#i had so much trouble with their color scheme
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winniefrezcomics · 22 hours ago
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can you infodump about the au pairs in your fairly normal parents au because I’m love them :>
Sure thing! Guessing u meant devs weird robo dads specifically, apologies if not lmao-
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(I had…. WAY more to say about these dudes and thier role in the AU than I thought I would… 😳)
The two au-pairs (or au-fairs lol) assigned to raise and protect Dev from birth are named #C0C0C0 and #FDD700 (spoken out loud like serial numbers) or, as baby Dev nicknamed them for ease of pronunciation- “Silver” and “Gold”!
(He even started to change thier appearances to make them easier to identify and tell apart, but Dale would restore the two to their “default” color scheme whenever he noticed- a silent stand-off he and Dev had for years)
Though their robotic and monotone nature has always made it difficult for them to reciprocate affection, Dev gets to know them well enough that he can pick up subtle changes in thier voices and expressions (even through the big-aaa visors lol) as well as subtle diffences in thier personalities that are invisible to most people (silver is slightly stricter, while gold is more lenient, and emotes more frequently than his partner)
At first, these two pixie-esque little robo-servants are completely blindsided by thier new directive- NO ONE in fairy world knows how to take care of a baby, and all the data available on it is thousands of years old- but they are nothing if not loyal, so they do as Dale asks and keep the baby fed, clean, and most importantly, quiet.
(They do great with the first two, but fairy babies gonna fairy baby, so Dev is still prone to hyper-destructive magical outbursts)
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(Due to Devs ability to glimpse into the future, even as an infant, the moment Dev first saw his new caretakers, he was granted a vision of the two Pixies caring for him and playing with him, so Baby Dev was quick to show them affection, much to Silver and Golds surprise and confusion. )
ENTIRE ass backstory and more doodles under the cut lmfao 😂
The first few months of raising Dev were ROUGH, and mostly just involved these two poor incompetent pixies getting thrown around by whatever magical outburst the newborn had for them that day. When first assigned, the two of them gave serious consideration to taking shifts, but Dev quickly made it clear both of them were necessary- and when Dale finally DID get fed up with the CONSTANT interruptions to his work and threaten to replace Sliver and Gold with different Au Pairs, the two pixies BEGGED for another chance, though neither of them was sure why they did so, since they had been given- objectively -the most difficult assignment of any au pairs in history.
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As dev got older, he became increasingly attached to his au pairs, and as much as they tried to stay professional, Silver and Gold couldn’t help but grow incredibly attached to their little curly-haired not-son as well. The older dev got, the more honed his magic became, and the more offended he started to get by his fathers constant absence- meaning it became much more difficult for the AU pairs to keep him away from Dale (thier main purpose by this time)
Starting magic/ clairvoyance lessons helped keep dev occupied, and the AU pairs did their best to entertain him, but kid Dev became increasingly demanding of his fathers time and attention, two things Dale gave him as little of as possible.
The first time Dev disappears without a trace, Silver and Gold are MORTIFIED- they rally every other AU pair they can to help find him (I think they’re a pseudo-hivemind? Like can transfer data and frequently speak in unison but it’s more akin to a Bluetooth link than an actual single shared consciousness lmao)
Ooooonly to find out it was just the other fairy kids “abducting” him to hang out and get popsicles.
Embarrassed that they had made such a fuss and gotten the well-meaning fairy kids in trouble, the next times silver and Gold sense the children attempting to “kidnap” their friend, they develop a tendency to politely look the other way- tho of course they trail Dev in secret bc they’re still worried- eventually Hazel insists that devs “robo dads” should come hang out with them too, and neither AU pair had ever experienced “bitter-sweetness” until being called that sobs
Even into his early adulthood, silver and gold remained loyal to Dev, though he did request they do more “checking in” than “constant hovering”, as they did when he was a child. By this time, however, silver and gold’s personalities and mannerisms were NOTICEABLY unique when compared to the other AU pairs, sort of messing up the whole “perfect unison” thing the rest of thier species prides themselves on, and ostracizing them both, however mildly.
Sooo After Dev had his huge falling out with his dad and left in a huff after magically (only SORT OF accidentally) trashing his fathers office, silver and gold INSIST on being the only Au-pairs sent to retrieve him, despite Dale initially wanting to send every single one out to search and bring divination home.
When they find him, Dev has already moved into the guest bed at the wells house, and is talking to Hazel about going with her to godprenting school (something dev is not actually INTERESTED in bc he’s terrible with kids, but he HAS to get away from his dad, and Hazel had been begging him to quit his shitty fortune telling job and come with her for YEARS)
Instead of taking Dev back to his Dad as they’d been instructed, the three of them have the most difficult, honest conversation they’ve ever shared, Dev’s REAL dads finally accepted that thier little boy was all grown up, and needed to be set free.
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(Hazel is how I looked drawing this tbfh)
CURRENTLY, Silver and Gold are Happily retired! Figuring they would be fired for “failing” to find and return Dev anyway, they both mutually decide to resign from servitude to the Dimmadome corporation. As the first two au pairs to EVER do so, Dale wasn’t really sure what to do w them, but with hundreds of other au pairs still serving him, he saw no reason to refuse, simply opting to strip them of thier mechanical upgrades so they weren’t at risk to “sell off the company’s tech secrets” or whatever-
Thier new forms took some serious getting used to, but modern gold and silver more or less look like regular fairies, save for their big silly cube heads and still-robotic voices lol. After the two of them learned how to love a child, the next logical step was learning to love each other. Currently, this universes equivalent of au pair 1 and 2 spend their days happily married (for tax purposes) balancing check books, doing paperwork for fun, checking in on thier son the agreed upon number of times per month, and gambling with thier retirement money (tho they frequently have to switch casinos once the staff notice the two of them are little square computers that can easily count cards lmao)
In the fairyworld equivalent of Florida, At sunset, it’s not uncommon to hear identical, robotic laughter echoing along the beach 🩶💛
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To anyone who made it down here, Ty for reading! Hope u enjoyed my feral babbling 🥰
Sidenote: I can’t Beilive THESE THINGS made me fuckin well up at WORK lmaooooo, we really in the autism Hyperfocus trenches now, huh 😂😂
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pepsimanan · 8 months ago
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#4 aino hate
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marcsburnerphone · 1 year ago
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And they were roommates
(Captain John price x F!reader)
Summary: the captain wants somewhere more homely to settle down and when an offer like yours comes alight on Zillow he must take up on it.
Warnings: angsty (minimal), john being slightly troubled, alcohol, reader being slightly embarrassing.
part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5!! -part 6
—————-
You wake up to the sun softly beaming in your room. Limbs stretching beyond the covers. You look around a little confused as to when you got back in your bedroom. Then it all came together. John, John leaves today.
You get out of the covers leaving your bedroom hoping he’s still there but of course to your disappointment he’s gone. You head to the kitchen knowing at least there will be a note. 
Good morning doll, I thought of waking you but decided against it, though I might regret it. The movie was good, you seemed to really be enjoying it also:) Here's the phone number of a friend in case any problems arise. Next time I’m back I hope to see another painting - John 
(xxx-xxx-xxxx) - nick
You stare at it trying not to let your emotions get the best of you. So you fold it and put it in the kitchen drawer. Although John was an awfully quiet roommate you could feel the weight of his absence. The cold floor beneath your feet has grown warm for how long you’ve stood there. You make your way towards the front door deciding that an iced coffee and a long drive with music will rid you of this feeling you can’t decipher it feels like want but in a way it’s also need but what is it you want and need? Not even you could answer that question.
Long story short you think it made the feeling intensify.
————-
1 month in
You’ve booked your schedule full leaving not an ounce of time for yourself. From the morning till night you had clients which were good for money but really it was a distraction for your mind. That same feeling felt like it was running into new veins every day seemingly consuming you. 
You tried to start a new painting but something was off about the color scheme and it was a waste not only of time but material and energy. You wonder how John is.
————-
2 months in
No problems have arisen since he’s been gone. It's like the house knows you’ll call the expensive plumber instead of John’s friend. 
However you have started a painting you are beginning to like. It’s a mix of hues you’ve never used before blues and oranges, a flame. You don’t know where or why the idea came to you but it’s what you wanted so you started it. A single candle is the outline, and the surrounding of it is the orange yellowish aura of a flame. You tried making ratatouille the other day and although it was good you wished it was made out of pepperonis like your childhood mind had imagined. You forgot there was no longer anyone to finish left overs so you ate it for three days straight.
Also you bought a new rug.
————-
3 months in
You’ve begun putting the final laminate on the painting. It’s taken you far longer than it would’ve if you hadn’t accepted 15 new clients. Not that you mind anyways. 
You’re also a little ambivalent to the idea of John paying for 6 months of rent when he doesn’t even live here during it. 
Besides that life seems stagnant and you’ve begun to lock your bedroom door at night again. 
————
4 months in
The painting now hangs a foot away from where the other one in front of John’s door does. It’s a beautiful contrast and really you were overjoyed at the outcome. You also randomly decided it’d be a good idea one night after too much wine to order new furniture for the outside deck. When it arrived you were one in disbelief of all the building pieces and and two excited to have something more to do. 
You should've stayed up the night John left.
————
5 months in  
Redecorating the deck wasn’t enough change. You needed a makeover physically but couldn’t decide how. Maybe a tattoo? No. New makeup? No. How about a haircut?  Fuck it, yes. 
So you did just that, you got a few almost unnoticeable highlights and chopped a good amount off. After the fact you were obsessed. Was it impulsive and could it have gone so horribly wrong, yes. But did it? No. 
———
6 months in 
John’s still not back and it’s all you could think about. What if something happened to him? What if he wasn’t coming back? You worried yourself sick so much so you physically became sick. 
You waited week by week for anything, maybe he’s back on base but just hasn’t come back home yet. But something was telling you it was more than that. 
———-
7 months in 
At this point worrying wasn’t going to make him appear. Your hobbies have now turned into distractions. So tonight you sit in the living room with a glass of wine and watch another rom com. You’re as comfy as can be in this cold brutal weather. It stays below 30 degrees Fahrenheit during this time of year and the snow bites at any unclothed skin. 
