#like even modernized i'd still feel pretty shitty doing that

[merakiui]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Relax. I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, so you draw the line there?”

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

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

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

“Well, they should.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve forgotten the joy that accompanies homemade meals.

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You must be losing your mind. 

“Rough match?” 

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

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

“Then just leave and join a new lobby.” 

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

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

“Like?”

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

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

“Sounds tough.”

“Believe me, it is.” 

“Have you tried reworking your strategy?”

“You’re asking me to kiss ass here.”

“Never said that.”

“You’re implying it.”

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

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

“And what’s your group called?”

“The Harbingers.”

“You honestly think that sounds any better?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrogant brat, you mouth back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, you freak.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! Let go of—”

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

“Try again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not hungry.”

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

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

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

“Looks like I’m going hungry.”

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

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

“But I didn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

“I look forward to that.”

“You little—”

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

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

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

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

“I win.”

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

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

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

“And yet here we are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Scaramouche—”

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

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

“Not a chance.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Wait! Wait, wait…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please be gentle.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you… Kuni, I love you.” 

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

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

[moonlightdancer26]

I'd love to hear your thoughts about Percy! What is your opinion on him in general? Do you like how his character arc was handled by JKR? What are your thoughts on popular fandom takes about Percy (him being a terrible disgrace to the Weasley family for siding with the Ministry/Voldemort; him being a secret hero of the rebellion who deserved better; etc)? And your thoughts on Percy ships? Who, if anyone, do you ship him with?

I think he’s wicked awesome and way too hated, I will genuinely defend him with my life. If my family treated me that badly I’d tell them to fuck off too, he was literally so excluded from his family because he wasn’t some Quidditch-loving jock and actually preferred to study and stay indoors. And he got mocked consistently just because he wanted a bright future. Sure he may appear a bit stuck-up to those who don’t know him well, but his family?? Plus after he legitimately got the job of his dreams, his father’s immediate reaction was to tell him he didn’t actually earn it and that it was all just a ploy. I would actually be so hurt. Like sure Arthur did end up being right, BUT YOU COULD’VE SAID IT A BIT DIFFERENTLY?? A simple “you earned it anyway, son” or “I’m proud of you” would’ve sufficed, alongside an explanation of why Percy MIGHT have gotten the job. He went about it way too harshly, if I got shut down like that after getting the job I’ve been working for my whole life, I’d have done a lot worse.

And I totally get Percy’s resentment, he felt as though his father wasn’t reaching his full potential due to his proud showcase of Muggle-fangirling. And since he (Arthur) was basically the sole provider in a large family that lived in poverty, I can see why Percy would feel frustration towards his father. Plus why do people act as if Percy was always “so horrible” even before he “abandoned” his family? He literally went RUSHING to Ronald when he got out of the lake in GoF and refused to let go of him, and he loved Ginny to death. He was protective of his younger siblings and was pretty funny imo, it’s hard not to sympathise with him when he has siblings like Fred and George.

He genuinely deserved so much better, he was constantly shut down for his accomplishments and cared so much for his siblings despite their mocking, plus he still came back to apologise to them and then proceeded to see his baby brother die in front of him????? How could you hate him after DH?? I don’t think he’s a disgrace to his family at all, sure he was shitty to Molly but, with what he must’ve been going through at the time, I get it. And any resentment he felt towards his family was completely and utterly justified. Plus he literally apologised, so even if you disagree with what I’m saying and think he’s scum or whatever, he legit still apologised to them? He still redeemed himself? Whatever he’s supposedly done that you hate him for, he redeemed himself for it. And I feel like people forget how young Percy was when all this happened? He’s only like 4 years older than Harry and was still 18/19 when all the family drama occurred, and he held a huge responsibility in the ministry. And having grown up as the lone middle child with the burden of knowing his family isn’t respected much must’ve had a tremendous influence on someone as ambitious as Perce. People should really see things from his perspective sometimes. Imo the only genuinely shitty things he’s done is 1. his treatment of Molly 2. his letter to Ron about Harry (but even then, I completely understand why Percy said what he said), anything other than that is usually just exaggerated by his haters.

One character he’s always reminded me of is Alex Dunphy from Modern Family (*tries to summon Modern Family fans*), she was also the odd one out in her family because she was super studious and introverted. And she had a desperate need to prove herself and was very ambitious, much like Perce. Her meltdowns and extreme studying was treated as a joke to the viewers and her sister Haley constantly made fun of her for it. She reminds me a lot of him tbh, which is why I love both characters so much.

lol this was supposed to be a quick short ask explaining why I love him and who I ship him with, and it resulted in a whole rant 😭 that’s usually how I get whenever his name gets brought up. Also Nonnie, I ship Percy with Oliver :D and I think he and Penelope Clearwater really deserved more screentime, they were such a delightful couple imo.

And thanks for the ask btw, I missed talking about him!!

[solei-eclipse]

wait . would solauri have a better chance as working out more romantically in the modern au . ?

( i would say maybe since the age gap isn’t so big and auri isn’t a total sociopathic freak . . if you think so too, id love to hear any silly little headcanons lol . )

( no im not doing this because im stressed about round 1 and really don’t want cirrus or azure to die what are you talking about haha ahaha . . ( sobs quietly in nonexistent corner with face in hands ) )

SOCIOPATHIC FREAK 😭 go easy on her now

I think it would definitely work out better than in the ALNSTverse for the reasons you mentioned but also because solei wouldn't be as stressed and people don't have to fight for their goddamn lives anymore!!!

Some thoughts!!!

Solei's first ever interaction with Auri in the park would be about pokemon. I'm so sorry. They're a loser who loves animals and biology and life so naturally. Pokemon nerd. When little Auri was in the park little Solei came up to them and showed her their pokemon cards. When they walked her home they gave Auri one of their cards: a Seel! (Also I take back what I said about them being 2 or 3 during their first meeting. I realize I was barely able to form any cohesive thought at that age so. I imagine they'd be 4 or 5 instead like what you originally suggested!)

Solei would knock on Auri's door everyday and ask Cas or Nyx if she could come out and play. Since Solei knows where she lives from when they walked together that day.

I'd imagine there weren't many people in the neighbourhood yet by the time Solei moved in (since you suggested the idea that Solei was one of the first). Since there weren't any other kids their age to play with, they stuck to each other pretty fast.

From the point on it was like glue!! Once Solei was old enough to ride a bike they'd visit Auri's every morning to head to school together (sorry I keep mixing the ALNST highschool AU together with the modern au but like. They would go to school right? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I hc they have a lot of matching clothes (matching sweaters, socks, shirts, etc)

Auri was a good star student but Solei was just around average, maybe even dropping below that at certain points. Maybe Auri would tutor them sometimes? (Ivan moment lol)

Auri likes to mess with Solei's hair and put it in ties and clips and stuff (based on one of your very first solauri doodles)! She's pretty good at it, but sometimes she'll do Lei's hair up really weird and stupid if she's feeling cheeky. Solei always keeps that hairstyle for the rest of the day no matter how stupid it looks.

Solei likes to woodcarve things for Auri all the time. It's kind of shitty and blocky and unrecognizable at first though so I don't know if Auri would keep it lol

Physical touch!! Auri likes physical touch, Lei is warm and loves warmth so they're happy with it! If they lie on the floor and Auri drapes herself on them horizontally (they'd be making a plus sign shape basically) then Solei would use their hands to play drums on her back. You know like. patpatpatpatpatpatpat. complete with cymbal sound effect. Because they're a loser.

Auri dresses in nice clothes most of the time (I think, usually in rock's sketches she's wearing pretty dresses) and in contrast to that Solei's fashion sense is just. Pajamas. Not joking they'd literally show up to places in their pajamas. Easygoing but at what cost.

When they do decide to change into something more appropriate, it still carries the vibe of pajamas. They like loose and comfortable clothing, stuff like big sweaters with wide open collars and soft baggy pants. Even their school uniform carries this carefree vibe since they forego the blazer and just wear the white button-up (that isn't even completely buttoned. Imagine till's school uniform with the orange undershirt, that's basically Solei). I'd imagine Aurien would be more clean and put together? Though maybe Solei would encourage her to loosen up and do whatever makes her comfortable.

