) to help engage your senses in a soothing way. He’d always be nearby, ensuring everything is safe

•Care Giver Tighnari knows all the safe herbs and flowers that can be used to make calming teas. He’d love setting up a little “tea party” with you, preparing mild, child-safe herbal teas (with plenty of honey if you like it!) served in small cups. He’ll join you in drinking “fancy tea” and munching on little snacks he brings, like forest fruits or simple biscuits. He’d be sure to let you pretend-play as the host of the party

•When you have extra energy and are feeling playful, Tighnari would take you on gentle nature walks. He’d point out interesting plants, show you safe bugs, and teach you the names of flowers, keeping the information simple and fun. He’ll even let you collect tiny “treasures” like leaves or stones. Walking with him feels like an adventure, and he always watches out to keep you safe

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[cravingsfromatwistedone]

Hi Hana! I just saw ur post and it's perfectly fine if you can't write for Twisted Wonderland. Is it alright if I have the same prompt but with any Genshin character of ur choice? -🎐 Anon

PRAISE TO BE [ DRABBLE + HC / NSFW ]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: HELLO THERE DARLING! I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE FOR TAKING MY TIME TOO LONG BUT INSPIRATION HAVEN'T HIT ME ENOUGH LATELY! (⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠) SO HOPEFULLY WHAT I WROTE FOR YOU TURNED OUT WELL! ANY KINDS OF FEEDBACKS ARE APPRECIATED!

DARLING REQUESTED: Could I request overstimulation by toys hc with [!!!] and other characters of ur choice but as mean doms with a Fem or GN reader!

TW: IMPLIED OVERSTIMULATION, USAGE OF TOYS, PET NAMES, A MIX OF PRAISING AND DEGRADING, SWEARING/CURSING, PETPLAY, USAGE OF COLLAR AND LEASH

KAMISATO AYATO X FEM! READER

"What a pretty girl you are, so obedient just for me♡"

The male chuckled to himself before scratching under your chin as drool seeped out from your lips, your eyes glistening with tears. "A-Ayato♡—" You pant out, only for him to place a finger against your lips. "Ah-ah, did I say you could talk dearest?" He slyly spoke. He laughed when your head started dipping down, your gaze fixed to the floorboards instead of him. Kamisato Ayato found it endearing that you were hanging on to every single word he said, almost like a kicked puppy so to say.

Tugging on the leash that was connected to your collar, you were forced to look up to your benefactor. A pleasant grin carved into his face as he held up a small controller in his hand "Now, let's try turning it up a li~ittle higher alright, puppy?♡"

[ H E A D C A N O N S ! ]

• Despite his refined and elegant appearance, you'd never guess that he was such a perverted man

• He'd gently coax you into acting out his deepest desires, with the promise that he'll take good care of you once you're done

• Of course, he's the kind of man who'd leave you in the dark; waiting just around the corner to surprise you with whatever he had in mind that day

• He was particularly fond of petplay, where he'd often place a collar on you before tying a leash to it, grinning to your flustered face as he walks you around in his private quarters

• He takes it to the extreme where he even bought a vibrating butt plug that had a furry end to it, your 'tail' as he calls it and that you should never take it off without his permission

• Kamisato Ayato is also a cheeky man, he'd 'accidentally' turn on the plug to its highest setting before excusing you and himself to the guests as your knees start to buckle; to which you shakily let out an agreement

• Once you've arrived in his bedroom, he's taking his sweet time in undressing you, your soft supple skin simply covered in sweat and that you were begging to have your needs filled

• "Go on, keep crying like a bitch in heat, dearest♡" He says, gripping on to your hips as he forces you down on his cock; relishing the way your cunt tightens around him as your moans fuels him even more

• As soon as the bed has been thoroughly wet ( by your mixed fluids ), the male does a stupendous job at cleaning up; carefully setting aside your fainted figure as he places on to a new mattress to sleep on for the night

[ruqa22]

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

CHILDE is the affectionate lover. He’s clingy and the golden retriever of the dynamic. He always has to be around you or he’d probably go insane. Hopefully not.

Holding your hand or even by intertwining your pinkies together would be enough. He just needs to be in your presence. Expect cheek and nose pecks. Although very hyperactive and outgoing, there are times where he’s serious. Someone dared lay a hand on you and you wonder what happened to them? Don’t worry, they’ve been taken care of so they can no longer hurt you.