You fall asleep to the small hum of the heater while on the couch. Thick blanket thrown across you and tv playing as background chatter. 
You don’t know when you wake but it’s still dark outside when you hear someone that sounds distressed. Your groggy mind isn’t processing that the sound is coming from inside the house. But when it does you're up in a second looking around as your eyes try to adjust to the darkness. 
“Fuck!” You hear from down the hall. John’s room.
You walk quietly towards it as he continues to chant that word. Suddenly it falls silent and you just hear what sounds to be deep breaths. You don’t know what wills you to knock, but you do. 
“John, are you okay?” You ask softly from behind the closed door. He doesn’t respond but you know he’s in there from the quiet but quick breathing. 
“No.” He says with that familiar deep drawl.
You open the door slowly to see him sitting on the floor near the corner of his bed clearly distressed. You take notice of the mess wondering how you slept through the making of it. There’s glass from somewhere on the floor and clothes strewn but when you look at him your heart breaks. He’s in full uniform, vest on, belt with equipment on, as if he didn’t stop anywhere. Just came straight here. His hair has grown out to an odd length and his beard has grown longer. 
“I can’t get this fucking vest off.” He interrupts your thoughts looking at you with a sense of sorrow. You kneel to where he is careful to avoid glass. His eyes don’t glance up to meet yours; they stay fixated on his hands that are covered in dirt.
“May I?” You gesture towards the plastic buckles on the vest. He nods and you start with the two at his shoulders. Then you reach down his chest to undo the two near his belt buckle. You realize it must be connected somewhere in the back when it doesn’t come off. He leans forwards as you look trying to avoid the bloodstains that taint the once green vest and sure enough the tiniest but mightiest buckle is on the center of his lower back. He shrugs it off with a sigh. 
“Better?” You ask softly.
“Yeah, Thankyou.” He slowly tilts his head back to lean on the comforter and you don’t move an inch. 
“What can I do?” Truthfully you’ve never been in a situation so unbearably awkward but so unwilling to just leave.
“Just sit here with me.” So you do. You scoot right next to him and lean your head on his shoulder. He couldn’t admit it but the nights he slept in cold frost biting weather the thought of returning to your warm presence got him through.
“He almost died.” His voice gives out at the end of that sentence.
“Who?” 
“Johnny, it would’ve been my fault. One second later and they would’ve put a bullet through his skull.”
“But he’s okay?” You know John loves his team even though he doesn’t outwardly say it.
“He’s perfectly fine.” 
“Worrying about what could’ve been will kill you.” 
“Sometimes I feel like that’s what I deserve for some of the things I’ve done.” 
“If not you it would be someone else making the world a better place.” 
“I know.” 
You sit there with him for a while in silence. He can barely believe he made it back alive but right now the battle feels worth it. He hears soft snores not too long later and realizes you’ve fallen back to sleep. His head leans to rest above yours as he closes his eyes. He knows sleep won’t come to him but he’s never had you this close and for now he’ll cherish it.
————-
When you woke up again the sun had risen and a golden glow lit John’s room. 
“John.” You whisper trying not to move your head in case he’s sleeping.
“Yeah doll.” He lifts his head to look at you.
“I’m so sorry.” You feel slightly embarrassed and bad that you just fell asleep on him.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” He sighs before standing on his feet with a groan then offering you hand to help you up.
“I’m going to shower.” He says as you dust yourself off.
“After can I give you a haircut?” He laughs a little at your not so subtle realization of his long hair..
“If you’d like.” 
“I’d love.” You say before leaving, assuring him you’d be back when he's done.
You pick up your mess from the previous night. Folding your blanket and putting it back in the basket near the couch. Taking your wine glass to the sink and rinsing it out. You go to your room and change into an outfit for the day and do your morning routine. After you grab your shears, clippers and cape. By the time you're done doing all of this you no longer hear the water running meaning John’s done with his shower. You knock on his door lightly.
“Come in.” You walk in to see him sweeping up his mess with the small house broom and can’t help but smile at the sight. 
“Come on, let's cut your hair in the bathroom, better lighting and you can see what I’m doing.” You say heading straight there. You sit him on the little bathroom bar stool that’s been in there since your ex moved out. Once he’s sitting the only cape you have is pink so you throw it on him begging yourself to not laugh which you fail causing him to smirk. 
“Okay so I’m just gonna clean it up, fade the sides a very little, cut the top with shears and what not.” You let him know.
“You cut your hair?” He replies, staring at you through the mirror.
“Yeah so?” You smile.
“I like it, it looks good.” You feel that feeling only johns been able to provoke.
“Thankyou.” You begin the cut, slowly combing out sections making sure to be precise. He seems far more relaxed than you’d imagined as you just freely cut at the top. After the matter once you're satisfied you shave the sides a little just enough to where it looks cleaner. 
“Can I do your beard and mustache?” 
“You're the hairstylist, not me?” Is all he says. 
So you do, very carefully, mere inches away from his face your hands hold one side of his jaw softly to trim the other side. He watches your expression intently. The way when you’re focused there’s a crease that forms between your eyebrows and your pupils blow a little wide.
“All done.”  You say pulling him from his trance. You move his face with your hands really checking to make sure all is well.
“Very handsome.” You compliment before turning around to rinse your shears and put them away. 
“Thank You doll.” He says examining it himself in the mirror thoroughly pleased with how well you did even though he knows you don’t cut men’s hair. He doesn’t notice you grab his beard oil from the cabinet till you're smoothing it between your hands and asking him to face you so you can rub it through the coarse brown hair. Ever the nurturer.
It feels like time apart only made you two feel closer somehow. Or maybe it’s because you wanted to be close and those feelings were equally reciprocated. 
The rest of that day John had loads of paperwork to file, sign and report. So he did that, he sat in his office for long hours going through the process. The only thing that slightly lightened this burden was your voice humming in the kitchen as you cooked something. You’d stopped by and offered him some which he gladly accepted from your giving hands. Hours later you bid him a goodnight and went to bed and even then he had so much more left.
—————
The next day you catch John in the kitchen and tell him there’s something you must show him.
“So you built it all yourself?” He says as you show him your little project you did outside. There’s a thick coat wrapped around you as you don’t fully step outside to avoid slipping on the icy ground. Him though, he stands on it with no problem in what looks like military issued boots. 
“Yes I did.” You say proudly despite his clear disdain.
“I missed you, even your stubbornness.” After the months John’s been through there was no point in hiding the way he was feeling.
“I missed you too.” You smile while clearly avoiding his gaze.
How had he missed this all along?
“Would you like to go out for drinks?”
“What?” You turn around to meet his eyes.
“Can I take you out for drinks?” What being mere inches away from death does to a man.
“Yeah.” 
-
You both silently walk away trying to break the bounds of the tense pull that makes you want to gravitate towards each other. You put on something cute but also warm and slip on some brown doc martens as your choice of shoe. You do light makeup as you give yourself a pep talk.
“Only two drinks, only two drinks.” You have to tell yourself cause after two your too you. 
You hear John putting his shoes on by the hallway and take in the sight of him, brown leather jacket and beanie. You’re not sure how he’s going to stay warm in that but something tells you he will.
“Ready?” He asks and you nod nervously.
-
“Okay, hold on, I have to do this really slow or I’ll fall.” You say stepping slowly out onto the ground below the porch stairs. 
“Well come here I’ll help you.” He offers his hand. You grab it softly, swooning at the way it encompasses your own. There’s something inside of him that doesn’t even want you to risk walking on this floor but of course he also doesn’t want to push. 
“Okay nice and slow.” You’re not even taking full steps, just small slides. You clutch his hand for dear life and he loves it. 
“Good girl.” He says once you reach the door of his truck which he opens for you. He doesn’t let go till you sit inside then only does he slip his hand from your warm one and closes the door. 
“Which pub?” You ask as he turns on the heater only for your sake.
“The one downtown near the little Italian grocer.” You know exactly which one he’s talking about. Its dim light atmosphere is cozy but fun but usually full of mainly couples.
“Mkay.” You say looking out the window at the gloomy sky realizing it just might rain. 
He glances your way during the small drive, your scent of your floral perfume mixed with his of cardamom and musk is quite perfect. 
“You alright?” He asks.
“Yeah, just comfy, you?” He grins at your response.
“Never been better.”
He pulls into one of the street parking spots and despite the weather the streets are full, he gets out to put coins inside the slot for time before heading to your side of the car. 
“Wait, I'm scared.” You say realizing that the distance to the bar doesn’t seem to be a survivable one. 
“Come on, I'll hold your hand.”
“I’ll fall regardless.”
“Want me to carry you?” He genuinely offers.
“What?” You laugh. 
“Doll I’m very serious I will carry you, just get on my back.”
“What if we both fall?” 
“I’m not falling, trust me.” He says turning around motions for you to get on his back.
“Okay then.” You hook your legs around his upper waist and his arms reach to tuck themselves firmly beneath your knees.
“Comfortable?” He asks. He’s sure you can hear his heart racing from the proximity you’re in. 
“Very.” All your dreams of climbing this man have come true. 
You shut the door as he steps onto the sidewalk. You tuck your chin in by his neck for warmth. He smells woodsy with a hint of musk, it makes your head spin.
“How are you not slipping?” You say very suspicious.
“Doll I could run on this floor with these boots on.” He answers looking slightly over his shoulder at you.
“Well don’t.” You say seriously and he laughs as he approaches the bar, opening the door and setting you softly on the floor. 
He finds you both a booth in the corner and sits on the side where he can see the entire bar, very John of John.
“What do you drink?” He asks, trying to make conversation. Suddenly the air feels very intimate, almost too intimate for what he considers his old man heart.
“When I’m out, martinis.” 
“Espresso?” 
“Mhmm.” You’re trying your hardest to hold the eye contact he’s giving you but something about the blue in his eyes and creases on the side of them has you breaking it quicker than it started.
“I’ll be back then.” He says sliding out of the booth feeling slightly accomplished.