Solei is (suprisingly) popular? They have a lot of friends at school. Definitely the type to say "okay I'm going now bye guys!" and then spend another 10 minutes yapping with others. Very "mom can we go home now" vibes from Aurien during this time.

If Aurien was feeling upset about something, Solei would take her someplace quiet and encourage her to tell them about it. They'd always make sure to carry something nice in their pocket to suprise her afterward, like candy or another wood carving or a flower they found.

Auri does her homework on her room desk and when she turns around to look at her bed solei has materialized out of nowhere to sleep on it. you know. instead of doing homework

When they're older, Solei would work at a zoo/animal shelter and would text Auri pictures of animals that reminded them of her

They would probably also have each other as profile pictures

I do apologize for this fact, I know it's an excruciating and annoying character trope, but solei is in fact a dense bastard. I'm so sorry. they'd have no idea. stay strong auri

[getvalentined]

Finally updated my directory with the links to bsky and cara, as well as links to my screenshot and gif tags for easier access (for me, mostly) and the Strifentine tag because it belongs with my top ships.

I keep wondering if I should put a little list of my NOTPs and disliked characters up there too, but ehhh. I have one on my website, and the fact that I dislike a ship or a character doesn't mean I'm gonna talk shit or anything. I don't like Ang*al and still dedicated almost 2k words to creating closure for the character at the end of Smoke and Mirrors, I don't like Lucrecia and I still go to bat for her pretty regularly—these are good characters, I just don't personally like them, and don't like how the fandom treats them. Ships are a little more touchy, since people can be really bad at tagging them, but I can just scroll on by and not engage in conversation about them for the most part.

More personal random update nonsense under the cut.

I'm actually feeling really down lately, for a handful of reasons. Some of it is the weather and air quality recently (it's so hot I want to throw up, there's been smoke in the air so I can't breathe, etc.), but some of it is more...mental and emotional, I guess.

I am so artistically burnt out I kinda want to die (I have no plans to make this happen, don't worry), but I'll deal with it. I've been like this since Turtle's health scare a few months back, when I got less than ten hours of sleep in the span of a week, and then proceeded to get less than five hours a night for the two weeks following, so it's no shock I'm still a mess. It doesn't seem like it's going anywhere any time soon, which sucks because I still owe people commissions from fundraising for her treatment. I may end up just...saving up to refund people.

The issue is that I feel like I can't draw unless I'm working on commissions, but when I try to work on commissions I literally burst into tears and can't do anything. It's a really fucked up cycle where I end up just paralyzed and on the verge of throwing up every time I even think about drawing, which is super hard on me as an artist. I feel like a failure, I feel like I'm letting everyone down, I feel like I'm ruining everyone's opinions of me forever. It's a really shitty feeling.

I'll figure something out. I'm an adult, that's what I have to do.

Speaking of people with ruined opinions of me, I think I'm going to start muting or unfollowing people who reblog/interact a lot with BB$C. I know she has a lot of friends, and maybe she's gotten better, but she still has me blocked so I'm not exactly hopeful. This is the woman who (apparently) told her friends that I abused and lied about her because one of my friends reported and called her out for tracing, and when she faced no consequences I made a vague sad thread on the general topic of popularity rendering unethical behavior acceptable in modern fandom. I only found out that she was seemingly telling people I abused her because one of her friends made a public comment on the twits about me being abusive—on a QRT of my thread detailing how I'd spent the previous year being abused by my now-ex. Very cool for me, the knowledge that some people saw that I'd been abused and went "oh she deserves it though" doesn't haunt me to this day or anything.

It's been a couple years since it all went down, but I just...I dunno, I feel like it's hard to genuinely improve as a person without even trying to make amends with the person she said those things about? But who knows. I'd be down to talk if she ever wanted to, but she hasn't yet, and I don't assume she will. I'm one of like four people on the planet who cares anyway, so it is what it is.

Summer is a rough time of year for me in general, so I'm struggling a lot recently with feeling like I deserve to even talk to other people at all. Constantly seeing the name of someone who went out of her way to make sure that I'd never feel welcome in a community I've been part of for a quarter century pop up on my dash all the time is not conducive to fighting that feeling.

Not to pity party over here, but I do get it. My older sister, my ex, BB$C—they're charming and creative and supportive, the people that they like generally don't get to see how they can be to the people that they don't. In the rare cases that they do see it, they change the narrative to make that person into something irredeemable, downplaying their own actions (if they admit to them at all) while exaggerating the actions of the person they dislike. These people have friends that genuinely love them, so of course they're going to believe their friend over some sad-sack stranger on a dying blogging platform. It's no fault to these people that they believe their friends.

(Just to clarify, I'm not saying that my ex tried to kill me the way my older sister did, or that BB$C was abusive in the way my ex was; these are diminishing levels of trauma. She and I were never friends, our sole one-on-one interaction was me approaching her on a zine project to make sure she was comfortable with me having created a piece of spot art that seemed to have ripped off her page art; I'd done it without realizing the concept had already been used elsewhere in the project, and didn't want her to assume I was copying her without credit. The irony of this is not lost on me.)

It would just be nice to feel like the truth means anything. I'm an abusive liar because I apparently said that this woman traced a bunch of her work; not only did I not report her, but it also isn't a lie. There are overlays with over a half-dozen screenshots and official renders to prove it. But even when her friends are shown those overlays, which I have done, it doesn't matter. The goal posts move, and suddenly I'm abusive just for caring that she traced at all. Allegedly lying is what made me abusive, but somehow I'm still abusive even if I didn't lie—and she's still the nicest person in the world, even though she did.

I do hope she's better. I hope her friends have helped her to become the kind of person who looks back at what she did with guilt and shame, and that she uses those feelings to improve. But seeing her name pop up over and over, sometimes from people who know what she did and still decided to re-follow her years later anyway, is a little too much for me to handle right now.

[thermometerjuice]

Unnecessary barbie collector rant

I would like to preface this with I know that this is messy and long and slightly unhinged but I am bored and feel like complaining. I would also like to say that I know everyone is free to do what they want with their own possessions and I know this comes off as mean but I don't care this is me being irrational and upset because I can be.

For many Barbie collectors, the made-to-move body is the most incredible thing in the world. So much so, that every doll in their collections must be systematically decapitated and given a new head. This is, in my opinion, one of the most annoying and pervasive issues in the collector community. Many people claim "It's for Photography" or "I just like to pose my dolls". Literally, shut the fuck up I hate that so much. I can understand re-bodying a damaged doll or only doing it to a couple dolls, but not every single doll needs to be able to touch its face. Like most of you, bitches are super shitty at photography anyways and I know for a fact there are only so many poses that you can make the doll do. Is it just me? Like I get it they're mass produced play things and it's not that serious but like also it is.

Do you remember tree change dolls and how everyone was pissed at that lady? That's the same way I feel about the people who make every doll made to move. Like first off, the made-to-move bodies that exist are all modern body sculpts so it is so weird when people re-body vintage and older dolls because like the clothes made for that body won't fit properly or at all anymore. Like I'm not even a die-hard preservationist when it comes to restyling and playing with dolls, in fact, I'm usually all for it but the head-swapping is just so ridiculous. Like the current fashion selections for modern body sculpts are objectively the worst in all of Barbie's history and the vintage fashions that do fit look terrible on the modern body. (Not to say that dolls have to be limited to whatever era they originated in but like generally, stylistically they tend to look a little better? like a '60s doll can look pretty goofy in a '90s outfit and vice versa but whatever i digress) (I also am not a big fan of what is now considered the "original" proportioned body in general and much prefer the bellybutton body. (Not that I don't like the other new body types, I do It's just that the current iteration of the standard body type is not my favorite since it does not lend itself well to backward compatibility and is generally poorly engineered.))

Furthermore, we all know the second-hand market has been becoming more and more of a nightmare for a multitude of reasons, one being that half of it is being taken up by the heads of dolls that were made to move on the unarticulated bodies that they were swapped with. This is already a hobby that encourages overconsumption, why are we also acting like turning two nice dolls into one slightly (subjectively) nicer doll and one slightly less nice (again subjective) but still perfectly fine doll that will rot in a bin for years is an acceptable thing to do. A pretty doll who realistically will spend the majority of its time with you on a shelf does not need to be fully articulated. People waste time, money, and plastic buying twice the amount of dolls they actually display/use and create one entire collection's worth of (Subjectively) bad dolls.