Fighting.. dates? He wants to spar, even if you’re a beginner. He’ll definitely go easy on you and perhaps tease you as well. Hey, he can’t help but do it when his pretty little partner is being so adorable! Maybe afterwards you’ll go on a proper date. If you convince him to settle down enough, that is. But when he does, eating snacks with you under a tree full of shade — it’s the perfect way to spend quality time with you. His favorite person.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

a/n: yay!! this man is something else, imo. very cheery but kinda cute tbh. this was a nice headcanon to make!

hopefully it was good enough. （╹◡╹）♡

[pinkjoy-cons]

Sorry I haven't written much of anything I've been very busy with work and I'm just so tired when I get home but here, have this little thing I wrote when I had a moment. Also it's very bad I'm sorry I'm like so tired. I'm posting this on mobile so I'm unable to put a read more option sorry.

Warnings: female reader, dirty talking/degradation, use of pet names, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, sub!reader/Dom!male characters, exaggeration of sexual activity, exhibitionism, panty stealing, creampie, unprotected sex, unedited we just die

Minors please don't interact

Kisses to @sammilimyy for reading this out of the kindness of her heart and totally not because I sent it to her so it would be the first thing she read when she woke up ❤️

It was supposed to be just a small little kiss. A quick peck on the cheek to get him through the day. But after being so busy and too tired to do anything but sleep when he got home, he couldn't help but have this kiss escalate to what it was now. He had you pinned to the wall in the hallway far from the people who would occupy the building but close enough that if you strained your ears, you could hear the distance footsteps and chatter.

"Wait!" You pleaded, "W-we can't do this--ah!" You gasped as he cupped you pussy and the heal of his palm against your clit.

"Aww, why not beautiful?" His fingers danced on your lower lips. He used his middle finger to prod your weeping hole; not getting too far given your soaked panties are in the way. "From what it looks like to me," he bit down on your neck and licked at your skin, "You seemed very thrilled at the idea of me taking you against this wall."

You moaned as he slipped your panties down and thrusted a finger in, then another.

"Oh fuck!"

"Who would've known, my sweet darling had such language." He whispered into your ear as his fingers changed between the pase of being slow and fast. The squelching of your pussy echoed through the hall along with the moans you let out from the stimulation.

"Please..." Your eyes were squeezed shut as you begged.

"Please what babygirl?"

"P-please-" He curled his fingers as you begged and let out a gasping whine. "Please put your dick in me now!"

That's all he was waiting for. As soon as the sentence left your mouth he kissed you with such passion that you didnt even notice that your panties had fallen to the ground.

Breaking the kiss, he turned you around and lifted your skirt past your ass. He spanked you once the echo and your yelp echoed.

You heard the shuffling of clothing and soon felt the proding of his dick against your lips.

"Now, be a good little slut and keep quiet okay hun?" He had the most sinister smile on his face. He knew you couldn't keep quiet for the life of you and barely registered your pleas before he pushed in; bottoming out in one beautiful thrust.

He had your hands pinned to the wall so you were helpless in concealing your moan.

"Quite kitten." He half scolded and then moved his hand to cover your mouth so he could cover what you couldn't.

His hips kept up the relentless pace and the slap of skin and squelch was the only thing in the halls. To the point that should anyone pass by they would know exactly what was going down.

But you couldn't care less, the angle of this position and the way you felt every vein of his dick drag mercilessly against your tight cunt was all you could think about.

"You feel so good. I missed you and your sweet pussy so much." He moaned in your ear and you were too dumb to respond; just a helpless whine was your answer. After a few thrusts, he swore and lifted your leg and positioned himself to go deeper. Your thigh resting on his hip and the new angle hit deeper in you that had tears coming down your eyes.

Knowing he had to hurry, he reached a hand out to run tight circles on your clit and that was just enough of what you needed to softly (to the best of your ability) cry out his name and gush all over his cock. The squeezing of your walls was heavenly that after a few deep thrusts, he planted his dick deep inside your cunt, seed spilling inside of you. His grip on you tightened and he pressed your hips even closer to ensure that his cum was burried inside of you.

You both took a moment to catch your breaths and he pulls out slowly, the movement making you hiss from over stimulation. He tucks himself back into his pants and gently pats your hair back into place and helps you to fix your skirt.