You sit there looking at the lively pub, how many romances are at their peak here, how many friends are having the best night of their lives, how you amongst them are finally feeling like you again. 
“Here we are.” He says returning with two glasses, his is a classic bourbon with a square ice cube in the glass.
“Thankyou.” You say as he slides it over to you.
“So what’d you do while I was gone, other than be reckless and build furniture.” He asks as you sip from your glass.
“I did lots of hair, painted a bit, found new color schemes for decor and that’s kinda it, I’d ask you the same question but I fear you can’t answer.” 
“Your fears are true.”
“That Kate woman, she's very pretty.” Are you a little jealous?
“Yeah she’s also very married.” He says it like he doesn’t know what you're on about.
“And also not into men.” You nearly choke on your drink and swallow hard to get it down.
“Well I was just saying.” Sure you were.
You two have small chatter as you go through drinks. You tried to offer the second round but John said no for you to just stay in your seat. He came back with thirds and you definitely were starting to feel the effects of the previous two, him though not at all.
“So you’re telling me John you as very um good looking as you are haven’t had a girlfriend in how long?” 
“Eight years.” He says while being very amused with your light hearted, open attitude.
“That’s just not right.”
“No?” 
“No, personally, well never mind.” You’re not drunk enough to say what you were about too.
“What about you, why no boyfriends?” 
“I’m very, I would say needy I guess clingy even, I’m a double texter, someone who worries and loves too much and I think that can be overwhelming for a lot of people.” You admit.
“Don’t believe that.” He says, sounding a little annoyed.
“For the right person you could never be overwhelming.” He says looking at you intensely and this time you can’t seem to look away.
Once your third drink is finished it’s raining outside and you’re words away from trouble.
“John?” 
“Yeah doll.”
“You make me feel alive again.” You admit, the alcohol has casted a pretty shade of pink on your cheeks as you lean your head on your hand and John doesn’t think he’s ever been more entranced. 
“You and me both, here drink some water.” He slides it to you. You’re sweet, too sweet. He feels like if he touches you physically or emotionally he’d be tainting art.
“Has anyone told you you're very climbable?” 
“It’s time for us to get going, you're quite the light weight.” He laughs offering you a hand as you slide off the booth.
He leaves a tip on the table before walking with you to the door. He has to bend far more than he normally would for you to secure yourself on his back before he’s walking outside. This time he’s walking faster because of the rain droplets that are falling hard. He seats you in the car and reaches across you to buckle you in before heading to his side. 
The drive home is pretty quiet, he drives extra slowly because of the precious cargo he carries. Once he pulls back into the gravelly drive way you unbuckle and open the door as he puts the car in park. 
“You don’t want to wait for me.” He asks, a little concerned.
“I got this.” You hop out of the elevated truck immediately slipping and having to grab onto the door. He walks quickly to your side laughing at the expression on your face.
“You sure do.” He says as he grabs your arm
“Oh stop it.” You say accepting the help, sliding your feet on the ice again till you get to the door. Once you get inside you groan into the toasty air. 
“Thankyou for tonight John.” You say facing him once you kick your boots off. You hadn’t realized how close you were till you turned around and could feel the heat radiating off of him and smell the bourbon on his breath. 
“No, thank you.” He says feeling awfully captivated, hanging onto your every move. You cup his face and stand on your tippy toes, boldly yet slowly placing a kiss on the corner of his lips. 
He’s starstruck. Absolutely dazed at the look of mischief in your eyes, something that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. 
“Goodnight John.” You say patting his chest and walking down towards your room.
—————
I couldn't wait till tommorrow i'm sorry.
comments and reposts are greatly appreciated:)
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gracefireheart · 9 months ago
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Once again, did some fanart of @lenny-link TF2 x SU AU, but tried making more fusions! :]
First one is Andalusite [Heavy + Medic] (who I've drawn before already), second one is Iolite [Cheavy + Medic], and the third one is Ametrine [Demoman + Soldier].
[Below the keep reading line, I'll show off the fourth fusion I drew as well, but ended up just-- disliking to hell and back o(-( Also, some notes and such about each fusion]
First off, here's the fourth fusion I did, which was Cat's Eye Tourmaline [Scout + Sniper]. (Side note: I picked out Tiger's Eye as Sniper's gem)
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After looking at Steven's fusions with other gems (since Scout's a half-human half-gem in this AU fusing with Sniper who's a full gem), I did notice that basically all of them (besides Obsidian) had some kind of oddity to them. Like Smokey Quartz has three arms instead of four or just two, Rainbow 2.0 is the first gem with male pronouns and has a tad bit strange legs, and Sunstone isn't as humanoid as the other (non-corrupted) gems and fusions.
So I wanted to show that off here, but uh, I just ended up giving up on it in the end o(-( Mostly 'cause I had no clue how I wanted to color them based on the Cat's Eye Tourmaline gem, but also 'cause the overall design ended up leaned a bit more towards Sniper's design than I intended it to do.
Anyways, onto the notes for the other fusions.
Andalusite [Heavy + Medic]:
The duo that imo would probably fuse the most out of the TF2 crew, whether for battle or to just relax together (like reading a book or whatever). So with that, Heavy and Medic would have had plenty of time to refine how their fusion would look like, and making sure both of them like how they look together.
For their fusion weapon, I was thinking about them either having something like Garnet's upgraded gauntlets (the ones with spikes jutting out of it's knuckles), or letting the gauntlets have claws or something.
Iolite [Cheavy + Medic]:
I mostly did this one 'cause of one of the drawings in Lenny-Link's original piece, which made me thinking of Lapis and Jasper fusing into Malachite and all that, which lead me to this. I wanted the design to 1. Make it look chaotic due to the two people that are fused here, but also 2. Make it lean a tad more towards Cheavy's looks to make said guy think that he's the one mostly in control of the fusion, only to have Medic take over take over and do something to trap the fusion and/or get them the hell away from the TF2 crew. Something something angst idk lol
Decided to make Cheavy a [blue] Topaz. Since Heavy's a Topaz as well. I don't have any other reason than that :') Also, I placed his gem on the side of his right shoulder.
The eye goggles change color depending on who is in control. If the two weren't fighting for it, it would be one eye blue and one eye magenta. But since they are, whenever Cheavy's in control, the eyes are blue. And whenever Medic's in control, the eyes are magenta.
Ametrine [Demoman + Soldier]:
Originally, I was going to have them be a Morganite, but decided on Ametrine instead as it fit their color scheme more. Also originally, I was going to give them a knight helmet, but I wanted to draw their hair, so I instead gave them a bandana covering their possibly one eye. Possibly.
Assuming Soldier's helmet (with or without the horns) is Soldier's gem weapon like Jasper's helmet, I thought it would be neat if their fusion weapon [(horned) helmet + sword] would be something like a Morningstar, which they would be able to duel-wield without much trouble.
I've got other lil' ideas as well for this AU, like how Jeremy/Scout was the one that gave these gems their nicknames (Spy, Sniper, Engineer, etc.), how Medic grew a fascination for the organic lifeforms of Earth and how exactly they healed/was able to treat their wounds, and how- instead of Spy being all dead and gone Rose Quartz style when Jeremy was born- Spy is a lot weaker than he should be due Jeremy getting half of his gem. But uh-- I don't wanna go too overboard when this ain't even my AU :')
Either way, I'll probably go and relax a bit before drawing some regular TF2 stuff. But I might do some more fanart for this AU whenever I feel up for it. 'Cause genuinely, I love this AU sm <3
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gatorbites-imagines · 1 month ago
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hello
ima big fan of your work and read it all the time
and I was wondering if you do more Plastic Man clone reader stuff if it isn’t to much trouble
plastic Man is my favorite hero and I really enjoyed that one shot
Dick Grayson x Plastic Man clone male reader
Headcanons
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You didn’t say anything specific, so I cooked this up, as I remember watching the animated show that was batman and plastic man years ago. So, this combo felt fun. Not the longest, since I’m dealing with a lot right now.
Patrick worked with Bruce on the semi-regular for a moment during the years, meaning you got dragged along. It was around the time Patrick had just found you, meaning you were still getting used to this whole… being alive thing.
At least Robin was nice, when he wasn’t annoying. Because you two were teens… of course you would find each other annoying. It led to a lot of bickering, some valid and some not, but you two grew close anyways.
When Dick stopped being Robin and became Nightwing, it didn’t really make a difference for you. You didn’t make a habit out of hanging around Gotham, since you didn’t respect Batman’s authority, so if you could hang with Dick in Bludhaven instead? Then it would all be great.
Youd make a game out of it whenever you visited, taking the form of some vigilante of rather sidekick. Shaping yourself to look like a little Nightwing with some tweaks to the costume, some color changes, and boom! Nightwing had a sidekick.
Your friend group all had a great laugh when Nightwing started hearing from the locals of Bludhaven, asking about his sidekick, and what his name was. Apparently, Dick wasn’t a big fan of the name “Nightboy” or “Winged crusader”.
Dick just didn’t appreciate all the work and effort you put into “Redwing”, after the red winged blackbird, of course. To match the color scheme you gave your little sidekick form.
It also led to a whole intervention from Bruce, and the rest of the bats, when they thought Dick actually got a sidekick. Only to see the so-called Redwing, stretch and change color, only to become you, who cackled and fell over, literally turning into a puddle from laughing too hard.
In the end Redwing was only something you pulled out when you two were bored and had time, or if Dick really needed backup and you couldn’t show up as yourself.
You didn’t truly have a place of operations of your own. In your own words, you weren’t a hero, so you didn’t need a city to watch over. This just meant you wandered a lot, did some petty theft, or very extreme theft if they were a corrupt person, and just… hung out.
You knew Oliver was SICK of seeing you around star city, but it’s not your fault that the place was filled to the brim with corrupt rich people. It also allowed you to take potshots at Oliver when you got the time. Roy may have forgiven him, and they may have made up, but you didn’t forgive as easily.
This was also why you found yourself in Bludhaven so much, just lounging around Dicks apartment or safehouses. It was a common sight for Dick to see you literally stretched across his couch, or see you worming across the floor like a snake towards the kitchen.