For the better part of the 65 years that Barbie has existed, most dolls never had anything more articulation than a twist waist, elbows, knees, hips, and shoulders, and guess what! That was good enough for everyone! Articulation does not automatically make a doll better. There are plenty of static dolls that are arguably better that way. I'd also argue that each doll's specific body adds charm to it that is stripped away when you homogenize a collection in this way. A major appeal of 80's/90's Barbie is the extreme proportion that makes her look like a cartoon character, and so many dolls of the 2000s and early 2010s have really cool gimmicks and special body molds that make them unique to collect. That is without even mentioning how many contemporary dolls lose their body diversity because there just aren't that many skin tone matches for every body type.

Thank you and shut up I hate you

[lottieurl]

tagged by @mistyquigly and @lesbianlotties

rules: share some unpopular opinions about 5 different fandoms of your choosing

tagging @lesbianalicent @itsheliotrope @marlokelly @sameensass @ethanilsa @narraboths

okay Please do not read it if you might get angry or upset ok? pinky promise me rn

yellowjackets

everyone who follows me is pretty familiar with all my unpopular opinions i think? jeff is a shitty person AND a bad character, laura lee could have a fascinating corruption arc linking her faith to their cannibalistic rituals, i think lottielee is insanely toxic because they both enable each other in the worst ways even tho they genuinely do care about each other and have the best of intentions (which seems unpopular because lottielee is seen as this pure sweet little ship? which it is Not to me), jackie could Eat People you just lack imagination, mistytai is fun and compelling, shauna's pregnancy/motherhood s2 storyline was disappointing and retconning of her character. can't think of much else? um one thing i don't think i ever talked about outside of dms - although it's more of a fandom pet peeve than a show one but still - is that i Hate when people make all their munchausen by proxy jokes about misty. firstly because i have an intense aversion to that entire label like it's wild to me that there is a "disorder" that in order to have you have to abuse another person? be so fucking real with me right now. it's just an excuse used in courts to defend abusive parents and other legal guardians really. and secondly because that doesn't even fit misty. and it never did! like i KNOW people base those jokes on misty's behavior around ben in those like four episodes but we have a modern timeline in that very same season where misty snorts goddamn coke to stop nat from relapsing. like it just irritates me because it's such a boring take and such an unfunny joke and well the entire disorder is something i take issue with

person of interest

regardless of what you think about the plot of s5 due to the season being much shorter the pacing is really bad and it's so rushed none of it feels satisfying and earned and that goes for everything so whether i liked some specific direction they took a character or a plot or i hated it doesn't even matter. and this is i think not quite that unpopular but giving the machine root's voice was a terrible choice especially in a show that is so well known for making an AI character that has no distinctly human features. i think it's lazy and cheap

lucifer

mazikeen/eve is so bad SORRY i hated it so much it was so rushed and there was no built up. realistically if maze ended up with a woman it would be linda and their relationship was far more interesting and developed across seasons

the last of us

don't doxx me but i didn't like the gay old men episode it didn't make me feel much and i think it contributed to the show's overall bad pacing. i am a casual viewer and i have no idea what the fandom at large thinks but i didn't like it. i'd say more but i don't care enough to do that really it just did nothing for me much

a league of their own

i'm soooorry to the enjoyers but carson/greta does nothing for me and in general i wish the focus was more on a character like lupe or jess or jo instead. it's like okay i think although i wish there was MORE of max screentime she got a good amount but i did not care for the carson/greta romance. plus like. yeah yeah feminine white lesbian romance at the forefront idk i'm yawning there is literally lupe there. can we focus on lupe

[hearts4robs]

Hiiii there!

Happy New Year ♡

Ooooh I have never done a match-up so I am really curious. I'm gonna go for DC because I only know this fandom and love those weirdos ♡

So I am a 27 years old bi non-binary person (they/them). I'd say I am pretty outgoing and very much talkative. I really like chit-chatting with strangers whom have dogs like at the train station. I am not much of a party person tho, I really like being home and reading stuff, listening to music or going for a nice walk with my dog while listening to my playlists. My favorite artists at the moment are AURORA, Laufey, Apshe, and Rain Paris. I have ADHD and a personality disorder which is why for now I am still under disability insurance but I am getting really well and I hope to finally be able to start my studies to become a librarian. I was very much a good student even for the few semesters I did at uni. I have a huge interest for literature and languages. I have studied latin, german, english, portuguese and arabic. Not fluent in many of them, but I do like taking the time to relearn stuff by myself from time to time. I am good at being self-taught, that's how I got my high school diploma since my health was a hindrance at the time haha. I am kinda a history nerd, love reading about religion in Ancient Greece especially in Attica and I love reading about the Witch Hunts in Europe and North America in the modern era. I do enjoy cosy "culture" and academia aesthetics. I am 5'6', dark brunette mid lenghth wavy hair (a wolf cut if you see what it is) with light brown eyes. I have huge fine golden glasses haha (already the librarian vibe). I am pretty chubby for now, eventhough I am losing weight due to feeling better health-wise. I love wearing button-down white shirts with vests or blazers or floral corsets and black turtlenecks haha.

Ideally, I'd love someone who is able to understand that I have some difficulties that others might not have, but who can be calm when it matters. I hate having huge arguments, if we need to argue I want to be able to talk it out. It's okay to be angry but I hate lashing out or being lashed at. A break to take some fresh air is okay if needed to have a civil conversation. I am not huge on receiving expensive/luxury gifts, it makes me awkward. I'd rather spend time with someone, cook with them or gift little things that are meaningful. I am huge on social activism. I do read a lot about different issues and it's important for me to listen to others and their experiences and try my best to do better with them and for them. I love my dog, she's a rescue and a peach. We lived a bit everywhere for a while because I was homeless around 20, but we managed and have a nice apartement now. I think I am pretty resilient as a person and I always strive do be kind and compassionate when possible because I know no one is born with all the answers and understandings of the world. I paint with watercolor from time to time, but I'd say my favorite hobby is reading and researching stuff because ADHD haha.

I don't like when people excuses stuff because of an illness. I can be an ass and it's okay to tell me and nobody should get a free-pass to be terrible to others. It happens to be shitty but you should strive to make it better if you couldn't avoid doing it at first.

I am a native french-speaker and half Portuguese. I am white European.

I can be a bit loud and outspoken but I always try to be mindful of the space I can take in a conversation with others because I don't want people to feel ignored. I can be adventurous, my 19 birthday was me going by train all alone with a backpack around the northern part of europe for a month. I would sleep at locals' place after talking to them on a specific website. It was great and fun and I saw so many museums ♡ I can be a bit of an airhead, and a tad much too sarcastic sometimes and I tend to switch conversations subjects often because I have links between them that makes sense to me but no one else.

My favortie tropes are friends to lovers, everything fluff, domestic, etc. There's beauty in the mundane ♡ I guess that when your mental health is a rollercoaster, you crave stability and calm easier haha ♡

I hope I gave you enough informations for your match-up.

Sorry, I am really a chatterbox haha ♡ Thank you and take care, dear ♡

𝐓𝐢𝐦 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐤𝐞: 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞

“What are you doing?”

“I, uh, think.. I might be building you a bookcase, can’t promise you anything though. IKEA isn’t very clear in their instructions.” Tim says, turning the instruction book upside down in hopes of the illustrations making sense.

A chuckle escapes you as you set down a mug of hot chocolate beside his organised work place on the middle of your living room floor.

“You think?” You ask, taking a seat beside him with a soft grunt, happily letting your dog snuggle up beside you.

“Yes, it’s very frustrating and for some reason, it’s all in French.” Tim says, trying to screw a screw into the proper place. “No, no, that’s not right..” he mutters.

“You do know I’m fluent in French, right?”

Tim slowly glances at you sideways before letting out a huff.

“I can handle it.” He reassures, chewing his lip in annoyance. “Go read your Shakespeare and I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

Headcanons:

Tim loves watching you read. He loves how you can both be nerds together.

You don’t live together yet but he visits often enough for your neighbours to know which days of the week you’re free.