He kisses you deeply and you smile at the passion this man still has. In a moment of clarity, you feel his cum slowly creep out of you and down your thigh. He sees you tense your thighs and laughs at your expression. You lift your skirt, he kneels peaks under and uses his finger to push his cum back into your hole. You gasp and furrow your brows, grip tightening on your dress.

Once he's up, you scan the ground, when you can't find what you're looking for you hear your lover clear his throat. In his fingers are your panties. You reach for them but he pulls back, too quick and too tall for you to reach.

"Careful love," he leans in to whisper in you ear, "Wouldn't want to leak on your way out." You can utter a rebuttal when someone is calling his name. He slips your panties into his pocket and you turn to walk out. With great difficulty you walk out but you look over your shoulder and blush furiously. Peaking barely out of his pocket is a small bit of lace from your panties.

Kaeya, Alhaitham, Ayato, Childe

[pinkxpantha]

Mine all Mine

-Wriothesley x GN! Reader

#: synopsis- literally just wriothesley being domestically clingy with his S/O

#:cw- ~520 words, tooth rotting type fluff, canon complient, established relationship, I wrote this at 1 am, he's clingyyy

Wriothesley is the type to savor every moment with you. He''s a busy man. He'll spend hours and his desk and a few more with work affiliated things. At some point, it feels as though each minute with you is just a mere second in the grand scheme of things. Trust him when he says he wishes he could be home more often, coddled in your arms, his head leaning on your chest as he listens to the pulse of your heartbeat.

Ever burdened by work, he finds himself needing more of you in his life. Yes, he keeps pictures of you in his office. (You'd have to convince him not to plaster your face on the ground and the ceiling) Yes, he keeps a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers in a vase. (He used to not care for such things until he saw how you loved the way they bloomed)

Yes, Wriothesley cannot get enough of you.

Even on the days where he couldn't catch up to his breathing, when the floor seemed to move even when he was standing still. He found himself drumming your heartbeat into the palm of his hand. Bump-Ba-bump. The rhythm was second nature to him.

But no matter how many reminders he had of your presence, nothing compared to the real deal.

You in your entirety, and you in your smallest form. Some night's he'd swear to kiss every cell of your body so you'd always have his love be apart of you.

Each time you'd smile back at him, maybe even tease his insensible fantasy. He swears he becomes the happiest man alive.

Your nighttime routine is rarely completed without some form of memento from him. He'd write sticky notes in your favorite color with caring words (and occasionally a sticker from one of the melusines)

Even after you drifted off to sleep, by the late times he returns to you, he returns to his home. As soon as he could, he'd lay there in bed with you. His hand rested on top of your palm, as the valley in between your fingers served as his hand's resting point.

His grip would always be loose, swearing that the frost of his vision would crawl onto his fingertips, stirring you from your slumber.

And no matter what, he would always sleep with his head facing yours (his so-called solution to sleepless nights). The barriers of personal space seemed to bind themselves together. So don't be surprised when he wakes you up, cupping your jaw.

He'd always say that he needs to see the most soul before he sets out for the day ahead of him. His course voice would tell you that you could fall asleep again, hoping you wouldn't see how his cheeks rose with mirth when you would be the first thing he wakes up to.

All in all, he thinks of you as the beginning of a new dawn, and the end of a long day. He wouldn't have it any other way.

I didn't want to write dialogue.. can you tell?

Not proofread ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ), I'm used to writing x fem readers, If something seems implied that reader is fem please reach out to me so I can fix it 🙏🙏

Also anons are open :))

[it-happened-one-fic]

Bridal Visions: Photoshoot #4 - Sumeru Bridal - Worse Things

Summary: You really shouldn’t have been surprised that Alhaitham looked quite so good in a suit, even if it was more lightly colored than his usual outfits. But then, you’d been a little bit too distracted by the vaguely flustering notion of posing in wedding clothes with him. But then, there certainly were worse things. And there were definitely worse partners.

Type: Female reader/ 800 Followers Event/ series/ sfw/ fluff/ Chiori is shipping/

Bridal Visions Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1251

I had to admit, it was odd seeing Alhaitham in a traditional wedding suit. And the fact that it was beige, paired with a dark green, rather than his usual black, made it even odder.

But even with those oddities, I couldn’t deny that he looked amazing. Perhaps even frustratingly so, considering he usually did look annoyingly good.

He’d been a clever choice for modeling wedding attire, and though I didn’t know her, I could tell that the designer, Chiori, was thrilled with his presence.