Anyone else might have found it sickening, but Dick had been around you so long that it was normal. Plus, you made a great blanket when you would slither back from the kitchen and drape across him.
And maybe it was overexposure, but he did find your stretched out grinning face cute, in its own weird way.
It was so easy to take cuteness aggression out on you, since he could pull, bite and pinch as much as he wanted, it wouldn’t hurt you. It also resulted in you being Dicks personal stress ball, meaning hed massage and pull at your face when he was deep in thought. Your face always looked like some kind of Picasso painting afterwards.
There were other times you’d shrink and hang out in his toolbelt, if he had one on, or in some other compartment in his suit, just so Dick could stick his hand into that pocket and you could hold his finger, for comfort, mainly his.
It also worked great for surprise attacks. You never knew when Nightwing had plastic man 2.0 in his pocket before it was too late!
And yes, your hero name was plastic man 2, no matter how much your friends begged you to change it. Why would you change it? that’s literally what you were. Having a different name should be enough.
You did joke a few times about changing it to Flamebird to match Dick though, just to see him blush.
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p0ckykiss · 8 months ago
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a door was my downfall (yet you caught me) - yang jungwon
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summary -> you go to pick up jungwon at school, but run into some troubles at the door
warnings -> female reader x jungwon, fluff, protective jungwon, falling in love
you glanced around nervously, the school gates looming above you like a prison gate. you had changed into your old school uniform to try and blend in, but it was no use.
you hadn’t anticipated the different color schemes at all. your beige school blazer and skirt did nothing to blend you in with a crowd of black blazers and sewn on insignias, even picking up your friend from school seemed like a major task.
you took a deep breath. “alright y/n, you can do this,” you muttered under your breath, eyes glaring at the front doors of the institute, “just walk past all the groups surrounding the door, ask the front desk lady about jungwon, and then walk home. easy. perfectly doable,” you said, taking your first steps forward through the school gates.
as soon as you walked through the gate, you felt nearly every single eye turn your way. you don’t blame them, you would turn and stare at someone walking through his school gates with the completely wrong uniform on too, but you really wished they wouldn’t. you just wanted to pick up jungwon and go home, maybe getting ice cream while on the way. you didn’t want to be the center of all the whispers being exchanged. not at all.
you made it to the front door with no difficulties, about to pull it open to walk inside when you felt someone tap your shoulder. you turned around and came face to face with— a boy? he seemed to be a bit nervous, his hands playing with his fingers.
“uh, hi,” he started, making eye contact for a second before glancing back his fingers. you could practically hear all the whispers floating around now, and you desperately wanted them to stop, but you also didn’t want to be rude to the poor guy.
you continued to stare at him as he gathered his words again, “um, why are you here?” he asked, using all his might to look you in the eye. for someone so nervous, he seemed to be handling it well.
“I’m here to pick up someone,” you responded, about to spin on your heel and walk through the door. as much as you didn’t want to be rude, you also wanted to get jungwon as soon as possible.
a grip on the back of your blazer stopped you, “wait!” the boy exclaimed, drawing even more attention to them, as if half the school wasn’t already watching this shitshow of an interaction. “can I have your number? uh, you look really cute, and all. yeah.” his voice trailed off at the end, forcing you to strain your ears to hear his last few words before leaning back into your own space.
you looked at him with a blank stare. what were you going to do? you couldn’t just turn him down with no good explanation, and you didn’t want to seem more rude than you’re probably being right now. you glanced around nervously, hoping someone would give you the social cues you needed to turn him down and enter the damn school building like you had been trying to for the past five fucking minutes!
you were about to give up and completely ignore him when the door you were holding on to suddenly pushed open, forcing you to stumble forwards toward the guy in front of you. you tried your best to steady yourself, but felt your weight shift forwards beyond your control, and you were already begging the gods for mercy as you pitched forward toward the guy and the concrete ground.
you pinched your eyes shut and awaited for your head to meet the ground, but it never came. instead you felt a pair of arms grab you and pull you backwards back on your feet. the person who yanked you backward, however, obviously misjudged their strength and together you fell backwards, with the other person cushioning your fall.
as soon as you hit the ground, you shot back up to your feet and profusely apologized, not even looking at the poor person you had fallen on. you then heard a familiar chuckle, and your eyes rose to meet the smiling ones of jungwon. you let out a sigh of relief, thankful for his amazing timing.
you went to talk to him, but a tug on your sleeve stopped you again. the guy was looking at his shoes still, but his grip on your sleeve was tight, “so, can i have your number?” he asked again, his voice now echoing across the square.
you opened your mouth to respond, so ready to turn him down now that jungwon was by your side, but a hand around your waist stopped your words in your throat.
“i’m sorry, but she’s taken,” jungwon said, pulling you flush against his side. if the whole school wasn’t listening, they sure as hell were now. every eye in the square was suddenly interested at the interaction occurring at the doors and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth rush to your face.
“a-ah! i see! i’m so, so sorry for bothering you two!” the guy exclaimed, words breaking and faltering in between his breaths. he quickly walked away, rejoining his group of friends who laughed along with him in a shared moment of embarrassment.
jungwon loosened his grip on your waist, grabbing your hand instead as he turned to face you, “shall we go then? i’m sure you’ve dressed up for something, and you don’t change out of your pajamas unless you really have to,” he teased, tugging you down the walkway away from the school with everyone still watching.
you whined, “hey i change out of my pajamas sometimes!” you refuted, walking along side jungwon as you walked back through the gates. was this what love felt like, you wondered? a stomach full of butterflies and a heart threatening to escape your chest? if it was so, then there was no doubt.
you were in love with a certain yang jungwon, and you really had to talk to him about it.
but for now, you enjoyed your time off. getting ice cream with jungwon and playing around at the park. you would reserve this happy feeling in your heart for the next year if you could, but alas, it wouldn’t last forever. your heart was being tugged into knots after all, but you would worry about that later when you returned to your apartment. then you would talk with him, you promised yourself as jungwon ran off to get the ball you had accidentally thrown over the playground fence.
a smile was all you needed now. and it was easily attainable.
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mask-of-prime · 26 days ago
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MTLK: The Parents
We recently got some full design reveals for both Scar's and Mufasa's biological parents for the upcoming Mufasa movie. If you know me, I love a good character design opportunity.
((Disclaimer: This is merely a design challenge and not an attempt to blend the two TLK universes together. As far as I know, the CGI movies are meant to tell a different story from the original 2D animated works. It's presumed that in the 2D movies, Mufasa and Scar are biological brothers from a more traditional, established bloodline of royal lions, while the CGI movies tell the story of a new pride from Mufasa's generation being formed at what is now known as the Pridelands.
ALSO IMPORTANT: I understand some may have gotten special viewings of the movie, heard the entire soundtrack, and may have read the novelization if that came out at all yet, but please be courteous and don't comment any spoilers of the film, not without a warning on top of your comment.))
Design Process Below:
Masego: I took the first noticeable traits that jumped out at me and exaggerated them to fit the original 2D style. He kinda looked like a mix of Mufasa and Simba to me. The bright red patterns on his mane are based on the distinctive gray patches in Keith David's hair (I can't believe Keith David never occurred to me as a voice for a lion who would father Mufasa, that casting goes so hard ngl)
Afia: When I first saw Afia, I noticed how much she looks like her grandson, Simba. I decided to have her greatly resemble Simba's 2D counterpart as a nod to that. I modeled her eye shape after Tiana's eyes as an allusion to her voice actress, Anika Noni Rose.
Obasi: First thing I noticed about Obasi was how much he resembled the classic Yellow Ahadi model, so I mostly followed that. I struggled so much with his color scheme. I have alternate color schemes below the description.
Eshe: Eshe is very clearly where Scar got his slender face shape from in the CGI-verse. She also has a very obvious brown pelt that could easily be adapted into the 2D style. She was the most difficult for me to design as she already had a kinda cartoony appearance in her original CGI depiction, so I had trouble doing it justice.
It's just so funny that Scar's parents ended up looking like that common Yellow Ahadi model and Brown Uru models, while Mufasa's bio parents ended up looking like the less common Brown Ahadi and Yellow Uru models, lol.
Alternative Obasi Colors:
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EDIT: Tweaked Eshe's design, here's the previous version:
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shiny-jr · 9 days ago
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Please yap away about your new Empyrean series~! I’ve been watching a bunch of videos and reading about Genshin Impact so I can better understand the world and dynamics you’re planning to write about and absolutely fascinated with everything~
Is there a specific dorm you’re looking forward to writing about or possible side arcs/missions in between the MC meeting the different Archons like the events in Twisted Wonderland? Were some of the dorm leaders easier to place as the different Archons elements than others and if so who did you struggle with?
Oh god, where do I even start? How much is too much to say? I don't want to spoil whole parts. I haven't actually written anything for it, but I do certainly have ideas. Ideas that have been accumulating slowly but surely.
Uh, I think first thing's first, none of the TWST cast are going to be just human. How unfair would it be if, say, Riddle was an archon (god) and Ace was just human? Kinda unfair. Which is why all the characters are going to be something else. I'm still figuring some of this part out.
Keep in mind, my knowledge of Genshin Impact extends as far as Inazuma and no further. Anything I know beyond that was through tiktok, that is it. So I'll be taking heavy inspirations from the first three regions.
Pairing the element to a character wasn't too hard actually. So first I focused on the archons, and I looked at the dorm leaders and what they stand for and what type of magic they use.
We know Riddle uses a lot of fire magic based off his SSR Dorm Uniform card. Additionally, the color scheme just went well with his hair color and the roses and all. At first I thought it seemed uncanny, because how could a green region based off of Britain be symbolic of the pyro element? Well, then I considered that since it borders Savanaclaw, it could make sense.
For Leona, I took into account the volcanoes that act as a natural border between his land and Riddle's. Additionally, his unique magic made it a very easy choice. I mean, turning things to sand? Slapping Geo on it and calling it a day.
On Azul's, I was actually torn. I know it seems like an obvious choice of hydro, but listen, at first I actually considered giving Kalim hydro due to his own unique magic. Then I thought maybe Azul would get cryo, but in my mind, leaving the other elements to the remaining characters just didn't make much sense. So, ultimately, Azul won the hydro element.