He’s so supportive and tries his best to be a stable support system. You started out as friends and he let you crash at his for as long as you needed when you had nowhere to go.

Your dog is no longer “your” dog. It’s “our” dog to Tim.

It took him the whole afternoon to build that bookcase for you.

You’re such a sweetheart, I loved making this!! <3

[a-tale-of-legends]

Anyone else bothered by how in PLA Arceus speaks with an "Old English" accent? Like it just feels...weird given the Japanese setting.

Personally I'd have Arceus not speak at all, making it more of a "mysterious, unknowable deity beyond human comprehension" rather than "awkwardly Shakesperean-wannabe figure."

out of the context of the pokemon world, it was probably done for an english speaking audience to understand, since old english kinda translates to something ancient for us. Though I can't tell if in the japanese dialogue, arceus has a different "ancient" dialect, bc.....well i never played the game in japanese.And I don't know japanese, so I wouldn't be able to tell.

Within the context of the games though, we don't exactly know where the player is from before getting isekia'd. I know the popular interpretation was that they are either dawn/lucas, but that's never really confirmed, so. My main logic here is that Arceus simply decided to speak in what it thinks is something easy to understand. Maybe in universe, without the notion of this being a game, Arceus can honestly speak however it wants.

Also! I love that Arceus is able to speak actually. Specifically in Old English/ old languages? It personally gives me the vibe of someone ancient...but also someone who is. very lost with the times. Someone who probably doesn't really get the modern language. I know this is making it sound like Arceus is a grandpa but here me out. I love the trope of gods not fully understanding the humans they are looking after. Even without malicious intent, they simply don't understand humans and thus can act pretty shitty towards them. For example; isekia'ing a child to the past without any real consent because "it's what they are supposed to do" . I don't think Arceus was malicious here, but it's still a pretty shitty move. All of this is to say that i think Arceus speaking old english kinda shows that disconnect between god and human. At least to me. Like I feel if Giratina was in a speaking role, it would not talk like Arceus, it would talk more akin to how humans do( possibly depending on the time period but i digress).

Hopefully all of this made sense anon lol.

[blogofageminimoon]

LYRICISM #3, 4, & 5: lacy, heather, & pretty isn't pretty (olivia rodrigo & conan gray)

i'm going to call this the holy trinity. this trio of songs encompasses a lot of the same key ideas and messages. also olivia and conan? iconic besties! also a sag-pisces duo! love them <3

LACY - olivia rodrigo ooh, i care, i care, i care / like perfume that you wear / i linger all the time / watching, hidden in plain sight lacy is essentially the IT girl. the girl who you aspire to be as she seems to be the prettiest and has everything you want. it's like you as the third person are always standing on the bleachers watching and hanging around lacy as she gets everything. you don't want to care but you do. my stomach's all in knots / you got the one thing that i want lacy always gets the guy of your dreams. it's as if your crush would never notice you because you're just the girl on the side. never pretty enough, never smart enough, never popular enough. it sucks because you want to experience love with that specific person but you can't because lacy has it.

people are people / but it's like you're made of angel dust that random person you see on the street or everyone in the subway.. they're just ordinary people. but lacy is ethereal. you don't know how but it's like she's literally a goddess and she embodies that standard ideal of perfection that you know you will never have. she's beautiful like angel dust and that's something that's literally unreal. it's like she's a fantasy.

lacy oh lacy, i just loathe you lately / and i despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you / yeah i despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you this is the constant battle in your head that you're fighting against. your negative thoughts. lacy hasn't done anything wrong. the problem is you, me. ourselves, myself. whatever. we feel this vengeance, loathing and jealousy towards lacy because she's perfect and has everything. as a result, we beat ourselves up for thinking that way (that she's perfect and were not) because it's stupid. but that's just how we feel.

HEATHER - conan gray what a sight for sore eyes / brighter than the blue sky / she's got you mesmerized / while i die heather & lacy are equivalents. in this case, heather has the dream guy. she's absolutely beautiful and your mans is absolutely hooked on her. and in the inside, it feels like you're dying because that's not you and will never be you.

but you like her better / i wish i were heather but how could i hate her? she's such an angel / but then again kinda wish she were dead similarly to lacy, you're experiencing the same jealousy and longing to be like heather so you can get your dream man instead. oh.. how it would feel to finally feel like you're enough for once. but if you were heather, it seems like all your problems would be solved. if she were gone, would it be an issue?

PRETTY ISN'T PRETTY - olivia rodrigo when pretty isn't pretty enough, what do you do? / and everybody's keeping it up, so you think it's you / i could change up my body and change up my face / i could try every lipstick in every shade / but i'd always feel the same no matter how much you try, it's like you're never pretty enough. you could try all the new makeup, follow all the fashion trends, get the perfect hairdo and you still feel ugly. it doesn't help and it doesn't change how you feel at the core.

and i try to ignore it, but it's everything i see / it's on the poster on the wall, it's in some shitty magazine / it's in my phone, it's in my head, it's in the boys i bring to bed / it's all around, it's all the time, i don't know why i even try as much as you try to get this negative mindset out of your head, it's hard. especially in this modern day and age where beauty ideals are everywhere. social media, the papers, billboards, your peers. it's really hard to escape. you could shut all of these things out but it still finds some way to haunt you and it trickles through the cracks.

i chased some dumb ideal my whole fucking life / and none of it matters and none of it ends / you just feel like shit over and over again this is a vicious and endless cycle. over and over again, you try and try and try and nothing ever changes. the ideal beauty standard (especially in westernized society) is that you need to be thin and tall, with blonde hair, blue eyes, big butt, plump lips. you will never fit that image because that's not your body. i remember as a kid, i wanted a blonde haired wig to make me feel like i was pretty like barbie and hannah montana. looking back, that's so sad that i thought that as a child.

in conclusion, beauty standards suck. i still don't think i'll ever feel 100% satisfied in my skin & body because there's just something new that will pop up and make me feel like shit. but i'm trying. if anything, i think i've developed more self confidence with my looks and personality over the past years. maybe i'll post a self reflection on that another time. but thanks to olivia & conan for making songs that are relatable to listen to. they really said FOR YOU. i'm sure others feel this way too.

[kenobihater]

len my dear friend do u have a like list in ur mind of like wild west media that u think showcase what u love abt the genre(westerns?? cowboy stuff??)

ps. willing to trade jidaigeki recs gehehe

i'd LOVE your jidaigeki recs, and i have lots of western recs, tysm for asking! i was raised on westerns, and though i have PLENTY of issues with the genre overall and how it was used to enforce an ahistorical ideal of white heteronormative patriarchy on an era that was actually pretty queer in compairison to the rest of the western world at the time and had a significant number of people of color and strong women in it, i still love the genre despite all of its faults.

the first western that comes to mind is true grit, the original true grit. i hate john wayne personally, but even i have to admit he does a good job in this film, though the real show-stealer is the actress who plays mattie ross. the new true grit is also really really good and more accurate to the book, which is okay and i only read for school.

the next of the classics that i wanna mention is the dollars trilogy (a fistful of dollars, for a few dollars more, and the good the bad and the ugly), of which i've only seen the good the bad and the ugly in full and remember liking as a child. the first in the trilogy, fistful, is a remake (or a ripoff, depending on how you look at it) of yojimbo! so, if you liked the basic plot of that, you'll probably like fistful as well if you don't mind clint eastwood. also, even if you don't like the films, do yourself a favor and listen to the soundtrack of at LEAST the good the bad and the ugly. i love it so much i have it on vinyl lol!

another classic western that is a remake/ripoff of a samurai film is the magnificent seven, which is inspired by seven samurai. i've honestly only seen the shitty chris pratt remake, so i can't speak to the quality of the original, though i've heard it's good.

onto modern westerns! tombstone is the first one to come to mind bc of how popular it is. it isn't my favorite bc of how it mythologizes a kind of shitty person, wyatt earp, into this larger than life figure. same goes for doc holliday (though i admit i'm only human and i ADORE val kilmer's performance in this film). if you're at all interested in unraveling the wyatt earp myth, i highly, HIGHLY recommend picking up the wonderful biography wyatt earp: a vigilante life by andrew c isenberg! it really cuts through the bullshit and the many lies the man told about his life and got early hollywood to buy into.