Traveler had picked well, and I had no doubts that they’d received the full reward for their commission of finding people to model these clothes simply because of Alhaitham. Though personally I still felt like Layla, Nilou, or Candace would have been far better choices than me.

So would Dehya, but she’d shot down that idea so quickly that there was no way she would’ve done this. Even if she did love clothes and would’ve doubtless enjoyed every second of this. 

But she had already made plans with Dunyarzad anyway…

So here I was in the deep green lehenga skirt and matching top that had been designed for the Sumeru section of this bridal line rather than any of the other women whom I felt would’ve been better choices.

And one thing about it, I could tell that no expense had been spared in the design of my outfit. 

At the very least, I was fairly certain that all of the jewelry I had on, from the necklace and earrings to the headpiece, was all pure gold.

I fidgeted with my sheer veil, doing my best to ignore the sheer drama of my outfit as I walked over to the steps where Alhaitham sat. Somehow wholly unbothered despite the fact that we were modeling incredibly nice bridal clothes as a couple.

And even with how gorgeous his outfit was, it was obvious that I was the centerpiece of the photo with how brilliantly colored my clothes were. As if the gold trim hadn’t been enough.

Which was perfectly ridiculous considering most anyone would be looking at his face rather than any part of my outfit.

“Alright, I want you to sit here on the step between his feet. When I give the signal, you two look at each other,” Chiori instructed as she gestured to the steps as Alhaitham looked up. Utterly relaxed as we made eye contact.

I sat carefully, following Chiori’s instructions to fan out the massive, and frankly speaking, gorgeous skirt before I was finally settled enough to glance back at Alhaitham as he finished adjusting the skirt so it rested on the steps to the left of him.

“You don’t usually wear clothes that are lightly colored, but they look really good on you,” I smiled as I spoke. Willing myself to relax and not think too much about any of this.

I was just here to model some wedding clothes with Alhaitham. Nothing more, and nothing less.

He met my gaze directly, his eyebrows lifting, and I felt my smile spread at his expression before I continued. Knowing perfectly well why he didn’t wear these sorts of clothes, “Though I will admit they are rather eye-catching.”

A smile almost flickered onto his face as a flash of amusement went through his eyes and his lips twitched, “I doubt anyone will be looking at me.”

His words matched my own thoughts regarding how utterly fancy my outfit was, but his phrasing was almost enough to make me flustered.

But I reined it in and shook my head, reaching out and patting his knee that was beside me affectionately, “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“And, freeze!” Both of us went still in the sudden directions, with me smiling teasingly up at him as he simply held eye contact.

I felt myself relax as soon as the flash from the camera had dimmed, and I could already hear both Chiori and the photographer talking, “It’s not bad, but…. I think it would be better to get the skirt in motion, don’t you?”

I glanced over to see Chiori staring at both of us pointedly, and I felt my eyebrows lift slightly before I glanced back over at Alhaitham, who’d already stood and was looking down at me.

He held out his hand, and I smiled half-awkwardly, quietly accepting it and standing alongside him as Chiori spoke, “Could you two move over here. I want you to hold her hand as she twirls….”

He nodded, still holding my hand as I gathered up my skirts in one hand as best I could before nodding over at him.

I followed his lead over to the side before letting go of my skirts and glancing over at Chiori, who’d already moved out of the line of the camera.

She nodded, and I spun as Alhaitham held up my hand. And at the last second I looked towards him. Smiling at the sensation of my skirts flaring around me as my eyes met his. 

A smile flickered across his face, either at my giddiness or the raw amount of fabric swirling around me as the golden embroidery and jewelry I wore twinkled in the sunlight.

I slowly spun to a stop as I heard the tell-tale click of the camera’s shutter, and I looked towards where Chiori stood with the photographer. My hand staying locked in Alhaitham’s, where they hung between us as we waited to see what she might say.

And after a moment she nodded and looked up at the two of us, “Looks good. I’ll send your payment through the Adventurer’s Guild.”

I felt myself smile, nodding as I exhaled in relief and started to turn to go before pausing. I frowned at my skirts as I bent slightly to once again gather the layers of green and gold.

Alhaitham watched me, tilting his head slightly, “Do you want me to walk you back to your changing area?”

I paused, blinking up at him in slight surprise before smiling and nodding. Feeling oddly touched by his offer even as I nodded, “Sure.”