Giving Kalim the dendro element just happened to coincidentally align with the Sumeru region's main element. I wanted to give Kalim the next best thing if he couldn't have hydro, which was dendro. As I see it as a very "good" element with positive qualities, which he deserves.
Vil was one of the others that gave me trouble when assigning him an element. For a very brief moment, I considered giving him dendro, but that just didn't fit the sort of aesthetic I had in mind for him. Then I remember what his home region is supposed to look like, if it's similar to Epel's, it's snowy, right? So cryo was the next best option. I think it actually fits him well, if I do say so myself.
Idia was the last character to give me trouble. For a while I really was not sure about giving him the anemo element, as he just seemed like the complete opposite of Venti and his ideals. However, the longer I thought about, the more I came to terms with it. Wind doesn't have to mean just freedom. Wind can be very terrifying too, like what we see in Stormterror's Lair which is the sort of aesthetic I imagined when I finally assigned him anemo.
I mean, duh, of course Malleus was getting electro. What else did you expect? I mean, there was a second where I considered giving electro to Idia, but then giving anemo to Malleus didn't sit right with me. Electro was ultimately the best choice for this archon. It's constantly used in the games around him, he has control over it, it just made sense to give him this element.
Any other characters that are not archons will have their elemental type be based off the region they're from. HINT HINT. For example, Riddle may be pyro as he is the archon, but at least one person in Heartslabyul will not have the pyro element.
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quibbs126 · 14 days ago
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Well I also did this today. Sketches so I could try and figure out that skystar fankid since as mentioned earlier, I’ve been trying to think about him
I’ve been trying to draw other stuff today, but honestly after drawing Jazz, my creative juices have not been flowing as much. I tried to do more color palette drawings, but Megatron’s shoulders give me so much trouble I couldn’t figure them out, and I tried to draw Ironhide but he wasn’t turning out right proportion wise and I realized by them I was kind of just forcing it
But then I was bored and needed something to do creatively, so I tried to at least attempt some amount of designing this kid. Though first I needed to try and draw Starscream and Skyfire’s helms (since that’s on of the main things that don’t rely on alt mode) to see how I could combine them
I mean, I think I did all right. It is very much still a work in progress though
Probably shouldn’t have even posted it, just kept it to myself for future reference, but I have a problem of wanting to share literally everything I make with very few exceptions, so here we are
I have multiple alternate color schemes here as well because I just didn’t know what to pick
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Honestly my biggest problem here for me is that Skyfire doesn’t have any design in Transformers One, at least not as far as I can tell. And he doesn’t really appear in much outside of that, so I’m really just stuck with his g1 design to base off of. So most of what I do have to work with comes from Starscream and the other Seekers
So like, I feel like this kid looks too much like Starscream, but I don’t know how to fix it
By the way, while I haven’t settled on a name for him yet, the one floating around for me right now is Overdrive? I don’t really know why, and it unfortunately is already a character’s name, but shush
It may change, but for now, in this post, his name is Overdrive
There’s also the problem of the color scheme for him here. Because like, Skyfire and Starscream technically have almost the same color schemes, just that Starscream also has black/grey and they’re dispersed differently. So I’m trying to find a balance here that works without looking too much like one or the other
I had a brief idea to base Overdrive’s color scheme on the original Jetfire toy, and honestly I do think it could work, with the mainly white with red and black accents, it's just that for whatever reason, I don't like how it looks when I make his middle part red. Maybe I've been watching too much g1, because there's a lot of red Autobots, and characters having white and red on their helms isn't that uncommon either. So I just keep it blue so he looks distinct in my head. I might switch it over to the Jetfire color scheme later though
Also you see that for one of the visors I toyed with him having green eyes (his eye and visor color match btw, the eye's only there so you can see it), because some people decide that pre-betrayal Starscream had non red optics. But I didn't just want to stick with plain blue, and I knew that we see a number of miners with green eyes, so why not green? I changed it because I thought maybe he didn't look Starscream enough, but eh
Oh yeah, I do have a few other notes on his design here, since I'm realizing I've mostly just been complaining
Why did I give him a visor? Eh, why not, Skyfire and Starscream don't have them. But I based it on how it looks on Thundercracker and Skywarp
As for his side vents, I wasn't really sure how to do them, but I didn't want them to be the same as Starscream. I tried to base them off of Slipstream's, but the way the vents folded looked weird to me, and I ended up cutting them off and making his face into what you see in the bottom left there. It didn't turn out exactly the way I wanted in the colored version though, and I think I ended up circling back to Starscream's vent shape. But oh well, things to change later
Oh yeah, pictures of Thundercracker, Skywarp and Slipstream to know what I’m talking about. Or more accurately, this is what I used
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Also those things on his sides? They were supposed to be like Skyfire's side cheek things he has in g1, but I also made them puff out for some reason. I don't know why. I'll probably tweak it, but I want to keep some aspect of it I think
*sigh* to be honest, I really don't know what I think of this design. It really isn't finished at all. I'm really not even sure why I'm showing it, other than to say I'm working on it and I didn't just abandon it? But I mean, we'll see how long that lasts
Do I have anything I added on to Overdrive's character at least? Well no, not really. By this afternoon I think I had mostly creatively drained myself, I mostly just wrote what I had originally again
Namely that he came to be after Sentinel's betrayal, and as such Starscream doesn't know he exists and Skyfire thinks Starscream's dead. Overdrive still has his cog, it never got stolen, either because Sentinel hadn't thought of it yet or he didn't have a believable means to have it taken without it being suspicious. All I really know is he's a jet, but isn't outfitted for military work of any kind, his profession probably being closer to Skyfire's
As for Skyfire, I'm stealing his role here from another fanfic I read, where he's a scientist who was trying to figure out the cause of the Energon shortage and the lack of the miners' cogs (unaware that latter part is a lie, but he was growing suspicious with the discouragement of that line of research), though he also races occasionally. So maybe Overdrive's a scientist too? I don't know, I don't think he needs to be, but I don't know what to make him
Also a note that isn't new to me but I don't think I ever mentioned, due to Skyfire's research, he's met the miners plenty of times and was generally considered one of the nicer cogged bots to them. Overdrive has by proxy met them on occasion as well, including D-16. So as it happens, Megatron does in fact know about Overdrive and the fact that he's Starscream's kid (Skyfire probably mentioned his former conjunx at some point), but he doesn't know that Starscream doesn't. So he hasn't told anyone because he assumes everyone already knows
But yeah, I have Overdrive's backstory, but I really don't have anything about his actual job or personality. To be honest, I think some of it's me being paranoid I recreate Locket in some way, since I like seeing stuff on the Locket AU. I suppose I try making him closer to Skyfire's personality? But for whatever reason, my brain can't rectify that in my head. I don't know
Still don't have an answer on his alt mode either. And it gets even trickier now because they don't have Earth alt modes, they're Cybertronian (even if they don't all look the most different from Earth vehicles here). I did learn about the existence of triple engine jets today, and I kind of want to do that, but I don't know if I will. I also don't know how to draw planes yet, or how they entirely translate to robot mode
But yeah, I think I'm done here, just updating you on what I've been up to this latter half of the day
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merakiui · 2 years ago
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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?
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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?”
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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.
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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. 
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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.
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lou-struck · 1 year ago
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Bigger Bling
Mammon x reader
Wc:1.9k
~Mammon can’t stand to look at that damn promise ring Lucifer gave you any longer.
a/n: This is a loose sequel to this Lucifer One-Shot HERE (You don’t have to read it but If you want to go ahead)
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It's shiny
It's expensive 
And it's BIG!
Mammon's deep blue eyes glare down at the stunning promise ring on your finger. The very one Lucifer had bought for you all those months ago. As it rests on that special finger, the Demon determines that he has never hated a gem more in his life. The deep red garnet with the black-gold band looks like something his brother would choose for you. 
He really hates that.
"Mc, you should take that thing off and Let the Great Mammon give you a real rock." he pouts, his tanned fingers boredly toying with the sparkling gem on your finger. 
You only laugh and ruffle the Demon's white hair with your unembellished hand. "Mammon, I can't do that. This ring is very important to me. How would Lucifer feel if I took his gift off?" 
The Demon's cheeks turn a dusty pink color as he tries to hide your effect on him with his hands.
"Who cares what he thinks?" he mutters, "I want to give ya somethin' even better so you'll be dyin' to take that old ring off."
That's it!
Mammon's eyes light up as the cogs in his head start to turn with a not-so-evil scheme. 
All he has to do to get you to take off that cheap little ring is to buy you something even better. It will be gold, and shinier and will cost even more Grimm than what his older brother had spent on you. 
He turns towards the door, using his insane speed to bolt before you have a chance to say goodbye to him. He doesn't notice the look of confusion on your face as he shuts the double doors behind him with a conniving grin. 
With you out of sight, Mammon has the alone time he needs to revel in his brilliance. He had just made a killing from selling some of the gifts that were just sitting in Asmo's closet of offerings from his fan clubs. 
His brother really has no idea how much of a fortune he is sitting on…
Nevertheless, Mammon reaches into his wallet and pulls out Goldie. The credit card seems to shake in apprehension of the Demon's upcoming shopping trip to only the best jewelry shops the Devildom has to offer. 
~
It's been a long day at RAD, and without Mammon's company, the day seemed to go by even slower than normal. After he walked out on you this morning, you didn't see him for the rest of the day.
After talking to a few lesser demons you realized that he didn't show up for any of his other classes either. And as you are sent to his voicemail box for the nth time today, your heart begins to ache in worry that your Avatar of Greed has somehow gotten himself into some kind of trouble.
Twisted scenarios of the Demon being chased by witches or undead debt collectors churn your gut throughout your walk home. As you let yourself in through the massive double doors, your weary mind replays your last interaction with him before he left. 
You fiddle with the ring on your finger and wonder what was it about the gem on your finger that got him so upset?
Your good-natured worrying begins to boil under your skin. When you notice that he's not in the living room with the others, those feelings only increase.