another modern western i like is django: unchained. it's been a few years since i last watched it, but i really want to stress to y'all that this is both a tarantino movie, so expect gore, and a movie about slavery, so expect blatant racism. if either of these things are a trigger or exhaust you, steer clear.

idk if this is classified as a western bc it's set during the era of fur trapping and mountain men, so a little earlier than most westerns, but the revenant was a good and gritty revenge story. though it was also pretty gory, so avoid it if that bothers you

one i really enjoyed was the harder they fall, though warning for gore again, though not to the extent of tarantino or anything. it was wonderfully told and it was SO cool to see a black-led western. i know there was some controversy around colorism and the handling of a queer character which i don't feel is my place to comment on, but i do think the film was good despite its flaws.

this isn't a movie, but i cannot stress enough how much red dead redemption 2 is a good example of western storytelling. arthur morgan's journey in the waning years of the wild west is SO compelling to me, and though it isn't flawless it's imho the closest thing on this list to my perfect western story. 10/10 recommend playing this one!

that's everything that's currently out that i can think of, but a western show i'm looking forwards to is the new bass reeves show that the yellowstone creators are making. yellowstone bored me to tears and i heard 1883 was bad, but i have high hopes for this bc bass reeves was a certified badass, likely inspired the lone ranger, and honestly deserved all the hype wyatt earp got for being a good lawman. so hopefully that will be good!

oh, and i'm sure you're aware, but there's a lot of bad westerns out there bc they pumped them out like crazy back in the day. modern day less so, so i can point to specific ones that suck major ass, like the ballad of buster scruggs, hostiles, and dances with wolves, but just as a rule of thumb if you aren't vibing with what's happening onscreen just turn it off lmao cause there's so much bad shit out there you could waste years watching it.

those are all of my recommendations (and a few to avoid for good measure), i hope you enjoy some of them and thank you for letting me ramble about westerns!!

[beboped1]

Maskerade

It's been a few months - I realized I needed a break, that the books were starting to run together and feel samey. Then things exploded for a while, but now I'm back! I'll probably be slower than last time, but I'm hoping to find a sustainable pace to get through the whole set.

Maskerade

First Read: I honestly don't remember. Probably after grad school.

Verdict then: Fun but not super memorable. The twist ending is mostly what stuck

Verdict now: Some great lines, and Weatherwax/Ogg is always delightful. It's better than Moving Pictures, but Pratchett still hadn't quite nailed the balance between homage, parody, and core story. Plus, while admittedly good for its time, the fat jokes are still pretty gross.

I dropped out about 2/3 of the way through, after struggling for a couple weeks to get that far, and 9 months later, restarted and blasted through in two weekdays. I'd definitely been getting too used to Pratchett's style and jokes, making them less likely to land, and the break fixed that. But this book still felt almost standard - hitting many of the same kinds of jokes and same kinds of parody/homage/story beats as Moving Pictures, Witches Abroad, and Wyrd Sisters did.

As someone familiar with, but not enamored with Opera (did season tickets for about 4 years, but stopped after that), the jokes mostly landed, especially the ones which crossed over with modern theater. Pratchett does construct this book in a pretty clever way, intending for the book itself to stand as an example of how all those "silly" operatic tropes can still create emotion and story and wonder. But he's ultimately just not quite a good enough writer yet to pull it all off - the meta-structure of the book is too transparent, the twist too easily predictable (even given the meta structure), the binding to Phantom of the Opera in particular too tight. Where Moving Pictures' weakness came from the broadness of its focus, Maskerade was too focused - it's not a parody/homage of opera, it's a parody/homage of Phantom of the Opera.

Weatherwax is also too good in this book - after the complexity and struggles of Witches Abroad and Lords & Ladies, it's a little sad to return to a version of Weatherwax that's more Wyrd Sisters or Equal Rites, where Granny is too clever and too strong for anything to really bother her. I feel like the book takes her side against Nanny Ogg too often also - while their relationship has a lot of good-natured catfighting in it, many of the exchanges in this book crossed the line into cruelty for me. Ogg herself is wonderful though - I do love the way her way is constrasted to Granny's mostly without making it seem lesser.

That brings us to Agnes/Perdita. Pratchett is trying, oh, he's trying. And for the 90s, he's doing better than a lot of people - hell, he's still probably better than many today. But, man, the way he described Agnes' body, and Basilica/Slugg's, and even Ogg got a few jabs, was just shitty. Tie that to the Agnes/Perdita split, which may have resonated more with me when I was younger, I'll admit, but which now just felt...like not enough. Pratchett, while he was ultimately trying to treat his fat characters with some compassion, as he does everyone, still didn't question so much of the bullshit around weight that's hanging around in society. The complete acceptance of the standard cultural framing around weight meant that he could only be so compassionate, so understanding of Agnes. And that lack of connection, of understanding, meant the whole character fell flat to me in the end. Even her arc, a classic "coming to accept yourself" bit, didn't really work for me.

So, in the end, Maskerade is perfectly serviceable, and it's a long way from the mess of Interesting Times, but I'm not surprised I'd forgotten most of it - in the end, it just doesn't stand out. I was really hoping this rut I was seeing was just me getting burned out - but no, Maskerade still falls prey to many of the same things Soul Music and Feet of Clay did.

[anthonysstupiddailyblog]

Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (751): Sun 7th Apr 2024

Today was daylight savings and not the good one where you gain an extra hour of sleep but the shitty one where at one AM your five hours sleep IMMEDIATELY becomes a fucking four hour sleep which is no fucking good. Luckily I find that after a few minutes on the pedal bike to work the it shakes off the cobwebs due to the lack of sleep and starts to pump the adrenaline through you so I woke up pretty quickly. On my lunch break I saw that Angus Young was trending and I thought “Oh fuck off” but turns out he’s not dead it’s just his birthday which is a good thing not just for me but for the universe because if I had paid £180 for the AC/DC gig (not including travel and accommodation) only for it to be cancelled for a reason as trivial as the lead singer dying then I would get to work on that doomsday device I've been planning since I was four. I realised it would be stupid to try and avoid the spoilers from night one of Wrestlemania all day so I just checked them out on Wrestling Inc. I wasn't surprised that Rock and Roman won their match and I suspect that Cody will overcome the odds tomorrow night even though I'm still not sold on him being the one to end the most historic reign of the modern era. I was happy to see that the tag titles were finally split because there are a lot of tag teams on the roster who could use the rub but haven't been able to recieve it because there has only been one set of tag titles for the last two years. I was sad to see that Gunther's historic Intercontinental title reign came to an end last night. I love Sami Zayn to death but the one to beat Gunther should have been Chad Gable. They could have done a Daniel Bryan style grassroots movement to get fan support behind him then had Gable win a chamber match for the title shot. On the subject of wrestling news also broke today that AEW is going to air the footage of CM Punk and Jack Perry's backstage confrontation during All In at Wembley. Under normal circumstances I'd say that this deemed like a desperation move and a ploy to get a bump in the ratings if not for the fact that Punk fired the first shots on Ariel Helwani's podcast. Prior to this Punk and AEW seemed to be agreeing to a non-disclosure deal where neither side would bash the other but Punk threw all that to the wayside when he described Tony as "a great guy but not a boss" and said AEW is full of people who are content with "some goof giving you a five star match and performing to a quarter full arena". I get what he's saying but to say the entire roster are marks for Meltzer is being disingenuous plus I can't imagine that any of the roster are happy when they look out and see that the building isn't full but that's Tony Khan's fault not theirs. If they're doing this in order to get extra heat on The Young Bucks and potentially to debut Jack Perry as a member of The Elite then fair play to them. It still feels a bit childish but as I said Punk fired the first shots and said that he was just telling the truth so if AEW have footage that shows he wasn't telling the truth then they should 100% air it.