“Hmm, while the two of you do that, we might get one more shot of you two walking away,” The photographer spoke up, and we both turned to look her way before I nodded.

“Feel free,” Alhaitham’s answer was nonchalant, and I felt myself smile. Snickering slightly at both his words and tone as he reached out and took my hand once more before we took off.

Walking away and largely ignoring both the camera and the photographer snapping pictures from behind us as I glanced at him, “So do you think you’ll want to go with beige and green when you get married?”

I grinned at him, teasing him slightly as he glanced my way before looking back forward with a single quirked eyebrow, “Who knows. Maybe we’ll get these clothes for free since we modeled them and they were made to our measurements.”

I blinked before feeling myself frown slightly at his words, hesitating slightly before I spoke, not fully voicing the implications of what that would mean, “That would mean we’d have matching bridal attire, though… Nice, matching bridal attire.”

He lifted one shoulder, perfectly unbothered in a way I honestly felt only he could be, “There could be worse things.”

I paused before feeling myself smile as he glanced my way, and I nodded as I felt a smile work its way back onto my face, “There certainly could be.”

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[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.

[stardustsorbet]

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 ― ♡

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ⁞ mentions of unrequited feelings, mentions of death and lost loves, kitsune!reader, there’s a little bit of poetry I lowkey pulled it out of my ass

“Escort me, my memory is a bit hazy,” she lied. She knew the path like the back of her hand, allowing her friend to take the lead. (Y/N) loved to tease him, the silver-haired judge, Neuvillette. He wasn’t gullible per se but sometimes oblivious to jokes.

He couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter, you really wanted to go back. To that lake where you spent your youth. When you were just a young kitsune and he a youthful dragon. His horns were so petite, and your tails were so small, yet soft. Where there was so much unresolved tension, unanswered questions he had.

“That lake holds many of my memories,” he spoke, trying to keep his words to a minimal, just small talk. With his arm hooked in hers, he couldn’t help himself from trying to appear to others as maybe being her lover. The press would sure milk this for all its worth, but he almost wanted that. Fontaine’s dearest kitsune, a sweet woman, and the cold Chief Justice.

“Wouldn’t you think it’s rather romantic to go somewhere like this, especially so late at night?” He whispered, leaning down so she could hear. His height was quite different compared to yours. A smile crept onto his lips; this was his way of flirting with you, and you knew that better than anyone.

“Aren’t you presumptuous?” A laugh escapes her lips, playfully shoving her friend, not enough to hurt him. “Just.. take me there, okay?”

The walk from where the two had dined to their lovely lake was not too far, and he could not pretend like he didn’t enjoy being with her in pure silence like this. It had been years since their falling out, but now? Things were so much different. They’d both grown, both changed in so many ways.

She took a seat in the rustic swing hooked onto a branch of a cypress tree, swinging gently as she gazed into the water. The pale moon reflected Neuvillette’s features so beautifully; she had forgotten just how beautiful he really was. She couldn’t help but notice in such an intimate moment like this.

He sat himself next to her, worried the swing wouldn’t be able to support them both, but alas, it did. It was rather old, much more used to supporting two young teenagers and every conversation they had. “You look most beautiful tonight. I’m not sure I told you that already.”

“Thank you.. and you look just as beautiful. This moon makes every feature of yours that much easier to see and therefore appreciate.”

“Hah, thank you, (Y/N). I wonder, do you still remember every moment we shared here just as I did?” He asked, gently taking her hand and placing a kiss on her knuckles.

“My kitsune mind betrays me.. you’ll have to remind me.” She knew he wanted to tell the story, but of course leave out his embarrassing moments. If she brought up how he’d fallen in the lake all those years ago after kicking a rock out of anger, he’d become a blushing mess.

“I remember how we’d enjoy the morning sunlight reflecting on the lake, hiding under the ripples of the water as the wind blew and storm clouds thundered. Things were so much different then… Do you still care for me as much as you did then?”

“Time decays the friendships between mortals, and though it has been centuries now since we’ve crossed paths, I feel like nothing has changed between us. I could reminisce in these moments forever and still hold the same comfort I’m bathing in now, despite all that has happened. If only time could pause, how kind would that be, Neuvillette?”

Her eyes were tired and emotional, every memory she had flowing through that bright mind she held.