Clear your throat, gaining the attention of the three conscious demons in the room. Belphie, the fourth, is fast asleep, resting his head on his twin's lap. Lucifer is off at the castle doing some work with Diavolo. And Levi is up in his room, where he has been working his way through a new game since last night. "Hey, have any of you guys seen Mammon anywhere?" 
Satan looks up from his book briefly and gives you a smile. "Thankfully, no. Without his jabbering, I've been able to make some sufficient progress in my book."
You roll your eyes lightheartedly at the blond's remark but look to the others in hope they have a different answer for you. 
Asmo sees the concern on your features and tries to comfort you with an embrace. The sweet scent of his cologne soothing you a bit. "Sorry, Hon, I haven't seen him since breakfast. But I'm sure he'll come back soon. In the meantime, how about I take your mind off things?" The playful suggestiveness in his tone makes you giggle as you look over 
"Mmnnnother two., Breakfast." Beel hums dreamily as he imagines the Bufo Egg quiche Asmo baked for you all this morning. You can tell from the little stream of drool that trickles from the corner of his , That he will be of little help to you. 
Belphie blinks up at you sleepily, stretching his arms out lethargically as he sits upward. "Mammon?" he yawns. "I saw him earlier when Beel and I were walking home. He was out shopping and looked strangely happy. 
"We did?" Beel asks, coming out of his food-related daze. "When? I didn't see him."
"Probably because you were trying to sniff out the Devil Dog vendor." Belphie snorts before turning his attention back to you and gives you a sleepy smile. "He's just messing around somewhere. He'll be back soon."
As if on cue, you hear the front door burst open. Mammon calls your same in a sing-song voice from the entrance as the others groan. Satan huffs and puts a cat-shaped bookmark in the novel he is reading. "There goes my quiet afternoon. I'm gonna go to my room and finish this."
The Avatar of Wrath gets up and pads quickly out the door just as Mammon strides in with a pep in his step. A small gift bag in his hand as he blinds you with his pearly white smile. He looks elated, which kinda irks you since you have spent the better part of the afternoon concerned for his well-being.
What are ya doin' Mc?" the white-haired Demon asks, as if you are the one who has evaded him all day long.
"Wondering where you have been all day, Mammon?" You respond back exasperatedly. "You just got up and left me this morning and didn't show up for any of your other classes. I thought you got yourself in trouble or kidnapped by witches… again." you mutter that last part under your breath, but Mammon seems too excited to notice. 
"Course you were worried bout the Great Mammon," he laughs, slinging an arm around you comfortably. "That's why yer such a good human."
"Mammon, seriously, Where were you?" 
There is a twinkle in his eyes and a faint dusting of crimson on his tanned skin as he looks around the room at his brothers, who are not-so-subtly listening in on the conversation. "Lemme show ya somewhere private."
He takes your left hand but quickly jolts and releases it when he comes into contact with your ring. He takes your right one instead, and you notice how sweaty his hands are. He walks you silently down the hallway and up the stairs until he gets you to the safety of his bedroom. 
He sits with you on his plush bed and begins to ruffle through the tissue paper of his gift bag before pulling out a cubic, black, crushed velvet box. 
The size throws you off a bit since it is roughly the size of a child's shoe box. 
Far bigger than any kind of jewelry box you have ever seen. 
Not even the cases Diavolo uses when transporting the crown Jewels are this big. Your curiosity and confusion blend together in a strange concoction as Mammon sets the box in your hands. "Mammon, what is this?" you ask nervously. 
He is practically wiggling in your seat in anticipation "Jus' open it, you'll see."
Spurred but his excitement, you crack open the box to reveal the biggest freaking diamond you have ever seen in your life. The gem is the size of a softball and is tethered to a thin golden band at the bottom. 
You blink at your reflection in the facets of the gem, unsure of what to say. "I-is this a."
"Isn't it amazin'?" he gushes. "The biggest ring ya ever seen?"
So it is a ring…
"It's certainly the biggest." you parrot, unsure if you should take the ring out of the box or put it in some kind of museum. "This must've cost a fortune. How did you pay for this?"
"Oh it's nothin'," he laughs with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "It'll take me a few hundred years to pay the thing off, but only the best for my human." It takes both of his hands to remove the heavy ring from its cushion. The thin golden band looks like it is bending under the ring's weight. "Come on, you should take that old thing off and put this baby on instead."
You realize that he is gesturing to your promise ring, and everything clicks into place. 
Mammon wanted to give you something so special so you would remove the ring Lucifer had given you all those months ago. That ring is invaluable; it's a promise, a thank you for the love you have given to him and his brothers since you arrived in the Devildom. It's not something you can just discard.
But Mammon must think you wear it as a sign you love Lucifer more than him. "Oh Mammon," you murmur, placing your hand on his shoulder. "You know I love you, right?"
When he realizes that you aren't going to throw your older ring to the floor in disgust, his face falls. He's confused and looks at you like a kicked puppy. "B-but this one is better; i-it costs ten-no a hundred times more than the other one."
"It's not the price of the ring that makes it special," you say softly, gently tracing your finger over the massive diamond Mammon had gotten you. "This is beautiful, but it's too much."
"I jus' wanted to show ya that I'm yer first. I love ya Mc." he sighs. "And I wanted to give ya somethin special so everyone would know it."
"I know you do, and I love you." gently, you close the box and hand it back to him. "Even without the Diamond to end all diamonds." 
"I know ya do." he sighs, bumping you playfully with his shoulder. "But do ya really want me to return it?" 
"It's for the best," you chuckle. "I wouldn't want you to be in debt."
"It was a lot of Grimm," he says, chuckling nervously. "I swear Goldie was cryin' when I pulled her out t' pay but yer worth every bit."
"I'm sure she was," you laugh. "But I do appreciate the gesture. How about we take it back together."
"Yer the best mc," the Demon says eagerly, giving you a heartfelt smile, "How about we pick out another piece for ya. Like a bracelet or somethin?" He sees the slight apprehension on your face and places his hand over your own. "It doesn't have to be crazy expensive if ya don't want it ta be' I jus' wanna give ya somethin' so ya know how much the Great Mammon cares about ya."
Swayed by this little compromise, you find yourself agreeing to the Demon's request. Standing from the bed and taking his hand.
A few hours later, you come back wearing a simple yet elegant gold bracelet. Giggling when Mammon marches you around the Devildom to show everyone the special piece of jewelry he got for you.
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Tagging: @enchantedforest-network
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aziraphales-library · 5 months ago
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Hello! First off I want to say this is one of my favorite tumblr blogs out there :) I’m sure it’s a lot of work but it definitely pays off with how easy it is to find a fic on here! I love the work you all do.
I’ve perused the #crowley’s-eyes fics quite a bit and am looking for more— specifically relating to Crowley having trouble with his vision. I have vision issues myself and it makes me happy to see that aspect in my favorite character.
Thank you in advance! 🫶❤️
Hi! Yes, we have quite a few posts on our #crowley's eyes tag. Here are some more recent fics to add...
Snake Eyes by DrHuggles_j (G)
It's difficult to keep from your book-loving angelic counterpart that Crowley, in fact, cannot read words that small on a page. Sure, he can read and write, but human text has a tendency to evade him at times, opting to guess or simply miracle the text to a readable size. He's kept the secret for this long, what's for the rest of eternity?
Your Eyes Hold the Stars by ForrestToffee (G)
When he fell Crowley was cursed with snake eyes. And sure, it made the first several couple millennia a little challenging until glasses were invented. But he didn’t really know what he was missing. But fast forward six thousand years, and fooling Heaven and Hell with their little body swap scheme unexpectedly gave Crowley the opportunity to see the world as it was meant to be seen. OR Crowley gets the opportunity to see his stars as they were always meant to be seen.
until the stars fall from the sky by theivytree (T)
The stars have always been one of Aziraphale’s favorite things about the universe. Millions of stars, thousands of planets, so expansive and beautiful. He remembers being in space, watching the nebula burst in an array of colors the angel had never seen before. Gorgeous was the only way it could be described in Earthly words. Or; Aziraphale and Crowley go stargazing on two separate occasions.
Bright as his eyes by HenlyesTales (G)
"What do you mean?". Crowley shrugged "Heaven destroyed most of them when I fell" Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a few seconds, "Crowley they’re all- they’re all here. Heaven didn’t touch your stars". -Or- Crowley and Aziraphale meet again in 35 AD, go on a walk together and Crowley realizes how much his snake eyes affect him.
Snake Eyes by Strummer_Pinks (NR)
Aziraphale pines over Crowley, unable to voice his true feelings for his friend. In other news, Aziraphale doesn't realize that having snake eyes, Crowley can't see in colour. Insanity at a sushi restaurant ensues.
The Crowley Collection by OverlookBrooke (M)
Aziraphale wasn’t an idiot. He knew Crowley enjoyed James Bond and botany and old cars. There were so many wonderful novels on these topics—Crowley really ought to try reading once and a while. (He could definitely learn to enjoy his hobbies and interests even better if he dug his nose into a book every now and then!) Aziraphale had to wonder, why wouldn’t he read? No matter. If he didn’t want to read, Aziraphale would collect books for him. Just in case he wanted to. No other reason. Right?
- Mod D
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in1-nutshell · 4 months ago
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Silver Aid the sparkling part 2
SFW, Platonic, Cybertronian (techno organic) reader
TFA
Optimus didn’t know why humans had a fascination with explosives. Granted he had some bad experiences with them, not to mention he had lost count of how many fires he had to put out because of these kinds of things.
So, he was a bit biased.
But he had to admit that the colors were nice to see from a far.
It was some sort of celebration the humans had; some holiday he couldn’t remember the name of. The team was technically off duty, but trouble always seemed to follow them around. It was good to be on alert.
Bumblebee and Sari were trying to explain to Prowl how to play with the sparklers; Bulkhead had brought his easel and paints attempting to paint the colorful sky above them; and Ratchet was inside the Plant. He didn’t like the loud noises the fireworks made.