[buttclench-ryugazaki]

tgaa 1 + 2 final rambling notes

the neutral/negative:

did not like some of the solutions in the cross examination phase because i could easily predict what the prosecution's damning rebuttal would be, meaning the contradiction felt weak even as i presented it. and that will happen in every single aa game without fail, i just felt like it happened too frequently to me, personally. it works for 1-3 where defending an obviously guilty client is supposed to feel shitty and like you're going insane that he isn't being caught, but not so much when you wanna feel smart and triumphant (before immediately getting knocked down again) y'know

dance of deduction phases are stylistically very cool but far, far too easy. i never failed one once because all it is is playing i-spy with 360 degree camera movement and a limited number of possible answers. i enjoy sholmes being insane, but it gets pretty tiresome after a while because there is no challenge whatsoever

cross examining multiple witnesses and pressing ones based on how they react to others: a mechanic that apparently rolled over from PL vs PW. i thought there would be more of a challenge here. the sound cue is VERY OBVIOUS. i assumed their reactions would be more subtle and you would actively have to search for them (case 1-5 with gregson and milverton whispering amongst themselves is what i'd had in mind), but nope. i also think that not every reaction press should have been moment of plot advancement, as 100% of them are. throw in some red herrings for the player to make them think they've found something important at first and burst their bubble. but DON'T penalize because that would be too frustrating, reward them with funny dialogue at least

jury summation phase: i thought i didn't mind doing them until 2-4/5 came around and i found myself relieved that i didn't have to contend with the jury, which is intentionally supposed to be exasperating in how thoughtless its decision-making is (aside from 2-3 with the magician and scientist jurors who actually have some valuable insight). probably the best of the new gameplay phases mechanically, but i don't think i care for the execution. ryunosuke knows, the prosecution knows, you the player know that you're just stalling for time by making the whole trial go on a tangent. i applaud the way reinforces how desperate it feels to flimsily grasp at straws ("we can't trust shamspeare's testimony because he's stealing gas from his cheapskate landlord and thus a liar") but it does annoy me the player to not directly be working towards getting a greater picture of the mystery

examining evidence is required to advance the plot more frequently than in prior games. before, the player would get some flavor text to give them hints about how the evidence should be presented, but it doesn't necessarily trigger anything in the game's code. it doesn't bother me because because i like to poke and prod, thus i examine (mostly) everything. but for others this could be really frustrating if you know why the evidence is contradictory, without examining. a happy medium would be that examining still updates the description but the evidence itself is viable even if you hadn't examined it (for certain pieces, not all) 5a. at the end of 2-5 when you're supposed to present klint's last will and testament, i presented the asogi sword instead because it told me the will was inside. i forgot to examine it and get the note out first. in classic aa, i think my answer would have been the correct one. that's an example of when i think i should have been given some leeway

they give me "gallery" feature in "extra contents" but it does not lead to a menu of CGs and animated cutscenes? why? dual destinies has that feature. it's a must by the standards any modern visual novel game

positives:

the twists, they're good. not all of them are foreshadowed that well or at all, but i enjoy them regardless. things like professor mikotoba turning out to be sholmes' actual partner and kazuma dad being the professor, because we don't even really learn about kazuma's father until the very moment it's revealed. (i predicted that klint was iris's birth father but not because of any informed reasoning; we didn't know he was married until 2-5 and it's not like both her being born and him dying 10 years ago necessitates a relation). these things can still be set up as future plot points without necessarily foreshadowing who is involved

they don't try to catch you off-guard with plot events like, defending van zieks. it's not just a rehash of turnabout goodbyes. you knew it was going to happen eventually; the reaper of the bailey's reputation as a possible murderer constantly comes up, and you know he must be innocent. it's still a decent twist and a good way to conclude the plot line they introduced so early, but the vibe i get is that they didn't try to act like what they were doing was crazy and unprecedented, because a plot line doesn't have to be for it to be good

they really made the world of this game so much bigger, by setting it in two countries, involving international british-japanese relations and politics, the assassination conspiracy and deeper, given the talk of xenophobia, industrialization, classism, crime, life in the city, corruption within the police and the courts, god there's so much. intentionally or unintentionally, ace attorney has always been about the law itself and how it should be utilized to protect the innocent/find the truth, and how it frequently fails to do just that. aa-verse 1900s britain isn't affected by the dystopian, 99% conviction rate and expedited 3-day trials like 2016 japanifornia, but it does have its own legal issues to contend with and i like how they manifested

pacing the hugeness of this plot over the course of two full games was a good call. we know it's possible to do a full arc in 4 to 5 cases but they said, nah. we're going bigger. and not doing THAT THING!!!! aa games are so aggravating for where they don't reference past games directly, only through vague allusion. game 2 does not dare pretend that it's not a sequel; who would be the poor idiot playing Resolve without having played Adventures? (i did comment about how Resolve still gave me a mostly unskippable tutorial, which is just plain silly) but anyway i do understand why japanese fans were so incensed over game 1 ending on a cliffhanger with no official word of a sequel. the game is feels incomplete without Resolve. they shouldn't have reviewbombed it, because it was a good game, but i understand. it's a duology through and through

the characters. i don't think there's a single one i actively dislike, and if i did i've forgotten them. i was very charmed playing as ryunosuke; he's a mess and master of deadpan like his descendant but perhaps... cuter? more deliberately written as naive and ignorant, naturally because he's not actually a law student. and he's afraid of ghosts and aliens. i enjoy that he's more willing to crack jokes to contrast susato playing the straight man, who is the most serious and informed of all the teen girl assistants. she might even be my favorite, now! aa is such a big franchise with too many characters to count, so it's difficult not to view these characters in comparison to their predecessors. but i think they do a good job making the dna of these characters apparent (kazuma and van zieks both having shades of edgeworth, for example) without making me feel like i'm getting the same archetype and the same guy over and over again

[hurai-egg]

cyberpunk 2077

9/10 a happier ending? here, for folks like us? wrong city, wrong people

aaaaand here it is! after over a year of on and off playing i am finally done with cyberpunk's main storyline and major side quests, and finally after like a month of staring at this post in drafts i feel like i can get it done

everyone remotedly interested in gaming probably remembers the disaster launch of 2020, the bugs and the disappointment of people who waited and waited for years (it was bad, i remember seeing tweets of people who took their yearly paid leave just to play cyberpunk on release). i got the game in late 2021 with a nice discount, and it was well worth the money at that point

i'd say the best thing about the game is the world. night city is gorgeous and unhinged, and i often found myself walk around with no real purpose just to spend more time with it. i do wish more doors would be open for exploration, because often a pretty street turns out to be just that with no depth whatsoever to offer

the story is pretty good. won't go into detail to avoid spoilers in case any of the friends on here end up playing but i enjoyed it a lot. side quests and quests for the few friend characters are also fun (or a complete mindfuck), the main characters are compelling and the dialogue is usually well-written, there's enough action and excitement to keep anyone playing. aside from quests there are also gigs which are more boring standard kill/steal/save/sabotage missions but even they might surprise you with something interesting

combat is fun too! it offers good variety for all kinds of playstyles, you can shoot from a km away with a rifle, slice through with a katana or just stare at people menacingly and fry their brain (guess which one i chose). this is in no way an exaustive list of what you can do, and you have a ton of weapons including unique ones to help you. there are also implants! you can have a rocket launcher in your arm, how fun is that (not very actually, other arm mod options feel better to play imo). if you're fresh off edgerunners you can make your own david martinez with sandevistan and kill whole rooms before they even realise something's happening. i'm not a big fan of modern action/rpg games and usually stick to games without guns but i still enjoyed cyberpunk a lot

another thing i like is how heavy the game is. night city is a shitty place and disgusting horrible things happen at every corner. some quests are straight up disturbing and you have to make morally dubious choices often enough to get almost numb to them towards the end of the game (like a real night city inhabitant i assume). the game made me think a lot about humanity and where we're heading

the game is, of course, not perfect and there was a number of things that annoyed me or weren't done well enough in my opinion, but they were small enough to not drag the whole experience down

while i enjoyed the story a lot there's one big thing i didn't like which is life paths. the only thing they do is give you a different prologue quest, and after that's done your only reminder of who you were before is rare dialogue options here and there that don't matter or help most of the time. it could've been so much bigger and better, more interesting, more impactful; having your prologue actually influence how the game goes in a significant way could seriously boost the game's replayability. saddest thing is that it was probably intended that way before life paths got cut from the game sometime during very long production

cyberpunk has been experiencing a resurgence of players recently, mostly because of how well-received cyberpunk universe anime edgerunners was (10/10 i recommend by the way), and it makes me really happy because the game deserves to get more attention and be remembered for something other than its bad launch

all in all a great game anyone who likes rpgs will probably enjoy! i wrote this big post but really all you need to know is that it's fun