“Pausing time, we could never find a way. But, I wouldn’t mind spending all my time with you, dearest (Y/N).” His eyes watched her so lovingly, his old friend. His friend he’d messed things up with so badly.

It was nice to sit in silence, your fingers intertwined. No romantic connotations, at least on your end, he just enjoyed being comforted like this. The touch of his warmth next to you made everything feel okay again.

“I remember I buried my book of poetry around here, I’d like to read you some of my writings.” He knew exactly what she meant, smiling at her. It didn’t take long for them to find the book with the leather cover, the dirt covered pages, and the writings of all (Y/N)’s feelings.

“Do read me some of your writings,” he spoke, helping her into the swing again, sitting beside her with admiration beaming from his blue eyes.

“Ahem… gosh, this is embarrassing, haha. Vintage clothes, antique catches. All the cracks and burns from matches. I love the imperfection of these things. Humanity, so precious, like diamond rings. Everything about you is so raw, so real. So unrealistic how you appeal to me.”

He smiled at her words, they were beautiful and vulnerable. With each word, he knew there was something in her heart when she wrote them down. “Who was this about?” He questioned. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A general. I fell in love with him. He died in the cataclysm.” Her breaths weren’t shaky, and her eyes weren’t full of tears. Enough time had passed now, it wasn’t something she dwelled on. “He was a very dear friend of mine.”

“Ah, I’m very sorry. I’m sure you were very dear to him, you’re so bright and beautiful.” He had a hard time comforting people, according to Navia (he’d taken that very personally).

“It’s okay, these things don’t haunt me anymore. I’ve moved on. I hope that lived up to your expectations. It was just my younger mind, all very real with her feelings.”

“Is there any more?” Neuvillette inquired, resting his chin on her shoulder as you flipped through the pages.

Flipping over the pages, scanning the words quickly, she found one she’d be okay sharing. “Beautiful, even when you’re wrong. You are like the static and crackle in lightning. Please, just give me time to leave. Your soul is old, but your thoughts are new. Your mind is bright, but your heart is blue.”

He listened to the way she wrote about this mysterious general, her heart was dedicated to this man. His mind wandered astray, wondering if maybe one day she could think of him like that. Alas, he was too shy to ask her something like that. He wasn’t as bold as he was when he was younger.

“Have you ever been in love with someone other than him?”

“Feelings are so complicated. They change, just like weather patterns. In our youth, things were different, but now… I’m too work oriented to care about romance anymore. I see it as just a distraction.”

Neuvillette understood that notion, and in a way almost felt similarly. It was hard to find time for your heart in a world like this, where they were both always so busy.

He fell quiet for a few moments. Perhaps the alcohol from dinner earlier had gotten to him, but there was so much he wanted to say now. “Could I ask something of you? It may be a bit invasive and awkward, so don’t be afraid to shut me up.”

With a nod of her head, she allowed him to continue. “Have you ever felt affectionate toward me?” His face was almost sad, nearly desperate. She knew her answer would break him, and it was awfully inconvenient she didn’t bring her umbrella.

“I know our feelings.. changed. You grew to prioritize your profession more.. And I respect that. But, I can’t help but wonder. Did you ever feel anything.. for me?”

“I… don’t know what I feel. Feelings are just so complicated to understand. I just don’t like dedication. I enjoy the feeling of freedom and independence, not being tied down by housewife work and kids running around!”

“I understand. I feel similarly. But, that’s not the key to a relationship, it’s the love you feel for one another.” He smiled, feeling her head against his shoulder.

“But the distractions become just that.. distracting. It’s hard to be close when there are things leading your attention astray.”

“It’s just additional effort, I suppose. But, it’s not for us all. That I can most certainly understand.”

Their hands were still intertwined, her peace sinking into him as well. She was quiet, breathing slowly against him. Letting him do all the talking was easier, especially on tired nights like these. “My thoughts are hard to understand, I’m sorry.”

She spoke after a long while, biting her lip almost uncomfortably. “I find it easier to not love then to love and lose it.” Her way of thinking was clearly damaged, but he’d wait. He’d done it this long, he would do it longer. Because, at the end of the day, when the moon went behind the lake, when the bugs lurked around the shoreline, the chief Justice was sure of one thing. Neuvillette was most definitely in love with his dear friend, (Y/N).

Sorry about the corny ass poetry I thought it would be nice to add. I’m embarrassed whjdsjdb