Optimus himself was watching everyone from his spot on the ground near a couple of bushes by the Plant. Maybe he’d stay out a bit longer before turning in a bit early, or even try one of those sparklers.
SNAP!
Optimus looked behind him, crouching down to get a better look at whatever made that noise.
Maybe it was one of those squirrels or racoons Prowl had been trying to sneak into his room for the past months?
More snapping was heard, it was something bigger.
Or maybe it was a lost dog or cat.
The snapping sounded heavier this time.
The Prime grabbed his axe in one servo and was ready to strike at anything--
“Oppy?”
He dropped his axe at the sound of the little voice.
A voice so young that he hadn’t heard since Cybertron.
A tiny frame suddenly tumbled from the bushes and landed in front of his knees.
The sparkling sat up, pouting a bit, before looking up at him rather confused.
They both studied each other for a minute before the sparkling smiled widely at him. She waddled a bit until she put both servos on his knees.
“Oppy I found you! I found you!”
… There was no way this was her…
Maybe this was Silver’s sparkling—wait no, she would have told him about that.
And there had been weird situations the bots had been in…
And there was only one bot from his sparklinghood that gave him that name…
The sparklings optics widened happily reaching at him. He gently picked her up, slightly cradling her in his arms, she didn’t seem to mind too much. The sparkling was too busy rejoicing having found her friend, even though he was so much bigger than last time. Maybe this is what happens when you drink too much energon?
“Oppy! Oppy! Oppy!”
…Sweet Primus…
“Silver? Is that you?”
Silver hugged his neck cables the best she could.
“Oppy! You too big! Too big to hug! But still hug!”
She pulled back and gently patted the side of his face smiling.
He couldn’t help but smile back.
She always seemed to be able to make him smile no matter the circumstances.
Too bad their moment didn’t last long.
“Optimus do you know where Ratchet hid the rest of the—IS THAT A BABY!?”
Optimus and Silver jumped a bit at the new voice.
Silver peaked from her now taller friend’s shoulder angerly.
Who decided to yell at him!
That’s not nice!
Oppy hates yelling!
She looked down at the funny looking sparkling and glared.
“No yell! Scare Oppy! Say sorry!”
Sari couldn’t believe what she was seeing, and Optimus suddenly had a bad feeling about this.
Silver had always had a bit of a protective streak when they were all younger, especially when it came down to newer bots.
Sari flew up to get a better look at it.
The sparkling was adorable, even with the little angry look on their face.
But that color scheme was a bit familiar…
Sari turned to the Prime.
“Did Silver and Megatron have a baby?”
Optimus shook his helm immediately.
“No, but I have reason to think this is—"
“IS THAT A SPARKLING!?”
Leave it to Bumblebee to let the world know about the sparkling at once. Soon enough the rest of the team began crowding around them both. Silver tried to ignored the sudden loud voice around her and came up with a single thought. She didn’t like this, not one bit. First, there were a bunch of new bots around, none she had ever seen before. Second, some of them were poking her pedes and servos. Finally, it was getting way too crowded for her liking, and Oppy hates crowds!
She needed to fix this right now!
“Go!”
The bots looked at her waving her servos in a shooing motion.
Bulkhead wagged one of his digits at her face.
“Aww! Look at tiny Silver! So tiny—"
“Go! Go! Go! GO!”
The bots slightly winced at the shriek she gave at the last word.
Bumblebee leaned to Bulkhead’s side.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have called her small, big guy.”
Optimus sighed readjusting his hold on Silver.
“It’s not that. She is trying to get you all to back up.”
Ratchet looked at Optimus a bit skeptical yet had a feeling he knew why his former student was acting like this. “And how do you know that Prime?”
Optimus groaned internally.
“I just know okay.”
“Oppy no like crowd. Shoo! Shoo!”
Optimus felt his faceplate burning as the others smiled a bit teasingly.
“Aww! Look Oppy you have a little protector.” Bumblebee teased.
Silver glared straight into Bumblebee’s optics making him shudder a bit.
“Yeesh! She still has that same glare.”
Prowl thankfully got the message.
“Maybe we should back up. Give them some space.”
The bots slowly stepped back.
The sparklings glared and hold was still strong, but now it softened a bit looking at Optimus’s face.
She had a worried look patting his face.
“Oppy okay? Oppy?”
Optimus smiled.
“I’m okay Silver.”
That put a smile on the sparkling’s face.
The Prime took that moment and turned to the others.
“Silver, these are my friends, Sari, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, Prowl and Ratchet.”
Silver looked at the bots then at Optimus.
“Oppy friends?”
He nodded.
“Down now.”
Optimus gently placed the sparkling down and waddled to the bots, circling them before coming back to Optimus’s side with a judge look.
Ratchet raised an optics “Are we being judged by a sparklng?”
Optimus quietly shushed him.
Silver finally smiled and waved at them.
“Me Silly! Silly friend Oppy! You Silly friends now!”
Prowl gently pats her helm a bit.
“Quite the extrovert, isn’t she?”
Optimus just sighs as she waddled up to them giving pats on their legs before waddling back to Optimus.
“Why Oppy big now?”
“Umm…”
“Oppy drink too much energon?”
“Yes! Oppy drank too much.”
She looked around.
“Where Nel and Eeta?”
Oh Primus how was he going to explain this one.
“… They’re on a trip now.”
Silver looked at him curiously.
“Trip?”
“Yes, a trip.”
“Coming back?”
Optimus gently rubbed her helm.
“I’m sorry Silver, we can’t see them right now.”
“That okay. I wait.”
This was not going how he thought it would. Hopefully she would forget about this soon.
Optimus then rubbed small circles on her back until soft little snores were heard. Silver Aid was always the first to fall asleep.
In a whisper the Prime addressed the team.
“We have to figure out what happened to her.”
Sari gently patted the sparkling’s arm.
“No duh, but how? Where did you even find her?”
Optimus gestured to the bushes behind him.
“I don’t know how we are going to figure this out, but we will.”
Sari spoke up.
“Maybe my dad can find something about Silver becoming a baby.”
The team agreed. In the morning, they would pay a visit to the Professor, but first there was something Optimus needed to do. The Prime tried to pass Silver to Ratchet, but her grip tightened and let out a soft whine when the field tech’s servos touched her. Optimus held her and she went right back to sleep.
He silently carried her into his room.
Her tiny servo had clamped down on one of his digits. Peacefully unaware of the stress she was inadvertently causing on the young Prime.
He placed her on his chassis and sighed.
“Oh Silver… what are we going to do with you…”
With that the Prime’s optics slowly closed and drifted into a pleasant sleep with the grip on his digit tightening a bit.
Meanwhile…
Megatron was slightly pacing back and forth across the room. It took the entire team to convince the leader to at least take a nap before returning to the skies to search for the sparkling. Everyone else was working on the main console. Lugnut was looking over Blitzwing’s shoulder. Blitzwing and Starscream were typing furiously.
“Has anyone any trace of her signature?”
“She’s techno organic Lugnut.”
Lugnut tapped Blitzwings’s wings a few times.
“Meaning?”
Blitzwing vented heavily before turning to the bigger mech.
“What that means Lugnut is that we don’t have the trackers for techno organic bots yet! They were a work in progress and nowhere near finished.”
“…So still no sign of her?”
Starscream nearly threw the keyboard at the wall.
“By the Allspark, OF COURSE THAT MEANS WE DON’T HAVE ANY SIGN OF HER!”
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This is how any bot would see sparkling Silver Aid trying to fight them for Optimus's honor.
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maddascanbe-blog · 5 months ago
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Beetles, Bees, and Butterflies designs! I have been sitting on these design for- almost a month!
All of the designs went through changes over time, Izuku looks pretty significantly different from how I first drew him, you'll see that in a sec.
Momo's suit was giving me a lot of trouble until I actually designed a kwami swap between these three for fun, and like the concepts in the other design enough to carry them over. The way her quirk is still able to function is that all of the black parts of her suit will let her create whatever she needs, and there is a panel on her back that can open up like a Ladybug's elytra to give her full access to her back. While the red parts are as invincible as normal miraculous armor.
Her visor can bring up the information she needs to make specific object so she doesn't have to commit to memorizing so much, and the Yoyo, on her right wrist, can do the same (thank tikki for actually knowing what everything is made of because she made it) Her bug eyes actually blink or narrow when her own do.
Shoto's actually only have minor changes? I knew I wanted to give him the tail coat (because I love giving the bee's tailcoats) but I had to fight with his color scheme to make it not look cluttered. Hence why I gave him a hood, makes it easier to draw when you can't see his hair.
Izuku is always so hard to draw for, I had to fight his hair a bit here but I think it looks okay? I tried to invoke the stripes/lines of his suits in cannon as well as All Might's since Izuku is subconsciously still trying to mimic him. Which eventually took the form of his vest's seams looking like a butterfly. I kept his knee and elbow pads, good for crash landings. And his boots are designs similar to his red tennis shoes, because I headcanon Izuku's entire shoe selection is literally just multiple pairs of the same shoe.
The shape of hsi gloves were fun too- Here's his early design with his wings. The wings still look like this in story!
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And an assorted page of things I wanted to commit designs wise (the weapons) to and doodles-
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Shoto doesn't have a transformation pose because he's not flashy like that-
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incorrect-fnaf-quotes · 3 months ago
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Reader x Glitchtrap (specifically the one in princess quest) where the reader is a janitor at the pizzaplex?
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🐰|Normally, whether at the Pizzaplex for your job, or on a day off, you never tended to play the arcade games.|📼
🐰|However, during one of your shifts, you’re cleaning up a bit of a big mess one of the guests made, and you bump into something.|📼
🐰|Your curiosity gets the best of you—and besides, the mess from earlier is mostly cleaned up.|📼
🐰|Although, you’d heard of Princess Quest related troubles—so when the game actually works, you’re surprised.|📼
As you kept playing, you could feel the broom slump over and land against your leg. Your eyes remained focused on the screen.
Shifting your leg just a little bit, that caused the broom to fall completely onto the ground beside you with a thud.
You—or, rather, the Princess, had reached the final section. Helping her set the final light, you were greeted with something looming within the remaining darkness.