[sunsetcurbed]

avatar julie born to earthbending master ray molina and firebender rose molina who has to take down caleb who has invented a new form of bending called soul bending to form an army to become ruler

he comes to power in the years following her mom’s death and she really doesn’t want to follow her destiny because like... her duty as an avatar is to the people (and the innocent souls caleb is stealing) but isn’t her duty as a daughter to mourn? 

but then she meets three boys crashing in her garage who are on the run because they heard about caleb and he’s looking for powerful benders and surprise: they’re powerful benders. they all met at a gifted academy when they were younger and luke reconnected with reggie when he ran away from home and they went to find alex when they heard about caleb. 

so julie is inspired by them and bends for the first time since her mom died the next morning, and even creates a flame-- her mother’s element. she asks the boys to teach her their elements-- luke first because she needs to learn fire, then air, then water. 

flynn, a nonbender, finds places for them to practice since julie still isn’t sixteen and therefore hasn’t been revealed to the world as the avatar. she tracks caleb’s moves and researches everything she can on soulbending even though it turns out to be a dead end because like... there’s spiritbending that was developed centuries ago during avatar korra’s time, but no one has ever heard of soulbending

and so they begin and luke realizes how much of a powerhouse julie is and he’s not sure why he’s surprised-- she’s the fucking avatar?? but it’s still incredible to witness and he’s amazed by her and he’s in awe 

and while julie is learning firebending and eventually airbending, alex is out and gets flattened by some guy on an airscooter. which like. great. cool. he spills his entire flask of hip water due to this and airscooter starts calling him hippie which is annoying but like, he lets him get away with it because he’s cute and funny and really nice apart from the whole running him over thing 

they have fun together and willie takes him flying and they scream in the sky until they get bugs in their mouth and alex feels tension release in his shoulders. willie talks to him about his life and alex feels tension release in his forehead. willie makes him laugh and alex feels tension release in his chest. 

but then-- after a few months alex lets it slip that he’s powerful and on the run from the bender named caleb but he’s helping the avatar so they can hopefully defeat him and 

and 

and 

“we never should have met.” 

“wow. that hurts.” 

and alex doesn’t see him again for days. weeks. months. 

julie masters firebending, shakily masters airbending-- her opposite element--, and then when she gets a decent grasp on waterbending, luke, reggie, and alex meet a man downtown who bumps into them and apologizes by shaking their hands. he introduces himself as caleb and they all have a delayed moment of realization. well, fuck. 

they don’t think anything has happened until they get back to julie a few hours later and feel a jolt. it’s just the first of many. julie starts to truly, truly panic and flynn jumps into double research mode, but it’s fruitless. it’s not until willie pops up that anything starts to make sense. 

“i’ve been with caleb since i was twelve. i was among the first. he wanted power and i was a powerful kid and he wanted me as an asset he could shape. that means i’ve grown up with him and i’ve got some inside information.” 

he manipulates souls until they match his, but souls don’t match consciousness. so he can manipulate a person’s essence to do as he wishes, but not their thinking. there’s a disconnect between soul and spirit and mind. so they learn that the soul is the driver, the spirit is the entity, and the mind is the being. and caleb has control of the driving force. caleb has control of hundreds of drivers, if not thousands of drivers. 

the jolts are the soul being twisted unnaturally, going against how it should be. caleb put the process in motion by bending the top of the soul, and the rest follows. it takes a few months for the process to be complete. 

caleb is a waterbender, a soulbending is a substyle of waterbending. which... julie has not mastered yet. and with the guys getting these jolts, she... doesn’t have a lot of time. 

so they double down and alex fights through the jolts and julie puts all of her focus into waterbending. 

the issue still remains though that... even once she masters waterbending, she doesn’t have a clue how to soulbend, or reverse caleb’s soulbending, or it it’s possible, or how to defeat him. 

(she goes into the spirit world and aang shows her energy bending so she figures out how to stop him, but no one, and she means no one, in the hundreds, thousands, of her past incarnations know about soulbending.) 

the jolts get worse and worse until the boys are all but saying their good byes because they feel the pull-- caleb had already pulled them once to get them to join his uprising against a small city in the firenation. they stand in the same place they first met almost two years ago, all of them crying because they don’t know what to do-- and luke tells julie that no fire burns as bright as the one that their group has. julie hugs him and thinks “don’t go, don’t leave me, stay, i love you, i need you” 

she visualizes something orange in her mind, tainted by something purple, and the purple feels wrong, so she bends the purple out, and luke sags into her arms, letting out a long breath. she’s not sure how she knows, but she knows she did it. immediately, she turns to alex and reggie and does the same. 

which like. that’s great but now they don’t know how to find caleb. 

another month passes before willie comes looking for them again and julie immediately frees him again and his reaction is so much more severe than the guys because his soul was twisted for so much longer but with it restored to normal he’s able to lead them to caleb. only thing is, there’s also an army who is forced to obey caleb and like. fuck. 

but! julie’s the avatar! and she’s in danger! so she goes into the avatar state and is able to remove caleb’s “stamp” on everyone’s souls at once and caleb is like oh fuck and then she energybends his bending away and!!!!! yay!! 

also juke and willex bc how could you not 

[spaghettibabie]

ur a jinx - Chapter 1

Sooo, my sister @m-mommymilkers and I decided to put our minds together and create THIS absolute gem. If you want a shitty modern high school drama Arcane AU, here it is. I apologize in advance for our immature sense of humor, this post is coming from someone who will put a water bottle cap on a ball (giving it a hat shhh) and laugh at it hysterically.

Good luck. The entire chapter is under the cut. (Also hey @doxmino it’s done!)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36633382/chapters/91375873

Silco feels horrible.

His daughter hardly ever sleeps—this is, what, the first time in weeks she's gotten an actual good night's sleep?—and he has to wake her. He wishes he didn't, he could let the poor girl sleep all day if she didn't have school today.

There was always the option of letting her sleep in and passing it off as her taking a sick day. She hates school anyways, doesn't she?

But Vander wouldn't stand for that. He knows, and Silco knows, that as parents, they need to value their children's education.

And also their health and well-being. Well, that certainly doesn't help, now, does it?

He stares at the teenager hugging her giant shark plushie, snoring away. Her long hair is quite literally all over the place; draped over the plushie, hanging over the edge of the bed, and it even made its way into her mouth somehow? He sighs, slowly stepping over. "Jinx."

"Hm..."

"Jinx?"

"No," she pouts tiredly, rolling over and facing away from him.

"I'm afraid so," he sighs. "Look at me?"

She's stubborn at first, but turns her head after a few seconds. He brushes the long strands of hair out of her face, ultimately pulling them out of her mouth with a wad of saliva clumping them together in the middle.

"That's... Disgusting."

Jinx smiles sleepily in response.

"I can't braid this. You need a shower," he continues.

"No. 'm fine," she insists, laughing it off.

"Jinx."

"I'm good, I'm good!"

"There's spit in your hair, I'm not touching it."

"You're just as stubborn as I am."

"Jinx..."

She freezes before huffing with frustration. "Fine, whatever. I'm gonna be late, though."

"That's quite alright. Take your time."

And late she is. About an hour behind schedule, in fact. She doesn't bother to blow dry her hair, but rather pats it down with her towel and tosses it aside right after. She steps out of the bathroom, all dressed and ready to—

No.

Silco shakes his head, "You're not going out like that."

"Why not? What's wrong with it?" she asks, posing in her black crop top, torn fishnets and shorts.

"It's freezing outside! You'll catch a cold!"

"'You'll catch a cold!'" she mocks in a high pitched voice under her breath, which he pretends not to hear. "I'll... Wear a jacket or something."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Can I wear yours?"

"What?"

"Well, I figured I'd ask instead of taking it like last time," she snorts. "It looks cool, too."

"Does it?"

"Yeah, it looks pretty cool on me, anyway. You don't look so bad in it either."

He sighs, "Okay. I don't mind as long as it doesn't become part of the mess that is your room, are we clear?"

"Aye aye, captain," she salutes before plopping down at his feet, her back turned to him. "Now, this hair ain't gonna braid itself!"

"It's still wet."

"Okay, so? It's clean."

"You hardly did anything to dry it."

"If I miss school, you'll get in trouble," she mumbles indifferently.

"If I get in trouble, I'll drag you along with me to court."

"Ooh, scary."

"Mhm," he lazily responds, grabbing the hairbrush off the side table. "You should put together a proper sleep schedule."

She chuckles, "Nah. I'm fine with sleeping whenever."

"Jinx... You don't sleep at all. The last time you slept was three days ago."

"Four days ago," she corrects.

"Four days ago!" he echoes.

"Yeah. Oops."

"How... How do you go that long without sleeping?"

"Occupying myself with work," she crosses her legs and rocks back and forth. "Oh, and coffee, which we're gonna need a lot more of that."

"No, we don't."

"Yeah, we do."

"No, we don't," he insists sternly.

They throw the same arguments back and forth as he braids the long strands. It gets old fast, but it's all part of the morning routine. Silco is used to it.

Her pupils are dilated, large black holes in her bright pink eyes. Silco can feel the car shake with every kick of her legs against the passenger seat. "Would you please cut that out?"

"Can't," she answers before stopping anyways—at least attempting to—and pulling a ballpoint pen out of her backpack.

As if the seat kicking wasn't bothersome enough.

She puts her thumb on the button at the end of the pen and begins pressing it rapidly. Click, click, click, it went.

Again, this is an everyday thing that he had grown used to. He just keeps on driving. "And how exactly does your tiny body handle that much caffeine?" he inquires, not taking his eyes off the road.

"I dunno," she shrugs, pushing the button still.

Click, click, click.

"You forgot to eat again."

"Oops."

She's indifferent to the idea of not eating. She's always spending all day working in her room on art or little machines, or passed out at her desk. It's almost as though she lives solely off of coffee and candy, nothing else.

"You're eating lunch today."

"No."

"I'm not saying it has to be big. At least something healthy. Even if it's just one of those small packages of baby carrots, it's better than filling up on sugar."

She pouts, "Well, you know I don't like carrots."

"Fruit, then."

"Maybe."

"Please."

"Fine, okay. Fruit it is, I guess."

Another moment of silence. Click, click, click, the pen starts again.

Silco takes a brief glance down at the pen, as well as the tip of his daughter's thumb, flushed a deep pink from pressing the little button for so long. "You should stop. You'll tire out your hand."

"You know what? Okay. It was getting boring, anyway," she mutters to herself before unrolling the left sleeve of her father's jacket. She doodles on her pale skin with swift marks, finishing a really messy—but cool, as she would say—sketch of a monkey. "So? Whaddya think?"

"I think you should stop drawing on yourself."

"But—"

"It isn't good for your skin."

"If it was really that bad, they wouldn't let kids anywhere near these things. It's just pen, after all! It comes off in a few washes!"

He opens his mouth to speak, but only closes it and gives a defeated sigh. What's the point in even trying to argue with this girl anymore?

He stops the car at the front of the school and Jinx leans over to grab her backpack from off the back seat. "Remember what we discussed."

"Eat healthier food, drink water throughout the day, blah, blah, blah. Got it."

"And, one more thing. Please try to stay out of trouble."

"No promises, old man," she sticks her tongue out. She gets out of the car and slams the door shut, striding into the building as though she hadn't gone all weekend without sleeping.

If she's being honest, she hates being told to take better care of herself. For starters, she knows when to take a break from caffeine and junk food, and that's when she can feel her body shutting down. If she's feeling dizzy, cool, then can have a little water. She can take a catnap. But other than that, she'll live.

Like she's said to Silco and, even her sister a month or two back—maybe three, she can't remember—it's her body, she knows how to take care of it, and she'll do whatever she pleases with it.

"Pow-pow!"

Speak of the devil...

Jinx whips around to be practically tackled to the ground by her older sister. "Vi! Violet, quit it!" she struggles as the taller, more muscular girl hugs her.

"What, am I not allowed to hug my little sis? Bring it in."

"Vi! You're embarrassing me!" she whined.

"That's a shame. I don't really get to see you every day, though, now do I?"

"Sometimes, before classes. But... I guess we don't really see each other every day like we used to."

"I'm glad we got the chance to meet up before classes, though. I've missed you."

"I missed you too," she smiles a bit, finally returning her hug. "Oh! Uh, you should know," she speaks up again, "Th-the name's Jinx now."

"Oh, okay. It really... Suits you, I guess?"

She's right; the girl is known by a majority of the other students for all the trouble she's caused throughout throughout the years. It started in kindergarten; she had asked to join some other kids in a game of kickball, in which she kicked the ball through a window. Both her and the group were held accountable.

Only four years old and a few people already wanted her dead.

Then, fast forward a couple years, she had started a food fight in the cafeteria. She knew what she was doing; it was exactly what Vi did in second grade, and if she wanted to make anyone proud, it had to be her older sister.

It wasn't as big of a fight as she'd hoped for, but it was fun. Either way, regardless of how many students participated in the food fight, she was known to be trouble.

She was a problem.

A jinx, if you will.

And so it became her name. Shortly after Silco and Vander split, she could only blame herself.

She's trouble.

Trouble.

What a funny word! Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble. It sure looks weird when you stare at it for too long, doesn't it?

"Pow?"

"Mm?"

"You're doing that weird zoning out thing."

"Oh, heheh. Whoops. Man, it's chilly, huh?" her focus switches immediately.

"A little," Vi shrugs slightly, but agreeing nonetheless. "We should still have some time before first period. Let's hang out inside for a bit, yeah?"

"'mkay."

Every table in the science lab is clear, all except for one that's cluttered with several papers, a glass slide, and a microscope. Viktor had arrived at school early and wanted to get a head start on his biology assignment. Everyone was told to pick one of the slides—all of them had something different so no one would cheat—and fill out a five-page-long packet of questions regarding what they were viewing under the microscope.

He takes little notes on a separate sheet of paper before a pair of hands falls over his eyes. "Guess who?" an all-too-familiar voice rings out happily.

It's none other than his lab partner—well, except for individual assignments like this—and close friend, Jayce Talis. "Morning, Jayce," he smiles back faintly before gently grabbing his hands and taking them off his face. "Are you here to work, too?"

"Just here to see you."

What a flirt.

"Well, I'm a bit busy, but I wouldn't mind if you sat with me."

"You're always working, Vik," Jayce pouts. "It's all you ever do."

"I value my grades, thank you very much."

"So do I, and even I'm not working 24/7. You need a break."

"I don't need a break. Not yet."

Jayce sighs and looks at his paper with a blank stare. "Then... Maybe we could go somewhere after school?"

"As long as I can get my homework done before the night's over, sure," Viktor finally accepts, not once looking up from his microscope.

Well, that was a short conversation. It's okay, though, because there are only about five or six minutes until first period starts, and there's still a lot to be done; a lot being the several flyers and posters that him and his best friend, Caitlyn, had planned over various texts and emails.

@caittt_k: What do you think?

@caittt_k: [one image attached]

The posters were... A bold choice, to put it nicely. Neon pink wasn't exactly attractive in his eyes, and the use of gold glitter and big, holographic letter stickers to spell out "CAIT 4 PREZZY" only made it worse.

@itzyaboi.jayce: its flashy

@itzyaboi.jayce: idk

@caittt_k: Flashy is better than bland, isn't it?

@itzyaboi.jayce: ig

@itzyaboi.jayce: but its an eyesore for me tbh

@itzyaboi.jayce: its so bright

Cait tries to reply, but keeps pausing as Jayce continues to critique her work.

@itzyaboi.jayce: what is this ur 3rd grade bucket list? lol

@caittt_k: Jayce.

@itzyaboi.jayce: "im gonna get a pony 🥺✨"

@caittt_k: With all due respect, please shut the fuck up.

@itzyaboi.jayce: oh damn ok sorry ms "prezzy"

He makes his way down the hall to meet up with her in the library like they had planned yesterday, but is interrupted by the bell.

@caittt_k: We'll just have to put these up during lunch.

@caittt_k: No side conversations, no distractions.

@caittt_k: And definitely no more mentions of my third grade bucket list.