You could make out some purple on the thing’s color scheme—but not quite anything for the rest of the design, except for two things.
One, you thought the character looked rather... goopy, in a way.
And, two, with the ears atop the head, you thought that it could have been a bunny, perhaps.
A voice broke through the silence of the room.
“Why, hello, Y/N...”
🐰|You quit the game after the rabbit speaks to you, leave the area, and end your shift shortly after.|📼
🐰|Though, on your next shift... you don’t know why you choose to turn the game on again, but you do.|📼
🐰|For the most part, every bit of the game is fine, until you reach the final area of Princess Quest once again.|📼
🐰|The strange, goopy rabbit is aware of you, it seems—as he immediately starts to try and have a conversation with you.|📼
🐰|He reveals that his name is Glitchtrap, but you also choose to give him another name—Malhare. Later, at least.|📼
🐰|It seems that he’s aware when you’re playing—but Glitchtrap can only speak to you when in the final room/section.|📼
🐰|You’re hesitant with this situation at first—but each time you visit the game, you start feeling more calm.|📼
Again, you had finally reached the final section. At this point, this had been your thirteenth time.
You lit the room, and watched as the screen went black.
“Did I-“
There was barely enough time to think it over, before something... certainly different, compared to the other times, began.
First, the face of Glitchtrap appeared on the center of the screen—and a few seconds later, you watched as a pair of hands shot forwards.
The hands themselves were suddenly out of the screen, and a few inches away from your face. Black and purple goop was dripping onto the floor.
You stared with widened eyes. You wanted to move back—but you just... found yourself frozen in the moment.
The rabbit said nothing, but as the rest of his body began to emerge, you could hear him chuckling.
Another moment passed, and more goop was falling onto the floor... before Glitchtrap was fully in the room with you.
“Fin-“ Glitchtrap found himself falling... right onto you. In the time that it took for him to escape, you’d not moved.
You groaned.
Just as the goop had started to land all over the floor, once he landed atop you, it was starting to splatter onto your clothes.
Chuckling, Glitchtrap began to rise, looking down at you. “Well, dear, I’ll say that was a-“
“...Get off me.”
🐰|You’re stuck with a goopy rabbit now—it doesn’t seem like he’ll be leaving, or sent back into the game.|📼
🐰|He gives you a lot of little names, such as ‘dear’. You aren’t sure what to think.|📼
🐰|Unsure of how anyone else at the Pizzaplex would react, you figure you need to take Glitchtrap somewhere else.|📼
🐰|Glitchtrap chooses to accompany you home. It was still hard to get him there, but it happened.|📼
🐰|...You have to clean up so much goop—both at home, and at the Pizzaplex, since Glitchtrap chooses to return often.|📼
🐰|Others will be talking, confused as to things relating to Glitchtrap. And you’ll just be in the corner like, “...Yeah, I sure don’t have a part in this-“|📼
🐰|Glitchtrap likes to mess with you. He is rather affectionate—he’s a bit touch starved. He thinks your reactions to the goopy hugs are amusing.|📼
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peachi-blossom · 7 months ago
Text
My thoughts on Hazbin Hotel as a non HH fan
Originally, I was just here to watch people criticizing Hazbin Hotel. But when the recent controversies came in, I feel like I have to step into the fandom rabbit hole.
As a non Hazbin Hotel fan, I've watched the pilot, read the prequel comics, watched the ADDICT music video, and finally the show itself. (I've watched the show on March 15th.)
NOTE: I didn't watch the show on TV so I watched it on a pirated website instead and read the transcript because no way am I watching this in front of my parents, my siblings, or Grandma. This is my personal opinion on the show.
Pilot: So Hell is basically Earth except it's painted red and inhabited by demons. The background has too much red, but not as bad that it makes my eyes bleed. I don't like how the female characters have the same color scheme except Vaggie and Niffty (pilot only). For example, Charlie, Katie Killjoy, and Cherri Bomb. The only two funny parts of the pilot is when the top hat demon says "Wow! That was s***!" after Charlie sings Inside of Every Demon is a Rainbow and when Angel pokes his head in as Vaggie is giving Alastor a warning. I didn't like the daddy joke. It just sounded bad. Also, why is there a joke about harlequin babies?
Prequel comics that are no longer canon: Basically the prequel comics focuses on Angel Dust and Alastor.
For Dirty Healings, it shows how Angel Dust first met Charlie and Vaggie. I knew that Vaggie's name was named after a uh, you know. Ugh… Why did Vivienne Medrano had to name her that? Also I hate Valentino.
As for A Day In The After Life, it just shows why Alastor is the most feared demon in Hell. Also he swears after seeing Vox.
ADDICT music video: I genuinely have no thoughts on this music video. I think this was just bait for the SA and CSA victims. Sorry for those who like the MV.
Episode 1: This is worse than the pilot. I did NOT like the beginning part. It's biblically inaccurate for multiple reasons, but I feel like a few people only talk about this one thing. Sin didn't exist until Adam and Eve ate the fruit of knowledge of good and evil. Not only that, but it's also misogynistic too because it was just Eve who ate it. What makes it misogynistic is that it implies that all women would have to bear the sins of Eve ALONE. There's rampant swearing and sex jokes. Also, isn't Archangel Michael supposed to be the leader of the Army of God? Anyways I'm siding with the angels.
Episode 2: The red is so bright that it hurts my eyes. It doesn't help the fact that Alastor blends in the background. Oh yeah, when Vox tells Sir Pentious to kill himself, it made me feel sad because it reminded me of the Shay incident. The time when the stans drove Shay to kill themself because they were uncomfortable with the large age gap of HuskerDust.
Episode 3: Why? Why is there a BDSM sex dungeon?! I know that was Angel's idea, but still. Why?! I seriously have no words. When Zestial says "What troubles thou?" I was like "Huh?". It should be "What troubles thee?". I think his Old English has grammatical errors. The Egg Boiz, Carmilla, and Zestial are bearable because they never said a swear word. Off topic, but Velvette's swirl streaks on her hair makes me think of a swirl ice cream.
Episode 4: Before the show came out, I saw SlayQueenArt's post on Twitter (X) that says Vivienne Medrano hired Raphielle II, aka R2ninjaturtle, who has a rape fetish and isn't a SA victim. As someone who is formerly addicted to porn, this episode is insulting on so many levels. I didn't watch the whole Poison sequence because of that. And don't get me started on Loser Baby. I hate this song so much. It felt like it is blaming on SA and CSA victims for being SA'd. Like it is blaming me for being addicted to porn on and off when I was EIGHT. I know there are some victims who like episode 4 so I will leave them alone. I seriously hate how Charlie behaves like a toddler at the end. No grown adult should behave like a toddler like she did because being raped isn't a silly thing to cry over. Like, hello? She is the supposed to be the main character. Oh yeah, there was NO warning for the episode when the show premiered and it triggered the victims who watched it. SA and CSA victims are not losers. Former porn addicts are not losers. Nobody is a loser. I am NOT a loser.
Episode 5: Wow, Vivienne Medrano really turned Lucifer into King George from Veggietales. I guess this is what happens when King George gave in into his obsession with rubber ducks. I didn't like Hell's Greatest Dad because of the unnecessary rivalry between Lucifer and Alastor, but at least Mimzy ended the song. Oh boy, this is where I hate Alastor now. No really, he is Vivienne Medrano's first edgelord oc. He has gone full edgelord and is basically a Bill Cipher wannabe now. His full demon form is not even scary compared to Bill's final form. He no longer stands out from the main cast even if he rarely swears. Mimzy is basically the embodiment of the hooked nose stereotype. Wow, the embodiment of a Jew stereotype. How racist.
Episode 6: That was an absolute slap in the face at SA and CSA victims and me when Sir Pentious got SA'd! Seriously, Vivienne Medrano doesn't even care for the victims at this point! What's worse is that he is based off of her old ex-friend, DollCreep. Why did she whitewashed St. Peter?! I know there are white Jews, but he was born in ancient Israel so I wouldn't think he'll be looking like a white man with blonde hair and blue eyes. How come angels don't know how souls get to Heaven?! We got the Ten Commandments! We got Jesus Christ who took our place to die for our sins so we wouldn't have to bear these sins! Emily and Sera are bearable because you know. I hate how Niffty is being treated like a child when she's NOT. What's worse is that Niffty is supposed to be Japanese because of how people INFANTILIZED Asian people, especially women.
Episode 7: My issue with Out for Love is that when Carmilla tells Vaggie that she should fight for love and not for vengeance. Well, Vaggie always fight for love and never for vengeance. In Whatever it Takes, she literally says that she'll always protect Charlie. Where is the vengeance in that? That is poor character writing. Rosie is basically the blood libel stereotype where the Jews are cannibals. Again, that's just racist against Jews.
Episode 8: I thought the finale was pointless because there were no stakes and Sir Pentious' heroic sacrifice was comically anti-climatic. Like, why did Sir Pentious's so called friends cared about him when they didn't help him at ALL in episode 6?! I'm not a fan of the CherriSnake ship because Cherri only becomes interested in him because he has two "joysticks". Not to mention he kissed her without consent and she thinks it's hot after that. The problem with More Than Anything (Reprise) is that Vaggie reassures Charlie that she changed many lives, but she only changed one. I'm so glad Adam defeated Alastor first. There is absolutely no way Lucifer slept with Eve. Oof for Lute and Adam. You both fought well until the end.
The character designs are awful. Every male character basically looks like The Once-ler from The Lorax 2012 movie except for Adam (I know Alastor doesn't have a top hat, but still gives off the vibes. Zestial is more Burtonesque.). Not to mention they are all skinny twigs except for Adam (I think). The female characters in Hell have the same color scheme except Vaggie (again). For example, Charlie, Katie Killjoy, Mimzy (though her dress is a little darker), Cherri Bomb, and Niffty (show only). They have too much pinks, reds, yellows, whites, and blacks. I love pink, but this is too much. What's worse is that they blend in the background and again it hurts my eyes. There is NO color variety and I feel like my eyes are burning.
That's my thoughts on the show.
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